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Chapter Text

She was never meant to be a princess.

Ever since she could remember, Lucera Velaryon knew the gods had made a mistake in making her a scion of the royal house.
She found absolutely nothing about the role appealing. The smiling and posturing, learning how to sing and be courteous. And the dancing. So much dancing.

That was the one she hated the most. Next to the embroidery of course.

There was something especially vile about sticking thread into a piece of cloth over and over again, hoping to create a discernable shape.

“The Red Keep has an army of seamstresses at their beck and call. Why do I have to learn how to make stitches? No one is going to wear this anyways,” she grumbled, stabbing the needle into the tambour.

Her tutor Septa Melara arched a pale brow, her waspish eyes lashing her. Luce felt all the warmth flee her cheeks.

“Princes, princess, princess.” The aged woman's hook nose rose higher with each repetition. "Must we go through this again? The Father, in his wisdom, had made men strong and brave. So that they may be warriors and defend the weak. While the Mother, in her grace had made women sweet and gentle.” She repeated her mantra with infuriatingly practiced perfection. “We were never meant to wield weapons or fight wars. We're made of finer stuff. So beauty and courtesy must be our armor, and the womanly arts our weapon.”

Luce stared up at her from behind her desk, her stomach in knots.

“I think the Mother may have stitched the wrong fabrics together when she was making me.” She twisted the needle in the fabric, attempting to close a stitch. As usual, it turned out crooked.

“Do not be silly child. You just refuse to apply yourself.” The Septa tapped her finger at the tambour frame, directing her next stitch. Luce jabbed, pulled, and tightened. Again, the seam came out crooked. “If you spent less time running after your brother in the yard, playing at swords, you would have learned how to be a proper lady.”

“I don't play with swords, they're stupid. And Jace is an idiot.” She countered, scowling.

“Mind your tongue,” The Septa pressed her lips, making the lines around her mouth as deep as knife wounds. “The Prince Jacaerys may be as wild as you are, but he is still your elder. Thus, you must treat him with respect, as any good sister would.”

“Only by three minutes,” she fired. Though the way Jace saw it, it may as well be three years.

Her twin lorded his seniority over her more than any true blade. Every time they argued, he would bring up their age to cut her down. That, or he would resort to making fun of her for being a horrible princess.

“They should send you to the Silent sisters since you can't do anything right.” He would say, whenever he caught her practicing her dancing.

It wasn't fair.

“If he hadn’t been so impatient to leave Mother's belly, I would have been the elder.” Luce continued, “I would have been the heir, and he would have to kneel at my feet.”

The Septa cocked her head again scrunching up her nose. Luce immediately thought of Maester Mellos' ravens. If someone were to swap her faded gray robes for black feathers, she could pass for an oversized bird.

“You forget child. By law, a son always comes before a daughter. So he would still be heir over you.”

Luce made a face. “No, he wouldn’t. My mother is heir over Aegon, and she is a woman.”

A long, arduous silence fell on her chambers, as Septa Melara circled her table. Luce shrunk deeper into her chair.

“Indeed,” she finally said, looking down on her. Her eyes were as dark as an ink well. “Only because His Grace, in his wisdom, disregarded the old laws, and decided she was most fit to be heir.”

“Good,” Luce murmured, her skin pricking up. “We shouldn’t just make someone king because he's a boy and the oldest. They should be good at it.”

A King must be fit, strong, and capable if he is to lead his people—she'd read that in a book somewhere. It rang true, she supposed. They'd had over 60 years of peace and prosperity under King Jaehaerys. The realm had never been wealthier or as populous.

There were occasional whispers of plagues, conflicts, or disputes. But her royal grandsire always sought his best to restore the peace and continue Jaehaerys' legacy.

-He is a good king.

Though, sickly as he was, Luce didn’t think Viserys looked as strong as the books said he ought to be.

“Of course,” the Septa agreed, sinking her teeth into her lip. “A good ruler must be fit to bear the crown. But he must also uphold the faith, the laws and traditions of the land.”

Luce shifted in her seat. Another stab at the fabric—another crooked stitch. “Not if those traditions are stupid.”

The Septa ceased circling her. With agonizing slowness, she pushed the tambour frame Luce had tried to press to her chest, to reveal the concealed stitches. She eyed it and released a loud snort.

“Tongue, Princess. Those traditions are the foundation of our world. The gods granted us these laws so that we may live good lives. Just as they intended.”

She jabbed the finger into the cloth so hard, Luce thought she meant to tear it. At her direction, she pushed the needle in.

“If that were true, then everyone would be following them. I wouldn't have to make myself dance or do needlework. I'd just be good at it.”

The sigh that left the woman’s lips rang in Luce's ears louder than the Sept bells.

“It is true that the gods inscribe morals into our hearts but… we are sinners, and we are bound to make mistakes. To stray from their intended path. Some more than others.” She paused gazing at her. Her long, bony finger trailed Luce's face, tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear. Her hand felt cold and clammy against Luce's skin. “It comes from the blood for some. They cannot help but be drawn toward wickedness. Because they were created in sin.”

The words lingered between them, getting sucked into the vast silence of the chamber. Luce squeezed her needle, jabbing the point into her index finger. She could feel the blood burst from the wound, warm and sticky.

“I… I… don’t think I am wicked.” She announced, her voice small—thought she knew plenty of people who disagreed.

Stubborn, sullen, and willful. The crooked child, the wicked sister. Ser Laenor's shame.

That one had hurt her the most— it hadn’t come from Jace, Aegon, or any one of the vile lickspittles that followed her uncle around.

No, this one had come from a woman grown. Alena Florent, one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting.

“How could the King allow that plain-featured thing to remain here?” She'd whispered to a gaggle of the Queen's companions, her wormy lips twisted into a sneer.

Luce didn’t think she had any right to insult anyone's appearance. Not when that hideous orange gown she wore was enough to make even the most ardent lover of that fruit swear it off for life.

“She brings shame to the Targaryen name.” one of her companions in spotted green commented.

“She brings shame to her ‘father' you mean,” Lady Alena continued, enunciating the word.

That one had caught her attention. It was one thing for others to comment on her disheveled appearance. It was another to assert that she was her father’s greatest shame.

Granted, her father had never been particularly attentive. Laenor Velaryon was away more oft than not, scouring the streets of Kings Landing with his companion, ser Qarl Correy. Adventure and swordplay were his passions, not fatherhood.

But, the times he was here, he was nothing but kind to Luce. He'd bring her gifts, shower her with smiles and kind words, and play with her maps.

“Nonsense,” Princess Rhaenyra had exclaimed when Luce had confronted her with the accusation later. “How could he ever be ashamed of you? You are the joy of our lives.”

Seizing her in her arms, she showered Luce’s cheeks in gentle kisses. Despite her dark mood, she couldn’t help but delight in the affection.

“They all say it.” She grumbled, burying herself into her mother's soft silver curls. “How bad I am. How I’m not a real Princess.”
Through the finely spun silk, she felt her mother's muscles clench. Peeling her off her, Rhaenyra cupped her daughter's cheeks.

“Of course, you are a real Princess. You're the blood of the dragon, my love. You will soar the skies on Arrax and all the world shall be yours,” She paused, the pale lilac of her irises darkening to a striking purple. If she squinted, Luce could almost see the outline of a dragon in her mother's features. “Let the fools say what they like. Their opinions are worth naught. You are mine and that's all that matters.”

A smile bloomed on her lips again and she let her mother crush her into an embrace so fierce, she was convinced it would shatter her bones.

Mine. She liked that. Though a nagging voice couldn’t help but whisper how she didn't say father’s.

She wished she could say the vile gossip stopped. Even after Lady Alena Florent mysteriously returned to the Reach, and the remainder of the Queen's entourage began fleeing at the sight of her and Jace, the doubts lingered.

It was the way people looked at her. The way their eyes followed her like an arrow target, brimming with hidden meaning. Like they all knew some terrible truth about her she didn’t understand.

The Septa was looking at her like that now, her irises as dark as molten pitch. Her mouth was deathly still, pressed in a tight, white line—as if she was barely biting back some vile remark.
When she moved it, Luce expected her to affirm that yes, she was wicked.

She had committed some terrible sin, and the gods, and everyone else around her, meant to punish her for it. Instead, the Septa lifted her lips into a smile.

Luce squirmed in her seat. It did not reach her eyes. “No, I didn't mean that you were wicked.”

She paused and took the tambour frame from her to examine it. The needle threads were meant to show a flower. But the pattern was so tightly woven, it looked more like a pile of jumbled weeds.

“The Mother inscribed goodness in your heart, too princess. If you work hard and apply yourself, you will unlock it.” The aged woman arched a brow, pulling the fabric off the frame. “Perhaps then you can earn her grace.”

She set the cloth at the table, fingering the crooked stitching. Her nails were as yellow as egg yolks.
Luce swallowed hard.

“I'll try, Septa,” she meekly responded. Though in her heart, she knew that no matter how hard she tried, nothing she did could erase this supposed ‘wickedness’ the Septa saw in her. She and everyone else.

“Good.” With one last disdainful glance at the cloth, she tossed it aside. “Now, let’s get you some more material. You'll have to go again.”

Chapter Text

The day had been painfully long. The Small Council meeting had drained the last bit of strength Alicent Hightower had mustered. And to think things had started off so well, for once.

“Daeron has arrived in Oldtown?” she'd asked Ser Criston that morning, her stomach in knots. Her sworn shield had come to her chambers at daybreak with a raven's scroll directly from the Hightower.

“Yes my Queen,” the Kingsguard replied handing her the parchment. Alicent unfolded it with nervous fingers. Her father's crisp handwriting greeted her, sending a pang of elation through her chest.

“Lord Hobert's knights have taken charge of the young princeling. He will be squiring for your eldest cousin, Ormud.”
Alicent dared a small smile. “I'm sure he's thrilled. Daeron was always so eager to be a warrior.”

Her sweet boy liked nothing half so much as trailing after Kingsguard, pleading with them to show him how to swing a sword.

-He will make a fine knight.

She clutched the paper harder, eyes fixed on her father's signature. No tender words of concern, no well wishes, or declaration of support.

“If I may, my Queen,” Ser Criston began uneasily, dark eyes downcast. “It is a good thing. The Prince will do well in Oldtown.”

Alicent nodded, casting the scroll aside. “He will, I know it.” She paused, halting mid-stride to gaze out her window. Below, the splendor of the Red keep stood sprawled out in the morning glow. “But reason cannot quell a mother's grief.”

She cast a look at the knight over her shoulder, wrapping her arms about herself tightly. It was all she could do not to savage her fingers.

“He scarce turned six. It’s just yesterday that he was a babe at my breast. And now he's been torn from my embrace.” She paused, forcing the tears from her eyes. “I should have refused.”

Ser Criston shifted in place, his armor clanging softly. “You did the right thing, my Queen. The Prince is in a place where he is surrounded by friends and allies who share your values. He will be protected. You could not say the same if the Princess had gotten her way.”

Alicent swallowed hard, her skin pricking up—as it always did whenever someone would broach the subject of her stepdaughter.

“Gods, it always comes back to Rhaenyra.”

This had all been her doing. Ever since her uncle had flown to the Vale to petition Lady Jeyne for Runestone, the Arryns have had a strained relationship with the throne. Though Daemon had not directly threatened anyone, he had levied veiled insult after veiled insult against anyone whom he had crossed paths with—even Lady Jeyne herself. Alicent had heard it rumored that, after she'd laughed at his petition, he'd called her a shriveled cunt.

It was grounds enough to start a war. But, as was typical of her godbrother, Daemon left just as the chaos was set to reach a fever pitch. He flew straight for Driftmark, where he unceremoniously dueled and killed the son of the Sea Lord of Braavos and claimed Laena Velaryon's hand in marriage.

It was an insult that nearly undid her poor husband. The match had occurred without Viserys’ leave, just as he was trying to seize control of his house, after the disastrous wedding feast. Still, it had occurred not a month after Rhea Royce's passing.
The common folk already whispered that Daemon had had a hand in his late wife's death—with this match, he'd just about confirmed it. Gerold Royce was ready to seek his vengeance and drag the whole of the Vale with him.

Daemon departing for Essos had placated him some. But neither the Arryns nor the Royces forgot the slight, despite Viserys' best efforts to appease them with fewer levies. 9 years on, and they still complained about increasing tax rates and did everything they could to stall exports of wool and stone to the capital.

It was Rhaenyra who suggested the solution to finally end the grudge.

“It is Targaryen blood the Lady Jeyne demands. So we shall give it to her,” she had announced during a small council meeting. All the members gave her pointed looks. “We should send her one of our own for fostering. Daemon had painted a rather poor image of the men of House Targaryen. But your sons can correct that, my king. Show her what true scions of Old Valyria are like.”

As always, Viserys listened to his daughter with rapt attention. Alicent’s ears rang.

“A most excellent idea, my girl,” he announced, a jovial smile blossoming on his lips. It was remarkable how much he lit up whenever she opened her mouth to speak. As if she were the Mother herself, come to rain blessings on them all. “I'm certain the Lady Jeyne would love having Aegon at the Vale. She's always been so keen to have a dragon rider at her side.”

“The Princes Aemond or Daeron could do well at Runestone. The Royces come from a long line of renowned warriors. They would be squiring for some of the finest knights in the realm.” Lord Beezbury chimed in, for once up to speed on the subject.

“No,” Alicent forced out curtly, her eyes locked on the old Master of Coin. His flappy chin jiggled as he gazed at her, open-mouthed. “I will not be sending my sons to the Vale.”

Everyone in the Small council chamber turned to her.

When her gaze pivoted to Rhaenyra, she was already staring her down. The smoky purple of her irises swirled like freshly bloomed lilacs. Oh, how she'd once admired those eyes. They had been so full of kindness and loyalty—for her dear, childhood friend.

Now, they only radiated with indifference. And fire. Always fire.

“Their place is here,” she announced, straightening her back. “In King's Landing. With their family.”

“Surely my Queen,” Rhaenyra continued, fiddling with the septarion placed before her. “It would be a good thing for the Princes to see more of the realm.”

“Indeed it would,” Viserys announced, shifting in his seat so that he leaned closer to his daughter. Drawing the battle lines. Alicent ripped at her nailbeds. “Aegon could certainly benefit from a bit of discipline. And Aemond… well. Perhaps Runestone could help him forget all this dragon-claiming business. Get him to assert himself as a warrior. Daeron already wants to be a knight, so this is truly a dream for him.”

“Yes, it would,” her voice wavered. She immediately cleared her throat. “But I can't help but feel like the gesture would not land as well as you might hope. The slight Prince Daemon has caused the Lady Jeyne is quite serious. I think only someone of her blood could make her forgive it. So perhaps the Prince Jacearys might be a better fit.”

She relished the way Rhaenyra's jaw tightened. “The Prince Jacaerys is heir to the iron throne.” She fired, her voice low. “His duty is to remain in Kings Landing so that he may learn to rule.”
“Part of ruling is also knowing the land you mean to govern. The best way to learn of it is to see it yourself.” She replied, flaring her shoulders. Now it was Rhaenyra's turn to sink into her seat.

“Jace is 7. He needs to first learn the names of the lands before he marches off to see them.”

“My sons are not much older.”

“But they are still older than Jacearys,” Viserys added, arching a pale brow at her. A ghost of a smile appeared on Rhaenyra's lips. Grand Maester Orwylle bowed his head. Alicent wanted to scream.

“And they are not heirs to the throne,” her husband continued, his voice soft, almost fatherly. As if she were a child he was scolding. Alicent ceased picking her fingers and balled her hands into fists.

-No, you will not have this victory.

She'd already had far too many.

“No, they will not go.”

“Alicent…” Viserys sighed, shrugging his shoulders. That one gesture instanced her beyond reason.

“We will speak no more of this.”

They did speak more of it. Though her Royal husband had tried to move on to different matters, the mood in the chamber had shifted. In the end, he couldn't bear the sour mood and dismissed the Council early pleading tiredness, and ‘a need to consult my Queen'. He allowed her the privacy of his chambers before he began needling her over it again.

“The proposal is a good one, My Queen.” He insisted, reclining against his pillows. The flames of the heart fire cast dark shadows across his face, making his skin appear whiter than parchment. His complexion had gone a shade paler again. If the corruption spreading through his body worsened, he would soon be whiter than a ghost. “Our boys would do so well at the Vale. And the gesture would do much and more to correct our past mistakes.”

“Your brother's mistakes you mean,” she fired, twiddling with her fingers. The voice in her head was screaming now, demanding she tear open her nailbeds to let out her frustration. She gritted her teeth and released a breath.

No. She had sworn the day she'd saved Ser Criston's life to do away with that weakness.

“It was Daemon who had insulted the Arryns and Royces. It’s his duty to seek their forgiveness and set things right.”

Her husband chortled, locking his eyes on the flames. Though the laugh was light, there was little joy in Viserys' hollowed face. There seldom was, whenever anyone spoke of his younger brother.

“Daemon? He's just as likely to burn the Vale to ashes than he is to treat with them. Besides, he is half a world away.”

“Yes, escaped across the Narrow Sea, to leave you to pick up the pieces.” She retorted. His jaw tightened.

“What should I have done then, pray tell? Had him executed? Exile was enough.”

Alicent leaned against a chair, squeezing the backrest.

-His love for him will be the death of us all.

No matter how deeply Daemon cut him, Viserys always seemed so quick to grant him forgiveness. Even now, 9 years after he'd decreed Daemon was to never set foot in his court again, he still grieved for him. Alicent was certain that if Daemon returned, Viserys would welcome him with open arms—even if it meant the rest of his family would suffer.

-If he even thinks of me and mine as family.

Unless he needed her to tend to him, he oft forgot she or their children were even there.

“I'm certain the punishment has been quite hard on him. He must be so distraught, lounging in Pentos with Lady Laena and their children, having the Prince indulge their every whim,” Viserys ground his teeth so hard, and she could have sworn he meant to shatter them.

“Regardless of all the ills he has caused, he is still my brother. And I’m pleased he has finally managed to find happiness.”

“Yes,” she forced out, the dry scent of woodsmoke and clay permeating the chambers making her head swim. The heart fire seemed unbearably hot. “While our children are forced to mend his wrongs.”

“You make it seem as if I would be sending them to the wall.” Viserys narrowed his eyes. Alicent wished she could shake him.
“The Vale is a good place for them. They will be safe and well cared for. It will certainly be a good opportunity for them to learn some independence.”

She stared, the warmth fleeing from her fingers. “Your meaning?”

The heart fire made the faded, smoky purple of his irises come alive. “Alicent, come now. Our Aegon is three and ten. Near a man-grown. Yet you still hover over him like a shadow.”

“He needs me. He needs my guidance.”

The way he chortled made her stomach clench.

“I agree. He needs guidance. But not from you. The boy is too willful and reckless to be reigned in by your gentle heart.” He pressed his fingers to his temple. “What he needs is a firm hand to teach him some discipline and restraint.”

The Queen almost seized one of his little dragon models and pelted him with it.

-He dares to question my mothering?

He had been doing nothing except ignoring Aegon since the day he was born.

“And that hand should be yours, not some Arryn lord's half a world away.” She paused, so incensed, that her head was swimming. “Are you truly going to blame me for how he is? Everything he's ever done, every silly jest, or cruel taunt, he's done for the love he has for you.”

“Me?” The way he blinked at her, almost made her believe he couldn’t comprehend what she was saying. Perhaps he truly didn’t.

“Of course. Ever since he was a little boy, he's been desperate for your approval. If you send him away now, he will just become more resentful.”

She expected him to wave his hand and dismiss her, as he always did whenever she broached the subject of their reckless, eldest son. Instead, he grumbled and averted his gaze. Ignoring, as was custom.

“And Aemond? What of him? Surely, you can't possibly claim he is unsuited?”

Alicent tsked, whirring away to hide her face.

-Aemond is too well suited.

Her second son was as dutiful as Aegon was reckless, as eager to please as his elder brother was to rebel. He wanted nothing more than to prove himself as a prince of the blood.

More to himself than to anyone else.

“And cause the Arryns an even greater insult? The Lady Jeyne wants Dragon riders to protect the Vale, she always has. If you send her the only son of ours who hasn’t claimed a dragon, she will take that as a slight,” she retorted.

Never before had she been more grateful that the egg placed in Aemond's cradle hadn’t hatched.

“Daeron then,” Viserys' voice grew sterner. “He will go.”

“No, he cannot,” she paused, her mind reeling for an excuse. “I already promised he would go squire at Oldtown.”

The lie unfurled easily. Bolstered by her fear and desperation, she concocted a tale about how, during her brother’s last visit to King's Landing, she’d promised to send Daeron to her family for fostering. Her uncle Hobert had later sent a letter, agreeing to the proposal. No such letter existed of course, but Alicent wagered she could say she had misplaced it. She wagered she could convince Maester Orwyle to back her claim.

Viserys was displeased. As averse to conflict as her husband was, he could also be immensely fickle, especially when slighted. It incensed him that she would dare make arrangements with her brother without his leave. Alicent tried to explain herself, begged his forgiveness—she even attempted to stoke his guilt, by claiming that Daeron's fostering was a boon to her father, to make up for him losing his position as Hand.

The mention of Otto Hightower did hurt her husband, she could tell. But it was still not enough to soothe his anger. Alicent knew she had no choice but to follow through with sending Daeron away. If she did not, not only would her story be revealed as false, but Rhaenyra might end up persuading Viserys to send all of Alicent's children away.

-She'll even get him to ship off Helaena to Dorne.

It was small wonder Viserys had said she and Daemon were two sides of the same coin. Both of them would do anything to cut down any threat to their power.

And so it came to pass that in two dozen moon turns, her sweet baby boy rode through the Red Keep's gates, bound for the Reach. Though a lavish royal escort was sent with him, along with his cobalt blue she-dragon Tessarion, fear, sharper than a blade, slashed Alicent's heart.

“She's robbed me of one son,” she absentmindedly commented. The soft clanger of Ser Criston's armor reminded her that he was still there. “Must I live in fear now, dreading the day she decides to take another? All while she prances around the Red Keep, openly flaunting her pair of…” the words caught in her throat and she whirled around to face the white knight.

Ser Criston's dark eyes were as wide as figs.

Alicent clutched her chest. “Forgive me, I… I misspoke, I…”

“Those who say the truth can never misspeak.” Ser Criston allowed. He drew a step nearer the stream of sunlight making his black hair gleam like freshly mined onyx. “We know what those children are. The whole realm knows. Yet his Grace the King continues to turn a blind eye to the Princess' indiscretions.”

Alicent chortled, unable to stop herself. She could feel her cheeks grow hot. No one ever dared speak so openly about this, and to hear Ser Criston be so frank filled her with such relief.

-He is the only righteous man left me.

“Rhaenyra could rip my husband's heart out and stomp on it, and he would still defend her with his dying breath. There is nothing she can do to make him denounce her.” She paused her stomach in knots. “Sometimes I wonder why I keep fighting at all.”

The black dread crawled out of her then, sending gooseflesh sprouting across her skin—it had become her constant companion these last 9 years. Ever since she'd realized exactly who her dear friend was.

-Deceitful, self-serving, spiteful.

A traitor who had betrayed her trust for a vicious lie.

-The only friend you had. The only one you loved.

“For truth my Queen,” Ser Criston offered, his voice low. “For justice, and all that is good and pure and right.”

She smiled, hugging herself tighter. “Oh my dear sir, don’t you know. Those things do not matter here. Not in my husband's court.”

To think she'd once believed Viserys was a righteous king. Kind, and just, and ready to do what was best for the realm, even if he chafed under the weight of the responsibility.

She thought herself fortunate to have such a husband. Though she might not have loved him, as a woman loves a man, it comforted her to know that she could count on him to stand up for what she believed in. For the truth.

-How silly I had been.

Kind as Viserys was, he was just as self-serving as the rest of his family. The moment anything threatened Daemon or Rhaenyra, he would discard everything in favor of protecting them—even if it meant hurting others to do it.

You have no one but yourself.

“It matters to me,” he drew nearer, fire burning in every fine line of his face—the face that was a mirror image of all the brave knights from the stories of old. “It is your grace that had saved my life, all those years ago. If not for you interceding on my behalf with the Small Council, I would have been sent to the wall, or worse. I must believe that the Mother above would not disregard such kindness.”

The hand resting on his sword pommel twitched. Almost on instinct, Alicent moved to reach out hers.

-No, it would not be right.

He was her sworn protector. The feelings he had for her could not be anything other than of the purest kind.

“Even if it does not matter to the King, it matters to the Gods,” he continued, the stoic hardness returning to his face.

Alicent held his gaze. The dread within her simmered, morphing into quiet resentment.

“The Seven see all, Ser Criston,” she said tasting bitterness on her tongue. “In the end, they will give everyone what they're due.”

Chapter Text

The food had grown cold.

“Has he been found yet?”

The maid regarded her uneasily, the blue of her eyes as clear as spring waters.

“No, princess,” she mumbled. “They've scoured the markets, and the usual ale houses by the docks. None have seen Ser Laenor.”

Rhaenyra Targaryen squeezed her fork, eyeing the seat across from her–once again her husband had left it empty.

-Gods. Can I not have one day where things go as they should?

It seemed as if each sunrise brought with it something worse to bear. “Thank you, Lyra. You may go.”

The maid curtsied and moved to quickly clear out the untouched food from her table. Plates in hand, she scurried for the door.

“Wait,” the Princess said, causing her to freeze mid-step. “Find ser Harwin. I have need of him.”

The girl held her gaze for barely half a moment, before nodding. It was only when the sound of her footsteps faded down the hall that Rhaenyra allowed herself to breathe again.

-Even the servants know.

They had grown bolder of late. Openly gaping at her whenever she dared mention Ser Harwin's name. She was fairly certain none of them were secretly spying on her on the Queen's behalf—but that did not stop them from passing judgment on her.

-Let them. Their thoughts are of no consequence.

She was the blood of the dragon, heir to the throne. She could do what she pleased. At least that is what her uncle had said.
Rhaenyra smiled to herself, absently fingering her necklace–the same Valyrian steel pendant Daemon had given her all those years ago.

-Of course, he would say that. He was a man.

Even if he bedded a hundred women, and sired dozens of bastards, no one would bat an eye. He could just leave them with their mothers and pretend they never existed.

She could not. Every move she made, every word, every gaze, threatened her and her children.

-I must be vigilant. I must close ranks.

She may have gotten her father to send Alena Florent away, but the others were still there. Every day, the Queen's companions spread their poison throughout the Red Keep, casting doubts on her children's legitimacy.

Once, she would have dismissed them. Words were wind, and her father was firmly on her side. But, as her twins grew, their brown hair longer, brown eyes bigger, the talk became impossible to shut out.

Especially when they themselves had started parroting it back to her.

“They all say it.” Lucera had complained to her one night, as she was tucking her into bed. “How I'm not a real Princess.”

Her chest tightened, and Rhaenyra just about mounted Syrax, ready to fly her to Brightwater keep to make another Harrenhal of it.

“You are mine,” she'd told her sweet girl, her voice thick with rage, “That's all that matters.”

It didn’t of course. Not while her husband insisted on eschewing court life, to spend his days drinking and whoring with Ser Qarl by the docks.

Not while Alicent Hightower drew breath.

-Daemon was wrong.

Dragon or not, she was still a woman—she couldn’t do what she liked. Not without a man to stand by her side and protect her from the vultures.

-And Daemon has left me to them.

Rhaenyra was grateful when a soft knock sounded on the other side of the door—she could not bear to think of her uncle again. If she did, she might finally pitch that cursed necklace from the window, and be done with him once and for all.

“Come,” she said, and the old oak swung open. The soft clanger of armor rang in the chamber. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip.

-From one headache to another.

It seemed that she was forever doomed to be troubled by men.

“You sent for me, Princess,” Ser Harwin announced, giving her a curt nod. The moment his head snapped back up. Eyes, warmer than good tilled earth pinned hers.

She smiled.

-Always so bold.

Against her better judgment, her knees trembled.

“Yes,” she said, rising from her seat, but instead of going right at him, she circled the recliner, careful to keep her distance. “Ser Laenor has not been seen at court for some weeks now.”

Ser Harwin's face fell and his thick brows knitted together.

“Have the Velaryon guards scoured the docks?”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra absently fingered the backrest of a chair. The knight would still not look away from her. “Ser Vaemar did not find him at any of the usual taverns and drinking hovels. I fear some grave ill may have befallen him.”

“I’ll gather the watch. We'll search the streets. I'm certain his lordship had merely wandered into the wrong place.”

She nodded. “Start with the Street of Silk. There is a particular… establishment Ser Qarl is fond of.”

“The Menagerie, I've heard the men speak of it.” He offered.
Though there was no judgment in his voice, Rhaenyra could infer the name had left him uneasy. Everyone knew that particular brothel was renowned for its collection of exotic boys. If he discovered her husband in there, it would not bode well for her. Especially if word got out.

There were already far too many whispers about her husband and Ser Qarl.

“Yes. I trust you'll be discreet.”

“Of course, Princess. It will be done.”

She nodded, turning away from him.

“Good. See to it then.”

She'd tried to force as much finality into her voice as she could muster. Still, she did not hear him move.

“Is that all you would have of me Princess?” his voice dropped. Low, husky.

Her breath caught. “Is there anything else I should need?”

He moved, his footsteps echoing against the stone. “You tell me. You have been distant of late. Troubled.”

The sound stopped, and the scent of worn leather and wet stone drifted up her nostrils. A shudder slid down her spine.

“The concerns of the realm weigh on me.”

More footsteps. Hot air tickled her nape.

“Perhaps I could… help lift them.”

Her skin pricked up as a hand hovered inches from her. The velvet and silk gown she wore seemed thinner than paper now.

She sucked in air.

-No. Not anymore.

“I fear you will only make them heavier,” Though every inch of her flesh screamed in protest, she moved away.

The silence that descended on the chamber cut her something fierce.

“You did not seem to believe so, a few weeks past.”

The sternness of his voice made her sink her nails into her palm. “That was a mistake.”

“And all the times before?”

“I've made many mistakes these last few years,” she paused just beside the window, bitterness flooding her mouth. “And now I'm paying for them.”

He refused to allow her to escape. In two quick strides, he crossed the distance she'd so feebly attempted to put between them. Rhaenyra pulled away, but with her back pressed to the window sill, she was cornered—forced to meet those magnificent eyes.

“It is gossip. Rumor, nothing more,” his hand shot for hers, and flattening her palms to her side was all she could do to avoid his grip.

“Gossip can quickly become truth. If repeated often enough.”

“The King has already sent Lady Alena away.”

“But the others remain. Falla Ambrose, Catelyn Merryweather, Denyse Ashford. All the minor lords and knights Otto Hightower sent from the Reach to strengthen his family's position at court. Their tongues are still wagging, and there is nothing I can do to stop them.”

“Then I will,” his lips pressed into a firm white line. Taking one last step, he shattered whatever pitiful distance was left between them. “Just say the word, and I’ll rip their tongues right from their mouths.”

“Gods, don't you understand?” Rhaenyra blew a breath, seizing his face into her hands. The feel of his skin against hers was maddening. “If they discover us, your life is forfeit. They will brand you a traitor, and send you to the wall. Worse, they may kill you.”

“So be it.” His mouth quirked into a smile.

“Harwin…”

“If being with you means death, then I will gladly give my life a thousand times over.”

She gritted her teeth, half torn between slapping him and throwing herself into his arms.

“But it will not just be your life, will it? It will be mine too. And the children’s.”

“It will not.”

A chortle broke through her lips before she could bite it back.

"No? Will you fight my father over it? The Queen? One man against the whole realm…”

Before she could even blink, his hands were on her, crushing her to him. Brown eyes, flecked with spots of gold and russet consumed her soul. At that moment, all the resolve she had mustered, all the conviction disappeared and her flesh ached for his touch.

“Yes, if that’s what it takes. Because that’s what I vowed the day you made me your sworn protector. Or did you forget?”

She smiled, melting into him. Desperate. Full of longing.

“No.”

How could she? It had been the day light had finally returned to her life.

He'd knelt at her feet, beneath the canopy of the heart tree, and sworn his sword, his life, and his soul to her service.

After Ser Criston’s betrayal, Rhaenyra thought herself too broken to ever trust another. Still, when she bid Ser Harwin rise, as her sworn shield, she knew that if anyone was worthy of her trust, it would be him.

It didn't take her long for her to give him more than her trust. She’d been alone—her husband shunned her, still grieving his lover, while Alicent had scorned her for her transgression. Every day courtiers swarmed her with well wishes and prayers for her father’s recovery—but they were crows drawn to carrion, eager to peck out power for themselves. None of them were her friends.

Except for Harwin. In the wake of her disastrous wedding feast, his father the hand appointed him to shadow her, while the Kingsguard deliberated Ser Criston’s fate.

He’d never left her side since—it was he who kept her company while she read in the godswood. It was he who lifted her mood, whenever the maesters bought her grim tidings about her father’s health. When the nobles whispered and pointed, gossiping about her sham marriage and Ser Joffrey’s death, he came to her defense. And when she confided in him how Laenor had never so much as touched her, it was he who crushed his lips to hers.

Bold and unafraid.

At that moment, she didn't even have the wits about her to feign offense and dismiss him. News of Daemon’s sudden marriage to Laena had come, the last blow to her already miserable existence.

The grief and betrayal she felt had just about undone her.

It certainly made it easy to give in to Harwin's embrace.

“Then let me aid you. Protect you as I have thus far. I know I may not be able to be…” Harwin paused, pressing his lips. “What I am to the children, but I can be there for them. For you.”

The breath she released was small, strangled. Full of desire only he could inspire—only he could see.

“Always?” she pressed her forehead to his.

-Just one last time.

“Always,” he declared and devoured her lips.

Chapter Text

He came to the pit at first light.

No one expected him to arrive so early. His mother had told him on many occasions that the dragons cared not how early or late he was for their lessons.

If none of them felt like accepting him as their rider, he would remain dragonless.

Yet Aemond Targaryen was nothing if not persistent.

-I must.

He was the blood of Old Valyria, a son of House Targaryen. A dragon was his birthright. Without a dragon…

-I’m not a prince at all.

Dismissing his escort at the entrance to the Dragonpit, he traversed across the vast cavern, the soft crackle of sand the only sound echoing around him. Though the Dragonkeepers acknowledged his presence as was due, they kept to their duties with bowed heads.

No sooner had he descended on one of the benches, he fished out his scrolls, and started reciting the dragon commands they'd learned last week. He poured over each letter, and syllable, till the Valyrian glyphs were seared into his eyes, and he could see them floating in the torchlight flames above him.

That is how his brother found him— hunched over like a crone, nose buried in parchment.

“Early again, aren’t you?” Aegon forced through a yawn.

Aemond drew a breath and counted to three—mustering all his patience.

“As are you, for a change. Shouldn’t you be buried under the covers at this hour, snoring like a hog?”

Aemond expected his brother to clip him behind the ear.

Instead, Aegon groaned and collapsed on the bench beside him, limbs sprawled like a lazy stork. Somehow, the dismissed jab aggravated Aemond more.

“Believe me dear brother I would. But mother insisted I be on time. ‘A prince must be mindful of his duties' she said.”

Aemond snorted. The resent overflowing in Aegon's nasally crow was unseemly.

“As well she should. You must start taking these lessons more seriously.”

A loud whine filled the chamber, and Aemond could feel his brother squirming in the seat beside him. “Gods, must you heckle me as well? I already received enough scolding from mother.”

“Not enough to change your behavior it seems.” Aemond rolled a scroll shut and discarded it aside in favor of a new one.

When the wood beneath them cried against Aegon’s frustrated grip, Aemond's skin pricked up—preparing for the blow.

“I’m here, am I not?” his voice dropped.

“Should I congratulate you on the bare minimum?”

“I didn't ask for this!” he protested. When Aemond dared to look, the disinterested annoyance was gone. His cheeks were sunken, his pouty lips pressed into a firm line–brimming with resentment. “I didn't ask to be the first-born, to be nannied and pushed into being a princeling. Can't I just live my life in peace?”

For a moment, Aemond stared. He'd always known that under that veneer of callous apathy, was a deep-seated hurt. However, Aegon had always done his best to hide it.

-Perhaps mother's scolding has truly gotten to him this time.

He understood why perfectly.

“No, you cannot. Neither of us can. Not while they live."

His brother opened his mouth to speak, but the commotion coming from the entrance bade him stop.

Jacaerys Velaryon strode into the pit, two guards hot on his heels. His half-nephew seemed especially pleased today, a mischievous grin plastered all over his pudgy face.

“Aegon, Aegon,” the infuriating idiot screeched, rushing over to his brother.

Aegon responded to his giddiness instantly and leapt up to greet him, his earlier melancholy forgotten.

The brief glimmer of sympathy Aemond had had for him shriveled and died.

“Slow down there Jace, do you mean to plow through me?”

“Guess what I got?”

“What?”

“No, guess!”

His brother rolled his eyes. “I don't know, rocks? Dragon glass. A chambermaid's small clothes?”

Though Jace laughed, his face showed clear signs of discomfort at his brother's jape.

“No stupid. Look!” his half-nephew thrust his hand at Aegon.

When his brother brought the small black shape to his face to examine it, Aemond realized what it was.

“Is that a whistle?” he absentmindedly asked.

“Not just any whistle. This one is a special Valyrian whistle. It's supposed to make a sound only dragons can hear.”

Aemond frowned, casting a glance at his scroll. He couldn’t recall any of his books mentioning such a thing. Aegon seemed just as skeptical.

“Right,” his brother handed the slender black flute to him. “And what do you mean to do with it? Annoy Vermax till he sets your face on fire?”

Jace made a face. “No, it won’t. The whistle is supposed to make him obey me. It’s how Valyrian dragonlords used to command their dragons.”

“No, they didn’t.” Aemond couldn’t resist jumping in. “They used magic horns, not whistles. And blood magic, along with Valyrian commands. Your whistle will do nothing to him.”

The face Jace made set Aemond's blood to boiling.

“Pft, what do you know? You don’t even have a dragon.”

To make things worse, Aegon smirked too, and elbowed him.

“He's right brother. Perhaps you should leave dragon training to actual dragon riders.”

The two shared a shrill laughter and headed deeper into a pit.
An eternity passed before he had calmed himself enough to follow.

As usual, the dragon keepers made them recite the standard commands, taking care to correct their tone and pitch whenever they wavered. Once he was satisfied with their knowledge, Head Keeper Maerys beckoned one of the acolytes to bring a dragon from below.

Naturally, they started with Sunfyre.

“Watch how it’s done,” Aegon proclaimed, straightening his back. With a flick of his wrist, he motioned forward.

“Māzigon!”

Sunfyre raised his head, slits of molten amber sparking to life. Even in the dimness of the pit, the brilliant yellow of the dragon's scales shone like newly mined gold. It gracefully edged forward, claws kicking up sand.

“Good. Dohearīs.”

A low rumble resonated from his chest, as he cocked his head at his brother.

-Mayhaps he’ll disobey.

Not a moment later, the beast bent its neck so the two of them were at eye level.

The smirk on Aegon's face was sickeningly smug.

“Now, dracarys!” scarcely had the word left his lips than a blast of golden flame lit up the cavern. The wooden sitting bench was consumed by the inferno, disintegrating into a pile of charred wood in a matter of minutes.

Aegon released a strangled laugh, while Sunfyre chirped.

Both Jace and the Keepers clapped.

“Thank you, thank you!” his brother bowed. “I’ll be here all day.”

“Very good my Prince. But next time, be sure to tell him to burn the actual target.” Keeper Maerys pointed to the cloth stickman they'd set up feet from the bench.

“I was being creative.”

“Or not aiming at all,” Jace commented, earning a jostle.

“Let’s see you do better them.”

In a few quick strides, the bottom trap door opened and a shadow appeared from below. The two younger acolytes corralled Vermax forward with their sticks, the fledgling dragon hissing every time the wood prodded his flesh.

Though the little thing was two times smaller than Sunfyre, and half as pretty, it had a mean streak that could rival even the famed Vhagar herself.

Aemond thought it appropriate.

-An ill-tempered runt for an ill-tempered runt.

It was all someone like Jacaerys could hope to hatch.

“Vermax!” his half-nephew announced, straightening his back. “Dohenīs.”

“Dohearīs, my prince. It's Dohearīs,” the Keeper cleared his throat.

“Right, yes. Dohearīs!”

The little runt completely ignored him, continuing to paw at the sand with annoyed fury.

“Here, Vermax, listen to me.” Jace snapped his fingers, drawing closer to the beast.

To Aemond's chagrin, the animal turned away and lazily flapped its wings.

“Valyrian my Prince. You must use the commands. It’s the only way they respond.”

“I know that,” Jace snapped, his lips pursed into a scowl.

“Dracarys, Vermax, dracarys. Now!”

The command seemed to catch the dragon's attention. It cocked its head in Jace's direction, before releasing a strangled shriek. They all waited for the flames to pour from its jaws—instead, all the beast did was cough up a charred bone.

Aegon doubled over in laughter, and Aemond just about followed suit.

“Impressive.” His brother teased. “We almost got a second Harrenhal.”

“Shut up, I was just warming up.”

“Louder my prince. You must speak louder and with more conviction.” Keeper Maerys chided, as his fingers picked at the burn scar marring his chin. “A dragon will not obey you like a dog. You must earn its submission. And you can only do that if you show strength.”

“It would also help if you said the right words.” A high-pitched voice rang behind them.

Aemond whirled on his feet in time to catch two dark shapes entering the pit. The unmistakable flash of a white cloak revealed one of the arrivals as a Kingsguard. The other, smaller shape trotted after him, arms crossed firmly on her chest.

Jace's sister did not look happy.

“I know which words to say.” His half-nephew retorted, shooting Lucera a fierce grimace.

“If you did, Vermax wouldn’t be digging for rats right now.” She returned the grimace with equal ferocity pointing at Jace's dragon—it was trying and failing to nibble on a rock, like some half-witted kennel dog.

Aemond smirked.

“You're late, princess,” Keeper Maerys chastised, greeting the Kingsguard that had come in with her. It was Ser Steffon Darklyn.

“Forgive us, Ser. The princess was occupied with other duties.”

“She had to go dancing you mean,” Jace teased, that grimace transforming into a most hideous grin.

“It was needlework, if you must know.”

“Even worse.”

Lucera puckered her lips.

“I’d like to see you do it.”

Jace and Aegon shared a laugh. “Why would I? I’m the Prince. I don’t have to waste my time on silly woman things.”

She whirled on her feet, shooting him a look.

“Right, a real Prince you are. And yet you still can't get your dragon to so much as light a hay pile on fire.”

Pink splotches blossomed on Jace's cheeks.

“Can too! Vermax!” his nephew stepped forward. “Dracarys!”

The beast snorted, orange slits narrowing. Then, he hissed and spat snot at the ground.

“Nice fire. A bit too wet though.” Lucera grinned.

“Shut up, that doesn’t count. I wasn’t ready!”

“By the looks of it, you’ll never be ready. Keeper, bring Arrax up.”

The robed man spat plemgh.“No princess. You missed out command recital. I can't let you…”

Without missing a beat, Lucera fired off each command in rapid succession, her voice not wavering once. Jace’s face twisted into a grimace and he crossed his arms on his chest. Against his better judgment, Aemond’s lip curled into a smile.

“I can also recite you the Bear and the Maiden Fair in High Valyrian, but I don’t think the dragons would care for that.”

The Keeper sighed and motioned for his acolytes. Again, a low rumble reverberated through the pit, as the trap door creaked open. Half a breath later, a pale shape burst through the hole, pearlescent wings flapping.

“Dohearīs, Arrax, dohearīs!” The acolytes shrieked. One of them was yanking on the chain, shackled around the pale dragon’s leg, trying to force it to land. That only made it scream harder. “Ilagon!”

“Get the chains off him, he doesn’t like it.” Lucera frowned at the Keeper.

“We get them off, he flies away. Your dragon is too rowdy to stay unchained, Princess.”

“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Jace jeered, Aegon chuckling behind him.

“Shut up!” she hissed and stepped forward. "Arrax, kesīr!”

In a second, the wild thrashing ceased. The dragon's head snapped right, and it narrowed its silvery slits at her. Curiously it didn’t land.

“Kessa, jurnegon issa. Dohearīs.”

A strangled hiss burst from the beast’s jaw, and it yanked on the chain again, aiming right at Lucera. The two acolytes holding him stumbled but held fast.

“Sagon dāez, dracarys!”

With a loud shriek, a blast of silver fire shot through with blue burst from the animal's jaw. The strawman erupted in seconds, the flames illuminating the pit in a flash of brilliant white.

Keeper Maerys grunted in approval, “Good, Princess, good, now get him…”

His words caught in his throat, when the beast shrieked again, yanking hard on the chain. The acolytes bellowed commands, but the dragon wouldn’t listen. It hissed and spat a white ball on the iron.

In half a breath, the pit erupted in chaos. The acolytes stumbled back, ducking to avoid the sparks of fire. The chain slipped from their hands in a clamor of metal.

The dragon ascended in a blur of silvery wings, chirping and screaming as it flew laps around the domed pit.

Aemond stared at the display wide-eyed, so enraptured he didn’t even notice hands on him.

“Behind me, children, now!” ser Steffon commanded, stepping in between him and the dragons.

Arrax's flight had stirred up the other two dragons into a frenzy, and they were taking turns belting shrieks at each other. Sunfyre’s back frills were raised, a clear threat display to the acolytes trying to keep him from taking flight.

Aegon was nearby too, screaming commands over the acolytes in a bid to get his dragon to calm down. When he moved to mount him, Steffon wrestled him away, shoving him so hard, he fell on his back with a loud thud.

Jace was not doing better either. He was cowering behind Keeper Maerys, ceaselessly blowing his Valyrian whistle. As predicted the shrill squeak coming out of that thing did nothing but annoy Vermax.

The beast was snapping at the Keeper's staff, as the old man struggled to corral it down the trap door, into the dragon lairs.
Only Lucera seemed unbothered by the mess.

She laughed and cheered, watching her dragon fly about the dome. At one point, the swift creature descended, snatching something off the sands. Flicking its talons upward, its prey flew up, allowing the dragon to blast it with fire.

In two quick bites, it swallowed the rat and landed with a satisfied chirp.

“Princess no!” Ser Steffon hissed, hand on his sword hilt.

Lucera ignored him entirely and rushed to meet the dragon. The thing was as tall as a show pony, slender and sinewy, with a wingspan that could cast a shadow on half of a small house–or devour a skinny girl of 7. But the beast never struck—instead, it bent its neck unprompted and leaned into Lucera's touch, allowing her to stroke its muzzle.

“Gods be good child, do you mean to kill us?!” Keeper Maerys waved his hands frantically, his saggy skin turning an ugly shade of red.

“Don't be silly, he wasn’t going to hurt anyone. He just wanted to fly for a bit.”

“Your mother shall hear of this Princess.” Ser Steffon chastised. “That was careless. Your brother could have gotten hurt.”

“I'm fine!” Jace announced a loopy smile on his face. “Whistle broke though.”

“Your uncles as well!”

“I’m not!” Aegon whined, hand rubbing at his ass.

Aemond rolled his eyes. “It’s a bruise, you’ll heal.”

“This whole place could have caught fire!” ser Steffon continued, square jaw tight.

“It wouldn’t have. Arrax wouldn’t have done anything without my say-so.”

No sooner had she said that, that the dragon nipped at her dress. The silk tore with a loud rip and the animal trashed it about as if it were freshly killed prey.

“Arrax no, give that back!” she gasped and reached for the chunk of cloth. Blessedly, the dragon took that as an invitation to play tug of war. It spun her around in a circle chirping happily, before Lucera's grip failed her, and she collapsed to the ground.

“That’s it, take the beasts below,” Ser Steffon demanded.

Keeper Maerys shot him a look but summoned his acolytes to obey nonetheless.

“Princess, you will come with me to see your mother. At once.”

Lucera pouted, rising to her feet in a huff. The silken blue dress she wore was destroyed—torn at the hem and covered in ash.

“That's not fair! I didn’t do anything!”

“Ha ha, you’re in trouble again.” Jace quipped, rubbing dirt off his cheeks.

Aemond had the indescribable urge to pelt him with a rock.

“Now, Princess.”

She whined more, but Ser Steffon would not be gainsaid. In two quick strides, he dragged her out of the pit sulking, promising to send ser Criston to fetch the rest of them later.

Aemond stood frozen, taking in the dimness around him. The stench of burnt straw and dragon breath in the air, the heavy smoke stinging his eyes. His brother whining and clutching at his backside like a child, while the acolytes forced Sunfyre to the lairs.

He couldn’t help it—he started laughing.

He laughed and laughed, till his sides hurt from the effort, and his lungs ran out of air. Aegon was gaping at him dumbfounded, while Jace squinted, jaw working his teeth.

“What’s so funny?” his half-nephew demanded.

“Everything. In fact, I’d say that was rather fun,” he announced, dusting off his doublet. His fingers came away stained with grey.

That was it—fun. He couldn’t recall the last time he'd had fun during these lessons if he ever did. It was always a stifling race to prove himself, to get everything right.

All while resenting the fact he lacked the one thing the others had.

-I should thank her.

He and Lucera had spoken only a handful of times during feasts and family dinners, but he still felt the need to congratulate her on her spectacle.

“Well Jace, I suppose we finally know who the real dragon master is.” He grinned and went for the exit.

Chapter Text

Mother wasn’t wroth.

She was something much worse—disappointed.

“Tell me, what do your books say about dragons?”

Clad in her samite house robe, Rhaenyra Targaryen paced about her chambers, hands furiously working at the rings lining her fingers.

She did that when she was upset, Jace knew. He shrank into his seat, gaze drifting to his boots. The supple leather was stained with splotches of soot and sand.

“That dragons are dangerous weapons of war that can cause untold death and destruction.” His sister mumbled into her chin.

The way she sat on her chair, curled up into a tight ball, made her seem years his junior. Jace wanted to kick her.

-Gods, she's so stupid.

She never could pass up the opportunity to be a showoff.

“Yes, weapons. Not toys you can use for your own amusement.”

“It's all Luce's fault,” he whined.

His twin snapped up immediately, that stupid determined crease appearing between her brows.

“No, it isn’t!”

“Is so! You were the one who told Arrax to spit fire at the acolytes”

“No, I didn’t. I just told him to be free,” she turned to Mother. “He doesn’t like the chains. I’ve told them a thousand times to keep him unchained. He won't hurt anyone, he's just upset!”

He couldn’t stop himself from snorting.

“it sure looked like that when he was flying around, spitting fire at everything.”

“Of course, you would see that as a threat. You who can't control Vermax to save your life!”

A lump caught in his throat. “That’s not true.”

“Is so! You don’t even know the right dragon commands to get him to heel.”

“You…”

“Enough, both of you, enough!” Mother’s raised voice startled him, and he immediately pulled back his raised hand.

He couldn’t recall a time when she'd screamed at them.

“This incessant bickering must cease. You two are family. You’re meant to look out for each other, not be at each other's throats.”

Luce chortled. “Tell that to Jace. He's always teasing me about everything.”

“Am not!”

“Are so! You and Aegon can’t utter a single thing without it being hurtful.”

“Stop it! I will hear no more of this,” in a blink of an eye, Mother had knelt in front of them, purple eyes wide. She was gritting her teeth so hard, that Jace was certain she would shatter them. “This dreadful contest of slights ends here. I raised you to be equals. Allies, two halves of one whole. And I will be damned to the seven hells if I allowed you to turn each other into enemies. We have enough of those as is.”

“Mother…” Luce whined, but Rhaenyra refused to give her leeway.

“No, enough. I know you will not always get along, or see eye to eye. But out there, in the world, you will do your duty, and protect one another. Always.”

The pause that ensued made Jace shift in his seat.

“Now, make amends.”

His and his twins gaze met simultaneously. He blew a breath.
“I’m sorry for teasing you about the dancing. It was stupid. Just need a bit more practice is all.”

The ensuing pause made him think she wouldn’t say aything at all, but she finally released a resigned grunt.

“I’m sorry for saying all those mean things about your dragon commands. I’m sure that your… additional lessons with Maester Orwyle will help you improve.”

Unprompted, Luce seized his hand into his. Jace pondered the cold grip of her fingers but decided to return the squeeze.

He hated when she did that. It made it obscenely difficult to be mad at her.

Releasing a slow, controlled sigh, his mother adjusted her robes and nodded.

“Good. Now. Lucera, you shall go find Septa Melara. In place of training in the Dragonpit you will be having more needlework lessons with her for the next two weeks.”

Luce kept up in her chair. “What, no, please don’t! I hate needlework.”

“Then you should have considered that before you almost set the entire pit aflame.”

“Mother, please!”

Rhaenyra shook her head, strands of silver hair falling into her eyes. “No, you know the rules. Actions have consequences. And if you perform an action…”

“…you must bear the consequence.” His twin finished, her voice small.

“Good. Now go. And don’t think of getting yourself into more trouble, do you understand?”

Luce huffed, her bushy brows crinkling into a sullen frown. Nevertheless, she rushed into their mother’s outstretched arms, to bury her head into her curls. Rhaenyra squeezed her briefly, before planting a brief kiss on her lips. Once they pulled apart, his sister reluctantly drew closer for a stilted embrace. Jace begrudgingly accepted and resisted grimacing when she kissed him too. Not a moment later, a guard entered the chamber to escort her to the Septa for her punishment.

Jace sat in his chair, legs swinging. A strange bitterness lingered in his mouth, and he got an indescribable urge to hit something with his practice sword.

His mother noticed his displeasure and plopped in the chair beside him.

“What is it, my love?” Her slender fingers went for his hair and brushed his fringe to the side.

He shrugged.

“You know, there are two things you could never do well—sing and lie to your mother.”

“You’re wrong. There is another thing I can’t do well. Control my dragon.”

The moment those words left his lips, his mother leaned closer.

“Jace…”

“She's right. I can't control Vermax. I can’t even read the Valyrian commands, much less say them.”

His mother swallowed. “Maester Orwyle has assured me that your… condition is inconsequential. It will just take a bit more effort on your part to learn reading and writing."

The bitterness in his throat flooded his mouth and he resisted the urge to spit. He hated that stupid word: condition. It made him seem like some halfwit who couldn’t tell one letter apart from the other.

“No that’s stupid,” he hissed. “I shouldn’t have to try. It should just happen. If I’m the blood of the dragon, then Vermax should just bow to me, and do what I say, the way Sunfyre does with Aegon.”

The mention of his uncle’s name made his mother purse her lips.

“You are the blood of the dragon. And Aegon shouldn’t dare to tell you otherwise.”

The candlelight made her purple irises flicker with specks of molten cobalt and Jace shifted in his seat. He didn’t understand why she'd gotten so angry, at Aegon of all people, but he brushed it off.

“He didn’t tell me that. But I know it to be true. Every time I try to do the commands to direct Vermax, I embarrass myself. Even Aemond laughs at me.”

That was the thing that hurt him the most. The smug satisfactory laugh Aemond let out after Luce had left. He knew his half-uncle was mocking him. He, the dragonless runt of their family.

It was pathetic.

His mother’s soft hands gripped his.

“Do you know what dragon your grandsire rode?”

“Balerion, the Black dread.” He fired off with enthusiasm. He didn’t care much for history but this he took care to remember.

“Yes, the largest and most fearsome dragon in the world. And the only thing he was able to make him do was fly one lap around the Red Keep before Balerion collapsed in the courtyard and fell asleep.”

The laugh they shared made warmth blossom in his chest.

“Balerion died shortly after,” she continued. “And your grandsire never claimed another dragon. But that did not make him less worthy. In fact, he was able to govern the realm peaceably with nothing but his wits for years.”

“Well, he did have help.”

Again, her lips stretched into a radiant smile.

“That he did. But the point still stands. He did things his own way. At his own pace. And made them work. So shall you.” The hand that had so gently brushed his hair aside caressed his cheek. “Mayhaps you will never be able to recite Valyrian poetry from memory. But, in time, you will learn the commands well enough to command Vermax, just as your forebears did. You are a Targaryen, now and always. And a dragon is your birthright."

Jace sank his teeth into his lower lip, the sullenness abating. His mother was right. He was the blood of the dragon. The son of the future queen, the descendant of Old Valyria. He would get it right eventually. He just needed a bit more time.

Inching closer he buried his face into his mother's silver curls. Rhaenyra squeezed him tighter, her warm skin like the caress of Vermax's scales.

“You keep yourself out of trouble, you hear?” she chided, breaking apart to seize his chin in her hands.

The cobalt flecks were still in her eyes, the darkness making the lilac irises appear foreboding. Jace decided he didn’t like it.

“I mean it, Jaceaerys. I know Lucera didn’t decide on that stunt on her own,” a pause followed—heavy and poignant. “Teasing her will not make you better or more powerful. Or make Aegon like you more.”

Again, the forceful way she said his uncle's name made Jace squirm. It almost sounded like an insult.

“I didn’t tease her because Aegon told me…”

“No, but he did make you want to say it,” she paused, hands needling his shoulders. “He's a terrible influence. And you shouldn’t let him corrupt you into being more like him.”

Jace shook off her grip, cheeks flush. “He didn’t corrupt me. I’m mine own man.”

“Yes, is that why the trouble you’ve been getting yourself in lately has his name written all over it?”

His mouth fell open, ready to let out a torrent of arguments denying her point. But no sound came out.

-We were just having fun.

Jace had been unsure the first time Aegon had invited him to play. He and his retinue of Florent lordlings had always taken care to exclude him from their adventures.

“He's just a boy,” Edric Florent would sneer whenever they'd spot him in the yard. “Why would we want a sniveling babe trailing after us?”

Jace yearned to grab his practice sword and show him who the babe was, but Ser Harwin would pull him away. The boys were field mice, the knight reasoned.

“As Prince, you need not waste your strength on them,”

Though Jace appreciated his reassurance, their callous words had stung. It wasn’t fair that Aegon had all these playmates, and Jace had to settle for his sister. He wanted to have adventures too.

So when Edric Florent disappeared with his mother and cousins back to the reach, and Aegon turned to him for company, he leapt at the chance.

His plots weren’t always to his liking. He didn’t see the point in stealing the garments of serving girls. But his uncle had assured him it was all harmless fun. And he too, couldn’t deny he had had fun, more oft than not.

“I know you have few friends at court. And that is entirely mine own doing,” Rhaenyra released a labored sigh. For a thousandth time, Jace wondered if his mother could read thoughts—she always seemed to discern exactly what was troubling him. “But that doesn’t mean you should allow Aegon to turn you into his plaything as payment for his companionship. You’re the heir to the throne. He should be attempting to impress you, not the other way around.”

“Yes, mother,” Jace reluctantly conceded, though the words left a bitter taste on his lips.

He was nobody’s puppet. In fact, some of their adventures had been Jace's own idea. Nevertheless, it would not do him good to admit so.

His mother seemed pleased with that answer.

“Good,” Rhaenyra pressed her forehead to his. The scent of her floral perfume engulfed him like a cloud—it reminded him of spring, and blooming daisies. Of peace and safety. “Now do not fret my love. Everything will come into place, you’ll see.”

Mussing his hair, her downturned lips curled into a smile. The warmth did not reach her eyes though. The lilac remained cold, distant. Full of dread.

“As long as I live, you will have everything.”

* * *
Maester Orwyle didn't help at all. Though the kindly man tried to be patient and understanding, their lesson didn’t progress beyond the first paragraph of the history of Aegon's conquest.

Half an hour in, and Jace was ready to scream and fling that cursed book through the keep window. Wisely, the Maester recognized how his mood had soured, and dismissed him early.

Unable to bear the thought of facing his mother, he languished in the library, pretending to read, while Ser Steffon stood watch outside.

He was so focused on the letters blurring and morphing on the page, that he barely registered the figure that had dropped into the seat beside him.

“Aegon's Conquest? Why are you bothering with that old bore,” Aegon commented. Dragging a chair out, he plopped himself into it, legs going up on the table. “We've already gone through it weeks ago.”

“The Maester insisted.”

Aegon pursed his pouty lips and pushed a lock of silver hair out of his eyes. As always, the doublet he wore was a vibrant viper green embroidered with patchwork that evoked tower bricks. The crinkles around his eyes told Jace he was especially displeased about something today.

“Of course he did. Orwyle always liked to repeat himself to the point of redundancy.”

Jace squinted. “Redunalcy. What does that mean?”

“It's redundancy,” Aegon smirked. “When something becomes useless.”

“Oh. Never heard of it.”

A laugh burst from his lips, and he leaned back into his chair. Somehow, even sprawled out like that, Jace felt like he was towering over him.

“No? I see Maester Orwyle would do better to give you a dictionary of common words, rather than history.”

“Shut up!” Jace balled his fists. “What are you doing here anyway? The library is the last place you'd haunt.”

“I could say the same of you,” his uncle held his gaze but released a long sigh a moment later. “My mother had wanted me to read from the Seven-Pointed Star with Tyshara Lannister this afternoon. I would rather shove Dornish vipers down my trousers.”

“Tyshara Lannister?” he giggled. “Is she the one who chortles when she laughs?”

Jace vaguely remembered seeing her among the retinue lord Jason had brought when he had come to visit his twin brother from the West. Short, pudgy with golden rivulets that fell down her back, she'd worn a pale yellowish dress that reminded Jace of the color of spoiled milk.

“That one. Though I’d say it’s more of an oink than a chortle,” he bit his lip. “The Lannisters should change their house sigil from a lion to a pig. They got the cry down to a fault.”

Against his better judgment, Jace burst out laughing.

“No, I simply could not endure it. I wanted to pursue something more… interesting.”

His dark, indigo eyes pinned him, and Jace swallowed a lump down his throat. He knew that look—he knew it all too well.

“I can't,” he fired off, burying his face into the book page. “Mother has commanded me to spend the next few days reading with Maester Orwyle. As… punishment.”

The words were a bold-faced lie, but he wasn't about to repeat what his mother had actually told him about Aegon.

His uncle was terribly displeased. “Gods. She does realize that the pit thing wasn't your fault?”

“Yes,”

“It was your sister's. If she hadn't goaded her dragon into misbehaving, that mess would not have happened.”

“She knows that too. And she's already punished Luce for it. But, she thought that…”

“You should bear the consequences of her actions as well,” Aegon finished, voice dropping low. “It seems both our mothers like to place blame on others for all the ill in their lives.”

His gaze went blank then, and he absentmindedly stared at one of the writing desks in the corner of the hall. Jace thought he might get up and leave, but instead, he released a labored sigh, expelling the thought that was weighing him down.

“Well, if Lucera insisted on spoiling the fun for everyone, the least she could have done is command Arrax to burn Aemond.”

The darkness vanished from his face in a flash, and his lips curled into a cocksure smile once again. Jace reluctantly followed suit.

“Gods… did you know the idiot spent half the day laughing after?”

Jace squirmed in his chair, heat attacking his cheeks.

“What does he have to laugh about? He doesn’t even have a dragon. He has no idea what it’s like.”

Aegon tsked, drumming his slender fingers against the table. “Exactly. But he's a self-serious twat who thinks being on time, reading books, and listening to mother makes him better than everyone.”

A pause ensued, as Aegon ground his teeth

“Strength comes from dragons, not from following rules. He should be reminded of that.”

Dread pooled in the pit of Jace's gut. Aegon’s face had twisted into a hollow, serious mask, his eyes emptying of all feeling.

“What do you mean?” he dared to ask.

With a blink, he snapped back to life and shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing. Just that he could do with a lesson about strength and power. Something to remind him of his place. What do you say?”

Jace realized then what he was asking, and he began turning the buttons on his red doublet.

“I can’t. I promised my mother…”

“Gods, you sound just like him. Always clinging to mother's skirts, doing everything she says. Like a mewling child.” Aegon spat.

The dread in his gut dispersed and Jace straightened his back.

“I’m not a child! I’m a man grown.”

“Then prove it.”

The two locked eyes in a battle of wills, and Jace was about ready to leap out of his chair to run for his practice sword. Still, a nagging voice at the back of his mind whispered incessantly, and he remained frozen.

“Fine but… no one will get hurt, will they?”

He despised the girlish lilt in his voice—one pitch higher and he would have been his sister.

Aegon scoffed and leaned back into the chair.

“No, of course not. It will just be a little jest. Harmless fun. As always.”

The words lingered in his head and he turned them over for a bit. A jest. A simple little joke to bring Aemond down to earth. It was what he deserved.

-He won't dare laugh at me again after that.

A smile crept on Jacaerys’ lips and he nodded

Chapter Text

Johanna Lannister did a fine job at feigning understanding.

“Illness? I hope it is nothing serious?” the Lady of Casterly Rock exclaimed, nursing her cup. Their evening had started out beautifully. The two women had exchanged pleasantries, complementing each other's gowns, and the magnificent feast the servants had laid out for them—slow roasted venison with honeyed turnips, mushroom pies, hunks of freshly baked bread, and custard tarts. Alicent had taken care to have the finest honey wine for her guest, having heard of the Lady's fondness for the drink.

On her part, Johanna Lannister showered her with kind words and gifts. A splendid embroidered petticoat with mink fur trimmings for her, and a gold ring with a pink emerald for Heleana. Aemond received a deer hide knife scabbard, inlaid with gold threads, whilst Daeron, whose absence Johanna lamented, got an oaken dragon toy, with sapphire eyes.

The Lady's young daughter Tyshara wanted to hand Aegon's gift personally to him but her son was nowhere to be seen.

Alicent tried to dismiss his absence, claiming he was still studying with the Maesters, and would be arriving shortly. Yet as the evening progressed, and she and Johanna ran out of platitudes to exchange, her firstborn never came.

Alicent was just about ready to pick her nails to the bone.

“I will find him, your Grace,” Ser Criston Cole had promised when she'd pulled him aside to have words.

Sadly, her honorable knight was too late in fulfilling his promise.

Nightfall had already descended on the Keep when Ser Criston unearthed Aegon near the castle's pigsty, and dragged him back to the Queen's apartments. By then Lady Johanna had grown sick of waiting and excused herself to take her daughter to bed.

Alicent tried to soothe her obvious displeasure by inventing a sickness that had prevented her son from attending.

“It is just a little chill, that’s all. Maester Orwyle has assured me he will regain his strength in no time.”

The Lady peeled her lips into a smirk, her hooded eyes almost disappearing into her head. Alicent thought she looked like she was choking on a lemon. The golden dress she wore did nothing to stop the comparison.

Nevertheless, she refused to linger.

When Ser Criston brought Aegon into her apartments later, filthy and stinking of wine, Alicent was grateful for her departure.

“Johanna Lannister is the Lady of Casterly Rock. The second wealthiest house in Westeros. Proud and powerful, and capable of aiding or hindering the throne, if her husband was so inclined. And yet despite knowing this, you chose to show her nothing but disrespect?”

Her limbs trembling, Alicent seized Aegon by the chin, forcing his head up to look at her. His clothes were caked with mud and dried leaves, his silver hair a tangle of messy knots. The smell of strong ale languished on his breath, and a large stain marred the front of his doublet. But the worst was his face. Blank and sulky, as if there wasn’t a single thought floating about his head.

-He truly is Viserys' son.

Her husband too, would get the same droopy expression whenever she attempted to bring up concerns he was determined to ignore.

“I told you, I didn’t want to spend the afternoon reading with her. I don’t like her!”

Before she knew it, her hand snapped up, and she dealt him a slap across the face. An ugly red imprint bloomed on his left cheek.

“Gods be good, the world does not revolve around your wants and likes! There are more important things at stake!”

Jason Lannister’s sudden visit to Kings Landing had brought an invaluable opportunity to Alicent—a marriage pact. If she managed to betroth Aegon to Lord Jason's daughter, Alicent would have the means to stand against Rhaenyra and the might of House Velaryon.

Her son did not care for her reasoning though.

“She's 4. A whiny, snotty child. Why would I want her trailing after me?”

“And yet you have no issue with Jacaerys Velaryon hanging on your every word.”

The sullen frown turned into a grimace. Alicent wished she could slap him again, but the slight shake of Criston's head bade her stay her hand.

-There is no slapping sense into him.

If that were possible, then he never would have struck up a friendship with Rhaenyra's get in the first place.

“Jace at least has some wits about him. The Lannister girl is a halfwit with a stutter.”

“She will learn, grow, and mature. I cannot say the same thing for you.”

The redness that ravished his cheeks then had nothing to do with her blows.

“You read to her then!” his voice shattered, and he shook off Ser Criston's grip. He collapsed onto a pair of cushions, arms crossed firmly on his chest. Alicent released a strangled sigh.

-How? How is it possible that he is my eldest?

This behavior wasn’t even suited to a squalling babe, much less a boy on the cusp of manhood.

“Gods… years, I’ve spent trying to secure your position. Find you allies, supporters who will protect you and defend your rights. And at every turn, you've spurned my efforts. For what? A cup of wine, an afternoon spent a bed? The friendship of Rhaenyra's son?” Swallowing the lump in her throat, Alicent leaned against the window frame, overlooking the darkened gardens.

“Sometimes I wonder why I even bother trying. You clearly have no wish to be a son of mine.”

Heavy silence blanketed the room, as Alicent resisted the urge to split open her nail beds. Some distant part of her told her, her words were too harsh—unbecoming of a good mother. Still, it felt good to voice them. To free herself of the shackles she’d borne since the day her father had sold her off to be a royal broodmare.

“I didn't ask for it,” Aegon's voice was small, shaky. When Alicent cast a glance at him, tears were welling in his purple eyes.

“No. Yet you keep spitting upon it as if it means nothing to you. As if I mean nothing to you.”

The hurt came then and Alicent could not stop the tears from filling her own eyes.

All that pain, that suffering. All my sacrifices are worth naught.
She might as well have flung herself from the tallest window in the Red Keep.

“That's not true.”

“Then act like it. Listen to me and do your duty.”

“I'm trying…” he hiccupped a sob, wiping his nose on his sleeve. The dirt caked on the garment left tracks above his upper lip.

Alicent gritted her teeth. “No. You’re not. If you were, you would have been here, instead of chasing after Jacaerys Velaryon.”

She expected him to argue again, but to her shame, he did nothing except drop his head and sniffle in silence.

“Thought as much. Escort the Prince to his chambers, and take the watch. I don’t want him sneaking out to bring us more misery.”

“Of course, my queen,” in two quick strides he crossed the room and forced Aegon to his feet. Her son stumbled out of her apartments, head hanging low, and shoulders bunched.

Alicent buried her face in her hands.

All for naught.

-Is this my lot in life?

Forever doomed to toil in service of others. And toward what end? Her son was just as big of an oaf as her husband. Haughty, proud, petulant, and focused solely on his desires.

Such a man would never be capable of seizing power.

-Rhaenyra might as well lop our heads off now.

Alicent regarded her right index. If she squinted, she could still make out the fine outline of a ring band she'd worn there–a most cherished gift from a most cherished friend.

-No. She shan't get such satisfaction from me.

Rhaenyra had already trampled her heart once. Alicent would sooner let the Others take her than allow her to claim the final victory.

-This has to mean something. It must.

Rubbing at her hands, she turned and headed toward her writing desk. Johanna Lannister may have been as proud as her husband, but Alicent wagered she too could be bought if the price was high enough.

-Aegon will be king someday.

And once the crown sat atop his head, Alicent Hightower would finally be vindicated.

* * *

As expected, Johanna Lannister seemed unimpressed by her efforts of appeasement.

“It truly is a pity the Prince’s illness has impeded him from giving my daughter audience. Thrice.”

Alicent set down her teacup cup, her heartbeat soaring.

-Wouldn’t be a Lannister if she didn’t have a sharp tongue.

It had taken quite a bit of convincing to get the Lady of Casterly Rock to come and break her fast with her. Yet, even after she'd arrived at the queen's apartments, resplendent in Lannister reds and golds, she remained notably curt.

“Yes, I know. But this flux has been troubling him for months. He never quite recovered from his first bout with it. But the maesters have been giving him new potions now, so he is sure to be hale and healthy again.”

“Not before we depart for Casterly Rock.” The Lady raised her hook nose high. There was something especially disconcerting about her icy blue eyes—a kind of hidden fierceness that gave Alicent pause.

-The Lioness of the Rock indeed.

She seldom placed stock in gossip, but for once the rumors about Lord Jason's fierce Westerling wife were true.

“Yes. I’m quite saddened that you will be leaving us so soon,” She leaned against the table, fingers entwined. “But mayhaps my daughter and I could give you a proper sendoff this evening, over supper?”

The Lady regarded her for a moment, slender fingers twirling the golden lion pendant about her neck.

“The Princess Heleana? That is quite a generous offer, my Queen.”

“Of course, it would do Heleana good to play with such a sweet girl like your Tyshara. And it would give us plenty of time to discuss… other matters.”

Johanna's dark brows knitted into a pensive frown. Then, half a heartbeat later she smiled.

“I thank you for the invitation, my Queen. I must first consult with my Lord husband about it. To see if we can afford another… dalliance.”

Alicent resisted the urge to dismiss her entirely. The woman had no right to address her so coldly. She was her subject, not the inverse.

But she gritted her teeth and bore it all the same—for her position was always tenuous as long as Rhaenyra lived.

“Yes, naturally. I shall expect your answer by midday then.”

Johanna left without much fanfare after, her red gown trailing behind her like a torrent of blood. It took the Queen the longest time to bid herself to rise from her seat.

-I must tell Heleana.

She'd hoped to avoid involving her daughter in this. Formal social gatherings were never her strong suit. The noise caused her much discomfort—likewise, it unsettled whoever was in her company.

-It shall be brief.

Just so Johanna could see how sweet and kind her girl was—a proper princess. She wagered she could stop Heleana from rambling for that long.

-No one needs to hear that.

There were sufficient rumors about her mental capacity as was.

As expected, Heleana was not pleased by Alicent's request.

“It will only be for a short while,” she assured.

Her sweet girl stared off into nothing, fingers pulling at the lace on her dress sleeve. As soon as the threads were out, she would neatly tuck them back in and repeat.

“I don't like her. She’s loud,”

Alicent sighed and dared to draw closer. The way her daughter shrank away shattered her heart.

“I know sweetling. But it would mean much to me if you came,” she forced lightness into her voice. “And after, you can skip your needlework lessons and play with your pets.”

Heleana's head snapped up, and Alicent seized the opportunity.

“Did you enjoy your gift?”

Faster than she could blink, Heleana rushed over to the glass case set beside her bed. She fished for something with her hand, before snapping the wooden lid close. The smell of wet soil and musty leaves filled the chamber. Alicent's stomach turned when she glimpsed a fat, black shape crawling about her hand.

“Yes. She's very pretty.”

Balling her fists, she dared approach.

“She? How can you tell it’s a she?”

Heleana allowed the millipede to curl about her wrist, fingers trailing over its back plates. Alicent swallowed the sickness and steadied herself.

“The legs on the seventh ring. Males have a special set of legs there to help them mate. She does not.”

“How curious,” she carefully lowered herself to sit on the steps of the chamber entrance.

Only when Heleana’s was satisfied that she had left plenty of space in between, did she sit beside her.

“She has 60 rings on her body. And two pairs of legs on each. That’s 240.”

“Yes, it is. Very good.” Alicent offered.

“She has eyes. Though I don’t believe she can see.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

“I cannot say…” she paused, her face darkening. “It is beyond our understanding.”

Releasing a labored sigh, she gave her a small smile.

“I suppose you're right. Some things just are.”

Gingerly inching closer, she caressed Heleana's forearm, daring to give it a squeeze. To her dismay, her daughter’s muscles bunched, and she shook off the grip.

-I should be thankful. At least she is not like Aegon.

With the right indulgences, Heleana could be as prim and proper as every other maiden. Yet a small part of Alicent would never cease wondering why the gods had made her so.

“You will come then?”

Helena blinked, cocking her head at her.

“For a little while.”

A weight lifted off Alicent's shoulders.

“Yes, for a little while. And I'll be sure to tell Maester Orwyle to find a companion for your…”

The sound of the door flying open cut her off. Ser Lorent Marbrand rushed in, dragging with him a figure covered in dirt. Alicent almost screamed Aegon's name but glimpsing the perpetrator’s face made the words catch in her throat.

“Aemond? Gods be good, what's happened?”

Panicked, she rushed to seize him in her arms, hands frantically searching for any sign of injury. Barring the sand and soot, he seemed unharmed.

“He did it again,” Heleana announced, and Alicent's gut dropped.
“I found him outside the Dragonpit, Your Grace. The Keepers said he snuck below to the lairs to seek out the dragons.”

Anger choked her throat, stifling the scream threatening to escape.

“Mother have Mercy, not you as well. Your brother has dealt me enough grief as is!!” she seized him by the shoulders. “How many times have I warned you to keep away from that place? Would you have me confine you to your chambers?”

“That's not fair, they made me do it!” He spat out, eyes red. He'd been weeping she realized.

“As if you need encouragement. Your obsession with those beasts defies reason!”

“They gave me a pig!”

His cry stumped her. “What?”

Aemond gritted his teeth, his head held low.

“Aegon and Jace. They said they'd found a dragon for me.”

“The last ring has no legs at all,” Heleana whispered behind her.

“But it was a pig. With wings and a tail.”

Swallowing hard, Alicent let the rage slowly build inside her.

-Why must he insist on having a dragon?

It was the one thing she'd begrudged him—the one thing he dared defy her on. She understood it in a way. He was a Targaryen, and the power of his family name was forged in dragon fire.

But she oft wished he would seek power elsewhere. Content himself with earthly virtues—just like her family did.

“You will have a dragon one day,” she promised instead.

“He'll have to close an eye,” her daughter announced again, the millipede curled about her index finger.

“I know it.”

Aemond dared to look up at her then, lips pressed into a firm white line. The hurt pouring from his purple slits left her distraught.

“They laughed. Both of them. They oinked and chortled and shoved me down.”

Pressing him tightly to her chest, she squeezed till they were both breathless.

“I know…” she whispered into his temple. The smell of fire and dragon stink coated her mouth but she pushed it aside.

-He is to be my champion.

Aegon may not have been the dutiful son she had wished for, but Aemond was. Strong, capable, loyal to a fault. If anyone was to be her avenger, it would be him.

-I cannot lose him to this dragon madness.

“And I promise you. They will never do it again. I will make sure of it.”

Chapter Text

Once again, she and Jacaerys sat opposite each other.

Her son's brown eyes were wide open, and his fingers trailed nervously up and down his doublet. He moved to speak, so giddy with anticipation, his entire body was trembling.

“Do not,” Rhaenyra warned resignation in her voice. In a flash, his face fell and he settled back into his seat.

To her undying relief, the door opened then and her husband stumbled inside the chamber.

“Ah dear wife, there you are.” ser Laenor's plump lips stretched into a lopsided smile.

Rhaenyra regarded his filthy surcoat with dismay. The embroidered seahorse was half submerged in a stain of red. Considering the smell of strong wine that had followed him in, she thought the image was terribly apt.

“I was told you’ve been looking for me.”

“Where have you been?” she demanded struggling to keep her voice low and even.

He puckered his lips and blew a breath.

“Oh just out and about with Ser Qarl. We were taking a stroll near Rhaenys Hill when we… fell down somewhere and found ourselves by the docks. And then afterwards…” He paused, an actual giggle bursting from his lips. “Well, I couldn’t tell you. I just know there was a lot of wine.”

Her nails dug into her chair armrest and she let out a desperate chortle.

“Oh, how marvelous for you…”

Laenor kept his grin wide, but the longer he gazed upon her face, the more his expression dropped.

“Has something happened?”

“Has it? Well, I don’t know. Jace?” Rhaenyra pointed her finger at her son. “Will you tell your father what's happened?”

Her son squirmed, fingers working the buttons of his doublet

“Well, I was at the pit, training with Aegon and Aemond. We were practicing dragon commands and I’d finally gotten Vermax to spit fire for me…”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Laenor exclaimed, dropping down on one knee to be at eye level with him. “See, I knew you could do it! You'll be a proper dragon rider in no time! We should celebrate, get wine for the entire keep, no?”

The silence that befell them was deafening. Jace regarded her with a mixture of uncertainty and sadness.

Laenor stumbled over his words. “No?”

Unable to stand this mummer’s farce, Rhaenyra shot up from her seat.

“Jace, leave us. We shall finish this later.”

In place of arguing, her son rushed out of the chambers, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.

“Gods what have I missed?” Laenor demanded, trying to steady himself into an upright position.

Attacking the rings on her fingers, Rhaenyra paced about her chambers.

-Surrounded by fools.

Truly, she could not have conceived a worse fate for herself.

“The better question is, what haven’t you missed?”

Her husband released a labored sigh and toppled over into the chair Jace had been occupying moments earlier. The thing was far too small for him, so his legs lay sprawled like draperies.

“I’ve just been… out for a bit. Things have been hard for me of late…”

“It’s the third time this month Laenor.” She forced through gritted teeth. Pinpricks of anger stabbed into her skin and she ached to cast her woolen house robe off. “I’m beginning to think things are always hard for you.”

“They are, if you must know.”

“And you think they aren’t for me?” she whirled around. “We had an agreement. We do our duty, but we also explore happiness. Now I have not begrudged you your indulgences, but as it stands, I am the only one who has done the duty portion of this arrangement.”

“I’m a knight. And a warrior. And I have played my part here faithfully for nine years.”

The chortle burst from her lips before she could stop it. “You have done nothing. You may have titled yourself husband, and father, but you did naught for me or our children, save pass them your name.”

Laenor squinted, stuttering “What more do you want of me?”

A slew of words came to mind. Commitment, responsibility, diligence, devotion. But these were all things she'd spent years repeatedly demanding of him.

In the beginning, he was willing to comply. Ser Joffrey's death had left him grief-stricken, confined to his chambers, and drowning his sorrows in wine. It was only the news of Ser Criston's unexpected pardon that drove him out of his self-imposed exile.

“How?” he'd demanded of her after the news of the Small Council's ruling had spread to the keep. “By all rights that brute of yours should be dead.”

“Yes,” she conceded. The thought of her white knight on the executioner’s block made her heart ache. Despite him spurning her before her wedding feast, she still had tender feelings for him. And some distant part of her believed he could still be hers.

But the violence he committed so brazenly had brought her head back from the clouds and planted it firmly on the ground. It was malicious, ill-tempered. Full of resentment and hidden rage.

Worst still, it had occurred completely unprompted.

“Yes, he should be dead,” she had repeated. "But the Queen seems to disagree.”

Alicent's intercession on his behalf was what confounded her the most. The man was nothing to her, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard she'd only ever issued commands to.

It was only later when she'd confronted Alicent before the heart tree, that Rhaenyra realized the truth of things. He had told her about their indiscretion—and by extension, her lie.

Though Alicent had called it treachery.

“Please, Alicent, you don't understand,” she'd sobbed, tears streaming down her face.

Her friend's doe eyes, once so full of warmth and naïve affection, had gone dead and cold.

“It is Your Grace, stepdaughter. And I do understand. I understand perfectly now. I've spent years defending you, defending the goodness and righteousness I thought you possessed. And all you've done is throw it all back in my face.”

“No, I did not, I…”

“You got my father dismissed. The one man who held my best interests at heart, gone. So you could protect yourself. Uphold your rule-bending.” She paused, yanking off the emerald band Rhaenyra had given her for her 14th name day. It was twin to the ruby ring she bore on her left index. “Your father was right. You and Daemon are truly mirrors of one another. Harsh, impulsive, ready to trample everyone and everything to protect yourselves. I can see it now—I see you for what you are. And I will not rest until everyone does as well.”

Afterward, it was Rhaenyra's turn to mourn and drown her sorrows in cups. Her only friend, the last love left her in this miserable world, gone.

She had half a mind to seek out her father then and ask him to disinherit her. But it was Laenor who brought her back to her senses.

“You cannot surrender now. It is what she wants. She and that vile brute would like nothing more than to reduce you to nothing. She may preach about righteousness all she likes but it is she who keeps a murderous dog about to do her bidding.”

Rhaenyra eyed him over the brim of her wine cup, her head spinning. “Then what would you have me do?”

Her husband smiled. “What we agreed on. Do our duty, but explore happiness. And once that is done, we seek justice.”

Vengeance she wanted to correct but held her tongue. That did not make him less right.

Yet with each passing year, his initial enthusiasm diminished.

His failure to produce an heir and his subsequent passing of that responsibility to Ser Harwin left him restless and flighty. He was eager to parent their twins at first, but after his mother spurned him for their obvious parentage, he grew distant toward them. Ser Qarl coming into his life was the final blow.

The handsome knight may not have replaced Ser Joffrey in his heart, but he did much to make the Knight of Kisses a pale shadow of a memory. It was plain to Rhaenyra that whatever commitments to duty he had had long expired.

She didn’t care. Neither of them had wanted this match, and she loved him enough to not begrudge him seeking joy. But it was his indifference to their children that she could not suffer.

“Do you even know what Jace has done?”

She took his raised hands as an invitation to relay the tale of his foolish prank at the pit. When she finished, all her lord husband deigned to do was shrug.

“Gods that boy. No sense in him whatsoever.” Pausing briefly, he examined his nails. “Has the Queen said anything about it?”

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, bile rising in her throat.

“No, but I’m certain she's at my father's side right now, dripping poison in his ear. Probably urging him to send Jacaerys away.”

The wrath she glimpsed in Alicent's brown eyes when she suggested fostering her children at the Vale sent gooseflesh crawling up Rhaenyra's skin.

-She’s not like to forget that.

Just as she remembered every other slight, real or imagined.

“Right then go speak to your father, and mend things. Tell him it was all just a silly jest.”

Rhaenyra buried her face into her hands.

-When I am Queen, I will ban all drink at court.

The amount of sense it robbed people of was unseemly.

“Of course, I’m going to speak to my father about this. I have no other recourse!”

“Good. Then what do you need me for?”

Those words were like a slap across the face.

“Mother have mercy…” she exclaimed, “I want you to speak to your son.”

He heaved a sigh. “You would have me scold him…”

“No, I…” pausing to compose herself, she knelt at the foot of his chair, pinning his eyes. “I would have you reassure him. Speak as father and son, get him to confide his troubles to you, and then help mend them.”

The way his mouth dropped open, Rhaenyra was certain he would protest. To her relief, no words came out.

“Fine,” he finally announced. “I shall do what you ask.”

The flatness of his voice filled Rhaenyra with sorrow.

“Good,” she forced herself to say. Gripping his forearm, she pondered her next words briefly, and decided she had nothing to lose. “You will also write your mother.”

“What, what for?”

“Have her send us a ward.”

The mellow expression on his face hardened and he rose from his seat.

“Not this again…”

“Jace needs companionship. A trusted friend of his own age who will be his ally.” She grumbled. “He has no one in the Red Keep, because of Alicent's meddling. It’s no wonder Aegon can make him go along with any vile mischief he can think up.”

“And you think someone from mine own family would do?” his mocking tone bade her bite her lip. “They're just as like to join in the shunning.”

She turned away from him, at her wits end. Her husband's family had been another thorn in her side, ever since she'd announced she was heavy with child. Rhaenys had been so thrilled at the prospect of grandchildren, she’d given the last eggs Meleys had laid to be placed in her twins' cradles.

But she came to rue her decision the moment she spied their brown hair, brown eyes, and pug noses. She may not have been able to take back the dragons, but her mother-by-law could take herself away—as far away from court and her ‘kin' as she could. Lord Corlys had been another matter. His pride did not allow him to turn his back on his son, lest he admit Laenor’s failure. That didn’t mean he strived to be a doting grandsire.

-He might agree to send a ward if Laenor insists enough. Just to keep up appearances.

It remained to be seen if the rest of his house would agree—chiefly, his brother Vaemond.

“Try, Laenor. Just… try. For your son.”

Another resigned nod, as her husband moved to adjust his disheveled surcoat.

“As you wish,” he tossed her a smile, but Rhaenyra couldn’t bear to return it.

-It should not be my wish, but yours.

He whirled on his feet and moved toward the door.

“Oh and come to my chambers this night.”

He froze midstride, slowly craning his head at her.

“Oh?” his bushy brows went up. “Another dalliance, is it? You know if your calendar isn’t correct, the chances of anything…”

“I refuse to rely on chances.” She hissed. “Even if his seed doesn’t take hold, I would rather my husband be seen sharing my bed.”

Another resigned shrug.

-Those should be his house words. Resigned to my fate.

He exited her apartments in a flurry, the clatter of his boot heels slowly vanishing down the long corridor. Only when complete silence engulfed her did Rhaenyra allow herself to heave a shaky sigh.

-And now I stand alone.

She had expected Laenor's half-hearted compliance. Nevertheless, his disinterest hurt her.

-I cannot let him go.

He and his name were all that stood between her and the Queen's wrath. And though her father was willing to defend her, not even Viserys' stubborn will could stop an entire Kingdom from demanding her head.

-If only we hadn’t married.

If her father had wed her to Harwin, things would have been different. He would have defended her claim, and protected her and her children's honor. And his efforts would have actually counted.

-If only I had married….

The thought came to her sudden, unbidden—as thoughts of him always did.

-Daemon would have never allowed my children to be treated so.

He would have taken Criston's head off for treason the moment he dealt Ser Joffrey the killing blow. He would have ended Alicent Hightower’s influence over her father and barred her from ever speaking ill of her again. And if any Reacher lordling dared to question her birthright in favor of Aegon, he would have mounted Caraxes and reduced their keeps to ash and bone.

Because he was the blood of the dragon. Fire to her fire.

-And he's also not here.

All her silly pining for him did not change the fact he'd abandoned her.

Just then, she realized her hands were absentmindedly trailing the Valyrian steel necklace he'd gifted her all those years ago. Rising from her seat she undid the clasp with trembling fingers.

-End it, now.

It would be so easy. All she had to do was throw it from the window. It would fall into the darkness, and disappear. Never to be seen again.

A knock on the door bade her turn.

“Come!” she said, her cheeks flush.

“Princess?” the serving girl poked her head through the door.

“The King and Queen, request your presence in his chambers. They wish to have words.”

Tracing the metal links, Rhaenyra regarded the piece absentmindedly. The ruby resting in the middle of the pendant seemed unusually bright today. As if it was burning from within.

“Yes, of course. At once.” She hooked the thing around her neck once more and headed for the door.

Chapter Text

She had to take more dancing lessons.

The Septa had informed her of that this morning, right after she’d finished torturing her with more needlework.

"Her Grace the Queen has commanded it. The King’s name day celebration is coming up, and he has requested that you and the Princess Helaena lead the Maiden’s dance.”

Luce’s mouth hung open. Her? Leading a dance? That would certainly spell disaster.

Still, it was not the worst thing about this arrangement.

“But… but… I cannot take more dancing lessons! We're already doing an additional hour of needlework.”

“Need I remind you that that is by your own doing?” the Septa chided. The smirk on her face looked too self-satisfied for Luce's liking.

“But… if I take more dancing lessons, then I won't have time to do my afternoon readings.”

It had been the one bit of joy she had managed to scrounge of late–besides wandering the beach or playing with Arrax. Secreting herself in the library was her escape—a way for her to enter into a world that wasn't her own for a change.

“Those books will be there after your grandsire’s name day has passed. For now, dancing must take precedence.”

Luce opened her mouth to argue more, but the Septa arched her brow in warning. Knowing how agitated the woman had been these past few days, she settled down and spent the rest of her lesson sulking in silence. It seemed she was forever doomed to do things she despised.

Blessedly, they’d finished the needlework half an hour early, so she was allowed some respite before the real torture began. Eschewing the Septa’s company, she decided to sneak into the library to scout the shelves for titles to read in the future.

Jace put an end to that. She heard him just as she was rounding the corner to descend the stairs into the courtyard. He was laughing, a shrill, mocking sound that sent gooseflesh pricking her skin.

She gritted her teeth–she hated that laugh. He’d picked it up from Aegon and only used it when he was being particularly vile.

-What stupid thing has he done now?

Barreling through the corridor, she came upon him standing in the archway of a secluded antechamber.

She thought of using the element of surprise to jump him but stopped herself. He wasn’t alone.

“Books, books, books, all you ever do is read books,” he jeered, arms crossed on his chest. "You’re just like my sister.”

Aemond squinted at him, clutching a hefty tome to his chest. Huddled in the corner of the cramped antechamber like that, he seemed so small—like a child half his age.

“Shut up!” he fired, his voice cracking. That seemed to goad Jace on.

“A pair of little maesters, the lot of you. They should ship you off to Oldtown so that you can finally have something useful to do.”

Luce cringed—if she were to close her eyes, she could fool herself into believing she was hearing Aegon speak.

“My mother would never send me away…” Aemond countered, gritting his teeth.

“She sent your brother away, and he was leagues more useful than you. Maybe if you stopped burying your nose in books, you would finally get a dragon of your own!”

This time, Aemond could not bring himself to answer the jab. He shrunk further into himself, all the color fleeing from his cheeks. Lucera could not stand Jace’s laughter a moment longer.

“And if you spent more time with your nose in books, mayhaps you’d learn how to read more than two sentences.”

With the quickness of a snake, she jumped him, clipping him behind the ear as hard as she could. A yelp of pain choked out the laughter, and Jace whirled on his heels, pudgy cheeks hot with fury.

“Luce? What are you doing here? Go away!”

He lunged, trying to seize her by the arm. Being smaller and of lighter build, however, she easily dodged his grip.

"The Septa sent me. She’s looking for you.”

That seemed to take him aback. "What, why?”

When his fingers went to play with the buttons on his black and red doublet, she couldn’t help but smile.

“I don’t know, you tell me. You must have done something truly stupid for her to be this wroth.”

It pleased her to no end to see the reddish tinge flee from his cheeks. He blinked, swiping the strands of brown hair that had wandered into his eyes.

“No, I didn’t. You’re a liar!”

"Am I?” she mused, taking a lock of hair to twirl it.

As if the gods themselves had decided to aid her fable, the sound of thundering footsteps echoed down the hall. Jace ceased fiddling with the doublet at once and gripped the fabric in his fist so tightly, Luce was certain he would tear it.

“It looks like you’re about to find out.”

The words hardly left her lips before he bolted, barreling down the stairs into the courtyard, faster than the finest racehorse. His dash was made all the funnier, when, in place of the Septa, an unassuming serving girl appeared, a tray of pomegranates in hand.

-The Prince Who Flees Before Pomegranates.

That made her almost double over in laughter. But the soft shuffle of fabrics made the sound die in her throat.

When she turned around, Aemond was still there. Huddled in the confines of the antechamber, he sat hunched on the stone bench, spindly limbs pressed tightly to his slender frame. The green of his wool doublet was a sharp contrast to the pale purple of his eyes, as he regarded her in stony silence.

Luce sucked in a breath, her hand going for the ring on her index finger.

-Say something.

That would be the right thing to do. But what? She couldn't recall a single time she and Aemond had spoken to one another.

The silence between them was growing so unbearable, she just about turned on her heel to run. But her foot slammed into something solid, and she paused.

A dragon toy lay discarded on the floor.

“Is this yours?” without a second thought, Luce bent down to pick it up. The polished oak felt cool to the touch.

“No,” the force in his voice startled her, and she withdrew. Her reaction seemed to bring him back to his senses, and the anger vanished from his angular face.

“I mean yes,” he cleared his throat, awkwardly rising from the bench. It seemed almost surprising how much taller he was when standing straight—he had half a head on her. "It's Helaena’s. She gave it to me, and… and… I should give it back.”

Faster than she could blink, he snatched the dragon toy from her hands and crushed it to his chest.

Luce stood frozen, the silence descending on them again. She didn’t know what bade her to speak.

“It was stupid, you know,” she announced, her voice paper thin. "What they did with the pig.”

His nostrils flared, and when he averted his gaze, she wished she hadn’t brought it up at all.

“It's fine, it has passed.”

“It's not. It wasn’t even funny.”

He snorted, his jaw still tight.

“A half-witted monkey could have come up with something more clever. Which is probably why Jace went with it in the first place.”

That seemed to shatter the rage. He smiled, finally deigning to meet her gaze.

“Is it true he can’t read?”

Luce frowned.

Aemond blinked, awkwardly crossing his arms on his chest.

"You said, uh…”

She choked out a laugh. The sigh he heaved seemed heavier than stone.

“Oh, that. No, he can read, just not very well. He says he has trouble making out the letters. It's why he hates books so much.”

His pale brows knitted together.

“Truly? He never seemed to struggle during our lessons with Maester Orwyle.”

She smirked. "That’s because he has me read him out the books, so he knows the subject beforehand. It's the same with High Valyrian. Besides the dragon commands, he can't speak it at all. Our mother is at her wits end with him.”

His laugh deepened, and he unfurled his hands. "Aegon is much the same. He can speak it well enough, but he gets confused over the nouns and their gender sometimes.”

Now, it was her turn to smile. "That’s the easiest one.”

“I know,” he bit back a smirk. "I tried helping him with it, but he’s hopeless. He insists on calling a chair a she, and assigning gender to nouns that are neutral.”

“Perhaps that is why he and Jace get along so well.” She pulled a face. "Stupid calls to stupid.”

This time, the laugh they shared was loud and hearty.

“What are you reading?” Luce inquired, moving into the antechamber to examine the book he'd left there. When she spied the title embossed into the tome’s thick leather covers, her breath caught in her throat.

"The Fires of the Freehold?” she exclaimed, immediately moving to crack it open.

“You know it?” Aemond said, scooting beside her on the bench.

“Of course, by the Valyrian historian Galendro?” she scoured the pages, going through paragraphs of carefully copied text. To her delight, the words were interspersed with occasional drawings of Valyrian glyphs, images of armor, and models of cities. "It’s the only surviving account of the history of the Freehold. Where did you get it?”

He shrugged. "Maester Orwyle gave it to me. He thought I might find it enlightening.”

Luce paused reading mid-sentence to pin his gaze. "He gave it to you?”

He nodded, arching a brow. "Yes. Why? Didn’t he let you read it?”

“No!” she fired. "I’ve spent months begging him to let me have it. He refused. Said it wasn’t proper for a princess to read tales of blood and war.”

Aemond made a face. "But that’s stupid. Its history. The history of House Targaryen. It is our duty to learn it.”

“He doesn’t think so. Gave me A Maid’s Companion instead. Said it was more suitable.”

“Never heard of it.”

Luce groaned, leaning against the wall.

“Consider yourself fortunate. It's about needlework. And animal husbandry. All those womanly skills a proper lady must possess to run her lord’s keep.”

He chortled, "Why would you need to learn those things? You’re a princess. You’ll have an army of servants to do that for you.”

She sidled to him, positively incensed. "That’s what I said! But they all insist on punishing me with more needlework, more singing lessons. And dancing. Gods the dancing.”

The corners of his small mouth kicked up into a shy smile. His lips had a funny shape to them, she realized–thin and curved, like a bowstring.

“I like dancing. It's not much different than sword fighting.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. "Shall we trade places then? I’d much rather whack a straw man with a stick than do one more step and spin. Though I don’t much like fighting either.

“What do you want to do then?”

The question stumped her. Only her mother had ever shown genuine interest in her passions. Even Jace, when he was in a charitable mood, could scarce stomach to listen to her for longer than a few moments. The excitement just about undid her.

"Travel. Make maps, fly atop Arrax to see the great wonders Lomas Longstrider had written of in his books.”

He blinked at her. "Who?”

She gaped, "Lomas Longstrider. The greatest adventurer who ever lived. He’s traveled the whole known world, chronicled all the wonders he saw, both natural and man-made. You’ve never heard of him?”

He shook his head, strands of silver hair falling on his forehead.

“No. I always preferred history. Never really cared much for adventure books.”

Her hand brushed against his, nudging him gently.

“You should read his. I think you might like them.”

He blinked, hooded eyes going as wide as dinner plates. Periwinkle. That was the exact shade of his irises. Not as vibrant as her mother's blazing lilac, or as dark as her grandsire's deep amethyst. Just a soft, delicate purple that matched the petals of the trailing shrub. She thought it suited him.

“I will. I have to finish reading Septon Barth first.”

“Unnatural History?”

He scarce managed a nod.

“Yes. He has a few chapters on dragon bonding I need to go through."

“You shouldn’t bother.”

It was only when the words left her mouth that she realized how they sounded. Stiffening, he jerked away from her. The harshness returned to his face with a vengeance, and he squinted at her as if preparing for a fight.

“Why? Because I’m not worthy of a dragon, is that it?”

She shrunk into herself, fiddling with her ring.

“No. I didn’t mean it like that,” she paused. “They choose us you know.”

“What?”

“The dragons. Everyone says how we are the ones who have to get them to bend to our wills. But that’s not true. They have to claim us, too.”

She scooted closer to him again, uncertainty making her fingers tremble. “Your egg never hatched, is that right?”

“Yes,” he swallowed, forcing the word through his teeth.

“Well, that wasn't because you weren't worthy, or because you weren't a true Targaryen. It’s just that the dragon in that egg didn’t choose you as well.”

He held her gaze for the longest time.

“That's nonsense. Our parents choose the eggs that go in our cradles. They don’t jump in there of their own accord.”

“Yes, but the dragons choose whether to hatch or not. They can feel the rider in the cradle. And if they don’t sense the connection, then they remain in the egg.”

He rolled his eyes. “What, do you mean to tell me Arrax spoke to you when you were a babe?”

A grin bloomed on her face. “Yes. He speaks to me now as well.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Mhm. Well, not really speaks because he can’t form words but… I feel him. I feel his frustration, his sorrow. It’s why I keep insisting Keeper Maerys let him fly free once in a while. I can feel how much he hates being chained in the pit. I always have,” she paused, regarding the ring on her index. Shaped like a coiling dragon, she'd received it from her mother the day she'd gotten Arrax to burn something on command. “It's how I know he chose me as much as I chose him.”

Aemond glared at her with apprehension, uncertainty in every harsh line of his face.

“But… what of those who claim adult dragons?”

Luce shrugged. “I don’t think there’s a difference. It’s the feeling that matters. It’s why you cannot force it. You have to wait for the right dragon to call to you.”

He chewed on her words for a bit, before lowering his gaze.

“I never felt anything like that,” his voice was frail, distant. “Perhaps I truly wasn’t meant to have a dragon.”

She smiled again, reaching her hand to take his. The gesture was so simple–she'd done it so many times with Jace, whenever he needed comfort. Yet now it felt… different. Aemond's hand was larger, his fingers longer. His flesh seemed to burn much hotter, and when she squeezed, he stiffened, as if no one had ever held his hand before.

“Don't be silly. You will have a dragon one day. Maybe a hatchling, or one of the adults, you’ll see. When you need it the most, your dragon will call to you.”

She thought he might pull away, wrestle his hand out of hers. Instead, he squeezed back—slowly, gingerly, like he was prodding some unfamiliar animal.

“Thank you.” He breathed.

Luce's stomach clenched, and she found herself feeling strangely warm all over.

“You can… keep the book, you know.”

The declaration threw her off. “What?”

“The Fires of the Freehold. If you'd like to read it, you can have it.”

The warmth gave way to elation.

“Truly?!” she exclaimed, seizing the covers to crush them to her chest. “Thank you, I… wait. Won't you get into trouble? If Maester Orwyle discovers you gave it to me?”

He shrugged. “I won't tell him. I’ll just say I misplaced it.”

“I think that would make him even more cross,” she gave him an uneasy smile.

“Not if I bring it back later. After you're finished with it.”

She blew a breath, just about ready to start jumping for joy. But a shrill sound made her heart drop right into her toes.

“Princess? Princess, where are you?” the squawk echoed through the halls.

Lucera bit back a curse. “Gods.”

“Is that Septa Melara?” Aemond asked.

“Where are you? You're late!” her voice was growing louder and she could just about make out the faint thundering of brisk steps.

“Yes.” Luce vaulted to her feet, to peek through the entrance of the antechamber. “The dancing. Gods, the dancing. I was supposed to have another lesson with Mistress Veera today. It completely slipped my mind.”

She glimpsed the sour crone, right at the base of the stairs, doughy cheeks flush with red. All the joy she felt melted like snow in sunlight.

“I'm here Septa!” She sheepishly announced. “I'll be right down.”

“Gods be good child! Where have you been hiding? I've been looking everywhere for you. Mistress Veera is waiting. Come, come!” she waved her hands in a fury, the loose sleeves of her gray robes, flapping like oversized wings.

“Right away!” Luce quickly straightened her skirts, ready to dash down to her, lest she incur more punishments for herself. But Aemond's voice stopped her.

“Wait, Lucera,” he rose to his feet awkwardly. “The book.”

She whirled to face him, catching a glimpse of the tome in his hands. With shaky fingers, she seized it.

“Princess, come! Do not make me come get you!” the Septa warned, and Luce almost lost grip on the cover.

“In a moment,” without a thought she leapt at Aemond, wrapping her hands around him in a quick embrace. She hardly gave him time to react before she brushed her lips against his.

“Thank you,” she whispered when she pulled away. She expected him to grimace and roll his eyes, the way Jace did whenever she showed affection. Instead, he stared at her, frozen.

-He looks like he might faint.

A pinkish flush had ravished his ivory cheeks, as his jaw ground down his teeth to powder. Luce was certain he had stopped breathing too and would burst like an overripe melon at a moment's notice.

-Jace was right. He is strange.

Somehow, that didn’t seem to bother her.

Book in tow, she rushed out to meet the Septa. The terrible witch spent the entire trek to the upstairs apartments scolding her ear off, vowing to give her thrice as much needlework as punishment. Luce scarce heard a word she said.

Her mind was alight with stories hiding in the pages of the book she received. She could hardly wait to crack it open.
Mayhaps today was not so terrible at all.

She'd discovered a new tale to sink her teeth into and managed to wring Jace's neck.

And who knew? Perhaps she'd even made a most unexpected friend.

Chapter Text

He thought it would plague him.

Most of Aegon's jests did. They always lingered in his mind, festering, stabbing at his flesh till they hit bone.

But to his surprise, the events that followed suit were what ended up occupying his attention.

-The Pink Dread.

It was a name so stupid, only his brother could come up with it. Helaena had agreed with him.

After their mother had departed to speak to their father about the incident, he and his sister had remained alone in the confines of her chamber. Her apartments were darker and more cramped than his own, filled to the brim with the scent of grass and autumn rains—perfect accommodations for her pets.

“I don’t want to do it anymore. I know I told Mother I’d watch over him but I can’t. He'll never listen to me. He doesn’t even treat me like his brother, but his whipping boy!”

Snatching a handkerchief off her vanity table, Aemond sat down and started wiping the soot off his face. It took no more than two swipes for the white cloth to be completely drenched in black.

“He is your elder. The future of our house. It is up to you, to keep him from straying.”

He’d once thought himself capable of fulfilling his mother's wish. But Aegon had proved too willful, too vile to manage.

“We are better off dumping him in some wine sink in Fleabottom and forgetting he ever existed.”

“Wine won't help either. It never does. But people keep drinking it. It's strange,” Helaena paced about her chamber in arcs, finger caressing the bug coiled about her hand.

Aemond could not, for the life of him understand her interest in the spindly things. She was the blood of the dragon—the girl who had wandered into the pit one day and claimed Rhaena Targaryen's splendid beast with no effort whatsoever.

Yet she chose to spend her time playing with insects and spiders.

“But it is how he does things. Always playing silly games, always trying to hurt others. There is nothing you can do to stop it.”
Aemond bent over the water basin to wash his face. The splash did much to dampen his rage— but the embers kept crackling.

“It is easy for you to say when you are not on the receiving end of his lashings.”

Helaena whirled on her feet, her white rivulets cascading past her shoulders like a river of silver.

Regret filled Aemond in an instant.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“He thinks I’m an idiot. He’s told me so himself.”

“No, he doesn’t. He was just being a…” he bit back the curse. Mother would be displeased with him if he used such crass words in front of his sister.

-Doesn’t make it less true.

Though Aegon was content on ignoring their sister's existence, when forced to interact with her, he'd been nothing but cruel and callous.

“He does. I know it.” Helaena announced. “But I don’t think he thinks the same of you.”

Aemond rose uncertainty in his belly.

“I don’t follow.”

His sister cocked her head, her fingers restlessly caressing the worm's scales. As was custom, her eyes wouldn’t meet his.
“I think he envies you. All that you are. I think that’s why he tries to reduce you at every turn.”

Aemond couldn’t contain the scoff.

“He has nothing to envy me for. He's the eldest. The subject of all our mother's attention. I couldn’t even hatch a dragon.”

A heaviness settled on his chest and he could scarcely draw a breath. Helaena's pale brows knitted together into a shadow of concern. She inched closer, her pink dress whispering with each step like the flutter of dove wings.

“I told you. You will get a dragon. Once you close your eye.”

He stumbled over his words.

“I… I don’t know what that means, Hel.”

The crease between her brows deepened, and the color vanished from her cheeks. Her pale hand closed around the worm like the jaws of a dragon, crushing it with ease. The thing thrashed and hissed, spraying foul brown liquid everywhere.
Aemond leapt up.

“Hel, what are you doing? Stop!” he slapped the thing out of her hands wincing when the brown gunk licked his skin. To his horror, Helaena’s palm had blistered a furious red.

“I wish you didn't have to find out.”

Aemond glared at her, dumbstruck. She ignored the carnage and stuck her right hand into her pocket. When she extended it to him, he was surprised to see a wooden toy dragon.
He left her chambers shortly after, rattled.

-Maester Orwyle. I should fetch Maester Orwyle.

Mother always stressed to call the Maester whenever Helaena succumbed to her ramblings. His sleeping draft was the only thing that calmed her down.

Aemond didn’t have the heart to do that to her. Instead, he called one of her chambermaids, Talisa. The kindly woman had been some sort of healer in the Free Cities. He wagered she could mend his sister's hand without causing her distress.

Pity he could not find a way to resolve his own distress.

He spent the following morning in a fretful agony, torn between the thought of his brother’s prank and Helaena’s outburst.
Jacaerys accosting him in the hallway left him tethering the edge, a hairsbreadth away from dashing his stupid head against the wall.

But Lucera's sudden appearance had hindered his plans. Not only that, but she had derailed his mind completely.

“Thank you,” she'd whispered, after she'd crushed him into her arms.

The touch was sudden, unexpected. Only his mother had ever embraced him, and even she had never squeezed him so hard. But it was justified—they were family, after all.

What followed was not.

Wrapping her hands around the collar of her doublet, she yanked him down to brush her lips against his. The heat of her skin made his muscles seize, and he froze, unable to think, unable to breathe.

Even when she pulled away, to give him a sweet, earnest smile could he not bring himself to say anything.

Instead, he watched her trot after the Septa, her pale blue skirts billowing behind her like the sail of a ship. His lips were still wet from the kiss—when he licked, he could taste something sweet. Strawberries. She'd eaten strawberries.

Warmth squeezed his belly.

He unfroze—library. He needed the library. Half running down the corridor steps, he burst through the double oaken doors, lungs starved for air.

The maesters attending the scrolls gave him reproachful looks for disturbing the peace. He quickly bowed his head and scurried out of their sight.

After finding succor in between the rows of shelves, he searched for a new tome to read.

The first title he glimpsed was a poetry book. The Art of the Kiss.

Aemond gritted his teeth.

-Why would she do that?

They'd barely ever spoken. The most she'd ever said to him was asking him to pass her the turnips at family dinners, or telling him to move so she could sit beside Jace during their lessons.
Perhaps she was just being kind.

He had lent her his book after all. But that was stupid. Who repaid kindness with a kiss?

It's a trick.

She was trying to confuse him—as was her nature.
Mother had warned him of this. She and Jacaerys were born of wickedness and thus harbored nothing but malice and treachery in their hearts.

-Why defend me then?

If she and her twin truly were the same, she would have joined in the torture. She would have been at the pit, with her brother and Aegon, leading the pig to him.

-She does read a lot.

That implied some amount of cleverness. It stood to reason she would use cunning in place of brute force to bring him down.

-I cannot trust her.

She was his half-sister's brood. His enemy. There could never be any sort of goodwill between them.

Resolving to put the business behind him, he searched the shelves once more. He must have read the same title 4 times before releasing a strangled grunt.

“My Prince?” the soft voice bade him stumble. Two scrolls fell with a clatter, unfurling till they hit Maester Orwyle's feet.
“Is everything alright?”

Aemond blinked, absorbing the question. It was only when the Maester squinted at him that he realized the man expected an answer.

“Yes, I…”

“Good, have you come seeking another book?” he bent down to pick up the paper, prompting Aemond to follow suit.

His endeavor was a failure, for his hands could not seem to recall how to roll up parchment.

“I have, yes,” embarrassed, he stood back up and withdrew.

The Maester kindly ignored his ham-handedness and placed the scrolls back up onto the shelves.

“Anything particular in mind?

“Lomas Longstrider.” The words came out, quicker than a crossbow bolt. “Do we have anything by him?”

The Maester pursed his lips. “An adventure book? I’ve not thought you particularly keen on those.”

“I’m not, I…” his voice caught in his throat and he averted his gaze.

He should not be doing this.

-I’ve just lent her a stupid book.

There was no reason he should indulge her more.

Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, he pondered. The taste was still there. A faint touch of ripe strawberries.

He liked strawberries. He liked reading too. And learning High Valyrian.

“I wanted to try something different,” he said, unclenching his fist.

Chapter Text

Speaking with her father left her in a flurry.

As expected, Alicent had been vicious. She always was whenever anything threatened her precious firstborn. But this time, she seemed determined to trample her into the dirt.

“It was an unfortunate jest,” she'd launched when she'd arrived at her father’s apartments.

She found the King seated beside his sprawling model of Old Valyria, his remaining hand absently fingering a clay dragon figurine.

Behind him, Alicent hovered like a shadow in poisonous green.

“A jest to you, but a painful memory that’s like to haunt Aemond for the rest of his days,” she spat, hands firmly clasped before her.

Standing like that, garbed in flowing emerald robes, and with a tiara resting atop her head she cut the image of the Mother—the fierce avenger who protected her children.

“And I can assure you, Jacaerys has been punished for it,” she retorted, arching a brow. “I should expect the same for Aegon.”
Her scowl deepened. “Do not attempt to place blame for your son being a menace on my boy.”

“The sole reason Jace even dared to go along with this plot is because Aegon bid him to.”

“Ah yes, naturally, all of this is his fault. Just like everything else you or your children do. Me and mine are always there to suffer for your wrongdoings while you prance around blameless.”
Rhaenyra scarce managed to let go of the breath she'd been holding.

“Shall I return your mirror to you, stepmother? You seem to be arguing with your own reflection.”

Her eyes bulged out of her sockets, and Rhaenyra thought she might backhand her across the face— blessedly, her father put an end to the verbal spat.

“Enough!” the King forced, voice hoarse.

Despite looking haggard from a long day of holding court, Viserys’ purple eyes remained alert.

“I will hear no more of your bickering. Alicent,” He cast a look over his shoulder. “Both you and I know this plot has Aegon's name written all over it.”

“Will you honestly absolve your grandson of all blame? He was the one who led the pig to Aemond!”

Again her father managed to put down the Queen's hysterics with one curt nod of his head.

“And he's being punished for it, as Rhaenyra said. Rest assured, my girl. We'll do the same with Aegon.”

The relief she felt at hearing those words was sweeter than honey. And the only thing she savored more was the misery on Alicent's face.

“Thank you, father,” she replied with a smile.

“Good. Now, we shall put this business behind us. The boys are family, and they need to learn to comport themselves as such. That means striving to bring the best out of each other, not the worst.”

Rhaenyra nodded, releasing the rings she'd been so viciously twisting. “Yes, of course, I understand.”

A pause ensued, as Alicent bounced on the balls of her feet.
“And?” she cast an expectant look down on her husband.
Her father strained to gather his thoughts.

“And, in light of that, the Queen and I have decided that it might be best to keep the boys apart for a while.”

Sucking in a breath, she briefly considered.

-It is for the best.

Her son would not be happy to lose his only friend, but Rhaenyra knew it would do him much good to be away from his rotten influence.

“I agree,” she nodded again, much to her father's appreciation.
Curiously, Alicent was no longer displeased.

“Excellent. They could both use another boy to play with.”

Rhaenyra balked. “What?”

The Queen’s quiet content blossomed into a spiteful smirk. “The King and I have decided to take on a new ward.”

Silence rang in Rhaenyra’s ears, as loud as a church bell. Her left hand trembled and instantly went for the rings on the right.

“Oh…” was all she managed.

“Yes. A Dondarrion boy. Sigmund.”

“Simon,” the Queen corrected, gently patting Viserys' shoulder.

The King's brows furrowed. “Yes, yes, Simon. He's Lord Harmon's younger son. Closer to Aegon's age than Jacaerys' but I'm certain the three of them will get on marvelously.”

“Like they did last time…” she mumbled into her chin.

The Queen answered her jab. “Edric Florent was four and ten. It was perfectly natural for him to not be interested in consorting with a 7-year-old boy.”

Rhaenyra was tempted to laugh in her face.

-Of course.

It couldn’t be because the boy was of the Reach, and son to the Queen's good friend.

“But I’m sure things will be different with Simon. He's just turned 11, so he's like to take a shine to both boys. And who knows,” her father mused. “He might end up inspiring them to be better men.”

“No, I will not allow it,” Rhaenyra yanked on her ring hard, the metal digging into her flesh.

“What?” her father sputtered.

“I warned you she would not be agreeable,” the Queen commented.

“You can concoct whatever plots you wish on your own terms, but I refuse to let them become reality.”

“Rhaenyra…”

“Not after last time,” she cut her father off, eyes pinning his.
Alicent huffed some more, prattling on about duty and obedience to the King's wishes, but her father bade her be quiet.

“Leave us,” Viserys commanded, voice clear and crisp.

Alicent scoffed.

“I’m to see you to bed, husband.”

“You may do so later. I need to have words with my daughter. Alone.”

She wanted to argue—Rhaenyra could tell by the way her jaw muscle clenched. But her father had snapped back to lucidity, and no amount of handwringing could change his mind.

Gathering her skirts in her hands, she exited the apartments in a huff. No sooner had the door latch sounded behind her that Rhaenyra rushed her father.

“A Dondarrion? Truly?”

Her father heaved a sigh, “They are Marcher Lords. Sworn to House Baratheon. They have no ties to the Reach.”

“It was her idea, wasn’t it?” She hissed, her skin pricking up. The faint scent of half-set clay, heart fire ashes, and healing potions made the pounding in her head that much worse.

“No, it was mine if you must know. It's exactly what you’ve been asking me for. A neutral lord with no preconceptions to act as a companion to your boy."

“Yes, I’m certain Lord Dondarrion's steward has imparted no bias onto him at all.”

Her father's face faltered, and he gazed off into the distance. Then, his memory finally returned and he recalled exactly where Ser Criston Cole's family hailed from.

She's just swapped one lick-spittle for another.

Simon Dondarrion would certainly not come to court unaccompanied. His father was like to come as well, with his vassals, and perhaps a few other Marcher lords—more allies Alicent could marshal to her side.

All while Rhaenyra stood alone.

Letting his head fall into his hands, Viserys heaved another sigh. His frail body was shivering under his woolen sleeping robes. At this hour, he should have been abed, and the effort of delaying sleep exacted an obvious toll on him.

“I’ve always asked one thing of you, from the moment I named you heir. To uphold the Conqueror's dream of keeping the realm united. The realm cannot be united if the House of the Dragon is torn in two.”

Rhaenyra huffed, crossing her arms on her chest.

“And I assure you, dear father, that I am not the one who is keeping it apart.”

Viserys waved his hand away.

“You cannot earnestly tell me you’ve made efforts to get to know your siblings.”

She balked. “I have, I…" she paused, giving up on her attempt at a lie. “But I’ve let my children know them. That means something."

“Only after I’d needled you into it.” Her father countered.

Rhaenyra closed her eyes, listening to the faint crackle of the embers in the heartfire.

It was true—she hadn’t been keen to let herself or her children consort with her half-siblings. How could she? Alicent had filled their heart with the same enmity and resentment she harbored. As things stood, there could never be any sort of friendship between them.

-Jace and Aegon got along well enough.

Their bond was forged mostly through mischief, but Rhaenyra couldn’t deny there was genuine joy in the way her boy spoke of his adventures with his half-uncle. Some distant part of her wondered if her twins could also bond with her other siblings as well.

-No, that can never be.

Her stepmother would never let it be.

“Jace and Aegon are a bad match,” she attempted to argue. “You’ve said it yourself. They bring out the worst in one another.”

Her father shook his head. “They’re children, they’ll outgrow it.”

“Not if they’re never allowed to.”

“Rhaenyra…”

She whirled on her feet, heart in her throat.

“Do you earnestly believe Edric Florent excluded Jace so deliberately of his own accord?”

Her father rubbed sleep from his purple eyes.

“He was just a boy, boys tease one another.”

“No, it came from the home. From his wench of a mother. She’d planted the seed in his head.”

“There is no need to plant any seeds when the truth is so plain to see.”

Blood froze in her veins. Rhaenyra gaped at her father, wide-eyed, unmoving.

“I don't follow,” she fired. The ring she'd been turning had chafed at her skin hard enough to draw blood.

Her father let out a chortle, his stained teeth peeking through his ghostly lips.

“Of course you don’t. I do not either. I haven’t been following anything since the day your children were born.”

The words were like a blow. She stumbled back, seizing the edge of the table—the pain in her chest bloomed, spreading all through her body.

-He's never said it before.

Not out loud at least. Never out loud.

“I understood. You are the heir— you needed a legacy, to continue your bloodline.” He paused, his gaze downcast. There was so much sadness etched into his face. Every deep line radiated enough melancholy to drown the entire room. “I’ve not begrudged that. I’ve defended that. But I will not defend destroying one half of our legacy in favor of the other.”

Rhaenyra could not bear it. She rushed to him, kneeling at the foot of his chair to hold his hand. The flesh was dry and tepid, as grey as dove feathers, just like his sallow face. But his eyes still shone bright with dragonfire.

“Why can you not see that it is not I who seeks to destroy it? It’s her. It's always been her.”

“Alicent is merely doing her duty, upholding the laws she has known her whole life. She does not understand what is at stake…”

“Then how?” Rhaenyra’s hand squeezed his, her head spinning. “How do you expect me to make peace with her when you know she would never extend the branch herself?!”

In the dim light of the heart fire, her father's papery skin appeared translucent. He leaned down closer, wisps of his silver hair falling into Rhaenyra's eyes.

“She would never, but her children would. They are the blood of Old Valyria, the same as us. They can share this burden with you. The same as Alysanne did for Jaehaerys, and my father did for Aemon before he passed, and Baelon became heir.”

Releasing a breath she felt the heaviness in her chest close around her throat.

“You have far too much faith in me.”

Her father's lips peeled back into a ghostly smile.

“I only have faith in that which I know is good,” He slipped his hand free of hers and gently cupped her cheeks. “You look so much like your mother in this light.”

She swallowed hard, leaning into the touch.

-You must face your duty with a strong will and stiff lip.

Her mother had told her something like that. Aemma Arryn may have lost her life performing her obligations, but she had never run away from her battles. She was a dragon, through and through—like her husband.

His body may have been frail, sallow, and sagging with the weight of festering wounds that would never heal. But Viserys Targaryen still had his mind—his fire was burning brightly, ready to light his daughter's path.

-And I cannot fail him.

Weeks after, as she sat at Council with her father and the Queen, Rhaenyra gathered her strength. As was custom, Alicent had been at odds with her. She put down Rhaenyra's suggestion to intervene in the Blackwood-Bracken dispute and hand-waved her advice to send forces to hold the Stepstones. Nevertheless, she wasn’t deterred.

When the Council bid to adjourn, she commanded them to wait.

“I have felt the…strife between our families, of late, my Queen,” she announced, her muscles tense. Sickness had been plaguing her all morning, but she swallowed it down, reasoning that she could not falter at a time like this.

Though everyone had sat back down, her stepmother remained standing, eyeing her with reserved caution.

“And for any offense given by mine, I apologize.”

Her dark brow shot up into a ghost of surprise.

“But we are one House. And long before that, we were friends.”
That struck her. Her mouth parted open, her doe eyes widening. Warmth blossomed in Rhaenyra's chest—they looked so much like the innocent eyes of her girlhood.

“My son Jacaerys will inherit the Iron throne after me. I propose we betroth him to your daughter Helaena.”

Hushed whispers followed her proclamation. Rhaenyra barreled past them. “Ally ourselves, once and for all. Let them rule together, just as they were meant to.”

Her father's hand tapped the table with enthusiasm. “A most judicious proposal, my girl.”

Rhaenyra was pleased to find him smiling at her, purple eyes filled with pride. His enthusiasm was his alone, however.
Alicent regarded her unblinking. The softness in her eyes had abated, and she regarded Rhaenyra with a clenched jaw.

“A generous offer,” she forced. “And most advantageous. For you.”

The jab stung, but she pushed her feelings aside.

“For us,” she corrected. “To bring our children together. Just as we had been. And though our friendship ended years ago, it still holds a place in my heart… just as you do. And I wish…”

The word caught in her throat, and she seized the edge of the table. The sickness had climbed up into her throat and no matter how hard she swallowed, it would not go back down.

“Oh, I…” she gasped.

The pressure was sudden, unyielding. It punched her in the gut, forcing her stomach up. She retched up the meager breakfast she'd eaten this morning, body trembling with each heave.
When it was done, her mouth was on fire, and her vision blurred—worse still was the mood in the chamber.

“Rhaenyra!” her father was screaming, his remaining hand extending to steady her. She grasped blindly at it, the stone beneath her feet swaying like the deck of a ship.

The others were not so concerned.

“Oh Seven hells…” she managed to say.

All the members of the Small Council had risen from the table and retreated in a hurry. Tyland Lannister’s smarmy face was twisted in disgust, and he reached for a scented handkerchief to bring to his nose. Beside him Jesper Wylde looked equally unamused, regarding her with an admixture of disgust and disapproval.

Only Lord Beezbury and the Hand seemed to show concern, with Lord Lyman stuttering questions about her well-being into his chin, and Lyonel rushing over to extend his own arm to steady her.

The worst, however, was the Queen.

Alicent Hightower had not moved away from the table. Sick had splashed the front of her emerald gown, drenching the fine laces in a pool of yellowish slime. Still, she stood firmly frozen in place, wide eyes half closed, and jaw grinding her teeth down to nothing.

“Are you alright, my girl?” her father asked, sparse brows knitted in concern.

“Maester, attend to the Princess…” the Queen cut him off, her voice iron. “She is clearly not well.”

Maester Orwyle suddenly recalled his profession and rushed to take her arm from Lord Lyonel's.

“I shall escort you to your chambers, see you to bed,” her father mused.

“No, husband,” again, the Queen interfered. “You must retire to your own chambers. If the Princess is ill, we cannot risk you catching her disease.”

“Alicent…” she scarce managed to force out, her voice hoarse.

“I thank you for your most… earnest declaration,” pushing away from the table at last, Alicent strode over to her father to seize him by his remaining arm. The coldness in her eyes could extinguish dragonfire. “The King and I will take your proposal under advisement. You must rest now, my love.”

Pulling Viserys away, Alicent motioned for Orwyle to take Rhaenyra to her chamber. She wanted to protest, but her body was so weak, she could hardly stand upright.

Later, as her maids fussed over her in her bed, Rhaenyra agonized over the blunder.

-She will rue me now more than ever.

All the thought and consideration that had gone into forming her words was wasted. But the worst of it all was that she had actually meant everything she'd said.

-I miss her…

Not a day went by that she didn’t think of a fond memory of their shared youth—horse rides around the Kingswood, hushed conversations shared during their lessons, the kissing games they’d play whenever the bedtime candles went out.

Alicent would always redden and avert her gaze, so that her eyelashes were flushed against her cheeks.

Rhaenyra thought it so endearing.

“It's just practice,” she’d say, “For when your handsome knight comes to whisk you away into the sunset.”

Her friend's fingers gingerly entwined with her own.

“I fear the handsome knight will never be able to compare to you.”

The handsome knight turned out to be Rhaenyra's own father—and the sunset, the confines of the Red Keep. There her friend could waste her days nursing her hate while she also nursed her father's children—far away from Rhaenyra.

-No, I must mend this.

Flinging the covers off her, she slid out of her bed.

“Princess, you must rest!” Maester Orwyle sprang into action, blocking her path.

“I'll rest when my business is finished.”

The moment she vaulted up to her feet, her stomach lurched. The Maester seized her by the forearms, calling to her chambermaid for assistance.

“You cannot leave Princess, you are still unwell.”

“Then give me one of your potions to stop the sickness.”

The man balked, teak eyes wide. “I cannot Princess. It would hurt the child.”

All thoughts fled from Rhaenyra Targaryen's head.

“What?” She whispered.

The Maester released her forearms and peeled his lips into a kindly smile.

“You are with child again, Princess.”

Chapter Text

His father insisted they meet near the entrance to Maegor's holdfast.

Jace took care to dress in his best riding clothes and comb his hair so that it wouldn’t fall into his eyes.

Though always kind and loving, his father seldom took him anywhere anymore. Jace wanted to make this time count—mayhaps that would convince him to do it more often.

Ser Laenor greeted him and Ser Steffon at the drawbridge. With a wave of his hand, he bid the guards lower it so the two of them could cross. The Kingsguard fell in step behind them, as they made their way out into the keep.

To Jace's relief, his father's friend, Ser Qarl Correy was nowhere to be seen.

“A fine day for a stroll, isn’t it?” his father mused, a smile on his face.

Jace always thought he had a funny smile—tense and lopsided as if it took him much effort to keep his lips peeled back.

“Yes,” he agreed, relishing the sun on his skin. The sky was clear and cloudless, rife with the scent of flowering marigolds. “Will we go for a ride?”

A small part of him hoped his father meant to take him flying on Seasmoke to see the Blackwater. He’d done that when he and Luce were babes, much to their mother's horror.

“Oh, on dragonback? No, no, not today. I fear Seasmoke is too tired.”

-From what?

His dragon had spent weeks languishing in the pit, same as the others. Still, Jace held his tongue.

“No, I thought you and I might take a stroll and have a chat. Man to man.”

He peered up at him. “About what?”

“Oh I don’t know,” his father shrugged. “How have you been?”

A million words battled to escape his lips. Instead, Jace settled on saying, “Fine.”

His father’s brows shot up. They trekked down the cobbled path, passing scores of servants carrying sacks of supplies back into the keep. A few nobles were milling about as well, and his father paused to give them a polite greeting.

“Is that so,” he said, exchanging nods with a passing lordling in blue, “Your mother tells me you’ve caused quite a bit of trouble of late.”

Jace's fingers trailed the front of his doublet, latching onto the buttons in a fury.

“It… it was just a jest.”

“Oh, I know. Harmless fun amongst boys,” he waved his hand. “But it was still not proper. You shouldn’t go along with everything your half-uncle says.”

When they neared the northern parapets, overlooking the Hill of Rhaenys, his father knelt to be at eye level with him.

“I know you're struggling, son.” He paused, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “You have few friends, and you feel as if you do not belong at court. I understand that. I’ve felt that myself.”

Jace ceased turning the buttons.

“You have?”

His father nodded. “Yes! I’m a knight, a dragon rider. I was made for sailing and battles, not family dinners. Court life was never my lot. Seven hells, war is afoot in the Stepstones right now, and I have half a mind to join the fighting.”

The elation Jace felt withered. “You… you want to leave?”

“Well, naturally…” the smile he'd borne so proudly faltered. “No, I don’t want to leave you, of course. Just the court.”

Uncomfortable silence filled the air around them, and his father squirmed. Pressing his lips into a firm line, he seized Jace by the shoulders and gently drew him closer.

“You and your sister are the most important things in my life. And for you, I’ve learned to endure all manner of things I do not like. To perform my duties as Prince Consort and royal father. And you…” he patted him on the chest. “shall do the same. You may not like it—gods know I don't—but you will behave yourself and be a proper prince. Alright?”

Jace held his gaze, getting lost in the pit of his dark eyes.
His fingers yanked on one of the buttons so hard, the threads snapped.

“Alright,” he forced out. Despite the sun beating down on his brow, he felt cold.

His father noticed nothing.

“There's a good lad!” Giving his chest a good slap, he rose back up to tower over him. That smile was back on his face—tense and lopsided. Lacking any earnestness. “Now off you go.”

Jace almost asked him to stay—so they could continue their walk, talk some more. So he could hug him, regale him with tales of his adventures in the Stepstones. Just like he did when Jace was younger.

But one look at his face bid him to stay quiet. His head was craned to the side, eyes affixed on the northern gate, and the city beyond.

His body might have been here, but his mind was not. It was already plotting his escape.

Something hot burned in his throat.

-You mustn’t cry.

With a resigned nod, he turned on his heels and marched right back up the path. When he and Ser Steffon came upon the drawbridge, he sprinted.

“My Prince!” The knight bellowed after him, but Jace was too flustered to care.

He barreled past some serving girls up the winding staircase that led to the Queen's apartments.

Ser Lorent Marbrand stood watch outside the door, but Jace was not deterred.

“My Prince, what are you doing here?” the knight peered down at him through the slits of his iron helm.

“I came to see Aegon. Is he here?”

The knight shuffled in place, his mail crackling. “He is still abed, I’m afraid.”

“I want to speak to him…”

“My Prince,” the cry sounded, and moments later, Ser Steffon marched down the corridor, breathless. “Gods spare me, you cannot go running off like that.”

“I want to see my uncle. Aegon!” he reached out to seize the door handle, but a gloved hand pulled him back.

“Come now, I shall take you back to your mother.”

“Seven hells, what is all that noise?!” a shrill screech sounded from the other side of the door, bidding Ser Steffon to stop. Moments later, Aegon cracked it open and peered his head through the slit.

“Oh Jace, it’s you. What are you doing here?”

Jace wiggled out of the knight's grasp. “Can we talk?”

“Now?” his uncle scrunched up his nose. His hair was so tangled, it looked like some wild animal was nesting atop his head. “It's not even dawn yet.”

“It's almost midday, my Prince.” Ser Lorent interjected.
Aegon squinted at him.

“Oh… well then, come in,” pushing the door open, he disappeared inside.

Jace quickly followed after him, not sparing his escort another glance.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. Strong wine, and unwashed clothing. Thick curtains covered all windows, blanketing the chamber in darkness—Jace stumbled over something but managed to steady himself before he fell.
With a loud grunt, Aegon parted the draperies, allowing a stream of sunshine to beat the black away. Jace half wished everything had stayed dim. The scattered bedsheets, discarded boots, and empty wine cups littering the floor did not make for a pleasant sight.

“So, what’d you want?” Aegon asked, contorting himself into a stretch. His sleeping shift was on backward.

Jace stared for a moment, dumbstruck.

Then, the words came pouring out of him like water breaking through a dam—he relayed the conversation with his father, not pausing for air once.

Aegon didn’t seem to pay it much mind at first. But the more he spoke, the deeper his grimace became. When Jace was finally done, he released a deep sigh.

“Oh, so your father likes to ignore you too,” he spat out, voice hoarse.

Jace cleared away some small clothes from a chair and sat down.

“Grandsire doesn’t ignore you. He's always been very nice.”

A giggle burst from Aegon’s lips, and he moved to splash some water on his cheeks.

“Yes, very kind. When he's reminded I exist. But, for the most part, he is content on pretending he has only one child.”

Jace misliked how resentful those words sounded.

Nevertheless, he pushed them aside.

“But he's never told you he wanted to leave you…” the lump in his throat choked him, and he bent his head to hide the tears.
Aegon let the silence linger.

“He didn’t have to say it,” the gravity in his voice made Jace wonder if he was even speaking to the same person. He'd never heard him be this serious.

His uncle assuaged his doubts when, a moment later, he scoffed and tossed his messy curls back.

“In any case, what do you want me to do? I’m not your damn nursemaid. I can’t make you feel better about it.”

Jace stiffened, his fingers pulling on the button. The thread snapped with a soft pop.

“Well, I thought… I mean… you're my friend…”

The laugh he let out cut worse than steel.

“I’m certainly not that either,” kicking a goblet to the side he moved to scour the floor for some clean garments. “Look, I have my own worries weighing me down. My mother has not stopped nagging me about the jest you pulled on Aemond.”

“Me?! That was your plot!” he protested.

“Yes well… you shouldn’t have indulged me.”

His head low, he dug through the clothes as if he was hoping to unearth hidden treasure.

“Edric was right. You’re just a mewling boy. I never should have invited you to play with me. You’re a bad influence—you make me do childish things.”

Silence descended on the room like a heavy weight. Aegon finally discovered what he was looking for and rose to his feet with a huff. When he dared to cast a glance at him, his expression fell.

“Jace…”

“Fine then!” he shrieked and leapt out of the chair. “I never wanted to be your friend anyways!”

“Wait, no, Jace…”

His hand pulled on the door handle, yanking it open with force. Ser Steffon seemed bewildered at his temper and tried to stop him from running off.

Jace had the fortune of being smaller and swifter and lost the knight along the winding corridors.

It was only when his chest started hurting and his lungs screamed for air that he stopped his mad dash. The physical pain did not ease the hurt that lingered within.

-Why does nobody like me?

His sister, his father, and now even his uncle. They all spurned him, for no reason. It was not fair. He was the Prince, the heir. By all rights, he should have all the friends in the world. Instead, he had no one.

The thought crushed the hurt and bade anger to come out. He needed to hit something. Aemond appeared as the perfect target.

He'd found him hiding in one of the hallway antechambers, his pointed nose buried in a book. Jace didn’t even know what he said to him exactly. He just flung whatever taunt came to his mind, hoping for a rise. Infuriatingly, he stayed silent.

In the end, it was his sister of all people who answered his jabs. She appeared out of nowhere, to defend the self-righteous idiot, and tease Jace about his reading.

It was only the threat of Septa Melara that stopped him from shoving her down.

-Ser Steffon had told her I’d run off.

He could have managed the Kingsguard being cross with him, but the Septa… that woman’s wrath was something to behold. And worse still, it always ended with him confined to his chambers, forced to read from the Seven pointed star till he perished from boredom.

He fled again, running past courtiers and servants, hardly paying attention to where he was going.

When he finally stopped, the blood-red canopy of the castle's weirwood was staring back at him. Jace sucked in breath after breath as he entered the castle godswood, green grass whispering beneath his boots. The face carved into the trunk was one of serene contemplation. Watching the red tears stream down its cheeks, Jace hiccupped a sob.

That was how Ser Harwin found him—huddled beneath the heart tree, weeping into his hands.

“My Prince? What's happened?” the burly knight rushed over to him, the golden cloak of the City Watch billowing behind him.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” his voice cracked and he moved to wipe the tears away before the knight could see. “I was just… resting.”

The man paid no mind to his attempts to brush him off.

“I can see,” he said, his face softening into a smile. It struck Jace how much the wrinkles around his eyes reminded him of Lucera's—her eyes also crinkled like that when she smiled. “It's no easy thing to outrun a Kingsguard.”

Jace blew a breath. “Ser Steffon is looking for me, isn't he.”

The knight chuckled and moved to sit beside him.

“That he is. He and the others have been scouring the keep for you. He gave Prince Aegon a stern talking-to for making you run off like that.”

The mention of his uncle’s name made him ball his fists.

“Ah, I see the young Prince is the reason you’re so cross.”

“He's an idiot,” Jace cut him off.

“You'll get no argument from me.”

“A stupid idiot who only knows how to say hurtful things and drink wine.”

“Well… sometimes our friends can say hurtful things.”

“He's not my friend,” he spat the words, expecting the anger to flare. Instead, sadness stung his eyes. “He's told me so himself.”

The tears followed suit, and he bowed his head, trying to hide them from Ser Harwin's gaze.

The gentle touch on his forearm made him look back.

“I know, lad,” the man said, brows knitted together. Jace immediately thought of his own father and the understanding he'd extended. Somehow, Ser Harwin's concern rang truer than Laenor's platitudes ever did.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he continued. “You deserve a friend who will uplift you, not bring you down. And sadly, the only thing Prince Aegon can lift is a cup of wine.”

Jace's lips peeled into a small smile. He gingerly accepted the handkerchief the knight had offered.

“But… I don’t have anyone like that. Nobody… nobody really likes me.”

He squeezed his fists again, vision blurring.

“That's not true, lad. You have your mother, the Princess, your royal grandfather. Your sister...”

“Pft, Lucera doesn’t care. She's too busy looking for adventures.”

A small pause ensued, and the hand brushing his forearm moved up to tap his shoulder.

“You have me.”

He jerked away, craning his head to look at him. He bore the oddest expression on his face— stoic, and determined, yet filled with uncertainty. As if he was doing something bad.

“You? I hardly even know you…”

Save for the tales he heard about his fabled strength, Ser Harwin Breakbones was but a distant fixture to him. He’d occasionally exchanged kind words with him when he was out in the training yard and bid him to chase off Edric Florent when the idiot was being especially vile. Otherwise, he mostly hovered on the periphery, sometimes appearing in his mother’s chambers to whisper things to her that always left her either upset or inexplicably happy.

“Well you can… if you want to,” He halfheartedly commented. His tone was light, jovial, but still poignant. “I may not be a Prince, or have a dragon of mine own. But, I can teach you how to fight. How to skin a deer, and sharpen your sword. And… when you’re upset, I can lend you my ear. If you need it.”

Jace side-eyed him, turning the words over in his head. He could use more practice with a sword. Ser Criston wasn't particularly keen on paying him attention during their yard sessions. And having someone to confide in sounded rather nice.

“I’d like that but… do you promise not to leave? To go fight in the Stepstones?”

The question seemed silly, and Jace regretted asking it. Still, the way Ser Harwin's brows furrowed took him by surprise. His slanted brown eyes glistened with a bright sheen and he squeezed his shoulder into a tight grip.

“No, lad,” his voice came out airy, “I won't leave you. I promise. As long as there is still breath in my lungs, I will never leave you.”

Chapter Text

Mother could never find out.

After spending the entire night in his chambers, going through Longstrider's The Wonders of Man, Aemond slowly came to realize how cross his mother would be if she discovered what he was doing.

She’d spent months wringing Aegon's neck for consorting with Jacaerys. Should she discover what he was doing, she might toss him into the Black cells.

-You’re being silly.

It wasn’t like he had struck a blood oath of friendship with her. He'd just lent her a damnable book. And once he got the Fires of the Freehold back, he could return to pretending she—and her kiss— didn’t exist.

When the sun rose on the following morning, he could scarcely rise from his bed. He had to force down his bowl of porridge, all while listening to Mother scold a half-awake Aegon for insulting some Lannister girl. When Ser Criston arrived, he practically leapt out of his seat, eager to be rid of them.

The knight had promised him additional battle training, and Aemond was eager to throw some blows.

They chose the gardens for their sparring grounds. There was a clearing beside the dragon fountain where Ser Criston judged no one would disturb them. However, before they could enter the hedge maze, a familiar figure cut off their path.

“My Prince,” Septa Melara rushed over to them in a flurry of grey robes. Her eyes were so wide, Aemond was certain they would fall out of her head. “Ser Criston. Good morrow.”

“Good morrow, Septa.” The Kingsguard replied with a cordial nod.

“It is good I have found you. I’m in need of assistance.”

“How may I be of service?”

The aged woman twiddled her thumbs. “Well, it’s a delicate matter…”

Ser Criston’s coal-black eyes pivoted to Aemond.

“I will only be a moment, my Prince.”

The two walked deeper into the hedge maze, exchanging hushed whispers in rapid succession. Aemond strained to hear, but they had gone too far for him to make out anything they were saying. Instead, he contended himself with sulking in silence beside a bushy arrowwood shrub.

The silence didn’t last long.

“Aemond!” a strangled cry sounded from the branches.

He jerked, almost tripping over his cloak.

A pale face rose above the canopy.

“Lucera?”

Ser Criston's stern baritone bid Aemond freeze. Lucera dove down into the bushes again. When Aemond dared to look back, the knight was still engaged in an animated dispute with the Septa.

Taking slow, methodical steps he walked backward till his back hit the shrub. Before he could react, a hand shot out and yanked him into it.

He fell on his backside with a loud thud, thorns slashing his skin. A torrent of curse words threatened to escape his mouth, but Lucera covered it.

“Shh!” she commanded. A moment later, Ser Criston's voice rang out.

“My Prince?” Aemond listened to the clatter of mail and armor, as the knight paced around the gardens.

“Gods be good, he’s gone missing too!” Septa Melara croaked.

“I shall find him,”

He and the Septa spent an eternity scouring the bushes, calling his name. After their voices had gone hoarse from the effort, Ser Criston bid her to return to the castle so he could alert the Lord Commander.

It was only when their footsteps abated that Lucera dared to a breathe. Aemond shook her grip off in a fury.

“Are you mad? What do you think you’re doing?”

His half-niece settled into her crouch, eyes downcast.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m hiding,” she announced, pleased.

-She looks as if she has escaped the kennels.

The front of her cream gown was filthy, marred with flecks of dirt and lint. The long hair her servants had so painstakingly tried to gather into a braid, was disheveled, entangled with leaves and dried flower petals. Still, her pudgy cheeks were flush with color, and her lips upturned into a lively smile.

It was almost pretty.

“Gods, you’re going to get us in so much trouble,” he chided, attempting to adjust his surcoat. The thing was covered in a blanket of thorns that would most likely take him hours to remove.

“I’m sorry, but I wanted to speak with you.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to simply ask to see me?”

She huffed, puckering her plump lips. It was a trait she shared with Jace, though, it looked more comely on her.

“As if the Septa would have let me. She’s been shadowing me since the moment I’ve risen from bed. I haven’t been able to take one single breath, without her presiding over it. If she could, I think she would follow me to the privy too.”

Aemond chortled, his anger vanishing in a puff of smoke. “Alright, why did you want to see me?”

“I finished your book.”

“You finished it?” his mouth fell open.

She bobbed her head with enthusiasm. “Yes.”

“But it has… 500 pages.”

“Oh yes, I know,” she launched, “I spent the whole night reading it. Haven’t had a wink of sleep but it was well worth the effort.”

Without even realizing it, Aemond peeled his lips into a smile.

-Not so different.

“And? What did you think of it?”

“You honestly cannot ask me that question,” the two of them shared a chuckle and she inched closer. “I knew it would be full of secrets, but I didn’t expect to learn so many new things. I mean, I never knew that a Valyrian woman had attempted to fly her dragon to map Sothoryos.”

Aemond nodded eagerly. “Janaera Belaerys. She and her dragon Terrax flew south of Sothoryos, farther than anyone had ever been. When she failed to find anything except mountains and jungles, she declared it a land with no end.”

Lucera knitted her brows. “That’s stupid. Everything has an end. She must have given up too soon.”

“She spent 3 years flying in one direction. If she says it has no end, I’m inclined to believe her.”

“Or perhaps, Sothoryos just happens to be much larger than anything we've ever known.”

“Someone should probably check that,”

The radiant smile that blossomed on her lips was a sight to behold.

“Yes, somebody should.”

She held his gaze for a bit, the brown of her eyes swirling like oak bark. Plain as it was, it was still lovely. Warm.

“May we leave the bushes now?” he blurted. “I’ve sat on a thorn and it’s starting to really hurt.”

Lucera wasted no time. Like a crane, she angled her neck up to peer above the shrub canopy. When she judged there was no danger lurking nearby they both rushed out of the bush and headed deep into the maze.

“I’ll see about returning the Fires to you this evening,” she commented after a comfortable silence.

“You can keep it a while longer,” he said, gingerly falling in step with her. “Maester Orwyle hasn’t asked me about it. He thinks I’ve set it aside for now, while I occupy myself with something else.”

“What?”

He paused, swallowing. “The Wonders of Man.”

Again the radiance that emanated from her smile left him stumped.

“You did read it!”

“Well… not yet. I’m still going through it. I’ve just reached the part where he talks about the Bone Mountains and the sister cities nestled there.”

“Oh that one is my favorite,” she leapt up in front of him like a rabbit, giddy with excitement. “Kayakayanaya, Bayasabhad and Samyriana. They’re giant fortresses that are manned by warrior women. They ride horses, wield a bow, and are trained to handle knives, spears, and slings.”

His brows went up. “They have warrior women?”

“Yes! They believe only those who give life should be allowed to take it. So they only let women fight,” The proud way she announced that made him pause.

He couldn’t imagine her or his sister donning mail to ride off into battle. Nevertheless, he kept the thought to himself.

“What do they do with the men?”

Her teeth worked her bottom lip. “It depends. Some of them grow up to be Great Fathers—leaders of their people, which is wonderful. The rest of them they geld, and have them serve as cooks, priests, farmers, and scholars. Which… isn’t quite as wonderful. The gelding, not the cooks and scholars part.”

They reached a fork in the maze, and Aemond gently stirred her into the left passage he knew led to the overlook.

“You don’t say?” he chuckled.

“Well, I suppose everyone does stupid things.”

“It's most likely tradition. Something their forebears did.”

Lucera cast him a look.

“That’s no answer. They shouldn’t just do something like that because others before them did. They should have a good reason.”

Aemond halted midstride, just as the Balckwater’s shimmering surface rose into view. The overlook was deserted, as expected, and they could see the entire stretch of the river, as it flowed downstream into the bay.

“Tradition is a good reason. It exists to help us in our lives,” He reasoned. “Think of Old Valyria. If their customs were useless, we wouldn’t be bothering to learn about them.”

She heaved a sigh, leaning against the railing to peer down at the crashing waves.

“That’s different. We practice the traditions of Old Valyria because they help us control our dragons. That doesn’t mean all traditions are good. Think about it,” her head snapped back to him.

Wind was gusting in her face, blowing rivulets of dark hair into her eyes. It made her look wild, like a woodland spirit who had wandered into the castle by accident.

“There is no good reason why I should be made to do needlework or dancing when I’m not good at it. Neither is there a reason for you to be lesser simply because you haven’t claimed a dragon yet.”

The jab bit him right in the heart, but he kept his composure.

“It's all just stupid rules concocted by some old men who cared naught for anyone's wants but their own,” she continued. “If you ask me, we should do away with all of it. Be free and do what we like.”

The words sounded lovely on her lips, but he recognized the edge they had.

-Of course, she would say that.

She and her brother were living refutations of said laws and traditions.

“I dare not ask what you think freedom is,” he remarked with far too much snark in his voice.

She seemed not to notice. “Well, that's easy enough. Happiness. In a perfect world, we would all be free to do what makes us happy. Jace would be a powerful and beloved King, while I went out into the world on dragonback to have adventures. And you… well, I don't know what makes you happy.”

He side-eyed her briefly. Her words seemed so childish— easy to laugh at and even easier to dismiss. Yet he couldn't deny that the yearning for the happiness she spoke of resonated deeply within him.

“For now, I'd just settle for being free of my brother,” he leaned over the railing beside her, taking in the smell of river water drifting from below. With each crash of the waves, a thick layer of soapy foam would bubble to the surface. “We're to have history lessons tomorrow. I'm to help him with his reading, make sure he actually finishes it on time. I'd rather bathe in dragonfire.”

Lucera traced the stone railing with slender fingers, drawing circles with her nails. “Well, yours is easy enough. You should just skip it.”

Aemond balked. “What?”

“I’m going to the beach tomorrow. You can skip your lessons and come with me.”

His teeth sank into the inside of his cheek.

“No, I can't. I promised I would help him.”

“Why? He can read himself, can he not? He just doesn’t want to,” she grimaced. “There is no reason for you to sacrifice yourself for his betterment. Not only does he not care for it, but it reduces you.”

Those words resonated in his mind long after the two of them parted ways. Ser Criston gave him quite the earful when he discovered him in the garden sitting below a hickory tree. Aemond only half listened to the scolding, too lost in his own thoughts. The listlessness didn’t leave the following day either.
He and Aegon were sat in the confines of Maester Orwyle's writing apartments pouring over the histories. The moment the Maester left, his brother ceased pretending to pay attention and laid his head on the table. Then, he started snoring.

-He does not care.

He had no concept of family, or duty— no wish to learn, better himself not just for his own sake, but for the sake of others.
All his desires lay at the bottom of a wine cup.

-I should have been firstborn.

He was well versed in history, and philosophy, spoke two languages, and could recite verses from the Seven-pointed Star from memory. He was always mindful of his duties, always taking care to be on time, to be proficient with a sword. And all he got in return for his efforts was a chance to play nursemaid to a drunken lout.

-It’s stupid. And it exists for no good reason.

Scoffing loudly, Aemond Targaryen slammed his book shut and rose from his seat. His brother did not move at all when he headed for the door.

Chapter Text

Sneaking out was easy enough.

The Septa was particularly tired that day, so she decided to once again cut their needlework short. She bid Lucera a good day and made her swear to go straight to her chambers. On her end, Luce curtsied and swore to comply.

-It's not a lie.

The gods only got cross when one went against their word—and Luce had every intention to go to her chambers.

Leaving Ser Steffon outside to stand watch, she dove under the bed. The satchel lay there untouched and Luce was pleased to see none of the maids had taken her things for washing.

-Mother would be cross if I ruined this dress too.

There were two things Rhaenyra asked of her whenever she'd venture out exploring. To stay within the safety of the Keep, and to protect her clothing.

Luce quickly shrugged out of her silken cobalt blue petticoat and pulled on the torn salt-stained one she'd borrowed from one of the kitchen scullions. After fastening the ragged chapel about her shoulders, she felt around for the latch behind her bed. One pull was all it took for the dragon tapestry on the left-hand wall to creek open. She scurried into the darkness, taking care to light up the candle she'd left at the very entrance.

The first thing that hit her was the cold. A gust of wind whistled through the narrow corridor. Luce sheltered her candle flame from the blast, steeling herself against the stench of mold, and mildew threatening to drown her. She quickly came upon a fork in her path. Up ahead was a narrow passage that led straight to her mother's apartments, she knew—she'd used that route often, to sneak into bed with mother whenever she'd had a terrible dream.

Today, however, she needed to take a different path. Turning left she descended some jagged steps. Dirt and cobwebs clung to the hem of her skirts, and the soft scurrying of rats rang out around her. She wasn’t deterred.

She followed the markers she'd left on the walls during previous visits till she reached a steep wooden ladder. Climbing up with a candle was a nightmare—she was forced to take the holder handle into her mouth, grimacing every time hot wax trickled down on her lip.

When she'd finally ascended, she was breathless and filthy, arms aching from the effort. But the door she needed was just ahead so the discomfort got lost in a wave of excitement.
Carefully leaning against the wall, she traced the stone with shaking fingers. She found the latch but resisted pulling it, and kept fishing until her fingers hit an indentation in the smooth rock.

The peephole popped open with one push and a beam of light seeped through.

To her dismay, the corridor on the other side was deserted.

-Has he gotten lost?

That didn’t seem right. Aemond had assured her he knew how to get to the easternmost hallway that led to the kitchens. Luce grumbled, straining to listen— nothing.

Her elation dampened.

-Maybe he will not come.

Aemond had seemed reluctant to accept her invitation after all. It was entirely possible he'd simply decided he wanted to take no part in her mischief. Dejected, she swallowed hard and decided to wait a while longer.

Save for the occasional servant passing by, nobody came. She was about to turn on her heel to descend when the soft clatter of boots caught her attention.

A figure in an oversized cloak appeared off to the side. Luce grimaced—it seemed he didn’t know what disguise meant.
The cloak he wore was a potent emerald green, inlaid with fine silk threads. She just about dashed her head against the walls.
He nervously looked around, hooded face rife with caution. Luce waited until his back was to the wall to quietly unlatch the hidden door. The yelp he released when she yanked him into the dark could wake the dead.

“Shhh!” she hissed, quickly shutting the door.

“Seven hells!” he shook off her grip, the sound of his ragged breath like a war horn in the quiet of the passage. “Do you mean to relieve me of my soul? Do not sneak up on me like that!”

It was impossible to suppress the giggle building in her throat. “Serves you right for not knowing how to dress properly. I said wear something inconspicuous.”

The faint candlelight cast shadows on his pale face. Still, even in the dimness the flush spreading on his cheeks was obvious.

“I am. I wore a cloak.”

“A bright green one. You might as well have drawn the Hightower sigil on your forehead.”

“Well, pardon me for not knowing the proper attire for sneaking around,” he huffed. “Where are we?”

Luce smirked. “I thought you were supposed to be good at history? We're in Maegor's passages.”

His head snapped to the side and he squinted at the darkness. “I know history. But… how did you get here?”

The smirk on her face deepened. “Well, unlike you I know the proper way to sneak around.”

Candle in hand, she stepped into the darkness toward the ladder. Aemond gingerly followed her down, always taking take to stay at least two steps behind her.

At first, he was quiet, observing the passages with curious wonder. However, the deeper they went, and the darker the silence became around them, the more he started to complain.

“Where are we going?” he whined

His foot must have caught something, because he stumbled, and he clumsily reached for her shoulder to steady himself.
Again, Luce couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ll see.”

“Gods, it’s cold in here. What if we get lost?”

“We won't, I know where I’m going.”

“Seven hells, mother will murder me if she finds out I’ve left my lesson.”

“No, she won't. I promise we'll return before anyone even realizes you were gone.”

Luce made a sharp right turn, seizing him by the arm to bid him to follow. The scent of mildew slowly dispersed to give way to the smell of mineral and river water. A moment later, the faint sound of waves followed suit, and she quickly blew out the candle.

A pale light appeared at the end of the tunnel, and Lucera rushed forward, bursting into the cavern with glee. When she felt the soft sand beneath her boots, she smiled and quickly set aside her candle. To her left, she could see the vast expanse of the Blackwater rush through the cavern opening.

Aemond stumbled after, eyes wide and mouth parted.

“Where are we?” he gasped, gaze fixed on the stalagmites hanging above their heads.

“Eastern beach, or somewhere there about,” she commented and moved to take off her satchel. Her supplies were exactly where she'd left them, sitting untouched beneath a cloak in the corner of the cave.

“But, there isn’t an Eastern beach.” He pulled off his hood, to reveal a mess of tangled silver hair.

“Well, this isn't a beach exactly. It’s far too small. But it’s just as good as.”

Rifling through the leather satchel, she fished out her wooden shovel and nets. Behind her, Aemond drew nearer, uncertainty in each step.

“What are you doing?”

Luce quickly fastened them to her belt and shot up.

“Gathering our supplies. We can't go searching for doubloons empty-handed.”

His pale brow curved up. “What?”

“Doubloons. Mermaid coin. It washes ashore sometimes, with the tide.”

“Have you… have you hit your head in those tunnels? Mermaids aren’t real,” he proclaimed, nose upturned.

Lucera rolled her eyes. “Now you sound like Jace. The Blackwater has swallowed many a ship over the years. Sometimes, remnants of those old cogs and galleys can wash ashore for astute explorers to find.”

“So… we are searching for pirate treasure?”

“It's not just pirates. It's trading cogs, ambassador galleys, war ships. There's all kinds of things you can find buried in the sand.”

“Or nothing.”

Squeezing her shovel, she rushed past him.

“Fine then, if you are too afraid to be a proper explorer, I shall venture out alone.”

That seemed to set him into motion. “I’m not afraid!”

She whirled on her feet, extending the shovel to him.

“Then onward we go. To adventure.”

The way he puckered his lips, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed, made Luce think he was trying to read her thoughts somehow. Nevertheless, he seized the shovel from her hand.
With an elated smile, she rushed toward the opening. As expected, a wave broke against the rocks, sending splashes of river water right into her face.

Aemond paused when he noticed the jagged reefs peeking above the surface—Luce expected him to cower in fear, like Jace did. To her delight, he only smiled in awe.

They trekked across the narrow path carved into the cliffside, wild tidal waves breaking below them. Above them, the great red brick walls of the Red Keep's towers stretched up into the heavens.

“We're on the far east,” Aemond yelled over the churning water. “The part that overlooks the mouth of the Blackwater.”

“Yes,” Luce nodded. The jagged stones dug into the sole of her leather boots, but she kept her feet steady—one wrong move and she could slip and fall right below into the crashing tide.

“Your apartments are somewhere up there I think,” she pointed toward the domed tower resembling an onion's head.

“I didn’t think there was anything down here.”

“There isn’t. At least nothing worth the effort of mapping.”

Their trek finally came to an end, when they descended from the cobbled cliff path onto solid ground. The beach could scarce be called that. It was a pocket of greyish sand that stretched outside a modest crag. Driftwood and seaweed were strewn about everywhere, along with pieces of discarded chests, furniture, nets, even clothing.

“So this is your beach of treasures. Impressive,” Aemond grumbled, nose scrunched. The wind had mussed his hair into an unruly mess of silver strings, and a sheen of sweat dotted his flush skin.

Just then, Luce noticed how pale his skin was. White, almost translucent—like ivory. She decided it was pretty.

“Shut up, you haven’t even seen what’s buried here yet.”

“I can tell you that without even digging. Sand, rocks, driftwood, seashells, driftwood, and driftwood. Did I mention driftwood?”

Luce puffed up her cheeks. “Fine, you won't always find the best treasure here. But, that’s the beauty of this place. The treasure changes by the minute.”

Aemond frowned, but before she could explain, the beach did it for her. A massive wave broke against the rock, swallowing up the land in a blanket of greyish foam. Only a few feet of sand right at the entrance of the crag remained untouched.

The confusion on Aemond's face morphed into quiet realization.

“Oh…” he breathed, purple eyes wide.

Luce grinned, moving to stand in front of him.

“That's right. You only have a few moments to find your treasure before the waves come to take it—and you—away.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheeks. “My clothes are going to get drenched, aren’t they?”

She shrugged. “I did tell you to wear something sensible.”

He gazed at her through his pale lashes, reluctance in his purple slits. Then, he heaved another sigh and straightened his back.

“Well, since I’m already like to spend the rest of my life confined to my chambers as punishment, might as well do it.”

The smile that stretched his lips mirrored her own.

They did get drenched—quite a lot. Granted, not every wave was a massive one. The river was surprisingly calm today, granting them the chance to dig about the sand more thoroughly. But when it decided to attack, it was merciless.

Sometimes they managed to run back to the crag in time to avoid the splash. Other times, they would get soaked to their knees, the cold wetness lashing their skin like a whip. For all his earlier grumbling Aemond didn’t seem to mind.

He'd been quite reserved in the beginning, halfheartedly kicking up sand with his shovel. However, after he dug up what he judged to be fragments of a rusted shield, he grew more enthused, till he was the one calling for her to dig faster, to run quicker.

At some point, they managed to find something curious. Searching around the remnants of an old wooden chest, Aemond unearthed something small and round.

“Mermaid coin!” Lucera declared, snatching the thing from his hand.

The coin was much smaller than their gold dragons, bent out of shape and discolored. Still, beneath the rippling greens and bronzes, it was possible to make out the shape of a slender woman with a fishtail.

“See, I told you it was real.”

“Whose coin is this?” Aemond asked, puzzled.

Luce turned over the piece in her fingers. “Don’t know, one of the Free Cities perhaps.”

“To my knowledge, none of them worship any sea gods.”

“Perhaps it's from an actual mermaid then.”

He lashed her with a look.

“Mermaids still aren’t real.”

Luce puckered her lips. “You say that with such conviction, but in truth, you don’t know. None of us know what’s at the bottom of the sea. Don’t the Ironborn believe in some kind of Sea god that lives in a palace that’s attended by mermaids?”

Aemond scowled, flinging a fistful of wet sand to the side. The scent of river water was making his nose run.

“Ironborn are dim-witted savages, half a step away from pirates. You shouldn’t place much stock into what they believe.”

She huffed.

“The people at Cracklaw Point say the same thing. They say the sea is full of mermaids and Squishers that come ashore to steal bad children from their beds.”

“If mermaids are not real, then fish monsters certainly aren’t either.”

“If that’s so, how do you explain the thing hiding behind that rock, looking at us?”

His eyes widened, and he craned his head in the direction where she was pointing. The cocksure smirk retreated from his face. A black shape was rising above the jagged corral. It was mere feet from where they sat half buried in wet sand, eyes staring right at them.

Though it only looked like it was staring. At this distance all Luce could make out was tangles of black, wiry hair, and a misshapen head the color of rotten wood.

“What is that?” Aemond asked muscles seizing.

“I don’t know. I think it wasn’t here when we arrived.”

Faster than she could blink, he was on his feet. His hand reached behind his back, and a slender, steel blade emerged.

“What are you doing, you brought a knife?”

“Of course, I didn’t know where you were taking me.”

Luce thought that sounded insulting, but she disregarded it.

The shape bobbed above the rock. Both of them gasped.

“Wait, no, don't…” she seized his forearm in a death grip, but he shook her off, taking tentative steps forward.

“Shhh…”

“What if it eats you? Squishers love eating little boys!”

The determined crease between his brows did not falter. “It's not a Squisher, I…”

His words died on his lips when a tidal wave rushed toward the shore. The shape suddenly rose above the coral rock, leaping over the stone with the rising water. The two of them screamed and dashed toward the crag, hearts in their throat.

“Get behind me, get behind me!” Aemond jumped to put himself in front of her, blade ready.

However, instead of a half-fish man charging him, all he got was seaweed.

“Seven hells!” he huffed, cheeks reddening.

Peering over his shoulder, Luce let out a hearty laugh.

Their fearsome fish foe turned out to be a rotten broom covered in seaweed. The water that had broken against the sand washed it over to them in a whirlpool of foam and stone.

Aemond scoffed, moving to sheathe the blade he'd been clutching in a death grip.

“No, careful! Don’t put your knife away, it might still strike!” she giggled, jostling him about.

The glare he gave her could curdle milk.

“Haha, very funny,” he tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Marvelous, I’ve lost my treasure.”

Luce sank her teeth into her bottom lip and jangled her leather satchel.

“Good thing you have me to dig alongside you.”

He returned her grin and allowed her to lead him into the crag. The arched entrance curved upward into a jagged dome littered with stalagmites. The cavern was vast, large enough to fit ten of her and still leave room for more. To the right a small pool glittered under a shaft of sunlight, streaming through the hole in the stone above. When Luce dared to peek over the edge, she could have sworn she saw small fishes swimming at the bottom.

“We can hide it here,” she rushed over to a tunnel beside the pool. The thing was barely large enough to fit two dogs, but she managed to wiggle inside. The satchel she and Jace had left previously was still there and she placed their new bounty beside it, burying it in some sand for safekeeping.

“There. Now the Squishers can't get at it.” She shook out her skirts, but the cloth was too damp for the sand to slide off. Even though she'd changed into her customary ratty clothes, Luce knew her mother would not be happy to find her so disheveled, and smelling like a canal.

“I can't believe I almost fell for that. Squishers…” Aemond grumbled. He was just as ragged, his splendid green cloak a wet and shriveled mess.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you were much braver than Jace.” She replied. “First time we saw something dark in the waves, he sprinted back into the crag, to cower in the tunnel.”
She expected Aemond to share in her laugh, but he remained silent. His brows had furrowed into a frown and he pressed his lips into a white line.

“Jace came here too?”

“Yes, a while back. He'd heard I’d found Mermaid coin, and wanted to get some himself. All he managed to dig up was sand and crabs, so he got bored and left.”

Again, her jovial tone only seemed to sour him. He crossed his arms on his chest. “Why not bring him here then? Why invite me?”

Lucera stared at him, stumped.

“Because… I thought you might… like it.”

-Because you were the only one I had to invite.

The truth of those words pained her. She'd always steadfastly refused to admit how much not having companionship hurt her. What use did she have of a gaggle of little girls, who only knew how to prattle about dresses and dolls? She was much better off exploring on her own.

-It would be nice to have someone.

A companion who not only shared her passions but wanted to pursue them with equal enthusiasm. Certainly, Jace could be entertaining, whenever he deigned to play with her. But he had no patience for her ploys and preferred swinging swords to digging through sand.

On the other hand, she'd known nothing of Aemond save that he liked to read the same things she did. But surely, that was enough to forge some sort of bond?

Fear blossomed in her chest as she held his gaze. The purple swirled like gemstones.

“I… I did like it…” he proclaimed, voice thin—uncertain.

He'd shrunk into himself, his previous displeasure dispersing from his solemn face. Her fear dampened.

“You did?”

“Yes… gods, I can't think of a time I'd done something silly, without someone chiding me for it.”

The fear vanished completely and she let out a laugh.

“We could do it again. If…if you'd like.”

More silence filled the cavern. Once again, Aemond's brows creased, lips pressing into a white line. As if she'd just offered to take him to the bowels of the seven hells.

She sucked in a breath, ignoring the tightness squeezing her chest.

-Maybe he thinks I'm wicked too.

“I would actually.” he finally said. “After all, I don't see why only Jace and Aegon should be friends.”

All her reservations disappeared into a void the moment that word left his lips.

“We're friends?”

He blinked and gave her a sheepish shrug.

“I… I suppose so.”

She leapt without a thought, draping herself around his neck to squeeze with all her might. Again he tensed, but after a moment, returned her embrace, long hands encasing her like a cloak.

When they pulled apart she kissed him, her smile so wide, her cheeks hurt from the effort.

He didn't scoff or rebuke her. The same wonder-struck expression she'd seen on him that day in the antechamber appeared on his face and a faint blush pinched his ivory cheeks.

Then, he returned her smile.

That one single moment filled her with enough elation to last her weeks. Then, when her mother called her and Jace to supper one night to announce they were to have a sibling, her elation turned to joy.

She hugged and kissed them both, at last content with how her life was—at last hopeful for what the future had in store.

Things were, finally, perfect.

Chapter Text

The day was magnificent.

The sun had risen above Kings Lading in a bright splendor, bathing the entire city in a ray of golden light. The summer heat had made the garden blossoms open and flower with a sweet, pleasant smell that permeated through the entire Keep.

Alicent watched the greenery in awe, sheltering in the pavilion the servants had erected at the entrance of the royal gardens. Her royal husband was there as well, languishing on a sofa in his black silks. One of his attendants fanned him, while the other poured him wine, and helped him cut up his boar roast.

At his feet, Helaena sat crouched on the grass, fingers diligently working a bouquet of daisies into a wreath. Dressed in a soft pink gown with gold trimmings and lace embroidery, her sweet girl cut the image of the Maiden, frail and beautiful in the midday sun. Alicent had tried to bid her to come shelter with them in the shade, worried she might burn in the sweltering heat. But she had refused, seemingly unfazed by the rays beating down on her brows.

As splendid of a sight as she made, she was far from the most pleasing thing in the garden. Across the patch of flowering bluebells, Alicent spotted Aegon. Clad in a green doublet emblazoned with a golden dragon, he seemed deeply engrossed in a conversation with Simon Dondarrion

The two boys sat side by side beneath a hickory tree, surrounded by half a dozen pages and squires that had accompanied the young lordling from Blackhaven.

-He's changed.

After the incident at the pit, her son had been a terror. Her warnings about Rhaenyra and her heir had finally sunk in enough for him to cease consorting with Jacaerys. But, he'd grown terribly sullen, spending his days in his chambers, with a cup of wine in one hand and his head buried beneath the pillows.

Simon Dondarrion's arrival changed that. At first, Alicent didn’t think much of him. Short, and pudgy, the heir to Blackhaven had a wide barrel chest and an even wider jaw, more befitting of a man grown than a young boy of 11. However, he was quick to jest, and even quicker to laugh, something her son found amusing.

Months on, and the two boys became fast friends, much to the delight of both her and the boy’s uncle.

“Thick as thieves, those two,” Arthur Dondarrion was fond of saying whenever he and the Queen spoke of their friendship. He'd come to the capital as an escort to his nephew, bringing with him a few minor vassals and lords. “It’s the kind of bond that lasts a lifetime, your Grace.”

Alicent would nod, her lips upturned. “I should hope so. My son is in need of leal friends, my lord. I fear the Keep is in quite a short supply.”

The man's smoky blue eyes narrowed, and he lifted his head high. “Rest assured my Queen. Blackhaven is happy to provide.”
His words gave her immense satisfaction.

-Ser Criston was right.

Lord Dondarrion could be relied upon. The man had been a companion of her knight’s youth and steadfastly shared his values. Granted, his support didn’t mean much. The Dondarrions were minor lords, presiding over a small patch of land near the Dornish marches. But the boy’s father had a close friendship with the young Borros Baratheon, heir to Lord Boremund.

-The Baratheons have the kind of strength I need.

Her attempts to betroth Aegon to Tyshara Lannister may have failed, but Lord Borros had recently sired a daughter on his Lady wife. If Alicent managed to secure her hand for Aegon, she would finally have a great house behind her.

-And if Johanna decides to stop nursing her wounded pride, I can give her Daeron perhaps.

The thought filled her with immeasurable hope.

As if the picture was not beautiful enough, she spotted Ser Laenor frolicking about in the distance. Her stepson-by-law strode arm in arm with his favorite companion, ser Qarl Correy, a lopsided smirk on his face. Behind him, Jacaerys followed like a sullen dog, head bowed low.

-Cavorting in public.

All while his wife was abed, laboring to deliver ‘their’ third child. Alicent would have laughed if the sight wasn’t such an affront to the gods.

Her lord husband disliked it too, but for different reasons.
“Aegon, come ask your nephew to join you,” Viserys raised his voice, purple eyes narrowed. Aegon immediately stood to attention, silver hair billowing in the wind.

He gaped at them open-mouthed, before his eyes pivoted to his half-nephew. The glare Jacaerys was shooting his way could curdle milk.

“Come now, be kind,” Viserys repeated, this time more sternly. Simon Dondarrion stuttered, his cheeks going pale.

It was Ser Laenor who answered her husband.

“Thank you goodfather, but there is no need. Jacaerys is perfectly content with ser Qarl and I. Aren’t you?”

Alicent thought that if eyes could shoot crossbow bolts, Jacaerys would have riddled Ser Laenor with holes thrice over.

She thought Viserys would push the issue more. But it seems that a bit of effort was all he had to give. He collapsed back down onto his recliner bidding the servant to fan faster.

“Let it be, husband,” Alicent gingerly brushed his shoulder.

“I can’t, Alicent. It’s not right that they would exclude him so.”

“No, it’s not,” she conceded, trying to keep her voice light. “But, you cannot force the Dondarrion boy to consort with your grandson if he does not wish to.”

He heaved a labored sigh, pale skin flush pink. His pallor had improved of late. The last few months of summer heat had done much for his disposition. Maester Orwyle had even informed her that some of his wounds had finally started healing.
It left her glad.

With Aegon at last acting, as a proper Prince should, she finally had the chance to prove to her lord husband what a fine young boy he was.

“I had hoped he would take a liking to both,” he mused, “Part of the reason I brought him here is to bring them closer together.”

“Men make plans, and the gods laugh,” she quipped. “I fear fate has decided that the two branches of our house are to remain apart.”

Her words bade Viserys to frown. “That’s hardly true. Aemond has done much and more to bridge the gap.”

The mention of her second son made her gut twist in knots. She entwined her fingers together and released a slow breath.

“I fear that is not as good of a thing as you’ve imagined it to be.”
It had seemed that the gods had made her two children swap places. Whilst Aegon had been doing everything she'd ever wanted him to do of late, Aemond seemed determined to give her nothing but defiance.

She'd discovered his dalliances not long after they‘d started. One of her servants had brought her words that she'd seen him sneaking off into the courtyard at nightfall. The news shocked and concerned her in equal parts. Her boy would never dream of skulking about alone at night, doing mischief.

-Aegon must have put him up to it.

Flustered, she bid Talya to have them both followed to see what plot they'd cooked up. The tidings her lady-in-waiting returned with were even worse than she'd thought.

“Are you certain it’s her?” Alicent had asked, clutching the front of her sleeping shift in her hand.

Talya averted her gaze. “Yes, your Grace. I saw him and the Princess Lucera running off into the gardens.”

Anger built up behind Alicent's eyes, and she just about flung her evening sleeping draft across her chambers.

-Gods, not now.

She'd tried so hard to separate Aegon from Jacaerys. The thought she might end up losing her second son to Rhaenyra's get left her distraught.

-No, I will not have it.

She confronted her boy about it almost immediately, her fury barely contained. He tried to deny it at first, but Alicent knew all too well, that quirk he'd get in his lip whenever he lied.

Dismissing his attempt, she made him swear to end it right away. Though the girl was not as unruly as her brother, Lucera was still a menace. She was defiant and crude, often fond of breaking rules, and behaving like a wild animal.

Alicent refused to have that around her son.

However, she misjudged just how much of her influence she had already imparted to Aemond. Shortly after his vow, Talya caught him sneaking off with her again, this time to the library. Alicent put her foot down and bid him be confined to his chambers. Somehow, the fiendish boy managed to slip out under the nose of his guards to run off with her to play about the inner courtyard.

At her wit's ends, she finally attempted to impart the same warning she'd given Aegon about their dates.

“You think she'll spare you because she’s a girl and you’re her friend? Her brother will inherit the throne, and she will have to do whatever she can to keep him on it. Including lopping off your head.”

Aemond regarded her from his seat, solemn face scrunched up and sulking. He'd even taken to pouting like she did, pressing his lips and puffing up his cheeks the way a fish might.

“She wouldn’t do that. She's kind.”

Alicent blew a breath.

-Still a boy.

He might have been cleverer than most, but in his heart, her son was just a boy—weak to the charms of a pretty girl.

“Yes, she's kind, and nice. And she laughs at your jests and lets you read to her in the library. And when you close your eyes to go in for an embrace, she will cut your throat open like a pig. Because that is what she is.”

She expected fear to bloom in his eyes just as it had Aegon's. Instead, the foolish boy leapt out of his chair and paced around the room.

“No, she's not like that, you don’t even know her.”

“I know where she comes from. And no amount of kind words and promises of friendship will change her blood.” She paused, seizing a lock of his hair between her fingers—the silver was as fine as spider silk. “Nor yours. Remember that. As long as you have your father's blood you will always be a threat to her and her family.”

The way he fell silent led her to believe he'd taken her words to heart. To her dismay, the exact opposite occurred. Barely a day later, when she'd tried to confine him to his chambers once more, he'd gone to his father, asking him to let the two of them play about.

No amount of threats or pleading could keep them apart then.

Viserys was enraptured with the idea of the two of them consorting and did his all to make it happen. He'd even taken to inviting them to have evening meals in his solar, where they could discuss Old Valyria and play with his models.

His meddling left Alicent positively burning with rage. But the insults didn’t stop there. Her lord husband had roped in Helaena as well, having her girl share her interests in insects with Lucera. The Queen had half a mind to light the entire keep aflame.

-That little wretch has ruined everything.

Yet Viserys, as was custom, remained blind to the calumny.

“Not good?” he asked, puzzled. “How so? Aemond has blossomed since he and Lucera had started playing together. Maester Orwyle says he's excelling at his studies, and Ser Criston seems pleased with his progress in the yard. Even the dragonkeepers say he is much more lax about the dragon taming than before. It seems to me that Lucera has been nothing but a positive influence on him.”

As if summoned, her second son appeared at the entrance to the garden. To her undying displeasure, he was filthy again. His fine wool surcoat and doublet were coated in dust and flecks of mud, and his pale cheeks were darkened with what seemed like soot.

The fine silver hair she'd had their servants painstakingly comb and tie back was disheveled, sticking to the sides like some unruly animal. Worse still, he seemed unbothered by his ghastly appearance.

He trotted with a slight spring in his step, a bemused smile on his face. Moments later, the source of this travesty appeared.
Rhaenyra’s wild beast of a girl rushed behind him, brown skirts billowing in the wind. She was filthy too, her hair and clothes a shambled mess that eclipsed Aemond's own.

“Yes,” Alicent needled her fingers, bile rising in her throat. “A marvelous influence.”

As if the image was not tragic enough, the girl screamed and leapt onto her son's back.

“I’m the Conqueror!” she belted, laughing and screeching like a manic fox.

To her horror, Aemond answered her call, and hooked his hands under her knees.

“And I’m the Black Dread. To Dorne, to Dorne. We must burn the sands till they’re glass!”

The two of them stumbled and giggled over to the pavilion like a pair of drunken fools. Unable to bear the noise, Alicent rushed over to them.

“You're late. Again,” she hissed, eyes pinning her son.

To her relief, Aemond shook off the girl, the foolish grin vanishing from his face.

“Forgive me, mother, we were just at the beach…”

“You were meant to return at midday, sharp,” she chided her voice low and even. Lucera seemed completely oblivious to it.

“Your father had hoped to have a meal with you. But now you’ve missed it.”

“Come now Alicent, it's alright,” her oaf of a husband chose that precise moment to interfere. “The children were just playing.”

“Yes, we brought gifts!” the girl shrieked, reaching for the pouch hung about her neck.

Side-stepping the Queen, she barreled toward her grandfather.

“Oh, what have you got there? Is it another one of your pirate treasures?” Viserys peeled his lips into a smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

The girl fished out something from her pouch and thrust it at him.

“We found it in the sand. Aemond thought it looked like Balerion's skull.”

Her husband turned the seashell over in his fingers. “How marvelous! And indeed, that does look like a dragon skull, does it not.”

With a sickly sweet smile, he extended his hand to caress her cheek.

“Thank you, sweet girl. Helaena. Come see what your aunt brought.”

The redness Alicent saw turned molten.

“Oh, we have a gift for you too!” Lucera reached into the satchel hung about her waist.

The thing came out in a flash, long, spindly body wiggling. The Queen screamed, and rushed forward, eager to slap it from her hand.

Tayla had to pull her away before she could reach over. The worm had lashed out, needle-like pincers snapping.

“Gods be good, what is that? Throw it away!” Alicent demanded.

Again, the girl ignored her. “Oh careful, it bites.”

“Throw it away, throw it away this instant!”

At her nod, Ser Criston stepped forward, first squeezed around his knife hilt.

A shadow in pink blocked his path. Helaena materialized before her half-aunt, purple eyes wide with wonder. With one quick flick of her wrist, she seized the reddish worm by the head, and brought it up to her face to inspect it.

“Sandworm,” she announced, sparse brows knitted.

“Yes, we found it burrowing by the shore,” Her son interjected. “Thought you might like it.”

Helaena blinked. “I haven’t had sandworms before.”

“I know. It’s why I told Aemond to take it,” the girl said, rising to her feet. “Thought it would chew right through his hand, but he handled it well-enough.”

“There's a compliment, in there somewhere,” Aemond replied, that foolish grin returning. The girl mirrored it, and the two giggled like mad.

Alicent thought she might faint.

-Father grant me strength to weather this storm.

“Thank you. I shall put it in the case.” Helaena said, signaling her attendants to come take the monster away.

“Wonderful. The picture of a happy family.” Viserys chimed in, stained teeth on display. Alicent thought that if he’d had both hands, he would have clapped.

“Shall we play Races?” Lucera suggested, her brown eyes widening like ripe figs.

“What’s that?” Heleana asked.

“Oh, it’s much fun. We're all supposed to pelt each other with cotton balls till one falls down. There’s no touching, so it should suit you,” she explained.

A scream threatened to burst from Alicent's lips when her daughter smiled and nodded.

“I should like to have a go at that.”

“No.” Alicent rushed over, wedging herself between her daughter and Rhaenyra's beast.

To her dismay, she was clutching Aemond’s hand, doe eyes oblivious. She hoped her son would at least have the sense to shake off her grip. Naturally, the fool squeezed it tighter, moving to gently nudge her behind him.

“The hour is too late for games.”

“Alicent, come now…” her husband attempted, but she lashed him with a look.

“Your son needs to have a bath and prepare for his evening lessons. Besides, I think the Princess should be with her own father at this time.”

They all dared to glance to their right, where Ser Laenor was still cavorting with his knightly companion. The two of them seemed engrossed in some conversation, completely oblivious to the young Princess' presence. To make things even more delicious her brother was nearby, exchanging quiet words with Harwin Strong.

“Yes the pit!” the beast shrieked, “I’m to go to the Dragonpit with Jace to find a new egg for the baby.”

“Ah well, you shouldn’t dally then,” the Queen commented, waving a dismissive hand.

“We'll play some other time,” Helaena said gingerly tugging at her dress cuffs.

“Yes, off you go.” Alicent proclaimed.

The girl lingered, whispering something to her son. The words were in High Valyrian, so the Queen could not make them out—her son could though, and he giggled and gave her an enthused nod.

Rhaenyra's wild child skipped off to join her father's party, a spring in her step. Her son only deigned to look away when Alicent cleared her throat.

“Mother…”

“Go to your chambers, and take a bath. You stink of river water.”
She was pleased to see the stupid smirk melt from his lips, and he shrunk into himself. With a quick signal, she bid Ser Criston approach and whisk him away, silently asking her knight to stand watch outside his door so he wouldn’t wander.

His departure coincided with the arrival of Mawster Orwyle. The kindly healer trotted into the gardens, his chain clanking softly.

“Your Grace,” He bowed to Viserys. “I have news from the midwives. The Princess has delivered a son.”

Hushed whispers followed his declaration, as all their attendants shared poignant looks. Viserys was too elated to pay it mind.

“Praise Mother!” he exclaimed, clutching the ring on his right pinky—the gold falcon band his late wife had gifted him. “Healthy?”

The Maester nodded. “Yes, both mother and child are doing well.”

With a loud heave, he flung the blanket covering his legs and moved to stand.

“Yes, I must go see them.”

“No, you must rest husband.” Alicent rushed over to steady him. “You've been baking in the sun long enough.”

“I must go to her…” he protested, purple eyes alight. Seeing the fire rise in him left her aching for the sweet pain of her savaged fingers.

“No, she has just given birth. She and the babe must remain abed. Eddard, take the King to his chambers.”

The serving man gave her a nod and swiftly seized her husband by the forearm. He and two score attendants carted Viserys through the archway, Helaena and Lord Commander Westerling trailing behind.

Once they were out of sight Alicent motioned for one of her maidservants to come forth.

“Bessy, send word to the Princess' midwives. I would have the child brought to me. Immediately.”

The girl’s slanted blue eyes widened and she stumbled over her words. “My Queen… the Princess will never agree to be parted from her son.”

She balled her fists, that word slashing at her skin like a blade.

-A son.

Another heir, another contender. Another threat to her boy.

Sucking in a calming breath, Alicent cast a look back toward the hickory. With Jacaerys having disappeared with his father and sister, a lively smile was once again grazing Aegon's lips.

He and Simon were passing a decorative knife the boy’s uncle had gifted the Prince upon their arrival to the capital. The invisible hands choking her neck squeezed harder.

-I must protect him.

She would not allow another one of Rhaenyra's brood to destroy her children.

-The truth must come to light.

Alicent pinned the serving girl's gaze. Even if she had to force it out herself.

“I know,” she finally announced, “I’m counting on it.”

Chapter Text

“How about that one?” Jace pointed his finger into the brazier. A cloud of smoke and steam rose above the coals, making the egg sizzle. The scales coating it were a pale shade of swamp green, dotted with flecks of molten silver.

His sister grumbled, eyeing the cradles with interest.

“Green? I’ve not thought you fond of that color.”

Jace gritted his jaw. “No, but you seem to be of late.”

To his fury, the jab slid off his sister like it was a drop of water. The two of them were milling around in the confines of the Dragonpit's hatchery, the stench of smoke and brimstone swirling around them like clouds. The cramped antechamber was lined with rows of lit braziers where the Keepers kept the dragon eggs. Some of them were old, relics dating back to before the Conquest. Their color had grown pale and washed out, as the scales hardened to stone. But the heat of the embers still licked the shells eagerly, making them shimmer like diamonds.

Jace thought they would have been better off discarding them. Everyone knew that once an egg hardened, it was dead—hatching it was a fool’s errand. But the Dragonkeepers seemed to think there was still life in them, as they were just as attentive to them as they were to the fresh ones.

“How about this one?” his sister pointed at a coal-black egg rippling with veins of ruby.

Jace blew a breath. The stench of brimstone was making his head swim.

“Red and black.”

Luce smiled, hands gently cupping the egg. She tolerated the heat for quite a while before the pain bid her release the shell.

“Appropriate. For a new son of House Targaryen.”

Jace furrowed his brows.

-It’s supposed to be House Velaryon.

However, before he could correct her, the Dragonkeepers appeared to shoo them away, so they could do cleaning.
In the end, they did settle on the red and black egg. With Ser Harwin's help, they chartered the brazier up to their mother's apartments to finally greet their new brother.

To their surprise, their mother was not there.

“The Princess is with the Queen.” One of the attendants informed them.
Jace thought that sounded wrong. He may not have known the exact mechanics of childbirth, but he wagered squeezing a babe through her belly button must have left his mother tired. She should have been resting, not attending the Queen.

His suspicions were confirmed when their mother returned sometime later. She shambled into the apartment, silver hair drenched, and hanging in rivulets down to her waist. Her gown was haphazardly laced at the back, and she labored to lower herself onto the settee without wincing. Ser Harwin immediately offered her assistance, letting her lean against his extended forearm.

Behind her, their father cradled a bundle in his arms, a strained smile on his face. Jace couldn’t help but notice how Ser Harwin seemed more elated about the babe than him.

“Father, may I please hold… Joffrey?” His sister accosted him, arms raised toward the bundle.

Ser Laenor danced out of her grasp.

“Yes, it's Joffrey. And, no, you cannot. He's too young.”

“Please…” she whined, but their mother cut her off.

“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced.”

Jace's head immediately snapped up to the knight. He stood expectantly, dark eyes affixed to the bundle.

Without a word, his father passed it onto him, a knowing smirk on his lips. The gentle way his mailed arms wrapped around the squirming babe bade something in Jace's gut to squeeze.

“Alright loves, off with you. Your mother must rest.”

His sister grumbled in protest when their father seized her by the shoulder. Either she was oblivious to the glance passing between Ser Harwin and mother, or she chose to ignore them.

“You shall visit your brother later.” With a wave of his hand, Laenor bid his son to exit.

To his confusion, Ser Harwin remained, cooing and bouncing the babe while his mother looked on, purple eyes gleaming.
Jace stewed on this strange occurrence afterward. Ser Harwin had always been attentive to them, to be sure, but the interest he displayed in those chambers was excessive.

-It's just a baby.

He didn’t see the need for him to fawn over it so much.

-I must ask him about it later.

The knight had sworn never to keep secrets from him, and the little glances he and his mother were exchanging certainly seemed like ones.

As expected, their father excused himself from their company the moment they reached the base of the serpentine steps that led to their apartments. With a quick muss of Jace's hair, Ser Laenor handed them over to Steffon Darklyn and rushed forth to find Ser Qarl to share in the good news.

Not a moment later, his sister moved to follow suit.

“You're not coming?” he asked, voice going a pitch higher. He hated how girlish he sounded— girlish and desperate. “I was hoping we could read together. Or play cyvasse. Like we used to.”

Luce’s plump lips parted. “Oh, I’d like that. But…” she paused, those same lips shutting close. “I'd promised Aemond we would practice our Valyrian together in the library.”

The words were like a slap. Jace gritted his teeth, so hard he could hear the enamel cry in agony.

His sister immediately stepped forward to seize his hand.

“But we could do it tomorrow. After supper. I’ll ask Maester Orwyle if he…”

“Don’t bother,” Jace marched past her, intent on dashing upstairs to scream into his pillows.

Her whine made him halt.

“Jace, wait, I…”

“He doesn’t even like you, you know!.” the growl escaped his lips before he could stop it. Suddenly, he was in her face, rage making his body shiver. “The only reason he tolerates you is because you stroke his self—assured ego! Oh, and the kissing.”

The shy, uncertain frown on her face morphed into a deadpanned stare.

“What?”

“Don’t play coy. I’ve seen you kiss him when you thought no one was looking.”

He expected her to lower her eyes, and redden in shame. Much to his surprise, she only kept glaring.

“So?” she scoffed. “I kiss you all the time.”

Jace balked. “That’s different, I’m your brother!”

“And he's my uncle.”

“He doesn’t think of you as family,” he countered. It incensed him that she would dare equate their bond with whatever little comradery they had. “He looks down on you. They all do. Him, Aegon, Simon Dondarrion, and all the stupid Dornish boys he brought with him from the swamps. They’re all envious because we're the children of the heir, and they’re not.”

Silence descended on them. Gone was that aloof deadpan from his sister’s eyes. In its wake, darkness blossomed, bidding her to press her lips into a serious scowl.

“Trust me, brother. That is not why they look down on us.”

Jace paused, confused by the sudden turn. However, before he could ask her to elaborate, she barreled past the subject.

“In any case, Aemond isn’t like that. He's never teased me or laughed at anything I did. Whatever vile thing Aegon has, has not been passed onto him.”

Scoffing, he turned away. “That's what you think. I’ve seen the way he comes at me with a sword in the yard. Rest assured sister, he’s just as bad as the rest of them. He's timid now only because he doesn’t have a dragon. But the moment he gets one, he'll turn rotten. You’ll see.”

Again, Luce stubbornly turned her nose up at him, arms crossed on her chest.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, the only reason you’re saying this is because you’re jealous that I have a friend and you don’t!”

His stomach dropped, the deserted corridor blurring. Lucera's face remained hardened, eyes mercilessly staring daggers at him.

“You have no right to blame me, you know,” she continued. “It's not my fault Aegon, or that Dondarrion boy can't stomach you. It’s your own doing. If you had only stopped being such a vile dog, maybe they would have let you play with them. Now you get to perish alone instead.”

He couldn’t take it. Every inch of him demanded he shove her—answer her insult with equal ferocity. His strength failed him.
All he could muster was a silent glare, as he fought tooth and nail to keep the tears back.

Luce seemed unrepentant of her cruelty. She returned his stare with a vengeance, plump lips pressed into a firm, white line.
Then, only the barest hint of softness broke through her shield.

“Jace…” she breathed.

“Fine, go then. Run off to the green snake!” he screamed. “I’m glad mother had a boy. When he grows up, he and I will be friends, and I will never have to talk to you again!”

This time when she called his name, he didn’t linger.

He ran past Ser Steffon back the way they came, tears streaking his cheeks. As usual, the knight made a valiant dash to catch up to him, but Jace was quicker. He sought the safety of the godswood yet again, but the garden stood empty.

Ser Harwin was likely still attending his mother, and it was uncertain whether he would appear to have words with him. Jace whacked at the weirwood with a stick, till his arms hurt and the burning in his throat gave way to exhaustion.

When the rage had dried up, and he had no more tears to shed, he dropped the sticks and made to retreat into the castle. He spent what felt like hours wandering the corridors when he heard it—the faint laughter of jesting men.

“Little Lord Strong,” Jace's ears perked up, and he ground to a halt. He was just outside the Great Hall, near the hallways the servants used to carry food to and from the castle.

Peering behind the corner, he glimpsed three figures seated at the steps that led up to the throne room.

“How can they expect anyone to believe he is Ser Laenor's son? Even a blind man can see that is no true Velaryon.” The hoarse baritone struck a familiar chord in Jace—when he squinted, he realized why. Simon Dondarrion lay sprawled on the steps, long meaty legs extended.

“It seems the King expects us all to pluck out our eyes.” His companion said. This one Jace didn’t recognize, but he was familiar with the field of nightingales on a bright yellow backdrop embroidered on the front of his doublet—he was a Marcher lord, a Caron of Nightsong. “They should just admit the truth, and change his name to Jacaerys Strong.”

The Dondarrion boy snickered at his companion—his shrill laugh reminded Jace so much of Edric Florent. If he closed his eyes, he could almost fool himself into thinking that the floppy-eared wretch was here once more.

“Don't you mean Jacaerys Waters? He's a bastard born out of wedlock. Even if Ser Harwin acknowledges him as his, he would still not be legitimate.”

His fingers grew numb.

-What is he saying?

They'd both gone mad obviously.

But the final blow came when a third voice joined the fray.

“Careful, Sy. What you’re saying is treason. If the King heard you, he would have your head,” Aegon warned, voice low and stern. Jace spotted his head of silver hair, peaking just above Simon’s burly frame.

For some reason, Jace expected him to come to his defense.
Instead, his uncle laughed, the same sneer Simon had—the same vile snicker Edric had.

“Fortunately for you, I’m not my father. And you’re right. He should have had them banished years ago. But he seems intent on defending my half-sister to the death. Three bastards she’s popped out, and he still reveres her as if she's the Mother herself.”

More mocking jeers. Jace felt lightheaded.

“Gods, I dare not imagine what will happen when she ascends the throne, and her bastard succeeds her. They'll turn the Red Keep into a brothel,” the Carron spat, his weasel face twisted into a smirk.

Aegon craned his head at him. There was no hint of remorse on his face—no hint of anger or outrage. He agreed with everything they said. He thought it funny.

“I think I should like to see that,” he chortled, earning chuckles from his friends.

Jace’s fist closed around the front of his doublet in a fury. Three buttons snapped, scattering to the floor.

Before any of the companions could react to the noise, he barreled back through the servants' passage back toward the godswood. He didn’t even manage to get halfway there before the breath in his lungs vanished.

Jace collapsed beside a water fountain near the balcony that led down to the inner gardens. Every inch of his body burned—but his mad dash had nothing to do with the pain.

-They're all terrible. Terrible and vile and they should all die!

How dare they say such awful things of him? He was no bastard. His mother and father were wedded before the eyes of the Seven, their union anointed by the Grand Septon himself.
Naturally, they weren’t always affectionate with one another. But neither was the Queen with her grandsire. Marriages were about duty, not love, no matter what the songs said.

Besides, none of that meant he wasn’t Laenor’s son.

“That is not why they look down on us.”

Luce's words rang in his mind like an echo. The serious frown on her face, the darkness in her eyes. The way she would sometimes stare daggers at Ser Harwin while he and Jace sparred in the confines of his mother’s private balcony. The listful glances the knight had exchanged with his mother as he bounced Jace's newborn brother.

Bile rose in his throat.

Gingerly, he reached over to the fountain, scooping a handful of cold water to splash on his face.

Once the pool stilled, his reflection greeted him. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a small, pug nose.

His father's nose wasn’t like that. It was wide and aquiline. Ser Laenor's eyes were darker too, the color of polished teak, while his skin was only a shade lighter than the classic Velaryon umber.

-Little Lord Strong.

Jace bent over to the side and retched.

Chapter Text

He arrived at the training yard well ahead of time.

Like all his duties, he preferred to get an early start, before Aegon and his gaggle of Marcher lickspittles showed up to hog the grounds.

-Gods they’re idiots.

Granted, Simon Dondarrion wasn’t nearly as insufferable as the Florent weasel had been. But he too was a brutish idiot eager to throw jests and insults if it meant eliciting a laugh from his peers.

He'd tried sidling up the Aemond when he’d arrived to the capital. But after he'd knocked him in the yard during practice, the heir to Blackhaven left him alone after. He certainly had no use for Aegon's leaving

He had all the companionship he needed.

She appeared in the yard after a few moments, pale blue skirts billowing in the wind. Once again, her maids had tried to tie her curls into a neat braid, but the unruly locks refused to stay pinned. They fell down past her waist, the wind playfully tossing them into her eyes.

Aemond just about lost his grip and dropped his practice sword.

The moment her brown eyes locked with his she waved, and he forgot all about the straw man he was whacking.

“Rytsas, qȳbro,” she smiled, the corners of her lips curling. They had a funny shape to them—full and plump, with a prominent indent just under her nose. It made Aemond think of the shape of a lyre.

Halting in front of her, he released a labored sigh.

“Still calling me that, are you?”

Cera shrugged, trying to push her hair out of her eyes. When she failed, Aemond lent her a hand, trying not to shiver when his fingers grazed her left cheek.

Despite always being tangled, her hair was softer than silk—and it felt heavenly on his skin.

“What? You are my uncle. What else am I to call you?”

“I don’t know. It just seems strange. I’m not much older than you. Uncles are usually old men.”

She blew a breath. “Well Em, you do act like a serious graybeard sometimes, so I’d say it’s appropriate.”

The urge to roll his eyes was too great, but before he could answer her quip, she leaned in for a kiss.

All thoughts fled his head as his belly lit up with roaring heat. 

“Fine, don't be upset. I shan’t call you that again.”

He knew he was supposed to say something, but words eluded him—all he could think of was bending down to kiss her again. Blessedly, Cera took the lead and began rifling through her leather satchel.

“Look what I found!” she announced, extending her hand to him.

Aemond composed himself and squinted.

“Is that… a compass?”

Gently seizing the contraption from her hands, he turned the thing in his hand. The base was metal, twisting into two coils to form a round shape. In its center was a piece of murky glass, etched with lines that marked north, south, east, and west.

“Yes. I managed to find it in grandsire's solar. It was a gift from some ambassadors from Old Volantis. Apparently, it’s what Valyrian sailors used to navigate in the days of the Freehold.”

Aemond traced the metal, his eyes widening when he recognized the trademark smoky ripple—it was Valyrian steel.

“It's missing the handles though,” he said, returning the thing to her.

“I know. Grandsire said it was given to him like that. The handles were lost long ago.”

“What do you mean to do with it? A compass isn’t of much use if it can’t give any direction.”

Again, that magnificent smile bloomed on her lips, radiating passion and mischief.

“Well, I thought I could make it give direction.”

Aemond crossed his hands on his chest. “I doubt you’ll find a man alive who could repair Valyrian artifacts.”

“Of course not. But if I can somehow add handles to it, mayhaps it can start pointing again.”

He regarded the rippling steel with apprehension.

“Doubtful. It takes more than just handles to make a compass work. Besides, how are you going to find a blacksmith that can fashion Valyrian steel for you?”

Her cheeks puffed. “Well, I supposed I didn’t think that through.”

The urge to laugh overcame him, but he couldn’t bear to do that to her. She was very fond of doing that, he'd noticed—come up with grand schemes that sounded magnificent when said, but were utterly unfeasible in practice.

“You could just forge regular handles. Steel ones.” He offered.

The elated grin returned to her face.

“Right, but where would I find a compass handle maker?”

“In the castle smithy? Micah is quite good at metalwork. I’m certain he'll be able to fashion some handles.”

She gasped, eyes going wide.

“Yes, of course, that’s brilliant! I can ask him!” a shy blush kissed her pudgy cheeks. “I’d sort of forgotten we even have a castle smith.”

This time, Aemond could not resist chortling. “Good thing I’m here to remind you.”

She leapt at him, hands going about his neck. He welcomed the embrace eagerly, squeezing her back till the breath in his lungs just about ran out.

“I’ll go and take this to him. After we get the handles for it, maybe we can ask Maester Orwyle about how we can get it working…”

A shrill scream cut her off. A parade of boys in greens and blacks bounded down the steps into the training yard. Ser Criston and the tall, burly Dondarrion uncle to Simon followed suit, conversing with him in hushed tones.

Aegon and Simon jostled each other, as a third boy, the weasel-faced Alliser Carron laughed like a hog. Blessedly, their fourth companion, ser Arthur's page boy, was absent.

“And to think the day started off so well…”

He felt warm fingers entwine with his, and he squeezed Cera's hand tighter. Last to descend the steps was Jacaerys.

Her twin seemed utterly dejected—he trotted over to the yard, bundled in his red doublet and practice armor. Ser Harwin Strong was trailing after him, heavy-set jaw clenched.

For once neither acknowledged Aegon's pack of dogs, instead going over directly to the rack to pick out a practice sword. When Jace spied them from across the yard, the scowl twisting his lips was like a blow to the gut.

“What’s wrong?” Aemond asked, feeling the grip on his fingers tighten. “What’s he done this time?”

Lucera held her brother’s gaze for just a heartbeat, before looking away.

“Nothing,” she slipped her hand from his grasp. “It's stupid.”

“I swear if that little wretch did anything…”

“Princess!”

Both of them jumped at the deep baritone. Ser Harwin was making his way toward them, a purposeful stride in his step. The moment Aemond glimpsed the venomous squint Jace was casting his way, he knew he’d sent him.

“What are you doing out in the yard? You should be doing needlework with the Septa.”

Cera withdrew, shoulders bunching.

“I just came to go to the smithy…”

“Come, I shall escort you back to the apartments,” he motioned for her with his mailed hand.

“I… I can go myself…”

“Princess…”

“She said she can go herself.”

The knight balked, bushy brows furrowing at him. Aemond immediately moved to stand in front of her, shoulders flared and back straight.

“My Prince would do well to return to his lessons, and leave the business of grown-ups to men.”

Blood rushed to his cheeks. “Don’t presume to tell me what to do, Strong.”

Aemond readied himself for the next retort, but a booming voice interrupted.

“My Prince!” Ser Criston called from across the yard. The swarthy knight stood with his hands behind his back his white training mail glittering in the sun. “We're about to begin. Assume your position.”

He had half a mind to argue, but Cera nudged him from behind.

“Go,” she whispered, switching to Valyrian. To his pleasure, Ser Harwin narrowed his eyes at them. “I'll finish the business at the forge. We'll talk about this later.”

His hand blindly grasped for hers, giving it one last squeeze before rushing past the Captain of the City Watch.

As was custom, he ignored Aegon's jabs and picked up his practice sword where he'd discarded it. Ser Criston quickly lined them up so each of them could square off against a straw man. Aemond cut and slashed at the cloth, sweat dripping down his brow, as the Kingsguard circled him.

“Arm higher. Swing with your shoulder,” he advised hand correcting his elbow angle. When he moved to hit again, the blow opened up the straw man’s belly. He would have been pleased with himself if the swing hadn’t made him lose his footing.

“Soften your knees. That will help you keep your balance.”

Blinking, he nodded and swung again. The next try was nothing short of perfect. Ser Criston nodded his head in approval and moved to correct Simon's senseless whacking.

Aemond threw a few more blows, careful to mind both his swing and footwork. At some point, when he dared to peek at the top of the steps, he glimpsed a figure in black.

His father was here, pointing and conversing with his Hand, Lyonel Strong.

He quickly gathered his composure and moved to swing again.

Aegon’s wild grunting spoiled his focus. His brother danced around the strawman, dealing blow after blow with grace and fury. After striking at the thing's neck, its head lolled over to the sides spilling straw and sawdust to the ground.

His brother exchanged a satisfied smirk with Simon.

“Good form my Prince,” Arthur Dondarrion nodded at him. “Soon, no man will dare stand against you.”

“No man can stand against me now,” his brother declared, his attention wandering to a pair of serving girls.

His eyes had been lingering on the maids quite a lot of late. Their mother had seemed immensely concerned by that development.

Ser Criston did not tolerate his meandering attention either.

“Aegon, eyes on your opponent.” The knight warned.

His brother tossed back his hair. “Why? I’ve already won my bout with Ser Criston. My opponent sues for mercy.”

“Well then, you’ll get a new opponent my Lord of the Straw.”

Fastening his gloves he seized a practice sword of his own.

“Let’s see if you can touch me. You and your brother.”

Aemond blinked, uncertainty in his belly. Sparring against Ser Criston had always been a nightmare. The man was too quick, too agile to be touched. If he couldn’t trounce him on his own, he knew he could not do it with Aegon getting in the way.
His brother did not share his reasoning.

Taking a stance, he rushed to swing, but the knight parried the blow easily. Aemond tried to take advantage of the opening in his left to strike, but the knight just dodged.

He and his brother danced around the Kingsguard like lost ducklings, each strike a futile miss. At one point, Aegon got so flustered, he swung his sword blindly. The blade just narrowly missed Aemond's head, and he stumbled back, his heart in his throat. As expected, his attack was in vain. After disarming him, Ser Criston parried Aegon's blow and tripped him.

His brother crashed, face first into the dirt, heaving a cough when his hair fell into his face.

“Rule number one. You never get too cocksure. Because there will always be a better, more skilled opponent that could make you eat your words.”

Aegon huffed, twisting his face into a grimace.

“Now, come, let’s have you spar with Alliser and Simon."

The two idiots marched forward gleefully, practice swords at the ready. Behind them, Jacaerys stared wide-eyed and dejected.

Ser Harwin bent down to say something to him, his face a mask of quiet fury.

“Is there an issue Ser?” the Kingsguard stepped forward.

Both Jace and Harwin shot him glares.

“No Ser. Just that it seems like the lesson is a bit unequal is all.” He paused, adjusting his gauntlet. “The Prince Jacaerys could also use a bit of your attention.”

Ser Criston's face remained a picture of poised calm. Shooting a quick glance at Arthur Dondarrion, he nodded.

“Very well then. Jacaerys. Come here,” in two quick strides he crossed the distance between them and seized Jace by his breastplate.

“You spar with Aegon.” He shoved Luce's brother forward, a torrent of snickers sounding behind them. Aemond himself could not resist chuckling. “Eldest son against eldest son.”

“That’s hardly a fair match,” Ser Harwin circled the training ground, jaw working his teeth.

“I know you’ve never seen true battle Ser, but when real steel is drawn, nobody should expect fairness.”

The commander lashed Cole with a look, but made no further attempts to counter. Smirking the knight drew a breath.

“Engage.”

No sooner had the command left his lips that Aegon attacked. He swung wildly at Jace, pressing him forward until the boy lost his footing and fell into the dirt.

His victory was met with approving nods from the Marchers. Aemond too allowed a small smile to graze his lips.

But Jace was far from beaten. Rising in a fury, he rushed at Aegon like a brazen bull. His swing caught Aegon in the arm, and he pushed the straw man at him, to attempt to halt his advance.

“Foul play!” Ser Harwin immediately interjected, rushing to take Jace aside.

“I’ll deal with him,” Ser Criston did the same, giving his brother hushed instructions on how to proceed.

When he was done, Aegon's face was twisted in fury, and he screamed for Jace. His next attack was vicious and didn’t allow his opponent a moment of respite.

“Close with him,” Criston commanded, jaw clenched. The fire in his eyes made Aemond uneasy.

Aegon took instruction, and swatted Jace’s sword with force, the blow hard enough to make him stumble.

“Drive him backward. Use your feet!” he was screaming now, his rage stroking his brother's.

With one final kick to the chest, Aegon sent Jace crashing down to the ground. His half-nephew squirmed, cheeks flush with exhaustion. The fear in his brown eyes made something stir in Aemond. He half wished Aegon would whack his sword against his head.

“Don’t let him get up,” Ser Criston commanded.

Aegon followed his instruction thoughtlessly, screaming as he slammed his weapon against Jace's

“Stay on the attack!” Criston was hissing now, his jaw muscles so tense, they looked like they might snap.

Aegon raised his sword again, the angle perfect for landing a blow right in the center of Jace's skull.

The swing never came to be.

“Enough!” A shadow seized him from behind.

Ser Harwin wrestled the tourney sword from his brother's hands, and pushed him to the ground with ease. That did not make him happy.

“You dare put your hands on me!” he screeched lunging for the knife sheathed at Ser Harwin's waist.

“Aegon!” from atop the balcony, their father's stern voice sounded. When Aemond glanced up, his face was twisted into a most sour frown. Beside him, Lord Lyonel looked as if he might faint. “Behave.”

“You forget yourself Strong,” Cole chided. “That is the Prince.”

The knight brushed off his remark.

“Is this what you teach Cole?” he bent down, collecting the practice swords in a flurry. “Cruelty? To the weaker opponent?”

Rushing past him, he kicked up some loose straw and moved to mount the blades back onto the rack. The way Ser Criston's gaze pivoted from Lord Arthur to the King, left Aemond uneasy.

“Your interest in the young princeling's training is quite unusual Commander,” the Kingsguard began. “Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a brother…. a cousin.” He paused, sucking in a breath. “Or a son.”

For a moment time stood still. All sound had vanished from the yard, and every pair of eyes were affixed on the Commander of the City Watch. Aemond immediately glanced at Jace, to find him whiter than a ghost.

His terror tasted sweeter than honey. He had half a mind to throw a quip at him, but lost his chance.

Ser Harwin lunged with a fierce war cry, mailed fist striking Ser Criston clean in the jaw. The force of the blow bid the knight to stumble, but the Commander gave him no respite. He struck and struck until Cole was flat on his back, and the man was atop him, fists dashing his face to a red pulp.

Ser Criston made no move to deflect his blows.

“Say it again!” Strong screamed as figures in white rushed to pull him off his opponent.

It took four Kingsguard and two men at arms to drag the shrieking knight to his feet.

“Say it again!” he repeated, spit flying from his mouth.

Sprawled on the ground, beaten and bloody, Ser Criston laughed.

“Thought as much,” he fired, his quip bidding Lord Arthur to smirk.

The Marcher boys followed suit, along with Aegon. Aemond too cast a pitiful glance at Jacaerys, relishing the blank look on his face.

His pallor had deepened to a sickly shade of green, and he looked as if he was about to piss himself.

-Who's laughing now?

Aemond lifted his nose up, satisfaction warming his belly like a heartfire.

The pleasure was short-lived.

A figure appeared in his line of sights dressed in spring blues.

He hadn’t noticed Cera had returned to the yard, but suddenly she was there, small hands clutching her Valyrian compass.

The look on her face mirrored Jace's—wide-eyed, blank and sickly. Full of terror. Terror most of all.

The warmth in his belly vanished in a gust of ice.

He rushed over to her side, hand immediately moving to take hers.

She scarcely noticed his fingers, flesh quivering under his touch. Her eyes were frantically darting about the yard, sucking in quick, shallow breaths.

When Aemond chanced to look around as well, the coldness in his stomach slashed at his insides.

Everyone was looking. His brother, the Marchers, the serving men, and castle guards. Even Micah had left his forge to come to observe the spectacle— his half-sister’s...

Wordlessly, Aemond moved to stand in front of her. Tall as he was, he was able to shield her body from the mob. There was no protecting her from their judgment, however.

-You can't change her blood.

He knew mother had meant he could not alter the wickedness tainting her from within—the supposed deceitful and twisted nature flowing in her veins. But it was more than that. It was also about how the taint affected her from without.

-She will never be safe.

As long as she bore her scarlet mark, the world would always look down on her—no matter how many titles she had, or how many dragons she tamed.

-That can't happen.

She was too kind, too good to deserve such cruelty. Never once had she treated him poorly, or said anything ill about his family or his mother—though they'd wished her plenty of misfortune on their end.

She was wild, clever, and daring. A true Targaryen princess. So what if her father wasn’t the one whose name she bore?

-It’s just stupid rules.

And Aemond Targaryen was not about to let them ruin the one good thing he had in his life.

Chapter Text

She'd known.

She'd realized it the day her grandmother had flown to court to visit. Rhaenys Targaryen cut the picture of her namesake. Clad in scaled armor and with her silver hair tied into braids, she exuded a kind of poise, and elegance that left Luce breathless.

But the beauty was only skin deep. For all her polite conversation with her father, there was no kindness in her eyes. She'd brought gifts with her to court, and when Luce asked about them, she merely arched a brow at her.

“They are for kin, child.”

-But… I am kin.

Her words haunted her sleep that night. She could not understand why Rhaenys was so cold to her. Her grandsire the Sea Snake was leagues kinder, even if his affection could be stilted sometimes.

She put the pieces together the next day. A few Velaryon cousins had escorted her grandmother on her visit. One of them, Delaena, was of a similar age to her.

“Look at her!” her father had cooed, bending down to muss the young girl's hair. “She is the spitting image of Laena at that age.”

Luce peered at him from behind a drinking fountain, careful not to be seen. She knew of Aunt Laena. Her father had spoken of his remarkable sister often. A fierce dragon rider and a great beauty, she was wed to her great uncle, the famed Daemon Targaryen, and currently residing across the Narrow Sea.

“Yes, and of you,” her grandmother replied. “You and Laena could pass for twins when you were younger.”

Something about that struck a chord in Luce, and she squinted at the Velaryon girl. Her hair was fine silver, and it fell down her back into tight, well-defined ringlets. Her lips were full and plump, and her nose Nubian, curving at a perfect angle. Though her eyes were just as dark as Luce's, her skin was darker–a smooth tawny color that mirrored her father's complexion.

Luce paused, running her fingers through her hair. Her locks curled to be sure, but the strand was more of a loose wave, as dark as saddle leather—nothing like her father's silver coils.
“It comes from the blood for some.”

She dashed back to her chambers then, Septs Melara's words ringing in her ears like a bell.

Some part of her refused to accept it. Even as she watched Jace and Ser Harwin about their swordplay, their brown curls and pug noses mirrors of each other, the truth of it would not sink in.

If it did…

-Then mother was unfaithful..

She'd broken her marriage vows and dishonored her father. And Luce was just as wicked as they all said—she had no choice but to be.

-It doesn't matter what they think.

They were all just stupid idiots, following made-up rules. The people she cared the most for didn't think less of her.

“I wish it curled more,” she'd told Aemond after, as they sat at the library. She'd come in lamenting how her grandmother had denied her affection in favor of some pretty cousin to her father. Naturally her darker thoughts, she kept to herself. “The way my Lady Aunt's is said to.”

Blinking at her, he shut the book he was reading and took a lock of her hair in between his fingers.

“I like it like this. It suits you just fine,” he smiled, eyes glittering like periwinkle blossoms in spring.

“You… you don't think it's plain?”

“No, it's…” the words died on his lips, and a soft flush kissed his ivory cheeks. “It suits you.”

Luce giggled at the stilted attempt at a compliment but thanked him all the same.

The reassurance comforted her and gave her strength to endure her grandmother’s silent scowls. There was no shielding her from the others though.

Word of the yard incident spread through the Keep like wildfire. Luce could scarce move about the castle without vile whispers trailing her every move.

Her mother was so worth at the development, she'd bid her and Jace to stay confined to her chambers, while she ventured out to speak with their grandsire.

The conversation must not have gone as well as she had hoped, for the expression she bore when she returned could make a grown man cower in fear.

The whispering grew worse, after, not ceasing even when they were out of sight. Not even Ser Harwin leaving for Harrenhal could bid the gossip to die.

He'd arrived at their chambers some days after, bundled in riding leathers, his sword at his hip. Jace was distraught when he informed them that his father had resigned his post as Hand and that they were returning to Harrenhal. Her brother immediately pulled him aside to the balcony, hissing something about promises.

The knight on his part, bore Jace's rage with quiet dignity. When her brother had finished his screaming, Ser Harwin knelt to whisper something to him.

Tears shone in Jace's eyes, and he collapsed into the man's arms, silently weeping. When it was done, they stepped back into the chamber where she and her mother were sat. Rhaenyra rose from her cushions, babe in hand, as the knight approached Luce.

Crouched at the foot of a writing desk, she shrank into herself, shying away from his attempt to muss her hair. The hurt on his face made her pause, but he did not press her further.

“Take care of your mother, Princess,” he announced, a sorrowful smile on his lips.

Luce gave him a quick nod, a lump in her throat. His eyes held hers for the longest time before he rose back to his feet and turned to her mother.

She cradled Jace to her chest in one arm, while rocking the babe in the other. Her silver hair hung loose around her face, and her eyes were downcast—yet she could not hide the tears staining her pale cheeks.

“Chin up lad,” Ser Harwin lifted Jace's head, hand lingering to brush his cheek. “I told you. I will return.”

“You promise?” her brother hiccupped.

“Yes. Only the Stranger himself could stop me. I promise.”

The way Jace scrunched his nose, left Luce convinced he would weep again. But he steeled himself, giving the knight an enthused nod.

Ser Harwin smiled, gaze pivoting to her mother—Rhaenyra could not bear to meet his eyes. She bounced the babe vigorously, each breath she took shakier than the last.
When the man bent down to kiss Luce's little brother, she squeezed her eyes shut, tears falling freely down her cheeks.

“A fine Prince you are,” Ser Harwin whispered to the babe, “I will be a stranger to you when we meet again. But know I always have you in my heart.”

Just then, the babe cooed, small hand breaking free from the bundle. Ser Harwin chuckled, letting Joffrey squeeze his index—his palm was so small, it could hardly close around it.

“Princess,” he announced, pulling away.

This time Rhaenyra answered his gaze. Her purple eyes pinned his, and she sucked in air.

A thousand things swirled in those amethyst pits—regret, sorrow, bitterness, and love. Love most of all.

The knight seemed to read it all and returned the thoughts with equal ferocity. However, instead of bending down to kiss her, like in the songs, he turned on his heel and marched out.
Jace could not resist running after him. He burst out into the corridor to watch his departure, his cheeks devoid of color. Their mother followed her walk a half-hearted shamble.

“We will exchange letters by raven. Won't that be fun?”

“Is Harwin Strong my father?”

Luce shut the book she'd been pretending to read, eyes pivoting to her brother. His brows were creased in concentration, his plump cheeks trembling with quiet fury.

“Am I a bastard?”

Though her mother's back was to her, Luce recognized the tension in Rhaenyra's muscles. She mussed her brother’s hair, eyes scanning the hallways.

“You are a Targaryen,” she announced, voice strained. “That's all that matters.”

Jace ogled her for a moment, face emptying of all feeling. When he locked eyes with Luce, she knew he'd gotten his answer. They both had.

Not long after, they were forced to flee.

Luce hadn't known exactly what was said or who said it. The servants claimed it was Lord Dondarrion's young page who had let slip a comment about Ser Harwin not taking her and Jace with him to Harrenhal.

“It seems cruel to break such… strong bonds.”

The remark earned the Dondarrions the same treatment as the Florents. Her royal grandsire banished Simon and his uncle back to Blackhaven, despite Aegon's fierce protests.

This time, their departure did nothing to stop the tide of rumors. Unable to bear it, Rhaenyra announced they were to move to Dragonstone.

Luce was not pleased. Though the island was lovely, there wasn’t much on it save fishermen, volcanic rock, and dragon droppings. Still, she knew better than to argue.

Dejected, she gathered her things, a heaviness squeezing her belly. She was putting away her riding leathers when the click of a lock sounded.

The dragon tapestry to her right swung open. A familiar head of silver hair stepped out of the darkness.

“Aemond, what are you doing here? You can't sneak into my chambers in the dead of night. Your mother will kill us.”

“Is it true?” he barreled past her, rushing to seize her hands into his. “You’re leaving?”

Luce let go of the sigh trapped in her throat and lowered her gaze.

“Yes. We're to go to Dragonstone on the morrow.”

“For how long?” his brows furrowed into a sour frown.

“I don’t know. Mother didn’t say.”

Straightening his back, he lifted his head high.

“I shall speak to my father. He's already sent the Dondarrions away. There is no reason you should leave too.”

Luce kneaded his fingers, the knot in her gut tightening. “There is though.”

Silence was her answer. Though the way Aemond’s face went slack let her know no answer was necessary.

She tried to force lightness in her voice.

“It will only be for a little while. Just until Joffrey has grown a bit.”

He kept staring. Luce gritted her teeth.

“We can write to each other. Mother tells me Dragonstone has a large rookery. I’m certain I can make the Maester send a few ravens your way.”

The stiffness in his face abated, and he squeezed her hand back.

“You promise?”

The knot in her gut loosened, and she allowed her lips to peel into a sweet smile.

“I promise.”

This time, it was he who embraced her. His hands crushed her body to his till her flesh was nothing but pumpkin mush. When he finally released her, he pressed his lips to hers so forcefully she scarce had time to swallow a breath.

She thought he would let her go after a few moments. But he lingered, kissing her again and again till she felt lightheaded. After at last they parted, Luce felt as if she might faint.

The expression on his face was striking. His purple eyes were wide, alight with the ghostly trace of dragonfire. The crease between his sparse brows was determined, and its ferocity mirrored the redness ravishing his cheeks.

“He doesn’t think you’re family.”

Jace was wrong. Of course, he thought they were family. It was plain that he loved her—she dared say just as much if not more than Jace did.

Composing herself, she smiled again. Her heart was thundering like a racehorse, but she dismissed the flush as just simple content.

-We have each other.

The vile courtiers could spit their poison all they liked. As long as Luce had her family at her side, she could bear it all.

She could, and would, weather the storm.

Chapter Text

The letter came in the night.

He and Luce were seated behind the painted table, fingers trailing the creases in the wood, with rapt fascination. They were at the Vale this night, trying to memorize all the names of the castles scattered about the mountains of the Moon when Maester Gerardis entered the room.

His father collapsed when he unfurled the parchment the aged man thrust into his hands.

“When?” his mother was at his side in a flash, arms wrapping around him.

The Maester lowered his gaze. “Some time ago Princess. Lady Laena passed in child bed along with her babe. The Prince, your Uncle, is sailing for Driftmark with his daughters for the burial. He's due to arrive a few days from now. This letter was sent from Pentos the moment they departed.”

Jace exchanged glances with his twin. Neither of them had ever met their aunt, only heard tales. Nevertheless, he did his best to feign sorrow and lowered his head. Their mother dismissed them to their chambers afterward, bidding the Maester to prepare a sleeping draft for his lord father. Somehow, Jace thought no amount of potion would help quell Ser Laenor's grief.

Things grew worse when their mother informed them they would be sailing to Driftamrk to attend their Aunt's funeral. Jace was very displeased with this development. He’d grown to like Dragonstone. The island fortress was isolated, and quiet, populated by fisher folk and servants who had lived there for centuries, and knew how to mind their business.

At the Red Keep, Jace could scare go the privy without someone informing half the court about it. Here, he could wander about the yard unattended, with nary a glance thrown his way.

He did not want to sacrifice that peace for the unwelcoming waters of Driftmark.

-We shouldn’t even be attending this funeral.

There was another, more important burial that took precedence over an aunt none of them knew.

Word of the Harrenhal fire had come to them scarcely a week after they’d docked on Dragonstone. The blaze had occurred because of a brazier a manservant had carelessly knocked over—a tragic accident to be sure. But one that cost the lives of both Lyonel and his son Ser Harwin Strong.

Jace had gone numb after he’d found out. He'd already been planning to visit Harrenhal as soon as Vermax was large enough to bear his weight upon its back. The thought would never come to pass— just as all of Ser Harwin's vows hadn’t.

“You promised!” Jace had screamed at him that faithful day when the knight had arrived at their mother's apartments to inform them of his departure. “You promised you would never leave. In front of the old gods, you made a sacred vow!”
The knight's face twisted in pain. He knelt in front of Jace, gloved hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

“And I have not broken my word,” he announced, “Just because I’m not here, in the flesh, doesn’t mean I’m not with you. I’ll always be with you. Right there, in your heart.” He balled his fingers into a fist and pressed it hard into Jace's chest.

He didn’t think. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Jace rushed to embrace him, arms closing about him in a tight grip. The man answered his touch with equal ferocity, cradling Jace in his arms with loving tenderness.

“I wish you were my father,” he sobbed, eyes alight with unshed tears. When they broke apart, Jace was surprised to find the same sorrow in the knight's eyes as well.

“The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your father. Alright?”

There was no next time. There never would be a next time. The man was gone, swallowed by fire, and Jace was left to mourn alone, in silence. He tried seeking comfort from his mother, and while Rhaenyra was willing to cradle him, and wipe away his tears, she would not acknowledge his grief— nor her own.

Luce was more accommodating. After the news, his sister had rushed over to his chambers to offer him comfort. She didn’t seem distraught or saddened by it—after all, she'd done her best to keep a distance from the knight. But she understood his distress all the same, and spent nights with him by the heartfire, reading him stories, and holding his hand while he wept.

Jace wanted to scream at her to leave. She'd been miserable since they'd departed the Capitol, always handwringing the Maester to send letters to their stupid half-uncle. It was plain she had little desire to be there. Yet, whenever the tightness in his chest came, and he started hiccuping sobs, he always ended up pulling her closer instead of pushing her away.

He clung to her on the entire voyage to Driftmark taking comfort in her steady disposition. Her sternness never faltered even when those pale ivory towers came into view a day later. They’d visited High Tide only once when they were babes, and he had forgotten how magnificent the castle was.

Gray clouds had obscured the early morning sun, but the beaten silver rooftops still shone in the distance like a beacon. Around it sprawled the bustling Spice Town, a favorite haunt of merchants, sailors, and traders from all over the planetos.

They were all absent today.

As their attendants ushered them into the carriage to journey up across the moat, to the castle. Jace listened to the bustle of the market, searching for the scent of spices, silks, and leather-bound tomes scoured from faraway lands. Instead, all he got was a sharp tang of saltwater.

The dreary shadow only darkened when they arrived at High Tide. In place of their grandsire, the castle Maester was the one who hurriedly saw them in.

They haphazardly prepared for the midday funeral proceedings. After dressing Rhaenyra pulled them aside to instruct them on how best to behave and what to say. Her efforts were wasted.
When the thing started nobody cared much about what either of them were doing. All their attention was affixed to Vaemond Velaryon.

Jace didn’t understand everything. The man was speaking too quickly, using some Valyrian words he'd never even heard before. But he knew enough to recognize one sentence.
“Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.”

He wouldn’t have thought much of it if his great uncle hadn’t stared straight into his eyes when saying it. The way he squinted, his lips curling into a frown of disgust made bile rise in Jace's throat.

It grew worse when his mother pulled him and Luce closer to her, chin raised defiantly at Vaemond. His father, as was custom, seemed oblivious, making no effort to shield them from the jab.

-He's gone.

Grief had swallowed him whole, and all he could do was stare blankly at the rocks. Jace ached for the protective reassurance of Ser Harwin's presence—instead, aid came from the most unexpected source.

A soft giggle followed Vaemond's hearty declaration. All eyes in the funeral party pivoted to the left, where Daemon Targaryen stood.

His famed great uncle was smirking, his purple eyes alight with amusement. Jace arched a brow.

It was his wife that had passed. It stood to reason he would be the last person to laugh. Yet nobody dared question it.

Tall and sinewy, clad all in black, his great-uncle cut the image of a fearsome warrior. Though his face was wistful, distant, there was fire burning in his eyes, the kind of fire Jace had never seen before. His grandsire burned like that sometimes–as did his mother. But this blaze was different.—wild, ill-tempered, unyielding.

It made Jace think that if anyone dared to ask him why he was laughing he would cut their heads off.

With a sharp tug of ropes, Laena Velaryon's wooden casket was lowered into the waters, sinking below the waves with a splash. They all lingered in silence for just a moment longer, before his grandsire the Sea Snake bid them come to the mourning supper on the balcony.

Jace had half a mind to run off, but his sister dragged him forth, reminding him of the promise they'd made to Mother about behaving.

If the funeral was dreary, the supper was worse. The food they served was bland, boiled beets and potatoes with salted cod and oysters. Jace could scarce swallow two mouthfuls before his stomach rose up, and he left the table to peer over the balcony.

His mother found him there, listlessly gazing at the dragons flying across the still waters.

“Have you seen your father?” she asked, seizing him by the shoulder.

The evening sun made the red scales on her dress shimmer like dragonhide.

“No,” he shrugged. He hadn’t even noticed he was absent.

Rhaenyra sighed and gritted her teeth.

“Your little cousins have lost their mother. They could use a kind word.”

Jace’s gaze pivoted across the terrace to where two figures in black cloaks were sitting. Baela and Rhaena seemed almost indistinguishable from one another—small, slender, and slight, with the classic Velaryon silver coils and light, umber skin.

However, the way one girl was cradling the other, hands fiercely wrapped around her shoulders told Jace which was the elder.
Still, he could not bear to head out to them.

“I have an equal claim to sympathy.”

The palor in his mother's cheeks deepened. “Jace…”

“We should be at Harrenhal right now, mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin.”

Leaning forward, she pulled him closer so he could look into the depths of her purple eyes.

“We've discussed this. It would not be appropriate,” she paused, steeling herself. “The Velaryons are our kin. The Strongs are not. Do you understand?”

A scream threatened to burst from Jace's lips, but he forced it back. With his head bowed, he trotted over to where his cousins were seated.

-Say something.

His mother had listed all the proper things to say to someone in mourning. Yet now as he stood in front of Baela and Rhaena, a lump in his throat, the words escaped him. The silence was growing so unbearable, he had half a mind to dart back inside the castle, to hide beneath the covers.

The soft brush of skin bid him pause. A hand had closed around his, and when Jace dared to look up, he saw a pair of teak eyes, glistening with tears.

-Baela. This one is Baela.

He could tell she was the elder. Despite the sorrow pouring out of her face, the fierce scowl on her lips spoke of strength. She would not be cowed by this loss. She would bear it in her heart, honor it, and let it give her purpose.

Jace felt a strange warmth ravage his cheeks.

Half a breath later, it cooled, when a dark figure cast a shadow on them.

“Jacaerys, go to your mother,” Princess Rhaenys curtly pushed him aside, to kneel in front of her granddaughters.

The two of them leapt into her arms sobbing, as she whispered words of comfort into their ears. He wanted to protest, tell her how he wanted to be there for kin. But the cold indifference his grandmother exuded, told him he was not wanted there—for he was no kin.

Without a word, he withdrew.

The next foe he encountered wasn’t as cold but was just as unpleasant. Aemond had appeared beside a brazier to block his path, an uncertain look on his face. Jace thought he meant to say something–his lips parted open, and he was nervously twiddling his thumbs.

However, silence continued lingering.

Sorrow squeezed his belly, and Jace cast his eyes to the ground. He almost growled at him to leave him alone, but a hand seizing his own made him hold his tongue.

His sister sidled up to him, loose strands of hair falling into her eyes. He'd seen her exchanging words with their grandsire the Sea Snake previously, and whatever was said had seemingly left her in a terribly rotten mood.

She stood clutching his hand, the pallor on her face deepening to a ghostly white. The color was in sharp contrast to the flush on Aemond’s cheeks. He regarded them, squinting, a most displeased frown on his face.

Jace expected Luce to go to him—take his hand into hers, give him reassurance, the way she'd always done whenever he'd glimpsed the two of them being kind to one another.

To his relief, his sister remained at his side, a sad smile grazing her lips. Her expression completely altered his half-uncle's disposition. Sucking in a breath, he looked away, and gave them a slight nod.

“Come on, Jace,” she whispered, gently nudging him forward.
He had no strength to protest her. They slowly shuffled past him toward the bridge that led back into the castle. For once, no one moved to stop them. Later, when Luce had excused herself to find their mother to tuck them into bed, Jace took to wandering the carved stone halls of his grandsire's keep.

He ran his fingers across the carved scenes of sea battles, pausing to regard a large sea monster attacking a ship.

“It’s a Sea dragon,” the voice made him jump and he whirled on his feet to glimpse a figure in black regarding him from the shadows. “They're said to be vicious things, foul, and ill-tempered, fond of sinking sailing ships.”

Jace pulled his hand away and straightened his back. Baela emerged from the shadows, dark eyes dancing in the flame of the torchlight.

“Cousin. I didn’t see you there,” Jace sputtered, his hand slowly moving to fiddle with the buttons on his doublet. “I’m… I’m sorry. For what happened. I meant to tell you sooner but…”l

“I know,” she cut him off. Her voice was a strange thing—sharp, crisp, full of confidence. Jace felt the sudden urge to look away “You’re the first person to tell me that and actually mean it.”

He pushed down a lump in his throat.

“I don't… understand.”

“You’ve lost someone as well, haven’t you?”

The question made him balk, and he almost slammed back into the carved wall.

Baela's teak eyes held his, the torchlight flames casting shadows on her face.

“Yes. He was uh… a good friend.” He paused, breath quivering. “Stood as a father to me.”

“They’re never gone.” She said, drawing closer. “As long as we keep them in our hearts, they stay with us forever. In spirit.”
Jace pondered her words, recalling Ser Harwin's kindly smile.
“I’ll always be with you. Right there, in your heart.”

His hand traced a circle around his chest where the man's fist had pressed. He could still feel the smooth leather of his riding gloves.

The burning came then, and he blinked, tears clouding his vision. A hand gingerly brushed his, and when he chanced to glance up, he saw Baela looking at him head-on. She didn’t try to hide her tears. They streamed freely down her plump cheeks, as much a testament to her grief as they were to her strength.

Against all odds, Jace smiled.

Somewhere in the distance, the sorrowful roar of a dragon sounded.

Chapter Text

She’d thought the feelings had left her.

Ten years she’d spent in the arms of another. She'd craved his kisses, relished his embrace, delighted every time he took her to bed. Three children she'd given him, each of them a spitting image of their father—a testament to their love.

Yet despite everything, all the passion and grief she and Harwin had shared, all it took was one look at Daemon for her old feelings to come rushing back.

He hadn’t changed. Age had drawn a few faint lines around his eyes and on his forehead, but he still looked the same. The same hooded purple eyes, long solemn face—the same high cheekbones and thin lips. His silver hair had grown longer, and he kept it pulled back on his temple so that it wouldn’t fall into his face.

Rhaenyra watched him from afar, as he stood vigil over his late wife's casket. She was a woman grown, wedded, and bedded with children of her own—yet in that moment, she felt like a girl. That same flustered child he'd pinned against the brothel wall in a fiery embrace.

A part of her yearned to go to him. Hear his voice, feel the touch of his hand. She knew he hadn’t forgotten her—the bemused laugh he'd let out during Vaemond's eulogy was a testament to that.

A part of her whispered how he was mocking her. Laenor had confided in his sister about their arrangement. Rhaenyra had no doubt she'd revealed it to Daemon as well. Not that she'd had to. The moment he’d spied her and her twins arrive at the cliffside to see her goodsister's casket be cast off, the corners of his lips curled into a smirk.

Terrible as it was, she hoped it hurt him.

-They could have been your children.

Fire made flesh, just as they were. Of course, he would laugh at Vaemond's remarks—it was what she deserved for betraying him and letting another man have her.

The maliciousness she’d attributed to him proved misplaced. She realized that when everyone’s attention pivoted from her and her twins to him and his laughter.

Her breath hitched. Harwin was no longer there to give her strength and shield her from her enemies. But Daemon was.

He'd come to her aid, unprompted. And no one dared look her way again after.

There and then, all the foul things he'd done to her before fell by the wayside. She knew she had to speak to him—alone.

The opportunity came after the sun had begun dipping behind the horizon. The mourners slowly dispersed one by one, to retire for the evening. Rhaenyra swiftly dismissed Ser Steffon, bidding him to go attend her children while she went off to have words with her father.

Instead of climbing the steps to head to Viserys' chambers, she ventured to the western wing, where Laena's apartments once were. She didn’t even have a chance to round the corner when she spotted him.

A figure languishing on the windowsill that overlooked the beach below. Against her better judgment, she smiled.

“Ten years on, and you still cannot resist the urge to skulk in the shadows.”

Daemon returned her smirk, head turning to regard her. His face was obscured by darkness, save for a shock of moonlight illuminating his right eye.

Rhaenyra swallowed hard, gooseflesh dotting her skin.

“Ten years on and you still don’t know how to stay away from shadows.”

Her brow shot up. His voice was smoother than the caress of the finest silk.

“I would. If I don’t already know those shadows would do naught but bark at me. Never bite.”

She lowered her gaze, the challenge plain on her face—the same challenge she'd given him that day on Dragonstone's bridge.
Just like last time, he did nothing save chuckle. In one swift motion, he took his leg off the sill, the silent invitation to sit beside him obvious.

Rhaenyra scoffed.

-Still thinking I’ll trail after you like a dumbstruck maiden.

Gathering her skirts in her hands, she made a sharp turn left and moved past him. At the end of the narrow corridor stood an oaken door that led to the outer yard and the beaches beyond.

She'd left it open on purpose, lingering in the archway just long enough to cast him an expectant look over her shoulder.

The pleasure she felt when he rose and strode after her was enough to make her knees tremble.

They fell in step with one another, as they moved across the deserted yard and toward the seaside beyond. The soft whisper of sand beneath their feet was the only sound that followed them for the longest time.

“You haven’t changed,” she finally announced gaze wistfully scouring the night sky. The moon was full tonight, making the sands glitter like freshly fallen snow.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant as such.” She quipped.

He answered her jab with a smile. “Well, you have. And that is a compliment.”

Rhaenyra cursed the flush warming her cheeks.

-No, you must stay focused.

She couldn’t let him cloud her judgment again.

“I should hope so. It would be a quite a blunder never to learn anything in ten years time.”

“A sentiment not everyone in your party seems to share.”

Somehow, she knew exactly who he meant. The sigh burst from her lips unbidden.

“Laenor has been restless for years. But now I fear he will be useless. Or worse.”

The way her lord husband had unraveled when he'd read the letter from Pentos left her heartsick. It made her realize right there and then, that if something worse were to happen, the weight of it would bade him snap like a twig.

“I know better than anyone that our marriage is a farce. But I at least made the effort to maintain appearances. He stopped trying the moment we exchanged vows.”

“You have more to lose,” Daemon concluded. “He doesn’t. Why should he trouble himself to defend a legacy that’s not his.”

The remark bit her right in the heart, and Rhaenyra craned her neck to look at him. Moonlight made the strands of his hair shine like beaten silver.

“We tried,” she countered. “To conceive a child. We performed our duty as best we could. But to no avail.” She paused, recalling the awkwardness, the discomfort. He always seemed ignorant of how to touch her, even when she did her best to give him instruction. The couplings dealt her pain, and caused him grief and worry that would take her weeks to mend.

“It's his seed, I think.” She continued. “We concluded it likely cannot take root. I tried sourcing fertility potions to aid him but… it was all for naught. I had to seek my joy elsewhere, or I would have lost my mind.”

She paused, gauging his reaction. A part of her longed to see his face darken into a scowl—the way Harwin’s did whenever some handsome lordling would pay her homage.

To her dismay, he stayed composed, shooting her a gentle smile—one that delighted at her happiness.

“I understand Ser Harwin was quite… devoted to you.”

A wave of grief crashed into her, just as they descended down a slope to walk by the beach.

“Yes, he was,” her voice trembled with barely suppressed pain. “He was loyal. Kind. He never rendered judgment on me, or Laenor. And though he couldn’t be a father to the children, he did all he could to be there for them. He was perhaps the only man I trusted at court, save my father.”

Tears burned her eyes, and she released a breath. The pain of his loss had torn her apart—and it felt good to finally bare her grief openly.

“I should’ve forbidden Ser Harwin from returning to the Riverlands. Harren's curse is said to be as strong now as it was after the Conquest.”

Daemon chortled. “That’s a ghost story. One Ser Otto and the Queen would gladly exploit.”

Balling her fists, she lashed him with a look. “I do not believe Alicent capable of cold-blooded murder.”

Whatever their differences, she liked to think the girl she'd once called dearest friend would not stoop to such lows. Her father, however…

-Gods, of all the times for him to return.

She should have foreseen it. With Lord Lyonel dead, her father was in need of a Hand. And absent her own voice to guide his decisions, Alicent was free to pour her honey into Viserys' ear. Of course, she'd gotten her wretched father reinstated.

-They’re like vermin.

The moment she quashed one green snake, another slithered out to resume spitting venom at her.

“Each of us is capable of depravity. Far more than you would believe.”

Daemon's words brought her out of her dark spiral—and thrust her head first into another.

“I believe it of you.” The comment was careless, noncommittal. Still, it made him pause dead in his tracks, purple eyes alight.

“If you’re accusing me of some depravity, you’ll need to be more specific.”

Rhaenyra gaped at him, her mind reeling.

“Are you jesting?” she hissed, fire rising in her belly to answer his. “You abandoned me.”

“I spared you. You were a child.”

The hard, unyielding mask on his face drove her fury to burn hotter.

“Yes, I was a child. And look at what my life became without you.” She paused, pain slashing her across the chest. “I waited. Every day, I sighted the skies, hoping to see Caraxes’ red wings. But you never came. Instead, you flew to Driftmark to wed another, even younger child.”

The vindication she felt when she saw him stumble back was sweeter than honey.

-I'd rather be damned than let his hypocrisy stand.

Still, the hurt did not abate.

“Did you love her?” her voice shattered and she blew a quivering breath.

-You shouldn’t ask that.

It was the last question she’d wanted answered—even though it had plagued her from the moment her father had broken the seal on the raven's scroll Lord Corlys had sent from Driftmark.

Cousin Laena was a delight—as beautiful as she was fierce, a passionate dragon rider who had claimed the largest beast alive before she'd even become a woman grown. Of course, Daemon would choose her over Rhaenyra.

“We were happy enough.” He declared, matter of fact.

Somehow, his dispassionate tone cut her deeper than she'd thought possible.

“Well, I must congratulate you on such a great achievement.”

“You shouldn’t,” he countered. “What does it matter, when she was not the wife I’d wished for myself.”

Her anger vanished in a cloud of sorrow. That silly, love-struck girl returned with a vengeance, and she drew closer.

“Then why did you leave me?” she demanded, the pain threatening to make her burst like an overripe melon.

His impassive mask finally shattered. The same dragon she’d glimpsed on the night of her wedding feast burst free. He closed the distance between them, getting so close to her their foreheads almost touched.

“Because if I hadn’t, all the water in the world wouldn’t have been enough to wash the blood I’d have spilled to make you mine.”

Silence followed his declaration.

The silly girl was out in full now, gazing passionately at her daring uncle, as scores of courtiers laughed and danced around them, celebrating an engagement they meant to break.

-We should have left.

She should have been the one to drag him out of the throne room, to go to Dragonstone—to seal their union in fire and blood. Just as they were meant to.

Her hand shot up to rest on his navel.

“Rhaenyra…”

“I’m no longer a child,” she cut him off, fingers reaching under his collar to caress the jagged scar he'd sustained in the Stepstones.

“Don't.”

His words were not a rebuff, she knew. They were a warning. If she continued, he would finish what he'd started all those years ago in the brothel. And then, she would never be free of him.

Her hand closed around his nape and she pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’ve waited ten years for you. Please…” she whispered, drowning in the scent of steel and dragonfire. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

He granted her wish immediately, pressing his lips to hers.
She expected passion—the same, unbridled hunger he’d ravished upon her the first time he'd taken her into his embrace. Instead, she was met with slow, sweet tenderness.

Somehow, that felt even more intimate.

His arms snaked around her waist, and she draped herself on him, kissing him harder, deeper, till neither of them could breathe.

At one point, they broke apart, and he seized her by the arm to lead her back up the slope. There, the remnants of a marooned sailing barge lay half-buried in the sand.

They crawled inside, the closed confines of the wreck forcing them closer.

He undid her laces slowly, following each string loosened with a kiss. When his fingers dug beneath her underdress to trail down her back, she gasped and kissed his own neck in response.

-This is how it was meant to be.

He was supposed to be her first—her only. Her body responded to him as if he were. When she pulled off his doublet and undergarments, her fingers were shaking with nervous inexperience.

And when he pushed her down, pulling off her stockings, and lifting up her skirts, her flesh trembled with anticipation.

Wet as she was, it still ached when he drove himself into her.

-He's mine. And I’m his.

Ser Criston had claimed her maidenhead and fulfilled the curious affections of her girlhood. Harwin had been a great love, a fearsome protector who reminded her of what it felt like to be desired. But in the end, her soul belonged, and would belong to Daemon Targaryen.

The truth of those words consumed her, and she dug her fingers into his hips, urging him to go quicker, harder, till she arched her back in pleasure, and he'd spilled his seed inside her.

Afterward, as they lay entwined on the sands, Rhaenyra wished it would take root.

The thought of another child, a little princeling to delight her twins and Joffrey filled her with elation.

-He would take after his father.

Dashing, brazen, and handsome, with purple eyes and silver hair. A Valyrian not just in name, but in looks as well.

She smiled into Daemon's chin and drifted into sleep.

A mighty roar chased away her dreams of a little silver-haired babe.

She shot upright, eyes adjusting to the dimness. Cold wind whistled through the wooden slats to nip at her bare skin. To her horror, Daemon was not by her side.

-Has he left me again?

The thought spread through her body like poison, and she quickly moved to lace up her dress.

Relief bathed her in waves when she crawled out of the wreck to see a figure standing on the beach.

Daemon's back was to her, his shoulder muscles taunt. He stood motionless, gazing off into the dark waters beyond. Rhaenyra attempted to shake off the sand from her garments and moved to join him.

“What is it?” she asked, casting weary glances around them. The beach was as silent and as deserted as it had been when they'd come.

It sounded again. The same guttural shriek reverberated across the waters to bathe the entire island.

In the distance, Rhaenyra glimpsed dark, leathery wings circling High Tide's ivory towers.

It was Daemon who named the dragon.

“We need to return,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Vhagar has taken flight.”

Chapter Text

The grief and turmoil of the funeral party, made Lucera’s already sour mood grow foul. It left her unable to truly enjoy being away from Dragonstone.

-Gods, what a bore.

The island offered much and more in lieu of adventure. But no matter how many caves she explored, how many times she scoured the markets of the dock town below the castle fortress, her adventuring didn’t have the same appeal as before.

Because she was missing someone to share them with.

-Why hasn’t he answered my letters?

She'd written four of them since she'd arrived and all had yet to receive a reply. At first, she reasoned it would take time for a raven to fly to Kings Landing and back. But as the days passed, one after the other, she slowly came to terms with the thought she would not get a response at all.

The solitude weighed heavily on her, and she tried to seek comfort in playing with her brother. Contrary to her, Jace seemed quite content on the island citadel. His temper had mellowed out, and he spent the days wandering about the yard, practicing his sword play. At first he was not eager to let her join him, the hurt of her callous words still too fresh in his mind.

But when the raven came from Harrenhal, things changed. Ser Harwin was gone, and with him, any hope for a safe future.
It was one thing to have people whisper vile things about them—it was another for those whispers to summon the Stranger.

People had said it was just an accident. But her brother was convinced foul play had taken away their sworn shield.

“It was Ser Criston,” he'd told her one evening. They'd sat huddled in the common room by the heartfire, listening to the violent storm lashing the rocks outside. “I know it.”

“Don’t be silly Jace. Ser Criston is a knight of the Kingsguard. He would never dare slay a man like that.”

The flash of thunder coming from through the windows made shadows dance across her twin’s face.

“He hated Ser Harwin. He hated me too. He'll come for me next you’ll see.”

Flustered, Luce moved to seize his hand into hers. The heaviness in his voice made fear blossom in her chest.

If the opinions of others could bring death into their lives, how was she supposed to ignore them? What did it matter if she had her loved ones around her when one cruel word could take them away?

The thoughts worsened when they were told of Laena Velaryon's death. Like Harwin, Lucera hadn’t known her at all—still, her passing had left a most bitter taste in her mouth.

She'd informed her grandsire the Sea Snake of that, when he'd tried to tell her of her inheritance.

“Both my seat and High Tide, will be yours one day Lucera,” he’d announced, his voice stern and solemn. Her grandsire had always cut the image of a most fearsome man—but hovering over her like that, in his mourning blacks, Luce thought no foe could stand against him. “Your brother will be King of course. He’ll sit on endless councils and ceremonies. But the Lord of the Tides rules the sea. Or in your case, Lady.”

Lucera fiddled with the wooden seahorse toy he'd given her. “I’m sorry but… I don’t want it.”

The look on his face was despondent. He quickly knelt beside her, long arms seizing her shoulders.

“It's your birthright, lass,” he proclaimed fiercely. As if he could will truth into those words with enough force.

“It's not. I’m a girl.”

Her grandsire's thick lips curled into a smile. “And you think that matters? Your grandmother would be the first to argue it does not.”

“Yes but… if I inherit Driftmark, that means everyone is dead.” She shook her head. “I don’t want anyone to be dead. Not over some stupid inheritance.”

Lord Corlys tried to assure her he meant to live a long and healthy life before passing down the seat to her. But he didn’t understand that she wasn’t even thinking about Driftmark anymore.

Dejected she moved to find Jace so they could head back to their apartments to rest. She found him with Aemond.

From the moment she'd first seen him during the burial ceremony, every ounce of her had yearned to speak to him. She wanted to know why he hadn’t written back if he knew anything about Ser Harwin’s death. But most importantly, she wanted to hold him. Have him tell her things would be alright, that this terrible conflict would not break them apart.

Because they were family.

Yet in spite of everything, she resisted. Jace needed her more, and she could not bear to anger him by running off with Aemond the first chance she got.

She waited until he'd settled in their apartments before she ventured out, on the pretext of finding their mother.

Descending the castle steps, she peered over the balcony railing. Below, she saw a head of silver curls sprawled on the stone.

Aegon was snoring, a cup of wine discarded at his side. Just as she’d thought, Aemond was nearby, standing watch over him, eyes alert for incoming danger.

As if he could sense her, his head snapped up right to where she stood crouched. With a quick look at his brother, he dashed up the stairs to meet her in the servants' passage.

They didn’t exchange greetings. Instead, they moved to embrace immediately, squeezing each other so hard, Luce thought she would collapse.

“I’m sorry. I meant to come speak with you sooner, but…”

“Why didn’t you write me?” he demanded, a frown creasing his brows. “You promised you would."

Luce blinked. “I did? I sent four letters this past month. I never received a reply.”

The frown deepened. “I never got anything. Are you sure your Maester sent them out?”

“Yes, I watched him release the birds myself.”

Strained silence followed her declaration. The same thought came to both of them, and Luce sucked in a breath.

“Perhaps the letters just got… lost.”

“Or someone lost them,” he spat, jaw clenching.

She had no doubt he would be arguing with the Queen later. Luce released a tired sigh and moved to hold his hand.

“It doesn’t matter. We're here now,” she gave him a half-hearted smile and slid down the cramped hallway to sit on the stone.

They must have spent a better part of an hour discussing all the things they’d done while apart. As terrible as it was, Luce felt glad to learn he’d been just as forlorn without her as she was without him. The thought he might replace her with another companion had plagued her for all the weeks she'd spent awaiting his letters.

To know his devotion was still strong was the sweetest relief she could ever feel.

Still, it did nothing to dampen her worry.

“I wish we'd reunited under different circumstances. Ones that did not involve any…death.”

Curling into a ball, she hooked her hands around her knees and brought them to her chest.

Aemond regarded her wistfully, the purple of his eyes as dark as cobalt.

“I’m sorry… about what happened.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t know Lady Laena.”

“I know, I meant Ser H…”

The words immediately died in his throat, and he averted his gaze—as if he'd said something unforgivable.

Luce gritted her teeth.

“I know.” She finally announced, the tightness in her chest leaving her breathless. “It has passed now. We can put it behind us and sail home.”

“To… to Dragonstone?”

She made no effort to reply.

“I’d heard my father say how he means to invite Uncle Daemon and his daughters to court. You could… come too.”

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she shook her head.

“No, I cannot. Mother will never leave, not now. And Jace won’t either. He actually likes it on Dragonstone.”

“You don't have to go with them. You can come by yourself.”

She couldn’t resist looking at him then. His face was stoic, determined, filled with a kind of burning disdain that made bile rise in Luce’s throat.

“I’m not leaving them,” she countered. “They’re family. Jace is my brother. I can’t abandon him.”

“He's an idiot.”

“Em!” she hissed.

“It's true, Cera. He's been nothing but terrible to me and to you. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

“That’s not true. He's just hurt and lonely, and he doesn’t know how to express those feelings.”

The truth of those words had become so plain during their time on Dragonstone. For all his bravado, her brother was and always would be a gentle soul who craved love and validation.

“No, you’re wrong,” Aemond shook his head. The disdain was quickly morphing into a quiet anger. “He's wicked. Wicked to the bone.”

Her breath hitched at the word. She stared at Aemond, her own anger rising.

“If he's wicked, then so am I.”

“No I…” his expression fell, and he immediately entwined his fingers with hers. “You’re different. Better. And you shouldn’t let him or any one of them reduce you.”

She sputtered, almost asking him what he meant by ‘them’ but decided she lacked the strength to argue.

“He doesn’t reduce me. Granted, he's not the kindest person ever. But what brother is? At the end of the day, he's still mine own. And I love him.”

If she thought her refusing his invitation to Kings Landing had left him dejected, this declaration made him positively despondent.

He jerked back, as if she'd slapped him, jaw clenching so hard, she could hear his teeth cry out in pain.

“You’re too soft,” he spat, turning up his nose.

Luce couldn’t tell if he meant the words as an insult or as a lament. Nevertheless, she chose not to pay it mind.

“Good, someone should be. We're never going to end this strife if we're always at each other's throats.”

“You don’t end strife with softness. You end it with fire and blood.”

She blinked, a strange hollow in her chest.

“I think that’s precisely what got us in this mess in the first place.”

Silence lingered between them for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Aemond released a sigh and shut his eyes to compose himself.

“I know you’re afraid,” he began. “I am too but… you needn’t be. I’ll protect you. I’ll find a way to rid you of this terrible stain once and for all.”

The fire crackling in the depths of his purple slits made her shrink into herself.

“I… I don’t understand. What do you mean to do?”

“What I was born to do. What all great scions of my house have done before.”

She expected him to elaborate. Instead, he leaned in to kiss her. This one was just as forceful as the last. He'd sidled up to her, one hand going for her neck, while the other held her firmly in place by the waist.

When she felt his tongue part her lips, she jerked back.

Roaring purple eyes stared back at her, alight with the ravenous blaze of dragonfire.

“He doesn’t think of you as family.” Jace's words sounded at the back of her mind once more, but now they took on a different meaning.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about her at all. Perhaps it was that he did not care about her as an uncle would for a niece. She pondered that thought on her way back to her chambers.

It all seemed so silly. If he did not mean for her to be family, did he mean for her to be a… wife?

-No, that’s stupid.

Granted, House Targaryen had wed brother to sister for hundreds of years to keep their bloodline pure. But Aemond wasn’t her brother, Jace was—and the thought of wedding Jace turned her stomach in ways nothing else did.

She supposed in that respect, wedding Aemond was preferable—but it still meant she would have to be a wife.

-Who wants to be a wife?

All the wives she knew were miserable. The Queen, her Lady mother, the noble women at court. They all languished inside all day, doing nothing except birthing children and fussing over their husbands.

Lucera thought she would rather die than be caged so. Her destiny was to fly free, to explore the world on dragonback.

-I must talk with Aemond on the morrow.

Surely, she had misunderstood his intention. He must've only thought of her as his gentle niece who needed his love and support.

In place of her own chambers, she sought out Jace's.

“I didn’t find Mother,” she announced when she crept in. The smell of dying embers filled the dimness, as she gingerly approached the bed. Jace lay sprawled beneath the covers, squinting at the book in his lap.

“No, you found someone else,” he mumbled into his chin. The image of the kiss Aemond had planted on her made her cheeks redden for the first time, and she averted her gaze.

Jace didn’t seem to care. “So…”

“So, what?”

“So why are you here? You can go to him you know.”

Luce forced down the lump in her throat.

“Well, if you must know, I thought we might spend some time together. I could read to you for a bit. Like old times?”

Silence answered her declaration. The fact Jace would not even look at he left her shattered.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, collapsing onto the foot of the bed. “For everything I’d said. I never meant it. You’re not terrible, you never were. It's Aegon and the others who are stupid idiots, not you.”
The emotion overcame her so fiercely, she almost screamed those last words. She let her head hang in shame, bitter tears welling in her eyes.

The soft thud of a book closing drew her attention.

“No, I’m sorry,” Jace announced. “For everything I’ve ever said to you. I shouldn’t have been so callous. You’re the only person in the world who can understand what I’m feeling. It should have cherished that, not derided it.”

She released a shuddering breath, quickly leaning in to hold his hand.

“Jace…”

“No,” her brother fired. “It wasn’t right. And I need to change that. I will change that.”

Scooting closer to her, he returned her squeeze, his head held high.

“We're in danger now. They’ll all be coming for us. The Queen, Ser Criston, Aegon, and Aemond.”

His words made her balk but he yanked on her hand. “I know you don’t want to hear that, but you must. They hate us. No matter what we do, or how well we treat them, they always will. Because of what we are. How we were born. And no amount of friendly affection will change nature.”

His fingers trailed her thumb, the expression on his face grave. “We must stick together. Be allies, just like Mother said. Elsewise we'll end up just like our father.”

Hearing Jace acknowledge the truth so plainly made the knot in Luce’s gut burst. She held his gaze, her head a mess of upsetting thoughts.

“Promise me you’ll be by my side.” The sweet earnestness of his voice undid her.

The tear slid down her cheek, and she swallowed hard, cursing the Gods for making her as she was.

“I’m always by your side,” she whispered. “I was by your side before anyone else.”

Elation filled Jace's face and he wrestled her into his arms. When they broke apart, he brushed his lips against hers—a quick, gentle touch. Lacking anything other than plain, platonic affection.

The kind of kiss family would share.

Luce couldn’t stomach to leave his chamber after. They spent hours reading the book, till the grief, and fear had exhausted her enough to make her surrender herself to sleep.

It was hushed whispers that forced her awake. When she turned over to the other side, Jace was not there. Squinting, she spied him standing in the doorway, exchanging brisk words with two figures with silver hair.

Half a moment later, he and one of the girls disappeared out into the hallway.

“Baela?” Luce called her eyes finally adjusting enough to recognize her cousin.

“Lucera?” she turned to her, her expression dark. She was bundled in a night shift, her hair a frizzy mess. It seemed she too had just risen from bed. “Go back to sleep, you weren’t supposed to wake.”

“No, what’s happened, where's Jace?”

“He's left, he…” her voice caught in her throat, and she paused. “Someone stole Vhagar.”

The words were like a splash of ice water. She immediately leapt out of bed, ignoring Baela's protest to stay in the room. Her cousin at last relented and they marched down the corridor to the back entrance that opened into the courtyard.

Loud screams greeted their arrival.

“Vhagar was my mother's dragon!” Rhaena bellowed, alight with fury.

“Your mother's dead. And Vhagar has a new rider now.” Lucera just about stumbled over her own feet when Aemond's voice rang out.

They burst into the narrow passage to find him there, facing off against her brother and cousin. His hair was a tangled mess, caked with soot and dirt. But his skin was flush, eyes burning with pride and elation.

His words slowly sank in.

-He's claimed a dragon.

And not just any beast. The largest, most fearsome mount in the world. Luce had only the bearest moment to feel joy—his greatest wish had finally come true.

Rhaena made that joy turn to ashes in her mouth.

“How dare you? She was mine to claim!” her cousin hissed, hands balled into fists.

“Then you should have claimed her,” Aemond spat, dusting off his surcoat. “Maybe your cousin should find you a pig to ride. It would suit you more.”

“Em!” Luce gasped, heart, thundering in her chest. “What’s wrong with you?”

It was then that he finally chose to acknowledge her. His jaw clenched, and for half a breath, she thought he would lower his head in shame.

“Stay out of it, Cera,” he demanded instead, the fire in his eyes blazing red hot. "I told you, I’ll handle this.”

“You won’t handle anything.” Jace seethed. Lucera moved to seize him before he did anything foolish—the attack came all the same.

With a fierce cry, Rhaena lunged forward, shoving Aemond as hard as she could. Though the push barely caused him to stumble, he still returned it in kind. Rhaena toppled over into the dirt, screaming when her knee hit a jagged rock.

Her cry sent Baela into a frenzy. Growling, she swung at Aemond, the punch landing right on his jaw. To Luce’s horror, he struck back immediately, socking her cousin in the nose so hard, blood burst from it in a torrential spew.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!”

No amount of pulling could hold Jace back then.

He charged, swinging madly at Aemond as if they were in the training yard. He dodged, and parried his blows, giving just as many as he took. Luce's head spun.

“No, no, stop it, stop it!” she screamed feeling as if she might retch. “Stop it, both of you, you’re ruining it, you’re ruining everything!”

Her cries fell on deaf ears. Jace had seized Aemond by the throat, fingers squeezing in a mad fury.

She ceased thinking then. Charging, she clawed at their entwined arms, trying to break them apart.

The force of her pushing made Jace stumble and release his hold. Aemond's hand slipped at an awkward angle, catching her right in the mouth.

The power of the blow was eclipsed only by the pain that spread across her face. She flew back, landing on the ground with a dull thud.

“Cera!” Aemond screamed. He quickly shoved Jace away, stumbling to kneel at her side. The expression on his face was filled with torturous regret. Luce couldn’t bear to look at it.

“I’m sorry, I slipped, I..” his words died on his lips.

With a vicious roar, Jace kicked him down into the dirt.

“You stay away from her!” he shrieked, hand reaching into his waistband.

All feeling in Luce's legs severed when he pulled the blade.

“Jace, no…” she breathed, shivering.

Baela and Rhaena rushed Aemond, kicking and punching at him with ferocity. He blocked their blows as best he could, at one point managing to find enough strength to shove Rhaena away.
When Baela moved to straddle him, he swung at her head. The sickening crunch that echoed through the passage made Luce scream.

Baela fell to the side, clutching her head. Aemond forced himself up, a rock in his hand.

Jace ceased hesitating. Hand wrapped firmly around the blade hilt, he swung at his uncle, aiming right for his throat. Aemond evaded the slash quickly, blinking away the trickle of blood that had slid into his left eye. They danced around each other like wild cats, dodging and parrying each other's strikes.

In a flash, Jace's foot caught against something, and he stumbled. Aemond took the chance to knock the knife from his hand and kick in his knee.

Her brother fell to the ground with a pained cry, a cloud of dust rising to swallow him.

Aemond came to stand above him, rock raised.

“You’ll die screaming in flames, just as your father did.”

“My father’s still alive, you stupid idiot.” Jace hissed, bloodied jaw tight.

The smirk blossoming on Aemond’s lips left Luce sick.

“As if you don’t know. Lord Strong.” He sneered, the outline of his profile a mirror to Aegon's. “Fucking bastards, the both of you.”

Silence rang in Luce's ears. The numbness in her legs was still there, and it spread into her chest, her hands, all the way up to her nose.

“They hate us.”

It didn’t matter that they were friends. That he'd held her hand and played with her on the beach. That he'd pressed his lips to hers and promised to protect her.

She was a bastard—always would be. And short of reversing time, the was nothing she could do about it.

Sorrow choked her throat, and she couldn’t breathe. Aemond raised the rock higher, lips twisted into a vengeful scowl.

Again, Jace's words sounded in her head.

“Promise me you'll be there for me.”

She was moving, hands blindly searching through the dirt. When her fingers felt the cold wood, she seized it, flesh shaking.

-They’re going to kill us. They’re going to kill us both.

Shutting her eyes, she squeezed the blade.

Then, she swung.

Chapter Text

She'd wanted to cut her throat.

Alicent stood on the deck of the ship, gazing absently at the waters. In the distance, the silvery towers of High Tide were growing smaller, as the royal galley treaded water back to King's Landing

The sight was comforting—after what had transpired, she was eager to leave that place, and never return.

But the shadow that followed their ship stood as a dark reminder of the tragedy that had occurred in Lord Corlys' hall.
Alicent had watched her take off from the cliffside, massive leathern wings creating a riptide as she flew over the water. Even at a distance, Vhagar looked monstrous.

With ragged scales and a drooping neck, she looked like a green behemoth, large enough to swallow a Leviathan in a few bites.

The sight of her filled Alicent with both awe and dread.

-Ours now.

The most powerful and fearsome beast alive, bound to her son's will. The thought was enough to make Alicent want to retch. What good was a dragon when her son had to give a limb for it?
Rage overcame her then, and she squeezed the railing with a vengeance.

-I wanted to kill her. I should have killed her.

Again, she'd gotten her way. Broke the laws of gods and men and escaped justice.

-It isn’t fair.

Once, Alicent perhaps could have tolerated that. She'd spent years stewing in resentment over all that was afforded Rhaenyra. But, as much of an affront as it was to her, the blow only bruised—it had never slashed enough to draw blood. Until now.

-You shan’t have my children.

Motherhood may not have come easy to her at first, but she'd grown to cherish it. It was all she had in her misery, babes who loved her and would champion her even when no one else would.

Alicent would sooner burn the world entire than let anyone harm them.

She'd told Aemond as much after they'd retreated to their chambers for the night. The Maester had doused the stitched flesh in potion to stop corruption and bandaged half his head with cloth to help it heal.

Alicent was hesitant to let him give Aemond more milk of the poppy, but the man insisted. The pain would drive him mad otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” she'd knelt at the foot of his bed after the Maester left. He lay tucked under his covers, as still as a frightened fowl. “I’ve failed you. It was my duty to protect you, and… I… I..”

The sorrow poured out of her like water breaking through a river dam. She draped her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.
His voice bid her raise it up again.

“You didn’t fail me.” He mumbled into his chin. The potion had made him stare blankly ahead as if no thoughts were drifting about his head. “It was the opposite. You warned me. It’s not your fault I didn’t listen.”

Disdain overflowed in those words, and Alicent immediately seized his hand.

“You’re just a boy Aemond. It’s in your nature to not heed your mother's warnings. I should have recognized it. Fought harder to correct it.”

“It's good that you didn’t,” Alicent furrowed her brows at his scowl. “I had to lose an eye to see it. But I do. I see everything so clearly now. And they are even worse than you said.”

She gritted her teeth—in spite of the heavy turmoil, she found it in her to feel relieved. Finally, he had learned.

“Never again.” Her hand squeezed his. “You hear? I will never again allow them to hurt you.”

“They can't, even if they wanted to,” his lips quirked into a smirk. Beneath the haze of potion, she glimpsed the faint glow of dragonfire. “I have Vhagar now, the largest beast in the world. If they try to hurt us, they shall be answered with Fire and Blood.”

The fierceness of his proclamation was something to behold. It left Alicent breathless, frightened—of the power he'd garnered for himself. Dejected as she was about him claiming a dragon, she couldn’t help but be proud of him then.

Her own father shared her sentiment. He'd come to visit her on the morrow, as their attendants readied the King for their departure.

“What that rogue Aemond has done in winning Vhagar to our side… the boy was right. It's worth a thousand times the price he paid.”

Alicent gaped at him, at the cocksure way his lips curved into a half smile. The years had not touched him much—save for the few faint lines around his eyes, and the strands of grey peppering his brown hair, Otto Hightower stood as proud and as determined as he had been.

Ready for battle.

Drawing closer, he seized her hands into his. His eyes lingered on her untouched nails. Elation filled Alicent when she glimpsed pride on his face.

“You know what must be done. As do I.” he paused. “I’d feared that these years apart would have weakened you. Caused you to stray. It pleases me to know I was wrong.” His hand squeezed her, the grip full of determination.

“You and I stand on equal footing now. Allies, in the same battle.”

She regarded his face for the longest time.

“I’ve missed you,” she at last said, voice shattering.

Without hesitation, he pulled her into a quick embrace. The warmth and earnestness of it made her heart soar. He’d only ever held her like that once—on the day her mother had passed.

-He loves me.

For years, she'd faulted him for his ambition, for implanting the seed of fear in her heart about Rhaenyra's intentions. How foolish she had been.

As all the times before, her father was only speaking truth, in the hopes of protecting her.

-With him at my side, we will prevail.

Rhaenyra had had him dismissed once, along with every other leal friend Alicent managed to win to her side. She refused to let that happen again.

She refused to let her have anything ever again.

Exhaling a laboring breath, she watched Vhagar pass above their ship, her wings beating fierce gusts of wind into her face.
The ship swayed at the force of the disturbance, and Alicent had to clutch the railing to steady herself. As the dragon's shadow left their ship, another came to blanket the Queen.

“A perversion of justice.” Lord Larys tapped his cane against the wood, and came to lean against the rail beside her. “The young Prince… defiled. An outrage.”

She cast a weary look at him. A sweet smile curled his thin lips and he held her gaze with rapt fascination. His clubfoot drooped to the side, the steel boot so close, it almost touched the hem of her dress.

“Indeed,” she offered, trying to keep herself composed. A part of her hoped her dismissiveness would bade him leave.

Instead, he leaned in, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“If it’s an eye you want, to balance the scales. I am your servant.”

Gooseflesh slid down the length of her back, and her hands ached to rip open her nailbeds.

“That will not be necessary Lord Larys,” she fired swiftly.

He stood eyeing her, his smile never once leaving his lips. Sweet, unassuming, innocent. Just like the rest of him.

The heaviness in the Queen's belly lurched up into her throat.

There was nothing innocent about this man.

She'd come to learn that recently—in the most vile way possible.

She'd always thought him odd. A derided outcast, Lord Lyonel's younger son had been but a fly buzzing about the Keep. A nuisance to be sure, but ultimately harmless. Granted, the attention he insisted on ravishing upon Alicent was tiresome—she'd had enough useless fools fawning over her to suffer another.

Yet, time and time again, he proved to be of more worth than the other lickspittles. Unassuming as he was, he was able to move about the world unnoticed and gather all manner of secrets that proved of use. Just like a little fly on the wall.

Alicent did not enjoy having to rely on him for assistance. Sourcing court gossip was crass and beneath someone of her station. But she'd been alone these last 10 years— friendless. She needed every last bit of help she could muster.

There was no harm to it, she would reason. It was just simple whispers. And Lord Larys never asked anything in exchange for them, save for the pleasure of her company.

But then those whispers summoned the Stranger.

She still remembered it. The sweet, gentle way he looked at her, as he confessed to setting the fire at Harrenhal. The same fire that took both his father and brother.

“A Queen makes a wish,” he'd told her, voice as thick as honey, “What servant of the realm would not oblige?”

The words almost made her collapse, so sick with terror.

-No man is as accursed as a kinslayer.

She would not have anything to do with him. Whenever he sought her company in the Keep, she denied him. Every look he threw her way, she'd ignored. She may have entertained the little whispers he'd brought her, but she would not accept murder.

Her cause was meant to be just. To uphold the laws and traditions the gods themselves passed on to their children.

How could she claim to be a champion of justice if she allowed murder to go unpunished?

-And yet you wished the same fate on Rhaenyra.

She'd rushed her with the Valyrian blade, her body yearning for blood. The insult was too much to bear. Her son had been permanently maimed, robbed of a limb —and all her lord husband could think of in that moment was his darling girl and the legitimacy of her whelps.

-She seeks to destroy me, and in place of stopping her, he guides the blade.

“Now they see you as you are.” Rhaenyra had whispered to her, eyes a roaring purple. The words had enraged her. Alicent had been the one to say them to her when she'd lain her treachery bare. She had no right to repeat them back.

-What I’m doing is just. It’s good.

It didn’t matter if she resorted to blood and death to achieve it—after all, it was an ugly game and Rhaenyra had proven she would not grant her any mercy. She needed to return her blows in kind.

Blinking, she cast a look at the Clubfoot.

“But rest assured, your devotion has not gone unnoticed.” Alicent paused. “And I may have need of your friendship in the coming times.”

The man’s soft eyes glittered with a thin film of satisfaction—the gaze bade sickness rise in her stomach.

“I am at your service, my Queen."

The smell of seawater bathed Alicent in waves. She shivered at the chill. Still, the cold pinching her skin could not compare to the dread pooling in her heart.

-The gods will forgive me. They must.

Chapter Text

The letter came in the night.

Rhaenyra clutched the parchment, eyes trailing the words hastily scribbled in ink. It was Baela's handwriting.

“He means to call into question Lucera's legitimacy. And by extension yours, and mine own claim to the throne.”

Jacaerys regarded her with dark eyes, his mouth twisted into a scowl. It mirrored his father's.

-He's grown into the spitting image of him.

The same broad shoulders and sinewy arms, brown eyes, and wide jaw, the same hair of soft brown curls. They even had the same bulging tendon that pulsed in their left cheeks whenever they would grit their teeth in displeasure.

“We should have seen this coming. Vaemond has always sought power for himself,” He spat, crossing his arms on his chest. “And with grandsire wounded and tethering the edge of death, what better time than to make his play?”

Rhaenyra hung her head, despondent.

She had seen this coming. From the moment they’d received word from Driftmark that Lord Corlys had suffered a grievous wound in battle, she knew a storm would descend on her. However, she had hoped it would not come now—not when she was open and vulnerable, absent her greatest weapon.

“Vaemond cares only for Driftmark, nothing else.”

Her eldest shot her a glare. “It matters not what he cares for. Everything he does will still end up reflecting on the greater succession.”

Straightening his back, he sucked in a breath.

“His challenge must be answered. We must sail to Kings Landing to argue our own case.”

“And how do you mean to do that? The gates are closed to me.”
She violently pushed back the lump in her throat.

Eight years she’d spent languishing on Dragonstone, away from her father. Yet neither time nor distance could dampen the hurt she'd felt after she'd received his letter of banishment.

It was his handwriting. Crisp, clear and steady, despite his failing health. But the words were undoubtedly Otto Hightower's.

“You have disgraced your cousin's memory. Disgraced the whole of House Velaryon. Brought shame to me…”

She had expected him to be wroth. He’d always opposed the idea of her wedding Daemon. Her daring uncle was too volatile, too cruel, and mercurial to be allowed access to the throne.

His nature was fire and blood—and if Rhaenyra wanted to uphold the Conqueror's dream she needed more than that.

-He should have thought that before he had wed again and sired children.

Otto Hightower was determined to seize everything they'd built for himself and his blood—and not answering him with Fire and Blood meant she would never be able to uphold the legacy her father so championed.

“He will never see it that way,” she'd told Daemon after their wedding.

As soon as the priest departed the two of them moved toward the Dragonmont where Caraxes and Syrax dwelled in the caves for their ceremonial flight.

Clad in the white and red Valyrian garb, her husband cut the image of an old god of the Freehold. The very sight of him sent her to manic burning, and she had half a mind to eschew the flight to drag him to bed.

“He will. He must.” He hissed, blood dripping down his chin. “The dragon has three heads. He belongs with us, not with them.”

The mouth of the cave came into view and a pair of molten slits lit up the darkness. The smell of smoke and burnt flesh sent Rhaenyra’s heart to thundering.

“I doubt Otto Hightower would agree."

Her husband turned to her, fire in his eyes. The source of the blaze slithered out of the darkness to answer his call—Caraxes released a strangled hiss, black teeth gleaming like daggers.

“He doesn’t get a say.” He drew nearer, hand snaking around her waist. His flesh burned under her fingers, hotter than any heartfire. “Once this is done, we fly to Kings Landing to mount Otto Hightower's head on a spike. And then, when the city is purged of every last drop of green, we take our rightful place. At Viserys side. Three heads, ruling as one. Just as the Conqueror did with his sisters.”

The desire became unbearable. As Syrax sounded a call in the distance, she crushed her lips to his. The taste of blood filled her mouth, mingling with the smell of fire and dragon flesh, and Rhaenyra knew she had never made a better choice in her life.
But just as quickly as they were lit, all their plans were put out like a candle.

Whispers of her sudden marriage spread to the Red Keep like wildfire. And absent Rhaenyra to explain her reasoning, her father was left thinking that she'd committed the most grievous error. Not only had she supposedly murdered her husband, a son of a mighty house, but she'd done it to wed her uncle.
The last man her father had wished her to marry.

Nothing could move Viserys then. Even after Daemon flew to court to challenge the banishment, circling the Keep thrice on Caraxes, the gates of the city remained closed to him.

Daemon refused to speak of it. The fact his brother hadn’t even deigned to come out of Keep to affirm the banishment to his face cut him deep. He made her swear never to mention his name on Dragonstone again, and resigned himself to their fate.

Even when Rhaenyra hadn’t.

She released a strangled breath, circling the painted table. Kings Landing stood as a constant eyesore at the western edge.

“We go as petitioners, not family.” Jace reasoned. “Vaemond is staking a claim to our inheritance. By all rights, we should be allowed to dispute it.”

“I’m certain Otto Hightower won't care too much about our rights.”

“Then we must make him care,” her son continued, his determination not waning. Once again, Rhaenyra felt immeasurable relief to have him at her side. He'd been the picture of diligence, these past few years, working tirelessly to mold himself into the perfect heir.

He strode over to the table, seizing one of the toy ships to place it on Driftmark.

“Vaemond won’t sail from the Stepstones to Kings Landing right away. He will first go to Driftmark, to muster support amongst other Velaryon kin for the petition. That will take him weeks. Months, if we get lucky, and Myrish pirates blockade the gullet. That gives us plenty of time to gather our own allies.”

“And which ones are they?” She mused, “I’ve been away from court for years. Save for the Casswells, what little support I’d had has long since gone.”

Her son shook his head, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “I’ll send a raven to the Eyrie. Summon Lucera back. That should…”

“No,” she fired without thought, her stomach clenching. “She stays at the Vale.”

The thought of taking her girl to Kings Landing turned Rhaenyra's stomach.

“Driftmark is her inheritance. She has every right to defend it. And, she can bring the knights of the Vale to do it.” He paused, frowning. “Isn’t that why you sent her there to be fostered in the first place?”

Their eyes met and Rhaenyra seized the ring on her index. That was only part of the reason of course. Banished and friendless, Rhaenyra knew she had to act quickly to secure her position. Her father had not gone so far as to disinherit her yet, but with Alicent and Otto whispering to him every day, she knew that possibility was imminent.

She needed allies. Lady Jeyne seemed like a good choice. Not only was she kin from her mother's side, but she was a woman—as such, she knew all too well how tenuous it was for someone of their gender to keep power.

Nobody in her household had been thrilled at the prospect. Daemon had feuded with half the Vale in the past over his right to Runestone—a part of him was convinced Lady Jeyne would not take too kindly to him foisting a child of his on her domain.
Her son and stepdaughters were equally displeased. Jace rued having to lose his sister, while Baela and Rhaena begrudged her for taking away a companion they had grown most close with.

Only her Luce seemed untroubled by it.

“I should like to go,” she'd told her one night, as they sat in the confines of her chambers, reading from one of her books. “I've read the mountains of the Moon are one of the loveliest places in the world.”

“I’m certain the Lady Jeyne would be thrilled to show them to you.” Rhaenyra’s hand was in her girl's hair, stroking the supple curls. They'd grown long and beautiful in the last few years—as had she. But despite her loveliness, nothing could change the sorrowful frown she bore on her face.

-It haunts her still.

Though Rhaenyra couldn’t tell if it was the wound she’d dealt Aemond or the pain of losing his friendship—perhaps it was both.

“I’ve told her to let you fly your dragon as much as you want.”
A slight smile quirked her lips, and Rhaenyra crushed her to her chest. As much as it pained her to send her away, it needed to be done.

She departed not long after, arriving to the Eyrie on her 13th name day. Rhaenyra had longed for her every day of her life but took comfort in the letters she sent—in the joy she'd discovered there.

-I couldn’t be spared by duty. But she can. She must.

“Lucera has done well in the Vale. She's grown close with Lady Jeyne and her lords. I will not rob her of the comfort and safety of the Eyrie to thrust her into a den of vipers.”

Her son wished to argue, she could tell. But he gritted his teeth and averted his gaze.

Rhaenyra strode over to him and pushed a curl out of his eyes.

“We must fight this battle alone.”

Jace's face lit up. “So we will go? To Kings Landing?”

Releasing a breath, she planted a soft kiss on his forehead. Dread was picking wounds in her flesh, but she took strength in his stoic resolve.

-I can do this. I must.

“What choice do I have?”

* * *

The gates remained closed. Despite the fact she'd sent word of her arrival well in advance no one came to greet her at the entrance to the Keep.

“We should have flown in,” Jace grumbled, adjusting his riding cloak. He'd been insisting they fly Syrax and Vermax into the inner courtyard ever since they'd set sail—display their strength and rouse her supporters. Rhaenyra gainsaid him.

“And cause my father more grief? Daemon has done that plenty the last time he was here.”

Her Lord husband had raged from atop the parapets, demanding for Viserys to come out and face him. His presence had already forced the Keep into a frenzy and bade Otto Hightower to line the walls with archers and scorpions as a means to deter him. Rhaenyra had heard it said Alicent's brazen second son had meant to mount Vhagar to duel her husband in the skies.

-He's all fire, no temperance.

She needed to do better. Though she’d agreed they should fly the dragons across the city to the Dragonpit, she insisted they continue the rest of the way in a carriage.

The risk of riding to the Keep was that she had no means to force the gates open.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir apparent to his Grace, King Viserys, First of his name.” Ser Steffon Darklyn announced peering at the ramparts above the gate through the slits of his steel helm. No one acknowledged his words.

The guards were there, Rhaenyra knew. She could feel eyes following her as she paced before the double oak and iron gate. After a moment of strained silence, Jace lept out of the carriage.

“This is absurd.” Her boy threw himself against the wood, fist beating it with ferocity. “Open the gates! In the name of the Princess!”

“Jaecerys!” Rhaenyra cried, frantically scanning the parapets. She could have sworn she'd heard the loud crank of a loaded crossbow.

“My Prince, please. Step away from the gate!” Ser Steffon joined in, moving to seize him by the forearm.

He barely made it two steps when the wood parted with a loud hiss of iron hinges.

“Princess,” a familiar bald head poked through the slits.

Lord Alyn Casswell seemed to have aged 50 years since she'd last seen him. His skin was the color of chalk powder, dry and flaking in patches. The black beard he kept close-cropped was peppered with shocks of gray, and white. Though he'd worn his finest wool doublet and cloak, inlaid with threads of gold, and mother of pearl, it was crinkled and buttoned only halfway up.

“Lord Casswell,” Rhaenyra offered her hand for the man to kiss.

“Forgive me,” he knelt. “I was not informed of your arrival. I rushed here as soon as I could.”

Jace shot her a poignant look.

“It's quite alright, My Lord. It seems no one else was either. I'm here to see my father.”

Casswell shot up like an arrow, his saggy cheeks wobbling.

“Good, Princess, you should. I’ve been trying to see the King myself but to no avail. They've refused anyone attend…”

“Lord Casswell,” a voice cut him off.

Rhaenyra's muscles seized when a figure in white stepped through the gate. It was remarkable just how unchanged Criston Cole was. His swarthy skin was still smooth and unblemished, marked only by a few faint lines on his forehead and around his eyes. The locks of hair she'd once admired so fiercely were still a solid black, cropped close to frame his face.

But his eyes were what struck the most familiar chord in Rhaenyra—cold, and unflinching. Filled to the brim with resentment. The same resentment he'd carried since the day she'd refused his offer to elope.

He strode out through the gate, clad in his Kingsguard armor, white cloak billowing behind him.

“I thank you for greeting the Princess. I would be more than happy to take over now.”

“Ser Criston, I…”

The look Cole lashed him was enough to freeze the seven hells.
“Run along. You are needed in Maegor's Holdfast.”

Rhaenyra watched the man stumble inside, almost tripping over the hem of his half-fastened cloak. Before Cole could even open his mouth to speak, she rushed him.

“What is the meaning of this, Ser Criston? Is this how you greet the Crown Princess? With barred gates? Let us pass.”

The smirk that quirked his lips was enough to make her want to scream.

“Princess, my apologies. But the King’s decree still stands. You and your lord husband are not to set foot inside the Red Keep.”
“I know well what my father decreed,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes. “I should just like to hear it from him.”

The knight's smirk deepened. A part of her couldn’t believe she'd once admired that cocksure grin of his—it was positively vile.

“I’m afraid that will not be possible. The King has expressed that he does not wish to admit you.”

“The King? Or was it the Queen?”

The knight did not answer her jab—not that he needed to.

-He is Alicent’s creature through and through.

He didn’t so much as sneeze without her leave.

“It does not matter. The Queen and the Lord Hand speak in his Grace's voice.”

“My father speaks in his own voice. And I am not moving from here until I see him.”

The two of them locked eyes in a battle of wills. The fury raging within her slowly dampened the more she realized his smirk was not faltering.

“Princess, please… your Lord Husband has already made a spectacle once. There is no need to being more shame to your family by repeating his blunders.”

The fact she resisted striking him for his insolence was a miracle from the gods themselves.

“You dare…”

“We do not come as family,” Stepping forward Jace gently seized her by the forearm to pull her away. “We come as petitioners. Vaemond Velaryon means to put in a formal petition to decide the succession of Driftmark. As rival claimants we have the right, by law, to present our own case before the crown."

Pleasure ripped through her like a bolt when that smirk fell ever so slightly.

“Old law, set in place by the Old King Jaehaerys.”

“Yet still law.” Jace countered.

If Rhaenyra closed her eyes, she could almost hear Harwin's voice.

“The Lord Hand will have to decide on its validity.”

“To my knowledge, only a King can overturn laws. So unless you’re insinuating Ser Otto has committed treason and seized the throne… you will let us pass as petitioners.”

Her hand entwined with Jace's as she shot Ser Criston a look. The smirk was gone now, replaced with a resentful stare. To her undying vindication, he slowly moved aside.

His silent defeat must have served as a signal for the guards to open the gates at last. Hand in hand with Jace, she climbed back up into the carriage, her heart in her throat.

Nobody greeted them in the inner courtyard either. The muddy red walls of the Keep were silent and barren, devoid of the usual heraldry she'd known during her girlhood. The inside was just as unwelcoming.

Gone was the usual color of exotic busts and murals her father had sourced from across the Narrow Sea. In their place stood emblems of the seven-pointed star, and a mural depicting Hugor Hill receiving his crown from the gods. The smell of holy oils and incense permeated the desolate halls, and when she inhaled, she almost choked on the bitter film.

-Gods. What’s happened?

She knew the Keep would have changed in her absence, but this… it was as if she'd stepped into a different castle. There was nary a Valyria tapestry in sight and she half expected to glimpse Hightower banners hanging about the walls instead of the three-headed dragon.

Stumbling on some serving girls carrying water to the kitchens, Rhaenyra bid them to prepare apartments for her and her boys. Jace meant to follow her up to her father's chambers, but she refused him.

“I must go alone.” She announced.

He meant to protest, but she quickly tasked him with helping his little brothers settle in, so he couldn’t go on arguing.

With her head high Rhaenyra ascended the serpentine steps up into the tower where her father's solar stood. In the years she'd been away, she’d gotten increasingly worsening reports of his health. The last letter Lord Casswell sent informed her that father was now confined to his chambers. He was seldom seen leaving, save to the balcony or at times, the castle sept.

As expected, Ser Harold Westerling stood watch outside his doors.

“Princess,” the old man gave her a curt nod, blue eyes pinning hers. “You have returned.”

“If you mean to tell me that was an ill-advised decision, I fear Ser Criston has beaten you to it.” Balling her hands into fists, she came to stand before the knight. “I mean to see my father. And rest assured Ser, neither you nor anyone else can stop…”

Before she could finish, his mailed hand reached behind him, to push the doors open.

“You have been missed.” He said, and with the soft clangor of armor, stepped aside to let her pass.

Rhaenyra held his gaze, her lips curling into a soft smile.

-Perhaps not so friendless.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. Old heartfire embers clashed with the sharp stench of potions and tinctures. Darkness covered the room like a blanket, and Rhaenyra realized the servants had only parted the curtains enough to let a single ray of light peek through.

She gingerly approached, her slippers whispering against the stone. Before her, the scale model of the Old Valyrian Capitol consumed half the chamber. Even in the dimness, the thing was a work of wonder, comprised of dozens upon dozens of houses, citadels, and towers sculpted from clay, stone, and metal wire.
However, despite the fact it was twice as large as it had been when she was here last, it was coated in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.

Dread pooled in Rhaenyra's gut. Her father would never leave his model so neglected.

Whirring on her feet, she gingerly approached the adjacent chamber. The smell of smoke gave way to the faint scent of corrupted flesh and blood. Her vision blurred.

“Who goes there?” a faint voice whispered.

Behind the bed curtains, a figure came into view.

“Aemma?”

The mention of her mother's name made the sickness resting in her throat vanish.

“No, it’s me, my King,” parting the linen curtains she gingerly moved to sit on the feather bed. “It's Rhaenyra.”

Her father released a shuddering breath peeling open his remaining purple eye. Tears blurred her vision.

-Mother have mercy.

He looked like the specter of the Stranger himself. Buried under mountains of covers, her father had become nothing but bones. What little flesh he had hung loosely off him like dried prunes. His skin was dry and translucent marred by dark spots and thin, purple veins—Rhaenyra was certain that if she reached over to touch him, it would come off on her fingers like wet parchment.

“Rhaenyra…” he croaked, laboring another breath.

She peeled her lips into a smile, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Yes. I’ve returned.”

When his hand reached for her, she leaned in, elated to at last feel his touch. His skin was as tepid as river water, but she paid it no mind.

“It's been so long…” he coughed, spit flying through his remaining teeth. The smell of rot coated the roof of her mouth. “…you’ve returned… my only child… why have you returned…”

She brought his hand to her face, planting a kiss on his open palm. “To see you. To defend our legacy. Just as you wanted.”

A rattle sounded in his chest. “Legacy… how… you’ve already destroyed it.”

The fingers that were so gingerly trailing her cheekbone wrenched free. Fire lit the purple iris, and for the first time, she could see her father, the King, the man who had once tamed Balerion and spoken to her about the Conqueror's dream.

“Father, please…”

“You shouldn’t have come.. “

The words were like a blow—she leaned away, heart seizing.
“Is he with you?” He demanded.

Her jaw clenched.

“No…” she forced out, lower lip trembling. “No, he's not. He's left.”

“Go. Beg at his feet. But know, you’ll beg alone.”

Daemon's voice was like a knife, plunging deep into her heart.

“He shouldn’t return…” her father's voice bid her push her grief aside. “You should denounce him… seek penance… for your sins…”

Rhaenyra glared at him, anger quashing her grief.

-His words, Alicent's voice.

Her father was the blood of the dragon—and dragons did not concern themselves with the sins of mortal men. Just as she'd thought, the Queen had been filling his head with nonsense these last 8 years.

“Father, hear me,” she leaned again hand gripping his. “I did not order Laenor's death. That was Ser Qarl. It was a dispute between… companions, and we had nothing…”

“I’m certain Daemon would like you to think that… just as he wants everyone to believe, his first wife died by accident…”

The mention of Rhea Royce left a sour taste in her mouth. Daemon had never spoken of it. But she was no fool. To lose the wife he so despised, so close to her own wedding, was too convenient to be a mere act of the gods.

-It matters not.

“That is in the past…” she countered. “He's changed. Whatever his faults, he is ready to defend us. To defend the legacy of House Targaryen.”

The word stirred her father, and his breathing quickened.

“Legacy? You cut that up when you had your girl take Aemond's eye…”

Sickness rose in her throat. Again, it was as if she was hearing Alicent’s voice.

-Is he lost to me?

No, she couldn’t believe that.

“It was an accident. Lucera never meant it, and neither did I…”

“I charged you… to bring the two branches of our house together… And you failed…” he wheezed. “You chose Fire and Blood… over peace and unity.”

Her fingers trembled, and she gritted her teeth. The anger was sizzling now, as hot an untempered sword.

“Yes. I chose Fire and Blood. I had to.” She hissed, leaning so close, she could count each individual lash on his remaining eye. “You speak of peace and unity, but yet it is you who quashed any chance of either, the day you wed anew and sired sons.”

His only response was to wheeze and clutch at his bandaged head. The stench of rot was so potent, it was as if the Stranger herself was in the room with them.

“I was forced to do what was necessary to protect my children. You may not wish to hear this, but peace without strength cannot be upheld. Daemon understands that… as do I.”

Her father gazed back at her, purple eye half shut. Sorrow darkened the faded iris, and she shuddered.

“So that’s why you’ve come? To kill your kin… seize power for yourself?”
The blow was fierce, but Rhaenyra steeled herself.

“No,” she forced, voice thick. “I’ve come to defend my legacy. Just as you charged me to.” She allowed a brief pause so her words could sink in. “Vaemond Velaryon sails to Kings Landing to petition the crown to be named heir to Driftmark.”

Her father’s sparse brow furrowed. “Why? Has… has something happened to Lord… Lord Corlys?”

“Wounded in battle. He presently courts the Stranger. It may not be long before he comes to take him away.”

She let resolve wash over her.

“I mean to argue for Lucera. The heir Lord Coryls had chosen years prior.” Against her better judgment, her hand brushed against his fingers—it was like clutching charred wood logs. “if you ever cared about my legacy… defend me. And my children.”

He sucked breath after breath, straining beneath the covers.

“You… you were all I had left of Aemma… my Aemma.” The tenderness in his voice shattered her. “And you turned your back on me…”

“Father…”

“Go…” he rattled. “Return to Dragonstone… plot your power grab there… leave me… just as you had before.”

He moaned, shutting his eyes, as his hand reached for his head. She sat by his side for the longest time—waiting for him to change his answer. To offer her comfort and forgiveness. Just as he had all the times before when she'd blundered.

Instead, all he offered was a labored wheeze.

She hardly remembered the trek back to her chambers. Her skin alight, she stumbled through the oak and iron door of her old apartments. Sweat dripped down her back, and leaning against a chair was all she could do not to topple over.

“Mother?” Jacaerys was at her side in an instant, taking her forearm to steady her. “What’s happened?”

“Is grandsire alright?” Her Joffrey asked, passing a toy dragon to Aegon.

“No, no, he's… he's not, he…” shaking off Jace's grip, she rushed over to her maidservant to check on Viserys. Her beautiful babe was fast asleep in her arms, head of silver curls buried in the crook of the woman's neck.

“We must prepare.” She nervously brushed the hair out of his eyes. The soft breaths he puffed through his nose melted her heart. “I expect the guards will be coming to escort us out soon."

“What? He's refused you?” The look of shock on Jace’s face mirrored her own.

He too had expected grandsire to be moved by her. Just as he always was.

“Yes, he’s… he's lost to me,” the stab of pain she felt in her gut was so potent, she had to clutch her belly to make sure she was not bleeding. “The Queen has him completely under her spell. We must prepare ourselves, we… we fight alone…”

The breath left her lungs, and she stumbled over her words. Again, Jace rushed to her side, arms extended. This time, she did not have the strength to deny his embrace.

-They've all gone.

Her mother, Ser Harwin, and even Laenor. For all his talk of protecting her and their babes, he’d leapt at her offer of escape the moment she'd presented it. It was a good thing, she'd reasoned. A kindness that freed him from the burden of his responsibilities. And freed her to pursue true strength and protection for herself.

-And yet even that protection has left you.

Daemon may have vowed to never abandon her again, but it was all farce. The moment they'd disagreed, he'd mounted Caraxes and flown away—not a thought spared for her and her feelings.

-Father was all I’d had.

He was the one constant in her life, an immovable object she could always lean on when she stumbled. Now, that comfort too, had been taken from her. The last and most painful blow.

-I’m alone.

Releasing a strangled sob, she buried her head into her son's shoulder.

Then, she wept.

Chapter Text

The girl was shivering.

Alicent stood in the confines of her solar, hands entwined at the front. The Small Council session had left her drained, and news of Rhaenyra’s arrival had served as the killing blow.

Yet the gods somehow thought she hadn’t suffered enough.

“I’ve brought her here immediately. She’s seen no one else, Your Grace.” Talya whispered, her voice grave.

Alicent regarded the girl, a lump in her throat. Each sob she let out was like a stab in the heart.

“Leave us,” she commanded.

The sound of brisk footsteps, followed by the closing of a door latch bade the Queen to step closer.

“Come, sweetling.” Gingerly, she took the girl by the shoulders and made her stand. “What’s your name?”

The girl's lip trembled, and she wiped tears from her eyes.

-Young.

Short and plump, with a childlike face—no older than six and ten. Somehow, that filled Alicent with relief.

-At least she's not a child.

That she would have never been able to stomach.

“Dyanna if it… if it please Your Grace…” she stuttered, blue eyes as wide as figs.

“Dyanna… such a pretty name,” the Queen smiled. “I understand you found yourself in some trouble?”

Those impossibly wide eyes somehow went wider, and she choked out a sob.

“I was... I was fetching the Prince his wine and I put it on the table and when I turned I… I didn’t see him…” another sob and the girl began vigorously shaking her head. I asked him to stop… I did… truly, please, you must believe me.”

The tears came then, and she coughed up air, her entire body trembling with the effort. Alicent couldn’t bear it.

Rushing her, she seized the poor thing into an embrace. Her sobs resonated through the Queen's chest making her own heart ache with grief and anger.

Anger most of all.

“Thank you for telling me, Dyanna,” she whispered softly into her wispy blonde hair. "I know it wasn’t your fault.”

Breaking apart, she cupped her cheeks. The terror pouring out of her face was enough to make the Queen ill. “I believe you.”

“You… you do?” she blinked, her sobs going quiet.

Again, Alicent allowed herself to smile, her hand gently wiping away the girl's tears.

“Yes.”

“A woman’s lot in life is to suffer the evils of men.”

Her mother had told her that once. It wasn’t until she had passed, and Alicent found herself suffering the embraces of a decrepit man twice her age that she understood what she had meant.

-I must ease her pain.

That is what The Mother charged other women to do.

“But… I worry what others might believe.”

The soft, tender look of relief on her face vanished. It was easy to bend her will then.

No one had witnessed what had transpired between her and Aegon—it would be his word against hers. They would call her a wanton, who had tried to seduce the Prince and make him break his marriage vows. She would be banished to the Street of Silk, branded a whore for as long as she lived.

By the end, the girl was sputtering, half a breath away from falling to her knees to beg.

“I would never dream of telling anyone!” she cried.

Alicent cocked her head at her. “I know you won't.”

For half a breath, she thought she wouldn’t accept the coin. Her face had gone slack, as Alicent had thrust the purse her way. Her red eyes dimmed further when Talya entered the chamber, a steaming cup in hand.

“It's best to be certain,” she said, offering her the drink.
Her blue eyes narrowed, and she blinked at her, like a child, seeking comfort—seeking the embrace and understanding of a fellow woman.

Alicent offered her naught but a terse glare. Her face dropped in a heartbeat—then, she downed the cup in one swallow.
She charged Talya to escort her out of the Keep through the back gate.

“Find passage for her outside the city. As far away from here as possible.” she'd instructed, bile rising in her throat.

That girl could travel from Pentos to Lorath, the Dothraki sea, all the way to Asshai by the Shadow and beyond. She would never be able to escape the horror of what had happened to her—what her wretched son had done.

-I won't either.

The Mother would punish her for this, she was certain. Aegon had already committed enough sins to send them to the deepest hells five times over. He’d drunk, debauched, spent frivolously, and dishonored his marriage vows more times than she could count.

But the one solace she'd always taken was the fact all the others had been willing. He had never sunk this low before.

She halted, mid-stride, her mind alight.

Of course, he had—she had just chosen not to see it.

Naturally, when she sought him in his chambers, he was gone. The bed stood pristine, evidence of a night spent sleeping elsewhere. She did not know why she went to Helaena’s chamber—it was the last place Aegon would be. In fact, Alicent prayed to the gods he wouldn’t be.

“He's gone away, I think. To the city.” Helaena had told her.
Her darling girl sat on the cushioned settee, doing needlework, while her babes played at her feet.

“Did he come here, at all?” she drew nearer kneeling to be at eye level with the twins. Neither Jaehaerys nor Jaehaera said a word to her, seemingly engrossed in slamming their wooden dragons together.

Alicent released a breath, sweet sadness filling her.
“Once.”

The Queen rose to look at her, dread in her gut.

“Did he…”

Helaena stabbed the needle in her tambour frame, eyes averted. The way her shoulders slumped was all the answer the Queen needed.

“Oh my dearest love, forgive me,” she rushed to her side, to sit by her on the cushions. She'd hardly extended her hand to offer a comforting touch when Helaena swatted it away.

“Have you seen Dyanna? She was supposed to dress the children.”

Alicent trailed her nailbeds nervously. She'd hardly managed to open her mouth to being explaining when Helaena lowered the tambour frame.

“He’s done it again,” The words were a declaration, not a question. “You should get someone older next time.”

“I don’t think age is the issue.”

Her son would bed anything when he was in his cups.

“I know,” Helaena offered, her voice airy. “But she'll have a better chance at defending herself. When you’re small and young… it’s harder to fight back.”

Her words wormed their way under her skin, to bite at her heart. Alicent attempted to caress her one more time, hands aching for a touch. To her undying relief, her girl leaned in, stiffly letting her brush her fingers against her cheek.

-She will never forgive me.

Not that Alicent could forgive herself. She'd raged against it, from the moment her father had suggested it.

“Helaena is my only daughter. Do you think I’d ever allow such a vile depravity be done to her? I’d rather pluck mine own eyes out.”

“Would you have the King wed her to Jacaerys then?” Otto Hightower reasoned, his voice even. He was always like that. Calm and collected, whenever he meant to plot some terrible scheme.

In that moment, Alicent wished she had never called him to retake his position as Hand.

“It is tradition…” he continued.

“It is a sin. A perversion.”

Her father barreled right over her, the serene look never once leaving his face.

“House Targaryen has wed brother to sister for hundreds of years. It is as much a symbol of their power as the dragons are.” He paused, taking her hands into his. The way he squeezed her fingers made sickness pool in her gut. “it would do much to enshrine Aegon's legitimacy as the rightful heir. It may turn your stomach as it does mine, but it needs to be done. Elsewise, the King will betroth her to Jacaerys.”

His lips pursed as he eyed her over the bridge of his nose. Alicent wrenched free of his grasp. He was right, of course. Ever since his precious girl had fled to Dragonstone, Viserys had been despondent. He'd eschewed court life and sat confined in his chambers, brooding on how best to rid Rhaenyra's whelps of the taint of bastardy. Alicent knew he meant to make it against the law to question their birth—but she knew that was only a half measure.

The easiest way to secure their position would be marriage—and she would rather be damned than see any of her babes dishonored by bastards.

She reasoned it would be best to betroth her children to great Lords. But her husband valued the wellbeing of his grandchildren over her own, and would swiftly break her plans in favor of securing their future. If she meant to protect them, she needed to appeal to the tradition he so cherished.

He was not pleased. But, after Rhaenyra's wild girl had carved Aemond's eye, he quietly accepted it, to Alicent’s relief. Nevertheless, her small victory was worth naught. Not when her darling girl suffered.

She hadn’t understood. Not even when the seamstresses fussed over her to fit her wedding gown, not even when the King had led her before the Septon to exchange vows with her own brother. Alicent's father had insisted they organize a lavish wedding feast as a means to signal to their supporters.

On this, Alicent steadfastly refused to indulge him. Her little girl was distressed by large gatherings, and she could not bear to cause her more hurt by parading her before the whole realm. The modest wedding feast they'd thrown had been pain enough. Wrapped in a ghastly sack of jewels, silks, and lace, Helaena had sat on the dais beside her drunken husband, rocking back and forth, while her hand tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves. When the bedding came, Alicent thought she would scream and cower under the table, but the rowdy lords did not grant her the mercy of escape.

She'd warned Aegon not to touch her.

“She is your sister,” she’d hissed at him. The very thought of what was meant to transpire left her dizzy with sickness. “You are to do naught to her save sleep by her side. She is too young. She is not ready.”

Drunk as he was, she'd thought Aegon had understood. He'd been just as repulsed by their union as she was, and Alicent hoped he would be keen to postpone their wedding night for a later date.

She had underestimated the darkness lurking in his heart.

It was Talya who had told her—about the screams that had come from her girl's chambers in the dead of night. When the servants found bloodied sheets in her bed on the morrow, Alicent collapsed.

She'd wished to kill him then. Drag him out into the courtyard and drive a sword through his wretched heart.

Her father had stayed her hand. It was their duty, he'd reasoned. They needed to consummate the marriage and produce heirs—just as she had done with Viserys.

It mattered little to her.

-What is duty, if it destroys those we love?

Her girl had refused to speak of it to her ever again. But she recognized the forlorn gaze Helaena carried on her face—blank, listless, devoid of life. It was a mirror to the same gaze Alicent had born ever since she'd first lain on her back, with her legs parted.

-The gods curse me.

She'd served them faithfully, upheld every custom, said every prayer. Yet when she looked about, she saw naught but misery. A lecherous son wedded to his own sister. Two grandchildren with 12 fingers on their hands, who seldom spoke, hardly laughed, and never looked at her.

-I was to be their champion. To uphold what is good. What is right.

Yet, in that moment, Alicent Hightower felt as if it is her own cause that was what was wrong.

* * *

She went to meet Rhaenyra on the morrow. The business with Dyanna had left her so drained, it took her the better part of the day to regain her strength.

However, just as she was preparing herself to face her foe, Talya bought her the most glorious news she could have ever received.

Her husband had spurned her. At last, after years spent revering her as the Mother come to life, he had put her in her place. The vindication Alicent felt left her so breathless, she almost knocked back half a pitcher of Arbor gold in celebration.

Her faith renewed, quashing any doubts she'd had previously. The gods were with her again at last, and she would do their will, as intended.

She decided to let Rhaenyra stew. The advantage was hers, and Alicent meant to milk it for all its worth.

Retiring for the night, she slept, sweeter than she had in years, and rose on the morrow, ready for war.

She chose a green gown, of course.

Inlaid with lacework, silver thread, and whalebone padding, the bodice resembled armor more than a corset. Alicent relished the way the fabric squeezed her waist, forcing her to keep her back straight and chest out.

With her hair braided and pinned at the top of her head, she marched to Rhaenyra’s old apartments, Ser Criston trailing after her.

She was pleased to find her only half awake.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” she pushed open the door, casually strolling inside. “And Prince Jacaerys. It has been so long since we were granted the joy of your presence.”

The fork she'd been clutching clattered onto the plate, and she pushed herself out of her chair, her breakfast forgotten. She was still bundled in her smite house robe, her long silver hair tied into a loose braid.

Alicent resisted smirking when she noticed how thickened her waist had become. Childbirth had at last taken its toll on her, and her belly protruded beneath her fabrics, almost as heavy as her breasts.

At last, Alicent could feel glad of all the days she spent denying herself food to correct the damage birthing children had dealt her figure.

“Not nearly long enough to merit a greeting upon our arrival.” Her son spat, jaw squared.

Alicent blinked at him, stunned. It was as if Harwin Strong had returned from the dead. The boy had grown monstrous, half a head taller than his mother, with s broad chest and well-muscled arms.

Brown curls framed his long face, and if he grew a beard, Alicent thought he could comfortably go to Harrenhal to stake a claim to Lord Larys' inheritance.

“You must forgive me, other matters occupied my attention.” She relished the way Rhaenyra's jaw tightened. “But I had Ser Criston bid you mine and the King's message. Which you disregarded.”

Her white knight stirred beside her. When she cast a look at him, she half expected to glimpse that same lustful rage burning in his dark eyes he only got whenever he was face to face with her. To her relief, she spied nothing but disgusted resentment.

“If the good Ser informed you of that, then surely he also told you that we do not come as a family, but as petitioners.” Rhaenyra spat arms seizing the front of her house robes.

“Hm, yes, the Old law.” She smiled. “If my knowledge serves me it only applies to the claimant. Not their extended family."

The way Jacaerys gaped at her, she thought the beast meant to launch himself at her to seize her by the throat.

“And to my knowledge, the claimant is entitled to representatives.”

The Queen pursed her lips.

“Of course, and your daughter is most welcome to name you as such when she comes to plead her case. But for the time being, I fear you cannot remain.”

Rhaenyra's nostrils flared, but her son was quicker.

“Only the King can formally evict us from court.”

“And he has. Years ago. But it seems you are intent on disregarding his commands. So I’ve come to issue them one last time.”

The silence that followed the proclamation could cut worse than steel. Rhaenyra eyed her purple eyes alight with fury.

“You are not the King.” She growled at last.

Alicent lifted her head higher. “No, I’m the Queen. And I have the right to express my Lord Husband's will and wisdom while he is indisposed.”

The chortle she released made Alicent's skin prick up in annoyance. Even defeated, she dared act insolent.

“And how does he express his wisdom to you, exactly? In blinks and wheezes?”

“The King's condition has worsened since you saw him last,” she fired, incensed. She would not suffer accusations of mishandling Viserys' health—not when she'd spent years acting as his nursemaid. “it is at the advice of the Maesters that we…”

“Ah yes, the Maesters.” Rhaenyra barreled over her. Leaving the table, she drew closer, face twisted into a scowl. “It is they, who keep him addled on milk of the poppy while the Hightowers warm his throne.”

Heat surged into her head. Alicent almost leapt to seize the dinner knife off the table, to reopen the scar on her arm.

“Rhaenyra, if you saw him without it you would not be saying such things.”

“Yes, I’m certain it’s a great mercy to keep him confined to his bed.”

Gritting her teeth, she blew a breath. “Yes, it is. So is me forgiving your vile insinuations, and bidding you a peaceful farewell.”

She allowed the words to linger just long enough, before drawing closer. The purple of her iris was just as vibrant as it had been in their girlhood.

“Please, I beseech you. You are not welcome here. Leave for Dragonstone, at once. And no further grief may be caused. You do not wish to repeat your husband's mistakes.”

Just as she’d thought, the mention of Daemon bid her to stumble back. Alicent balled her fists. “Where is the Prince, I wonder?”

Strained silence was her answer. At last, Rhaenyra gritted her teeth. “He's away, on a sensitive diplomatic mission.”

How she resisted chuckling was beyond her. The lie was so deliciously plain to see. Larys had long ago brought her whispering from his little rats at Dragonstone of Daemon’s quarrel with his wife and subsequent departure. No one had seen the Prince for months, and Vaemond's declaration had not bid him to return to defend her.

-She is alone.

At last, there was no one at her side to give her reprieve, grant her special privileges not afforded others. She had to stand alone, with her sins, so the gods could pass righteous judgment on her.

The thought almost made Alicent weep for joy.

“Good, you needn’t be burdened by his hot temper. I shall have Ser Criston arrange an escort to take you from the Keep to the docks where you can sail home.”

“What, we're leaving?” a child's voice sounded.

It was then that Alicent chose to acknowledge the two boys still seated at the breakfast table. The taller, lanky one was plainly the infant Joffrey, all grown now. His soft brown curls and pug nose were a mirror of his elder brother. But the boy beside him was unfamiliar.

No older than five, he sat clinging to Joffrey like a kitten, eyes downcast.

His eyes were what first drew Alicent's attention. They were a deep, smoky purple, ringed with pale lashes that fluttered against his pudgy cheeks. A shock of fine, silver hair framed his cherub face, and when he pursed his lips, she could see Daemon's smirk.

-Aegon. This must be Aegon.

The son she and her dearest uncle had birthed shortly after they'd wed. Barring the deliberate name choice, the boy was plainly a Valyrian, his parentage unquestioned.

However, rather than that working in Rhaenyra's favor, it only served to contrast her other two, plain featured sons.

-The jests write themselves.

“Hush, Joffrey,” Jacaerys warned, nostrils flaring. Hulking as he was, the boy could easily pass for a bull.

“My father will not allow this.” Rhaenyra reasoned, but there was no conviction in her voice.

“He has, and you must follow through with it,” Alicent announced, voice thick with elation. “Dress yourselves, and gather your things. Your escort will be waiting in…”

The sound of the door latch bid her pause. She whirled on her feet, just in time to glimpse two figures stumble inside.

“Lord Casswell, I beseech you to cease this nonsense immediately,” her father’s face was twisted in a scowl, as he stared daggers down at his interlocutor. The aged Lord Casswell seemed to return his glare in kind, at last uncovering his spine.

“You will pardon me, My Lord hand if I do not. I have a message for the Princess.” His squinty eyes narrowed at her. “From her father, the King.”

Alicent's gut dropped. Chills racing down her spine, she accosted the foolish man, seizing the parchment he was clutching in his fleshy fingers.

The words she read made her ears ring.
“What is it? Hand me the letter.”

Alicent crushed the paper before Rhaenyra could rush to take it from her hands.

“It seems the King has decided to allow you to remain.”

She refused to look at her face—she could not bear to see that smug, triumphant grin again. If she did, she would pitch her, Lord Casswell, and whichever fool had granted him entry to her husband's chambers through the tallest window in the Red Keep.

“As petitioners,” her Lord father clarified, eyes narrowed.

Alicent lashed him with a look. His attempts to soften this blow were futile. What did it matter if Viserys allowed her to stay as a petitioner? She would still be here, under his nose, ready to spin her web and worm her way back into his good graces. Just as she always did.

“Good, then the matter is settled.” A faraway voice said. It was most like Jacaerys. “And you may get out of my mother’s chambers.”

Silence followed the declaration, as one by one, her father and Lord Casswell shuffled out. Alicent was the last one to leave, her muscles trembling with weakness.

-Why? Why have you forsaken me?

If the Mother heard her call, she did not give an answer.

Chapter Text

He had scarcely broken his fast when he received the news.

“Are you certain?” Jace asked the guard, his heart in his throat.

The lanky man nodded, his wide forehead dotted with sweat.

“Yes, my Prince. Our party came upon the Arryn men just outside the city gates. Your sister was with them. She sent me ahead to inform you of her arrival.”

He was on his feet in an instant, waving for the chambermaid to fetch him his cloak.

“I shall greet her in the courtyard.”

“Shall I inform your mother, the Princess Rhaenyra as well?”

“No,” Jace fired forcefully. “Tell no one of this, understood?”

He was careful to lower his voice and square his jaw. His attempt at intimidation certainly fell short, but the guard bowed his head nonetheless.

Fastening the cloak around his shoulders, he moved to exit the chamber. His mother was not going to be pleased when she learned he had dragged Luce out here after all. But after the development with his grandsire, he was immeasurably glad he had chosen to do it.

-We need all the support we can muster.

Rhaena's entreaty to Caelyn Velaryon had fallen through. His cousin had sailed separately from them to Duskendale, where they'd heard the lesser cousin of Lord Corlys had made port with his ship, the Proud Captain.

“If anyone will speak for our claim against Vaemond, it's him.” She'd reasoned. The man had had an eternal quarrel with their great uncle, and could scarce stomach to be in the same room as him.

Sadly, that burning hatred did not prove great enough for him to lend them his support. Three days after they'd arrived at the capital, Rhaena had appeared at the gates, with her escort and Ser Lorrent Marbrand in tow, bearing grim tidings. She refused to repeat what her distant cousin had said.

But from the way her doe eyes widened and her cheeks bloomed red, Jace gathered the words had not been kind.

-The knights of the Vale will serve instead.

They might not hold the same weight as a Velaryon, but they still had cause to argue their case on account of Lady Jeyne's own position. Nevertheless, Jace was not keen on it.

The court held many dangers for him and his, but they were greatest for his twin.

-An eye for an eye.

Years might have passed, but he had no doubt the greens meant to charge her for the blood she'd split.

-Let them try.

He was going to answer their demands with steel and dragonfire.

Rushing out of his chambers, he ignored the stares and whispers of courtiers he encountered.

Mother had been right. The castle was no longer as vibrant as it had been. Jace wouldn’t have minded—he'd always despised the lickspittles crawling about the Red Keep, seeking to ingratiate themselves with the royal family.

But the rats that had remained were all draped in green. And they had no love for him or his mother.

The pointing and sneering was worse outside. A crowd of spectators had gathered out in the training yard to observe the men practicing their swordplay.

Jace waded through the press resisting the urge to stop and gawk. He recognized the newly appointed twins, Ser Erryk and Arryk Cargyll circling each other like cats, their swords at the ready.

Only a few feet away, the barrel-chested Addam Stokeworth was trying and failing to swing at Ronnet Hunt. Each of his clumsy blows slid off Ser Hunt's shield like raindrops, till the hulking knight tired of the play and knocked the young squire on his ass.

Jace just about burst out laughing.

-Gods, I missed this place.

It pained hin to admit, especially since Kings Landing held so much danger for him and his. But it also housed some of the fondest memories of his youth.

The clanger of swords, the smell of steel and leather. He even spotted that giant hole he'd made in the wall when he and Aegon had played with Ser Criston's morningstar.

-If only things could have stayed so innocent.

Jace silently scolded himself. Things had never been innocent—not for him. He'd just been too young and foolish to recognize the danger.

Edric Florent and his snickers, Aegon's Marcher lords— they’d all worked behind his back, scheming his family's downfall.
But he was blind no more. He could see it everywhere now. Every blow, parry, and dodge was not innocent sword training—it was the enemy preparing for war.

But the worst of it was right at the center of the yard.
He'd noticed them the moment he'd burst out onto the balcony, overlooking the grounds.

The shock of silver hair billowing wildly as the figure evaded Ser Criston's morningstar. Jace had initially assumed it was Aegon. But then he recalled that it was far too early for his half-uncle to be out of bed.

That only left one option.

Bile rose in his throat as he descended the steps and saw that long, austere face.

-He's changed.

So much so that Jace could scarce recognize him. Aemond Targaryen had come a long way from the pasty, scrawny thing that would sit in the corner with his nose buried in a book. He was almost a head taller than Jace, with broad shoulders and a slender waist.

However, despite his height, he was still light and swift on his feet, dodging Ser Criston's swings with ease. Save for Daemon, Jace had never seen anyone be so graceful yet so precise with his sword. When Ser Criston’s morningstar shattered his shield, he discarded it and in two quick swings disarmed him of his own.

When Cole swung again, this time aiming to take off his head, he first parried and then ducked out of the way. When the knight tried to use his muscle to slam the morningstar into his chest, Aemond deflected it and used the knight's open side to knock the weapon out of his hand.

The force of the blow made Cole stumble to one knee and the crowd erupted into a delighted cheer.

Jace too was half tempted to clap, but stayed his hand. Aemond did not need encouragement. Smirking, he pressed the sworn into Cole's neck, his one remaining eye blazing a furious purple. He'd hidden the other behind an eyepatch, which made him look even more fearsome.

“Yield.” Cole proclaimed, pride radiating from his face like a beacon. He hadn't aged much, but beside Aemond, he looked quite haggard.

“Well done, my Prince.” The knight continued, rising to his feet. “You'll be winning tourneys in no time.”

“I don't give a shit about tourneys.” Aemond retorted, mouth twisting into a scowl. “Again.”

“I believe we've done enough for today. You must rest.”

“I'll rest when I'm dead. Again.”

Ser Criston released a strangled breath. “If you wish my Prince, but you will forgive me if I rest.”

His half-uncle snorted, pale fingers clutching at his sword hilt. Jace swallowed hard when he realized the steel was live.

-How could Cole allow live steel during sparring sessions?

“Fine then, I shall find someone else.” He turned, combing through the gathered crowd.

None of the men stepped forward to answer his challenge.

“No one? It seems all the men here are even more tired than you are Ser Criston.”

Light chuckles followed his declaration.

“Perhaps some fresh blood then. Nephew?”

Jace’s muscles seized. He'd taken great care to blend in with the press of spectators, to always hover on Aemond's blind side. Still, his half-uncle had unearthed his hiding spot, his purple eye lashing him like a whip.

“What do you say? Would you spar with me?”

His gaze invited the gawking of others. Suddenly, all the gathered turned to face him, and a torrent of whispers began.

-I am the blood of the Dragon.

And he was not afraid.

“Hello to you as well, dear uncle.” He stood straighter, forcing a smile on his face. “I must say I’m disappointed. Eight years apart and you seem to have forgotten your courtesies.”

“And you seem to have forgotten your balls.” Snickers rang in his ear as Aemond approached. The crowd parted in his wake like a curtain. “Has time on Dragonstone turned your blood to water? Come, let us spar for a bit. I give you my word that I will be gentle.”

Jace gritted his teeth. “I do not need the mercy of a boy I used to kick about in the training yard.”

To his relief, the snickers he heard were louder but went right to Aemond.

His half-uncle did not appreciate the jab. “Things have changed. And if your craven self would pick up a sword, I would be more than happy to prove that.”

For a moment, he just about swung at him. That smug, self-satisfied scowl on his face was too much to bear. But the thought of his mother's reaction made him stop.

“As much as I would enjoy reliving our youth, I must decline. I came as an escort, not a warrior.”

“A coward’s excuse.” Aemond’s sparse brow shot up, dragging the corner of his lips with it.

“No, a brother’s reason." Jace retorted, moving to sidestep him.
For a moment, he thought Aemond would not allow it. But the sound of creaking hinges distracted him long enough for Jacaerys to walk past him.

The oak and iron gate parted open to allow a group of men on horseback to ride in. Jace frowned when he spied the green fretty of House Hayford on their doublets.

Crownlands house. Not what he was looking for.

His confusion shattered when a plain chestnut filly rode in after the Hayford men. The willowy figure betrayed the rider as a woman, and the second she threw the hood off her head, Jace's heart soared.

-She's so different.

Like with Aemond, he could scarce recognize her.

Gone was that pudgy, sullen face, and the wild unkempt hair. In their place stood delicate cheekbones and a thick, well-crafted braid.

Even her posture was different—tall and straight, oozing the kind of dignified elegance he'd only seen on mother.

Jace hadn’t even noticed he was drawing nearer, till he was right at the foot of her horse.

“You're late,” he blurted, right as she dismounted with a loud thud of riding boots.

His surprise turned into familiar annoyance when his sister frowned, the same sour scowl she'd given him since they were children.

“Three years apart and the first words you have for me are criticism?”

The chuckle escaped his lips before he could contain it.

-Maybe not so different.

“Forgive me. How about ‘you got taller"?”

Lucera released a labored sigh.

“So have you. But not smarter.”

With a scoff, he swept her up in a tight embrace.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, allowing that tender familiarity to blossom in his belly.

“Forgive me. I wished to come sooner,” she murmured into his hair. “But we were delayed. At the Fingers, someone from my escort caught the flux, and it spread. We were forced to make port at Wickendon.”

Pulling apart she quickly adjusted the buttons on his coat. He could feel curious eyes burrow into him but resolved to pay them no mind.

“I meant to come here on dragonback, but Ser Joffrey insisted I take a ship with a smaller party and go ahead of them”

Jace arched a brow. “Ser Joffrey? Cousin to Lady Jeyne? The one who…"

A smile curved her lips. “Stands to inherit the Vale? The very same.”

“So you have brought an army.”

“Per your request.”

Relief bathed Jace like a wave crashing against the sand. An ally at last.

“When will they be here?” he asked, scouring the yard.

“The main party? At least a month's ride away. But the escort Ser Joffrey sent with me should be outside the city. I left them there to fly to the pit on Arrax.”

It was his turn to smirk. “Well, you did always enjoy dramatic entrances.”

“It does us good to remind the folk of this city of the blood that runs in our veins.”

He blew a breath, and averted his gaze. Without a word, Luce's hand slid into his. Amid the tension, he found time to feel warmth.

Even after 3 years she could still read his moods to a fault.

“Has Vaemond arrived yet?”

“No, he’s not set sail. Myrish pirates are circling Driftmark. And since grandmother isn’t too keen to mount Meleys to chase them off, he's been delayed.”

“Good, that means we have time to prepare. I should go see mother. I’ve kept her waiting long enough.”

Jace averted his gaze. “Well, not exactly…”

Luce frowned.

“You didn’t tell her you called me? Jacaerys…”

“Because she wouldn’t have let me! Part of the reason she sent you to the Eyrie is to keep you away from this nonsense.”

Shutting her eyes, a tired smile grazed her lips. Jace felt such pity.

-Still dreaming of adventure.

He may not have understood her yearning for the life of a commoner, but he valued the joy it brought her nonetheless.

“Would that that were possible.”

Releasing a breath, Jace straightened.

“I’ll take you to her. Explain everything…”

“No. You will go to the Old gate. Ser Fedryn will be riding through there. You want to give him a royal welcome befitting of his house. I’ll handle mother.”

Jace released a breath. “I really did miss you.”

Bushing her lips against his cheek, Luce dusted off her riding browns and smirked.

“I know.”

Side-stepping him, she handed him the reigns of her chestnut filly.

Jace watched her trot toward the stairs, ignoring every pair of evil eyes gazing pointedly at her. Sadly, she couldn’t ignore the voice calling her name.

“Princess,” with a curt smile, Ser Criston Cole stepped forward forcing the gathered spectators to disperse. With his swarthy cheeks flush, and dark eyes alert, he looked like a stalking bobcat. Ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

“You’re back. We weren’t expecting you.”

Jace just about leapt to put himself between the weasel and his sister, but Lucera's easy grin stopped him.

“Oh trust Ser, I had no desire to leave the comforts of the Vale either. But my mother had need of me.”

Ser Criston's brows shot up in surprise, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

“Of course. Shall I escort you to her?”

“No need, I still know my way around. But you can have Ser Harold and a few men escort my brother to the Old gate. We're expecting guests.”

Again, the knight’s dark brows creased, but he said nothing. Jace scratched the filly behind the ear—years on, and she still knew how to handle their enemies.

Sadly, her next opponent proved to be a greater challenge.
No sooner had she passed Ser Criston, that Aemond Targaryen materialized right before her, purple eye wide. He stared Luce down, frozen in place, a most bitter scowl playing on his lips. The malice was so palpable, Jace half expected him to lunge and impale her with the sword he'd been waving at Criston.

-Not today.

Grabbing his dagger hilt, Jace readied himself. If the bastard wanted vengeance, then Jace was going to answer his demand. With blood.

Luce denied him the chance. Before Aemond could say or do anything, she merely sidestepped him and bolted up the stairs—not a single word spoken, or glance exchanged.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or feel relieved.

-She’s put that business behind her.

The strange friendship they’d shared had ended on the day she’d taken his eye. But the guilt… the guilt had stayed her companion. Jace worried she would carry it all her life—and burden their cause with it.

-No longer it seems.

He needed to write Lady Jeyne a letter of gratitude. She had pushed Aemond Targaryen out of his sister’s mind and heart.
Jace vaulted up onto the filly with a smirk.

-Now we can really focus on the future.

Chapter Text

It was as if he had been struck by lightning.

Utter shock, confusion, and surprise overcame him at once.
He blinked. Once, twice, thrice.

She was still there.

He hadn't even recognized her.

And to think Jacaerys returning was the worst thing to happen of late.

It had amused him to no end to see his half-nephew rebuke his offer of a duel. It was more like Aegon to hide behind a woman’s skirt when called to fight. But he supposed years on Dragonstone could have turned Rhaenyra's bastard more rowdy.

It was uncanny how much he looked like his father. The same brown hair, brown eyes, and pug nose.

The fool couldn’t have been more of a Strong if he had painted their sigil on his forehead.

Better still, everyone could see it too. As he ran off to meet a hooded figure riding through the gate, hushed whispers followed his every move.

“So much for hiding,” he spat at Ser Criston.

The knight picked up a discarded practice shield and moved to mount it on the display rack.

“The Princess is heir to the throne. She couldn’t secret herself on Dragonstone forever.”

Aemond twirled the sword in his hand, examining the blade. It needed a good sharpening.

“No, but by returning, she lays the truth bare. For everyone to see.”

His half-nephew hovered in his periphery, animatedly speaking to a brown-haired girl in riding leathers. Aemond searched for a sigil to identify her but found none.

“Careful my Prince.” Cole chided, “I fear not everyone will be willing to see what is so plain to all decent folk.”

Even without turning to see what he was looking at, Aemond knew Lord Alyn Caswell was there, skulking about the yard.

He scoffed.

With the amount of digging that sullen fool did for Rhaenyra, he should change his house sigil to a mole.

“Well then, I suppose we must make them see.”

Twirling the sword one last time, he beckoned one of the yard boys to take it. Cole's sudden change of tone made him frown.

“Princess,” the Kingsguard announced, his voice low and curt.

Stumped, Aemond cast a quick glance at the top of the stairs. Helaena never ventured out into the training yard—the song of swordplay made her deeply disconcerted.

Turning toward Cole, he was met with the same brown-haired girl his half-nephew was entertaining a moment earlier.

The blow came in a heartbeat.

-No.

It was the curve. The stupid curve in her top lip—the one that reminded him of a lyre.

“Oh trust Ser, I had no desire to leave the comforts of the Vale either.” She quipped, cocking her head in that easy-going way she always did when she'd been a little girl.

But she wasn't a little girl anymore.

“Shall I escort you to her?” a faraway voice said. Criston, it was Ser Criston.

Lucera’s lips kicked up into a radiant smile.

“No need, I still know my way around."

She mumbled something else to the knight but Aemond couldn't hear her. He was already moving, determined to seize her, see if she was real. If she was truly here.

Whatever intentions he had turned to ash the moment she locked eyes with him.

-She looks like a woman.

A foot taller than she had been, her wiry limbs had grown into a slender shapely frame. Gone were those pudgy cheeks she would pucker whenever she sulked— in their place stood sharp cheekbones and slanted, half-closed eyes the color of the deepest oak bark.

Her hair was longer too. Those unruly locks were finally tamed into a neat braid that fell well past her shoulders down to her waist. Even under her stained riding leathers, it was impossible not to notice her ample bosom.

As a girl, she'd been pretty, but in a common sort of way. Wild, unkempt, and unremarkable—like a dandelion.

Now, it was as if she'd transformed into a rose. Enticing, beautiful, seductive. The kind of creature that had men fighting over the chance to wear her favor.

The kind of woman that led others to their doom.

Bitterness flooded his mouth.

-It’s a trick.

A cunning asset she could use to play her games and ruin his family. Just as she had before.

-She's the cunt that took out your eye.

The bastard child of his half-sister. The enemy.

He couldn’t forget that. He wouldn’t forget that.

Sword. He needed a sword.

She wouldn’t look half as pretty with one eye missing.

Passing Cole, she ground to a halt mere feet from him. Those dreamlike eyes pinned his, in a wistful gaze. The wind had loosened some of the hair from her braid, and it fell across her cheek.

He wanted to push it behind her ear. Feel the locks kiss his fingers like they used to when he was a boy. Brush the smudge of dirt marring her nose. Kiss her.

It would be different now. They were both grown.

It would not be chaste.

It would be….

“Let me show you how a woman kisses.”

He almost stumbled back, the memory bidding his mouth to fill with the taste of strong wine and sourleaf.

He frantically blinked away the scent of scarlet sage and Myrish lace.

Lucera was still there, her face unchanged. But the wistfulness was gone from her gaze. She stared at him, unblinking, as if he were made of glass she could see right through.

Then, without a word, she rushed past him up the castle steps.

-Sword. Get a sword. Gut her.

It was the only way to rid himself of this madness. Yet, despite his burning desire, he didn’t move.

Not even Cole approaching, frantically hissing things at him made him react.

“Jacaerys.” He half forced through his teeth. He was so breathless, it was as if he'd been running for leagues.

“What?” Cole came back into focus, mouth scowling and brows knitted.

“She told you something about an escort for Jacaerys. Get it.”

“Of course, but my Prince…”

“Do it!” his raised voice brought the rest of the world into focus too, and Aemond realized just how loud he was being. Straightening his back, he schooled his expression.

“We need to know where he’s going. Who he's meeting. Have someone follow them and report it to my mother.”

Cole crossed his arms on his chest. “You will not inform her yourself?”

“No, I… I must find Aegon.”

“The Prince has gone into the city…”

“I know.”

Cole sputtered. “Right, I shall escort you to…”

“No,” he hastily fired. His head was swimming. “I will go alone. You… you will go to my mother. Tell her I will not be joining her for supper. Tell her…”

He paused, balling his fists.

-This means nothing.

He was just being foolish. A stupid boy who could not overcome the anger and resentment he felt toward a wretched bastard girl. She was nothing in the grand scheme of things.

-She's been at the Eyrie for 3 years. Why come back now?

Releasing a breath, he gave Cole a knowing look.

-Maybe Jace has acquired some wits after all.

“Tell her my half-sister has drawn the battle lines.”

* * *

Leaving the castle was easy enough. The only favor Lucera had done him in his life was acquaint him with the hidden passages in Maegor's holdfast.

And the only error he'd made was showing them to Aegon. His brother had immediately begun sneaking out at every chance he could, often dragging Aemond to partake in his mischief.

It was always harmless fun he insisted. A chance to explore the city, unburdened by the stifling presence of the royal escort. Pity that his exploring always led them into the depths of depravity.

The smell hit him first. The cloying stench of strong wine, silks, and flesh. Then, the smooth, uniform pathway broke down into a jumble of multicolored stones sloppily stuck together.

It had been years since he'd been to the Street of Silk—nevertheless, the same uneasiness he felt the first time he glimpsed those red lanterns hanging from the building rafters, swallowed him up.

-Steel yourself.

He was no longer a boy, trailing after his brother down a dark street. He was a man grown—son of a king, rider of Vhagar, a scion of a dynasty.

And he needed to act like it.

Keeping his head low, and hood down, he banged on the door furiously. The wood creaked open with a screech of iron hinges, and a woman poked her head through the crack.

“Well, what do we have here?” she giggled. “A cloaked shadow, creeping upon us at midday.”

A red veil was draped over her face, but the lace was so thin, it was easy to see the grin marring her lips.

Aemond squirmed.

“I'm here on business.”

“Really? Good, I was just in the mood for some business.” she teased, her voice laced with some kind of foreign lilt.

“Not that kind of business.”

Her laugh made his legs go numb. Why was he so lightheaded?

“Well, if not my kind then I’m sure we can find another kind m'lord likes. We have so many businesses you’ve probably never even…”

“I’m here for the Red Room.”

The way her face hardened told him he hadn’t been wrong—Aegon truly was here. Aemond drew nearer letting the crimson lantern illuminate a part of his face.

The woman’s inky eyes widened.

“So if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course,” she pushed the door open, beckoning him inside. “My Prince.”

The hallway was just as dark and cramped as he recalled. Lined with rows of red candles and draped with Myrish tapestries depicting scenes of unbridled debauchery. When they neared the circular showroom, he saw that piece. A scene of a small, brown-haired girl being passed between a dozen naked men.

Her eyes were closed, face twisted in pleasure as they pawed at her flesh. For some reason, he remembered the tapestry as being larger.

-Or that’s just you.

He'd been 13 the last time he’d been here. A confused, sullen boy who kept shrinking into himself.

“Why are we here?” he'd demanded of Aegon.

He'd promised he'd take him to the Murmer's Quarter, to watch the fire wizard's show. Instead, he’d dragged him through a dark alley right into this dingy den that stank of perfume.

His brother's hand slammed down on his shoulder, and Aemond looked up to find two pits of midnight purple.

“Isn't it obvious?" he grinned, the grip on his shoulder tightening. “So you can get it wet.”

“Young Master!” a shrill voice broke the spell and Aemond whirled on his feet, hand half reaching for his concealed dagger. He unclenched his fist when he saw the rotund Madame, waddling toward him.

“It's such a pleasure to see your face again after all this time. What has it been now? 6 years?”

Digging his nails into his palm he straightened his back.

“5.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” the pudgy thing chuckled, meaty fingers trying to straighten the hem of her gaudy blue dress. Her eyes protruded even further from her skull than he remembered. They were like two overcooked egg yolks, lined sloppily with black soot. “Time truly flies. But we are glad to have you back at our most distinguished establishment. Shall I fetch the girls?”

He could scarce answer before she turned to his veiled guide.

“Laddan, get our finest. Our guest would like a Showing.”

“No,” he cut her off, curtly. The damp, cloying warmth was making him sweat beneath his hood.

“I'm looking for someone. It’s my understanding that he's in his Red Room.”

The Madame's painted lips fell open and she stuttered. “Ah well… you see… the young Master asked not to be disturbed…”

Aemond was already moving, doing everything he could to ignore the muffled moans emanating from the adjacent chambers.

“I don’t care what he said. Move.”

He just about plowed through the whale, barging into one of the hallways that branched out of the Showroom.

He remembered this one too. The slanted ceiling, the rows of pink doors. And at the end, a smooth red wall with an oil painting hanging off it.

Aemond gritted his teeth and felt around the frame till his fingers hit the latch.

One pull and the wall creaked open. He stepped into a chamber filled with more red.

The place had become even more disheveled than he remembered. Red lace and rope were strung about every inch of the room, hanging loosely off the rafters. A goblet lay discarded on the bearskin carpet, a wine stain soaking into the fur. The stench bade Aemond’s remaining eye to water.

“Get up.” He growled.

The covers on the large feather bed stirred. A head of silver hair came poking out from under the pillows.

“Gods, no…” his brother slurred, voice thick with sleep. “Why do you always come to wake me when I’m having the best dreams…”

Incensed, Aemond rushed toward the curtains, yanking them off with one forceful pull. Light streamed through the small window, bathing the chamber in a soft pink glow.

“Get up,” he repeated.

The groan Aegon let out was louder, gruffer.

“Mother have mercy, can you please put out that hideous light?”

“That’s the sun, you dumb cunt. Now get up.” He wretched the covers next, discarding them by the bed. To his fury, Aegon merely turned on his side and placed a pillow to cover his manhood.

“No, why? Have the Others come to take us?”

“Lucera's come.”

Strained silence followed his declaration. Then, to his displeasure, Aegon let out a half-hearted sigh.

“Oh…”

“Oh?” Aemond seethed. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

When Aegon chortled into a pillow, he just about pulled his dagger to bury it into his neck.

“Apologies, let me try again,” he cleared his throat pitching his voice high. “Oh? Is that so?”

“For fuck's sake…” rushing toward the red velvet settee, he flung his brother’s small clothes at him.

That seemed to finally rouse him. Twisting like a snake, Aegon rose into a seated position, hands pushing strands of hair out of his eyes. His face was so swollen from sleep and drink, it looked as if he'd been savaged by a horde of bees.

“Fine, what do you want me to say? Rhaenyra is here, so is Jacaerys. Of course, she's back as well.” He paused, leaning his head against the wooden bed frame. The smirk on his lips was enough to make Aemond see red. "Besides, I thought you of all people would be gladdened by the news. Your Lady Bastard returned to you, at last. Now you can finally cease pining after her like an insufferable twat.”

He meant to strike him. His hand itched to punch him clear in the jaw till it shattered like a twig—but he steeled his nerves. Mother would resent him cuffing Aegon about.

Instead, he circled the bed.

“She's been at the Eyrie all this time. It’s not a coincidence.”

Aegon picked his nose. “Obviously. Driftmark is her inheritance. She had to come to defend it.”

“And bring the knights of the Vale to the battle as well.”

He couldn’t tell whether the laugh he let out was one of pained desperation or amusement.

“Well, grandsire did say the great lords would choose their camp eventually.”

Aemond whirled, coming to rest his hands on the settee.

“This should not be happening. Rhaenyra wasn’t even supposed to come. She's been banished. The City Watch should have refused her entry into the Keep.”

“As if father would ever do that.” Aegon hissed.

“You should get him to send her away.”

This time, when he laughed, the desperation was plain.

“Gods, I’d have a better chance teaching an ass to juggle. He doesn’t care for a word I say.”

“Which is entirely your own doing.”

The fury came then, twisting Aegon’s lips into a hideous scowl. 

“Oh it’s so easy for you to say that, isn’t it?” He hissed, spit flying through his gritted teeth. “You weren’t the one who had to sit beside his sickbed, attempting to get his attention, while he prattled on and on about his little girl, his late wife, his darling brother, and how terrible it was that he didn’t have his family with him.”

Sorrow slowly forced the anger out, and his brother leaned back against the bed frame. Tears glistened in his purple eyes.

-He did try.

For a time at least. Rhaenyra and Daemon's banishment left their father open and vulnerable—in desperate need of familial comfort. Their grandsire the Hand, reasoned this was the perfect chance to bring Aegon closer to him.

They’d scarce interacted since his brother was forced to wed Helaena. Granted, their bond was fickle, to begin with, but this estrangement forced Aegon into a spiral the likes of which none of them had ever seen.

He'd drank to obscene excess, bedded anything that moved and dealt their mother and sister untold grief. He had few companions save the whores and urchins he met while out cavorting in the dens of Flea Bottom—all the noble lords his Lady mother had attempted to lead to his side, he corrupted and turned into the same drunken louts he was.

Getting him closer to Viserys was the only way to stop him from completing his self-destruction.

His brother seemed eager at first, so starved for their father's affection. But as each visit to Viserys' apartments turned disastrous, his disposition soured. At last, he ceased trying to visit him at all, resigning himself to the rejection, and flying head first into his depraved pleasures.

“He doesn’t care about me,” he repeated, the same line he'd always repeat whenever they’d speak of their father. “Because I’m not his daughter.”

Aemond regarded his tears with quiet resentment.

-Gods, he's soft.

He knew of father’s true feelings. He always had. Yet he insisted on dwelling on them like some mewling boy. It was pathetic. Aemond too, was affected by the same truth, yet he chose to not let it consume him. It was a futile exercise that brought none of them any good.

-He's not fit to do anything.

Still, he released a sigh and sat beside him on the bed.

“When Vaemond Velaryon arrives here for his petition, grandsire will affirm him as heir to Driftmark. When that happens, Rhaenyra's own claim will come into question.” He shot Aegon a look, willing him to understand. “We will finally have a chance to stake a claim to what is ours by right.”

The disdain that poured from Aegon’s eyes, made bitterness flood his mouth.

“I’m sure you’re eager to claim it, aren’t you? You were always so eager.”

The accusation slid off him like water droplets.

-I should have gutted you when we were children.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s what the law demands.”

Aegon lowered his gaze, listlessly pulling feathers out of the pillow.

“Careful brother.” He chided. “If Rhaenyra loses her inheritance, she and her brood will be sentenced to the executioner’s block. I wonder… how will you bear seeing your Lady Bastard's head mounted on a spike?”

Fists balled, Aemond held his gaze.

“Those feelings died a long time ago.”

Carved out along with his eye. The smile that stretched his brother's lips cut him fiercer than that knife ever did.

“Then why did you run to me? To this of all places?”

Stomach twisting, he looked away.

-I should never have told him.

Aegon was the last person to go to for comfort.

But he'd been hurt. He'd lost a fucking eye, and everything in his life had toppled over. The pain was unbearable, especially in the months that it took for the gash to heal. Twice, the flesh had gotten corrupted, and the Maester had had to open it up to cut out the puss and rotten meat.

Though he'd plied him with enough milk of the poppy to kill 3 grown men, it still wasn’t enough to stop him from screaming through the night.

Worse still, was that that was just the beginning.

After the pain had finally dulled to an uncomfortable ache, he had to begin life anew. He had to learn how to read without straining, how to walk and ride without losing his balance. His mother refused to let him mount Vhagar to practice, due to his impaired sight, despite the Keepers telling her the period after the claiming was crucial for solidifying the bond.

But the combat was the most dreadful. Ser Criston was practically forced to start his training all over again, and he had to drive him thrice as hard to account for his blind spot. It was grueling work that left him exhausted and shaking with rage.

Still, it could not compare to the pain of the betrayal. It was her who had taken his eye—his Cera. That wild, beautiful girl who used to take him on seaside adventures and kiss him till his head spun. All in service of protecting that wretch of a brother she'd spent so much time whining about.

His flesh may have healed, and his abilities returned but the ache within never left.

A small part of him thought his brother would understand. After all, he and Jace had been friends once as well—and despite the careless indifference he'd displayed about it, he knew Aegon was deeply wounded about losing him.

In a way, he did. But the only solace he could offer was the one he partook in—a cup of wine and the pillows of the Red Room.

-That’s not comfort. It's poison.

And it left him more wounded than before.

His brother seemed oblivious. Rising laboriously from the bed, he found two empty cups discarded on the floor and made to pour wine.

“If you ask me…” he began, wiping the rim off with some cloth.

“I didn’t.”

As was custom, he barreled right over him.

“You should take this as an opportunity,” he knelt in front of him, naked and grinning, and thrust a cup his way, while knocking back the other. “To fuck her—in hatred, of course—and be done with it. Free yourself the misery. She's what, six and ten, now?” He paused a most depraved smile grazing his lips. “There's nothing so rowdy as a 16-year-old bastard girl. The little thing has probably tumbled half the Vale. I’m sure she'd be willing to give you a turn.”

The knife in his scabbard screamed, yearning to be unsheathed. Instead, Aemond pushed the filthy cup back in his face, splashing him on the chin.

“Get dressed.” He growled, pushing past him. “Mother will want you at the Keep.”

His brother sat down on his ass, licking wine off his lips.

“Fine, stay sullen, see what good it does you! I was just thinking of your health.” He laughed. “You should at least fuck something. If you don’t use your cock, it will cease knowing how to stand!”

His head started pounding like a war drum, and he could not stand being in that room any longer. If he stayed, he would rip him open, ass to mouth.

He barreled through the smoky corridor, his brother's laugh hot on his trail. It was only when he got to the Showroom that he ceased hearing it.

He sucked in breath after breath, steeling his nerves enough to stop shaking. He was about to move when she appeared.

A slender figure in purple robes slithered from a room on the left.

All the blood fled from Aemond's fingers.

-She's older.

Almost as tall as he was, though still as flat as a board.

“Young Master,” a deep, husky voice sounded.

From the darkness of the same room, the girl's older shadow emerged. The woman hadn’t changed much. Stout and buxom, with a head of long brown hair pinned to the top of her head in a long braid, she stood as an opposite to the girl. Yet the deep brown eyes, small nose, and beauty mark below her lower lip they shared betrayed their relation.

“How you've grown,” The woman purred. Reaching over a jeweled hand, she pushed back the girl's hair over her shoulder. “It is good to see you again. Have you come to finish what you started?”

The strap of the purple silk dress slid down, baring her breast. When the girl peered at him through her thick lashes, her eyes were uncertain, nervous.

Just as they had been when he'd first glimpsed her, hiding in that same doorway.

At Aegon’s behest, the Madame had brought out all her girls for a Showing. The women had surrounded Aemond, spinning him in circles and giggling like mad. Silks and naked flesh were in his face and the smell of oils and heavy perfume were in his nose. When one of the women brushed her hand against his manhood, he almost toppled over, bile in his throat.

She came into view then. A mousey girl in plain brown skirts, she lingered on the edge of the Showroom, watching the display with dismay. Later, he'd learned she was near five and ten—but, seeing her there, so small and slight, he'd assumed they were of age. It was easy to cling to her then.

“It seems the young Master has chosen.” The fat Madame had cooed at his brother. Aegon, who had been tumbling with a Summer Islander girl beneath some pillows raised his head to look.

“All the splendid beasts of the world at your beck and call, and you chose the brown-haired rat.” he chortled eyeing the girl. The little thing reddened worse than a beet and shrunk into herself. “Well, I suppose it’s appropriate.”

With a clap of the Madame's hands, the women dispersed, grumbling about lost work. Another older woman appeared from the shadows and gently guided the two of them to an adjacent corridor.

The floor beneath Aemond's feet swayed like the deck of a ship, and he thought he would topple over. A hand slipped into his to steady him.

The brown-haired girl trotted beside him, eyes downcast. Her nose was hooked, with a slight crook in the bridge—longer than Lucera's.

The room they entered was red. Red carpets, red walls, red bedsheets. It even smelled red, like spilled blood and scarlet sage.

They came to stand opposite one another.

“Go on,” the older woman lingered in the doorway, hands toying with the pearl necklace hanging off her neck. She had a beauty mark below her lip—the same as the girl did.

Aemond frowned at her, just as he felt a warm caress on his cheek. The girl slowly undid the buttons on his doublet, her flesh quivering.

When he was left standing in nothing but his small clothes, her fingers entwined around the laces of her bodice.

His stomach seized. Her eyes were still downcast, and her shoulders hunched, and when she drew breath, her chest rose in a shudder. The kiss she planted on him was just as cold, and when he licked his lips he tasted wormwood.

“No,” he withdrew when her hand trailed down his stomach.She stood frozen for just a moment, eyes wide. They pinned his for the first time—and the fear he glimpsed in them made all feeling in his legs cut off.

“Go,” he'd said looking away. He thought he would faint.

Her mouth opened to form words, but nothing but garbled stutters came out. A shadow descended on her then, and the older woman from before embraced her from behind.

She whispered something to her, in a language he could not understand. In half a breath she rushed out in a flurry of skirts, shutting the door behind him.

“I’m sorry, I…” he shook his head, balling his hands into fists. The older woman smiled, gently raising his chin.

“I know,” she cooed, tracing his jaw. The sharpened nail dug into his skin. “Lyra is still a girl. Her caresses are uncertain and clumsy.”

A breath caught in his throat, when her hands slowly began unlacing the front of her bodice.

“My Prince needs someone more experienced.” Her smirk deepened “Let me show you how a woman kisses.”

He meant to back away. Every inch of him yearned to wrench free of her hold, to run out of the room and into the Keep to hide beneath the covers. Yet all he did when she pressed her mouth to his was freeze.

She tasted of wine. A sickening, honeyed sweetness, mixed with the tang of sourleaf. His stomach lurched.

He did not remember her taking him to the bed. Just the feel of the red silk clutched in his hands. He thought of the sky—of the clear summer clouds he’d brave from atop Vhagar. Of the soft murmur of waves crashing into the shore—the smell of river water and wet sand. The taste of ripe strawberries, and the gentle way Cera’s hand wrapped around his.

-You will never have that comfort again.

Lashing the two women with a look, Aemond Targaryen straightened his back, a boy no longer.

Then, he went for the door.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep was dead.

Though Lucera had never particularly liked her girlhood home, she couldn’t deny its splendor. The vibrant heraldry, the exotic décor, the bustle of various courtiers milling about the halls. It all served to give the castle life.

That life seemed but a distant memory now. Everything was so bare and austere draped in stars and muted greens—unwelcoming.

Luce shuddered.

-The Queen’s castle.

A part of her yearned to mount Arrax and fly back to the mountains. But she steeled herself. Her family needed her—and she could not abandon them.

Ascending the serpentine step, she took a sharp turn down a familiar corridor. As expected, Ser Steffon stood watch outside her mother's apartments. The knight almost toppled over when he glimpsed her, but she gave him no time to chide her for her return. Instead, she planted a soft kiss on the scruff of his cheek and burst through the doors.

A figure in black and red whirled to greet her.

A thousand emotions flashed across her mother’s face. Her brows furrowed in confusion when she locked eyes with her. However, the recognition slowly set in and she sucked in a shuddering breath. The grief came last. A sweet, gut-wrenching thing that made her lower lip tremble.

Luce didn’t even need to say anything.

In a flash, she crossed the distance between them and seized her in a crushing embrace.

“Oh my dove, my dove, my little dove,” her mother murmured into her shoulder, cradling her like a babe. Luce returned the squeeze, relishing the protective warmth of her arms. “What are you doing here, you should not have returned.”

Pulling apart, she seized her cheek and planted a tender kiss on her lips.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Luce blinked back tears, clutching her forearms. “Jace wrote, and I could not ignore his call.”

“Gods, I should have that boy hung off the rafters. He never listens to a word I say.”

She smiled, pressing her forehead to hers.

“He only follows your example.”

The chuckle her mother let out made her heart soar.
“Let me see you,” she pushed her unruly locks out of her face. “Gods you’ve grown. You’re almost of a height with me.”

Rhaenyra paused, sucking in a breath.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The tears could not be stopped then, and Luce bit her lip. “So are you.”

“I’m sure I’m not quite as magnificent as you remember me.”
She'd aged, of course. Her cheeks had drooped alongside the flesh beneath her chin. The skin around her eyes was marred with twice as many lines as she'd had when Luce had left. But the lines were born of laughter, not of worry, she could tell—and her mother still had the radiance that had made singers proclaim her the Realm's Delight.

“No, you’re better,” she kissed her hand, relishing every last drop of her laughter.

“How was your journey? Did you fly?”

Luce shook her head, “No, ship, and then on horseback.”

Rhaenyra's brows furrowed and she led her to sit on a cushioned settee.

“Ship? That is quite a long and arduous trip. How long ago did Jace call you?”

She pondered, “I don’t know. Perhaps a month.”

Her mother's hand went for her temple.

“Gods, of course. Right after we got the letter and I forbade him to. Terrible boy.”

“It’s a good thing he did. We need the backing of powerful allies to see this through. What exactly did Baela's letter say?”

Her mother briefly relayed the specifics of what her cousin had informed them of, bitterness building in her voice with each word spoken.

“On what grounds does he mean to call my claim? Grandsire was always very clear on who he meant to inherit Driftmark.”
Rhaenyra's fingers wrapped around the ring on her index, twisting it with fury.

“Gender of course. But that is merely a pretext.”

She read the silent implication plainly. Of course, it was pretext—a formal reason to file the petition. The true reason was her blood. And if it was called into question, all their rights would be—particularly Jace's right to the throne.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Pretext or not, we must play it straight. If he means to argue on the grounds of gender, then we must counter the claim with support of our own. Gather all the women who have inherited lands and titles despite living male relations,” she paused, drawing a breath. “Ser Joffrey will argue on Lady Jeyne's behalf. She is the most notable female claimant who has had to endure much strife to hold her position.”

“Is he here with you?” her mother asked.

Luce drew a labored breath, recalling the feel of coarse fingers on her hand.

“I will come. Do not doubt it. Neither storm, nor sickness, nor the gods themselves will keep me away.”

She hoped her Soaring Fool would not succumb to the chill.

“No. He's been delayed. But if he does not make an appearance on time, Ser Fedryn Corbray will take his place.”

Her mother eyed her with unease, her thoughts plain to read. It would not be ideal to have just one man and a handful of knights backing a claim, a younger brother at that. But she reasoned it would suffice to simply signal that she had the support of a great house behind her, even if she didn't have all its might at her side.

“And besides him, we can call others. Lord Caswell will support your claim, no doubt. To my recollection, he only got his title because you spoke on his behalf.”

It had been years ago, but Luce still recalled the fuss made over the Caswell inheritance. The old Lord had passed, without a male heir, leaving his seat open for the taking. A dozen lesser cousins scrambled to seize Bitterbridge for themselves, causing unrest that rippled through the Reach.

Her mother stepped up to settle the dispute and speak on Lord Alyn's behalf. His rights came through the female line—his mother was the youngest daughter of the late Lord. A tenuous claim, others argued, but her mother insisted that it dwarfed all the rights the lesser cousins were putting forth, male or not. In the end, it was Rhaenyra's council that swayed her grandsire, and earned her mother the loyalty of a Reach lord, to the Queen's undying delight.

“There are other women that would find our cause sympathetic,” Luce asserted,

Her mother wasn’t convinced. “None that I can think of that can be here on such short notice. Or be partial to me…”

Reaching over, she seized her hands into hers. The comforting warmth of her sturdy fingers left her feeling fulfilled.

“We can try. They may not have love for you, but Vaemond's petition will invariably call into question their own capabilities to govern. They have the right to defend their position.”

The breath she released was slow, controlled. At last, she nodded. Luce steeled herself.

“What of grandsire?”

Just as she'd thought, the mention of the King made her mother tighten her grip. A thin film of tears filled her amethyst slits and she squared her jaw.

“I’m afraid we cannot rely on him. He’s allowed us to stay and make your case. But beyond that…”

Her gaze fell, as her voice tethered out. Dread bloomed in Luce's chest. Grandsire had never spurned them before. No matter the strife, he had always stood firmly on her mother's side, eager to champion her rights.

-The strife was never the Rogue Prince.

Once again, her dearest stepfather was proving to be more of a hindrance than an asset.

“Then we fight on our own. Together, just as you said.”

Rhaenyra's eyes met hers, and the barest ghost of a smile touched her lips.

“You've changed,” she announced, taking a lock of hair in between her fingers.

Luce leaned into her touch, recalling Lady Jeyne's sage wisdom.
“Never forget what you are,” the proud woman had told her. “The rest of the world will not. Play their game with determination and cunning. Even if it's the last thing your heart desires.”

“I know,” she offered at last. The dread in her chest descended all the way to her toes, making them go numb. She could feel the cold hilt of the knife in her hand once more, and see the burning hatred in a blazing slit the color of blooming periwinkles. “I’ve had to.”

* * *

Rhaena arrived at midday. Her dearest cousin had been taking a stroll with her brothers about the Keep when the guards had brought her news of Lucera's return.

She'd burst into her chambers in a flurry of black skirts, the sweetest smile grazing her lips.

“Luce!” she exclaimed rushing to embrace her.

Lucera accepted her touch gladly and squeezed her till there was no more breathing in her lungs.

“Gods, I’m so glad you’ve returned.” Breaking apart, Rhaena planted a soft kiss on her lips, her doe eyes wide with elation. Luce marveled at how childlike her face still looked, all these years on. “Did Jace's letter find you well?”

She arched her brow. “Ah, so writing me was your plot?”

Rhaena flushed and seized a silver coil into her fingers to twirl. “Well, it was still his notion but… he took some convincing. He is the last person who wanted you to return here.”

Luce bit her lip, regarding the tips of her riding boots. “No, not the last one.”

Rhaena’s hand entwined with her own.

“I know…” she exhaled, pulling her down onto the edge of Luce's bed. “Come, you must tell me everything about your adventures.”

Her mood lifted instantly, and she relayed the most exciting details of her time spent at the Vale. When she told her she'd gone on a royal progress around the shores of the Bite, making stop at the Three Sisters, and all the way up to White Harbor, her cousin’s mouth dropped open.

“You went to the North?” Rhaena's eyes filled with wonder.

Luce smiled. “Well I doubt the Northerners would say the mouth of the White Knife is the true North.”

“That is wonderful…” her cousin exclaimed, no doubt recalling all the stories they'd read at night, about the untamed wilderness that lay beyond the Neck.

And while White Harbor was not as large or as lavish as southern ports, it was still a splendid city filled with all sorts of luxuries and comforts. Far from the austere dock she'd imagined would reside in the frozen wasteland.

“It was. They were all kind and hospitable. Lord Desmond insisted we stay longer but, the Lady Jeyne had bid us return.”

Her face must have fallen, for Rhaena entwined their fingers.
“I’m sorry. I imagine it would have been easier if you had stayed.”

Luce shook her head. “No, I… I needed to return. For all our sakes.”

A brief moment of silence descended on them, and Luce attempted to force a cheery smile.

“And what of you? How have things been in your part of the world?”

The elation crept back on Rhaena’s heart-shaped face.

“Just as you’d left them. Baela flew away some years after you to go to Driftmark for fostering.”

She nodded, recalling the despondent letter Jace had written her. All the whining he did when she'd left could not compare to the misery he displayed when Baela had been called to their grandmother's side.

“Hmm, you must remind me to visit her. She and I have a few unanswered letters to discuss.”

Rhaena sighed, lashing her with a look. “Do not take it to heart. Grandmother has been keeping her very occupied at Driftmark. The two of them have practically been sole rulers of the island ever since grandsire sailed to the Stepstones.”

The mention of the Sea Snake bade her cousin to take a coil of hair between her fingers. Luce attempted to force lightness back into the conversation.

“And what of you? Why hadn’t you left with her?”

Her attempt had the opposite effect. Rhaena's disposition soured further and she bunched her shoulders.

“I thought your mother needed me more.”

It was at that moment that Luce realized the subject could no longer be avoided.

“What’s happened? Where’s Daemon? I’d heard from the guards that he had not come with you.”

Silence lingered in the air, pressing on them like a weight.

“He's gone. He flew away some months ago.”

Her stomach twisted into knots. For all his faults, she could not see her stepfather abandoning them. His devotion to their family was unyielding.

“Why?”

Rhaena's teak eyes pinned hers. Under the soft glow of the midday sun, they glimmered like polished wood.

“Before this, before the petition... your mother started talking about reconciling. She'd broached the subject of returning to court to seek the King's forgiveness.” She sucked in a breath. “For your brothers, Aegon and Viserys. She thought it would be good to have mine uncle in their lives.”

Luce scoffed. “I take it Daemon was not too keen on the idea?”

Rhaena pressed her lips together. “I think the entire island had heard them screaming at one another.”

“Of course. He was always of the opinion that grandsire had to come to them to mend things.”

The resentment he harbored toward his brother had always struck Luce as excessive. As if her grandsire had dealt him a mortal wound he would never recover from. Yet despite the treachery, her stepfather still longed for his brother's love.

In a way, his need for affection reminded her of Jace.

“He flew away after. Mounted Caraxes, and disappeared into the sunset.”

Luce bit her lip. “Did he say where he was going?”

“No,” Rhaena shook her head. “Last he was spotted was just off the Dornish coast. After that, nothing.”

A shudder slid down Luce’s spine.

“Gods, not now. Why did he have to leave when we needed him the most?”

Rising, she began to pace about her chambers. It did little to ease the tension in her bones.

“You do not think we can make a compelling argument on our own?”

Luce pinned her gaze.

“It's not just about making a compelling argument. It’s about showing our strength as well. And our strength was always your father.”

Rhaena blew a breath. “I think Jace would disagree with your assessment.”

She picked at her nails, carving lines of dirt from the nailbeds. She was in desperate need of a good bath.

“Whether he likes it or not, the sole reason no one dared to breathe a word against us these last few years is the threat of Dark Sister's kiss.”

Her mother's latest marriage had been a source of both scandal and stability for them. On the one hand, the circumstances of the union stoked gossip about foul play and the mysterious circumstances of her father's murder. But on the other, that gossip never got louder than a whisper.

Daemon Targaryen cast a shadow that could rival the Stranger himself. And all the Lords, great and small alike knew better than to provoke him into darkening their doorsteps.

In a way, Luce relished it. As uneasy as her stepfather's methods made her, she couldn’t deny that they felt good. She at last had a shield she could shelter behind whenever the world made to take aim at her heart. And for once, the man was happy to provide that protection, ten times over.

“We need him back,” Luce concluded, crossing her arms on her chest. When she cast Rhaena an expectant look, her cousin’s face faltered.

“I know,” she conceded, head low. “But… I wouldn’t know where to look. You’re better off asking Baela. She was always his favorite. If anyone knows his mind, it’s her.”

The way her voice shattered, left Luce distraught. She immediately drew nearer, extending her hand.

“Baela is his mirror. She burns with the same unbridled fire that has driven him his whole life. But you…” she knelt at her feet, palm pressed against her chest—her heart fluttered like the beat of dove wings. “You reflect a part of him that he seldom ever shows. His heart. I think you’ll find you know him much better than you believe.”

The way Rhaena's brows furrowed filled Luce with such forlorn sweetness. Three years they had spent apart, but her dearest cousin had not lost the soft innocence Luce had cherished in their girlhood.

“I can try,” she swallowed hard, her voice steady.

Her lips quirked into a smile, and she gazed at Rhaena's lovely doe eyes.

“I’ve missed you so much.”

Wordlessly, her cousin bent down to embrace her, her silver coils falling into Luce's eyes.

The Vale may have been her home for the last three years, but it lacked the tender warmth of those she cherished the most.

That alone made suffering through these games more tolerable.

-I must bear it. For them.

She may have yearned for adventure, for clear skies, and open fields, for the freedoms of the world seen from dragonback. But what was all of that worth, when in the end, she needed to sacrifice her family to obtain it?

-They take precedence.

Once they were safe, and happy, their inheritance secure, her mother would release her to seek her adventure. To seek out her joy.

-In the end, I’ll have everything I’ll wanted.

The soft crashing of waves sounded in her ears, along with the feeling of slender fingers entwining with her own. Luce squeezed her eye shut, and buried her face deeper in Rhaena's shoulder.

-Almost everything.

Chapter Text

He lived in fear of seeing her.

Two days after she'd ridden through the inner gate, Lucera had made herself scarce at court. None of Rhaenyra's party were seen in public much.

He knew they were playing at something. The petition was nearing, and his mother was certain Rhaenyra would seek allies to champion her daughter’s claim. If she was right, they were doing a piss poor job of it. Save a few hushed whispers he saw Jace exchanging with some minor lordlings at the entrance to Maegor's holdfast, they seemed to be keeping to themselves.

A part of him was grateful. He didn’t think he could stomach seeing her prance about freely, without gutting her with his sword.

-If she has any sense, she'll steer clear.

The trouble was, she was clever—and she knew exactly how to play so that she won every time.

It was on the third day that she, at last, made her appearance.

He'd been at the yard, trying his steel against Addam Stokeworth. Three years his junior, the boy was a lumbering brute who charged at his opponents like a raging bull. Aemond had no desire to spar with him but Cole insisted he needed a warm-up.

“Those are the rules, my Prince. First, you prepare, then you get the live steel.”

Aemond grudgingly agreed. They’d been dueling with live weapons since he'd been six and ten—it still irked him that Cole insisted on adhering to an old rule he'd made while he was still a boy.

Nevertheless, he accepted and decided to open things up with a challenge. He had both Addam and Ser Ronnet Hunt come at him at the same time. The older man had more sense than his squire and attempted to dance around his offer. However, one stern look was all that took him to relent and take position.

It was over in a few quick blows. Just as expected, the Stokeworth boy charged at him screaming at the top of his lungs like a mad pig. Aemond dodged with ease, caving in his knee with one swift kick. The rotund fool collapsed into the dirt in a flurry of padded armor. Hunt was cleverer. While his attention was on Addam he attempted to creep on Aemond from his blind side.

That sent him into a frenzy. Nothing irked him more than having someone try to exploit his weakness. He immediately danced out of the way of his sword swing, catching him in the shoulder. The knight hissed when the wood bore down against the mail but recovered quickly.

He swung his sword, driving him backward, playing on his height advantage. Aemond parried with ease, using the slight drop in his shoulder to whack the shield from his arm. The blow took him by surprise, and he jerked back. That was all the invitation he needed.

Swinging at him, he relieved him of the tourney sword and kicked him in his chest. The older knight collapsed coughing spit.

“Yield,” he proclaimed, pudgy face twisted in pain.

Aemond thrust the tourney swords at the yard boy and lashed Cole with an expectant look.

“There. We done playing games now?”

The Kingsguard gave him a pleased nod and handed him a blade from the rack. He chose a sword for himself today in place of the morningstar. Aemond was cross, since his usual weapon was more of a challenge. But he welcomed the exertion nonetheless.

He didn’t signal to begin. He just came, feigning an attack on his good side. But Aemond recognized the bluff and parried the blow he threw at his blind side. The Knight gave him no respite, driving him back with a fury. Aemond kept calm, answering each swing with either dodge or parry, focusing on his balance.

When Cole paused for breath, he immediately went on the offensive. His attempt to disarm was blocked but he could tell the force of his blow had made the knight drop his shield ever so slightly. His next target was acquired.

He positioned himself in a defensive stance, but angled his foot, to have enough balance to launch himself when the man came. Just as Cole lifted his blade, he softened his knees.

A shock of blue appeared just above his line of sight.

There she was. Standing at the top of the stairs, overlooking the yard.

Her hair was loose now, hanging in lush waves about her face, save for the two braids she’d pinned at the back of her head to keep the locks from falling into her eyes. For half a moment, she stood motionless, observing the yard below.

Then her gaze met his. His grip on the sword hilt faltered.

The blow came without warning. Ser Criston had descended on him like a storm, dashing his blade into his shield. The wood splintered with a loud cry, and Aemond stumbled back, almost losing his balance.

“Eye on me, my Prince.” Cole chided, brows furrowed at him.

Steadying his breathing, he tossed the cracked shield aside.

When he chanced to look up, the stairs were empty.

-Focus.

He couldn’t let an apparition rattle him. Blood alight, he went on the offensive, blade aimed at Cole's shield in an attempt to pry it off him. The knight parried with ease, deflecting his blow with such force, it almost grazed Aemond's cheek.

He shook off the tension and moved. Blue filled his vision.

She was here again.

She materialized, in the yard this time, her gown flowing down her legs like ocean waves. The color was Velaryon blue, inlaid with teal thread that swirled to form the shape of a seahorse on her skirt.

The bodice was far too tight. It clung about her slender waist jealously, lacing at the front to push up her breasts. It was obscene how low the bust was.

Ample as her bosom was, it looked like one undone lace would have her breasts spilling out. His breath quickened.

A shadow came bearing down on him.

He had just enough time to leap backward, before Cole's blade struck the ground where his foot had been.

The frown marring the knight's handsome face morphed into a vicious scowl. His disappointment stoked Aemond's rage, and he assailed him, slashing and stabbing with purpose. The man held up his composure, and parried his sword so hard, he almost lost his grip on the hilt.

“Do not rush, my Prince,” he warned.

The tone of his voice was curt, almost parental. The only time he'd ever given him instruction in such a manner was when he’d been a green boy.

He squeezed the hilt till his knuckles had gone white.

Assuming his stance, he leapt out of the way of his sword, bearing down on the knight's own shield. The blow bade his grip falter, and Aemond knocked it clean out of his hand. He smirked, as Cole wiped sweat off his brow.

He would best him if he just…

Dark locks drew him away. She was moving now, listlessly strolling about the yard. One hand was clutching something at her side, while the other toyed with a chain hung about her neck.

The way her fingers trailed the silver was mesmerizing—like a singer, strumming the strings of a lyre.

Steel flashed before his eye, and he jerked, muscles seizing. Cole used the moment to drive him back and knock the blade from his hand. He didn’t realize the swing had caught him in the forearm until something wet slid down his open palm.

“Bad form, my Prince,” he spat through gritted teeth.

Aemond sucked in breath, after breath, sweat dripping down his back. His heart thundered in his ears like the hooves of a racing horse.

“I was distracted.”

“You don't say..." Cole picked up his discarded sword, twirling the blade to examine the edge.

“Give me the sword, we'll go again.”

The knight's brown eyes lashed him. “No, we're done for the day. You’re in no condition to fight anyone.”

A blaze lit his skin aflame. He rushed the knight, body trembling with rage.

“I can best any man you put in front of me,” he growled, shoulders squared at Ser Criston.

The knight drew nearer peering at him over the bridge of his nose.

“But it’s not a man you're fighting.”

His fire sputtered out and he took a step back.

Ser Criston pursed his lips.

“Trust, my Prince. Many men, wiser and stronger than you have faced the same foe you’re up against. And none have found a way to best her. If you have any sense, you won’t try. You’ll step away, while you still have your wits about you…” he paused, jaw going tense. “Before you’re forced to yield.”

Aemond blinked, pondering the intensity behind the proclamation. However, before he could ask anything, the knight thrust his sword at him, hilt first.

“On the rack, now.”

Grumbling, he seized the blade from him and marched over to the display rack. The moment he neared, one of the yard boys was at his side to take it off his hands for sharpening. He quickly bid him to get a pitcher of sour wine, and rolled up his left sleeve.

The gash was small, a clean, vertical cut just above his wrist. It was deep, but by the look of it, he wagered it would not need stitching. He was thankful for that—after his eye, he'd grown to hate needles with a passion.

The wound was still leaking blood, however, and he pulled a handkerchief to stymie the flow.

Laughter pulled his attention from the pain.

She was hovering to his right, by the castle smithy, hands clasped behind her back. Old Micah was speaking to her, his silly gestures bidding her to giggle. The crinkle was still there—the little fold of skin she would get around her eyes whenever she smiled.

A thud sounded on his blind side, and he knocked his arm to swing.

“Your wine, my Prince,” the page boy shrunk into himself like a hedgehog, brown eyes wide with terror. Aemond relaxed his muscles and nodded a dismissal his way.

-Gods, compose yourself.

She'd been here less than a week, and he was already losing all grip on his senses.

Seizing the flagon, he pulled the cork with his teeth and poured the wine on the wound. The searing was immediate, radiating up into his arm, all the way into his heart.

He spat out the cork, taking in slow breaths. The burn gradually consumed him, driving away all other feelings, and clearing his head. Unclenching his jaw, he moved to wrap the cut with cloth.
Movement on his right bid him pause.

She was looking.

Her body was angled toward the forge, fingers gingerly tracing the archway that led inside. But her head was pointed right at him.

The clamor of the yard vanished into some faraway void.

He stumbled, uncertain.

She pushed herself away from the door, and slowly turned, facing him head-on.

Her eyes were wide, dreamlike. The sun was in her hair, making the brown ripple in shades of black and mahogany. The summer breeze tousled the curls at her neck, making the strands crawl across her skin like caterpillars.

Her skin was lovely. Sun-kissed, the color of dark honey. He imagined it would feel supple on his fingers. Like silk.

He wanted to touch it. Trace her neck, then her cheek, before parting her lips.

She seemed to read his thoughts somehow because she smiled. It was a simple quirk of her mouth—devoid of any malice, resentment, or disgust. Just sweet, innocent joy.

When she began moving toward him, something in his belly stirred.

-I forgive you.

The betrayal, the eye, all of it. It didn’t matter that she was a bastard, the child of a rival claimant. He just wanted to hold her. Have her lips brush against his the way they’d done when he'd been a boy. He wanted her to be his Cera.

He jerked, ready to reach his hands out toward her.

His grab was futile.

Head held high, she strolled right past him, nary a glance spared his way.

Icy coldness put out his fire, and the yard came into focus again.

When he tossed a look over his shoulder he saw her embrace a figure in a red coat. Rhaena whispered something to her that bid her laugh, and she entwined their arms. The two skipped off toward the gate, his existence imperceptible.

The sword hilt screamed his name. He almost followed her out to drive the steel into her back. Instead, he marched inside to demand a Maester stitch his cut.

The ignoring was not a one-time occurrence. After that debut, whenever he spotted her around the Keep, she paid him no mind. She would toss him a quick glance or two, but the contact never lasted longer than a moment.

It left him seething with rage.

She'd maimed him. Taken a limb, given him a permanent weakness that could cost him his life one day. And yet she chose to treat him as if he were insignificant—as if he did not matter.

Every ounce of his being rebelled against such a possibility.

-She cares. She has to.

Driven by this most bitter conviction, he rose from bed one morning and went in search of his brother.

Rather than return to the Keep when he'd called him, he'd stumbled in half a dozen days later, much to their mother's ire. She'd rung his head over it, of course, but he was too addled on wine to pay her much mind.

He eschewed her summons on the morrow as well, in favor of some frivolous nonsense with his companions. At her wits end, she charged Aemond with seeking him out—even though playing minder was the last thing he wished to do.

For once, he'd remained in the Keep, lounging in the gardens in the summer sun. The usual gaggle of fools was at his side. Dontos Darry, the corpulent red-headed son of the Lord of Darry sat sprawled beside him, while Simon Dondarrion prattled at his feet, waving his thick arms in a frenzy.

Aemond gritted his teeth.

-Gods, we never should have brought that fool back.

His mother had needled their father into summoning Simon again, once Rhaenyra's exile had been cemented. She'd hoped the little Marcher weasel would continue where he'd left off and positively steer his brother.

Steering did occur—but it was entirely done by Aegon. He'd corrupted the wretch into being the same drunken wanton he was. Though Aemond thought the cunt didn’t need to be corrupted much. He was rotten from the start.

He exclaimed something, hands forming an obscene gesture. His brother eyed him with a bemused expression on his face—nevertheless, his gaze remained distant.

“Gods, what was her name? Alina? Wyla? I cannot recall. Not like it matters. Buried my face in her cunt all the same.”

The way Dontos snorted reminded Aemond of a rutting pig.

“Ah, speaking of cunts,” his brother quipped, just as Aemond descended on them. “Brother, good morrow. How lovely to see your face so early. Come, join us. We're discussing your favorite subject.”

It took everything he had in him to keep his expression slack.

“I'd rather gouge my other eye out.”

“Oh, then why have you come? And don’t say it’s because mother bid you to seek me.”

He inhaled a sharp breath. “She charged you to come to her solar yesterday…”

Aegon groaned, collapsing back onto his cushion. Sprawled like that, flat on his back, with his fingers buried in patches of daisies he cut the image of an actor, performing a dramatic death.

Aemond half wished he wasn’t performing.

“No, not again, always with what mother wants. It is unseemly that you cling to her skirts so.” He snapped up into a seated position, turning to his companion. “Isn't it Simon? Come, speak sense into my brother.”

The little weasel craned his head to look at him—his sleazy smile withered as soon as he spied the look on Aemond’s face. Fat Darry shrunk into himself as well, reaching to nurse his flagon of wine.

Aegon seemed either oblivious to their discontent or did not care for it in the least.

“I’ve tried to do it myself, but he seems intent on not heeding me. You know what we should do? Get him that girl of yours, what was her name? Wyla?”

“It might have been Alina, now that I think on it…”

“Marvelous, get them both,” Aegon reached over to slap the Dondarrion's shoulder. “Have them fuck the sense into him. That should make him release mother's skirt.”

His lips peeled into the most mocking smirk. To Aemond's fury, his other companions followed suit. They didn’t dare outright laugh. But the terse way they had frozen, holding their breaths told him plainly they would as soon as he was out of sight.

“Thank you, brother, for your most… generous offer.” He launched, dropping his voice. The repressed amusement on Simon's face dissipated. “But I fear I’ll have to decline. I have no interest in leavings. Those are more to your taste.”

The bemused smirk on his brother's face faltered. Still, the spite raged in the depths of his purple slits.

“No, of course not. How could I forget?” he drawled. “Your taste is more refined.”

His mouth dropped open as if to lob another quip at him, but he paused. Then, the smirk returned with a vengeance.

“In fact, here it comes now.”

It took him an unreasonable amount of time to realize his gaze was off to Aemond's right.

He immediately snapped to where he was looking, hand half reaching for his dagger. His fingers froze mid-grab.

The gown was lovely. The same bright Velaryon blue as the thing she wore in the yard. But if he thought that number immodest, this one was positively scandalous.

For one, it was hardly a dress at all, but a collection of silken threads wrapped about her body. Though they covered the entirety of her chest, the material was so fine, it reflected every curve, peak, and valley. She might as well have come out with her breasts exposed.

The thing had no bodice at all—instead, the strings were held together in place by a large bone circlet that connected to a flowing skirt at the bottom. For some reason, he thought of those absurd toqars the nobility of the Free Cities favored.

Though to his recollection, those things did not have a large slit at the front. It was that slit that he found the most offensive. It started almost at the hip, widening down her thigh and going all the way to the hem of the skirt. Every time she took a step, her right leg would poke through the fine fabric, a flash of sun-kissed skin clashing against the vibrant blue.

Aemond thought he would retch.

“Mother have mercy…” somewhere in the distance, a voice sputtered. It was Simon, utterly scandalized.

He was hardly the only one. As Lucera trotted down the garden path, eyes followed her every move. Every man, common and noble alike, paused to gape at her, their jaws slack.

The ladies seemed equally stunned, but their interest was not near as enthusiastic. At one point, she passed Lady Catelyn Merryweather’s tea party. The gathered women gawked at her like dimwitted hens, and the Lady of Longtable herself nearly toppled out of her seat from the shock.

Lucera, naturally, seemed blind to it all. She merrily skipped down the path, gaze wistfully wandering about the bushes and treetops. Her fingers toyed with a strand of hair, twirling the blue strings her maids had managed to weave into her braids.

For a moment, he was reminded of that wild little girl who would trot around the Red Keep, her head full of dreams of adventure. But then her thigh flashed through the slit and the visage of innocence shattered.

“She's probably tumbled half the Vale by now,” Aegon's words sounded at the back of his mind as she drew nearer.

He almost seized her.

His body was alight, so consumed with blind rage, it felt as if his skin would start smoking. He just didn’t know what he would do to her first—scream at her to go inside and cover herself, or rip off his own cloak to drape it over her to conceal all that obscene flesh. 

One thing he was certain he wanted to do was carve out every pair of lecherous eyes following her about—starting with Fat Darry.

The pig was salivating, sprawled on his large stomach with his arms outstretched—as if he meant to crawl after her.

Simon managed to stay more composed, but the unseemly way his tongue trailed his upper lip left his gut in knots.

But the worst was his brother. His purple slits trailed after her as she passed, before pivoting back to him. The white of his teeth flashed in a most self-satisfied smirk, and Aemond's vision filled with red.

“Is that… your niece?” Simon inquired, eyes squinting. “The Princess?”

Aegon pursed his mouth. “It seems so. Hard to tell though. I don’t recall her being so… form-fitting.”

“May you please call her over?” Fat Darry slurred, spittle glistening on his left cheek. “Just for a little bit.”

His brother's giggle was as irritating as the grating of steel against stone.

“Oh, I’m afraid you'll have to ask Aemond to do that. The two of them were more… familiar.”

Three pairs of eyes pinned him—his fingers wrapped around the dagger hilt at last.

“You cunt…” he forced under his breath. It took every ounce of strength to keep the steel sheathed.

“Come now brother,” Aegon pushed himself into a seated position. “I’m certain she is still as loyal to you as ever. Go on, whip her up.”

Silence filled the air, thicker than honey.

-Gut him. Gut all of them. Now.

He remained frozen in place.

“Well if my Prince will not, you will pardon me if I will.”

In a flash, the Dondarrion fool was on his feet, dusting off his breeches.

“Oh come now, I thought you were meant to be loyal to me!” Aegon snickered.

The Marcher lord was already skipping after Lucera, whirring to give his brother a half-hearted shrug.

“Forgive me my Prince, but I suddenly feel my loyalties inexplicably waning.”

Their shared laugh resonated in Aemond’s ear like the bells of the city Sept.

The idiot caught up to Lucera, just as she'd released Rhaena from her embrace. Aemond hadn’t even noticed the other girl had appeared, but suddenly, she was there, arms entwined with her cousin's while Simon prattled at them with enthusiasm. They slowly walked over into the shade of a fig tree, where servants had lain out several chairs.

Aemond watched the stupid idiot hover over them, burly arms waving about like banners. Though they giggled at his display, graced him with sweet looks and blushes, they did not invite him to sit.

“Gods, look at him,” Aegon commented, “He's fully cunt-struck. Dontos?”

The fat man grunted, mouth agape.

“Shall we go fetch him? I’d rather him not lose all his senses.”

With the quickness of a stalking cat, his brother rose from his cushions and adjusted his black and green doublet.

Aemond was on him in a heartbeat.

“What are you doing?” he squeezed his forearm in a death grip. The amused smirk on his lips did not falter once.

“What, it's plain dearest niece wants to play. So let’s play.”

Wrenching, himself free of his grasp, he trotted off toward Lucera, Fat Darry waddling on his heel.

Aemond sucked in a breath, his knuckles numb from the force of his knife grip.

His body was moving before he even realized it.

He fell in step with Aegon just as the wretch exchanged greetings with Lucera.

“Dearest niece, how good it is to look upon your face again,” he bowed, the smirk unwavering. “Though not as good as the rest of you, I must admit.”

His hand twitched when Dondarrion began chuckling, aching to slap him.

The corners of Lucera’s lips quirked into an unassuming smile. She sat on her chair, legs crossed, her smooth thigh draped over the fabric. There was something tied around it Aemond realized—a coil of blue string.

He knew what it was, he was certain, but his memory was failing him.

“Uncle, you haven't changed,’ she announced, tone saccharine.

Unlike Simon, Aegon did not wait for an invitation. He dragged a chair and dropped down right beside her. When his arm went around her shoulder, Aemond had to force down a swallow.

“I shall take that as a compliment,” he purred, craning his head at her.

“Of course, who wouldn’t wish to remain a child even while grown?”

He paused, squinting. The sweetness of her voice never faltered, but the way she cocked her head at Aegon laid the jab bare.

“Well, you, certainly. Look at you, a woman now. And so lovely. Isn’t she lovely brother?”

Every muscle in his body seized at the address. Aegon's eyes pivoted to him, that smirk on his face vibrant.

He parted his lips, a curse lingering on his tongue but paused. She refused to look at him. Her attention was firmly on the flower laurel she was weaving in her lap.

Her shoulders were open, back straight, but relaxed. As if she was unbothered. Her indifference stood as a sharp contrast to Rhaena, who was cowering in her seat, as Fat Darry breathed down her neck.

He almost forced her to her feet to make her look at him.

“Ah, see? You've completely robbed him of words.” Aegon shared a chuckle with Simon.

“Oh, you flatter me, dear uncle.” She chirped.

When his brother leaned in, fingers tracing circles on her bare shoulder, Aemond jerked, ready to tackle him.

“Truly, if I had known you’d grow into such a… shapely creature, I would have been leagues kinder in our youth.”

The chortle she let out made Aemond pause—the spite was palpable.

“Hmm, yes, I was just telling your companion about what a terror you were when we were children.”

“Were? My Prince will forgive me, but he still is,” Simon quipped, flashing his crooked teeth.

Lucera returned the grin in kind.

“Oh how darling, Lord Siegfried.”

“It's Simon, Princess.”

“Yes, Silas,”

The words bade Dondarrion scrunch his face, and Aemond furrow his brows. She was still grinning sweetly, but there was no warmth in the smile.

“Well, if I recall, you were just as terrible.” Aegon began. “Unruly and unwashed, rolling around with my brother in the Blackwater sands. Drove my mother to her wits end,” Aegon paused leaning closer to her. The way his eyes drank in her bare leg, it was as if he was sampling the finest Arbor gold, “But no longer. Now you're smooth and clean and in possession of a very… daring sense of dress. Tell me, what is this gown you’re wearing? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it at court.”

“A great shame, if you ask me,” Simon interjected.

Lucera plucked a daisy from Rhaena's lap, to weave it into her laurel.

“No, you wouldn’t. It's Myrish.”

His brother chortled. “Oh? So not only has the Vale made you grow it’s also bade you acquire some very… exotic tastes.”

“Ah well, what is life, without trying new things.”

Her proclamation delighted the three stooges to no end. The fingers trailing her shoulder seized it in a grip, and Aegon bent down so close to her, his lips were grazing her ear.

“Precisely, that's what I’ve always said. It’s so refreshing to have someone agree with me,” again, his purple pits lashed Aemond. “We must celebrate that. What do you say, niece? In honor of your newly acquired daring, I invite you to sample some new things with me. Take your mind off this dreadful petition business.”

The look he exchanged with Simon was enough to make Aemond's head spin.

“Oh?” Lucera sighed.

“Yes, there is a mummer’s show at the Red Square tonight.” Simon supplied.

“In… in the city?” Rhaena spoke for the first time, her face as pallid as snow.

“Yes, near the Street of Sisters. It's a Braavosi acting troupe. Impressive talent. We'd be delighted if you would come with us. Cousin Rhaena as well. If she's prepared for… such a dalliance.”
The way Rhaena's lower lip trembled, Aemond was certain she would retch.

Lucera entwined her fingers with her cousin's, her sweet smile never wavering.

“Red Square… that's near the Street of Silk, isn’t it?”

Aegon's teeth sunk into his bottom lip.

“Yes, where all the best and most exotic things are to be found.”

The laugh she released bade Aemond’s skin burn.

“I think I saw a Braavosi troupe perform once. They released a pack of monkeys at the audience.”

Aegon nodded— the fingers of his other hand were extending, reaching to hook around the band on her bare thigh.

“Hm yes, they did. I quite like those little buggers.”

“I'm sure you do. You did always act just as foolish.”

The hand froze in place. Lucera lifted her eyes to meet his brother's head-on.

“We thank you for the invitation. But sadly, we must decline. We have a family dinner tonight, and my mother would be cross if we missed it.”

“Pity,” Simon squinted, slowly picking up on the shift in his brother’s disposition.

“It is. But that does not mean you should deprive yourselves. Go, enjoy your monkeys,” cocking her head, she planted a soft kiss on the scruff of Aegon's cheek, before rising from her chair. “Perhaps they’ll even let you perform on stage with them.” She halted, just as she came face to face with Aemond. Her gaze never once left his brother. “Or perhaps not. You might end up robbing them of work.”

The lecherous smirk was gone. His lips twisted into a most vicious scowl, the kind he only reserved when he was about to spit the vilest of poisons.

“Oh how clever you’ve become…” he forced through gritted teeth, hand squeezing the backrest.

“I was always clever,” her tone was a sharp contrast to his, light, airy, unperturbed. “You just never realized that. Slowness seems to run in your part of the family.”

Even Fat Darry had taken note of the jab and ceased drooling on Rhaena's shoulder long enough to squint at Lucera.

“But you needn’t worry. Plenty of time for you to learn to see things as they are.”

It happened then. Her eyes pivoted right to him. There was no wistfulness in them, no sweet, dreamlike adoration. Just cold, unbridled disgust.

He reached for the hilt again. Two eyes was one too many.

“Come Rhaena,” she called, her jaw clenching ever so slightly.

Their little cousin leapt, shaking off Fat Darry’s fowl spittle. In two quick strides, they rushed out of the garden, their skirts billowing in a twirl of red and blue.

“Well, it seems your little Lady has grown into as much of a cunt as you are,” Aegon grumbled, lips pursed. “I’m starting to see why you liked her so much.”

Aemond hovered beside him, mind alight.

“She's right. You are a fucking monkey.”

Before Aegon could compose himself enough to answer, he walked away.

He didn’t recall the trek through the garden at all. His legs moved aimlessly till he found himself near the entrance to the hedge maze, right near that bush where Lucera had accosted him years prior. If he closed his eye, he could still see her pale face above the canopy of branches—tender and full of innocence.

-It's not innocent.

It never was.

She'd always been a wild, unkempt beast. The difference now was that she bore her colors more plainly.

-Myrish garter. It’s a Myrish garter.

He recalled reading about the string in one of his books. Noble Myrish ladies tied the garter around their right leg when they reached marrying age. It was as much a mark of womanhood as it was a challenge to any would-be suitors to come and claim it off them.

“She's probably tumbled half the Vale.”

He reached over to the bush, to caress one of the forked leaves. She cared—in fact, she relished it.

Relished maiming him, as much as she relished toying with him when he'd been a boy. Him and all the other lecherous fools gawking her way. She'd always been a vile, wicked bastard. The difference now was that he could see it. See the deceitful wanton as she was—as plainly as he saw the garter.

With a quick slash, he unsheathed the blade and hacked at the bush.

The arrowwood blossoms fell to the ground, savaged to pieces.

Chapter Text

Aegon was chewing with his mouth open.

Her wretched son sat at the breakfast table despondent, lips smacking bacon, while his eyes stared ahead. They were red and swollen, clear evidence of last night's excesses.

Alicent yearned to slap him.

-It would do you no good.

Once again, he'd disregarded her commands and left the Keep in search of his depraved pleasures. She'd had the Cargyll twins scour the city for him, till he and his two companions, Simon Dondarrion and Dontos Darry were uncovered in a wine sink in Flea Bottom.

Blessedly, they did not have any female entertainment with them. After Dyanna, Alicent could not stomach dealing with more debauchery from him.

She'd raged about it, of course. After he'd appeared in the Keep, drunk on hippocras and smelling like sewage water, she'd seized him in her arms, shaking him till his skin had gone pale with sickness. It was unbecoming, she had to admit. It wasn’t just about Dyanna.

Rhaenyra had once again gotten a helping hand—an unearned reprieve from the gods themselves. If Alicent didn’t scream at someone, she would set the entire Keep ablaze.

Aegon made for the most uncooperative target. He dismissed all her words with a callous wave of his hand and collapsed into his pillows like a turnip sack. Moments later, he began snoring.
It was fortunate that Aemond was there to hold her back. Otherwise, she would have seized a chair and broken it over his head.

-He means to vex me till I’m cold in my grave.

Precisely when she needed him at his best behavior.

Composing herself, she charged Aemond with bringing him to her solar on the morrow to break their fast. He’d eschewed her for days until at last, Aemond dragged him to her chambers himself.
“He's just like you were at that age,” she commented, eyeing her grandson. Jaehaerys sat crouched at his feet, just below the breakfast table, fiddling with his toy dragon.

Loath as she was to do so, she'd brought Helaena and her children to dine with them. A part of her hoped the sight of his babes would move her son to reason.

“Sweet and gentle.” She continued. Aegon kept smacking, face slack. When his boy thrust the toy his way, he cast him a sideways glance.

“Balerion.” The babe said, voice thin and wispy. Strands of silver hair fell into his eyes, concealing the slits— still, it was plain he wasn’t looking at any of them. Alicent squeezed her fork.

“Hm, yes,” Aegon twirled the thing in between greasy fingers. “And then I grew older, and wasn’t so anymore.”

Without sparing his son another glance, he handed the toy back. The sweet babe was too slow to respond and did not manage to catch it before it cluttered to the floor with a dull thud.

She half expected him to start crying. Instead, he gaped at the dragon, face slack—the way his lower lip quivered shattered Alicent’s heart.

“Which is still entirely your own doing,” A creak of wood sounded to her left and Aemond rose out of his seat.

Wordlessly he knelt beside his nephew and handed him the dragon. Jaehaerys did naught but grab at it blindly, before waddling off to play with his twin at Helaena's feet.

It was the perceived intrusion that drew Aegon's interest.

“Do you enjoy being a puppet? Always doing everything everyone tells you, like a little dog. They should get you a leash.”

Aemond smirked at the jab and sat into his chair. Though he'd leaned back, his posture was straight, terse. As if he was a bowstring someone kept permanently knocked.

“Yes, you should try it sometime, it’s quite lovely.”

Her eldest's scowl bade the thudding in her head turn into an unbearable hammering.

“Why, so I can do all the work and still get naught in return?”

Aemond remained unperturbed. “Better than having everything and pissing it away.”

When Aegon started laughing, she couldn’t bear it any longer.

“That’s enough!” she slammed her hands against the table. The force shook the water pitcher, causing it to splash on the linen cloth. “I’ll not hear another word from you.”

Leaning in, she stuck a finger in Aegon's face. “Your brother is only speaking truth. And if you had an ounce of wit about you, you would heed his words, and atone for your shameful actions.”

Launching herself from the table, she moved to pace about the room, her muscles as tense as lyre springs. In the sitting area, Helaena had shrunk into herself, the noise forcing her to pull at the cuffs of her sleeves.

“Not this again… what shame, mother?” Aegon stabbed a knife into a boiled egg. “Nothing happened. It was all in good fun. She needn’t have gotten so pointlessly upset about it.”

The Queen ceased her manic pace, and gaped at her son. She recalled the day he'd been born. Pink and squirming, he screamed something fierce all through the night. In spite of that, Alicent had thought she was looking at the most splendid creature ever fashioned by the gods. Pure, and delicate, the epitome of sweet innocence.

She could not fathom where that beautiful boy had gone.

“The fact those words left your lips tells me all I need to know about the depths you’ve sunk to…” she forced through gritted teeth. Drawing closer, she hovered over him, as his hand viciously stabbed the boiled egg till it was a mess of yolks and white. “And I’m ashamed… that you came out of my body.”

The clatter of steel against metal plates ceased. Aegon's head craned up to look at her—his purple eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

“Why don’t you just give up then?” he swallowed hard, lower lip trembling. “Father did, years ago. Probably when I was born. Now you’re due as well.”

He averted his gaze, hands going to knead a crust of bread. Crumbs scattered all over the table as he smashed into it with vigor. Alicent sucked in a breath.

-Would that I could.

Her life would have been leagues easier if she could rid herself of all ties to him.

She could not, she knew. Despite all the wounds he dealt her, all the horrid suffering, she could not stop loving that squealing babe she'd once cradled to her chest.

The knock at the door came as a reprieve from the misery.
Wiping the tears, she smoothed the front of her skirts.

“Come,” she forced, composing her face into the visage of the Queen.

The mask relaxed when Ser Criston crept inside, his mail clattering softly.

“Your Grace, pardon the intrusion,” the formality of his tone made her purse her lips.

“What’s happened?” she drew nearer, her earlier sorrow forgotten.

“There's been an… incident at the gate,” the man paused, forcing down a swallow. “The guards seized a man trying to enter the keep. Under the Princess' seal.”

Her nail stabbed blindly into the cuticle of her thumb.

“Rhaenyra?” She spat. “Who is he, what does he want?”

“I do not know, Your Grace. He's refused to speak ever since we took him into custody.” Another pause, as his brows furrowed uncertainly. “He's… he's Unsullied.”

Alicent blinked at him. Once. Twice. Then his words sunk in and she sputtered.

“Pardon?”

“An Unsullied?” Aemond's voice sounded behind her.

“Are you certain?” she demanded.

Her white knight nodded.

“Why is an Unsullied here?” Aemond again, his tone so sour, it could curdle milk.

“Gods, at last. Something interesting is happening.” As always, Aegon stood in contrast to him, chuckling like a fool.

“The Man of the Grass. I told you he'd come.” Helaena offered, as she fussed over Jaehaera’s hair. Alicent frowned, trying to peace what she meant when the clatter of Cole’s armor drew her attention once more.

“And you’re sure he came bearing Rhaenyra's seal?”

Wordlessly, her sworn shield reached into the satchel hung about his neck. The paper he thrust at her was crumpled, but it was impossible to mistake the emblem. The red and black three-headed dragon quartered with the Arryn falcon—the personal sigil Rhaenyra had taken to using whilst on Dragonstone.

“Where is he? I must speak with him.”

Discomfort bade Ser Criston scrunch up his nose.

“As I’ve said, your Grace, we've taken him into custody. The Cargyll twins had bound him at the gate and took him here straight away.”

“He's here?” Aemond leapt out of his seat, and materialized beside her. “You’ve brought him up here, to my mother's fucking apartments?”

“Forgive me my Prince, the twins only meant to take him aside before anyone could interfere…”

“Is he armed?” her son demanded.

Alicent forced her head to clear and latched onto his forearm.
“It's alright, you can bring him in.”

Aemond lashed her a look, sparse brows furrowed. She knew it was not ideal, especially with the children being here, but Cole had the right of it—they needed to settle this before anyone interfered.

Ser Criston nodded her way and marched out into the halls. When he returned, the Cargyll twins were hot on his heels, dragging a bound figure in black.

Alicent balked.

She'd only ever seen Unsullied once. Years prior, her Lord husband had hosted a Volanteen ambassador and his party at court. The man's name escaped her, but one thing she could never forget was the half a dozen Unsullied he'd brought with him as an escort.

They were all of different ages, heights, and skin tones. Yet they all looked the same. Same smooth, hairless faces, dead eyes, stilted posture—the same wide-footed stance.

As a way to display their legendary discipline, the Volanteen had bid his slave soldiers to stand outside in the pouring rain for a full night. When the sun rose, none had moved from their positions. Alicent thought it was the most upsetting thing she'd ever witnessed.

To her surprise, the man sandwiched between the twins was nothing like those dead-eyed soldiers.

He was burlier and more thickly muscled, with a full head of hair he kept pulled into a long braid. Though his face was just as smooth and hairless, there was a ruggedness to it, in no small part thanks to the ghastly scars.

The mangle of crookedly healed flesh was all Alicent could see. The four marks stretched across his swarthy skin, starting on his forehead and going down over the bridge of his upturned nose to end at his left cheek. Purple and swollen as they were, they looked like the stripes of a tiger.

-He's plainly a slave.

Even beneath the marks, it was impossible to miss the tattoo below his left eye. She knew Volanteen slave masters used different tattoos to signal their slaves' professions, but she could not recall what a knife tattoo meant.

Besides that, there was nothing to mark the man as Unsullied. He eschewed the traditional bronze and leather armor in favor of a roughspun woolen shift and cloak. There were no weapons hung about his waist, no dagger, short sword, or spear his supposed brethren favored. The man just looked like some lowly gutter slave from across the narrow sea, who had gotten lost on his way to board a ship.

But then Alicent spied it. The trademark bronze helmet with a curved spike at the top. Ser Criston was clutching it in his hands along with the leather satchel.

-Father grant me strength.

“You stand before the Queen. Kneel.” Ser Criston spat at the man, dark eyes narrowed.

The creature did not even blink. He glowered at them in silence, shoulders straight and chin high. She could see his arms strain against the rope binding his wrists, the muscle as taunt as a crossbow string.

With a nod from Criston, one of the Cargylls kicked his knee. It took three tries, each increasingly more forceful to force the man’s foot to give out.

“Kneel!” one of the Cargylls demanded, earning a scowl from his brother.

“That’s enough.” She commanded, daring to draw closer.

“Do you have a name, Ser?” it seemed out of place to address him with knightly spurs, but Alicent was too rattled to think of a different term.

It was as if she hadn’t said anything at all. His black eyes kept staring ahead as if she were made of glass.

“My Kingsguard tell me you were trying to enter the castle, under the Princess' seal. Is this true?”

Again, no answer. He merely squirmed in place, straightening his shoulders. It was unnerving just how towering he was, even when kneeling.

“The Queen asked you a question,” this time, it was Ser Criston who kicked at him, the steel point of his foot catching him in the forearm. He might as well have been kicking a grain sack.

“How long has he been like this?” she demanded.

“Ever since we took him in, Your Grace. He's not uttered a single word, no matter how pressed.”

Alicent released a huff, half prepared to have him sent to the Black Cells for some sharp questioning when Aemond stepped forth.

Her son fired a sentence in what she recognized as High Valyrian. She may not have understood him, but the man had. His head snapped up, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing at Aemond.

“What is it, what are you doing?” she brushed her hand against his forearm. The unsettling way those eyes regarded her son made her throat close.

“Unsullied are trained at Astapor. One of the primary languages there is Valyrian.” Aemond pursed his lips. “There’s a chance he doesn’t even speak the Common Tongue.”

He repeated the words, louder and with more conviction. Alicent's belly seized when the man spoke at last. His reply sounded garbled, in contrast to Aemond's crisp words.

Nevertheless, they seemed to bid her son’s frown to deepen.

“What, what’s he saying?”

“His name is Torro. He hails from Old Volantis.”

She clutched his forearm tighter.

Of all the things Rhaenyra could have done, sourcing a slave soldier from Old Volantis was what she least expected.

“Ask him why he's here.”

Aemond fired off another question, this one making the man's jaw clench. When he gave a response, his tone was low, dismissive.

“He won't say,” Aemond translated. “He's not permitted.”

“Permitted? By whom, Rhaenyra?”

Her son's next question made a frown so fierce appear on the man's face, Alicent was certain he meant to leap at them to rip open their throats with his teeth.

Again, she could not understand what was said, but one word stood out to her. Master.

“What, what’s he saying?”

Aemond's mouth parted to form words, but the commotion outside the apartments drew his attention. Garbled shouts rang out and nary a moment later, the door swung open.

“Unhand me, right now!” a figure in blue skirts shook off the guard's grip and charged inside.

“Torro!” Rhaenyra’s wild girl shrieked, eyes as wide as overripe figs.

The man immediately came to life. He shot to his feet like a loosened arrow, and launched into a sentence. The words sounded different to his slurred Valyrian, gruffer, harsher as if he was hurling the vilest insults. Alicent realized she was speaking in a different tongue.

“Princess, you should not be here,” her white knight interjected, eyes lashing the guards she'd left at the entrance.

Lucera brushed him off.

“What is the meaning of this? Unhand him right now.”

“This man attempted to enter the Keep without leave…” the knight countered.

“He has leave,” the words came out like a guttural growl, and she lowered her chin, lips twisted into a scowl.

-She's even worse than her brute of a brother.

Possessed of the same brown eyes, and pug nose, she'd grown just as statuesque, if a touch shorter than her twin. Alicent half thought the creature would lunge to swing at her like some uncouth street brawler.

“I gave him my mother's seal, so that he may move about freely. Where is it?”

Before her knight could answer, the Unsullied piped up. Whatever he'd said made the girl narrow her eyes at Ser Criston.

“You took it from him…”

“We couldn’t have known how he came by it.” Ser Criston lashed back at her, jaw clenched. To Alicent's horror, the Unsullied was eyeing him intently, knees bent into a crouch—as if he meant to pounce.

“Ah yes, how else would an Unsullied come to have the seal of the Crown Princess? Of course, we gave it to him! Have the years made you daft, Ser, or is the spite still driving you to yap at my mother's feet?”

The comment made her white knight's face darken. His hand twitched, moving toward the dagger fastened at his hip. Beside her, Aegon snickered and Alicent just about retched.

“That's enough!” she commanded.

Composing herself, she cast a glance at the girl.

“Princess. Ser Criston was merely doing his duty and protecting the royal family from harm.”

The thing had the gal to dismiss her completely.

“Yes we all feel safer for his actions,” she marched past her knight to come to the Unsullied's side. The Cargyll twins eyed her like a pair of dimwitted hens, before gingerly stepping back To her horror, the creature lunged at one of them, Ser Erryk most like, hand aimed at the knife fastened around his waist. The blade came free with one swift tug.

Alicent’s vision filled with red. She leapt in an instant, moving to put herself in between the wild animal and Aemond. But the knife thrust at a different target.

With a huff, she slashed through the ropes binding the man's wrist. No sooner had they fallen off him that she took his hands into hers. The Queen's stomach twisted when she noticed deep scars crisscrossing the swarthy skin.

“But next time, Ser, please do us all the courtesy of actually verifying if the visitor is a true enemy, not a perceived one.”
Ser Criston had gone whiter than a sheet, and Alicent lashing him with a warning glare was all that stayed his hand from unsheathing his blade.

“Well, in that case, thank you for resolving our conundrum, Princess,” Alicent forced as much scorn as she could into her voice. The insolent thing paid her no mind, singularly focused on exchanging hushed whispers with the slave. “Your companion is free to leave.”

Lucera heaved a labored breath, “With your permission, your Grace.”

Holding him by the wrist, she moved toward the door. Ser Criston blocked her path.

“To leave the castle, Princess.”

Strained silence followed Alicent’s declaration.

“What? No.”

“The Red Keep is no place for a slave soldier,” Alicent continued, straightening her back.

“He is not a slave,” the thing spat, half feral with fury. Her eyes bore into Alicent, as she moved over to stand in front of the man, fingers still firmly wrapped around his wrist. The Queen didn’t fail to notice that she still had the knife in the other. “He is a free man. And he is sworn to me.”

Her declaration bade her pause. This was certainly an unexpected development. Rhaenyra's girl had always been a wild rule-breaker but even Alicent did not foresee her cavorting with a slave soldier.

-Where did she even get an Unsullied?

The Vale was certainly not teeming with foreign delegates, and to her knowledge, the girl had not traveled to any of the Free Cities.

Alicent balled her fists, her unease rising.

-This must be investigated.

“As interesting as that is Princess, I fear he cannot remain.”
Her teeth sunk into her lower lip. “On what grounds?”

“You’re here as a petitioner, not a conquering warlord. I will not allow the Keep to be turned into a fighting pit.”

“He's not a pit fighter, he's my sworn shield. Tasked with my protection. As far as I’m aware, petitioners are allowed to appoint a champion to defend their rights with steel, if the need arises.”

The knife flashed white, and Alicent gritted her teeth.

-Does she mean to spill blood to uphold this foolish claim?

It was an absurd question. The vile thing had already spilled blood—sourcing a feral slave soldier to continue the carnage was merely the next step.

“Yes, and to my recollection, you’ve already chosen him. Ser Fedryn, I believe?”

The satisfaction she felt when her face faltered was immeasurable. She'd not been pleased when she'd heard the knights of the Vale had accompanied her for the petition. It was expected for the Arryns to stand with Rhaenyra on account of her blood and her sex, but Alicent misliked it all the same. Everyone could be bought, and a part of her had hoped she could find a price that would sway Lady Jeyne to her side.

That hope was dashed the day Larys brought her the news of Rhaenyra sending her girl to the Eyrie for fostering. The bonds she forged there cemented the falcon as fully black. Still, it pleased Alicent to know that having the Arryns hindered the girl's other plans.

“Ser Fedryn is here to speak on behalf of Lady Jeyne…”

“Who speaks on behalf of you. Thus making him your champion.”

“You are not taking him away…” the creature had the audacity to hiss, plump lips pursed in a fury.

Alicent almost snickered. “I’m the Queen. I can and I will. Ser Criston,” Her knight stood to attention. “Escort the… Unsullied outside the Keep.”

Lucera's muscles seized when the Kingsguard reached over to take her forearm. No sooner had his mailed hand locked around hers that chaos erupted.

Faster than she could blink, the Unsullied lurched, his foot hitting Cole straight in the chest.

Her white knight stumbled to the floor in a flurry of mail and armour. Alicent screamed.

“Protect the Queen!” he commanded, scrambling to get up.
The Unsullied was quicker. Pushing Lucera behind him, he wrenched the blade she'd been clutching. His other hand snatched another knife one of the Cargylls had fastened at his hip.

The swiftness of his attack made the twins bump into one another like apples in a sack.

“Behind me, mother, now!” Aemond was lunging, throwing his body in front of her. A hand clasped at hers, and when she cast a glance over her shoulder, Aegon was there, face alight with fascinated horror.

“Helaena!” Alicent shrieked as she stumbled back into her son. To her horror, her girl was just behind Lucera and the Unsullied, rocking back and forth, with her babes clutched to her chest. “Help Helaena!”

“Protect the Queen!” Ser Criston repeated, rising to his feet.
He was met with the point of a blade. Crouching like a cat, the Unsullied pointed one dagger at her knight, while the other he thrust right at them.

“Sword!” someone screamed, and blood fled her fingers when she heard the hiss of steel leaving its sheathe.

Just then, Rhaenyra's bastard decided to respond. Gathering her wits about her, she bellowed a command in her foreign language. One blink and the blades dropped from the man's hands. He straightened like a coil spring, and his face went slack.

“Seize him!” her knight almost tackled the slave, binding his hands at his back.

Alicent didn’t think. She immediately rushed to Helaena's side, her heart in her throat. Her girl was crouched beside the settee sucking in slow, shallow breaths. Her hands covered her ears, as her babes pawed at her, wailing at the top of their lungs. Their joint keening made Alicent's head spin.

“You dare raise weapons to the Queen!” Ser Criston was shrieking, hands wrapped around the man's throat. For all his earlier viciousness, he did naught but blink.

“Get him out of here, take him to the Black Cells!” She commanded, gently trying to loosen Helaena's hands. Her muscles were as hard as stone.

“No, he was just trying to protect me!” Rhaenyra's girl hissed, fists balled. Alicent had half a mind to carve out her eyes.

“He assailed me!” Ser Criston spat.

“You laid your hands on me first!”

“It is death to threaten a member of the royal family. You’re fortunate I don’t take his head off right now!”

“Quiet, all of you!” Alicent shrieked, her cheeks aflame. Helaena was rocking back and forth, her jaw clenched. Jaehaera released a most earth-shattering scream.

“Luce!” as if the gods hadn’t been cruel enough, another voice joined the fray.

Jacaerys Velaryon rushed into her apartments like a raging bull, eyes wide and nostrils flared. He immediately barreled to his sister's side, broad chest moving to shield her from Aemond. Alicent hadn’t even noticed her son was clutching a short sword, pointing the blade right at Lucera's heart.

“Gods, what’s happened? You alright? Get that sword out of my sister's face!”

“Yes, he's trying to evict him!” The wretch blubbered, cheeks flush.

“Prince Jacaerys, leave the apartments at once, this does not concern you. This man is now in the custody of the crown,” Ser Criston spat, bidding the Cargylls to find him something to bind the man's hands.

“No, the Crown charges you to release him,” the bull raised a hand, something clutched in his fingers.

Alicent's ears rang.

“I come from my grandsire's chambers. He's bid me to bring…” he faltered, but his vile twin was there to prop him up.

“Torro.”

“…Torro, to him. He is to remain as a guest in the Red Keep. By order of the King.”

Silence ravaged the room following his declaration. Alicent rose from the floor, slowly, her body numb.

“By order of the King?” she repeated, drawing nearer. Her heart had leapt up into her throat, and she could feel it thundering against her windpipe. The room around her spun, and she could still taste bacon grease clinging to the roof of her mouth.

-No. No, no, no.

Rhaenyra's bull balked when she approached, face twisting into a scowl.

She didn’t think. Lunging, she seized the accursed parchment from his hands, ripping it with fury. Her hands clawed at the paper till it was no more than a handful of white dust in her hands.

“Here's your order!” she hissed launching the pieces into the boy’s face.

The insolent beast balked, blinking at her.

“Mother…” she couldn’t tell if it was Aegon or Aemond who had called her. It didn’t matter.

“No! No, you do not get to come in here, waving a blade at mine own children, and get rewarded for your insolence. I forbid it!”

“My Queen…” Ser Criston this time, his voice grave.

“No, I will not have it!” she was shrieking now, her lungs too stiff to take in air.

She couldn’t stand to be in this chamber any longer. Barreling past them all, she burst out into the hallway, slippers slamming against the stone. Ser Harold stood watch outside her husband's chambers, and she almost knocked him over in an effort to enter.

Her blood went from simmering to boiling when she found Rhaenyra inside, arms crossed on her chest.

“You…” she was rushing, ready to force her to the ground and carve open her throat.

Movement to her left caught her attention.

“Viserys!” anger vanished in a cloud of fear.

Her Lord Husband was sprawled on an examination table, half-naked. His sores were exposed, rotten flesh steaming in the morning sun. Above him hovered a bearded man in mismatched motley, poking at the meat with a pair of pincers.

“Mother save me, what are you doing? Get away from him!”
She immediately changed course to rush over to him, but Rhaenyra blocked her path.

“My Queen, please, it's alright. The man is here to help.”

“What is this, who are you? Do not touch me!” she wrenched free of her grip, skin crawling with goose flesh.

“Qavo Praendys, if it pleases her Worship,” the graybeard drawled. Setting aside his pincers, he hobbled over to her, beard dragging behind him like a cape. The thing was obscenely long. A curtain of salt and pepper, it draped all the way to his knees ending just at his shins. However, despite the excess of hair on his face, his head was as bald as an egg. “First Healer to his Radiance Vogarro Baleris, six times elected Triarch of Old Volantis.”

Alicent gaped at his outstretched hand. His bony fingers were covered in a patchwork of tattoos that pressed so closely together it made it seem like the flesh was black. His skull was similarly marked. Though he was shaven, the various glyphs and patterns on his skin made it seem like he had a head of short-cropped dark hair.

“A Volanteen healer? What are you doing here, who called you?”

“I did,” in a flash, Rhaenyra's girl barreled past her, seizing the man's hands in a tight grip.

To Alicent's fury, they began prattling in Valyrian the words too quick and too garbled for her to even begin making them out. Rhaenyra would interject occasionally brows knitted together into a serious frown.

“Would any of you tell me what is going on?”

“Forgive, Noble Queen,” the man began, giving her a curt bow. The apron tied around his waist was worn brown leather, marred with a patchwork of multicolored stains. “I was called here to attend to your husband's health.”

Alicent sputtered. “I can assure you, Ser, my Lord husband's health is well taken care of. We have the most skilled Maesters looking after him, day and night.”

The man gave her a nod, the folds of his skin crinkling to form a frown. His flesh was so wrinkled, Alicent judged he had to be at least eight and eighty.

“Indeed, but as skilled as your Maesters are I fear they do not know everything.”

“And I suppose we should rely on you, and your Eastern superstitions?”

He shrugged off her tone as a dog would shrug off water.

“My sweet Queen would forgive my boldness, but our Eastern superstitions have served us long before men even set foot on this land. If her Magnificence is as wise as I believe her to be, she will not dismiss them outright.”

Alicent scoffed. “This is absurd.”

“My Queen, please,” Rhaenyra drew forth, purple eyes downcast. Her wild girl stood right behind her, leaning against the table that propped up Viserys' scale model. “Father is plainly not well. He needs help. There is no harm in exploring alternative options.”

Pain exploded behind Alicent’s eyes. “Ah yes, no harm, save having some strange jester in motley poke and prod at him, as if he was a roast pig. No, I will not allow it.”

She whirled on her feet, to find Ser Criston. He, her sons, and Jacaerys had followed her to the King's chambers and were standing outside, tense and scowling, ready to battle at a moment’s notice.

“Fetch Maester Orwyle, and escort Healer… Qavo out. I’ve had enough of foreigners prancing about the Keep.”

“Alicent, if you could just…”

A gasp resonated in the chamber, bidding Alicent to stumble.
Every pair of eyes pivoted to the examination table. Viserys sat there, chest bare hacking out dry coughs. The Healer was at his side, clutching a cup of some kind. Her husband took a ginger sip of it, and released another cough. However, when the fit ceased, his breathing cleared.

Alicent gaped, ears strained. Not a single breath was followed by that trademark death rattle that he'd developed some years ago.

“Viserys?” her lower lip trembled.

“This one's better, yes?” the gray beard drawled in his foreign lilt. His fist tapped against her husband's chest, as he drew breath after breath.

“Yes, much. I can breathe.” Her husband whispered, a strained smile grazing his lips. He straightened his back, the fingers on his remaining arm clutching the edge of the examination table with a kind of determination Alicent hadn’t seen in him since they’d wed. “Aegon?”

Her son stumbled at the address, purple eyes going wide. Viserys squinted at him, puffing slow breaths through his mouth.

“You're here. You’ve not come to visit in months.”

“Wonderful!” the old man exclaimed and hobbled over to the desktop.

“What did you give him?” Alicent demanded, just as her son sheepishly shuffled inside, to exchange a few hushed words with his father.

“Tincture. A simple thing, to help with breathing. But be advised, it’s only temporary.” He paused, fishing out several vials from his apron pockets. His fingers pushed the cork out of one and brought it up to his nose. “Your Maesters have been feeding him arrowwood root, yes?”

She blinked, swallowing. “Uh, yes, yes. With the milk of the poppy. It’s to ease the pain.”

“Hm, no, no,” the man grumbled dripping some of the vial's contents into the goblet her husband had been nursing previously. “Arrowwood is a terrible thing for someone of Valyrian blood. It does not agree with them. It is why his breathing has been so strained. But, do not fret. Once we remove it, his breathing should clear.”

“Can you heal him?” Rhaenyra demanded. Her cheeks had gone flush, as a gust of fire lit up the amethyst of her eyes. Alicent had not seen that fire since they were girls—it smelled of life, of hope and yearning.

It sputtered out the moment the man pinned her gaze.

“Once, perhaps. Before his corruption had spread. Now,” he exhaled a labored sigh. “Only blood magic may restore him. And sadly, that is a path I as a Healer would never dare tread. But, what I can do is ease his pain. So he may live out his days in comfort.”

Alicent bit her lip. All the years she'd suffered at his side, and yet, the thought Viserys would be healed filled her with the same joy Rhaenyra had expressed.

Heaving a sigh, she cast a look over her shoulder at her husband.

He was still speaking to Aegon. His chest was straining with each word spoken, but he held firm, the strength of his grip not faltering once. Her son's face shone so brightly, it could eclipse the sun itself.

“Do what you can,” she said at last.

The Healer gave her a quick bow.

“As her Magnificence commands. But I beseech you to leave us now. I must cut his flesh and I would not your gentle eyes witness that.”

Gritting her teeth, Alicent turned on her heel and moved toward the door. It took some convincing to get Aegon to leave Viserys' side. He insisted on remaining in the room, to hold his father's hand. But after Viserys swore to have words with him once the deed was done, he at last followed her to the door.

As they all shuffled out, Alicent paused. Rhaenyra was speaking with her twins in hushed tones, hands nervously adjusting the front of her son's doublet. The Unsullied hovered nearby, almond-shaped eyes trained on her own boys. Aemond lashed the creature with a look, but one warning squeeze on his arm made him settle.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

Amethyst slits widened at her and she felt her heart soar. The corners of Rhaenyra's mouth kicked up into a smile.

Later, as she sat in her chambers, Alicent pondered that smile. The fire she saw burn in Rhaenyra's gaze.

-She loves him.

For all her faults Alicent never doubted she adored her father like no other man in the world. If there was room for such a tender love in her heart, she mayhaps was not the terror she had thought her to…

The knock derailed her train of thought.

“Come,” the Queen announced, smoothing the front of her skirts.

The low thud of the cane echoed in her chamber, and that familiar clubfoot came into view.

“Your Grace,” Lord Larys gave her a brief bow, lips quirked into a smile. He wore a maroon riding cloak over his leathers, clear evidence of a day spent traveling about.

“My Lord. Have your fireflies brought any buzzing?”

The man hobbled over to her settee and plopped down. It irked Alicent how he had grown bold enough to do that without her leave.

“Oh plenty, my Queen. It is just as you feared. The Princess means to call upon 3 lords to defend her daughter's claim.”
Alicent heaved a sigh. “The women. Of course. Gender was always a silly pretext.”

She'd expected this. Female inheritance had been rare, but not unheard of. Vaemond filing the petition on the grounds of Lucera's sex put into question all other women who had inherited in spite of male cousins. They would not be pleased to have their rights questioned.

“They will support Rhaenyra. They have no choice but to.”
The Clubfoot chuckled, fingers drumming against his cane.

“Come, my Queen. I’m certain you would be able to sway them to your side. Everyone can be bought. It is only a matter of price.”

Alicent pinned his gaze, chills racing down her spine.
“I shall have to make inquiries,” she paused, every muscle in her body seizing. “I have another favor to ask of you."

“Ask and it is yours.” He offered with glee.

“Rhaenyra's daughter has a sworn shield. He's an Unsullied.”

That seemed to surprise him. “An Unsullied? Curious. Those are hard to come by in this part of the world. Especially at the Vale.”

“Indeed. I need to know how she got him.” Her fingers traced the nailbed of her thumb. “If Rhaenyra is making entreaties to the Free Cities, we must do the same.”

“Of course,” Larys cooed sweetly. “I shall send the flies to buzz on the morrow. But…” He paused, casting a wistful glance to the side. “I fear that without proper wind in their wings, they may never reach their destination.”

The Queen glared at him in agonizing silence. The weight of her previous choices seized her by the throat and began squeezing.

-You are the worst evil I ever let in my life.

Turning on her heels she blinked away her tears.

Then she bent down to remove her shoes.

Chapter Text

The sky was serene.

Lush clouds swirled on a canvas of endless blue, as fat as spun candy. Jace gazed at the azure expanse, body tense with anticipation.

-Late again.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Luce was never known for her punctuality. He had half a mind to return to the pit and mount Vermax to go look for her when a roar sounded. He whirled on his feet, eyes trained on the sky.

He scarce had time to blink. A shape burst through the tuft of white, leather wings kicking up air. The dragon flew around the pit in swooping arcs, roaring calls across the Blackwater.

It was fast, Jace noticed. A blur of greys and smoking pink, it whipped through the clouds faster than his eyes could follow.
At one point, it ascended high, before angling itself down to do a drop.

It barreled toward the ground, wings firmly tucked to its body. Jace waited with bated breath for the beast to unfurl them and continue to cruise, but it kept them folded, committing to the drop.

When it began nearing dangerously close to the Dragonpit dome, he became convinced she'd lost control and was about to crash.

However, just as he moved to shout for the Keepers, the beast’s wings opened and it flew past, mere inches above the roof.
Jace ducked, the gust of wind the flyby blew at him strong enough to knock him off his feet. By some miracle, he managed to keep his footing, and coughed up the dust cloud that had drifted up into his nose.

With one sharp turn, the grey beast descended to the cliffside, pink wings beating furiously. Jace watched the dragon shake its slender head, before hissing a call.

“Show off!” he bellowed, gaze pinning the saddle fixed atop its neck.

Two shapes stirred in the seat, fingers working to unfasten the chains holding them in place.

“Don’t be jealous Jacaerys.” Luce quipped. Even at a distance, it was impossible to miss the grin marring her lip. “Some of us are just born riders. We can't help being better than everyone else.”

He rolled his eyes so hard, he could see the back of his skull. Composing himself, he dared to draw closer, just as a figure in black descended down the ropes fastened along the dragon's wing blades.

Aegon looked like a rotund sheep. Bundled in layers of wool and leather, his brother waddled up to him on shaky legs.

“Little Egg,” he bent down to remove his cap. Despite the layers, his soft cheeks were windblown raw. “Back on solid ground at last. Did you enjoy your ride?”

“He was magnificent,” Lucera followed suit, descending with a loud thud of boots. Her dragon cooed at the sight of her, craning its head to let her caress him. “Kept his posture, held on tight. I dare say he'll be a better rider than us all when he grows up.”

Jace smiled at Egg, but his brother did not return the smirk. His eyes were so wide, it looked like they would fall right out of their sockets.

“Can I ride with you next time?” he exhaled, voice trembling. “She goes so fast…”

Jace sputtered, unable to control his laugh. “Well, she was always one for senselessly speeding toward danger.”

Lucera lashed him a look. Her beast seemed to sense the discontent and hissed smoke through its nostrils.

“Come now Egg, don’t exaggerate. It was just a few turns and drops.”

Aegon side-eyed her, before pinning Jace's gaze.

“I almost fell out of the saddle. I think a bird smashed into my face, and I swallowed it…”

Jace clutched at his belly, the laugh making his insides hurt. “Don't worry little Egg. I’ll take you flying next time.”

His brother crushed himself into his legs, body trembling under layers of wools.

Jace quickly returned the squeeze and bid one of the guards to escort him into the pit.

“Sweet boy. He'll have a lot of growing to do,” Lucera appeared beside him, hair a tangled mess. The wind had loosened the locks from her braid, and they stuck out of her head like spikes. Her cheeks were red and windblown and Jace could tell she was shivering with cold under her padded riding leathers. But, in spite of all that, her eyes roared with the vibrant glow of dragonfire.

“Speaking of growing,” he tossed a look at her dragon. “He's grown monstrous. I think he's even larger than Vermax.”

Her gray beast stretched its left wing, a low rumbling in its chest. The size difference wasn’t striking but still noticeable. Towering over an elephant, Arrax had grown into a splendid, sinewy creature. Though his head was sharp and pointed eerily reminiscent of Caraxes, the crown of horns he sported around his head was a mirror to Meleys. That was hardly surprising since both he and Vermax were hatched by their grandmother's Red Queen.

However, despite having height, Arrax didn’t have much bulk. The dragon was slender, well-muscled, and lithe, obviously made for long flights and racing rather than combat. Jace thought it incredibly fitting.

“What can I say? Freedom was always the best way to make one thrive.”

Jace scrunched his nose. “So Septon Barth was right. Keeping them chained does stunt their growth.”

A creek of iron hinges sounded behind him. Two Keepers in stained brown robes emerged from the pit, staffs at the ready. No sooner had they taken a step toward Arrax that the beast screamed and launched himself into the air.

In two quick beats, it disappeared into the clouds, flying down the mouth of the Blackwater.

Lucera gave the Keepers a defeated shrug and entwined her arm with his.

“I’ve always said we should let them fly free.”

Jace pulled her toward the entrance. “We do that, thousands will burn. It’s too dangerous to let that kind of power roam unchecked.”

His sister scoffed. “Arrax has been flying across the Mountains of the Moon for three years. In all that time, he's never done anything.”

“No?” he halted, squeezing her forearm. “I seem to recall a flurry of letters from the Eryie, demanding coin to pay the shepherds for the sheep your dragon pilfered.”

Dragon tax, his stepfather had called it. Daemon had laughed when Mother had presented the letters, claiming Lady Jeyne should handle it on her own.

“She wanted a dragon, now she has to keep it.”

Thankfully, his mother had more sense, and agreed to pay a small fee every few months for Arrax's upkeep.

“He had to eat something,” Luce puckered her lips defiantly. “At least he didn’t go for any shepherds.”

“That you know of.” he arched a brow. He could have sworn one of the letters mentioned Arrax spitting fire at a boy who had attempted to drive him away from the flock.

Seizing her fingers into his hand, he gave them a quick caress.

“Our power comes from our dragons. If we don’t have a handle on them, how can we hope to maintain our own position?” his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. “They have to remain chained. Even if it reduces them.”

His sister regarded their entwined hands, her brows knitted. “There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.”

Jace snapped his head at her—the longing in her voice almost undid him.

“Come, don’t go all sullen on me now. There's too many good things happening for you to be sad.”

Releasing a sigh she pulled him into the confines of the pit. The warm, cloying stench of ash and brimstone coated the roof of his mouth. Torches lined the stone walls, bathing the hallway in a soft glow.

“Hm, yes. Is grandsire doing better?”

Jace nodded. “Much. I’ve heard the servants say he's risen from bed to sit in his chair. He's even taken to tending his model again.”

“Well, a lack of pain is a great motivator.”

A smile grazed his lips. “That was a stellar idea on your part. You still haven’t told me where you unearthed those foreign friends of yours.”

It shouldn’t have surprised him. After all, his twin was always drawn to all manner of curiosities. Nevertheless, he was still stumped when she'd revealed she had acquired an Unsullied as her protector. Even more so, when she'd told him her shield was due to bring a Volanteen Healer into the castle to see their grandsire.

He felt immeasurably proud. Years he'd spent worrying over how distant she'd become. She never put much stock in their foolish politics, but the incident with Aemond had left her thoroughly disinterested. He spent every waking moment fretting she would give up on her duties, to fly away on her dragon, never to return.

-We cannot run.

Their blood painted targets on their backs and no amount of ignoring would ever erase the mark. She may not have played the game the traditional way, but it relieved him to know she was still using her own methods to help.

“Trust, brother, that’s quite a long and boring tale. And it doesn’t help us with the issue at present.”

The narrow passageway began widening till it opened into a vast cavern of stone and sand. The pit stood empty, save for a few solitary Keepers clearing the floor of charred bones and dragon dung. In the distance, he spotted Joffrey readying himself to mount the practice buck the Keepers had brought out for him.

“Grandsire is speaking to us. He's allowed you to keep Torro around as a guest. And he's agreed to be treated by the Healer. It’s just a matter of time before Mother is back in his good graces as well.”

He thanked the Mother above every day for the fact grandsire did not spurn them as well. The King had seemed relieved he and Luce had come to his side and relished the tales they shared of their time on Dragonstone—even if he was not willing to discuss either mother or their dear stepfather.

“In time for Vaemond's petition?” she asked, brow arched. “No. We cannot rely on grandsire’s whims alone to see us through. We have to explore alternate avenues.”

Again, his lips kicked up into a smile, pride resonating in his chest.

“I know. Well ahead of you.”

Before he could elaborate, a loud yelp echoed through the cavern. Jace immediately began striding toward the buck, where his little brother lay sprawled in the dirt, clutching his forearm.

“Ouch,” he grumbled, rising into a seated position. A Keeper was at his side in an instant helping him rise and dust off his riding leathers.

“Gods Joff, again? You’re doing it wrong.”

His little brother huffed, plump lips pursing. It was remarkable how much he resembled Luce when he did that.

“No, I’m not! I’m fine. The reins are too tight! I can't pull on them properly."

“The reins are as tight as they need to be, so when you grab them right, you can steer without falling off. Which you aren’t doing.”

Joffrey's cheeks reddened worse than a beet.

“I am, shut up!” he thought he was going to take sand and fling it at him, but Luce interfered.

“Alright boys, settle down,” she scooped him up into her arms, and waddled back to the buck. “Come Joff, up you go. Let’s see your stance.”

Shaking off her grip, his little brother ascended the wooden steps and vaulted on top of the makeshift buck. The thing was a jumble of old wood, metal and fabric, much smaller than actual dragonback. But the shape was about right, and it served as good practice for the younger children before they moved on to flying their actual mounts.

Luce climbed into the saddle behind him, reaching to squeeze him around his waist.

“Alright, let’s see. Hips back, shoulders straight. You need to have good posture so you don’t slide around in the saddle when you’re flying,” she gently corrected his form, while Joff stared ahead, brows furrowed in fierce concentration. “Now, lock your arms at the elbow, and take the reins. Knot them twice, in your hand. You have to hold it tight, so you can direct your mount properly. Dragons are not horses, you need to have a firm hand for them to take your instruction. Alright?”

Joff gave her a swift nod. Without warning, she jerked. The buck lurched forward with a loud creak of wood and rusted metal. Despite going as pale as a sheet, Joffrey managed to keep his balance.

“Good! That’s much better. Now let’s see you do it by yourself.”

She planted a soft kiss on his cheek and dismounted in two quick swings of her legs. Though Joffrey's grip was still uncertain, when the Keeper began rocking the buck, he was able to stay in the saddle.

They both hooted words of encouragement at him, that made his face light up with joy.

The cheery mood quickly turned forlorn, however. On the other end of the pit, a small party of guards entered, surrounding three figures in gold.

Jace felt such sadness when he glimpsed Helaena. She was trotting across the sand with her two babes clinging to her skirts, her gaze wistful and distant. The years had made lines of worry mar her forehead, but she still looked as ethereal as he recalled. A magnificent sprite that walked on air.

“We should have words,” Luce leaned in to whisper. “Helaena's blameless in all of this.“

“Hm, yes,” he sighed. “She was always unfailingly kind to us.”

His sister's lips quirked into a smile, when one of the babes, the girl he believed, tripped and tumbled to the ground. Helaena immediately bent down to comfort her, pushing lush locks of silver hair from her eyes. “They're darling, aren’t they?”

The little boy knelt down as well, seizing his sister's hand before planting a kiss on her cheek. Huddled like that, hand in hand, they reminded Jace of Egg and Viserys.

“They are. Hard to believe Aegon was the one who sired them.”

The news of their marriage had been a shock. Mother had never believed the Queen would condone a union between siblings, tradition, or not. Worse still, none of them could believe she would give her hand to Aegon. His depravity was common knowledge and it pained Jace to know Helaena had to suffer his follies.

“They could have been your children, if mother had managed to betroth you.”

Her words made him blink in surprise. “Yes well, I doubt that union would have been any better.”

The way her brows shot up made heat ravage his cheeks. “No? If I recall, you’d once told me she was the prettiest girl you’d ever seen in your life.”

“I meant that I doubt our union would have been able to mend the strife between our families.”

The smirk dropped from his sister's face.

“No… but Helaena would have been better off. You would have been leagues kinder than Aegon.”

He lashed her with a look. It was a fairly low bar. Most anyone would have been kinder than Aegon.

“And,” she continued. “I dare say your children would have been even more darling.”

This time, he couldn’t resist laughing. His chuckle was only stopped when Joffrey let out a wild war cry.

“Jace is having children?” he demanded, breathless. He was still clutching the buck with a fury, cheeks red. “How? Has he bedded someone?”

Jace was so stumped, he seized Luce by the arm.

“What? Joff!” She exclaimed. “Where did you hear that!”

“Seven hells, do you even know what that word means?” he hissed. It seemed he would need to have words with the Dragonstone yard boys about the kind of banter they exchanged during training sessions.

“Of course I do!” he proclaimed. With a swing of his legs, he slid off the buck, and straightened his back. “it’s when a man puts a woman in a bed, tucks her under the covers and lays next to her. Then when she wakes on the morrow, she has a babe inside her belly.”

Both he and Luce gaped at the cocksure grin on his face—then, when the silence became unbearable, they burst out laughing.

Joff was not pleased.

“What? I’m right.” He grumbled.

Jace pulled him in for a rough hug, before mussing his brown curls.

“Of course you are,” he chortled. “Well, barring a few… details here and there. But don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about that when you’re older.”

“I’m old now!” his head snapped up, and Jace bent down to kiss his forehead.

“Not that old. Go fetch Aegon from the hatchery. It’s time we go back.”

With a loud huff, his brother shook off his grip and marched after a Keeper to the levels below.

He cast a glance at Luce, expecting to find her just as amused. To his surprise, she was squinting at him.

“I’d say you were jesting when you said that. But…” she paused poking his cheek with her finger. “…I’m acquainted with that dimple well enough to know there is some truth to those words. So, do I want to know what you’ve been doing in my absence?”

Her words were like a splash of ice water. He stumbled, mouth agape, as a rush of warmth seared his skin.

The smell filled his nostrils again— cinnamon and dornish peppers, mingling with the potent sweetness of mead. A pair of teak pits, staring at him from the shadows of the cave, beckoning him to come forth.

“What, nothing?” He said instead, pitching his voice higher.
His display wouldn’t have convinced a dimwitted ass, let alone his sister.

“Father grant me strength… now I see why she was sent to Driftmark.”

The same heat turned into a raging flame.

“That has nothing to do with it, grandmother had called her before…”

When her brows went up, he knew he'd said too much. He blew a breath, steeling himself.

No sooner had he looked up, that she crossed her arms on her chest expectantly.

“Nothing happened. She's done nothing, and neither have I.” He paused, frowning. “Besides, I could ask you the same thing. Prancing around in your foreign dresses. I dare not think what you’ve been doing at the Vale.”

He knew he'd taken things too far when her face faltered. She uncrossed her arms, brown eyes cool as ice.

“I wear those dresses for your benefit.” She hissed, jaw clenched. “To be a honeypot, that draws the great lords to your side.”

His gaze dropped, and he shifted his weight.

“I never wanted you to do that.”

He could sense her eyes burrow holes into him. Of course, he had.

Their best bet at securing the throne was to make alliances—and the best way to make alliances was through marriage. Mother had endlessly pondered which great house to wed him to. As heir, he had the most buying power.

However, Luce too had just as much value. Not only was she sister to the future King, she was also to be the Lady of the Tides—a considerable inheritance, given all of the Sea Snake's voyages.

But disregarding all that, she had something of even greater value—a dragon. Whichever Lord she wed would at last gain access to a power that had forged the throne and united the 6 Kingdoms into one.

It was an opportunity for an alliance of unprecedented value.

The only issue was Luce herself. She'd always been adamant about not wedding. She wanted to travel the world with her dragon, seek adventure in faraway lands, unburdened by royal responsibilities. Though she was willing to dress in bawdy gowns, suffer the flattery of lecherous lords, and present herself as a maiden ready for the taking she would never actually exchange wedding vows with anyone.

Jace had much sympathy for her. He too was not keen on the notion of being forced to wed some lady he hardly knew. But he knew it was necessary to secure their position—and their lives.

“All I wanted was for you to help.” He continued, forcing down the lump in his throat.

“By having me marry the first great Lord you take a liking to?”

The harsh tone cut him something fierce.

“I never said you had to marry them…”

“Only pretend to. Parade around in my dresses like a show horse.”

“If I recall, the dresses were your idea.”

She averted her gaze then, pressing her lips into a fine line. Jace gingerly took her hands into his.

“I know you don’t believe it, but I do wish for you to be happy. But… that cannot happen unless we secure our position. Without the throne, our lives are forfeit. And then none of us will get to do what they want.” He paused tracing circles over her knuckles. “On the morrow, mother is hosting Lady Lynesse Ashford. She's asked us to come.”

Her brows furrowed. “The Ashford heiress? If I recall, she has a son. But isn’t he four and thirty?”

“And a widower.”

The sigh she released was heavier than stone.

“A widower twice my age. Gods, what a fate.”

“As I’ve said,” he tugged on her hands. “I don’t expect you to marry him. Just… present yourself as available. So will I.”

She blinked. “Does Lady Lynesse have a daughter too?”

“Sister. Who is even worse and old enough to be my mother.”

The shadow playing on her face dissipated and she chuckled. Her fingers returned the squeeze, as resignation shone in her eyes.

“Perhaps it would have been easier if you’d wed Helaena.”
Drawing closer she quickly brushed her lips against his and trotted off to where Joffrey and Aegon stood waiting. Jace watched them exit the pit, hand in hand, his stomach in knots.

-She’s right.

Things would have been easier. The succession would have been more secure as their two rival claims united. His mother wouldn’t have been forced to flee to Dragonstone, and Vaemond wouldn’t have dared to make his power grab.

He chanced to look to his right. The twin babes sat in the sand, flanked by two splendid hatchlings. The Keepers were helping them feed the dragons, repeating Valyrian commands till one of them spat fire at a hunk of meat. Helaena was hovering nearby, watching their play with mild amusement.

-She's lovely.

Short and shapely, she was bundled in her gown of cream and gold lace, embroidered with mother of pearl. Her maids had pinned gold pins into her braid that glittered like jewels in a crown. Standing like that, illuminated by the soft torchlight, she cut the image of the Maiden. He wagered she could have helped him bring stability to their house. Made him happy.

Made him forget the sweet tang of mead, and the fiery whispers calling him into that cave.

Head low, he turned away and headed for the door.

Chapter Text

Lady Lynesse was scowling.

“I despise duck. There is something quite sordid about it.” The aged lady of Ashford quipped. She gingerly stabbed the piece of roast meat on her plate, as if it were the carcass of some dead animal she’d found on the side of the road.

Rhaenyra knocked back a swallow of wine.

“Oh I don’t know, I was always fond of roast duck…”

“Fish is better. Clean. Much lighter on the palate.”

Setting down her goblet, she quickly waved over a servant.

“I’m certain we can prepare some for you. Arya, go see if there is fish in the kitchen.”

Her serving girl nodded vigorously and scurried out the door.

Lady Lynesse tossed her fork onto a plate with a loud clatter.

“Ah thank you I should hope so.”

“Of course. It’s the least I could do for you after your long journey.”

The Lady gave her a sour smirk. In truth, the woman had not even had to travel from Ashford to the capital. She was already undertaking a pilgrimage and had meant to stop at Kings Landing to see the High Septon. Rhaenyra's letter had found her when she was already three-quarters up the Rose Road, two days ride from the Kingswood.

Though from the way the sallow prune had complained, it sounded as if she had to travel here from Yi Ti.

“Hm, yes, such an unexpected thing. I can’t recall the last time someone had petitioned the Crown to settle a succession. Over gender no less.”

Rhaenyra nodded, placing her elbows on the table.

“Indeed. Which is why I was certain it would interest you.”

The woman pursed her lips, sallow cheeks hollowing out. She was an unsightly thing. Tall, and spindly, with a pointed chin, pointed nose, and pointed cheekbones. Rhaenyra thought that she only needed a white and grey dress and she could comfortably pass for an oversized stork.

“Whatever for?” she chirped.

The ring on Rhaenyra's finger felt cool to the touch.

“Well, as Lady of Ashford, I thought you might find issue with Ser Vaemond's claim. After all, you have ably ruled Ashford Hall for years ever since your father passed.”

The Ashford inheritance had been much clearer than the Caswell one, to Rhaenyra’s recollection. Lord Luther had outlived all his sons and passed with Lady Lynesse and her younger sister as his only living issue. Some Ashford kin moved to champion the Lady's aged uncle as a more suitable successor, but their cause had little support. The man was already five and ninety, and courting the Stranger—in contrast, the Lady was in her prime and healthy, with two sons and a daughter to follow her.

Her sympathies were far less likely than that of Lord Caswell or Lady Jeyne. But Rhaenyra had resolved to at least try to sway her.

“I don’t see why. Ser Vaemond is staking a claim to Driftmark, not Ashford Hall.”

Rhaenyra ground her teeth.

“You do not find it unseemly that he is casting doubt on your own capabilities to rule?”

The woman cocked her head, lips still pursed. It looked as if she meant to suck in her cheeks down her throat.

“How so, my blood was never in question.”

She ceased swirling her fork on her plate in an instant. The Lady's accursed pucker never once left her lips.

“I was always told I was the spitting image of mine own late father. Granted, that was never a compliment. The man was oft compared to a starving pigeon. But… I’ve come to cherish the resemblance… especially in light of recent events.”

Rhaenyra pinned her muddy blue eyes.

“I’m very certain I don't know what you mean.”

“Ser Vaemond is merely exercising his gods given right,” she continued, taking a swing from her cup. Rhaenyra regretted serving her their finest Arbor gold. It would have been better to ply her with piss from Flea Bottom. “True, it is quite crass of him not to argue in favor of his niece's daughters. But he too has his ambitions. As do you.”

Silence blanketed the chamber. The butter knife was just outside Rhaenyra's reach and she knew that if she lunged, she would be able to drive it right into her puckering mouth.

“So you think it right for Vaemond to rob my daughter of her inheritance?”

The woman chirped, like some great bird. Those puckered lips pursed into a most satisfied grin.

“I think it right for him to want Driftmark to pass to true Velaryon blood.”

Her muscles jerked. The knife was in her hand, and she just about swung. However, the sound of the door creaking open bade her pause.

“Oh look, my fish,” the Lady coed, bony fingers playing with the gold and sapphire chain strung around her skinny neck.

Naturally the moment Arya set the plate before her, that satisfied pucker turned into a scowl.

“Something not to your liking my Lady?” Rhaenyra hissed.

The woman's nostrils flared, as she peered at her plate.

“Hmm, halibut. I could never stand the taste of halibut.” She paused, lips squirming into an unassuming smirk. “Too corrupted.”

She could not get the wretch out of her chambers fast enough. Rhaenyra slammed the double doors after her in a mad fury, hands clutching at her house robe. She hadn’t even had time to dress properly—not that Lady Stork deserved it.

-Vile thing.

She didn’t know what she should have expected. The woman was a Reacher lord, and Alicent's creature through and through.

She informed her son as much when he burst into her apartments.

“Am I late, forgive me, I…” Jace paused mid-stride, brows furrowing at the sight of the empty table. “Has she gone?”

Rhaenyra languished in her chair, fingers working the gold bands on her hands.

Jace took her silence as a positive affirmation.

“Gods, it’s not even midday. She was supposed to come for supper.”

“She arrived early,” she spat. “And insisted on being seen at once. She had an important meeting in the evening, you see. With the High Septon. And the Queen.”

Her son's expression faltered. His hands immediately went to work the buttons of his doublet. He’d chosen a blue one. Blue wool embroidered with the Velaryon seahorse with mother of pearl. A lovely thing, but terribly wasted.

“I take it she's refused.”

She scoffed—her head was pounding something awful.

“She just about called you bastards to my face.” Rising, she came to stand beside the balcony door. The streets of Kings Landing lay in the distance, rising like a colorful anthill. “We should have never made entreaties to her. She has close ties with the Faith. And Oldtown is the champion of the Faith.”

The clatter of her son's boots resonated behind her.

“Who then? Lady Butterwell?”

She shook her head, recalling the raven's scroll. “No, she's refused as well. The woman is three and sixty. She can hardly travel a day outside her own castle, let alone go on a weeks-long voyage to the Capitol.”

“She could have just as easily sent her son.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “Indeed, but why would she? Otto Hightower has just recently granted them another patch of land for their vineyards. They have no cause to bite the hand that’s fed them such a generous meal.”

“Lady Meera Piper then.”

Her hand tugged on her gold band hard enough to chafe skin. That letter had been leagues kinder than the Butterwell one. The old crone of Pinkmaiden was immensely sympathetic to her cause, and affirmed her stance for female inheritance. Still, it was not enough.

“As old as Lady Butterwell is, Lady Piper is positively ancient. And she's too far away. Even if she does send envoys to speak on our behalf, it will be a month before they arrive. Not when we need her.”

If the Butterwell letter soured her mood, the raven that followed left her bereft. Vaemond had at last set sail. His eldest son, Daemion accompanied him along with two score lesser cousins, all sailing on seven splendid Velaryon war galleys.

Rhaenyra did not fail to note the number–seven galleys for seven gods. A boon to the Faith, and a way for him to affirm his cause as righteous in the eyes of both gods and men.

Her words left her son positively seething.

“So it’s just the Caswells and the Arryns then?”

“And ourselves, for all that’s worth.”

Strained silence blanketed the room, and Rhaenyra whirled on her feet. Her son had dropped into her chair, head of brown curls buried in his hands.

"It's not fair.” He murmured. With his shoulders bunched like that, he looked like a little boy—that same sweet thing she would cradle in her arms whenever a storm was lashing the sky outside. “We're just like everyone else. Kind, capable, honorable. We’re better suited to rule than half the fools holding lands and titles right now. Even Father accepted us as his own. Why can’t everyone else?”

The breath she heaved felt heavier than a mountain. Drawing closer, she knelt at the foot of his chair, to part his curls.

“Because prejudice is a hard beast to kill. Especially if it's reinforced by the powers that be.”

Her fingers gingerly traced the curve of his brows, and his temple, before descending to his cheekbones. Harwin had the exact same cheekbones—sharp and well-defined. They made him look strong, like the Warrior himself, come to battle the world to protect his love.

And yet, in the end, his might was snuffed out by one lonely brazier fire.

“But grandsire changed things. He named you heir in spite of those foolish prejudices.”

“He did,” she nodded. “But until I ascend the throne to make the world anew, the law will remain the same. So will public opinion. And we… we will have to fight alone.”

A quivering breath escaped her son's bow-shaped lips. Then, he buried his face into her shoulder, squeezing till she was breathless. Rhaenyra held him, deriving as much comfort from his embrace as he did from hers.

When at last they parted, resolve steeled his face.

“We will, together. We'll show them what we are. We'll show them Fire And Blood."

* * *

She was not keen to dine in the garden. After the disastrous meal with Lady Ashford, leaving her apartments seemed ill-advised. The whole Keep knew she was alone and friendless, and going out in public just served as an invitation for jeers and snickers.

It was Rhaena who had convinced her otherwise.

“It is a sin to pass judgment on a fellow man,” she'd proclaimed.

Shed arrived to her chambers, shortly after Jace, no doubt hearing of the impromptu meeting with Lady Lynesse.

“The Seven-Pointed Star says that all men are born sinners—therefore, they have no right to pass judgment on one another. That right belongs only to the gods. We should remind the great Lords of that.”

She straightened her shoulders, those gentle doe eyes alight with the ghost of fire.

“We should go out to the garden. Show them we are family. As true and loving as any other. Let’s see them dare pass judgment then.

Her gentle voice had firmed up, and she had balled her hands into fists.

-Perhaps there is some Daemon in her after all.

The sweet girl had always been nothing but mousy tenderness—so much so that Daemon worried she had no spine whatsoever. But he was wrong.

Rhaena's fire was always dormant but when it did roar to life it roared magnificently.

It made it impossible to resist embracing her.

She had the servants set up a pavilion, near the entrance to the hedge maze. The sky was clear and cloudless, and the sun beat down on them in a splendor of golden rays. The rose and lilac blossoms were in full bloom, filling the air with intoxicating sweetness.

It was the perfect weather for an outdoor meal.
They dined on honey roast pork, baked potatoes, and buttered turnips, washing it all down with a pitcher of fine Arbor gold. Luce had bid them try Dornish firewine, a vintage she'd grown fond of while at the Vale, much to their dismay.

The drink was strong and spicy, and it burned Rhaenyra's throat when she swallowed. Yet her displeasure was nothing compared to Rhaena's who yelled and spat out the mouthful, her cheeks reddening worse than beets.

Their laughter drew the attention of passing courtiers, who briefly paused to give them greetings. Jace immediately moved to entertain, putting on his best smile.

Dressed like that, in Velaryon blues, and doeskin leathers, he cut the image of the perfect prince. Pity that not many agreed. While the passersby were eager to accept his flattery, they always kept their noses upturned while speaking with him.

She remarked as much to Ser Fedryn.

“He's such a darling boy,” she said, voice thick. He and Rhaena stood at the entrance to the pavilion bantering with Lord Kevan Crakehall, a Lannister bannerman. “I despair seeing him derided so.”

The knight grumbled in agreement. He’d joined them sometime after they arrived, with half a dozen Arryn men at arms. Clad in his whites and blacks, with a bushy brown beard and square jaw, he cut the image of a solemn warrior. But his hooded eyes overflowed with gentle kindness that reminded her of her own father, despite the tender man's age.

“Indeed, Princess. But rest assured, I have no doubt he will win the great Lords over in due time. A good heart is impossible to resist.”

Rhaenyra smiled and moved to sit beside him.

“It gladdens me to hear you say such kind words. I find I’ve heard few of late.”

“The Vale is always prepared to give a kind word to you and your kin. Your daughter is much treasured by the Lady Jeyne. She has without a doubt earned our loyalty and friendship.”

Her gaze immediately pivoted to Luce. Her dove stood beside some rose bushes clutching Viserys in her arms. She cooed at her little brother, planting soft kisses into his silver curls, while Aegon whined at her skirts, demanding attention for himself.

Rhaenyra couldn’t imagine a sight more beautiful.

“Would that all shared your kind and open-minded heart.”

The serene image shattered when a parade of guards appeared down the end of the garden path. The unmistakable flash of a green dress bade Rhaenyra squirm in her seat. The Queen trotted down the gravel, bundled in emerald silks and jewels, exchanging hushed words with a woman in deep burgundy.

Years may have passed but Lady Bethany Redwyne looked just as smug as she remembered her. Short and thick of waist, she still sported rubies around her sagging neck and a splendid shawl of fine ermine fur. That ghastly pet dog of hers skipped beside her, fat tongue lolling out of its mouth.

Her son was there as well. Luthor Redwyne was as lean as his mother was stout, but he shared her hooked nose and wispy chestnut hair. He was animatedly regaling Aemond with some tale while Aegon chuckled like a fool.

Rhaenyra reached for her wine cup.

-Of course, she would seek support as well.

Alicent could never stomach letting her have a moment of respite.

“In the Vale, we're fond of saying that a man's true worth is in his heart, not his titles.”

“Sage wisdom. But I fear others are not as like to heed it. Especially those who believe titles, customs, and traditions make them better than everyone else.”

Alicent halted mid-stride face scrunched up in concentration. With her jeweled veil, she cut the image of the Mother, holy and penitent as she heard her child's pleas.

“Yet those same betters would put aside all their morals and scruples if it meant clinging to their power,” Ser Fedryn paused. “What does a fancy title matter if you’re a cunt at the end of the day? If her Princess would pardon my crass words.”

Rhaenyra could not resist smirking.

“More sage wisdom from your Vale greybeards?”

Ser Fedryn’s thin lips quirked into a smile.

“No, just my little brother.”

"Apologise, I'd not known your Lady mother had another son.”

The knight's face fell, and he awkwardly lowered his gaze.
“No, he was my father’s boy. Eddard Stone.”

The wine cup nearly slid from her fingers. Stone. A bastard name, for all illegitimate children hailing from the Vale.

“Oh?” she strained. “Were you close?”

He nodded. “Yes. He was two years my junior. My Lord Father brought him to Heart's Home when he was 6. He meant for him to be a companion to me and my brothers Leowyn and Corwyn. I ended up stealing him all to myself.”

Rhaenyra sucked in a breath, her heart in her throat. “I imagine your Lady mother was not… pleased.”

Another smile, this one more forlorn. “No. She was not. Insisted on throwing him out. Said he would rise up one day, to cut our throats and seize our birthright for himself. She sadly passed before she could be proven wrong.”

Wistfulness filled his black eyes, and Rhaenyra leaned in closer.

“Where is he now?”

“Killed,” he announced, voice flat. “One of the Mountain clans ambushed us while we were riding to the Bloody Gate. They meant to take my head off. Eddard got in the way.”

His fingers squeezed the armrest and Rhaenyra couldn’t help but place her hand over his. It dawned on her just how young he was then. No more than two and twenty she wagered. But he had the bearing and worries of a man who was thrice his age.

“I’m sorry,” she offered.

“I meant to bury him in the castle. In the godswood by the heart tree where all our ancestors lay.” He paused, jaw clenching. “My father gainsaid me. Said it would not be... appropriate for a baseborn to be entombed with men of true Corbray blood.”

The sorrow vanished from his face, and his mouth twisted to form a vicious scowl.

“Tell me, how is it not appropriate to honor your own brother? While mine own trueborn brothers cowered at the sight of the Burned men he fought to protect me. And if the gods mean to condemn such righteousness on account of something so silly as a name, then they do not deserve our worship at all.”

Rhaenyra held his gaze, slowly absorbing the weight of his declaration. Then, she gingerly squeezed his hand.

“Your brother should have been buried in your godswood. As was his due. And rest assured my lord, once I am Queen, no righteous man, or woman shall be denied their rights.” She pushed down the lump in her throat. “Blood and sex will not be enough to decide who is worthy, and who is not. Who is fit to wield power, and who is destined to follow. It will be their character—just as it always should have been.”

Silence followed her proclamation. When she chanced to look at the knight, his eyes were narrowed at her.

“Lady Jeyne was right. You do mean to change things.”

She smirked, fingers trailing over the band on her index.
Her girl had stopped to speak with the Queen's party. Clutching Viserys to her chest, she curtly entertained Lady Redwyne's coos. Alicent hovered behind them, her face a mask of quiet resentment.

Rhaenyra thought she meant to tear out her girl's hair. But as terrible as her expression was, it could not measure to her son's. Aemond Targaryen eyed Lucera as a wolf might eye a sheep. His remaining eye blazed with the ravenous roar of dragonfire, as his hands sheltered behind his back—no doubt clutching a dagger.

Rhaenyra just couldn’t tell what he meant to do first—carve out her daughter's eye, plunge the blade into her heart, or murder everyone around him so he could steal her for himself.

It immediately made her think of Daemon. Of the fire that he had within him—flames that did not just warm, but consumed.

“I’d say it's past time, wouldn’t you agree?” launching to her feet, she called Luce over.

Viserys had begun fussing, immensely displeased by Lady Redwyne's grubby fingers pinching at his cheeks. Aegon looked equally discontented, clutching his sister's skirts with desperation.

Luce swiftly curtsied and corralled him back to the pavilion, all whilst trying to keep Viserys from weeping.

Her babe settled the moment she took him into her embrace.

“Go to your brother,” she said to Luce while planting soft kisses on Viserys' temple.

Though her dove had kept a warm smile on her face Rhaenyra knew her enough to recognize the nervous quiver of her bottom lip.

She reached over to adjust the hem of her bodice, cursing her for choosing another one of her revealing pieces. The wretched boy was still looking.

His remaining eye stared her down as if he could will her to burst into flames. The weight of that purple slit was like the point of a sword. Rhaenyra shuddered, half tempted to put herself between them to shield her.

A shield materialized all the same. From the shadow of the pavilion, a lanky figure emerged to stare her half-brother down. The Unsullied's face was as blank as fresh parchment. But the way he stood, feet wide, and shoulders bunched was a clear challenge.

The tension in Rhaenyra's muscles dissipated.

Her sweet dove trotted off toward the grass, where Jace, Joff, and Rhaena sat huddled, exchanging quiet whispers. No sooner had Luce joined them that her eldest vaulted to his feet, and lined them up so they could play a game.

They chased and hooted at each other, laughter ringing around them like a song. At one point, she caught Lady Redwyne animatedly clapping at a silly little disappearing trick Luce did, but the delight was short-lived. Alicent stepped up to whisper something to her and the smile turned into smug laughter.
Bile rose in her throat.

-You can’t have them.

Alicent was free to resent her all she liked—but Rhaenyra would not allow her to strike at her children. She would protect them. Them and any other child the world condemned on account of their birth.

The ferocity of her conviction was so strong, she didn’t even notice one of her maids approach her.

“Princess?” Rhaenyra jerked, whirling to find Arya at her side. “Pardon, but I have news.”

The way her bushy brows knitted made her clench her jaw.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“The Red Queen has been spotted outside the Keep. Princess Rhaenys has arrived."

Chapter Text

“It is pretty. But plain.”

Maestro Qavo gave her a kindly smile, his folds crinkling to carve deep trenches into his skin. Luce had once tried to ask him how old he was. The aged graybeard had merely smiled and told her he stopped counting after his eightieth nameday.

“Plain? I think this is the first time I heard someone call Kings Landing plain.”

They stood on the parapets, near the Eastern gate, overlooking the Hill of Rhaenys. The domed roof of the Dragonpit sprawled in the distance, rising like a blooming flower bud above the multicolored patchwork of brick storehouses and timbered inns.

Luce leaned on the railing, relishing the warm breeze tickling her skin.

“The sweet Princess will forgive me, but few things can compare to the splendor of the Long Bridge. The shops and markets, inns and temples, the smell of spice and hot river water. And below it, the mouth of Mother Rhoyne flowing to give its children life. It is a sight that could make even your western gods weep.”

Her lips quirked into a smile. Despite looking like a shamble of dried skin and bone, life overflowed in the pits of his murky blue eyes. Blue like his Rhoyne, he liked to say.

“That sounds beautiful. I should like to see it someday.”

The elderly man tsked, and offered her his arm. They slowly began hobbling toward the steps, to descend into the courtyard.

“The offer stands. His Radiance was most intrigued by our tales of the land of the setting sun. I’m certain he would be honored to host you within the Black Walls.”

Luce couldn’t help but smile, but there was no sweetness in her grin.

“Do not temp me, Maestro. I already have to spend half a day convincing myself not to mount my dragon and fly away, and never return.”

The old man's chuckle was like the burrowing of a woodpecker.

“Every man is born with one desire in his heart—the desire for freedom. Your Unsullied can tell you as much.” He waved his tattooed hand at the shadow trailing after them. “The Wise Masters of Astapor boast how they beat the yearning from their soldiers. But they do not. It stays, right here,” he slammed his open palm against his chest. “And neither duty nor circumstance can quash it.”

They halted, just as the double oak and iron gate came into view.

“I hope I can explore that freedom someday." She did not mean for her voice to come out so forlorn, but she couldn’t help it.
The old man's wrinkles smiled at her.

“And when you do, the gates of Old Volantis will be open to you. Provided you’re up for another game of cyvasse.”

She had to force the chuckle, tension in her muscles.

“I must leave you now, little Princess. The markets call to me. Though I fear that I will once again find naught there.”

“Take care, Maestro.”

The old man hobbled toward the gate, a bag of bent bones wrapped in a mismatched robe. Luce had half a mind to send an escort with him, but Torro gainsaid her.

“The old man survived the fleshmarts of Meereen, two dozen elections, and too many wars to count. Khaleesi's western markets will do nothing to him.”

Luce cast a look at him, her brows furrowed. The moment the old man had hobbled off, he appeared at her side, a shadow in worn leather.

“You still call me that.” She took him by the forearm and moved back up the pathway that led into the Keep. “Need I remind you that I’m neither Dothraki, nor wedded to one.”

Her brave shield's face scrunched up into a frown. His scars came alive when he did that rippling across his face like four great caterpillars.

“And this one is no rider. He lacks a horse, a khalassar, the bells. He is no man at all. And the Grasslands are forever out of his reach.” He paused. Though his voice never once faltered, she recognized the strained way he rolled his Valyrian r's. “So you are as close to a khaleesi as this one will know.”

Sickness climbed up into her throat.

“You can return, you know,” she mumbled, eyes downcast. “Maestro Qavo will not linger long. There is only so much healing a Valyrian steel necklace can buy.”

Her mother had not been pleased when she'd heard the man's price. But gold and jewels didn’t make a sufficient payment–and the Maestro was fond of taking things he knew others held dear.
In the end, she relented and handed him the Valyrian steel circlet Daemon had gifted her in her youth. Her father's health was more important than silly girlhood trinkets.

Her Unsullied grumbled, almond-shaped eyes downcast.

“You can go back with him.” She urged. “Make your way to the Grasslands. To Vaes Dothrak.”

Again, his expression was impossible to read. But Luce wagered he had to be moved. The longing he had in his eyes when he'd told her of his boyhood home is not something that just disappeared. The Wise Masters may have broken and reformed him into the visage of the warrior, but they never destroyed his spirit.

“The Grasslands are cursed. It is where this one was taken. Put in chains. Beaten and cut.” His voice never faltered—but the tension in his forearm betrayed his true anguish. “But this land is blessed. For it is here that Khaleesi set this one free.”
She forced down the lump in her throat.

“You wish to stay with me in this den of vipers. I admire your courage. If someone were to offer me the chance to flee, with no consequence, I don’t think I would have the strength to refuse.”

They came upon the archway that led down to the gardens below. Her already dreary mood grew darker when she realized the two dragonhead sphinxes that had once flanked the tops of the stone columns were replaced with seven-pointed stars.

“Khaleesi has strength,” Torro countered. “If she did not, she never would have challenged Master Rogaris and set this one free.”

Lucera paused, gazing at his profile. The scars had left ghastly indents all along his face, the texture eerily reminiscent of freshly tilled earth.

“It wasn’t strength, dear Torro. It was luck. And not even mine own.”

The man chortled, but she was still right. It was Lady Jeyne who had made the introductions. The Maiden of the Vale was dead set on expanding her circle of friends and allies.

“As a woman, your position is always precarious.” She’d confided in her. “Men will underestimate you at every turn, and take any action of yours as a sign of weakness. When that comes, make sure you have a handful of aces to surprise them with.”

Her aces turned out to be various dignitaries from across the Narrow Sea. The Eyrie had hosted Bravoosi delegates, Lyseni entertainers, and Myrish merchants, each bringing with them knowledge, goods, and invaluable trade deals, that saw the woman triple her coffers and make powerful friends she could call upon in her hour of need. Rogaris Beris had been the latest of her foreign darlings. As loud as he was corpulent, he was younger brother to the Triarch of Old Volantis, and an even bigger character than the ruler of the old city.

Thrice her age, the Volanteen was a mass of flesh wrapped up in gaudy purple silks and white furs. His corpulence hung over chairs like curtains, and Luce couldn’t help but wonder how his slender, Myrish wife suffered his embraces.

His laugh thundered like the hooves of war horses, and whenever someone boasted of a great deed, he needed to follow it up with a tale twice as grandiose. Luce would have thought him charming, if grotesque to look at—if it not for his eyes.

They were a sickly, pale yellow, the color of stale white wine. They were bulging too, protruding out of his swollen face like the eyes of a bullfrog, and when he looked at her, she felt as if she might crawl out of her skin.

“This is not a kind man,” she'd remarked to Ser Joffrey. There was something vile hidden behind his yellow smirk—something rotten. She could see it reflected in the faces of his slaves.
He'd brought four score of them. Colorful attendants, soldiers, and guards, with bronze collars and tattoos on their faces. Each wore the same vibrant purples as he, but there was no light behind their eyes.

She didn’t know why Torro caught her attention in particular. All the others radiated with equal amounts of misery. But he—he had a spark of fire behind his black eyes. A whisper of defiance.
His Master seemed aware of it too. He'd slapped a special spiked collar around his neck, something his other Unsullied were not forced to wear. The sight of those black spikes protruding from the leather collar left her sickened.

It made it easy to demand he be given over to her. The whale had laughed—the same, thundering chortle that rang in her ears like the bells of the city Sept.

“And what will the pretty Princess give Rogaris in exchange?” he drawled in garbled Valyrian.

“Gold, jewels, precious silks. I’m the Princess. The wealth of the royal treasury is at my disposal.”

His next laugh was so loud, she thought it would burst her ear drum.

“Gold? All the gold in the little shack you call a castle cannot match the opulence of my brother’s palace treasury. No, what I want, is fire and blood.”

He chose cyvasse of course—his favorite game. If she played well and entertained him, he would give her Torro, and any other boon she requested. If he won, she would have to give him a dragon egg.

Her attendants fiercely protested the wager.

“Dragons are an invaluable weapon! You cannot just hand one over to some fat Volanteen whale.” Ser Fedryn had chided, brows so furrowed, she thought they would leave permanent marks on his skin.

Ser Joffrey seized her, blue eyes pinning hers. “Leave this be, Princess. If it’s an Unsullied you want, then I shall get one for you. We will sail to Astapor on the morrow, and I’ll get you an entire battalion if you wish. Just please, do not involve yourself in this folly.”

Warmth spread through her belly, and she smiled at her Soaring Fool.

Her gaze locked with the Unsullied in his spiked collar, and she couldn't help but feel her own bodice digging into her skin—anchoring her in this life of scheming and politicking.

“Oh my dear Ser, don’t you see? I'm already involved in this.”

She lost of course. Cyvasse was never a game she excelled at, and for all her efforts, the Fat Whale was leagues better. Though she tried to make him laugh with sweet jests and magic tricks she'd learned from Lady Jeyne's jester, Motley, in the end, his fat lips still pursed into a triumphant grin.

It was Ser Joffrey who came to her rescue.

“His Radiance would pardon me, but you said all the Princess had to do was entertain you, not win.”

She expected the whale to argue. His thick lips had pressed firmly together, and redness ravaged his spotted cheeks.

However, instead of a curse word, the only thing he let out was a laugh. He conceded to her cleverness— Torro was hers.

She left the other boon open, too rattled by his unsettling yellow eyes to think of anything she wanted. Her indecision turned in her favor when his wife later introduced her to Maestro Qavo and his magnificent healing arts.

She knew this would cost her. The Lady Jeyne warned her the Volanteen were fickle creatures, and the whale was not like to forget her little trick.

“As well he shouldn’t.” the woman had quipped, twirling a lock of her hair around her slender finger. “Let him remember that you are more than sweet smiles and tender words. You have determination and cunning. And you are not afraid to use it.”

-If only that were so.

Having Torro at her side as a shield was supposed to make her feel powerful. Like with Daemon, the man cut the image of the Stranger. Still, it was not enough—at least not to face her greatest foe.

“If I had strength, I wouldn’t be cowering from my enemies.” She remarked, a familiar weight settling in her chest.

Torro's sparse brows dropped into a sour frown. They continued down the stone steps that led them onto the gravel path.

“The one-eyed man. It is he who holds Khaleesi’s blood debt?”

The mention of Aemond bade the knots burst.

“You've noticed?”

Torro scoffed, his voice as gruff as the sound of the gravel beneath their feet. It was a silly question. Everyone had noticed. Jace, her mother, Rhaena. They had all implored her to stay as far away from him as possible.

Not that Luce needed encouragement.

“He looks at Khaleesi as if he means to carve you open and eat your liver.”

“No doubt he would,” she shuddered in spite of the summer chill.

She'd tried not to think of him. All the years she spent on Dragonstone she used to erase him from her mind. Let go of the guilt and shame eating her from the inside. When she went to the Vale she at last managed to forget him.

And then one look at his face and it all came rushing back.

“This one will not allow it. If a blood debt is to be settled, this one will settle it for you.”

Her head snapped at him.

“No, you will not.” She hissed. “Blood for blood, and the whole world will run red. If we turn to vengeance, where will it end? When all of us are dead? No. Blood is what started this. Blood cannot be what ends it.”

They halted again, as the Blackwater overlook came into view. Her Unsullied was the picture of serene calmness. But his black eyes were glittering with a film of barely hidden violence. Amid the consternation, she found time to sigh.

It was a small wonder his previous Masters delighted in punishing him so harshly.

He oozed defiance with every breath.

-All fire, no sense. He and Daemon would get along.

“This one does not think your Westerners share your convictions.”

She noticed the way his head angled, and she quickly cast a look to her left.

The sight of black leather made bile rise in her throat. He was there, by the railing, hands clasped behind his back. A dozen guards surrounded him and Aegon as they animatedly exchanged words with a figure in sky blue.

Blood fled her fingers. She'd seen Daemion Velaryon only once—at her aunt Laena's funeral. He'd kept himself scarce, only interacting with Velaryon men at arms, or his own cousins. The only time he deigned to look at her, he'd scrunched up his nose, as if he'd smelled an odor most foul.

He had remained as unwelcoming as a man grown. Uncomfortably tall and hulking, he shared the same dark skin and lush silver coils his father had. However, Daemion preferred his longer, and worn pinned similarly to her grandsire the Sea Snake. His doublet was a rich sea blue emblazoned with the Velaryon seahorse and studded with sapphires.

All that blue made her head spin, but she understood the intention behind it plainly. Velaryon blue for true Velaryon blood.

“It seems my roster of enemies grows every day.” She remarked.
She'd received news of Vaemond making port barely a day after her grandmother darkened the skies with Meleys. He made a spectacle of his entrance, riding through the city with a magnificent escort of Velaryon guards, clad in silver studded armor.

Later, whispers spread about the castle of the coin he flung at the small folk—in celebration of his triumph.

It was enough to make her violently ill.

Her Unsullied said nothing. Instead, he just kept his eyes locked on his target.

To her horror, Aemond was staring right back. The moment he spotted them, he'd angled his body toward Torro, muscles clenched and ready to spring loose.

He'd grown into a vicious and formidable creature. A head taller than her, as lean and well-muscled as a stalking bobcat. His hair was longer too, and tied back in the typical Targaryen fashion—in a way, he reminded her of Daemon. Fierce, volatile, always ready to spill blood.

It frightened her—he frightened her. The weight of his piercing stare bade sickness claw at her throat, and she almost whirled on her feet, ready to flee.

But the appearance of two figures in black made her pause.
Jace and Rhaena were barreling down the garden path, Ser Steffon hot on their heels. The sour frown on her brother's face made her dark mood turn completely black and she lashed Torro with a look.

“Do you think there is still time for me to flee to Volantis?”
“Luce!” Jace bellowed, rushing over to her side. Their sudden appearance bid Daemion to whirl on his feet. The scrunched face returned with a vengeance and he tossed a quip that bid Aegon choke on his wine.

“Gods, we've been looking everywhere for you.” Her twin seized her forearm into his drawing her closer. The weight of Aemond’s remaining eye felt heavy enough to crush her chest.

“What’s happened, what has she said?”

As expected, ominous silence was her answer.

“She means to speak for Vaemond?”

Rhaena vigorously shook her head.

“No, gods of course not. She despises Vaemond more than any of us.”

“But she still won’t back my claim.”

Again, her dearest cousin opened her mouth to form words, but none came out.

“Rhaenys only cares about her kin. About true Velaryon blood.” Jace paused, pressing his lips together. “She means to speak for Baela and Rhaena.”

It was a good thing he was holding her because she stumbled back. She hadn’t expected this—and yet it was so plain.

Her grandmother had always put family above all. She did not concern herself with politics or legacy the way her grandsire had. It stood to reason she would want to preserve what was left of her children—of true Velaryon blood.

The thought came to her in a heartbeat.

“It's not ideal,” Jace grumbled. “But it’s still better than Vaemond.”

“It's not,” Rhaena countered. “It only serves to divide us into two separate families when we should be one.”

“Then tell me what should we do?”

“We can speak to her again. Just the three of us. Neither Baela nor I have any interest in Driftmark and if we…”

“Cousin!”

Rhaena whirled on her feet faster than a loosened arrow. Daemion was smirking at her arms crossed on his chest. Luce felt as if she was looking at Vaemond writ young.

“Good morrow! How good it is to see your face again.”

Rhaena's hand immediately latched onto a silver coil.

“And to you as well. Though I cannot say the same.”

Her jab seemed to slide right off him.

“Come, join me! We must have words. You should be amongst family at a time like this.”

Jace's grip on her forearm tightened to a frightening degree.

“I thank you for your invitation, but I am with family.”

The snicker he let out was poisonous.

“Come now Rhaena. Our blood runs thick. It runs true and it must never be thinned.” He paused, black eyes lashing her like a whip. “You’re a Velaryon. It would not bode well for you to dishonor your family like this.”

The breath Rhaena exhaled was as sharp as an unsheathed blade.

“I?” she bellowed. In two quick strides, she'd marched over to Daemion, getting right into his face. She and Jace swiftly followed suit. “It is you, who brings our family shame. You and your father. Your heedless ambition seeks to tear my mother’s house apart.”

“My father only seeks to preserve it. True Velaryon blood and legacy. Not whatever folly the Sea Snake has thought up in his head.”

“My step-siblings are Velaryon legacy. Acknowledged by mine own uncle, Ser Laenor.”

“Your step-siblings are mummer’s seahorses. You may dress them in blues, give them our name, and have them wave our banners but they will never be true Velaryons.” The pause he made felt heavy, ominous. “Their blood is too strong.”

It was as if a black curtain had fallen on her.

“I dare you to say that again.” Jace's voice rang out somewhere, strained, muffled.

Aegon stepped closer, lips puckered.

“There, there, Jace, no need to get upset. It’s just banter…”

“Oh go suck on your wine and stay out of this!” His brother’s rage only seemed to amuse her half-uncle.

He giggled, shrugging his shoulders, purple eyes alight with mockery.

“Give up, boy.” Daemion spat, head held high. He practically forced Rhaena aside to square against her brother. “You’ve lost. No one will speak for you. The King has spurned your mother, your stepfather has left you. All the great lords, save a few, have turned their backs on you. You’re alone.”

The weight of his words made her legs go numb. Suddenly, she was a little girl again, stood frozen in that training yard as Ser Harwin assailed Ser Criston. Evil eyes gaped at her, picking apart every part of her face, her hair, her eyes. Except this time, there was no firm hand to hold hers in comfort, no one to step in front of her to be her shield.

That same shield was standing with the accusers, his remaining eye staring her down with malice.

Aemond's scorn was what hurt her most. She could not bear it. She'd tried to flee from it as best she could. Ignore his presence whenever she chanced upon him in the castle, cut any attempts of them speaking.

It was cowardice. Callous disregard on her part. It didn’t matter. Not when his gaze laid her so bare.

It had never bothered her before. The staring and snickering the others threw her way. The wanton leering that began accompanying it when she'd grown older.

“Flesh is flesh,” Lady Jeyne had told her, after she'd caught one of the yard boys leering at Luce's chest. After arriving to the Vale she'd started growing in the most unseemly of places, and the attention that drew felt like an even heavier burden than the previous stain she carried. "Skin, blood, and bone. It doesn’t matter if they stare. Let them. They can’t see you.”

Her hand had pressed to her heart, face full of conviction.
She was wrong. He could see her. Every time he looked at her, it was as if he burrowed into her heart, to her very soul.

It made her feel ashamed of her Myrish dresses—of the sultry maiden she pretended to be.

She was still the same wistful girl who dreamed of flying away, of leaving her old life behind. And she was sick of it—sick of her grief, her guilt, her longing.

He knew that. He could see it, she was certain of it. And he relished her suffering.

-You should hate me.

For the sins she'd committed, she had earned his eternal condemnation. She'd earned it thrice over.

-You deserve to be alone.

Her hand was reaching, extending to draw Jace away.

The whistle bade her pause.

It rang clear across the sky, a sharp, violent keening that struck a familiar chord in her. She squinted at the horizon over the railing.

A red shape whizzed over the Blackwater, disappearing behind the rocks.

“What was…” Daemion mumbled, casting a look over his shoulder.

Luce was moving. As if drawn, she neared the railing, her muscles tense with anticipation.

The roar nearly split her eardrums. The red shadow flew from below, massive wings beating the air.

The force of the gust sent her flying back, and she stumbled, landing awkwardly on her elbow.

“Luce!” someone shrieked. Hands were on her, and when she looked, she was met with Jace’s wide brown eyes. “Are you alright?! Rhaena, fetch a Maester.”

“No, I’m fine.” The pain dissipated in a heartbeat, and she shot up, head craned toward the sky. The scarlet shadow circled the Red Keep in swooping arcs, screaming low, rumbling calls.

It was impossible to mistake that long, serpentine body for any other dragon.

“What’s he doing here?” Jace hissed, mouth twisting into a scowl. “Did you call him?”

“What, no, I didn’t even know where he was?”

Her brother's gaze stayed firmly glued to the sky, watching Caraxes disappear behind one of the gilded towers. When Luce chanced to glance over, Rhaena was already staring, eyes alight with meaning.

The breath she heaved must have weighed a thousand tons.

“Go,” she hardly had to nudge him, before her twin sprang forward barreling down the garden path toward the castle.
His displeasure was not his alone.

Daemion had gone pale, his nostrils flaring as he drew in quick breaths. Aegon was sucking on his wineskin, eyes alight with a mixture of fascination and apprehension.

But Aemond was what cut her. His hands were half extended. As if he'd meant to help her up. Her heart soared, before crashing down as if burned by the sun.

The cold steel of a blade was clutched in his right hand.

-Hate me then.

Dusting off her skirts, she sauntered over to Daemion, head held high.

“Not as alone as you think,” she spat and walked away.

Chapter Text

She watched him from her chair.

He stood leaning against her doorframe, a black riding cloak hanging off his shoulders. Scarce had the servants brought her news of Caraxes being spotted above the Red Keep, that he appeared, sauntering into her apartments with all the cocksure swagger of the Warrior himself.

His silver hair was tangled, and windblown, clear evidence of his flight. But despite his rugged appearance, a smirk was playing on his lips. Bemused, dangerous—full of defiance.

Rhaenyra thought she might scream.

“Does it amuse you?” she demanded. Her hands clutched the armrest so furiously, she thought the wood would shatter. “To toy with others?”

The stupid smirk never once faltered.

“Yes, it does.”

The laugh she let out was crooked, broken.

“To cause pain? To bring misery to those you supposedly love?”

“It wouldn’t be a fire if it didn’t burn.”

She couldn’t bear it—she leapt.

“You shameless, pitiful excuse!” launching herself, she pushed him back into the door with all her might. To her fury, he hardly stumbled. “If I was a man, I would have run you through. Carved you like a pig!”

“You can still run me through,” a knife flashed in his hand, and he pressed it into her palm. Seizing her wrists, he brought the blade, right under his chin. “Do it.”

Rhaenyra could not find air. “You’re mad… you care for nothing… love no one…”

“I love too much,” he whispered, voice thick—husky. Warmth blossomed in her belly, before descending all the way to her knees. She cursed her treacherous body.

“Yes you say you love, yet in the same breath you spew nothing but hurt.”

“I only burn… just like you.”

Her muscles clenched. She wrenched the knife free, the steel slashing.

Blood dripped from the cut on his chin, staining the blade red.
“Then why did you leave?!” she was shrieking now, the room around her spinning. “You swore! You swore you would defend me, that you would be by my side to uphold our legacy! You swore you would never abandon me again!”

The blade slid from her hands and she came at him again, slamming her fists into his forearms.

“Where is your honor?! Where is your strength, where is your love of me?!”

She beat furiously, all the rage, sorrow, and pain she felt fueling each strike.

Her assault came to an abrupt end. With one quick grab, he seized her forearm. Spinning her around, he crushed her to his chest, back first. She tried to wrench free, but his hold was too strong. It was like the embrace of molten fetters.

“I didn’t leave,” he pressed his lips to her ear, her breath licking her skin. Gooseflesh raced down her back, and she released a shuddering breath. “I can never leave. Because I’m here. Inside you.”

The hand that was clutching her forearms crawled up to wrench the laces of her gown. He slammed his open palm against her chest–her heart immediately quickened to answer his call.

“Just like you’re inside me. Fire to fire. We burn together, till the very end.”

She struggled against his embrace, her lungs feebly trying to take air. The heat of his skin was all-consuming.

“I despise you…” she breathed. The hand resting on her chest moved lower.

“Do you despise yourself then?”

“Yes,” she hissed, attempting to pry his fingers off her breast. The grip was iron. “I despise the part of myself that ever loved you. The part that ever believed that you could love me.”

“You don’t think I love you?” the arm wrapped around her waist squeezed. Through her skirt, she felt him press into her backside, full of desire.

“No, because if you did, you wouldn’t have turned your back on me.”

In half a breath he spun her to him, pinning her forearms to his chest. The smell of dragon flesh and smoke filled her nostrils, and Rhaenyra inhaled, drowning in the pits of his indigo eyes.

“I turn my back on weakness. And I know you’re not weak.” He hissed, mere inches from her lips. “You're a dragon, just like me. And dragons don’t beg for anything. They take what is theirs. With fire and blood.”

The laugh burst from her mouth before she could contain it. The blood on his chin had smeared across his lips— despite her fury, she still ached to claim them. Devour the scarlet, like the dragon he said she was.

“So that’s what you mean to do? Set the Keep aflame? Kill every last soul that stands in your way?”

“Yes,” he whispered into her mouth, forehead pressed against hers. The feeling of his skin on hers was maddening. “Every commoner and noble alike, all the lickspittles and schemers, Otto Hightower and his brood of snakes, every last one till you and I and our family are the only people left in this world…”

The words were sickening, dangerous. Mired in blood. The same blood that forged the might of the Freehold, that saw the Targaryen dynasty unite a continent as one. The same fire that burned in their hearts, and drove them to madness.

“You never should have returned…” she squeezed her eyes shut, body trembling.

-Father was right.

Daemon was poison. He tasted sweet on her lips, but the moment she swallowed, he spread through her body to kill.
The laugh he blew into her mouth left her sickened.

“Then why did your heart call to me?”

Her fingers clawed at his doublet, the need inside her too great.
-Fire to fire.

Twin flames that burned as one. Ten years they'd been apart, in the arms of others, yet still, they found each other in the end. Just as they always would.

-I will never be free of him.

And in spite of everything he did, she didn’t want to be.
She kissed him then, hard, and fierce, sucking the blood like it was honey. The fire roared into a blazing inferno, and he crushed her into his arms, hands snaking around her waist. His fingers quickly found the strings of her bodice, and he pulled, ripping the thread in one swift tug.

She thought he meant to push her to the bed. Instead, he drove her back, till she slammed into the edge of a bureau. Lips on her neck, he lifted her on top of it, hiking up her skirts to her waist.
His fingers clawed at her underskirts, ripping the fabric like it was parchment. When those warm, fiery hands slid between her legs, she shuddered. He touched her, working his fingers till she was wet and aching, moving her hips against him. Then, just as she ripped off his riding cloak, his other hand wrapped around her neck.

He shoved her back forcefully, undoing the laces of his breeches. He drove himself into her hard and quick, one hand pushing her legs apart while the other held her by the throat.

She wrapped herself around him, coiling like a snake, eager to take him deeper, harder, till the fire consumed her and turned her into ash.

The pleasure ripped through her, and she arched her back, hand clutching at the forearm around her neck.

He kept going, harder, violent gasps playing on his lips. Then, with one final squeeze of her throat, he spent himself into her, head collapsing into her open bodice.

She didn’t know how long they stood cradled in each other's arms, nothing but the sounds of their ragged breathing filling the air. Her hand pressed to his chest, listening to the fierce thunder of his heart. It mirrored her own.

-You’re mine. As I am yours.

Twin flames, that burned as one. And when she needed him the most, be returned—to annihilate their enemies, and set the world on fire. For her.

Pressing her forehead to his, she kissed him.

* * *

It did not take much convincing to make Daemon go see her father. Despite raging against him for years, he could not bear to keep away from him when he was so close.

Father was displeased to see him.

He sat in a chair beside his Valyrian model, wrapped in woolen blankets. His pallor had improved ever since Luce's Volanteen Healer had taken over his care, but his skin still looked as pale and frail as wet parchment.

His eye was alert, however, the amethyst burning as fiercely as Balerion's black flames.

“So you have returned.” He croaked. Despite his voice breaking, his breathing was crisp, and clear. “Come to murder me at last.”

Her husband remained motionless, staring blankly at him. However, the way he sucked in a shuddering breath told her the accusation had hurt him.

It seemed more appropriate to leave them to speak in private. But she knew that someone had to stop their tempers from flaring and keep their blades sheathed.

At last, Daemon let out a chuckle.

“Why? The gods seem to be doing that just fine on their own.”

Her father released a breath, hand going to clutch at his bandaged head. The healer had smeared a thick salve onto his rotten socket, and the grease was seeping through the cloth to stain it an ugly mud green. The smell was so potent, Rhaenyra could sense it from a mile away.

“Yes, they punish me for my sins. For your wrongdoings.”

This time, Daemon's chuckle was louder, fiercer.

“They punish you for turning your back on your family.” He hissed, hand clutching Dark Sister's studded hilt. “They punish you for letting Otto Hightower take what is ours by right.”

“And I suppose I should have let you have it?” His head thudded against the backrest of the chair, voice thick with worry. “I would have woken up with a blade in my belly.”

Daemon couldn’t take it. He stumbled, brows furrowing.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he demanded.

In two quick strides, he was at his chair, leaning over him to be at eye level.

“How long have you been King now? 26, 28 years? A weak little man who allowed his lickspittles to rule over him. In all that time, do you not think I could have killed you? I could have plunged a dagger in your heart a thousand times over. But I didn’t.”

Rhaenyra squirmed, watching her father gaze at Daemon with the same ferocity.

“Perhaps even you do not wish to provoke the gods so.”

The laugh her husband let out was spiteful, mocking. He pushed himself up withdrawing in disgust.

“Gods? What does a dragon have to fear from some foreign gods?”

“Of course, because you always thought yourself above others.”

“I thought us above others.” Daemon hissed. The breath he released felt heavy, oozing a kind of vulnerability she was not prepared for. “You were all I had. Mother died, then father, and everyone else we knew. We were all that was left. I would have done anything to preserve you.”

"Is that why you took my daughter from me?"

"I didn't take her, she came willingly. She's loved me since she was a girl and in her heart she knew she was always meant to be mine. And so were you. The one I loved the most."

“Then why do you cut me so deeply?”

“Because you cut me first!” Daemon hissed. He had descended on him again eyes wide and hungry. “You speak of legacy, and yet at every turn you spurn it. You spurn me.”

“I keep only the worst parts at bay. Fire alone cannot help us uphold our legacy. We surrender to it, it will consume us.”

“So you put it out?” Daemon laughed again, “You let yourself be submerged in water, for the fish to feast on your flesh till there is nothing left.” He whirled around, seizing a clay dragon off one of the citadel towers. “You prattle about omens and portents, but you forget about the most important one. Three heads, as one.”

The dragon slipped from his hands, shattering as soon as it hit the floor.

“Fire cannot kill a dragon. If you stopped fearing the fire, you’d realize it is your greatest weapon. Your strongest shield.”

The fury in her father's face had vanished. His gaze held Daemon’s his remaining eye glittering with a thin film of unshed tears.

“You'd shield me?” his voice rose barely above a whisper.

All the fire in Daemon’s body sputtered. He stumbled back, like a little boy, his face slack.

“Always,” he breathed, jaw clenched. “You're my brother. All I have. And I would kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”

Both she and her father released labored sighs.

“Murder is not how we preserve ourselves…” he chided. His voice had gone soft, almost parental. It warmed Rhaenyra's heart in ways few other things did.

“No? Then you preserve us.” Daemon countered. “On the morrow, Vaemond Velaryon is petitioning to be named heir to Driftmark. Go, sit the throne, and affirm your support for Lucera. Defend what matters.”

His head snapped to her, and she immediately drew closer.

“Father, there is someone we wish to introduce you to.”

With a quick call, the iron hinges creaked open. Arya stepped in, Viserys pressed to her chest. Aegon was trotting beside her, pale hands clutching at her woolen skirts.

She swiftly took her babes into her arms, pushing them to stand at the foot of her father’s chair.

“This, is Aegon,” she nudged her sweet boy forward. Though his face was uncertain, brows furrowed in discomfort, his little fingers still extended toward her father.

Her heart soared when he immediately reached back, his remaining hand gently brushing against his grandson’s.

“And this…” she bounced her beautiful babe. “Is Viserys.”

The name undid him. The tears he'd tried to push back flowed freely down his pale cheek.

“Viserys? His voice shattered, and Rhaenyra couldn’t resist weeping herself. “Now that is a name, fit for a king.”

The laugh they shared was so tender, it made her heart burst. His gaze pivoted from one boy to the other, before landing on his brother.

Daemon didn’t weep. He merely stared, wide-eyed, muscles as tense as a crossbow string.

“Your boys…” her father mumbled, lips squirming into a smile.

“Ours,” her husband swiftly fired. “Our legacy.”

Silence blanketed the room, thick as honey. Her father’s brows furrowed as if he felt a stab of pain right in his heart. Then, his hand extended.

The crossbow string loosened. With one shuddering breath, Daemon collapsed to his knees at the foot of his chair. He seized his hand in a grip, and buried his head into his shoulder.
Rhaenyra watched their embrace, the weight she'd carried on her back gone at last.

-Three heads as one.

Her family was whole, united toward one single purpose. To defend each other. Their legacy.

Later, after she left her husband and father alone to speak more, she relayed the events to her eldest. Jace had not been pleased. He'd scoured the castle, searching for Daemon, intent on throwing him out for his previous cruelty.

Rhaenyra helped settle his rage.

“Daemon is here for us.” She gently cupped his cheek. “He and my father will defend our family. Together."

His mouth dropped open to argue, but the true weight of her words slowly sunk in. The frown dissipated from his face and he blinked at her, stumped.

Before he could demand a clarification, the door behind them swung open. Rhaena and Luce strode in, arm in arm, faces alight with purpose.

“I think…” her Luce paused, teeth sinking into her lower lip. “I think we might have found a way around this.”

Chapter Text

Her bodice was digging into her chest. Her maids had tightened the strings to an obscene degree, to the point where the whalebone padding was stabbing her skin like daggers. Alicent almost relished the pain.

“Will he come?” she demanded.

Her father kept his gaze high, absently regarding the dead embers in the heartfire. Though he seemed the picture of poised composure, Alicent could see him gnawing on the inside of his right cheek.

“I cannot say. Daemon has been in his chambers for hours. But as of yet, we have no confirmation that he will speak on this succession.”

“He will,” Alicent spat, regarding her fingers. The worry had been too great last night, and she could not resist picking at the nailbed on her left thumb. “He always does.”

“For Rhaenyra perhaps, but not for Daemon. He is too volatile, too dangerous. The King knows he is not to be trusted.”

She couldn’t resist. The laugh burst from her lips and she tossed her father a look.

“Does he?” Rising from the chair, she paced around the room, bitterness coating her mouth. Rhaenyra and Daemon were two sides of the same coin. And though Viserys was more cautious of his younger brother he loved him just as unreasonably as he did Rhaenyra.

-The gods curse me.

But this one punishment felt worse than all the others before—for they had sent the Stranger himself to her doorstep.

“Regardless. We play this as we intended. Affirm Vaemond as the Lord of the Tides, and disinherit Rhaenyra's daughter.”
“What does that matter, if Viserys ends up overturning the ruling later?”

“It matters,” her father hissed, uncharacteristically ferocious. He strode over to her, studded surcoat glittering like the beacon of the Hightower. The front was embroidered with gold thread and amber stones to form the shape of a flame. Today he was meant to light the way, see righteous truth find its port.

“Even if the ruling ends up overturned, the damage will have been done. The girl's blood would have been called into question, before the whole realm. And Rhaenyra will have no hope of securing her succession. Not without turning tyrant or disgracing herself by admitting her infidelity.” He paused, hands seizing her own. The frown he made when he glimpsed her savaged thumb left her sickened. However, rather than the customary disappointment, his face oozed with a hint of concern as well. “In the end, we will prevail. Just as we intended.”

Alicent inhaled the faint scent of smoke and new parchment, letting go of the tension in her muscles. Then, she forced herself to nod. Her father’s jaw worked his teeth.

“Good. Now ready yourself.”

Releasing her hands he vanished out the door in a flurry of green velvet and leather. It took her the longest time to follow him out.

She resolved to arrive last. Donning her gold and emerald tiara, she had her maids fasten a chiffon veil to it, so that her face may be concealed in modest penance.

Her father was right. Even if things didn’t go their way, they needed to have the appearance of righteousness, so that all the Lords gathered could see Rhaenyra's counterclaim for what it was—an illegitimate seizure of power that went against all the laws of gods and men.

She feared Aegon would not escort her. Her boy had been desolate ever since returning from his father’s chambers the previous night.

Daemon had arrived, and his father had dismissed their evening cyvasse lesson in favor of spending time with his brother.
Alicent could not resist holding him.

-He's been doing so well.

With her Lord husband's improved health, Viserys had taken a keener interest in his son. He'd invited him to his chambers each night, so they could share a cup of wine, and play cyvasse together.

“I'd not thought you fond of cyvasse.” She'd remarked, the first time she'd heard him mention their meetings.

His nose scrunched up, and he coughed up a scoff.

“Gods no, of course not. It's frightfully dull.” The displeased frown morphed into the most radiant smile. His purple eyes pinned hers, overflowing with childlike joy. “But he'd asked to teach me. He asked me…”

Alicent did not dare question the dalliances. They brought him such elation and chased away some of the darkness that followed him like a shadow. At last, he'd started listening to her. He would break his fast with her and her father, attend the sept, and entertain all the Lords that came to pay her homage. He’d even taken to limiting his wine to one flagon a day.

It was a turn she'd prayed for, for years. She knew it wouldn’t last. Viserys never held much affection for him. He yearned for his true family—for his darling girl and his terror of a brother.
As she thought, the moment they'd returned to him, her son became but a distant memory.

Aegon did not display his hurt. As he accompanied her to the Great Hall, his face had remained slack, unreadable. But the dark circles ringing his purple eyes betrayed a sleepless night spent in grief.

Alicent did her best to grip his arm with fury, her own heart in shambles.

-No one will ever hurt you, my love. No one.

The least of all a wanton and her rabid dog.

Just as she intended, she arrived last. The oak and iron double doors peeled open to reveal the Great Hall packed to the brim. Scores of courtiers parted to let her and her escort pass through, a multicolored patchwork of silk, samite, and vermilion. The faint scent of steel and incense filled her nostrils, and she lifted her head higher, her resolve her armor.

In the center of the throne room, the servants had set up a bench from which the claimants could argue their cases. Alicent felt immensely pleased when she saw they'd also laid out a copy of the Seven-pointed Star.

All the testimonies would be presented before the holy word. Rhaenyra may not have held any regard for the gods, but they would be passing judgment on her nonetheless. And Alicent did not think they or any other decent folk would allow her falsehood to stand.

As she'd requested, she and her family were set up near the base of the throne—the right hand of justice. Aemond and Helaena were seated side by side, while the Cargyll twins hovered behind them like shadows. It pained Alicent to see her sweet girl furiously tug at her sleeve cuffs, eyes nervously darting at the filled gallery pews. She immediately pushed her chair closer to her, aching to offer comfort.

No sooner had she plopped down that she felt a pair of amethyst slits stare daggers at her. Rhaenyra stood opposite her, a Valyrian goddess in black.

Her dress was fine satin, the color of obsidian, inlaid with threads of gold and black. A crown of opals lined the hem of her bust, shaped into points that resembled dragon teeth. Her hair was pinned up, into a patchwork of braids so favored by the Conqueror's sister wife, Visenya—splendid armor she had donned to march into war.

Naturally, her children were right behind her. Her eldest, Harwin Strong writ young was scowling, his arms crossed on his chest. The Velaryon blues he’d bundled himself into only served to point out how much he did not look like his purported kin—especially since Daemon's daughter was right beside him. The younger girl, Rhaena may have chosen Targaryen red and black, but with her smooth, umber skin, dark eyes, and silver coils, she cut the image of a true Velaryon. A Valyrian beauty, unlike the plain featured scullion beside her.

For once, Rhaenyra's wild girl had deigned to cover herself. Choosing the same bright Velaryon blue as her twin, Lucera’s gown was simple wool with fur trimmings. The bust laced almost to her throat, and her hair was woven into a loose braid that drooped demurely over her right shoulder.

Alicent wanted to laugh. Not a moon's turn ago, that same little beast had pranced around the Keep, half-naked, flashing her breasts at anyone in her immediate vicinity—yet now she dared act the innocent Septa.

Rhaenyra couldn’t have made a greater mockery of the gods if she'd tried.

-No, she could.

She would need her husband for that. Alicent frowned when she realized the Rouge Prince was not at her side. On the one hand, that left her relieved. Her good brother had frightened and fascinated her in equal parts since her girlhood. But on the other, she couldn’t help but dread his inevitable arrival.

She squirmed in her seat, casting a look at her father. He seemed to share her concern, pointedly combing through the crowd for Daemon. When he did not find him, he rose from the throne and stepped forth, his jaw still working the inside of his cheek.

His rise bid the guards at the base to call for order. The animated chatter of the gathered slowly puttered out to give way to silence.

“My Lords, my Ladies. We are gathered here today to decide upon a matter of grave importance.” Her father began, booming voice echoing down the length of the Throne Room. “Corlys Velaryon, master of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides lays grievously wounded. The specter of the Stranger presently looms over his bedside. And though it is the crown’s hope that Lord Corlys survives his battle, in the event of the worst, we must secure his legacy.”

The brief pause made Alicent cast a look to her right. Rhaenys stood alone, neither in Rhaenyra's camp, nor with Vaemond and his Velaryon kin. For the thousandth time, the Queen wondered what she meant to do.

-I should have forced words with her.

The woman had been most elusive since she'd landed at court. Save announcing her intention to speak at the petition, she eschewed all other company. Alicent knew she did not mean to speak for Vaemond. Yet her sordid history with Rhaenyra made her bear a substantial amount of animosity toward her former daughter-by-law.

-Why are you here?

Both the presence and absence of certain figures was making her crave the sweet release of her open nailbeds.

“Lord Corlys’ children, sadly, did not survive him. And though the late Prince Consort, Ser Laenor Velaryon left behind issue, in the guise of his daughter, Lucera, female succession cannot be upheld when presented with more able, male claimants with greater rights. Ser Vaemond!”

The Sea Snake's brother proudly strode forth, regal in his blue and silver doublet.

“You come today before the crown, to present yourself as a rival claimant. As a male, an elder, and an able seaman with plenty of experience, you place your claim over your nephew’s daughter, citing old Andal tradition of male primogeniture. As the Hand, charged to speak with the King's voice, and conduct the King's will, I will hear your case.”

With a curt nod in Vaemond's direction, her father lowered himself down onto the bent blades.

“My Lord Hand,” the Sea Snake's brother began. He strode over to stand beside the bench, black eyes alight. “Ancient and noble is my house. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies with their dragons, the Velaryons have held mastery over the sea. When the Doom fell upon Valyria, our two houses became one of the last of their kind. And though the culture we brought over from the Freehold differed, we have come to adopt the customs and traditions of our new home. And they dictate that a son comes before a daughter. My brother’s son is dead—the eldest male issue he claimed as his own is heir apparent to another house.”

Alicent balled her hands into fists. The word choice was deliberate. Still, it left her uneasy. Gender may not have been as strong a pretext as legitimacy, but it was a more prudent one. If Vaemond were to strike directly at the true matter, his life could be forfeit.

“That leaves a daughter. And eldest she may be, but she is still but a woman. Thus her rights cannot come before a more able, elder son. I may be Lord Corlys' younger brother, but I argue my claim still overshadows Princess Lucera's, on the grounds of ancient Andal traditions that have stood for centuries.”

He turned, hand going over the Lords gathered on the left, in his camp. Alicent did not fail to note how all of them had silver blue coils tied about their arms, in solidarity.

“Therefore, I humbly ask the Lords gathered to call upon their knowledge of the old ways to help me present my case and see this matter settled justly. In the eyes of both gods and men.”

His impassioned tone sent the gallery to whispering. Alicent spied her father. His mask of indifference did not slip once, but she did not fail to note that he had ceased gnawing on his cheek.

At last, he nodded, and the parade began. Vaemond meant to call upon 7 lords. Excessive as that seemed, the number was symbolic and wholly necessary. Her father conceded the right to have them present first, followed by the defense's speakers. At last, the two rival claimants themselves would be granted turns to present their cases in their own words. Alicent knew Rhaenyra meant to speak for her girl—she needed the weight of her title as heir to counter all the speakers Vaemond was to put forth.

Even if it wasn’t nearly enough.

They started with Kevan Crakehall. The Lannister bannerman strode forth to the bench, with all the swagger of a Westernman. He tossed his blonde curls out of his eyes and slammed his hand on the Seven-pointed Star. Alicent was certain the man had some Lannister blood in him, judging by the cocksure smirk on his face.

Of course, he could not resist opening with a long, arduous tale about the glory of his house. But, once he finished singing himself praises, he pivoted to his current inheritance.

“As magnificent as my elder sister is—and rest assured, she will tell you how magnificent she is— she is not heir over me.” He paused, puckering his round lips. With his chiseled jaw, and piercing blue eyes, he appeared to be every maiden's fantasy—if one could stomach choking on pride. “Women were not made to rule. Their hands are too gentle and their hearts too meek for such grueling business. No, they were fashioned to follow. To nurture the next generation as wives and mothers. Darling as the Princess Lucera may be, the realm requires more than sweet smiles and…daring dresses to command the largest fleet in the Kingdom.”

Alicent relished seeing the little thing squirm, her brown eyes downcast. Rhaenyra looked equally displeased, glaring at Lord Kevan as if her gaze could make him burst into flames.

The following speaker was nowhere near as grandiose. The aged Cerwyn Costayne curtly explained the succession crisis that led him to become the Lord of Three Towers over his niece, Kyara.

“As dearly as my late brother loved his girl, he knew she could not rule as was needed. Her destiny was to wed and be a mother. And when that occurred, what would happen to Costayne lands? They would fall into her husband's hands, and our family name would vanish. I fear the same fate would befall Driftmark. The Princess Lucera is of age, and though she may style herself the Lady of the Tides, rest assured my Lords, it is her future lord husband who will be governing. His name and sigil will be on those ships, not the seahorse.”

If the blatant disregard for female ability left the black camp flustered, the suggestion of marriage left them seething. Lucera had grown pallid, hand blindingly reaching to seize her cousin Rhaena. Her twin was snorting like a bull, ready to charge, while Rhaenyra arched her brow so high, it almost brushed against her widow's peak.

The three following speakers made similar points, each emphasizing marriage as a large factor in the matter. The mood grew grimmer and grimmer in Rhaenyra's corner, to a point where she was convinced her daughter would retch. It took everything Alicent had in her not to laugh— until she noticed her son, clutching the armrest of his chair.

Aemond sat stiffly, back as taunt as a knocked arrow—as if he meant to leap out of his seat and sock Lord Luthor Redwyne for daring to discuss his half-niece's marriage prospects. Bile rising in her throat, she almost leaned over to push him back into his seat, when the last speakers came forth.

It was two Velaryon cousins. They reaffirmed all the other points made previously and opened up the issue of ability and familiarity.

“The Princess may be a skilled dragonrider and charming conversationalist, but that is not enough to be Lady of the Tides.” One of them said. His name escaped Alicent, but she wagered he was one of the lesser Velaryons, a steward of Spicetown. “Can she steer a ship, brave a storm, navigate the sea? She's spent years secreting at the Eyrie, away from those she calls her kin. We do not know her. In contrast, Ser Vaemond has spent his life on Driftmark. He's an able seaman, a captain of his own ship, and mine own cousin. The Sea Snake has given command over to him numerous times when he was indisposed. He is true Velaryon blood—and by right should inherit.”

Hushed whispers spread through the gallery like a tidal wave. Her father commanded for order before rising from his seat.

“The crown thanks all who have spoken on behalf of Ser Vaemond and his rights. We now turn over the bench to the opposition—if any would speak on behalf of Princess Lucera, they are free to step forth and be heard.”

Alicent beamed a challenge at Rhaenyra, expecting her to march up there to spew her falsehood. Instead, the Vale knight, Ser Fedryn came forth, climbing the bench with solemn fortitude. Gently placing his palm over the Seven-pointed star, he whispered a quick prayer into his chin and lifted his head high.

“My Lords and Ladies. I must confess, I am quite moved. All these lessons on traditions and precedent served as keen reminders of why men have and should inherit over women. After all, the results are plain to see. All lands stewarded by men have been nothing but prosperous!” he craned his head to the side, to peer at Lord Kevan. “My Lord of Crakehall. Your trade revenues have doubled ever since you inherited your position, have they not?”

The blonde man frowned at the address, at last peeling his eyes off of Cana Estermont’s plunging neckline.

“Well…” he mumbled.

When the unassuming knight smiled, Alicent dug her nail into her thumb.

“Ah, my apologies. My memory failed me. That was some years ago, during the reign of your Lord father. When your aunt, the Lady Genna was in charge of handling trade at Crakehall.”

Silence lingered for just half a breath. Then, stifled giggles sounded from the gallery.

“And Lord Cerwyn. You so wisely point at marriage as defining who gets to rule. But if I recall, your Lady wife, never ceased governing her own lands, after you exchanged vows. As a matter of fact, if this court were to ask the stewards and servants of Three Towers, they would tell you she also runs his inheritance as well. It is she who sits at hearings, decides on land disputes, keeps the granaries and coffers full, while her lord husband busies himself with hawking and other, more… carnal entertainment.”

The stifled giggles grew into booming laughs, and Lord Cerwyn stumbled, sallow cheeks jiggling while he sputtered.

“So it seems to me that—if the court would pardon my most crass language—it is not a cock that’s needed to rule, but a head. And based on simple observation, both men and women are in possession of one.”

Her nail stabbed, tearing open the cuticle in a rush of searing pain. Ahead of her, Rhaenyra was smirking, purple eyes alive with fire.

“The Lady Jeyne has spent years ably governing the Vale. While My Lord of Crakehall spent his aunt's wares away, the Lady has seen the Eyrie's coffers fill to bursting. She's settled countless disputes, brought justice to where it was needed, and kept peace throughout the Vale. Was she gentle? Of course. After all, the Mother charges us to be merciful to our fellow man. But she was also strong, wise, just, and capable. And I would invite Lord Kevan to come and stand before the Falcon throne, to gaze down into the abyss of the Moon door, and then say that a woman lacks the stomach to do what is needed to keep power.”

The giggles had morphed into animated whispers, and Lord Kevan had gone so pale, Alicent was certain he would faint.

“My Lords and Ladies. This is not a matter of gender, but ability. And any man of the Vale can assure you that the Princess does not lack for it. After all, it is why she was sent to the Eyrie. Not to secret herself, but to learn to govern from a woman of greater wisdom—a woman who has had a great deal of experience dealing with insolent claimants who sought to rob her of her rights,” this time, the unassuming knight affixed his eyes right on Vaemond. To his credit, the Sea Snake's brother remained composed, even while his son was grumbling behind him.

“So I propose that, in the event of Lord Corlys' untimely death, Driftmark passes to Princess Lucera. As her grandsire had always wished.”

With a solemn bow, the knight descended from the bench. As soon as he was in their vicinity, Rhaenyra’s camp showered him with excited whispers. Lucera pulled him to stand at her side, hand firmly clasped about his forearm. The creak of wood sounded in Alicent's ears and she thought Aemond was going to rip off the armrest.

After Ser Fedryn's magnificent declaration, it seemed wholly unnecessary to allow Lord Caswell to speak. Nevertheless, the lickspittle came forth, prattling on about how his inheritance came from the female line and how marriage would not necessarily prevent the Princess’s children from holding Driftmark under the Velaryon name.

When at last he finished, Vaemond sprang up for his closing statement. The moment he stepped on the bench, Alicent felt dread pool in her stomach.

“My Lords, this is not just a matter of gender. It is also a matter of blood.”

The torrent of whispers died down in a heartbeat. All eyes in the hall stood transfixed on Vaemond.

“Blood, good Ser?” her father inquired, peering down at him over the bridge of his nose.

Alicent gritted her teeth.

-No, you fool.

They’d agreed. He couldn’t speak so plainly about this—it was treason, and a detriment to their cause. The issue of legitimacy had to remain implied, never outright stated.

“Yes,” he continued nonetheless, his face a mask of steely resolve. “Of unimpeachable Velaryon blood. One that unquestionably runs through my veins.”

Panicked mumbles filled the gallery pews, and all eyes in the hall pivoted toward the black party. Rhaenyra's face had gone slack, her amethyst eyes dark with fury. Though her children had tried to huddle together for comfort, there was no escaping the judgment of the gathered.

Despite her reservations, Alicent felt immensely vindicated.

“What are you insinuating, Ser?” Fedryn Corbray demanded.
The way Vaemond smirked cut fiercer than any blade. But before he could answer, Rhaenyra cut him off.

“Vile insults, nothing more.” She smoothed the front of her skirt, and raised her head high. “Ser Vaemond forgets this is a court, not an ale-house. It is beneath us to throw baseless accusations at one another.”

“Baseless?” Vaemond chuckled, that accursed smirk was still fierce on his lips. “They are only baseless for those who do not have eyes.”

The whispering rose yet again, in a cacophony of hushed chants. Rhaenyra didn’t let it deter her.

“You speak of defending your family? That same blood you exalt runs in my daughter's veins as well, as she is the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If this were truly a matter of preserving your house you would not seek to supplant Driftmark's rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and your own ambition, just as you always did.”

The chatter was unbearable now, as lively as the buzz of a beehive.

“Order!” her father called from the throne. “You will have a chance to make your case Princess Rhaenyra. Allow Ser Vaemond the courtesy of making his.”

Rhaenyra scoffed, averting her gaze.

Vaemond squinted at her, that accursed smirk playing on his lips.

“What do you know of Velaryon blood Princess? I could cut my veins open and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it. “ he hissed through his teeth. When it became plain Rhaenyra would not respond, he turned back to her father. “I am the Sea Snake's brother. His closest kin. As such I have a vested interest in ensuring the continued survival of my house. Not the Princess’s. On those grounds, I put myself forward as my brother’s successor.”

The hush that swept through the hall could kill. Alicent eyed the spectators in the gallery, nervously studying every face that gawked and snickered at Rhaenyra’s get.

-They see it.

It was so plain. No matter how blue they made their clothing, or how many seahorses they sewed on their breasts, her twins were plainly not Velaryon. And regardless of her gender or supposed abilities, Lucera had no right to stake any claim to the Driftwood throne—just as her brother had no rights to the Iron one.

-Now they see you as you are.

“Thank you Lord Vaemond. The crown will take your reasoning into consideration.” Her father gave a nod and beckoned at the black camp. “Princess Rhaenyra, since you expressed a desire to speak on your daughter's behalf, please, step forth.”

Composing her face into a mask of regal poise, Rhaenyra gave her children a look, and stepped onto the bench.

“My Lords and Ladies. I regret that I must stand here today, and entertain this debacle.” She began, her lip stiff. The snickers did not let up. Alicent would have almost felt pity, if the woman did not deserve it.

-You brought this on yourself.

She'd broken the laws of gods and men, spat upon the face of tradition, and expected the world to congratulate her on her efforts.

For once Alicent allowed herself to believe she would at last get her due.

“Any decent man worth their salt would see this for what it is—the desperate attempt of a second son to rise above his station. As such, it is hardly deserving of any response.” She paused casting the Velaryon camp an indignant look. “But as I am forced to grace this farce with an answer, I would like to remind this court that nearly 20 years ago…”

The creak of iron hinges rang across the hall louder than any bell. All the conviction Alicent felt dissolved like a sheath of ice, melting in a heartfire.

The Father himself had come to rescue his daughter—yet again.

“All rise for his Grace, King Viserys, of House Targaryen, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and The First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Stunned silence followed the announcer's booming voice. Every pair of eyes pivoted to the entrance, where three figures stood.
Viserys had been dressed with care. A splendid red and black velvet robe with gold thread trimmings and a neckpiece studded with precious stones. His rotten socket had been covered with a gold-plated death mask, while the Conciliator's crown crested his spotted brow. In spite of the rage pounding behind her eyes, it still pained her to see him hunched over, putting most of his weight onto his cane.

Chest heaving, he slowly descended the stairs into the throne room. She hadn’t even realized that she had risen to her feet, ready to rush to his side.

He was straining, each step a labor that made his lips twist in pain. The courtiers had parted to allow him passage, eyeing him with a mixture of shock and pity—he'd been absent from the public for years. A joint decision she and her own father had made. No one needed to see how much he'd deteriorated—they couldn’t. Despite his failings, he was the source of their strength, the thread that bound this fragile kingdom together. Without him, they had nothing.

-He's come here… for her.

Years he'd been too weak to rise from his bed. And despite his recent improvement, he was still not fit to walk across his room to sit in his chair unassisted, let alone come here. But he had done so—for his daughter.

Alicent wanted to weep. Her rage, and resentment couldn’t compare to the pain of knowing he would never, ever do anything of the sort for her and her children.

She'd given him her life. Her youth, her labor—she'd been his confidant, his caretaker. Suffered his embraces to produce his children, so his legacy could be secured. She'd allowed him to suck out every last drop of joy from her thrice over—and it was all for naught.

He did not care for anything she'd done in the slightest. She only existed when he required someone to fluff his pillows or pass him his milk of the poppy. Beyond that, he bore her no love, no care.

She and her children were just specks of dirt Rhaenyra and Daemon could trample over on their way to ascend the throne.

He was here too—her vile good brother.

He strode after Viserys, side by side with Ser Harold Westerling, a vicious shadow in matte black. It was startling just how little time had touched him. There was nary a fine line marring his handsome face. His hair was just as full as it had been during his youth, and he still stood as tall and as fierce as he had been when she'd first spied him, languishing at the base of his brother’s throne on their arrival to King's Landing.

He'd been two and twenty then. A lithe creature with deep-set eyes, the color of fine indigo, and thin lips he always kept quirked into a bemused smirk. Even as a girl, Alicent thought that there wasn’t a man more handsome than this daring silver prince. But his beauty was draped in blood, and behind that quirked grin stood nothing but malice.

She could see it now, so plainly. He was armed. While everyone save the Kingsguard had been relieved of their weapons upon entering, he had Dark Sister fastened at his hip. His purple slits lashed her father the moment they started drawing closer, blazing with a silent challenge.

He's mine, they said.

The throne room vanished in a dark void. Alicent sucked in shallow breaths, her heart in her throat. That Valyrian steel sword came into focus, and she could picture scarlet dripping off the edge. Her blood. The blood of her babes. If Rhaenyra ever ascended the throne, that sword would go straight for their necks.

“Viserys,” she was moving, propelled, gooseflesh dotting her skin.

Someone was at her side, a shadow in green.

“Your Grace,” Her father’s voice, strained and uncertain.

The Queen blindly grabbed at him, her fingers squeezing his in a death grip. Couldn’t he see? They needed to stop this before it was too late. Before blood was spilled.

“I will sit the throne today.” Viserys heaved, his remaining eye trained right at them.

The fiery resolve blazing in that purple abyss made her knees shake.

He continued his hobble up the steps, cane slamming against the stone with vigor. At one point his head came to rest upon the dragon pommel and the crown slid off his brow. It fell down the steps, clattering when it hit the edge of a bent blade.

A shadow descended upon it immediately. Daemon bent down to pick it up, slender fingers trailing the gold like a jealous lover. She held a breath waiting for the steel to come loose, to find a home in her husband's chest.

Instead, he seized Viserys by the arm and the two hobbled up the steps together.

When her husband collapsed into the bent seat, Daemon fixed the crown atop his brow yet again. A thousand unspoken words were exchanged between them, but she could not understand a single one—save that when Daemon descended to stand by his wife, Viserys looked ready for war.

“My Lords…” he heaved. Despite the hoarseness of his voice, his breathing was sharp and clear. “I must admit my confusion. We have gathered here today to decide upon a succession that was settled years prior.”

Soft murmurs filled the air around her. She instantly retreated back into her seat, head swimming. Beside her, Aegon was smirking a cold sneer—the pain in his violet eyes made Alicent wish Daemon would just plunge Dark Sister into her heart and end her misery.

“It is to my understanding that… Lord Corlys always intended for Driftmark to be passed through his son, onto his granddaughter, Lucera.” Viserys paused, sucking in a breath. “As he courts the Stranger presently, he is not here to offer his opinion. So I must ask the one closest to him to relay his wishes. Princess Rhaenys.”

The woman immediately stepped forth, descending from her seat in the gallery toward the bench. Dressed in unassuming riding blacks, she stood apart from all the others. But, Alicent knew, that determined crease between her brows was to drive the final nail in her coffin.

“You expressed your intention to present your own case in this hearing. As wife to Lord Corlys, I have no doubt you know who he intended to pass his seat to.”

A small smile curved the corners of Rhaenys' mouth.

“Indeed your Grace. It was ever my husband's wish that Driftmark pass through his son’s line to Lord Corlys' trueborn granddaughter, Lucera.”

Her voice didn’t waver. It stayed sickly sweet, and unassuming. Alicent wondered how she could debase herself so.

-They murdered your son, you fool.

It was as if the mad woman had completely forgotten that.

“His mind never changed. Despite my granddaughter’s protestations.”

She angled her head toward Rhaenyra's beast of a girl.

“Yes, that is so,” Lucera replied, her smile just as sickly sweet. She stepped forth, a chaste Septa in blue, hands clasped behind her back. “If his Grace would permit me to speak… my grandmother and I have had a long word on this matter. And we have both concluded that she and I have much sympathy for my great uncle's cause.”

The whispers rippling through the hall made her furrow her brow.

-What are you playing at?

“After all, I would be the first one to affirm my sweet cousin's assertion that I am not a sailor, but a dragonrider.”

The Velaryons scrunched up their noses at the address. Daemion exchanged pointed glances with his father, jaw gritted tightly enough to shatter his teeth.

“And as archaic as some of the old Andal laws are, they are still to be honored as the pillars that have preserved our society throughout the centuries.”

More hushed whispers and she and her father exchanged puzzled looks.

-She means to dig her own grave.

Her muscles seized when she noticed neither Daemon nor Rhaenyra seemed perturbed by her speech.

“So if male inheritance is what we are attempting to uphold, I must ask, why isn’t my great uncle championing Ser Laenor's youngest son, Joffrey?”

The whispers roared louder, as Vaemond stumbled back.

Just then, Jacaerys stepped aside, to allow a figure to creep into sight. The little boy was bundled in the red and blacks of his mother's house, but the sigil emblazoned on his doublet was the Velaryon seahorse. Small as he was, he was able to shelter behind his elder brother, far away from prying eyes.

The pieces slowly fell into place.

“I'll forgive my dear uncle for disregarding him. He is quite small, so it’s easy to forget he's there,” Lucera's soft giggle made bile rise in her throat. “But the fact still stands. After myself, Joffrey is my father's eldest child and a male besides. And thus, his claim eclipses all of ours. And though he is young, in this instance, I believe his youth is an advantage. It gives him plenty of time to learn to be as skilled a seaman as the Lord of the Tides should be. Especially if he is aided by more capable Velaryon kin. And if… he has a helpmeat to govern at his side.”

Alicent let go of the breath trapped in her throat, just as Rhaenys nodded at her cursed granddaughter.

“Indeed,” she announced, pleased. “The Princess Rhaenyra put forth the notion that we should betroth Joffrey to Lord Corlys' granddaughter Rhaena. It is a proposition that unites their claims and honors both my children, who were too soon gone from this world. Naturally, I agreed.” She paused hand resting on the Seven Pointed Star. “So it is their claim that I speak for today. Theirs and that of any children they may have in due time. True Velaryon blood and legacy. Just as my Lord husband intended.”

For a moment it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the hall. Alicent glared at Rhaenyra and Daemon, standing side by side, their lips sporting twin smirks. Victory was writ all over their faces, and smugness was so palpable, Alicent almost let out a laugh.

-Of course.

She'd said it a hundred times. Gender was a silly pretext. Not when Rhaenyra could easily bypass it by putting forth her youngest bastard as a claimant. And now, absent any true Velayron blood, the boy could still claim right to Driftmark through his half-Velaryon wife. The seat would pass to scions of the bloodline, and Vaemond's case had no bearing whatsoever, on any grounds.

“A sage proposal.” Her husband agreed. Alicent eyed his satisfied grin, the lump in her throat iron. “As King, I’m eager to affirm it. But as grandsire, however… I must express my reluctance toward disinheriting my granddaughter in favor of her brother.”

As a final insult, that vile slattern craned her head, her sweet smile as vibrant as ever.

“I thank you for your concern grandsire, but I already have an inheritance. The same inheritance afforded to all Targaryens—a dragon. I’m certain I can manage the rest on my own.” Her Vale knight slithered forth, and allowed her to rest her hand on his forearm, his message plain.

The girl was for the Vale. Rhaenyra was going to betroth her there, if she hadn't already, so that she may rule in her own right.
Alicent was certain that not even pulling all her fingernails out would settle the terror squeezing her belly.

“Well then, the matter is settled,” her husband banged his cane against the bent blades. “I hereby affirm Joffrey Velaryon as the next Lord of the Tides, and Rhaena Targaryen as his future Lady. As Lord Corlys intended.”

His declaration sent the gallery into a frenzy. Some shouted out congratulations, others clapped. Few still expressed their discontent. Viserys seemed not to hear any of it. He banged his cane again as if to dismiss them.

It was Vaemond who disregarded his words.

“No,” he proclaimed, back tall. In two quick strides, he marched over to the base of the throne, face alight with red fury. Alicent rose from her seat her feet unsteady.

“No?” Her lord husband demanded.

“You break law, and centuries of tradition, to install your daughter as heir. And yet you dare to tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon? No,” he was hissing now, the muscles of his jaw spasming from the effort. “I will not allow it.”

The animated chatter vanished in a dark void. Alicent cast a panicked look at her father. Otto Hightower had seized the backrest of Aegon's chair, teeth gnawing on his right cheek.

-Cease, you fool.

“Allow it?” her husband returned the scowl with equal ferocity. “Do not forget yourself Vaemond.”

The silence dragged. To her right, Daemion was moving, slowly drawing closer to pull his father away. Though he was scowling, Alicent recognized the emotion lurking in his wide black eyes—fear.

Daemon was to his father's right, half smirking.
“That is no true Velaryon!” Vaemond bellowed, whirring on his feet. His fingers landed right on little Joffrey, who to his credit, did not balk at the accusation. “None of them are of my blood.”

“Go to your chambers, you’ve said enough!” Rhaenyra growled, pushing her daughter behind her.

Daemon was still grinning.

“Mind your tongue Vaemond.” Her husband warned. “Jacaerys, Lucera, and Joffrey are mine own trueborn grandchildren.”

“Yours, and yours alone,” Vaemond offered. The fury in his eyes was all-consuming, gleaming with the sheen of unbridled madness.

“As such, you may run them as you see fit. But you may not use them to usurp my House.” He turned toward the gathered spectators. “My House survived the Doom! And a thousand other tribulations besides! And I will be damned if I allow it to be ended on account of her ba…”

His voice died just as the word settled on his lips. Alicent pondered getting Ser Criston to drag him out before blood spilled. Daemon was still smiling, indigo eyes consuming Vaemond like a pitcher of water on a scorching day.

His mouth was moving, forming the shape of two words.

Say it.

All the blood fled Alicent's fingers.

Vaemond returned his gaze with the same ferocity.

“Her children… are bastards!” His declaration boomed through the hall, bouncing off the walls like an echo.

The air seemed to vanish around them and everyone stood still, too stunned to speak.

Vaemond, somehow, was not finished.

Turning on his heel, his black eyes pinned her husband’s.

“And she… is a whore.” He purred, spit flying through his teeth.
Alicent released the breath she’d been holding.

From atop the throne, her husband struggled up. The Valyrian steel dagger hissed out of its scabbard, and he pointed it right at Vaemond.

“I… will have your tongue for that…”

A scream sounded to her left. Faster than she could blink, a cloud of scarlet burst in the air, splattering across the stone floor.

Vaemond's head split in half, and his body collapsed into a puddle of carnage. Alicent stumbled back, stars exploding behind her eyes.

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon declared, hands leaning on Dark sister. Blood ran down the edge of the blade, hot and sticky.

In half a heartbeat, chaos erupted.

Shrieks sounded from the gallery and the gathered spectators began shuffling out of their seats in a panic. Someone was running, screaming obscenities, as he attempted to hurl punches at Daemon.

It was fortunate one of the Cargylls managed to get in Daemion's way because he otherwise would have run right into Dark sister's point. Her good brother seemed endlessly amused, firing challenge after challenge to the gathered Velaryons to come join their kin in his folly.

Her father was right behind her, bellowing commands at the guards to disarm Daemon. When steel flashed, Alicent felt as if she might faint.

Her daughter's gasp brought everything back into focus. Helaena was cowering, hands firmly clasped over her ears as she huddled in her chair. Beside her, Aemond was already on his feet, purple slit trained right on Rhaenyra's party.

His gaze pivoted first to Daemon, eyeing his great uncle with a mixture of awe and grudging respect. Horror seized her at the thought that he might actually steal a sword from one of the guards and run over to duel him, but that horror quickly turned to unbridled rage when the boy snapped his head toward the rest of the blacks.

Lucera was sheltering behind her hulking bull of a twin, eyes as wide as boiled eggs. Rhaenyra was a touch more composed, trying to huddle her children together, and quietly hiss at them to look away. Though her marble skin had blanched at the sight of Vaemond's savaged head, the fierce glow in her eyes let Alicent know her true feelings.

-She expected this.

In fact, she must have planned for this. It was treason to question her children's parentage. Forcing Vaemond to speak so plainly on the reason for his petition made him vulnerable—and it gave her the perfect excuse to have her monster remove an enemy.

Alicent just about leapt. She yearned to slap that slack-jawed surprise off of Aegon's face, take him out of the hall, and run. Run as far away from Rhaenyra and her crazed executioner.

Instinct bade her pause. Her husband had collapsed back into the throne, the exertion of this debacle ending him at last. The long-suffering nursemaid appeared to take the reigns, and Alicent rushed over to his side, calling for the Maesters.

“Please my love you must take something for the pain,” she urged, as she took him into her arms.

Her limbs felt numb, detached. As if she was in a dream she would wake from at any moment.

“No, no, I’m fine.” He slobbered into her shoulder, slumping into her arms. The effort of holding him upright was like trying to swim with her pockets full of rocks. “I… I’ve set things right… I… I’ve upheld our legacy.”

Alicent peeled him off her, ready to shriek. This one move had singularly destroyed her family and ensured their lives would be forfeit the moment he left this world. However, she found him pointedly glaring behind her, her existence imperceptible.

When she cast a look over her shoulder, she found what truly mattered to him. Rhaenyra had followed her up to the throne, brows scrunched in worry. Her eyes were wide, apprehensive, but still, relief swam in every fine line of her face. She'd gotten what she'd wanted.

“I’ve upheld our legacy,” her husband repeated, cracked lips curving into a ghost of a smile.

She ground her jaw, her anguish immeasurable.

His legacy—Rhaenyra's legacy.

Not Alicent’s.

Chapter Text

It took five days for the chaos to settle. After Vaemond's execution, his son had flown into a fury. No sooner had he been escorted out of the throne room that Daemion called upon the gathered Velaryon kin to declare war on the crown. He meant to use his 7 war galleys to mount an assault on the Red Keep and avenge his father.

Daemon had put an end to his plans. Before the foolish boy could even get to his ships, Daemon had mounted Caraxes and burned two of them down as a warning. Rhaenyra had raged against it—executing her former uncle by law was madness enough. But burning him and his kin would ensure her reign was mired in blood before it even began.

Her husband had been reluctant.

“You have to show them strength,” he'd hissed. “The sole reason that insolent cunt even dared to attempt this little coup is because we've been languishing at Dragonstone, mourning our losses. You have to remind them what happens when they wake the dragon. Otherwise, Daemion will just slither right back to inject his poison when you least expect it.”

Her stomach turned, and she seized his hand into hers.

“Then we deal with him later. We've just made peace with Father, and I will not allow your worst impulses to rip us apart.” She paused, exhaling. “He needs us, remember? Three heads as one. We have to till the earth now, not scorch it.”

The frown carving lines in Daemon's forehead was vicious. He wrenched his hand from hers, and for half a breath, she thought he would disregard her, and set the entire Velaryon fleet aflame, and half the city with it. Instead, he only targeted two ships, the ones anchored the farthest from the harbor to keep the blaze from spreading.

People died, she later heard. Two score Velaryon men Vaemond had left on deck to tend to the vessels while they were on the mainland. However, none of the Velaryons were harmed. Daemion and his cousins were able to sail away on the remaining ships, enraged and despondent, but alive.

-He will return.

There was no doubt about it. That boy had every right to seek retribution and claim her own blood as recompense for the life she took. A part of her fretted he would even drag the Sea Snake into his quest for vengeance.

-No, he wouldn’t dare.

Rhaenys was on her side, and she would not stand for Daemion making any moves that could jeopardize her granddaughter.
Even if her support was feeble at best.

“I did not agree to this,” he former mother by law had accosted her after the hearing, eyes alight with fury. “Vaemond was my goodbrother—my kin. Fool he may have been, but he did not deserve to lose his life so you could keep hold on power.”

Rhaenyra lunged for her hand, squeezing it in a warning. They were outside her apartments, and one wrong word could see all her hard work undone.

“My power? This was not about preserving any power. This was about preserving the future of our children. Joffrey and Rhaena.” she announced, pulling her behind closed doors. “Do you earnestly believe Vaemond would have stopped, simply because Driftmark passed down to your granddaughter? This was as much about his own ambition as it was about… anything else. Female inheritance was never anything he put stock into. The moment you passed from this world, he would have leapt at a chance to supplant your Rhaena and install himself as Lord. This was the only way to preserve the future of your house.”

Rhaenys glared at her, orchid purple eyes darkening to black.

“Take care, Rhaenyra. I may have entrusted my granddaughter over to you, but if you ever do anything that jeopardizes hers or Baela's safety… I will mount Meleys and burn everything you hold dear to ash. Do you understand?”

She should have felt insulted. She loved Rhaena just as dearly and had no desire to see harm fall upon her. Nevertheless, she nodded.

“She will come around eventually. Just give her time,” Rhaena had told her, after she'd come to visit her chambers.

Rhaenyra regarded the sweet thing, trepidation in her belly.

“She only worries for you. As do I,” taking a few tentative steps, she gently took Rhaena's hands into hers. “Sweetling, I know this match is not what you wished for yourself…”

“No,” her eyes immediately lowered, and her lips quivered under the weight of her nervous smile. “But, odds are, I was just as like to marry some old man in the future. This is… not much different. At least I know Joff.”

Rhaenyra sucked in a breath. Her fortitude had surprised her. It had been she and Luce who had proposed this solution. The perfect way to placate both Rhaenys and settle the issue of Velaryon blood inheriting Driftmark. It nevertheless left a sour taste in her mouth.

“My love, you must realize it will be years before Joff is grown. And by then, you’ll have long been a woman in your own right.”

“I know, but… I have to do this.” Her voice faltered. Her black eyes lifted, full of shaky determination. They were the color of wet ink. Deep, rich, and glistening with a film of unshed tears. “I’m not good at anything. I’m not daring like Baela, diligent like Jace, or half as clever as Luce. I… I don’t even have a dragon.” She paused, voice thick. “This… this is how I contribute. How I can help secure our legacy.”

Pain slashed at Rhaenyra's heart, and she immediately drew her closer, hand cupping her cheek.

“Oh, my dearest love. Your very existence, on its own, is a blessing from the Mother above. And not having a dragon does not change that—it does not make you lesser than any of us.”

A single tear slid down Rhaena's cheek.

“You should tell father that.”

Heaving a breath, she crushed her to her chest, wishing she could burn away every last drop of sorrow she held in her heart. It would be a futile exercise. Her beliefs were born entirely out of Daemon's treatment. And her dearest husband would sooner set them all alight than heed her parenting advice.

After the Velaryon fleet had departed, Rhaenyra bid her father to enshrine the succession in law. She had him draw up an official royal seal, proclaiming Joffrey and Rhaena rightful heirs to Driftmark, and commanding that anyone who dared speak otherwise be charged with treason.

Weak as the whole ordeal had left him, Viserys still found it in him to propose organizing a lavish feast to commemorate the ruling.

“My family is returned to me at last,” he heaved, regarding her from his chair. The adoration she glimpses in his remaining eyes was something he only got when speaking of her Lady Mother. “That is a cause worthy of celebration.”

Rhaenyra wished to refuse him. The last thing she wanted was to suffer through a banquet with those same lickspittles that had spat at her days prior. Daemon gainsaid her.

“We're at Viserys' side at last,” he'd whispered to her as they made the trek back to her chambers. “It would do us well to remind the sheep that the dragon is once again awake and has three heads.”

She peered at him, out of the corner of her eye. The satisfaction oozing out of his profile was like a perfume— intoxicating.

“I love you, you know that.”

He chuckled, seizing her arm into his.

“I do.”

The banquet was ordered, per her father's wishes. Rhaenyra had expected the Queen to argue, but to her surprise, Alicent offered to make the preparations. After Daemon had lit the Blackwater aflame, she'd made herself scarce, sheltering in the confines of her solar.

She'd eschewed Council meetings as well and though her father had attended, Otto Hightower only contended himself with listening to the discussion, rather than participating in it.

It was plain his silence had to do with Daemon. Father had charged the two of them to sit on the Council as well, and her husband's presence at that table weighed heavier than the point of any blade.

It left Rhaenyra immensely pleased. At last, she’d gotten the greens to cease spitting their venom and forced them back into their holes to hide. She'd regained her father’s favor, settled a succession, and got Daemon back at her side again.

Those vile courtiers that had insisted on snickering at her whenever she passed by didn’t dare so much as glance her way now.

No one could touch her. She was a dragon, soaring above the clouds with all the beasts of the ground sprawled below her, ready to be devoured.

Killing Vaemond may have left a foul taste in her mouth, but she couldn’t deny the power it gave her felt good. It made her understand why Daemon spent so much time relentlessly championing fire and blood.

Her husband had experienced a turn as well. At last at her father’s side, his mood had improved, sparking an inferno she hadn't seen burn within him since his youth. He'd immediately set about establishing their presence at court, reconnecting with his old contacts in the city and his former spy network.

Their goal was to remove Otto Hightower from his position, but they could not do that without first unearthing a weak spot.

“Once he's gone, that cunt of a Queen will be toothless. She'll have no one to stand at her side and champion her whelps,” He'd whispered to her one evening as they lay abed.

The mention of Alicent made her grip the sheets in between her fingers.

“I think you underestimate her. She's spent eight years working father and almost managed to turn him against us. Once, she may have been toothless without Otto, but now, with her sons grown, and dragon riders in their own right, that will not be the case.”

The thought sent shivers down her spine. A part of her cursed herself for not cultivating a friendship with her half-siblings—it was precisely this distance that allowed Alicent to twist them into her likeness.

Daemon grumbled beside her like a discontent cat.

“Hmm, the brood of snakelets. It seems we're due for a culling.”

She snapped up, craning her head to look at him.

“Are you mad? We cannot kill them.” She sputtered. “Regardless of our differences, they are still mine own kin. Father's blood.”

“They are nothing of ours,” Daemon retorted. Shadows played on his marble profile, dancing like a crackling heartfire. “They are mummer’s dragons. Puppets Otto Hightower can use to shore himself up.”

Her brow shot up, recalling the ferocity in Aemond's eye as he watched her husband cut Vaemond down. It was ravenous bloodlust, a kind of mad burning that mirrored Daemon's own.
She was sure that boy would have sprung up to duel him if he'd had a blade of his own.

“They are my father’s children. My siblings. It is my duty to preserve them, as much as it is to keep the throne.”

The way his jaw tightened left her uneasy.

“You'll be preserving Hightower legacy, not yours. And if you had half a spine, you'd do what’s necessary. Before those snakelets you mean to shelter snap up to bite.”

Rage flared, and she leapt, straddling him. She pinned his wrists on either side, getting so close to his face, she could feel his breath on her lips.

“What you’re suggesting is treason. An abomination. And I should have your head for it.”

The darkness in his indigo eyes did not abate.

“Do it then.” He dared.

She held his gaze for half a breath, hips settling atop him. Then she descended.

She crushed her lips to his, squeezing his wrists with all her might. He responded immediately but made no effort to force her on her back. Ravenous, she took him inside her, riding him till the pleasure ripped through her and she screamed, not caring if half the city heard.

Mad as he was, he was hers. And if they were to burn, they would burn together.

The date of the banquet arrived before she could even prepare herself for it. She'd not brought any formal dresses to court, so her seamstresses had to rework one of her old pieces into something more memorable.

Luce suggested they all go with a bolder style, more reminiscent of the dresses she’d taken to wearing. A daring display of their power, that placed them above the frivolous customs that governed court.

Though Rhaenyra had refused to open the dress to outright show skin, she conceded to making it more form-fitting. By the end, she was left with a piece of fine velvet, studded with a patchwork of rubies and black opals. The bodice was inlaid with gold and scarlet thread that formed the shape of a dragon body. The head itself coiled around the hem of her bust spitting ocher flames across the edge.

It was truly a gown befitting the heir to the throne.

However, as daring as her own piece was Luce couldn’t help but go bolder. Red and black, to honor their house, the long-sleeved top was studded with fine obsidian flakes that resembled dragon scales. Naturally, it had no bodice, instead opening at the front into a plunging neckline that ended almost at her belly, and was held together by a silver circlet that resembled a dragon eating its own tail. The bottom skirt flared down like fine silk into a red train that reminded her of a serpent tail.

Rhaenyra was not pleased with the number— her previous pieces had been revealing, but this one left her half-naked.

“So?” she shrugged, lips puckered. “Not like they can do anything about it.”

It was the boldness that got her. She laughed, and left her to her dress-up games. Rhaena, blessedly had more sense, and wrapped herself in a delicate red and black silk gown, with a cinched waist and a tiered skirt. Rubies lined the hem of her bodice, that prudently laced up almost to her neck. Nevertheless, the girl still looked like the picture of loveliness, a Valyrian goddess of love and harmony.

Her sons chose simpler attire. A samite doublet, quartered in two colors—black on the right and red on the left. Gold thread ran along the buttons to form the shape of Valyrian glyphs, ending in a dragon head broche. Daemon chose similar symbols for his clothing but contended himself with matte black leathers.

It was her banquet, he reasoned. It was only right that they remained demure so the women of their camp could shine.

They arrived to the gardens at midday. The petition had drawn a substantial number of lords to the capital to act as either witness or spectator. Accounting for the crowd, the Queen had decided to host the feast outside, in the gardens. A splendid red and black pavilion was set up on the eastern balcony, overlooking the Blackwater rush.

Scores of tables lined the terrace, lavishly set up with multicolored cloths that represented each house attending. Most of the gathered were Crownland houses, minor Lords who were close enough to make the trek to the capital in time for the petition.

Some, however, were more prominent. Rhaenyra spied the Reacher lords whose tables were set up on the right, under the shade of a green tent. The red ants on a yellow pale for the Ambroses, the ripe red grapes lain atop a tablecloth of fine blue for the Redwynes, the silver chalice and obsidian rose for the Costaynes. Behind them, on the same side were the Westermen, the red cloth with the roaring lion for the Lannisters, and the brown cloth with a snarling board for their Crakehall bannerman.

Though lords Caswell and Beesbury were Reacher lords Alicent had shunted them off to the left, to her camp. The beehive on a black tablecloth for their Master of Coin, and the golden centaur on white sat beside the Arryn falcon on blue, and the black and red Corbray hearts and ravens.

She was relieved that the servants had left twice as much space on the Arryn table, per her instructions.

The bushes and shrubbery were lined with threads of the same multicolored strings to reflect the heraldry, and braziers were set up along the paths. Though it was midday, the servants had lit the flames, adding fire wizard powders to change the colors. Some braziers glimmered with flames of blue and green, others pink and amethyst. The two flanking the pavilion in the center were naturally red and black, twin flames that roared as vibrant as dragon breath.

Just as she'd intended, she arrived after Alicent.

“All rise for Rhaenyra Targaryen, Crown Princess of Dragonstone, and heir apparent to his Grace, King Viserys, First of his Name!” The herald's booming voice announced them, just as they braved the garden path.

Their feet whispering against the gravel, they climbed the steps onto the terrace to make their way to the pavilion. All the Lords gathered leapt out of their seats to peer, eyes wide. For once, Rhaenyra saw nothing but awe and wonder twist their faces—not a hint of the customary mockery.

She lifted her head higher, arm firmly entwined with her husband’s as they strode single file. As agreed, Jace accompanied Luce after them while Joff and Rhaena followed. Last in their column was Arya with Aegon and Viserys in each arm.

Unsurprisingly, their dress drew much attention with all the gathered men leering at her girl's plunging neckline. As discomforting as she found it, it pleased her that her girl drew strength from the notice, rather than shame.

As they neared the raised red and black pavilion in the center, Alicent was waiting. She and her children sat on the right of the banquet table, their cloth the green of the Hightower. Otto was beside her, grim and stern in mossy leathers. That accursed Hand pin glittered on his breast like a jewel, and Rhaenyra ached to wrench it off him.

His daughter was similarly displeased. As was custom, she'd draped herself in an emerald green, studded with malachite and opal. The whalebone padding was inverted, lining the outside of her bodice to form the shape of bars that extended up to her throat ending at a closed neck collar. Even at a distance the piece looked more like armor than an actual dress and Rhaenyra resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Helaena's softness stood as a sharp contrast to her mother’s austerity. A beautiful sprite in pink, her gown was soft silk, embroidered with silver threads that formed the shape of roses. The maids had woven silk ribbons studded with pink diamonds into her braid, and Rhaenyra could not begrudge that the headpiece resembled a crown. If anyone had earned to bear one it was her.

Her husband, she decided, earned nothing. Bundled in ashy blacks, with gold trimmings, her fool half-brother sat sprawled beside his wife, his arm propping up his head. Even without smelling the wine on his breath, it was plain he was well into his cups. She would need to keep a close eye on him to ensure he did nothing untoward during the feast—him or his brother.

If Aegon was all flexibility, Aemond was the picture of terseness. He was sat at the very edge of the table, a menacing shadow in obsidian blacks. The leathers he wore were an eerie mirror to Daemon's and he eyed their approach with furious disdain.

Unease stirred in Rhaenyra's belly when that purple slit peered behind her. She knew it was her Luce he was looking at because every muscle in his body had tensed, knocked like a bowstring. A part of her was certain he meant to leap to carve her girl like roast, and her grip on Daemon's arm tightened.

Her husband was well aware of the death stare—but rather than expressing rage or protectiveness, his thin lips quirked into a most bemused smile. She half yearned to slap him. His madness and Aemond's were too close to one another. It was certainly the last thing they needed at a time like this.

Though the green eyes of envy left her brimming with unease, the purple of adoration helped dampen it. Her father sat beside Alicent on his carved wooden dragon chair, a frail husk of bones wrapped in charcoal blacks. Yet despite looking as if a strong gust of wind might blow him away, his face was alight with joy.
He watched their approach intently, waving away their attempts to bow and display formal courtesies.

Though Rhaenyra meant to assume the seat on the left side of his proxy throne, she'd decided to allow Daemon to take her place. It mattered to him greatly to be next to his dearest brother, and she couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of seeing them close to one another. Her father was content with the choice as well, immediately angling himself toward Daemon’s chair so that he might rest his hand on the backrest.

She didn’t even have to see Alicent’s face to feel her unbridled fury.

After they’d all comfortably settled in, she saw her jeweled hand tug at Viserys’ sleeve. Her father nodded, and from the green pavilion on the right, a figure in pristine white rose.

The High Septon's robes were so ostentatious, Rhaenyra wondered how she could have ever missed him sitting at the Ashford table. With his jeweled crown piled high, he raised his cup and banged on it with a fork to call for attention.

“My Lords and Ladies!” his booming tenor swept across the garden. “We are gathered here today to celebrate a most joyous occasion! A settled succession and a future union of two souls as one.”

Rhaenyra was relieved to hear shouts of ‘hear hear' ring out from the Arryn table.

“But most importantly.” The High Septon continued, hooked nose upturned. “We are here to celebrate family. Family is the pillar of our world. The greatest bond the gods ever forged between their children. And now, at last, the greatest family is standing united as one. The House of the Dragon is whole!”

The shouts that followed were uniform and she even glimpsed some parties from the green camp raise their cups.

“In honor of this union, his Grace has asked me to lead a prayer.”
Begrudgingly they all laid their elbows on the table and bowed their heads. The Septon began a quick chant, invoking the names of the seven and calling upon their blessings.

“And lastly, to Vaemond Velaryon. May the gods grant him rest and respite in the afterlife.”

To her right, a giggle sounded, and when she chanced to glance up, her husband was leaning into his chair, his brows arched.

-Gods, she doesn’t rest.

Even defeated, Alicent still found ways to hiss from her lair.
Rhaenyra watched that holy fool slide back into his seat, the jewels in his robe jingling. She made a note to strip him of that crown he seemed to love so much when she ascended the throne.

After the mum settled, her father took his own empty goblet and banged it against the table. Ser Harold immediately drew forth to call for attention.

Her father struggled up from his seat, his remaining hand trembling with the effort.

“My Lords, and Ladies. It is good to look upon your faces again.” He began. Rhaenyra felt such pride to hear the strength of his voice carry across the garden. “As His Holiness announced, I’ve gathered you here to celebrate one very important thing; family. I have been… absent from court for some time.” A pause ensued, as he sucked in a breath. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, it is not of my own volition. My strength has been failing. But, I am pleased to announce that after years of anguish, I feel it returning at last.”

Her heart soared as his head craned at her.

“The strife between our family was grave. It dealt me a wound that I thought I would never recover from. But having you here, at my side again made me realize that our hearts are and always were as one. The weakness I felt was the absence of your strength. And with you all here I feel renewed.” He raised the goblet, his grip unwavering. “Let it be known. The heir has at last returned home. My right hand is here to do my will again. The House of the Dragon is whole. Now and for all time.”

Thunderous cheers followed his declaration. All the seated Lord raised their cups, calling out toasts.

“To the Princess! To the Dragon! To Fire and Blood!”

A few shouts toasting the Queen were also heard but they were drowned in the torrent.

After the cheering had died down, the food was brought out. Roast meats of every kind, duck, goose, pig, and mutton streamed out of the kitchens in a parade of decadence. It was followed by platters of fingerling potatoes, slow-cooked carrots and corn, honeyed turnips, and fire peppers.

The quarter of singers began playing a sweet tune, while a troupe of hired acrobats performed summer saults and splits between the tables. Arbor gold flowed freely, filling the air with a tangy sharpness that mingled beautifully with the sweet scent of blooming summer buds.

After the wine, came the procession. Lord after lord came up to the table to offer congratulations and well wishes. Rhaenyra demurely smiled, accepting their courtesies.

-Snakes, the whole lot of them.

Now that her father had reaffirmed his favor they flocked to her. Yet nary a moon's turn ago they cursed her name.

-Daemon was right.

They did need a culling. Just not the kind he had suggested. Sighing, she cast a quick glance at her father. He and Daemon were exchanging hushed whispers, chuckling under their breaths.

-You must keep peace.

As much as she yearned to dismiss all the flatterers as treacherous lickspittles, she knew she could not. Her duty was to maintain unity, not dispense Fire and Blood at will.

-You win them. The way Aegon the Conquer did.

Reaching over, she gently stroked Jace's forearm. Her son exchanged poignant looks with his twin and Luce gave him a swift nod.

Their rise coincided with the arrival of the Darklyns. Lord Gunthor gave a deep bow to her father, showering him in the customary courtesies. His wife and daughter did the same, extending compliments to the Queen and her party.

As soon as the pleasantries ran dry, her Luce sprang up.

“Anya, is that you?” she called over to the young girl. The little thing blinked, startled at the address. “Gods I’ve not seen you in years.”

Rising from her seat, she fluttered over to the Darklyns, as graceful as a swan.

“Indeed Princess,” she offered, cheeks flushing pink. She immediately shrunk into her unfortunate sack of a dress, round cheeks disappearing into the frills ringing her neck. Next to Luce, she looked like a poorly plucked chicken. “I have been absent from court for some time.”

“Jace, you recall Anya? She was Helaena's companion for a time.”

Her son straightened his back and nodded.

“Yes I do, you were the one who sang?”

“Yes,” the girl's mother, the waspish Lady Meredyth smiled. If the girl was all plump softness, this woman was all sharp edges. The only thing to mark their relation was the hooded brown eyes they shared. “My Anya has always loved music.”

“Yes, and she was quite good at it. I believe Aegon called her the bird of Duskendale.”

Though Luce had kept her voice cheery, the girl had paled.

At the mention of his name, her half-brother swallowed his sip of wine and furrowed his brows.

“Uh, yes… yes it was… something like that.” He offered. The way his purple slits widened left Rhaenyra convinced he'd used a more vulgar descriptor.

“Yes, he was always a right jester, wasn’t he?” her dove seized the Darklyn girl by the hand, her smile radiant. The little thing emerged from her frills just a bit more, the redness in her cheeks paling to a sweet pink.

“A little…”

“But not nearly as much as I. I was a terror to you, was I not?”
The girl blinked at her, uncertain. “Oh… I don’t recall…”

“I was, always running about, calling your dolls stupid.”

“Flush of youth, Princess,” Lord Darklyn gave her a curt smile. “My Anya has matured well past it.’

“Oh, I’m thrilled to hear that. And you have,” retreating a bit, Luce twirled the girl. Though she was stiff as a board, the gentle gesture made her giggle earnestly. “Look how beautiful you are.”

“Not half as lovely as you, Princess.”

“Yes, your gown is quite... something.” The Lady Meredyth interjected. Her gaze trailed the scaled top, lingering at her plunging neckline with dismay. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

“Thank you, it was a gift, from a dear friend of mine. Wonderful woman, terrible husband.” Her Luce quipped. “The two of them had come from Volantis to visit the Eyrie. She and I became fast friends and she gifted me some of her dresses.”

“Ah yes, we've heard tell of your… exotic tastes.” The Lady exchanged looks with her husband.

“Yes, well, you can blame her for that, entirely. She made me fall in love with Myrish fashion and customs. She also insisted on having her seamstress sow this gown for me. A little homage to both Myrish dress and the Kingslander court style. In red and black, of course, to honor my mother.”

“Oh, how delightful!” Lord Gunther exclaimed.

“You met someone from Volantis?” His daughter accosted Luce. She'd fully merged from her frill now, pale eyes as wide as boiled eggs. “I’ve always wanted to visit there.”

“Is that so?” her girl fired, returning the squeeze with vigor.

“Yes! I’ve had my father hand paint a map of the city so that we may hang it in the great hall.”

“Mapmaking?” Luce shot Gunther a look. “Jace is quite adept at mapmaking.”

Her son made a face. “Well, truth be told I’m only middling at best.”

“Well, I’m certain his Lordship would be keen to share some advice.”

The man beamed at the notion, plump lips quirking into a wide grin. “I would be honored, of course.”

Shooting his sister a poignant look, Jace shot up out of his seat, his Princely mask slipping into place. Luce quickly turned to the Daklyn daughter, her mask just as radiant.

“And you and I can exchange some wonderful tales about the Old City.”

Like a swan, gliding across a pond, she sauntered ahead with the Daklyn girl hand in hand. Jace and her parents followed suit, animatedly exchanging words.

Rhaenyra looked on with immeasurable pride.

“So the fishing begins.” Daemon quipped beside her.

“Per your instruction.”

It had surprised her to hear him suggest they should ingratiate themselves at court. He never placed stock in any of the great lords, always viewing them as lesser.

“Even dragons need sheep. What else will they eat?” he'd said, lips quirking into that accursed smile.

Blunt as it was, Rhaenyra thought it sage advice.

“Could have gone with someone better. Darklyns are minor lords. Insignificant.”

“One insignificant speck at a time.” She said. “The rest will shortly follow.”

Already, she could spy a Massey and Fossoway, huddled around the Darklyn table laughing at something Jace was saying. And indeed, not long after her twins had gone out, courtier after courtier came not just to salute her father but pay their respects to her.

Lord Dyre Byrch complimented her splendid dress and invited her to visit his keep. Amory Harte lamented the violence that had occurred at the petition but affirmed his support for the current ruling. Sandor Massey was boldest of all, waxing poetic about her daughter and inquiring about her marriage prospects.
Rhaenyra accepted his compliments but politely turned him away.

-Gods, if I hear another word about her marriage…

She'd received enough inquiries from the Vale alone to last her a lifetime.

“It's an advantageous prospect,” Daemon grumbled after Massey had trotted off, despondent.

“What, you’d wed her to a Crownlander whose land isn’t even big enough to house Caraxes, let alone anything else?”

“I’d rather rip her to pieces than see her handed off to some insignificant rock fucker.”

“No,” Rhaenyra knocked back a swallow of wine. “She stays free. Like she's wanted. If anyone deserves to be spared the misery of matrimony, it’s her.”

He chortled, casting her a daring smirk.

“Lovely to know I make you miserable.”

Her hand shot down to squeeze his leg under the table. “And you shall hopefully continue to do so for years to come.”

He'd meant to kiss her, she could tell. His head had craned, bearing down on her like an arrow searching for its target. However, the announcer’s booming tenor bid him pause.

“Ser Joffrey of House Arryn, Knight of the Gate, envoy of Lady Jeyne, the Mistress of the Vale!”

The animated clatter of plates died down as a parade of blues crested the path ahead. A procession of two score men ascended to the terrace, steel armor glinting in the sun. A shadow in black followed the column—Luce's Unsullied trotted beside the men, rectangular face solemn and impassive.

Ser Fedryn was right beside him, a splendid figure in the reds, blacks and whites of his house, leading the guard with two other men.

-At last.

Luce had received the letter at daybreak, about her main Arryn escort finally ariving to the capital. She immediately sent out her Unsullied and Ser Fedryn to greet them at the gate and see them prepare for the feast.

Rhaenyra couldn’t have been more pleased. She may not have had an army at the hearing, but she had it now. The last pillar to shore up her strength and establish her undisputed supremacy.
The column halted just at their table, and the three leaders approached to kneel.

‘My King. My Queen. I come before you to bring Ser Joffrey Arryn, knight of the Gate and envoy to the Lady Jeyne Arryn.” Ser Fedryn announced. “And his companion, Andrew Waynwood, firstborn son to Lord Yohn Waynwood, and heir to Ironoaks.

“Rise,” her father waved his hand. “The crown bids you welcome. I’m always pleased to host house Arryn. Our bonds run deep in both blood and marriage.”

All three men shot up to their feet, sporting identical smiles.

The one farthest in the left was short and stout, with a head of unruly curls the color of beaten copper. The smattering of freckles cresting the bridge of his nose was so thick, it was as if he had a wine stain marring his skin. Though his smile was sweet and pleasant, the Waynwood boy was a plain-featured thing.

Though he was hardly to blame for that. She thought few men could stand out when placed side-by-side with their companion.

-So this must be Joffrey.

The man Lady Jeyne had sent to champion her rights at the petition did not cut the image of the brave warrior she'd imagined. Smooth-faced and tall, he looked to be even younger than Ser Fedryn, but marginally less serious. His jaw was squared, well defined, with prominent cheekbones and a sharp widow's peak. His hair was long, ending just at his chin, the color of dark honey, and when he pinned her gaze, Rhaenyra realized his eyes were as blue as the fine samite doublet he wore.

-Warrior or lover?

By the look of him, she couldn’t decide whether the Maiden of the Vale had sent him here to sway the Lords with his words or to seduce them to their cause with his sweet kisses. Sinfully handsome, was a descriptor that came to mind.

“Your Grace,” he began. “I’m honored to be here at last. I had wished to come weeks prior, to return the Princess to you and her Lady mother, as my dearest cousin charged me. But alas, the gods had other plans.”

“It's quite alright, Ser.” She interjected. “Lucera has already informed us of your delay. We are thrilled to have you here at last, hale and healthy.”

When his plump lips quirked into a smile, Rhaenyra could picture a thousand maidens swooning.

“I had hoped to speak on the Princess' behalf at the petition. But I am told Ser Fedryn relayed my thoughts quite splendidly.”
“Indeed, he was magnificent. We're not like to forget his impassioned address soon.”

The Corbray knight chuckled, averting his gaze. Despite the passion he displayed during the proceedings, it was clear he was more comfortable eschewing attention.

“Truly a surprise, Princess,” the Waynwood quipped. “Truth be told, we were worried if he had it in him. Our dear Ser Fedryn was too shy to recite his prayers in an empty room, let alone address a gallery of hundreds.”

Rhaenyra chuckled, eyeing the little lordling. She judged him to be the youngest of the three, and most likely the jester of the group.

If he smiled more, he would be handsome, she concluded—that and not being next to Ser Joffrey.

“Maybe now you’ll learn not to underestimate others,” Ser Fedryn fired.

The redheaded fireball gave him a mock bow.

“Advice well headed.”

“In any case,” Ser Joffrey interjected. “I'm pleased to learn the petition went in your favor. Even if it was not the Princess'."

“Rest assured, little knight,” her husband sounded. Daemon was leaning against the table, his shoulders squared—ready to prod. “Luce got her inheritance the day she was born. A dragon is worth a thousand times more than some castle. Her priority was to defend what matters. Family.”

To the boy’s credit, he didn't balk. He gave Daemon a quick nod, his smile sweeter than honey.

“Of course, my Prince. As I’m sure you recall, we at the Vale value family quite a lot.” He paused cocking his head. “As a matter of fact, Lord Gerald Royce sends his regards.”

Her husband's chuckle sent gooseflesh racing down her spine.

“Does he? How lovely. I must pay him a visit these days. See if he's still as… talkative as before.”

“I’m certain he'd be delighted to see you. He and the Lady Jeyne have grown to miss your company,” Joffrey's sweetness did not falter once. “And the Lady has assured me she has no intention of charging you for the keep you and your dragon destroyed when you descended on the Eyrie last.”

The silence that had descended on the table could be cut with a knife. Suddenly, her husband laughed, his indigo eyes alight with the ghost of dragon fire.

“Very good,” he chortled.

Rhaenyra arched a brow.

-More spine than it seems.

Perhaps the Lady Jeyne hadn’t chosen the boy simply for his dashing looks.

“Well, in any case, we would be delighted to visit the Eyrie sometime in the future.” She announced, seizing Daemon's forearm under the table. “For the time being, we are glad to have you as honored guests. If…”

“Ser?!” a voice sounded to her left. A shadow in black rushed past the table to accost the Arryn knight.

Rhaenyra didn’t know what surprised her more. The radiant smile grazing her Luce's lips or the tender way the man responded to it. He immediately went down on one knee before her, sandy curls falling into his eyes.

“Princess, it is good to look upon your face at last. I’m at your service.”

“Please, I beg, rise,” her dove seized him by the forearms, forcing him upright. The way his slender hands wrapped around her was unbearably intimate. Rhaenyra thought the man meant to pull her into an embrace right there and then, the rest of the gathered be damned.

“I’m thrilled to have you here at last,” her Luce said, brows knitted. “I was so worried. I’ve not received any word from you in weeks."

Joffrey pressed his lips together. “I know, forgive me. More tragedy befell us. The sickness we'd had had spread to our ravens. All of them died save one. I refused to waste our last bird on any message other than the one announcing my arrival.”

“It seems the gods did not wish for you to come.”

“And yet they still couldn’t stop me. Nothing could.”

A sweet, tender silence descended on them. The boy had pulled her so close, his hand had almost snaked around her waist. His eyes gently caressed hers, alight with elation—as if she was the Maiden herself, come to bless him with his presence.

The intimacy was so startling, Rhaenyra felt the urge to look away—as if she were intruding on a private moment. Her son was similarly stumped. Jace had followed her back to the table and was gazing at the two of them with surprised skepticism.
When their glances chanced to meet, he raised a brow at her.
-Always full of surprises.

It seemed her dove had been doing more than collecting foreign fashion and Unsullied soldiers at the Eyrie.

As the mum grew unbearable, she discreetly attempted to clear her throat.

Her Luce jerked, at last recalling she was in public, and quickly composed herself.

“Ah yes, I believe you’ve met his Grace and my mother.”

“Yes, they were most welcoming.” He fired. She didn’t fail to note how he kept a tight grip on her forearm.

“My stepfather of course. I think that’s… everyone…”

“Save me. But when have you counted me?” Jace quipped. He stepped forth, his shoulders squared, his face a picture of welcoming courtesy.

“Yes, naturally, this is Jacaerys. My brother.”

Both the Waynwood boy and Ser Joffrey bowed.

“My Prince. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. We have heard so much about you.”

“Whatever it is, I can assure you it’s a lie,” her son quipped. “And what’s not a lie is a gross exaggeration.”

The gathered shared sweet laughs.

“I should hope not, the Princess has done nothing save sing you praises.” Ser Joffrey offered.

“Color me shocked Ser. The way she sniped at me in our youth, you'd think she had no kind word to spare.”

Luce whacked his forearm, face scrunching. “If you’d been kinder, then perhaps you would have earned a kind word in turn. Like this, I shall reserve most of my kind words for Rhaena.”

“Yes, where is cousin Rhaena?” Andrew Waynwood demanded.

Her stepdaughter, who had at that point contented herself with languishing in her chair, smashing potatoes on her plate vaulted to her feet in surprise.

“Yes, of course, here she is.” Luce smiled, beckoning her forth. The sweet girl almost tumbled on her way around the table, but the Waynwood boy appeared to steady her.

“Sweetest cousin, we've heard so many things about you. I dare say it feels as if we know you, and love just as much as the Princess.”

Rhaena let out a nervous giggle, umber skin flushing a delicate pink. “You flatter me, My Lord.”

“I never offer flattery, only plain truth. As the Princess can attest.”

Luce lashed the redhead with a chiding look. “My Lord's tongue is pure silver. Take care to keep it at a distance, elsewise, it will go straight to your head.”

More laughter, as the heir to Ironoaks reddened worse than his locks.

“Shall we set up a table for you?” the terse voice cut the merriment like a knife. Rhaenyra craned her head to glimpse the Queen stewing beside her father. The look on her face could send plagues to ravage fields and livestock.

Her children seemed just as despondent. Aegon was so mired in boredom, he'd taken to dipping a spoon into his wine goblet, while Helaena nervously rocked in her seat, hands fiddling with the sleeves of her dress. Otto Hightower was the picture of solemn fortitude silently enduring their festivity like a doddering grandfather bore his grandchildren's play.

As tragic as their obvious displeasure was it did not frighten her—Aemond did.

If the boy had been stiff before, he'd turned to stone now. Every muscle in his body had clenched, bulging through his leather like ripe fruit. His shameless glaring at her daughter had turned into open glowering, as his remaining slit devoured her and the Arryn knight.

Rhaenyra swallowed hard when she realized the cold steel of a greased dinner knife was clutched in his hand.

-That beast is mad.

She shot him a poignant look, expecting him to cease his staring and compose himself. The boy didn’t so much as notice her gaping. His head was transfixed on his target, knife at the ready.

“No need, Your Grace. I’ve already made arrangements,” she countered, offering Alicent a gentle smile.

She returned it in kid, her brown eyes so cold, they could freeze the north thrice over.

“Yes, shall we?” Jace extended his hand, toward the pavilion.
The Arryn party whirled on their heel and followed suit. The Waynwood boy whisked Rhaena forth, while her Luce strode arm in arm with Ser Joffrey. The intimacy between them never once wavered, even as Aemond loosened green arrows at them.

“Ser Joffrey Arryn,” she leaned in to whisper to Daemon.

Her husband grunted, fingers crawling to rest on her thigh. “Maybe Luce doesn’t want to be as free of the misery of matrimony as you think.”

“She wrote me of him. He’s Lady Jeyne's heir apparent.” She paused, arching a brow. The blonde knight was leaning down to whisper something to her, his lips almost grazing her ear. “Evidently she neglected to mention… other things about him.”

“He's not heir,” Daemon curtly replied. “He's a fourth cousin, if I remember. And the others have far better claims than he."

“But the others are not favored by the Lady Jeyne. If she names him successor, the rest will have no choice but to agree.” She paused, biting her lip. “Especially if he has a dragon backing the claim.”

Her husband was silent, jaw slowly working his teeth. When at last he spoke, he gave a half-hearted shrug.

“She could have done worse, I suppose.”

Rhaenyra entwined their hands, pleased. Her gaze pivoted to the Arryn camp, as they laughed and exchanged pleasantries. Jace seemed to be immeasurably entertained by something Ser Fedryn was relaying, while Rhaena would not stop blushing at the silly expressions the redheaded Waynwood boy was making at her. Her dove and Joffrey stood apart from them all, the only two people in their little world.

The last time Rhaenyra had seen her laugh so heartily was when she'd been a girl, engrossed in her little adventures with Aemond. But now, her half-uncle stood as a distant memory, as she gazed wistfully at the blue knight—content at last.

-We will win this.

The gods had granted her everything she'd needed—her inheritance, her father, her husband. Her children were content and had promising futures ahead, and the potential of great alliances crested the horizon.

-I have everything I’ve wanted.

When Rhaenyra finally made to try the roast duck they'd set before her, the meat was the sweetest she'd ever eaten in her life.

Chapter Text

The bite of roast she was chewing was bitter. Alicent gnawed on the morsel, detached, her stomach protesting each swallow she forced down.

When at last she felt as if taking another bite would make her retch, she let the fork fall onto her plate with a loud clatter and leaned into her chair.

-I must scream.

The very sight of the gathered fools in their heraldic colors, nursing their wine and smacking their food made her crave a violent death. She just couldn’t decide if she would rather end them all or herself.

But in truth, she'd rather murder Viserys.

Her oaf of a husband sat huddled with Daemon like an overexcited child. The two of them laughed, and whispered to one another in High Valyrian, occasionally pausing to take sips from their wine cups. He'd leaned so close to her terror of a goodbrother, he'd almost completely turned his back on her.
-Why did I even do this?

It was a foolish question. She'd needed to. After Daemon's mad arson on the Blackwater, she had no choice but to act defeated. Her goodbrother was intent on dispensing violence at will, and she had no doubt in her mind that once Daemion was removed, she and her family would be next in line for the flames.

It pained her to admit, but she'd fled in fear just as much as she'd in strategy. That vile man left her shaking with violent terror, and with Viserys so completely in his grasp, she counted the days till she awoke to find her babes carved like roast, while the cold steel of a blade kissed her throat.

Organizing a feast was the last thing she wanted to do. Having to sit at his side, while Viserys celebrated his darling girl, proclaiming their House united, was a humiliation the likes of which would haunt her dreams for years to come. And then the parade of lickspittles came to grovel for her favor, and Alicent had to resist the urge to peel her fingers to the bone.

The arrival of the Arryns was what had truly undone her. That smug, smirking boy in blue and his gaggle of stooges cooing at Rhaenyra left her despondent.

She'd heard of the Lady Jeyne sending a large escort with the girl, but she'd hoped they wouldn’t arrive quite so soon. Not when her wounds were so fresh.

“Two down,” she hissed at her father, after the jesters had finally departed from the table. “The youngest brat for the Velaryons, the girl for the Arryns. All that’s left is for Jacaerys to secure another great house and she'll have them all.”

Her father regarded the Falcon summit, his mask of solemn dignity not slipping once.

“A betrothal has not yet taken place…”

“It will,” she fired back, swallowing a sip of wine. She'd purposefully asked for the poorest vintage they had, yearning to feel the foul burn of sour grapes ravaging her throat. “Of course it will. Because she wants it. And what she wants, she gets.”

As if she wasn’t suffering enough, Rhaenyra's giggle sounded to her left. Alicent half wished she could bury a dinner knife into her pretty throat— ravage her, like the roast pork she'd torn up on her plate.

Her father's fingers drummed against the green tablecloth.

“That boy is not yet heir to the Vale. He's a distant cousin. There are far better prospects than him.”

“Not if he weds a dragon rider. If the girl secures him the Falcon throne, he'll get the knights of the Vale to secure her mother the Iron one.”

Just then, she decided to gaze upon that wretched beast, standing near the Arryn pavilion. As expected the moment the hearing was done, she'd shed her demure Septa robes in favor of her customary whorish attire.

The thing was just as scandalous as anything she'd worn previously, if not more. The neckline plunged all the way to her belly, and whenever she moved, Alicent was certain her breasts would spill out.

The slattern had plainly inherited the lush figure that had made the singers proclaim Rhaenyra the Realm's Delight in her youth. It bewildered Alicent how she felt no ounce of shame at having everyone gawk at her flesh so lecherously.

-Bastard blood, black as sin.

Neither she nor Rhaenyra had any scruples—and Alicent had no doubt the vile thing had sold whatever virtue she'd had in exchange for the Vale's support.

“Now all that’s left is for Jacaerys to secure another house, and we may comfortably march to the executioner’s block to be relieved of our heads.” She continued.

That hulking bull was right beside his sister, animatedly entertaining the Waynwood heir. Though marginally less insulting than his twin, he posed a greater threat.

“And who will take him? The Lannisters? Lord Jason's pride would never permit him to wed any of his daughters to a baseborn.”

She chortled. “As great as is his pride, his lust for power is greater. I’m certain a pretty crown on his daughter’s golden head would do much to sway him. And if not him, then the Baratheons.”

The Stormlanders were oft overlooked in the great game. Their region was not particularly wealthy or prosperous, but they still boasted a fine navy and impressive marshal prowess. And the newly made Lord Borros was keen to put his family name at the top with all the other players.

“The man has four daughters. It would do him good if one became Queen.”

Her father's fingers ceased drumming against the table.
“Then we must ensure we have something equally enticing to give him.”

She just about chortled. “Greater than Queenship?”

“Of course,” he announced, pulling back his chair to rise. “Fire and Blood."

In two quick strides, he descended the dais toward the green pavilion. Lord Tyland Lannister rose to greet him, and the two men stepped away from the table to vanish among the bushes. Alicent gnawed on the inside of her cheek, pondering his intentions.

Naturally, he was correct. If they had any hope of stopping the black tidal wave from swallowing them whole, they needed to call upon leal servants to build a dam. Even if that camp of servants was growing smaller by the day.

Swirling her wine, she prepared to rise herself, when her son caught her notice. Aegon had long ago stepped away from the table, bored senseless of the endless parade of black lickspittles. Alicent wished to stop him but the will had deserted her. It pained her to witness Viserys shower so much love and attention upon Daemon and Rhaenyra—she could not fathom how her son felt. She contented herself with the fact that he'd merely stepped away to go to the Dondarrion table, instead of fleeing the Keep.

Nevertheless, his attempts to socialize were tethering dangerously close to being unseemly. He and his two companions were deep into their cups, pelting the nearby acrobats with pieces of bread. The plump Dontos Darry was making obscene gestures at a serving girl whilst trying to force her into his lap.

The memory of Dyana’s wide blue eyes filled her vision, and the roast she'd forced down began rapidly coming up. Gently caressing Helaena's arm to ensure she was alright, she rose from her chair, feet unsteady.

“Fetch your brother,” she shuffled over to Aemond, her skirt in her hand. The sharp keening of the fiddler's instrument made her head pound.

For once, Aemond did not react to her instruction. He sat frozen in his seat, hand twirling a dinner knife. The food on his plate looked untouched.

“Aemond?” she raised her voice, brows furrowing. Fury colored her vision red when she craned her head to see what he was looking at.

Rhaenyra's girl was draping herself all over the Arryn knight, her lips twisted into the sweetest smile.

Her servants had left most of her hair loose, only pinning a few braids to the top of her head in the shape of coiling snakes. Rubies crested the gold on her ears and fingers, and when she drew closer to the man, her breasts would push out.

On his part, the Falcon fool seemed completely enraptured, drinking her in as if she were a pitcher of water on a scorching summer day.

-Gods, men.

It would never cease to amaze her how they seemingly lost all their senses the moment they glimpsed a pair of breasts.
Yanking on her son's shoulder, she got into his face.

“Aemond!” She hissed. He jerked, startled, his head snapping up at her. The blank, disoriented look in his remaining eye made her grind her teeth.

He never allowed himself to be surprised—not after losing his eye. He’d always been hyper-vigilant, particularly of things on his blind side. Yet now, it was as if she'd just reminded him there was a world outside this one singular target.

“Fetch. Your. Brother.” She repeated through gritted teeth.

His brows furrowed, and he quickly surveyed the terrace. When he spotted Aegon he grudgingly rose to his feet, leathers whispering.

Alicent wondered if he'd even noticed his brother had left the table—or anything outside Rhaenyra's wench and her Arryn fool.

-No, you shan’t have him.

That vile thing was free to parade herself before any other men she liked. But Alicent refused to allow her to entice her boys.

In two quick strides, Aemond left the table and descended on Aegon and his party. Releasing a shuddering breath, she smoothed the front of her skirts and made toward the Redwyne camp.

The Lady Bethany sat sprawled in her seat with a fan in one hand, and her dog in the other. The rotund thing was slobbering at the tablecloth, trying to get at the leftovers littering her plate. The woman seemed not to notice, animatedly observing the dance that had started on the main floor.

“Your Grace,” at her approach, she struggled out of her seat, her tabbed skirt puffing around her like an overfilled apple sack.

“My Lady. Are you enjoying the feast?” Alicent forced the Queenly mask on, gracing her with a gentle smile.

“Oh a magnificent banquet, truly. But I must confess, I was never fond of large gatherings,” she cooed, coming around the table to stand at her side. That ghastly dog wiggled in her arms, snapping at the frills lining the collar of her dress. “I fear I’ve long since aged out of dances and strenuous social situations. I prefer to spend my time in smaller circles.”

Alicent nodded, grimacing when the dog chewed off a piece of lace. Somehow, the woman remained oblivious.

“Likewise, we shall leave feasting to the young.”

“Your sons seem to be enjoying themselves.”

The sour smile gracing her lips made Alicent's gut drop. Against her better judgment, she glanced behind her.

Aemond was practically dragging her eldest by the collar past the dancing lordlings. Aegon struggled, a pitcher of wine cradled to his chest like a babe. When they at last returned to their table, Aemond tossed him down onto his chair like a sack, hissing something into his face.

She expected him to return the scorn with a witty quip, but he kept his brows furrowed. He rubbed at his nape, grimacing, his eyes downcast. Even at a distance, Aemond's rage was unbridled.

For once, Alicent itched to slap a different son.

“Yes, well, Aegon was always fond of feasts.”

Lady Redwyne blessedly didn’t comment on the spectacle.

“Not as much as your step-grandchildren.”

Pivoting form one misery to the next, Alicent found Lucera and her cousin on the dancefloor. The girl was entwined with the Waynwood boy in a step and spin, while Ser Fedryn gently twirled Daemon's daughter about. Her brother watched from the sidelines, exchanging poignant words with the Arryn boy.

“We all enjoy our victories,” she wistfully announced, the roast sitting at the back of her throat.

“Indeed,” the Lady puckered her lips. “Shame though. We'd all hoped for a different outcome. Ser Vaemond was most certainly due his inheritance.”

She pinned her gaze. A part of her knew she should worry about them being overheard—but having her feelings vindicated by another felt too good for her to exercise caution.

“It seems the gods disagreed.”

“The gods? I’d say it was your goodbrother and his Valyrian steel sword.”

Alicent seized her own thumb into her left hand.

“I dare not think who he will decide to pass judgment on next…” Lady Bethany sighed.

The dog was practically sucking on her bust, slobber soaking into the samite.

“it would do well to ensure none of us end up finding out.”

“Of course,” she gave her a slight nod, “And should her Grace need any assistance in stopping that from happening the Arbor is always ready to provide.”

At last, she realized what that cursed thing was doing and yanked it off. Her hand went to strike its muzzle with the quickness of a snake. Faster than she could blink, the thing settled down, whining into her arm.

“Thank you, my Lady. Your support is much appreciated.”

“Naturally.” Her smile never faltered. “Absent justice, righteous men must make it themselves.”

With a quick squeeze of her hand, Alicent nodded and excused herself. It relieved her to be reminded that most of the Reacher lords were firmly on her side. As she passed the table, and greeted them one by one they all implicitly affirmed their support. Lord Costayne was most displeased by Ser Fedryn's insinuation that he was a lecher and derided the knight for speaking on the subject when he himself championed such a scandalous girl.

Lynesse Ambrose was positively incensed at her goodbrother’s impromptu execution of Ser Vaemond and the subsequent arson of the Velaryon ships.

“The man was his kin through marriage,” she'd hissed at her, blue eyes wide. “No man is as accursed as a kinslayer. That man has mired his family in blood before his wife had even reached the throne. Mother save us of the horror to come after her ascension.”

Alicent nodded vigorously, vowing to do all in her power to prevent more bloodshed and see the Father's justice done. The Lady, in turn, vowed to lead other sympathetic lords to her door so that she may find success in her endeavors.

By the time she'd made rounds across half the terrace, her spirits had somewhat lifted. Though not everyone was as partial to her as her Reacher lords, they had not fully spurned her either. They were merely afraid—afraid of the specter of Daemon Targaryen hovering beside her husband's chair.

Alicent wagered that if she managed to assuage their worries, they would flock to her side.

-Fear alone cannot keep them down.

Maegor the Cruel had proven that. The man had ruled with an iron fist, resorting to ever-increasing acts of tyranny to uphold his power. But rather than frighten his subjects into submission, his cruelty inspired even greater defiance.

Alicent was certain she could do the same now. As she gathered her strength to draw closer to the black side of the terrace, a shadow caught her attention.

She'd not known how long he’d stood there. Bundled in muted browns and dull grays, he blended perfectly into the spindly shrubbery. Though his clubfoot stuck out considerably, he’d shrunk so much into himself, it was easy not to notice.
Fear slashed Alicent across the chest like a blade.

-No, I cannot allow him to rule me.

She was the Queen, mother to dragon riders, the most powerful woman in the realm. This little fly should inspire defiance in her, not cowardice.

Head held high, she made a casual stop beside one of the bushes.

“A lavish feast, with not a drop of joy to be found.” He hobbled over to her, voice as demure as dove coos.

“Trust, Lord Larys. There is plenty of joy to be found here. Just not for me and mine.”

The Lord of Harrenhal sighed, seizing one of the hydrangea buds in between his slender fingers.

“Perhaps I can offer something to lift your spirits?”

Her head snapped up. “You have news I presume.”

“Oh, a most colorful patchwork of tales. So many curious things happening at the Mountains of the Moon. And… beyond."

Alicent tightened her jaw. “Good, I should be most interested in hearing about them.”

“At the first opportunity your Grace. I would be happy to wash the bitter taste from your mouth.”

The urge to jerk away from him was too great. The words may have overflowed with honeyed sweetness, but she knew all too well the toll they exacted.

-No fear, just defiance.

Lifting her head, she forced her lips to peel into a smile.

“Thank you, I find I’m in need of a victory, to dampen some of the losses.”

He cocked his head, his squinty eyes crinkling. She didn’t think she'd ever seen a sight more vile.

“Wonderful, though…” he paused, craning his head behind her. “It seems your son is preparing to hand you one himself.”

Alicent furrowed her brows, dumbstruck. She gingerly turned on her heel to see what had drawn his attention.

The music blasting across the terrace had vanished in some dark void. A figure in black leather stood on the half-emptied dance floor.

Aemond had never much enjoyed dancing. Though the ladies he would ask were kind enough to agree, they all found his eye patch disconcerting to look at up close.

The girl he'd dragged to the floor looked just as displeased by the invitation. He clutched her arm in a death grip, his knuckles whitening at the effort. The singers slowly strummed the opening chords of the tune—Mating Ritual. An Old Valyrian dance the Targaryens had preserved and brought over from their ancestral homeland.

Then, as one of the musicians lifted his flute to blow, Lucera Velaryon wrenched out of her son's grasp and assumed her stance.

Chapter Text

“And then I said, you may be looking at the wrong end.”

Jace choked out a laugh, almost spitting out his mouthful of wine. Beside him Rhaena had gone so red in the face, it looked as if she would burst like a smashed tomato.

“Gods you’re mad.” He heaved at Andrew Waynwood, at last refilling his lungs with breath.

“Best get accustomed to that, my Prince. Because once he starts, he doesn't stop.” Ser Fedryn offered, a smirk playing on his lips. Jace was struggling to accept that jovial air around him—the man had been nothing but the picture of solemn seriousness ever since he'd arrived. He'd wondered if the man even knew how to laugh and be silly.

“As if you'd mind Fed. If it were not for me your sullenness would have sent us all into an early grave.”

“Keep talking, and I might truly send you into that grave.”

Andrew raised his hands, mouth dropping open in mock terror.

“Father save me, at last! He's had enough of me! Fine, I surrender to my fate. But, please, grant me the chance to steal one dance from the Princess, before you plunge your cruel blade into my heart.”

Jace hardly noticed Luce materialize at his side, a magnificent swan in her shimmering blacks. Ser Joffrey held her hand with protective tenderness, and Jace couldn’t help but feel immensely pleased at the sight.

-Success at last.

Of all the prospects he'd considered for her, this one seemed to be better than anything he could have hoped for.

“Who dare refuse such a dashing gentleman?” Luce cooed, pinching Andrew's puffed cheeks.

The Lord took her to the dancefloor, leading her into a quick twirl, just as the music rose up.

“Well if he can get a Princess to agree to a dance, I wager so can I.” Lashing a poignant look at what would potentially be his future liege, Ser Fedryn extended his hand toward Rhaena. His cousin curtsied sweetly and allowed the sullen knight to take her to the floor.

Ser Joffrey immediately sidled up to him, and Jace straightened his back.

“It pleases me to see my sister in such high spirits.” He began.
The knight gave him a vigorous nod.

“Indeed. The news of this petition had left her most stricken. I feared how she would fare once she arrived to the Capitol to confront Ser Vaemond herself.”

“Luce has more fortitude than you think. Besides, the business had a favorable outcome in the end. In no small part thanks to you.”

Joffrey pressed his lips together. “In truth, I did naught save languish in bed, sick with fever. It was Ser Fedryn who was to be praised. And mine own sweet cousin, the Lady Jeyne for choosing him as our escort.”

Jace regarded his answer.

-Humble.

A trait most surprising for someone who looked like Florian come again. That was one point in his favor.

“And we thank you all for your efforts. My mother and I owe you a debt.”

“Oh no, it is we who had a debt to repay. Sending your sister to the Eyrie has been a gift from the Mother herself. My sweet cousin adores her. As do… the rest of us.”

“Hmm…” Jace grumbled. “That is quite wonderful to hear. She's also told me much about you."

In truth Luce had mentioned him in her letters only twice, first when she'd relayed visiting the Bloody Gate, and then when announcing her return, with him as escort. It seemed unusual, given their obvious familiarity.

Then again, he couldn’t begrudge her. He was her brother after all—his duty was to ward men off her not invite them over.

“She mentioned you were a knight of the Gate? When I’d heard that I assumed you were quite a ways older.”

At first glance, Joffrey could almost be of age with him. Tall and slender, with delicate features, the man was prettier than half the girls at court. The soft plumpness of his lips reminded Jace of Aeran and he just about averted his eyes in shame.

-Focus.

The last thing he needed was to think about that stupid cave and those foolish kissing games.

“Indeed. I was knighted recently. At eight and ten.”

“How did you earn your spurs?”

His jaw clenched. “Ambush. Near the Bloody Gate. One of the mountain clans attacked us. Killed a few of our men. They meant to do the same to Arian Redfort but… I foiled their plans. His father knighted me as a token of his gratitude.”

Jace blinked at the man.

“That is… quite the feat.”

“If I may speak plainly, I’d sooner have not been knighted at all, if it meant Arian would remain whole.”

“What became of him?”

“One of the men sent out a wolf to attack his horse. The beast bucked and fell atop his leg. The Maesters had to remove it to save his life.”

He forced a swallow. “That is a terrible thing. But, if I may… I’m certain the man was grateful to have a brave companion such as yourself at his side.”

He smiled then, and a most forlorn frown marred his cherub face. For the first time, Jace was able to see something other than a handsome knight from the songs.

“If my Prince had seen how much I trembled, you would not be so quick to call me brave. I don’t think I was ever that afraid in my life.”

“The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid.” He announced.

Joffrey’s sky-blue eyes widened at him.

“Sage wisdom.”

“From another brave man.”

He still recalled the day Ser Harwin told him that. He was meant to descend into the pit, to help the Keepers fasten riding bolts into Vermax’s neck. They were a necessary thing so that he might be able to affix a saddle on him once the dragon grew large enough to bear his weight.

Still, Jace felt immeasurable terror. Vermax got displeased if the Keepers so much as scratched him wrong whenever they cleansed his scales. The pain of the bolts going into his neck and back was like to send him into a red fury—it was like to make him weep with terror too.

“I know I’m meant to be brave, but… but... I just... I can’t..”

“You are brave,” Ser Harwin had knelt at his side, his kindly brown eyes alight. “The only time a man can be brave is when he's afraid. Fear isn’t a weakness, don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. It gives you courage, to march into battle when you most need to.”

Jace gritted his teeth, wondering if the knight could fathom just how afraid he would be in his life.

“You shouldn’t deride yourself for the things you felt when faced with death,” he continued, steeling himself. “Rather you should be proud that despite your feelings, you still found it in yourself to do what was right. I for one am thrilled to be in the presence of a man of such integrity.”

The man's lips quirked into a sweet smile, and for half a breath it was as if he was seeing Aeran.

-Gods, I’m never drinking again.

Wine had a terrible habit of bringing back the most dangerous of memories.

“You honor me, My Prince.”

“Rightly so. We have need of good men, Ser. You’ll find they’re in short supply in these parts.”

He surveyed the green pavilion across from him, watching the Queen exchange words with the rotund Lady Redwyne and her vile dog.

“Rest assured, My Prince. The Vale is prepared to offer all the protection we have to you and your family.”

He side-eyed him. “It's my sister that needs your protection I fear. Her enemies are the ones I’m most concerned about.”

The urge got the better of him and his gaze pivoted to the right.

Aemond was still at the table, scolding Aegon over his wine pitcher. The way he was hissing had Jace convinced he meant to backhand him. However, the moment his half-uncle sullenly slumped back into his chair, Aemond sat down as well, to resume doing what he'd been doing since they'd arrived at the feast—glaring at his sister.

He'd seen him do it before. Whenever she was in his vicinity, he’d glue his remaining eye to her, like a wolf stalking a deer. Jace couldn’t decide what sickened him more—the shameless way he gaped, not caring if anyone noticed, or the ferocity of his gaze.

It was a look mired in enough blood to drown the world entire. It made Jace glad of Luce's Unsullied shadow. The man had served as an excellent deterrent that ensured Aemond never dared draw close enough to her to at last seek his vengeance.
However, not even Torro could wipe that foul desire in his remaining eye—an oppressive covetousness that made gooseflesh prick his skin.

Aemond had always looked at her like that, even when they were children. Whenever he chanced to spy the two of them together, his purple slits would pin his, blasting malice at him as if he were a dragon breathing fire—as if he saw Luce as a toy Jace had unjustly stolen away.

A toy he meant to take back—by any means necessary.

He was looking at her like that now—but the objects of his ire were her partners. After Andrew Waynwood, she'd been swept up by different nobles to dance, each eager to get a slice of the sultry Princess.

On her part, she entertained them all with utmost courtesy—even though the nervous way she darted her eyes told Jace she would rather be pulling her fingernails than keep suffering their hands upon her waist.

Aemond either did not care for her discomfort or was blind to it entirely. He seemed to treat every twirl and smile she gave as earnest—an insult of the highest order.

Jace wondered how long before he sprang up with a blade— the terse way he kept clenching his muscles made it plain he would inevitably rise to commit violence. He just didn’t know who he would carve first—all the dance partners or his sister, for whatever perceived insult her courtesy had dealt him.

-Not today you mad fuck.

Terrible as what she'd done to him was, that didn’t mean Jace was going to allow him to exercise cruel vengeance on her. If he wanted someone to carve, he would be the one to step in front of the blade.

“So I’ve noticed,” Ser Joffrey's mellow voice brought the world sharply into focus. Jace forced the bile back down his throat. “I’d already vowed to your sister that I would stand by her, as both her champion and shield. I assure you, My Prince, I mean to uphold my vow. No matter the cost.”

Jace pondered his words, testing out their weight.

“You are an honorable man,” he decided at last.

-A worthy one.

“One I am most pleased to have stand with us. As both leal servant and… hopefully, kin.”

The way his brows shot up let Jace know he'd taken the message. However, before he could reply, Luce descended on them at last.

Breathless, she staggered back toward the table, coming in to lean against him for support.

“Gods, there was no end to the madness. I thought I was going to drop before I could see myself free.”

“Well, we cannot fault the Lords for wanting to dance with someone as graceful as you.”

As custom, his sister chuckled, lashing the knight with a look. The warmth in her eyes was such a stark contrast to the hollow glare she'd get whenever some lickspittle offered her flattery.

“Always the charmer, Ser.” She teased.

“A charmer that has not yet had a chance to dance with you,” he supplied, nudging her forth.

The man, Gods love him, took his signal immediately.

“Yes, a fact I’m most saddened by. Would you do me the honor of remedying it?”

Luce heaved a sigh, head dropping. When she lifted it again a most wicked smirk grazed her lips.

“What is it about you Valemen that makes it so impossible to refuse you?”

With a chuckle, the knight swept her back to the dance floor, just as a sweet ballad began playing. Jace had half a mind to follow, to attempt to rescue Rhaena from the clumsy clutches of Lord Sandor Massey when a flash of pink bid him pause.

Helaena stood alone near a rosebush, conversing with one of her attendants. She'd most like slipped away from the table while no one was paying her any mind. Jace felt immeasurable sorrow as he gazed upon her, regal in her soft peach dress.
The thought came to him sudden, unprompted. In a few quick strides, he passed the dancefloor to come over to her side.
She didn’t seem startled by his approach. Her lips curled into a gentle smile and she waved her attendant away.

“Princess,” he awkwardly bowed, feeling his throat close. It seemed unnecessary to feel such tension.

“Jacaerys, why are you so formal? We know each other." She blinked.

Her hands trailed the rose bush, fingers caressing the thorns. Jace realized a beetle was crawling up one of the stalks.

“Yes, well, I was just trying to mind my courtesies.”

“Like everyone does,” she declared, wistfully. “Even though they seldom mean what they say.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right. We could all do with a bit more honesty.”

“Is that what you mean to do? Speak honestly with me?”

Her head had craned at him, and Jace got the sudden urge to avert his eyes. Years on, and she still had this uncanny ability to read through every one of his intentions.

“Yes I… I meant to say that… regardless of what’s happened between our families… what’s… what’s going to happen. I wish for you to know that we hold you no ill will.” He sucked in a breath, steeling himself. “You were closer to Luce than to me in our youth. But that does not mean I don’t hold deep affection for you. And I have no desire for us to be enemies.”

The way her round eyes widened undid him. Her irises were the color of pale violets in full bloom. It was a sight so sweet he was half tempted to weep.

“I don’t either. But it’s our destiny. Or… rather the destiny chosen for us.”

His brows knitted together, and he felt a stab of pain right in his chest.

“I can’t think of anything more tragic than that sentence." He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. “But I think mayhaps if we applied ourselves, we could change it. Because the way things are headed, I don’t foresee how this will end without...”

“It will end in water,” she cut him off. The beetle crawling across the stalk had reached her fingers. “Fire and water."

He paused, stumped by her sudden change of tone.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“Don't fly when there is water in the clouds, Jacaerys.”

He gaped at her, wide-eyed and scowling, trepidation in his belly.

-Is she losing herself?

He recalled she’d had rambling fits in her girlhood, but he thought she'd outgrown them. Just as quickly as the darkness had descended on her face, it evaporated, and the sweet smile quirked her lips.

“But you’re right. Maybe we can make amends. Em's already doing it.”

Sputtering, he tried to gather his composure.

“What?”

“Look, he's dancing with your sister.”

It took an obscene amount of time for the full weight of her words to sink in. Whirling on his feet, he followed to where her finger was pointing.

His stomach dropped right into his toes.

They stood opposite one another, staring each other down with ferocity. The singers had begun strumming rhythmic notes, and a few moments later he recalled the song.

It was a Valyrian tune, that accompanied a fairly complex dance—one that was supposed to mirror a dragon mating ritual. It was small wonder the dancefloor had almost emptied. Not only was the thing hard to perform, but it was also something mostly courting couples did, to signal their intentions toward one another.

“Excuse me,” Jace fired at Helaena and immediately began barreling toward them to drag her away before the cursed number began in earnest.

However, just as he took a step toward the floor, his sister assumed the initial stance. He frowned.

-What are you doing?

Had she lost her senses? His eyes combed the crowd for Ser Joffrey. He found him near a green brazier, sporting a most vicious scowl.

-Marvelous, right after I told you to watch out for her.

He got a sudden urge to sock him right in that pretty face.

The drum beat and the few dancers that remained started. Luce followed swiftly, gracefully twirling on her feet like a swan. She'd never been much of a dancer, but it seemed the spite had breathed new life into her.

She assumed the first pose, circling him like a cautious cat, with her arms raised to mimic the shape of wings. At the changing beat, he stepped in front of her, attempting to pull her into his embrace.

Though Jace had never managed to master the stupid thing, he recalled the basic principle—the man was meant to subdue his partner. Hold on to her as much as possible while she tried to flee his grip—just like dragons did when mating.

He felt faint. She was whirling, her skirt a blur of red and black. Yet no matter how quick she was, he was always faster. Every time she withdrew too far, he dragged her back, to press her uncomfortably close to him. His grip was forceful, Jace noticed. His movements mirrored those he'd seen in the yard, more battle stance than dancing.

At one point, he crushed her back first to his chest so viciously, Jace actually saw her gasp, the air escaping her lungs. His hand trailed the dragon circlet on her belly, holding her prisoner, whilst he hovered behind her, breathing down her neck.

He couldn’t fathom how she managed to wiggle free but when she did, her fingers were balled into fists. An obvious sign of distress.

His hand grabbed blindly for the dagger strapped to his hip.

When he chanced to look to the table, his mother's stare just about undid him. All the color had fled Rhaenyra's cheeks as she gaped at the display with unbridled horror. For once, his dear stepfather had ceased his mad smirking and was leaning forward, as if he meant to spring from his chair.

Only grandsire seemed unperturbed. Viserys’ remaining eye watched Aemond and Luce with rapt fascination. If Jace didn’t know any better he'd say he was mesmerized.

The song was picking up the pace, and the dancers spun faster. Luce was trying her hardest to slither out of his reach before the crescendo neared—the end of the piece was crucial. If the woman ended the dance free of the man’s grasp, the mating ritual would be deemed a failure. But if he managed to seize her…

The last note played, and she spun on her feet, just narrowly missing his left hand. However, the right was ready, and he yanked her to him with such force, he was certain everyone heard the thud of her body slamming into his chest.

The crowd let out a thunderous cheer, calling congratulations to the dancing couples.

Jace waited with bated breath for the fuck to release her. Instead, that wretched hand on her waist gripped tighter.
His vision blurred. He was moving, fingers clutching the dagger hilt with manic urgency.

The knot in his stomach snapped when at last Luce managed to push him off, shoulders heaving a sigh. The fool would not give her respite. He immediately coiled his grubby fingers around her forearm and started dragging her away from the dancefloor. Jace was half convinced he was taking her away, stealing her off to some dark corner to do unspeakable things to her.

To his relief, they halted just in front of the banquet table, where his grandsire was animatedly smiling.

“… magnificent!” Viserys cooed, his lips peeling to reveal a toothless smile. Jace rushed over to Luce's side, eyes frantically scanning her body for any marks.

It infuriated him to see her forearm still firmly in Aemond’s grip, despite her best attempts to awkwardly shake him off.

“Well done my boy!”

“Thank you, father,” he was smirking, a grin so cocksure, Jace wanted to hit him. “It was your speech in truth, that inspired it. After all our house can't be as one when old wounds divide us still.”

“Indeed,” Viserys prattled. “Such a terrible thing forced you two apart. And to think you were once such close friends.”

“Hm, yes,” the way Luce smiled, it was as if she’d swallowed a basket of lemons. “I have… fond memories of our shared youth.”

Grandsire’s laugh resonated in his ears like the pounding of a drum.

“So do I,” Jace cringed, when Aemond's head snapped to her, his remaining eye consuming her like flames. “In fact, I’ve been so eager to revisit them, but sadly, we've not had a chance to speak to one another. At all.”

Her hand jerked, attempting another escape, but the mad fuck squeezed as if intent on shattering her bones.

“How terrible,” his grandsire mused, brows furrowing. A brief coughing fit seized him, and he pressed a handkerchief to his mouth. “Well, you must remedy that. Go on, sit beside one another. Reminisce.”

A curtain fell on his eyes, and he was moving, mouth open to form words.

Mother was quicker. “I think Luce has had enough for one day. She's quite tired.”

“Nonsense!” Viserys waved his hand. “She can rest here. Aemond, get her a chair and some water.”

“Leave it. She's had too many desperate dogs begging at her skirt. She doesn’t need another.”

This time, Jace was glad of Daemon's mocking smirk. He eyed his nephew, head cocked, as if he was a displeased master observing a misbehaving pet.

“As if you weren’t the same. You’d always leap at a chance to steal away any maiden you wanted for yourself.”

Everyone, save Aemond and his grandsire shrunk into themselves at those words. The fuck was still holding her, angling her body as if he meant to draw her into an embrace.

“Go on, sit, sit,” the coughing fit began in earnest, and grandsire bent over in his seat, body trembling with the exertion.

“Father you’re not well. Please, you should retreat,” Mother quickly sprang from her seat.

“I'm fine, I…” a cough ended his protestations and he bent over, head in his hands.

“Attendant!” his mother called, and four servants sprang up, rushing to pull out his father's chair.

His stepfather was on his feet too, his attention split between Viserys and them.

Mother whispered something to him, and he scoffed, following the men who had picked up grandsire's chair to carry him out.

“Luce, come,” Rhaenyra called out, hand extending.

His sister did not move. Jace ground his teeth, eyeing those pale fingers wrapped around her forearm as if they were the greatest insult.

“Let go of my sister, right now.” He bore down on them, body trembling with fury.

That only seemed to amuse the vile fuck.

“Come Jacaerys, you heard my father. We're to reminisce.”

“You want to reminisce?” he spat. “Go find yourself a winged pig and cry in a corner.”

The pleasure he felt when that smirk retreated was sweeter than honey. He stumbled, his grip faltering. Luce at last managed to wrench free and quickly leapt at him.

He gritted his teeth, when he saw nothing but displeasure marring her face.

“Jace, don't,” she hissed, pressing her palm to his chest.
Aemond was scowling, jaw muscles as tense as crossbow springs. To his horror, the smirk curled his lips anew and he cocked his head.

“Now Jace, let’s not resort to base insults. I thought you above such things. Stronger.”

Silence rang in his ears. He could feel all the attention on the terrace shift to him. The vile fuck's remaining eye stared him down, full of challenge.

“Say it again,” he growled, voice quivering with rage.

“Jace…” Luce this time, her palm on his chest balling into a fist.

“Come, my Prince,” a figure in blues had appeared beside them, and Joffrey Arryn gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Leave this be.”

“No, he's being a fucking cunt,” he hissed, huffing labored breaths.

“Me?” Aemond fired. The sudden appearance of Ser Joffrey seemed to make his eye glint with barely contained malice. “I was merely trying to express my disappointment in your lack of maturity. After all these years, I’d expect you to be stronger. You were always such a strong boy.”

Red colored his vision. He wrenched free of Luce's grasp, throwing a punch right at his face. To his fury, the madman hardly stumbled. He recovered swiftly, that smirk still on his lip.
He didn’t even see him move. In a heartbeat, he found himself on the floor, his chest heaving from the force of his kick. Chaos had erupted, shouts ringing from all sides like bells. Luce had knelt to help pull him up to his feet, her eyes as wide as boiled eggs. Ser Joffrey stood right in front of them, his body a shield.

Behind him, Jace glimpsed Aemond still laughing—the cold edge of steel was flashing in his hand. Aegon was there too, forcing the struggling Andrew Waynwood into a headlock.

Two figures flanked his half-uncles, the noble companions he'd seen nipping at Aegon's heel. The amusement on the fat one’s face left him sickened.

However, rather than advancing, they stood frozen, eyeing them with trepidation. Jace squinted over Joffrey's shoulder to see a black shadow.

Torro stood motionless, in a wide stance. He had no weapons in his hands, but the way he squared his shoulders was threat enough.

Panicked bellows rang out, and a torrent of guards appeared to stand in between them.

“That's enough!” Mother’s face was flush, as she barreled over to their side. “Go to your quarters, all of you. Go, now!”

Luce was whispering, immediately moving to push him to the side. The rage within slowly reduced to a boil, and he blew a breath,

Ahead of him, the Queen too was scolding her sons. His step-grandmother’s hands had wrapped around Aemond's arm and she was hissing at him like a snake. Her face had gone so red, Jace was convinced her eyes would pop right out of her sockets.

Aemond hardly seemed to hear her. That vile smirk still played on his lips, the satisfaction oozing out of him like perfume. Aegon too seemed bemused, as he took swing after swing from the wine pitcher he was cradling to his chest.

Jace almost leapt anew to sock both of them right in their grinning mouths. Ser Fedryn held him at bay. He and Joffrey withdrew with him to the side to whisper words of comfort and encouragement.

Luce remained, rising to her toes to relay something to her Unsullied. Like a loosened string, the man’s muscles unclenched. He immediately whirled on his heel to follow his sister.

Her departure was like a signal. Aemond's remaining eye pivoted right to her, an arrow affixed to its target. That same cursed resentment filled the iris to bursting, till the purple ran with the scarlet of bloodlust.

However, the other feeling surfaced as well. That ugly, oppressive covetousness—as if he were a child, craving a stolen toy.

Jace balled his fists, ready for war.

Chapter Text

The feast left him revived—though his mother had spent hours scolding him afterward for his indiscretion.

It was shameful, she'd said. He'd come off as a pathetic dog, yapping at his half-niece's skirts. Just like all the other insufferable fools sniffing after her. The whole court was alight with rumors about their factionalism, and how this spat had taken place right after his father had declared their house united.

Alicent feared his father might punish him for calling into question the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s son.

“The whole court will shun us if they think we've lost Viserys' favor!”

Aemond couldn’t bring himself to care what some dimwitted Lords would think. It was Jacaerys' rage that mattered to him. That defeated way he'd shrunk into himself when he'd kicked him to the ground.

It made all the ham ringing worth it.

Those bastards couldn’t just prance in here, after 8 years and get everything. A castle they had no right to, his father's grace, a secure inheritance.

They had to pay.

-She has to pay.

It was her response that fueled him the most. The rage he'd glimpsed when she'd locked eyes with him. It was the first time she'd allowed her mask of indifference to slip and revealed the treacherous snake within—the snake he knew her to be.

-She will not ignore me now.

Though his mother had forbidden him to go anywhere near Rhaenyra's children, he couldn't resist. Some days after the hubbub of the feast had at last settled, he set about to walk the gardens.

He reasoned it was to clear his head after training–but, at the back of his mind, he knew it was because he'd learned Lucera was taking her brother Joffrey for a stroll in the afternoon.

He spent a good hour scouring the gardens, his impatience growing unbearable. Then, as if conjured, he found her near the eastern parapets.

Draped against the stone railing, she gazed wistfully at the sea, dark curls billowing in the salty air.

Her Unsullied had gone further among the rose bushes to attend to Joffrey.

She stood alone—vulnerable. The first time he’d managed to get her without an escort in weeks. That should have alarmed him. She would not be foolish enough to go out in public unprotected

Still, he could not resist. He moved to strike at last.

To his surprise, she already knew he was there.

“When we were children, I’d always known you’d make something of yourself,” she began, eyes transfixed onto the waves violently dashing the rocks below. “A knight, a scholar, even a renowned jouster. But one thing I did not foresee you becoming is a spiteful cunt.”

Lifting herself off the railing, she stood tall, gaze lashing him like a whip.

He emerged from the path to draw nearer. The mere sight of her sent his blood to boiling.

“Ah, so you do recall I exist. I must confess I thought Ser Sheep Fucker of the Vale had dashed your head into a rock and made you forget.”

The corner of her lips curled into a smile.

“Yes, I recall. Even though it would be better if I didn’t. Did it bring you joy? Provoking Jace like that?”

He couldn’t resist returning the smirk. He drew closer, till there was no more than a foot of space between them. The satisfaction he felt when he saw her squirm was immeasurable.

-You're not running away now.

“I was merely trying to establish peace and unity between our two families. It's not my fault your brother sees threats everywhere.”

“Don't play coy. You were terrible at it when we were children, and you’re even worse at it now.” The poisonous edge in her voice made him ball his fists. The wind tousled her hair, carrying the scent of her perfume into his nose.

It was the same one. The spicy, earthy fragrance that reminded him of mulled wine, pear tarts, and wet autumn leaves. Against his better judgment, his skin pricked up.

“You did it because you liked it. Because you wanted to see him angry and humiliated.”

“It’s a welcome change, don’t you think? To be the one on the receiving end of mockery? I thought he could use a taste of his own cruelty. “

The pleasure he felt when she balked was immeasurable. She stared at him, mouth twisted into a vicious scowl. It incensed him just how much she resembled her wretched brother when she did that.

“Gods, of course. Still picking at old wounds. I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re just like your mother,” the snide tone made his vision go red, and he just about lunged, to wrap his hands around her little throat. “Always tallying every slight, real or imagined, till you’re so mired in resentment, it is all you have in your life. I won’t have it.”

As a final insult, she chortled, eyeing him up and down.

“You are free to collect your slights, and drink of their bitterness to your heart's content. But know, you will be imbibing alone.” Her nose went up, and those sweet doe eyes filled with disgust. “I will not allow you to taint me and mine with misery. Certainly not over silly childhood insults.”

She was moving, sidestepping him to go back into the garden—to discard him, as if he did not matter.

-No.

His hand shot up, yanking on her forearm with force. It took everything he had in him not to squeeze till her little bones shattered.

“Silly insults?!” He hissed, his blood aflame. “You owe me a fucking eye, bastard. That is more than a silly insult.”

Though she managed to wrench free of his grip, he refused her respite. He drew near, till he was in her face, fury blasting out of him like dragonfire.

“Did you really think, I’d allow you to prance about the Keep, acting the innocent? You and your whore of a mother? You spit on all the laws of gods and men and yet are still showered in unearned favor. No.” the words were coming out garbled now, a vicious growl. “You owe me a debt. And I will have blood for it.”

He expected fear—no, he yearned for it. Yearned to see her shattered, weeping at his feet, admitting her wrongdoings at last. Pleading for him to forgive her transgression.

Instead, the cunt laughed.

She narrowed her eyes, her teeth flashing through her lips in the most mocking smile.

“You want blood?” her brows went up. “Fine then. Take it.”

Her hands were a blur. In two quick strides, she was on him, reaching for his belt. The dagger flashed in her palm, the steel hissing. His muscles seized, ready to defend.

But instead of attacking, she pressed the blade into his hands and brought it up to her face.

“Do it,” she spat, mouth scowling. The determination on her face was sickening. “Settle the debt. Take my eye.”

She jerked forward, pulling at his wrists. The point of the dagger gleamed in the midday sun—ready to be reddened.

“You want the right? Go on. I see better on that one, so it would be a fair exchange. Or would the left one satisfy you more? So that I may be your mirror.”

Another jerk. The blade was so close, the point almost stabbed the skin of her cheek. His heart thundered in his throat.

“Or mayhaps you want both? Would that be enough? To settle all those slights you and your family have tallied up over the years. Do it!”

Her grip was iron, driving the blade closer to her. The rage consumed him.

He squirmed out of her grasp, his hand digging into the back of her head. Wrapping his fingers around her locks, he yanked, limbs trembling with bloodlust.

His right hand twitched upward, the steel tip trained right at her left eye—square at the iris.

-Just one slash.

It would all be over. She would at last be defeated. Bloodied and broken at his feet. Just as he'd wanted.

“Do it!” she was half screaming now, the muscles of her neck taut.

There was no fear on her face. The point of the dagger was right at her eyeball, but she did not seem to care.

Her gaze was trained right on his remaining eye. Staring him down with ferocity—calling out the challenge.

His grip faltered. Those taunt muscles relaxed.

Her face went slack, and she blew a breath.

“I thought not,” she said, voice low. “I can't help you.”

The scorn dissipated, overtaken by an emotion much more vile—pity.

His stomach lurched.

-No.

She owed him this. She owed him recompense for what she'd done. He had to steel himself.

His right hand squeezed the hilt anew, while the other lowered to grip the back of her neck.

The thundering threw him off. A small, thumping sound that vibrated in his open palm, right into his bones. It was her heart, fluttering against his touch.

It was sweet, almost soft—like the beat of dove wings.

Her skin was soft too. As supple as he'd imagined. And warm like dragon breath. His hand trailed down to run over the edge of her jaw.

The pitiful scorn vanished from her face. Her brows furrowed, and she blinked at him. The lips she'd kept so tightly pressed parted, glistening in the midday sun.

He wanted to see if they still tasted of strawberries.

The hand that had been squeezing his forearm to drive the blade unfurled. She started squirming then, attempting to push him off, just like she'd done during their dance.

He yanked on her neck. She stumbled into him, chest flush against his. Even through the gown, he felt the searing warmth of her flesh. Her breathing was ragged, her doe eyes wide—just as he'd wanted them.

-It wasn’t for Jace.

His half-nephew's jab had irked him, naturally, as had all reminders of his boyhood failings. Still, it was her. Twirling around in her sultry dress, caressing that Arryn cunt's forearm.

That bastard had appeared out of thin air, with his pretty blonde locks and little army to sweep her off her feet as if she were Jonquil herself. Worse still, she'd welcomed his kidnapping. The way she'd rushed at him, wide-eyed, and flush, had made him ball his hands into fists so hard his nails drew blood.

She'd never been that familiar with anyone. Though she'd pranced around in her foreign dresses, her naked flesh luring lechers like bees to honey, she never allowed any of them to touch her so intimately. She laughed at their jests, accepted their flattery, but her eyes would never light up at the sight of them.

The rage that had consumed him was so palpable, he just about lurched to knock over one of the braziers and set the entire terrace aflame. He didn’t care if everyone could see him seething—not when that cunt had his grubby fingers all over her waist.

He couldn’t resist dragging her into that dance. Forcing her as close to him, as she had been with the Sheep Fucker. It was just to get a rise out of her—to see her ashamed.

She should rue being such a wanton, rue showing her skin, laughing at another’s jests. Once, it had only been his jests that could have made her smile.

It was her scent that had derailed him. That most unexpected fragrance of cinnamon, and spiced wine. It was so different from the sweet, flowery perfumes the ladies at court liked to slather on themselves. It suited her. So did that dress.

That accursed red and black number that embraced her body like a jealous lover. The obsidian scales clashed so perfectly with the honeyed skin of her breasts. He couldn't resist pulling her closer, snaking his arms around her waist, till that exposed flesh was flush against him.

The dance was no longer about frightening her—it was about embracing her, at last feeling her warm and alive in his arms. He wasn’t going to allow her to wiggle free—to decree the Mating Ritual a failure.

He'd sooner die than let her go.

-She owes me something.

She took blood from him—it was only right she pay it back. Give herself as recompense.

He angled his head lower. Her doe eyes were so wide, the whites were all he could see. Her lower lip trembled, plump and red with invitation. His finger trailed up to caress it.

“Luce?” the voice stabbed into him like a sheath of ice.

The grip on her neck faltered. She used that moment of respite to wrench free, her chest heaving for air. The blade hilt felt cold in his palm.

“Joff, my love.” She whirled on her feet, coming to kneel at her brother's side. The little nuisance had appeared beside a hydrangea bush, mousy face twisted into a displeased scowl.

“What are you doing?” He demanded, brown eyes narrowing at him. The expression made him look like Jace’s mirror and he half wished to backhand him to wipe that pucker off his lips.

“Nothing my love, your half-uncle and I were just speaking.” smoothing the front of his gray cloak, she shot to her feet.

His belly stirred when he saw a flush kiss her neck, before rising into her cheeks.

He just about reached for her again, intent on taking her into his arms. The shadow bade him pause.

That familiar ghost of black leather slithered from behind the hydrangea bush. The Unsullied’s eyes pinned his, two black pits brimming with violence. The hilt of the dagger came to life in his palm, and he readied himself to strike. That cockless bastard was in the way, yet again. He was sick of it.

He needed to gut him—he was going to gut him. Then he was going to push Jacaerys’ little shadow into the dirt, and whisk her from the garden. He would drag her to some faraway corner where he could have her all to himself, and himself alone.

“Come.” She entwined her fingers with her brother’s and drew him closer. “We’re finished here.”

His muscles jerked, as taunt as a crossbow string.

The cockless bastard stepped forward, shoulders squared.

She hissed something, tossing him a look. It was not High Valyrian, but rather, a jumble of gurgles and hisses, unlike anything he’d ever heard. It had to be Dothraki. He’d overheard rumors that the cockless bastard had been a horselord whelp before the slavers had taken him to Astapor.

Muscles shaking with fury, he watched her scurry down the garden path, her little brother in tow. The Unsullied lingered, ink-black eyes unyielding. Aemond had half a mind to put both of them out if only to teach him a lesson about insolence.

At last, her sworn shield turned on his heel and followed his Mistress, vanishing in the green press like a shadow. Aemond squeezed the dagger hilt till his knuckles went white.

-She owes me something.

An apology, her eye, herself. A kiss on his lips, that Myrish garter off her thigh, the blood of her maidenhead.

“She’s probably tumbled half the Vale by now.”

He closed his remaining eye, the fire in his belly still burning hot.

When he opened it again, he was already moving toward the Keep, to find the hidden passages.

* * *

He didn't know where he was going. Half concealed under a hood he trotted down the cobbled streets. Shouts rang around him, the bustle of traders plying their fares, bakers dragging carts full of bread, and inkeeps attempting to lure patrons. The smell of stew and roast meat drifted around him like a cloud of gold mingling with the sour stench of wine, sewage, and horse dung.

It all made his head pound. He stumbled across the cobbled path, coming beside a dragonhead fountain. When he looked ahead, he saw the great black dome of the Dragonpit, rising above the brickstone houses like an onion. He was on the Street of Sisters, closer to Visenya’s hill.

-Fly Vhagar

Yes, flight would help him. He always felt clearer after he’d braved the clouds. Perhaps he would find some game he and Vhagar could burn—blood to settle the fire.

He lurched forward. Purple filled his vision.

She strode beside the market stalls, eyeing the displayed fruits with apprehension. Though she wore a cloak, he could still see the violet samite of her dress peeking beneath the wool. He would have wagered it was the same one he’d seen her wearing at the pleasure house.

He swallowed hard, eye pivoting to the right. Of course, she would be here. The Street of Silk was close by. Even whores needed to buy food to eat.

The word left a bitter film on his tongue. He immediately whirled on his feet, intent on marching to the pit to scream at Vhagar to blow fire, even if it was at nothing. He remained frozen. She’d sauntered over to the fountain, brown eyes narrowed right at him. The way her lips quirked, it was plain she’d recognized him.

He cursed himself—Lucera had been right. Even as a man grown, he could still not disguise himself.

With gritted teeth, he watched her circle the fountain, till she came right beside him.

“The shadow descends on us again,” she drawled. Her Common tongue was marked with the typical Kingslander accent—it was plain the woman had borne her after coming from across the narrow sea. “Has m’lord come for the apples?”

Aemond squirmed, eye frantically pivoting around him. For some reason, he was certain everyone was looking at them.

“No, don’t like apples much. Not the yellow ones at least.”

“Me neither,” she chortled. Her voice was unusually deep, and hoarse—like the scraping of a blade against a whetstone. “Too sweet. I likes them more sour.”

The silence that lingered was suffocating,

“Then why has m’lord come? Your brother's not here. Hasn’t been in a in weeks. Fat Walda’s got her skirts all in a tizzy, thinking he won’t come back.”

“My brother’s at the K... home.” he spat.

Though that thought was only a mercy to mother. Aemond much preferred when he would leave the castle to guzzle his wine. Being in his presence while he was so munted was the worst punishment he could ever imagine.

“Have you come yourself then?” her giggle was unseemly. “We’ve not had just you about. Didn’t seem like the sort.”

“I’m not.”

“Except that one time.”

“That was different. I was a child.”

“Right, and now you’re all grown.”

“So are you.”

His teeth gritted, and he dared to peer at her over his hood. She lay sprawled beside him on the stone, one leg draped over the other. Her cloak had come undone, and the smooth flesh of her thigh was peeking through. The memory of a blue string flashed before his eyes and he averted his gaze.

“Well, you can’t stay a girl forever,” she pursed her lips. “There’s not much use for a whore who doesn’t fuck.”

He squirmed. That word sounded so unholy on her lips.

“It would have been better if it was you who took it. Then at least I could say a Prince deflowered me. Like this, it ended up being some rich wine trader. Smelled rank.”

Stars exploded behind his eyes.

“She’s probably tumbled half the Vale by now.”

He wondered which one of those Sheep Fuckers had done it. It had to have been the Arryn cunt. That cursed flush that had kissed her cheeks when she was in his presence made it plain he was the one who held her affection.

But beyond her desires, she was not foolish. It boded better for her to give her maidenhead to someone of higher standing. The rest could get a turn later.

“I don’t care,” He hissed, hands gripping the stone with enough force to shatter his own fingers.

Another giggle. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear Lucera’s laugh.

“No, you would prefer a maid.” she teased. “It's why you picked me then, isn’t it? So I could be your maid.”

Bile rose in his throat. “No, it was because we looked to be of age.”

-Because you have brown hair.

And brown eyes. Because she'd been just as tall, just as slight, and unkempt.

“I could still be your maid,” she disregarded him. “Just close your eyes and pretend.”

He craned his head to pin her gaze. The coy smirk was gone. She was leaning in, frightfully close, chestnut eyes wide and earnest. They were downturned and made her long face appear mellow—dreamlike.

He swallowed hard. She drew closer, fingers caressing his own. When her lips brushed against his, it felt like the kiss of dove feathers.

He didn’t remember her leading him down the cobbled street. A part of him dreaded she would take him back to her parlor, to that same red room, and the older woman. Instead, she stepped into a ramshackle inn. The toothless greybeard sitting at the front said nothing to them—just accepted his coin with silent disinterest and waved them up.

The chamber smelled of sheep wool. It was plain a shepherd had stayed there previously, because he felt as if he’d stepped into a pen. Still, the smell was oddly comforting—real. Nothing else seemed so.

His feet felt foreign as he paced about the cramped chamber, not quite his own. His skin was taut against his flesh as if he might burst at the seam and collapse into a puddle of blood and meat. Escape the dream.

She'd excused herself from the chamber at one point. She needed to get ready—the thing he wanted wasn’t easy to get, and it would take her some time.

It was hours. Or minutes. He didn’t know. He just knew that when she returned to the chamber, the light outside had dimmed into a smoky pink.

He didn’t see her come in. Just heard the soft whisper of her slippers against the wooden floorboards as she drew near.

Then, hands descended on him from behind, trailing his shoulders, and snaking slowly around his waist.

“I forgot your name.” a voice said, queer, foreign. Not his own.

“Good,” she whispered into his back. “My name is her name now. Your maid. I want you to think of her.”

The hands deftly trailed the buttons of his doublet, pulling them open one by one, He sucked in breath after breath, skin still taunt.

“Think of her face,” she whispered, breath hot on his earlobe. “Her voice. Her smell.”

Her hand traveled lower, unlacing his breeches. The image of dark locks flashed before his eyes. Plump, red lips, shaped like a little lyre. Wide, doe eyes that crinkled when she smiled.

The hands wrapped around his waist unfurled. Soft footsteps rang around him, and he felt hot breath on his mouth. Fingers trailed lower unlacing his breeches fully, reaching in to wrap around his cock.

“Call me her name,” the voice whispered, soft, sweet. The other hand snaked around his, guiding him till it hit flesh. He felt the smooth surface of silk thread covering a coil of leather—his fingers dug under it, knotting it once around his index. His eye snapped open.

This garter was red. Like the color of fine Arbor gold. Still, it was there. A piece of fabric jealously hugging a smooth thigh.

When he looked up, she was there too. Smiling, her hair loose, a wild mess of brown curls.

The hand wrapped around him stroked harder. He clutched the garter, knuckles white with the effort. Her lips parted in invitation—just like they had in the garden.

-You owe me something.

He descended on them in a ravenous fury.

Wormwood flared on his tongue.

He immediately snapped back. Cera was gone, and a long, solemn face stared back. The beauty mark below her lip filled his vision.

Lyra was her name. He remembered. Lyra the whore.

She seemed to notice his sudden discontent because she leaned in to kiss him once more, tongue prying open his mouth. He jerked back, bile rising in his throat.

The hand wrapped around the garter released it, and he lunged for her neck.

To his fury, she didn’t seem afraid. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip and she exhaled labored breaths, full of desire.

“She’s probably tumbled half the Vale by now.”

She didn’t have anything to give him. That sweet, innocent girl had died the day she’d carved out his eye. And the Arryn cunt had taken the rest. Him and all the others.

All she could offer him now was a turn.

With one forceful pull, he crushed his lips to Lyra. The taste of wormwood flared, as grating as ash on his tongue. He kissed her harder, driving her back onto a dresser.

To his fury, the thing was moaning, hands clawing at his waist. The taste was going to make him retch. He pulled away to find her gasping, that cursed mark below her lip. Turning her over like a sack, he pushed her head down, fingers digging into her mousy brown hair. The Myrish dress ripped like parchment, and when he pushed inside her, it was in hatred.

Like any other man, taking his turn.

Chapter Text

It took her days to settle down. The feast had been a nightmarish disaster that had sparked a torrent of gossip, which had spread all throughout the Keep.

Most of it was related to her brother. Jace accosting Aemond had been unseemly, and beneath someone of his station. It did not look well for their family to be divided so publicly.

But there were a few other whispers. Ones that followed her in particular—the wanton Princess. The coquette that toyed with decent men played on their passions and made them stray. The wicked thing that had seduced her own half-uncle and pitted him against her new darling from the Vale.

The insinuations left her sickened. She'd done everything in her power to avoid Aemond. It was he who had insisted on dragging her off into a dance, the Mating Ritual no less. He who had provoked Jace, who mocked them both to their faces.

All she did was try to exist on her own terms, free of his envious gaze.

-You can’t be free.

For as long as she had his blood on her hands, he would never leave her alone. The only way to end this was to confront him.
It was why she’d gone out into the garden. For days she'd languished in the Keep, scurrying between her apartments and Rhaena's, careful not to be seen. Then, when she'd found courage at last, she’d gone out, keenly aware he would find her—the way he always did.

She'd wanted him to end it. Take her eye, release her from this cursed bond. It would hurt she knew. After Aemond’s maiming, Dragonstone had been alight with rumors of his recovery. She'd heard Maester Gerardis relay to his assistant how much pain he'd been in. How many times Maester Orwyle had had to cut him to ensure the flesh healed properly.

It made her limbs tremble with fear. Still, she wagered she could bear any earthly pain if it meant the one weighing her soul would vanish.

She’d seized his blade, resigned to her fate. However, even as she led the point right to her eye a part of her knew his resentment reached beyond his lost limb. She could see it, the moment his grip faltered, and the dagger dropped, no longer yearning to carve.

“I can’t help you,” she'd told him, and she’d meant it in earnest. No amount of blood could ever mend the hurt he felt.
There was no recompense she could offer that would balance the scales—that would set her free. Not when he refused to do so himself.

The way his hand had trailed her neck before pivoting to her lips had left her shivering. The ravenous desire was in his remaining eye still, red and violent. But Luce knew he didn’t want to gut her.

He wanted something else—and she was not prepared to ponder what that was.

Rising from her bed one morning, she resolved to cease hiding. She'd done what she could to give him a chance at vengeance, and he'd refused to take the opportunity. All she could do now was persevere and plan for the future.

Dressing herself in a simple wool and linen gown, she prepared to go to the yard. There was one person she had not yet asked for guidance on the matter—and something told her he had the answers she sought.

The clamor of swords rang out in the crisp morning air like a song. Luce allowed herself a barest moment of respite when she neared the stairs—to soak up the sun and gather her courage.

To her dismay, a familiar scene was sprawled below. Jace was struggling against two men at arms, swinging his tourney sword with wild determination. Sweat glistened on his brow, making his lush curls stick to his forehead as he attempted to dodge and parry his relentless foes, all while somehow trying to disarm them.

As usual, she found the architect of this mad display languishing near the weapons rack. Daemon sat sprawled on the table, Dark Sister in his lap. His fingers deftly ran a cloth over the sword, as tender as a stroking lover. However, despite occupying his hands, his dark eyes remained transfixed on the swordplay ahead—like a shark, gorging itself on the carnage.

Luce arched a brow, just as one of the men kicked Jace in his chest hard enough to send him tumbling. Her brother fell to the ground with a loud thud of armor and mock steel. The breath he heaved was one of pained labor, far more grievous than anything he should experience whilst training.

Especially not when he had an audience.

As was custom, Daemon's presence drew spectators. Minor courtiers littered the yard, observing the play with amusement. Some laughed, others whispered in frightened adoration—the kind only the Rogue Prince could inspire.

But the worst of it was to her right. A head of silver hair stood at the entrance to the smithy, fiddling with the straps of a leather breastplate. It was unusual seeing Aegon up so early. At this time he was more like to be buried under his covers, attempting to sleep off last night's excesses.

He'd plainly indulged, for the rings darkening his eyes were deep enough to be mistaken for bruises. Nevertheless, he still found time to toss mocking smirks at Jace’s strained efforts to beat back his foes.

Beside him, Aemond didn’t smile. He merely observed the swordplay with rapt attention—measuring up his foe. The moment she dared to look his way, his head snapped up, as if drawn. That accursed slit found hers, and gooseflesh pricked her skin.

The gown she wore suddenly felt too revealing— even though it was one of the most demure pieces she had.

-It doesn’t matter.

Even if she bundled herself in Septa's robes one look from him would strip her naked.

“If Khaleesi has changed her mind, this one would carve out the other eye as well. For ceaselessly offending.”

She gritted her teeth, squirming under the weight of the stare. When the pricking in her skin became unbearable, she at last averted her gaze, blood rushing right into her head.

“Trust, dear Torro. Even blind, deaf, and mute he'd still find a way to offend.”

Head held high, she descended the steps. Her arrival drew attention, with some of the gathered men leering at her as if she were the last piece of chicken on a platter.

In any other circumstance, she would not have cared in the slightest. But with that vile periwinkle slit stripping her, she almost screamed at Torro to pluck out their eyes instead.
Balling her hands into fists, she trekked across the yard, past dueling men. Though her stepfather had not acknowledged her approach, the bemused way he cocked his head at the swordplay was a clear sign he knew she was there.

“You do realize Jace is to inherit the throne after mother?” She launched, immediately switching to High Valyrian. It was only then that his indigo eyes pivoted to her. “He will not be able to do that if you have him beaten into a bloody pulp.”

Daemon blinked at her. “How long have you been at the Vale? Four years?”

“Three.”

“And in all that time, you still haven’t learned not to play nursemaid to your brother?”

“I don’t see how you would mind.” She quipped. “Seeing as you and I have that in common.”

With one quirk of his brow, he lowered the leg he was resting on the table. Luce took the invitation, immediately moving to sit beside him.

Torro retreated to stand off to the right—a shield against the green slit of resentment.

“If you had any sense, you would not repeat my follies.”

She shrugged, just as Jace rose and assumed his battle stance anew.

Ser Criston seemed to take that as an invitation to have Aegon assume his own position before coming down on him with his morningstar.

“Why, they seemed to have worked quite well.” She declared. “Grandsire has reconciled with you and mother, and secured Driftmark for us. I’d say that’s a victory if I ever saw one.”

“You would call a victory the thing that’s left you without an inheritance?” Daemon mused, rubbing the cloth over the grooves in his sword hilt.

To her left, Jace was charging, swinging the blade at his opponent like a rabid animal. The forceful way he wielded that thing had Luce convinced he was better off using a war hammer as a weapon.

In contrast, Aegon seemed to be much more adept. He dodged Ser Criston's vicious strikes with surprising grace, his sword moving to parry each blow in a quick flash of steel. Aemond stood off to the side, still looking.

-Others take me…

“Need I remind you that I gave up that inheritance of my own volition?”

“Then don’t call it a victory. You cannot win anything by surrendering, little sprite.”

The groan escaped her lips before she could stop it. “Still calling me that.”

“It's what you are,” he chuckled. “Only little sprites flee whenever they chance upon any trouble.”

Gripping the edge of the table, she lashed him with a look.

“I thought you of all people would be thrilled at the outcome. Rhaena has secured a legacy for herself, just as you’d always wanted.”

Just as she'd thought, the mention of his youngest daughter made the smirk sour on his lips.

“She secured nothing.” He spat. “She was given this inheritance. And she's just as like to have someone take it away the moment we're no longer here.”

Her mind immediately recalled the vile obscenities Daemion had hurled their way, his face twisted in hatred.

-He will come back.

They owed him blood—and that is a debt only their lives could erase.

“It was as much her proposition as it was mine.”

“It was groveling. Her, giving you something instead of seizing what is her due. Like a craven.”

Luce gritted her teeth.

-How does Rhaena not despise him?

The spiteful way he derided her gentle heart left Luce incensed. She deserved more than to be so devalued.

“Would a craven have dared asked you to come?"

He blinked, his fingers hovering over the hilt.

“She didn’t ask. She begged.”

“And yet you still came.”

Daemon pressed his lips into a firm white line. He did despise weakness—more than anything else in the world. And yet despite resenting his girl for the softness he saw in her, he could never resist it.

-Does not make you any better.

It would have done them all good if he simply dealt with his feelings in his own right instead of exercising his worst miseries on them.

“Of course I did.” He said at last. “Do you think I’d leave your mother to the snakes?”

“No,” she conceded. For all his faults, the thing she always valued about him was the love he bore her mother.

“But make no mistakes. If you always resort to begging others for what you’re due, you’ll get nowhere. You’ll just leave yourself open for the vultures to come tear you apart.”

She squirmed in her seat, eyeing Jace's futile attempt to beat back the man bearing down on his shield. The force of the blow caught her brother hard in the arm, and he let out an exasperated grunt. Snickers followed his impassioned display, and she side-eyed Aegon who had taken a break to wipe the sweat off his brow.

“Good thing you’re here. To ward off the vultures.”

The smile gazing Daemon's lips seemed genuine for once.

“But I won't be. Not forever. And when I’m gone, you’ll need to learn how to defend your legacy from those vultures. Alone.”

“I thought dragons had nothing to fear from lesser beasts.”

Her brother had fallen into the dirt again, gasping for air like a dying man.

“Focus on your feet and keep your shield up!” Daemon hissed in the Common Tongue. “Now go again."

The scorn cut Jace fiercer than any blow. Scowling, he vaulted upright, eyeing his two opponents with murderous intent.

“They don’t. But a vulture can bring down a dragon if it has thousands of brethren aiding its attack.”

“Then we have to inspire the vultures toward love and loyalty, not hunger.”

The giggle that burst from his lips, made the knot in her gut tighten.

“You have too much of your grandsire in you.”

“Lord Corlys?” She quipped, pinning his profile.

“Yes, because you look so much like him.”

She gritted her teeth, nervously eyeing the yard. No one save Daemon would dare make such insinuation, especially in public.

-Gods, he's mad.

During her girlhood, he never had any reservations about speaking the truth of their birth plainly. But rather than commenting with malice, his jabs had a distinct air of indifference—as if it didn’t matter.

“Again, I didn’t think you'd mind. I thought that’s why you tolerated me.”

Pushing himself off the table he turned to examine the tools displayed on the rack.

“As amusing as it is to hear my brother's voice come out of your mouth, it does naught to help you secure your future. Your legacy.”

“We've done that already.”

“You got a future—not a way to uphold it. You'd need power for that. Power and daring the likes of which none of you possess as of yet.”

Blowing a breath, she sank her teeth into her bottom lip.

-Always prattling about legacy.

It was the one thing she did not miss during her time at the Eyrie.

“We're trying,” she offered, gazing at her brother. Exhaustion had done him at last and he was stumbling, just barely dodging the swing of his opponent's sword. “Jace is doing his best.”

Those words seemed to offend her stepfather.

“Is he?” his brows shot up.

Just as Jace staggered near where they were seated, he lunged. Kicking him in the back, he knocked the tourney sword from his grip, with enough force to make Jace yelp. Dark Sister cut through the blunted steel like butter, savaging the blade into two.

“Don't barrel like a mad dog.” Daemon spat in the Common tongue, peering down at him over the bridge of his nose. “Stay calm and keep your footing. Again.”

The redness ravaging her brother's cheeks made her force down a swallow. The entire yard was gaping with rapt fascination. Even Aemond had, at last, peeled his accursed slit off her to ogle her stepfather. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought she saw admiration twist his face.

-Seven save me.

This family didn’t need two of them.

With a quick twirl, Daemon sheathed Dark Sister and came down upon her.

“Look me in the eye, and tell me, earnestly that his ‘best’ is enough to stand against that.”

His gaze never went over to the green camp but she knew who he was looking at all the same.

Luce sucked in a breath.

“Aegon is a drunken lout. He has no desire to rule. It's Otto Hightower who’s the real threat.”

He grunted.

“True, but you shouldn’t underestimate the snakelet.” Slowly drawing away, he once again leaned against the table beside her. “Even drunken louts can get a taste for power, once you put a crown on their heads. Nothing like a title and pretty chair to make you feel important.”

She dared spy Aegon once more. Though his cheeks were red with exhaustion his face was slack—disinterested. For all his cruelty, he truly didn’t care for much—save her grandsire’s love.
-Acknowledgement is what he wants.

And she couldn’t think of a better acknowledgment than stewardship over the Seven Kingdoms.

“And as soon as he gets all the love his pathetic self so desperately craves, you'll find he'll do anything to defend it.” Daemon paused, leaning in closer to her. “Including releasing the hound.”

As if his words were a summons, Aemond at last stepped forth to test his steel. Rather than start with Cole, the Kingsguard picked two squires and a man at arms to go against him—at the same time.

“Do you think that one-eyed cunt will spare your brother?” Daemon's whisper caressed her ear like a spiteful lover. “The Queen’s been nursing him on her milk of hate since he was a boy. He's been waiting for a chance to be set upon her enemies. The moment he has Jace in his grasp, he'll rip him apart and feed him to Laena's hoary bitch.”

Bile rose up in her throat. No sooner had Ser Criston called to engage that he leapt. His sword bore down on one of the squires like a hammer, disarming him in two quick blows. The other attempted to lunge at him from his blind side, but he was faster, kicking the man to the ground with enough force to shatter his ribs.

“Aemond’s quarrel is with me, not Jace,” she announced the song of steel making her head spin.

“Oh don’t worry, he'll come for you too. But first, he'll make you suffer. And then when you’re broken at his feet, he’ll take the blood you owe him.”

“He can take it now,” she spat, too sickened to keep listening. “If he wants to take steel to my eye and bloody it, he's welcome to it. Perhaps that will at last put an end to this madness.”

Silence was her answer. When she dared glance at her stepfather that accursed smirk he loved so much graced his thin lips. Gooseflesh raced up her spine.

“Trust, little sprite,” he cooed, his indigo eyes alight with fire. “It's not a steel blade he wants to bloody. And certainly not with the blood of your eye.”

Her breathing hitched. She averted her gaze, the knot in her gut rising up to squeeze her throat. That cursed dress felt as thin as parchment, and it took everything she had in her not to lift her hands to cover her chest.

“I don’t follow,” she fired forcefully.

Daemon’s giggle was as grating as the scraping of steel against stone.

“Yes, you do.”

She blinked, teeth gnawing on her cheek hard enough to draw blood. When she dared to glance up, Aemond had disarmed his last opponent and had his sword aimed directly at his neck.
Naturally, his vile gaze caught hers and he drank her in as if she were wine.

-He's mad.

She couldn’t give him… that. She couldn’t give anyone that. The very thought of being so vulnerable, so open with another left her stricken. She may have suffered suggestive flattery, risqué touches, and ravenous glances, but she drew the line at anything beyond. As far as she was concerned, she was to belong to herself, and herself alone— a celibate nomad, who spent the rest of her days traveling the world, her base desires be damned. They were easy to ignore anyways.

-Coupling is a death sentence for a woman.

The world derided it as something sinful, worthy of contempt. Even within the confines of marriage, a woman lost her worth the moment she was deflowered. Between a widow and a maiden, the world deemed the maiden more desirable.

Worse, losing her virtue brought her closer to the Stranger. The very memory of her mother's anguished screams, as a child slid from between her legs was enough to make her faint. One mishap and Rhaenyra would have passed from this world—like her own mother, and her goodsister Laena before.

Luce would rather he take both her eyes than experience that pain.

“Well, I don’t know what you want me to do about it.” She fired, trying desperately to establish composure once again. “I’m not a warrior. I can’t… fight him off.”

The moment those words left her lips, their true gravity settled. Her brows furrowed, and she gripped the table's edge harder.

-No, he wouldn’t go that far.

He was violent and blood-crazed, but she refused to believe he was prepared to resort to that depravity. That sweet little boy she'd known and loved so dearly had to be in there somewhere. And he would never dare become the image of his elder brother.

“No, but there is other things you can do,” Daemon continued, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Luce immediately realized the distress was plain on her face and she schooled her expression.

“You want to help your brother? Then get him to stop fretting over parts of himself that don’t matter. He is a dragon. He can will whatever truth he wants into being.”

At his wits end, her dear twin had discarded his weapon and was madly swinging at the two men, his frustration palpable. Luce felt immeasurable pain at seeing him so broken.

“So can you.” He peered down at her, indigo eyes crackling. “You’re not a warrior, but you’re not without weapons. Your wit is your sword. Use it, as you've done thus far.”

The sound of wood splintering rang out to the side. Ser Criston's morningstar had shattered Aemond’s shield. He hardly seemed to notice. He discarded it and lunged at his opponent like a feral bobcat.

“Wed your Arryn pet. That one is so struck with you, he'd hand you the Falcon throne on a silver platter.”

She peered at him. The memory of Ser Joffrey's tender caress helped loosen the noose around her neck. He'd always been so patient with her. So gentle. If there was anyone she would suffer to call husband, he was the closest one.

“And once you have the Eyrie, you ally with the others. One by one, till they’re all black. And then, when your mother is on the throne, and those snakelets are headless, you do as you like. Discard your Falcon, find another—or none at all. Live your life the way you wish—the way only a dragon can.”

The crash of flesh to the ground made her regain her senses.
Jace lay sprawled like a turnip sack, his red face sucking in air with a ravenous hunger.

“Halt,” Daemon called.

The advancing men froze in their tracks, lowering their heads.
Despite looking on the verge of death, her brother still struggled up and assumed his stance.

“No, no, I’m fine.” His breath was so labored, it sounded as if his lungs would never again expand to take in air. “I want to go again,”

“Why, so Dren can pummel you senseless?”

Scowling, Daemon sauntered over to them to pick up Jace's broken tourney sword.

“You're done for the day. Go wash yourself.”

The murderous rage that had blossomed on Jace's face left her stricken. However, before his madness got the better of him, and he lunged at Daemon, a voice rang from the other end of the yard.

“Perhaps the Prince Jacaerys would prefer some proper instruction.”

There was no malice in Ser Criston’s voice. Just cold, unassuming courtesy. He stood frozen, head held high, his swarthy skin glistening like polished oak.

“He seems to be struggling under your tutelage.”

Her stepfather didn’t take the slightest bit of offence at his jab. Instead, he grinned at the knight, with the same amusement he reserved for a dancing monkey.

“So it seems. Training yard games bore him. He'd be far better off engaging in the real thing.” Tossing a glance over his shoulder, he pinned Jace's gaze. “You’re to come with me on rounds.”

The red fury on her twin's face faded to a confuddled pink. “To… to the city?”

“Yes, Dren tells me there have been some brawls in Flea Bottom we should break up.”

Luce ogled one of Jace's sparing partners, the squat hairy man with pockmarks on his face. He was City Watch, she realized.

The confusion faded to resolved determination and her brother nodded. “Alright then.”

“Good,” Daemon extended the shattered sword to one of the yard boys, the conversation at an end.

Ser Criston had other notions.

“My Prince will forgive me, but there is no reason for you to be doing rounds around Flea Bottom. You are no longer the Commander of the City watch.”

“And there is no reason for you to be kissing royal cunt, but here you are.”

A hush fell on the yard. Ser Criston's face had darkened to a black fury. Behind him, Aemond was scowling, sword at the ready.

Daemon's mocking smirk did not waver once.

“The three of us go, at my say so.”

“Three?” Jace inquired.

His rage seemed but a distant memory, as he struggled to beat back laughter.

“Luce should come. Thought she could use a stroll about the city. Away from all the desperate dogs yapping at her skirts.”
Her hand squeezed the edge of the table, clutching it till the wood cried. Aemond's remaining eye was so wide, it was halfway to popping out of his socket.

Ser Criston refused to let up.

“My Prince, that is hardly appropriate. The city is no place for a young maiden to walk.”

Daemon's laugh bade her muscles to seize.

“Truly? I hadn’t known a pair of tits prevented one from walking.”

The heavy silence lingered for just half a moment. Then, stifled laughs sounded around her.

“Luce, you didn’t tell me that.” His head snapped at her, brows raised. “Do your tits stop you from walking?”

She glared at him. Anyone else being so crass would have sent her blood to boiling. But the poignant look on his face revealed the game he was playing—and she could not begrudge it.

“No, not that I found,” she peered down at her bust, before shrugging.

The pride radiating from Daemon's face felt as warm as a brazier fire on a cold winter day.

“Wonderful, it's settled then. It shall be three.”

Again, he turned away, his dismissal plain. Ser Criston seemed to take it as an invitation to keep striking.

“Please, my Prince. This is unseemly.”

Whether it was the insolent tone of his voice or the scowl on his lips that triggered him, she didn’t know. In half a breath, her stepfather had rushed the Kingsguard, getting right into his face.

“What's unseemly, Ser Crispin, is you deciding what someone can and cannot do without consulting the party in question.” He paused, head snapping toward her. “Luce, do you want to come?”

Sucking in a breath, she combed through the gathered spectators. They all bore the same disapproving looks on their faces—but the unease she glimpsed in their eyes told her they would never dare speak a word against her.

Because Daemon would take their heads off for it.

“I do actually,” she replied, back straightening in defiance.

“Good, then it's three. Like I said.”

“Four.” The unexpected sternness in Jace's voice caught her off guard. He gave Daemon a shrug. “Rhaena should come too. She's not left the Keep since we got to the city.”

“Four then,” Daemon agreed.

Ser Criston held his gaze with silent ferocity—the only thing that betrayed his fury was his jaw muscle, relentlessly twitching.

“It's Criston,” he forced through gritted teeth.

The satisfaction oozing out of Daemon's face was as thick as perfume.

“Crispin.” He countered. “Run along now. You have a cunt to kiss. And some desperate dogs to kennel.”

The sword in Aemond’s hand raised higher. He drew closer, purple slit alight with fury. Even Aegon seemed insenced, that slack face lighting up with red rage. Bile rose in her throat when she spied Daemon's fingers gently caressing Dark Sister's pommel.
Nevertheless, he didn’t move. He just smirked, head cocked—as if he was observing dancing monkeys.

At last, just as that muscle in Ser Criston's jaw was to snap, he went right past him. He eyed the daggers Micah had displayed just outside the smithy before picking one up in his hand.

In two quick strides, he was on her, the blade extended, hilt first.
Luce observed the carved wood pommel—it was shaped into the likeness of a screaming maiden. If she squinted, she could see her own face reflected in her fine features.

-Kill or be killed.

There was no other choice beyond that. Either she played the game and saw her family and future secured, or she allowed the vultures to rip her apart—her and everyone she loved.

-You will never wash the blood away.

There was already so much hatred stewing around her, so much resentment. It was drowning her, pulling her into the dark abyss. She didn’t know how she could handle more.

Against her better judgment, her eyes snapped up to look beyond her stepfather. A blazing slit the color of blooming periwinkles pinned hers, malice spewing from them like dragonfire.

-Hate me.

Not like she didn’t hate herself already.

Her fingers snapped, and she seized the hilt, the wood warm against her skin. The smirk on Daemon's face never faltered. He drew closer and planted a soft kiss on her temple, before walking past her.

“Dren, fetch the lads. We must go hunting,” he commanded, and the two men bent down into half bows.

“As M'lord of the Fleas commands.” The pock-marked one smiled, yellow teeth glinting like gold.

Jace’s gaze followed Daemon up the stairs, his brows furrowed. A reddish bruise was blooming on his left cheek, and the way he clutched his left forearm made her sick with worry. Nevertheless, he gave her a tender smile, full of care and protective understanding.

-I’ll be there for you. Like always.

Nodding her head at him, she dismissed him to get dressed. When he too had departed, she twirled the blade in her hands. The weight of the hilt felt queer against her skin, and she immediately thrust it at Torro, eager to rid herself of the burden.
She was no warrior. It boded better for her to let someone with actual skill do her fighting for her. Her Unsullied accepted the weapon with solemn dignity, sheathing it at his belt.

Aemond seemed to take great offense at the blade. He stared it down with vicious contempt—just like he did Torro. As if it and he were another obstacle in his way.

-No, you can’t have it.

She owed him blood—an eye. That, he was most welcome to take. If he dared duel Torro for it. But he couldn’t have anything else.

She didn’t owe him anything else.

-I belong to myself and myself alone.

Head held high she gathered her courage and followed her family up the steps.

Chapter Text

Rhaena was scowling.

“Do you think it to be true?” she bent over to whisper to him. “Can men really glimpse the future?"

Jace let out an exasperated sigh. All the bruises in his body sighed with him, a sting so great, he felt faint.

-Seven save me.

He should have taken Maestro Qavo's offer and downed the pain potion. It had scarce been a few hours after his training yard blunder, yet his muscles were alight.

“Doubt it. At least not unwashed street urchins.” He offered, eyeing the rotund woman.

She was bundled in a patchwork of wools, colored with vibrant Tyroshi dyes. Her hair was a similar collection of shades, each strand dyed differently so as to mimic a peacock's tail. However, despite her gaudy appearance it was her eyes that drew the most attention— chiefly their absence.

Two dark holes stood where her eyeballs should have been, the blackness a sharp contrast to her sallow skin. Though she sat crouched on her mock throne, seemingly ignorant of the crowd ofcity-goerss streaming past her, the way her head twitched on occasion had Jace convinced she was aware of every single soul that passed by her.

“Not necessarily,” Rhaena offered.

The two of them stood huddled near the entrance to an alehouse, right at the fork that led into the Street of Sisters, and the Gateway. Their hoods were up, yet despite their raggedy disguises Jace still felt as if everyone could recognize them.
-Gods, Daemon needs to be quicker.

Not only was his stepfather spending an ungodly amount of time languishing in an alehouse, but he'd left them outside with seemingly no escort.

“I’ve read ballads about seers blessed with the gift of prophecy. They'd always eschew a life of comfort to venture out into some desert to spend the rest of their days in congress with the gods.” His cousin eyed the fortune teller. Her attendant was waving his hands, calling for passersby to come learn their future. The gaudy blue robe he wore was plainly too large for him, for the sleeves hung off his arms like curtains.

“Kings Landing is a pigsty, but it’s hardly a barren desert. Besides, I doubt someone who has congress with the gods would reveal their wisdom for some coin and ale.”

That was what he found the most amusing. For all the spectacle they made of their little fortune-telling parlor, they charged 4 coppers for their wisdom—and those who found themselves short on coin could still get a glimpse into their future in exchange for a pitcher of ale.

“I think I should like to ask.” Wiggling free of his grip, Rhaena straightened her back.

“You mean you should like to waste your coin? Rhae, leave it…” he grumbled. “You’re better off asking Mushroom to tell you your future. At least his prediction will make you laugh.”
His cousin scrunched her nose.

“Come, Jace, there's no harm in it. Even if it is all show, I can still be amused by it. And if not… I can gain invaluable insights into my future.”

He side-eyed her.

-Your purse shall be empty by the end of the hour.

That insight, he wagered would be far more accurate than anything the eyeless walrus could give her. Nevertheless, she groaned.

“Fine, let’s go.” He reached over to take her arm into his, but she jerked back.

“No, I can go alone.”

The look he lashed her with was far too parental for his liking, but he could not contain himself.

“It's just across the Street. You can watch out for me here.”
Her eyes were wide, uncertain. But the determination creasing her brows undid him.

He gave her a nod. In two quick strides, she sauntered over to the fortune teller's dais. As predicted the attendant immediately accosted her, his oversized sleeves flapping about like bat wings. Rhaena pressed a coin into his hand and offered up her palm for the eyeless woman to feel up.

Jace eyed the women’s meaty fingers as they pawed at Rhaena's skin. As discomforting as the expression on her face was, her resolve did not falter once. He arched a brow when that cursed attendant sidled to her, a vial of some kind in his hand. Snake oil, he wagered.

The frown on his cousin’s face deepened and she shrunk further into her brown hood. The woman was sputtering too, her double chins jiggling like pudding.

He took that as a sign to intervene. Side-stepping street-goers, he barreled over to her side.

“Yes, yes, the sweet maid will enjoy this!” the attendant was bellowing, red spit flying through the gaps where his teeth had once been. The deep burgundy on his tongue told Jace he likely only subsisted on wine and sour leaf. “It will open your third eye, and make you see beyond.”

“I think two eyes are plenty. She isn’t in need of a third,” he tossed to the merchant.

That weasel smirk died on his lips, and his yellow eyes pinned his.

“Yes, I see it.” The eyeless woman chanted, her body rocking. “Great and unfortunate things. Fire and smoke.”

That seemed to catch his attention.

Rhaena blanched. “What do you mean?”

“Fire will surround you, child. You and your love.”

Jace blindly grabbed for Rhaena's forearm. The shawl she'd used to conceal her silver hair was still firmly in place, but he didn’t want anyone chancing to recognize them.

“Alright, I think we've had enough.” He pulled, the smell of cheap perfume and horse dung radiating around the parlor making him faint.

“What fire?” his cousin demanded, struggling against his hold.
“The fire… the fire of the forge!” she wailed. “The man you will marry shall be a blacksmith! Big he'll be. Burly. And older. But he will give you ten strong sons, he will.”

The trepidation in Jace's belly died in an instant.

“Thank you!” he shot a sour smirk at the attendant, before leading Rhaena back toward the inn.

“Congress with the gods indeed.” He quipped, eyeing her pucker with amusement. It was remarkable just how much she resembled Baela when she did that.

“Shut up, at least I had fun.”

His brows went up. “With a burly blacksmith and ten strong sons?”

The reproachful scowl faltered and she doubled over in laughter. It was impossible to resist joining her. No sooner had they settled that a figure appeared at the end of the fork. Luce waded through the press of citygoers with ease, her Unsullied shadow hot on her heels. Even bundled up in plain servant's wools, she still stood out, fresh-faced and radiant among the unwashed press.

“At last,” he quipped when she descended upon them. “I thought I was going to have to go into the shop myself to drag you out.”
“Don’t be dramatic Jace, I was just browsing,” she blew a breath, pushing a dark lock out of her eye.

“And buying.” He arched a brow. The satchel she had strung on her shoulder sagged under the weight of the trinkets she'd stuffed inside. “What, did you clear the shelves?”

She immediately clutched her prize to her chest, as if it were a babe. He hadn't exactly counted but he wagered she'd spent at least half an hour inside the mapmaker's parlor.

“It's just a few maps and tools. I’d promised grandsire I would help him with his Valyria model.”

“Yes, this spree was entirely for grandsire's benefit.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m allowed to snatch at least a crumb of joy for myself, am I not?”

Heaving a sigh, he finally nodded at her. Her attention immediately went to the inn, and she eyed it with nervous apprehension.

“Gods, he's still not done? What’s he doing in there?”

His mood soured in a heartbeat, and he crossed his arms on his chest.

“Who knows. But whatever it is, it’s certainly nothing good.”

As if his words were a summons the wooden door creaked open, and a figure in armor stepped out. That barrel-chested brute from the yard sauntered out, a tankard of some kind clutched in his hand. He's shed the plain wools he'd donned for training in favor of worn steel armor. Curiously, that trademark gold cloak his order prided themselves on, was absent from his shoulders.

Daemon followed shortly after. Concealed under a black hood, he slithered through the door, hand in hand with a figure in red. Though the robe concealed her, it was easy to gauge her as a lady of the night. The cinched dress she wore underneath was far too revealing to be proper attire a modest woman could safely sport on the streets.

She caressed his stepfather’s forearm suggestively, her black eyes as dark as sin. The gold paint lining her eyelids made her resemble a stalking tigress.

Jace balled a fist.

“So that’s why we've spent hours languishing here. So he could dishonor Mother. Rounds my…”

He felt a sharp tug on his sleeve, and Rhaena lashed him with a look.

“Doubt mother would concern herself with something like that.”
Luce's brows had gone high enough to brush against her hairline. Jace felt rage choke his throat.

-She should.

He’d always found Daemon's unabashed debauchery shameful. His stepfather had not attempted to hide his unseemly familiarity with the various servants and common folk of Dragonstone. But he could have tolerated the risqué touches and sultry glances.

However, when he spied what was plainly a Lyseni dockside whore entering his chambers one evening, he'd had enough. He rushed to tell Mother immediately, incensed he would dishonor her so.

To his undying surprise, she seemed neither dismayed nor offended.

“Thank you for telling me, sweetling.” she'd cooed at him, cupping his cheek. “I know you only mean to protect me. And I love you for it.”

Jace could not understand, in the slightest how she would be so unperturbed by it—until he glimpsed that same woman entering her own apartments in the dead of night.

Afterward, he did not dare ponder just what his parents did behind closed doors.

-I see where Baela gets it.

The taste of mead caressed his tongue while the earthy notes of cinnamon coupled with the spice of dornish peppers in his nostrils. Her eyes had pinned his, lips glistening as she called his name.

“Come, little chickens!” Dren bellowed spitting phlegm onto the ground. “We have rounds to do!”

Jace hardly needed an excuse. He barreled after the man in a fury, head spinning from the memory. As he fell in step with him, he asked for the tankard. The City Watchman silently passed it on, and when he took a swing, his throat burned.

It wasn’t wine. The taste was more potent, sweet, and rich, with a searing afterbite that made his eyes water. However, the second the swallow slid down his throat, the taste of mead vanished, taking with it the dimness of that cave too.
Luce eyed him chugging, with one brow raised. He shrugged, passing the tankard to her.

The apprehension turned to laughter and she drowned a swallow too, scowling when the drink hit her tongue. Rhaena was more hesitant but did not want to be excluded. The hacking cough she spat out after forcing down the mouthful had him half-convinced she would choke.

“Steel yourselves, chickens. We’re about to descend into the bowels o’ the Seven Hells themselves.” the pock-marked Dren flashed his yellow teeth.

No sooner had the declaration left his lips that the uniform cobbled path shattered into a jumble of haphazard stones.
The first thing that hit him was the smell.

A most foul stench of pig shit and rotten meat mingled with the odor of rank piss. Jace stumbled, that morrow’s meager nourishment coming up to rest in his throat However, he did not have time to ponder it because a scream sounded to his left. Two men were arguing in front of a dilapidated brickstone house, fists at the ready. The fat one swung, shrieking obscenities.

His opponent crashed into a puddle of brown—a pitcher of some kind fell from the terraces above, the clay pot missing his head by mere inches.

Dren sprang up faster than he could blink. The brute rushed the brawlers, pulling the fat man off his opponent with one forceful wrench. The rotund thing recovered in a heartbeat, directing his obscenities at the city Watchman.

Dren repaid his insults with a backhand so violent, Jace could hear the crunch of the man's nose ring in his bones.

“Flea Bottom bids you a fucking welcome!” he bellowed, that yellow smile cresting his wormy lips. Jace cast a look at Rhaena, huddled behind his sister—his dearest cousin had blanched worse than a sack of flour.

His gaze pinned his twin’s.

“Mayhaps this was not the best of ideas...”

Daemon chortled at Dren's rabid elation and tossed a copper at the bloodied man. Then he strolled forth, his cloak billowing after him like smoke. Jace steeled himself.

“Why are we here?” he fell in step with him, nervously eyeing the ever-tightening path ahead.

The smooth, well-kept stone houses slowly gave way to ramshackle shacks and timbered inns. They rose up into the sky, fiercely battling for the limited space, the weight of time making the old wood bend inwardly. Jace couldn’t count the times he was convinced a terrace they’d passed under would collapse right on their heads.

A patchwork of clothing marred the lines that ran above them, and woven baskets hung like lanterns. The air had grown warmer too, oppressively damp, the close confines keeping the heat and moisture prisoner. Shouts and curses rang around them like songs, as common folk rushed to and from, trying to squeeze past one another.

Barely a few minutes in the press, and Jace yearned for the wide expanse of the open sky.

“Illegal brawling ring, I told you. We're to break it up.” Daemon commented. His stride was purposeful, his posture at ease—he seemed as comfortable here as he was taking a stroll about Dragonstone's yard. It was hardly surprising—from the tales Jace had heard, Flea Bottom had been almost a second home to him.

“Wonderful, where exactly is this ring?”

The farther they ventured the more he became concerned for the girls' safety.

“No idea.” Daemon shrugged.

Jace side-eyed him. “You mean to tell me we're to aimlessly stroll around hoping we just chance upon it?”

That wretched giggle sounded to his right. Jace yearned to commit violence.

“I know you were never the clever one of the family, Jacaerys, but I should expect you were taught how you can gain knowledge you presently do not possess?”

“So we're meant to ask? And someone will just tell us. Like that.”

“Of course,” Daemon halted, head cocked. His purple slits pinned Jace's and he yearned to unsheathe his dagger and carve that accursed smirk off his thin lips. “You'd be surprised by what can be achieved when the proper words are employed.”

Daemon didn’t need to elaborate for him to see what he meant.

They started on Gin Alley. A little bend notorious for thieves and cutpurses, they raided two winesinks for the information they needed. At the first drinking den, the shriveled attendant seemed to be familiar with his stepfather and was more than forthcoming. However, while he was prepared to offer some foul-smelling wine, a bowl of questionable meat stew, and even a few pockmarked whores, he had no knowledge of what they needed.

The second winesink had been far less welcoming. What he assumed was the owner cursed at them, spitting at Dren as a monarchist dog. Jace was certain he had no idea what the word meant, but nevertheless, offence was taken. The brawl the city watchman started bade all the patrons present to fly into a frenzy.

Dren and the owner ended up in the street, wrestling in the mud. By then, a few other members of the watch had joined them and they worked to subdue the blood-mad drunkards. Jace charged Torro to shield the girls from the violence, when a crazed bull of a man descended on him, meaty fists raised.

Jace leapt out of the way, frantically lunging for his dagger, when a shadow struck.

Faster than he could blink, the Unsullied's hand jabbed into the man's neck. The beast hurled a curse, stumbling. That gave him an opening to kick at his knee. The leg twisted at a terrible angle, and the beast collapsed.

Another quick strike at the back of his neck and he had crashed into a puddle of dirt.

“Kirimvose.” Jace heaved, his heart thundering in his throat.
Ahead of him Dren had the winesink owner in the mud, his knee atop his throat. The man's flailing reminded Jace of the last gasps of a dying fish.

Torro silently nodded, black eyes trained on the carnage. No sooner had Daemon bent down to ask the man something that he started wailing, words spewing out of him like a torrent.

In two quick strides, they were on the move again their final destination acquired. Jace had Luce and Rhaena go in the center of their column, flanked by two Goldcloaks, and him and Torro following behind for protection. The stoic resolve on the man's face left him uneasy.

“Apologies, Torro. I imagine this is not what you thought Kings Landing would be.” He forced, hoping his Valyrian would be intelligible enough.

The Unsullied grunted.

“It is just like any other city. As far as this one is concerned it is the same as his old pen. With a few differences.”

Jace chuckled. “Yes, I imagine our city has not a drop of the same splendor as Old Volantis."

“Your city has no slaves.”

The word struck fiercer than any blow. Jace forced down a swallow, nervously eyeing the scars marring his face. They were vicious things—crooked tiger stripes that made him seem half feral.

“Forgive me. I suppose that is a welcome change.” he paused. “How long were you there?”

“Five years. And then six in Meereen before that.”

“Sounds… lovely.” He forced though the way the man had spat that name had him convinced there was nothing lovely about that city. “But it's over now. You’re a free man. You may go where you please. Find yourself a home, have a family.”

Jace's mind caught up with his tongue far too late, and he released a labored sigh.

“Forgive me… that was unseemly.”

The impassive mask on his face did not falter once.

“This one took no offense. There is small point in lingering on things one cannot change.”

Jace scrunched up his face. The earnestness in his voice seemed so unusual.

“But doesn’t it make you feel… resentful? All that they took from you…”

He didn’t know much about the slave trade, but the few things he had read about were vile enough to curdle even Daemon's blood.

“It does. It always will. But a man has a choice not to linger on those thoughts. The Wise Masters have shaped this one's past—he can choose not to let them shape his future.”

Jace pondered the words, his own belly in knots.

“I admire your strength.” He offered at last.

-If only I shared it.

The irony was not lost on him.

Their trek took them to yet another winesink. The ramshackle tavern was surprisingly devoid of patrons. However, the hum proved to be a mere ruse.

The moment his stepfather seized one of the serving girls by the sleeve, they were being led to a back room, down a set of creaky steps into a dark tunnel. Unease filled him when the sounds of their feet clattering against the wood gave way to frenzied shouts.

The stench of foul wine and blood filled the air, and the cramped corridor opened to a well-lit chamber. Jace didn’t know why he expected a grand hall. The pen was only slightly larger than the Red Keep's pigsty. In its center stood a small makeshift ring, surrounded by wooden beams. A jeering crowd of unwashed bodies circled it, hurling obscenities at the two men locked in combat.

One of them was completely red—his face had been pummeled into a pulp, to the point Jace could scarce make out any features on him. Nevertheless, he swung madly at his opponent, the pain imperceptible.

“Rhaena, don’t look,” he tossed to his cousin, though his warning was futile. The sight of the man's opponent dashing his face hard enough to knock teeth sent his dear cousin to cower in Luce's arms.

With a stern grunt, one of the Goldcloacks nudged them forward. They slithered past the enraptured spectators toward the table set up on a dais, overlooking the ring.

“It’s a stag to enter, ye pay upfront.” The spindly man seated behind it drawled. His scraggly hair was so greasy, Jace wagered he could fry an egg on it. “If ye don’t hav' coin, fuck off.”

“Well, beg your pardon, but it's you who should be paying us.”

The man chortled his beady eyes rising to acknowledge them. It was remarkable how quickly his wormy lips dropped open.

“Fuck!” he bellowed, terror filling his brown eyes. His stepfather had lifted his hood, allowing his silver hair to peek through.

“You? No, rather not. I have a Lady wife at home.” With a snap of his fingers, Dren leapt to drag over a chair Daemon could sit on. “I’d sooner take coin.”

The spindly man sputtered, spittle flying through his gritted teeth. The hired muscle behind him seemed just as confuddled.

“All the coin you owe, how many months back now?”

“Four M'lord.” Dren grinned.

“Four. So that’s, if my sums are right. 120 stags.” Daemon’s smirk was sickly sweet. “Shall you pay now, or now?”

The spindly thing continued his mad sputter.

“M'lord, m'lord, please. We don't hav' it, Chisswick pissed it away!”

“Me?” the burly brute hissed. “’Twas ye who wanted we go t’ those fancy whores! Should have bought cunt from the Gash.”

“Now gentlemen, need I remind you that all places of business are subject to crown tax.” Daemon mused. “To be paid directly to the Hand's collectors each moon turn. Or if you’re clever and running a fucking fighting rink, to Dren and his fine brethren of the Watch.”

“Please m'lord, we swear it, we meant t' pay. It just… slipped our minds is all.”

“How unfortunate…” Daemon cooed. “Dren mislikes being forgotten.”

“But we willnae! Not no more! We swears it, we do!”

“So earnest, don’t you think Dren?”

The watchman grunted, his yellow smirk not faltering once.
“How can we not trust you? Let’s settle on 40% each month.”

“40? Piss o’ that, that’s almost half!”

Daemon’s brow shot up so high, they almost brushed against his fringe.

“So good with sums, and yet you still somehow neglected to pay your dues to Dren.” The smirk darkened to a deep scarlet. “40. And I’ll resist gelding you on the spot.”

The spindly thing shivered, his head dropping into a bow.

“Good, that’s settled then.”

Rising, Daemon adjusted his hood, and turned on his heel.

“That's it?” Jace blocked his path. “I thought we were here to break up the ring, not buy into it.”

That smirk filled his vision. Jace couldn’t imagine hating anything half as much in his life.

“Such an honorable thing you are. If a bit daft.”

“The law charges us to not allow such foulness.”

“The law also charges you be killed.”

The callousness in his voice made him stumble.

“So I think you would agree, some rules should be disregarded.”

Daemon neared the edge of the dais, eyeing the brawlers. To Jace's surprise, it was the bloody pulp that had taken the victory, hooting and growling over his vanquished foe like a rabid boar.

“Life is not a book—it does not follow a set of predetermined rules and conventions. It is grueling, violent, and messy. And if you want to survive, you need to fight. Seize every advantage for yourself. No matter what others think.” He paused, craning his head at him. “Get in.”

Jace glared, his ears ringing with the rabid jeering of the crowd. His sister realized what he was asking long before the words sunk .

“Are… are you mad?” Luce hissed, coming over to his side. “You just had him pummeled in the training yard. And now you would toss him into a fighting pit to be ripped apart by some low-born dogs?”

“Father, please…” Rhaena had joined, brown eyes as wide as ripe figs. “He could get hurt.”

“Good, he should know what it’s like when a dog bites. Maybe that will teach him to stop whingeing about his pointless hang-ups and actually fight for himself.”

“No, I will not allow it!” he felt a sharp tug on his sleeve, and Luce yanked him back. “We're finished here. Torro will escort us to the Keep, right now.”

“Still playing the nursemaid little sprite,” Daemon laughed, “I wonder when you’ll deem him ready to stop sucking on your teat. When he sprouts hair on his face? When he gets some unfortunate woman to wed him? When he's a doddering gray beard whose cock can no longer stand?”

His sister was screaming now, hurling vile insults at Daemon, fire in her brown eyes.

Jace felt faint.

“Enough!” he bellowed. “I’ll do it.”

Stunned silence followed his proclamation. Luce and Rhaena accosted him at the same time.

“Are you mad?” Rhaena gasped. “They will kill you! Did you see that man's face? He looked like venison cutlets with teeth!”

“Why must you insist on letting Daemon under your skin? He's merely doing this to get a rise out of you!” Luce chided.

Daemon watched them all, that bemused smirk cresting his lip.

“Because he's a fucking cunt,” he spat, loud enough for him to hear. Naturally, that only made him laugh harder. “A cunt who thinks he has the right of everything. Who believes us weak and unworthy. Well, he's wrong.”

Wrenching free he barreled over to the spindly grease stick behind the table.

“I want in, now.”

The thing made the most unseemly face at him.

“To fight, or to fuck? Cause me thinks it would be more like for Blood to bend yer pretty self over than throw some fists.” He and his hired muscle laughed like snorting pigs. “No, the ring takes no butt boys.”

His vision bloomed scarlet. Lunging, he seized the man by the collar of his tunic, yanking him over the table till he was right in his face. “You’re going to let me in. Or I’ll bend you over and fuck you bloody. Understand?”

Satisfaction rippled through him when fear widened his eyes. Sputtering, he gave a half-hearted yes.

Jace released him and marched off the dais to the little gate that led into the ring. The whale standing watch there took one look at him and laughed.

“Are you lost, little boy? Street o' Silk is that way.”

“I want in,” Jace growled, fury making his muscles shake.

More laughs. The patrons around him were ogling him too now, their yellow smirks flashing at him like cheap gold.

“Wha’ ye want is yer mother's teat. Go home and suckle on it, and leave men to their business.”

He couldn’t stand it. Lunging, he backhanded the fat walrus with all his might. The rotund thing crashed into the press, fat folds jiggling like blubber.

He expected hands on him, a punch, a curse, a blade—instead, he got raucous laughter.

“Silk boy has fight in him!” someone bellowed. “Let Blood have a go at ‘im!”

Uniform cheers rang around him, like a song. He was relieved of his rough spun shift and handed some cloth to wrap about his knuckles.

“Drink this,” the walrus thrust a cup at him. Jace didn’t even need to bend down to take a whiff of it—the stench was potent enough to choke half the cramped chamber.

“No, rather not,” he made a face, recalling that one time he'd downed curdled milk by chance. The abhorrent bile he retched up smelled exactly like that potion.

“Trust, Silk Boy. Ye'll want some o’ this before Blood gets his hands on ye.”

The sour stench was making his eyes water, and he swatted the cup away before he deposited his morning meal on the man's boots.

“Silk Boy likes him pain! Blood, have at ‘im!”

The shove sent him stumbling hands first into the sands. When he dared to peer up, a shadow was towering over him. The bloody man looked even more vile up close. Shaped like a barrel, the unsightly beast towered over him, like a hulking bear. He was just as hairy, with patches of thick, black fur marring his chest and pot belly.

His throat tightened when he realized his face wasn’t pummeled—rather, he'd slathered bits of blood and gunk all over his face and neck till the skin was red and brown and cracked.
He just about leapt up to run out.

“Pretty boy!” the bear howled, meaty hands extending toward him. “C'mere, Blood wants to give ye a kiss!”

His feet were moving of their own accord, desperately lurching for the exit. A yank on his arm pulled him back.

The ground rose to meet him, and he collapsed, face-first. Sand crawled into his mouth, and he spat out frantically, the grains grating against his throat. The bear didn’t give him time to recover.

His hulking form came bearing down, intent on stomping his head in. Jace scrambled out of the way, vaulting upright. His heart was thundering so wildly, he was convinced it would rupture his chest.

-Focus, focus, focus.

He’d practiced in the yard—he knew how to fight. The brute swung, his meaty arm as thick as a tree trunk. Jace dodged, the bloodied fist missing his face by mere inches. He thought he would come at him from the left, but the monster feigned, switching to the right. His foot caught him right in the chest, the air leaving his lungs like a popped bubble.

The bear didn’t give him respite. He came down on him, feet at the ready. He struck, once, twice, till Jace was certain he would spew out his insides. It was only by sheer force of will that he managed to roll out of the way of his blows and rise.

-No, I can’t.

He hacked labored coughs, his skin aflame. The searing was so potent, he wasn’t even certain which part of him hurt.

This wasn’t yard sparring. There were no rules. That mindless animal would have no reservations about killing him and using his blood to paint another stripe on his face.

He needed out. Clawing his way across the fence, he blindly grasped for the exit.

Hands seized him. The ground embraced him again and stars burst behind his eyes. He was never going to get the taste of sand out of his mouth.

“I said c'mere!” the man garbled. “No runnin'!”

Fingers dug into his scalp and he yanked, meaty arm locking around his neck. The feel of that unwashed flesh pressed against him made his body prick up in revulsion.

“Scream for me, pretty boy!” He spat on him, yanking on his hair. The jeering of the crowd rang in his ears like a bell.

-This is how he kills me.

He wasn’t going to plunge Dark Sister into his gut himself. He was going to let some unwashed brute strangle him in a brawl—remove the nuisance. So his trueborn Valyrian sons could inherit.

The grip on his neck faltered. The bear was screaming, soaking up the crowd's frenzy like it was nectar. His hand reacted.

Seizing a fistful of sand, he flung it backward. The relief he felt when the weight bearing down on his neck vanished was immeasurable.

The bear was roaring, blindly grabbing for him. Jace didn’t give him a chance at respite. He kicked furiously, not caring where the blows landed. He must have struck something vital, for he shrieked, tumbling on his ass.

Jace didn’t want to give him a chance to recover. He crawled away, till he had hit the red line on the very edge of the ring.

“Recess!” someone called, and Jace bent over to the side to dry heave.

Hands ran over his back, and he jerked, convinced the bear had materialized behind him.

“Jace, Jace!” brown eyes peered at him through the fence. Luce was blindly grabbing for him, fear on her face thick enough to be cut with a blade. “Please, get out, you’re done. He’ll kill you!”

He turned the words over, not comprehending. At last, he hacked a cough.

-Get out, get out now.

The smirk bade him freeze. Above on the dais, Daemon was glaring, a specter of death in black. His face hadn’t changed—it was blank, unreadable, filled with bemused interest. But that wretched smirk loomed, ever-present.

Oozing mockery.

-Others take you.

“No, no, I’m fine…” he wheezed.

He'd never broken his ribs, but was certain this was how a shattered bone hurt.

“Are you mad?! Please, you have nothing to prove!”

Again, those purple slits bore down on him, harder than any fist.

“Bastard, bastard, bastard. Does calling you that hurt you?” Daemon had fired at him once.

He'd been at Dragonstone, training with one of the dockside hands Daemon had brought up to the castle to be his sparring partner. In the heat of the moment, the boy had called him a bastard.

Contemplating it later, it was plain the youth had meant it as a base insult—he might as well have called him a cunt. Nevertheless, Jace couldn’t stop himself. He descended on him, a cloud of fury coloring his vision red. When he at last regained his senses, the poor thing was groaning on the ground, his face a bloodied mess.

Daemon had laughed when the guards had dragged him to his solar.

“It’s a word, Jacaerys. Like any other. It can only have power if you allow it to.” He'd bent down to look at him, that blasted smirk never leaving his lips. “You’re a dragon. First and foremost. Now you can choose to be a dragon, or continue to wallow as a bastard.”

He meant to hit him. His hand had twitched, ready to strike—ready to wipe that cursed smirk off his cursed lips.

It never did.

Instead, he stood glowering like a sullen child. Helpless against his wretched stepfather.

“No, I’m fine! I can handle this!” He hissed, the rage resurfacing.
Staggering to one knee, he beat back the white tufts clouding his vision.

A tanned hand reached out for him.

“Knee,” Her sister's Unsullied hissed.

Jace scrunched his face at his opponent. The hulking bear made an obscene gesture at him from his corner, spit flying through his yellow teeth.

“He has a slight bend in his left knee. If Gaezo would kick at it, he would fall.”

“What… how did you…” he spied the man again—at a distance, his knee seemed to bear his weight without issue.

“Watch him bend it when he salutes the crowd. Man is a pitfighter. His first duty is to entertain, fight second.”

Sucking in a breath, he forced a swallow. However, before he could ask him to elaborate further, the announcer called for them to begin anew.

The bear charged at him with a sonorous war cry. Jace flung himself off to the side, his chest heaving.

-Think, think, come on.

He was taller, and stronger. A height advantage meant he could easily brute force him down. He had to be clever and use his small frame to dance around him.

Pity that his plan hinged on the bear’s size slowing him down. As soon as he attempted to dodge his grab, the man's left fist bore down on him, the hit landing right on his lower jaw.

The sheer force of it had Jace's ears ring—for a moment, he was convinced he'd somehow wandered into a Sept, to listen to the bells toll. But the ravenous cheer of the gathered spectators brought him back.

The ring came sharply into focus—as did the bear’s knee. He was saluting them, banging on his hairy chest like a madman. Jace's muscles seized. There it was—a slight bend in his knee. A leftover from a previous injury that never healed properly.
The throb pulsing through his skull dulled.

-Seize the advantage.

Howling, she charged at the bastard, leg at the ready. His knee didn’t shatter the way he'd hoped when he struck, but the brute stumbled nonetheless.

Determination guiding him, he dodged out of the way of his mad swings, kicking at that cursed bone with all his might. At last, the muscle gave way, and he collapsed into the sand, bloodied face twisted into a furious scowl. Jace knew the madman would rip open his throat if he allowed him to rise—the bloodlust in his eyes was too strong.

-Put him down. All of them.

He hit—the punch did naught save make him grunt, but he wasn’t deterred. He struck and struck with ravenous urgency, his muscles straining with the effort. A fresh stream of scarlet split open the crusted blood.

The bear toppled into the sand, and he moved atop him, fists bearing down. That unsightly red face twisted into a more familiar visage.

Suddenly, it was Aemond he was pummeling—for daring to dishonor his sister. Then it was Aegon, and his cruel japes. Daemon appeared too, and he struck again and again, one blow for each mocking smirk he dared toss his way.

Last it was himself–that cursed pug nose, and those wretched brown eyes. That plain coloring he'd inherited from his true father—the Commander of the City Watch.

Not a scion of Old Valyria.

-You will never be worthy.

He knew that—they all did. No matter what he did, how well he behaved, how ably he ruled, they would always see him as bastard first, man second.

At last, the mad strength driving him vanished. Somewhere in the distance, a crowd was roaring—delighting in his triumph. He could scarce hear them.

Hands hooked around his waist, and he was dragged upward. He knew he should fight. But all feeling had deserted his arms, and all he managed to do was stumble feebly to the outskirts of the ring.

A torrent of voices sounded all around him, and he pushed past blurry shapes in brown. A familiar face entered his field of vision and he collapsed against her. Luce was speaking, her brows furrowed in pained worry. Rhaena was right behind her, the terror in her soft black eyes nipping at his heart.

He wanted to say something to them. Assuage their worries. Naught came out of his mouth.

A pair of indigo slits pinned his gaze, and fire seared his veins anew. Shaking off Luce's touch he staggered over to Daemon, shoulders squared.

“There's your bastard.” He fired, spitting at his feet. When it hit the ground, he realized it was blood he'd spewed.

The sharp tang of metal crested his tongue, mingling with the vile flavor of sand. He scowled, stumbling away.

He somehow found himself beside the fat pit attendant, wrenching the cup with the vile potion from his fingers.

The thing tasted as horrid as he'd imagined—like day-old sick and molded turnips. He forced it down all the same. Not a moment later, the searing pain he felt radiating through his jaw reduced to an uncomfortable ache.

With the pain dulled, he at last had enough sense to piece what was happening around him. Luce was naturally not pleased. She screamed at Daemon for what must have been 10 minutes, her face alight with dragonfire.

Rhaena was much more subdued, gently running her fingers over his forearm, repeatedly trying to reassure him. When at last they thought to ask him what he wanted, he spat another round of blood.

“A drink.”

Daemon, for once, was happy to oblige him. They retreated to the winesink above the ring, to share some cups and count their earnings. It had completely slipped Jace's mind that the brawls were conducted for coin.

Dren slammed a purse overflowing with silver stags in front of him, congratulating him on his prowess. All he could think to do was push it back at him—to pay him back all the dues the spindly grease ball who ran the cursed thing owed.

The Goldcloak laughed but accepted the purse eagerly, even deigning to buy them a round of drinks. Jace couldn’t decipher just what the swill they’d plied them with was, but it burned all the same. By the time Luce had downed her third cup, her earlier discontent had vanished.

She giggled like mad with Rhaena, showering him with words of love and praise. Jace almost found it amusing. Neither she nor Rhaena partook in drink much, and it was a welcome change to see them both loosen.

Nevertheless, the joy was spoiled by a pair of indigo slits ravenously consuming him. Daemon didn’t drink. He merely sat with his Goldcloacks listening to their chatter with rapt attention. But his eyes lingered on him, silently passing judgment—like they always did.

-I will never be your legacy.

He could prattle about bastardy not mattering, about him being a dragon all he liked. Jace knew the cold truth. Knew what lurked behind that mocking smirk.

He would always think of him as a stunted halfling—no better than his grandsire's Hightower children. A little nuisance he could push about as he pleased.

-It should never have been us.

He and Luce and Joffrey should have never existed. Mother should have wed him from the start and birthed proper Targaryen princelings. Ones of undisputed Valyrian Blood.

He oft wondered if that was what she secretly wished. Every time he glimpsed her adoringly draping herself over Daemon, or cooing over his little brothers, he pondered if she regretted ever falling into his father’s arms. If she wished to revert time and ensure he and his siblings were never born.

As they staggered back toward the Keep, the drink burning in their blood, Jacaerys didn’t feel like a Prince. Neither was he a Targaryen, or even a man at all.

He was just a bastard, and nothing more.

Chapter Text

His head was spinning.

Hunched over the candle flame in the castle library, he attempted to read—Diplomacy and Philosophy, by Archmaester Keller. He'd barely gotten to the third page when he realized he'd gone over the same paragraph thrice in a row.

Releasing a labored sigh he leaned back into his chair, unease in his belly. Grandsire always had a way of putting him in a foul mood.

He'd invited him for a midday meal in the Tower of the Hand. Aemond thought Helaena and her babes would be attending as well, but when he was escorted up he found the chamber empty.

His grandsire was seated at the table, over a platter of pigeon pie, his hands entwined.

The tension that seized his muscles grew with each morsel of food he ordered him to swallow.

“Rhaenyra is forging alliances.” He at last ceased dancing around the true subject. “We must do the same.”

“What are you proposing?” He asked though the answer was plain.

“You’ve been of age for some time now. It’s time you took a wife.”

Somehow the words felt worse when spoken out loud. His fork fell on the plate with a dull clatter.

“Who do you have in mind?”

The pleased expression on grandsire's face was sickening.

-Pride is conditioned by obedience.

The only time he seemed to show approval to any of them was when they did what he bid—what was prescribed.

“I’ve been making entreaties. It shall be either Lord Jason's eldest, or one of Borros Baratheon's girls.”

He arched a brow. “Tyshara Lannister?”

He recalled her visiting court when they'd been children. She'd been a plump, clumsy thing, with a head of sandy curls and big green eyes. A part of him hoped she’d aged out of that detestable laugh of hers—he remembered it being as grating as the scraping of nails on stone.

“I didn’t realize Lord Jason has acquired some humility. I thought he'd sooner die than wed his get to a second son.”

His grandsire made a face. If he recalled anything about that golden-haired Lannister cunt it was that his pride had pride. When they'd been children, it was his hope his whelp would wed Aegon—so that she would be Queen in due time.

He couldn’t imagine the man settling for anything less.

“For the time being, he's still playing coy. But it’s a ruse. He knows he’ll find no better prospects for his daughter than a Prince—even a second son. Especially if you fly Vhagar to Casterly Rock to… sway him.”

He would have laughed—but the flighty way he used that word left a bitter taste in his mouth. Second son— lesser, unworthy.

“And, if he proves too difficult, we can always explore other options.” He folded his handkerchief into a neat square and put it beneath his plate. It seemed to be an ingrained habit of his—to be as neat and orderly as he possibly could. “Lord Borros is just as proud, but marginally easier to please. He craves raw power rather than station. And since you ride the largest dragon, he'll be perfectly content wedding his daughter to you.”

“Which one? I’ve heard he has four.”

-And all of them are just as ugly.

The Beasts of Storms End, men called them. There was a jest floating about how rather than his wife birthing them, Lord Borros stole them from a wild sow he'd hunted.

-At least the Baratheon girl will have dark hair.

The very sight of Lannister blonde locks made sickness climb in his throat.

“Whichever you like. Lord Borros will let you choose whichever is most appealing.”

-And if I like none of the boarlets?

He doubted grandsire would mind—his wishes were worth naught when faced with the prospect of duty.

“If you wish it.” He conceded at last.

“Good,” he announced, that cursed prideful smirk on his face. “I shall make arrangements.”

“When is it to be?”

“A few weeks. I’m awaiting a reply from Casterly Rock. It would do us better to court the Lannisters first. Their fleet and gold mines are of unprecedented value.”

Silence rang in his ears. “So soon?”

Pushing from his chair, Otto adjusted the crooked buttons of his doublet.

“It's past time. Rhaenyra has already secured a great House. We must answer her challenge with equal, if not greater strength.”

His fingers dug into the armrest till the wood cried. The very thought of that Arryn cunt made him yearn for a sword. And, to make things more appropriate, he was blonde as well.

-All cunts are blondes.

“Besides, it would do you good to have a Lady wife of your own. To keep you from… straying.”

Blood fled from his fingers. His head snapped up— grandsire was fiddling with some parchment laid out on his bureau.

-Does he mean Lyra?

He'd taken care not to be seen leaving the Keep. But he doubted his caution mattered. Grandsire had a keen ability to unearth all manner of secrets.

He almost leapt up to protest. It had only happened once—and he would never do it again. The very thought of it left him sickened.

“Do you mean to fuck her, or kill her?” she'd laughed after they were done. That accursed beauty mark below her lip made her look like the mirror of the older woman and he just about unsheathed his dagger to open her throat.

-Mother will never forgive me.

She'd spent years deriding Aegon for his debauchery. Her discovering he'd committed the same sin, of his own volition, would destroy her.

“I… I don’t follow…” he schooled his expression, the tension in his bones potent enough to make them snap.

Rolling up the parchment, his grandsire halted beside his chair, towering over him like the beacon of the Hightower.

“She's a pretty thing. And a charmer from what I’m told.” He paused. His nose scrunched up, ever so slightly, as if he'd smelled an odor most foul. “But she's baseborn. An illegitimate whelp Rhaenyra dressed up in seahorse motley.”

If the thought of Lyra left him bloodless, the mention of Lucera left him faint.

“And you are not your brother,” his hand came to rest on his shoulder. The flesh felt heavier than any stone. “You know better than to let… base desires run your life.”

He leaned away, taking his wretched hand with him. The weight remained.

“You will do your duty. As you always had.”

Releasing a labored sigh, he slammed the book shut with a loud thud. It was the tone that had left him incensed. As if that fact was a given.

He'd been an obedient pet his entire life—it was only natural that he would continue to do the same as a man grown.

-Like a desperate dog.

Daemon's mocking smirk filled his vision and he just about toppled over the table. His dear uncle could have done with a lesson in propriety.

But despite the rage, he couldn’t deny a measure of grudging respect for him. He did whatever he pleased.

He’d spent years vexing his father, with Viserys doing naught save chiding him for misbehaving. He consorted with whores, thieves, and cutpurses, and despite the company being foul, none dared begrudge him for it—in fact, they admired him for his gumption.

And when he desired to wed his own niece, he did so—without so much as a thought spared for what the King or anyone else might say.

Unseemly as his madness was, Aemond couldn’t deny it appeared… liberating. To do as he liked, whenever he liked, and no one daring to stand in his way.

He wondered what any of them would do if he simply stole Lucera away, and wed her of his own accord, like Daemon had done with Rhaenyra. He had Vhagar—they'd be fools to protest.

-She would protest.

She'd despise it with a passion—to the point where he'd have to drag her before a Septon with a blade to her throat. The notion filled him with some pleasure. It was only right that she suffered, just as he had. She may not have valued losing her eye, but she would value losing her freedom.

The freedom to do as she pleased, with whomever she pleased.

It incensed him to see her so familiar with Daemon, partaking in the same daring he did. The way Jace had responded to his stepfather in the yard, he gathered that their relationship was not a pleasant one. He felt vindicated by that. That bastard had been served undue right after undue right his whole life. Two father figures in his boyhood, both loving and attentive.

It was justice that both of them got to experience what it was like to be despised by a parent.

But Lucera's seeming closeness with Daemon shattered that. He may not have cared much for either of them, but he was nonetheless willing to provide them with protection—with freedom.

The same freedom to do as they liked with no one daring to stand in their way.

Enraged as he was, he almost followed them out into the city, to see where he was taking them.

-Brothel, most like.

It would bode better for Rhaenyra if her daughter was just as skilled in the womanly arts as she was—so that the two of them could lure all those great lords the blacks needed to shore up their claim.

“She's probably tumbled half the Vale by now.”

Bile clawed up into his throat, and he went to rise, intent on retreating to his chambers to sulk in peace.

The crash of the door opening bade him pause. He expected to see one of the Maesters shuffle inside, to attend to the books before they closed the library for the evening. Instead, a figure in browns entered.

Lucera looked wild. Bundled in tattered wools and linens she staggered inside, her gait uncertain. Her hair was a tangled mess, the strands sticking out of her braid like unruly shrubbery. The clothing she wore was plainly for men, and he would have bet gold she'd pilfered it off one of the yard boys.

Against his better judgment, tenderness bloomed in his chest. Even grown, she was just as unkempt as she had been in her girlhood.

She paused at the door, blinking at the dimness—as if she was trying to recall why she'd come in. She had the most enticing flush on her skin. A delicate kiss of pink that ran up from her chest to her neck, all the way to her cheeks. His breath hitched when he noticed the laces of her tunic were undone, the smooth outline of her breasts peeking through.

That tender warmth heated to an uncomfortable burn.

“Seven save me,” she groaned, as her brown eyes locked with his. “How large is this castle? Hundreds of attendants and I still somehow chance upon you. Why are you here?”

He chortled—her tone seemed uncharacteristically brusque. Nevertheless, he could not protest it. A part of him relished she would speak to him still after he'd accosted her in the gardens.

“I could ask the same of you. Shouldn’t you be out cavorting with your brother and stepfather on the Street of Silk?”

She had the gall to groan at him. Slamming the door, she stumbled over to one of the shelves, her hand clutching at her forehead.

“I’ll have you know we didn’t go to the Street of Silk, but to Flea Bottom. And it was vile… gods I can still smell it.” Her mouth twisted into a scowl and she ran into one of the shelves. “Besides, I have just as much right to be here as you. I enjoy… wait, why am I here… reading, as much as you!”

She was stretching, sprawling herself against the stacked books like a monkey. The pieces fell into place in an instant.

“You’re drunk.”

-Of course.

She was already a wanton—it stood to reason she would commit other sins as well.

Sputtering, she pushed herself off the shelf.

“No, I’m not! I just had one tankard of… something…” That scowl gave way to a furious giggle. “Gods, it was abhorrent… but oh did it taste so sweet going down.”

He sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“I bet it did.” Those accursed open laces turned offensive, and he immediately wondered whose grubby fingers had undone them. “And all this from the girl who swore she would never let wine pass her lips. Ever.”

The giggle died, and she straightened her back.

“Don't start, I beg,” that whine returned with a vengeance and she spun on her feet. Staggering over to the desktop across from him, she fiddled with the panel, hoping to flatten it. The mechanism that kept the board up was either jamming, or she was too clumsy to properly unhook the latch. “I was a child. I didn’t know anything about anything. You cannot hold me to promises I made when I was eight.”

The callousness in her voice slashed him like a blade. “Or any you made ever.”

To his fury, she coughed up a laugh. At last, the desktop lowered to a flat board. She hopped on to it, the surface shaking. It was plain she'd not secured the latch properly.

“Does it truly burn you so much? That I’ve grown? That I’ve changed? Mother have mercy, we can't remain children forever,” she announced sprawling on the table like a cat. The way she stretched bade the tunic press against her skin, and he almost lurched out of his seat to seize her.

“I can't say you’ve changed. Perhaps just ceased pretending.”

She craned her head, that stupid pucker on her lips. He could see her again—that sweet little girl. She too would pucker her lips like that whenever she sulked.

But then his eye peered lower to the outline of her nipple pressing against the linen and that sweetness vanished in a cloud of red.

“Ugh, I’m right here, Aemond!” she whined, rolling onto her side. “You can still take that stupid eye off me. Come on. Torro’s away, trying to make sure Jace doesn't retch up his belly in the privy. I haven’t seen a guard anywhere during my trek up here. No one will help me. I’m all yours to carve as you see fit.”

Silence followed her brave proclamation. That cursed determination never once faded from her brown eyes.

“Do it, go on. I’ve made my peace with it. The eye has served me well these last few years, but if I must lose it, then so be it.” Her face scrunched, and her lips peeled into a smile. “I wager I could even pull off an eyepatch. Well… perhaps not as well as you but I’m certain I’ll manage.”

Her laugh sounded in his ears like the melody of the merriest song. His head spun.

“Do it!” she was still laughing, her words more taunt than permission.

“You’re a fool.” He hissed, springing out of his seat. The searing in his veins burned so hot, he thought his skin would start crackling like pig roast. “Do you think I’d carve a drunk woman who cannot even defend herself?”

Another chortle. She'd reached into her pockets for a piece of paper. After unfurling it, she popped the red circlet into her mouth to chew vigorously.

“No, you'd just carve her when she’s not drunk.”

“I wasn’t going to carve you.”

The burning reached a fever pitch and he sucked in a breath. His voice sounded strained, flustered. It was still truth.

A disgusting, pathetic truth. Years he'd spent dreaming of revenge, thinking up all the ways he could gouge out that pretty eye of hers. And yet, when presented with the chance, his body had betrayed him.

All the rage, hurt and spite had vanished in some faraway void, and instead of cutting all he craved to do was kiss.

The declaration seemed to amuse her. She propped up her head on her open palm, the smile on her lips dripping with wickedness.

“No?” Her brows went up. “Then forgive me, Others take you.”

He deadpanned, every muscle in his body as taunt as a bowstring.

-She's vile.

Only she would dare demand forgiveness with no recompense. With no proper apology—as if she was owed it, by her mere existence.

-You should have cut her.

Even if he had not been strong enough to take the eye, he should have at least slashed her flesh— scarred her somehow. That way, she would not dare toy with him so.

“Come, tomorrow is the Day of the Smith. The day when we celebrate heroes and their triumphs.”

“That's Warrior's Day…”

“Oh… which one is tomorrow then?”

“Day of the Crone.”

She groaned, head collapsing into her shoulder.

“Gods, there are entirely too many holy days to keep track of.” she pushed the stray hair out of her eyes. That cursed shift had opened up so much her breast was almost spilling out. “Let us make amends. The Crone charges us to make peace during her day, so it is only right we follow her decree.”

He couldn’t help but groan. “That’s the edict for Mother's Day…”

“Ugh, fine, then we shall make peace to cover all the blasted holy days in advance!” She whined, brows furrowed. With one labored grunt, she heaved herself into a seated position, the desktop creaking.

“Come,” she opened her arms. “Let us kiss and call each other enemies no more. For one day at least."

He stood frozen, glaring at her. A part of him yearned to scream. To curse her for even daring to suggest he could ever forgive what she’d done—even for one single day.

-Leave.

If he had any sense, he would turn on his heel and depart. Call a guard to escort her to her chambers so she could sleep off this foolishness.

Instead, he drew closer. Heart in his throat he strode over till he was at the foot of her table. His breathing quickened when she dropped her legs over the edge, parting them in silent invitation.

Her head angled upward, pale neck craned toward him. Her eyes were hazy, distant—as if she were floating on air. It should have made him sick.

“No, you have to bend down,” she whined. “I can’t rise that high.”

The pounding grew, till it was all he could hear. He bent down.

Her lips gently brushed against his, as soft as the kiss of dove feathers.

The shelves around him disappeared.

Suddenly, he was outside, by the riverside, waves splashing his boots—that same sullen, self-serious boy. She was there too, a wicked sprite in sky blues, smiling at him adoringly, as if he were Florian himself.

"There... all mended." she said, her smile radiant.

A creak sounded on his blind side.

Faster than he could blink, the flattened desk rose up, the latch she'd poorly secured snapping open. She lurched with it, flying right into his arms.

He reacted on instinct, seizing her before she could slide down to the floor.

“Whoop, there goes my bed!” she laughed, head collapsing into his chest.

She was warm— even through the linen, he could feel the simmering heat of her skin. Her scent was different now—smoke and drink, and the faint smell of horsehair woven into the garb she'd stolen.

Dazed, she collapsed back onto the straightened desktop. Her chest heaved every time she inhaled, the skin glistening in the candlelight. It would take just one pull of his finger for the laces to open fully. He became acutely aware of how she was pressed against him—legs parted, half hooked around his waist.

The hand clutching her hips squeezed harder.

“It’s your turn to kiss me now,” she whispered. The flush was still in her cheeks—pink and pretty. Inviting.

Against his better judgment, he sank his teeth into his bottom lip. The taste flooded his mouth immediately.

Strawberries—but deeper, sweeter. It was a dried strawberry she'd pulled out of her pocket to eat earlier.

That little boy returned in earnest, filled to bursting with tender love—for his wicked sprite. But then another taste flared. Sharp, biting.

It was rum she’d been drinking. Poor quality rum, but still rich, and dark, as decadent as aged honey.

That boy disappeared into the waves. In his place, stood a man grown, with a woman sprawled before him—as lovely as the Maiden herself.

He bent down without a thought. Her lips were warm against his, the taste of strawberries making his head spin. The hand on her thigh pulled, till she was pressed against him, leg hooked behind his knee.

The urge got the better of him and he parted her lips with his tongue. Again, she gasped, just like she had in their youth—except now, she didn’t jerk out of his touch. When he pulled away to look at her that flush had deepened to a ravenous scarlet. His lungs constricted, suddenly too small to take in air.

“Why did you kiss me like that?” she breathed, lips glistening. Her eyes were closed, as if she were dreaming.

He shuddered.

-Because I want you.

Not just her eye, or her blood. But her. Her wicked dresses and sharp wit. Her foolish pucker and silly dreams of adventure. The crinkle around her eyes, and those cursed strawberries on her tongue.

“Do you mean to fuck her or kill her?”

Lyra had been wrong. He didn’t mean to kill her. It was everyone else he meant to kill. The Arryn cunt and his gaggle of knights. Her wretched twin and his little shadow too. Her whore mother and damnable stepfather. His grandsire and brother, everyone and everything till it was just them and no one else.

Till he had her all to himself.

It didn’t matter if she'd had others. He’d kill them too. Mount Vhagar and do another Field of Fire. He'd whisk her away, and make her his wife. Like Daemon did with her own mother.

Sucking in a breath, he bore down. He dared to kiss her harder, press himself into her, till his knees trembled with desire. The pleasure he felt when she'd opened her mouth against his, her warm flesh quivering, left him half mad. The hands she'd kept limp at her side came alive, and she gingerly ran up his forearm, each tantalizing caress as intoxicating as opium. 

He couldn't help driving her up higher on the table, till her pelvic bone pressed firmly to him. She squirmed, her hips grinding against him as she attempted to adjust herself, the subtle movement enough to make him growl with desire. 

His hands squeezed, desperate to feel the flesh of her thigh, yet displeased when they found only roughspun wool. Her own lips responded to his in a drunken haze, rising to meet him with restrained shyness. 

When a soft moan escaped her mouth, he almost went blind. He needed to fuck her, feel her tight and wet, wrapped around his cock, or else he would perish. Pressing himself against her hard, his fingers frantically searched for the hem of her breeches. 

The movement seemed to stir her, and her teeth grazed his bottom lip. A jolt of pain bade him jerk, his heart pounding in his ears.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled. Her eyes were still closed, that delectable red flush all over her neck and cheeks. “I’ve not kissed before. I don’t know the motions.”

His heart raced in his ears. She didn’t know what she was saying. It was simply impossible for her not to have kissed before. No man alive could ever resist those lips.

She was a wicked thing—a siren that lured souls to their doom. And the worst part was, he wanted to go to his death willingly—he'd die a thousand times over if it meant he would have her, at least once.

He descended again, ready to plunge, to undo those laces and fuck her till the Others took them both.

-Me and no one else.

Her mouth parted, ready.

The door to the library crashed open.

Fury colored his vision red. The guard had scarce stumbled inside that he was on him.

He shoved him hard into a wall, a dagger in his hand. The steel pressed against his throat digging into the skin till blood ran against the edge.

“Get the fuck out. Now.” He growled, half-crazed.

-No.

The cockless bastard had been in the way before. So had everyone else. He refused to let anyone else stand between them. Ever.

The doddering cunt gasped, his mousey face as white as parchment.

“My Prince… please… I…”

“Get out or I will fucking kill you!” the rage was making him shake now, and he almost descended on his throat, to tear it open with his teeth, the way Vhagar did with prey.

“Ow,” a whine sounded behind him.

“Princess!” the guard was sobbing now, his lower lip trembling. “Please… your… your mother… she's… she's looking for you.”

“What? Why?” he couldn’t resist casting a look over his shoulder.

The moment he'd let her go, Lucera had slid down to the floor, hand clutching her head.

“We… we received a raven… Princess Rhaenys has been shot out of the sky.”

Chapter Text

“When?”

His mother pinned his gaze, pale fingers furiously clutching the parchment.

“Two days passed. Lord Torrigan sent word as soon as he could.”

Jace grimaced, his head pounding like a war drum. That cursed potion he'd downed had at last worn off and his body had caught fire. Even the slightest twitch of muscle was an agony the likes of which made him want to collapse to the floor and sob.

Fortunately, other happenings helped keep him distracted.

“They’re mad. Who would dare loose arrows at a dragon?” he hissed.

Mother sighed, tossing the paper onto her desk. She'd not dressed at all since the night, languishing in her samite house robes, her braid just barely keeping her lush silver hair bundled together. It was plain she was still cross— but resolved to set aside her motherly worry, in favor of her royal persona.

-Daemon will get an earful later.

That thought alone brought him more relief than any pain potion.

“Pirates, who suddenly realized their greatest enemy has been taken out. And his spoils are now ready for the taking.” She offered.

He released a labored breath. Lord Torrigen Bar Emon had confirmed it was Myrish corsairs who had fired at Meleys. His grandmother had flown from Kings Landing back home the moment the petition had ended. However, she resolved to make a stop at Sharp Point on her flight, to discuss how best to secure the shipping lanes that ran through Blackwater bay.
Lord Corlys was still confined in his bed at Tarth, Lyseni war galleys blocking his safe return to Driftmark. And since Vaemond had sailed half the Velaryon fleet home for the petition, the Stepstones remained vulnerable.

It was small wonder the Triarchy was able to wrest back control of the sea from them to threaten the coast.

From what he'd heard, Rhaenys meant to rally Dragonstone's bannermen to establish a defense around the bay and ward off the invaders. Yet no sooner had she departed Sharp Point that she and Meleys were beset by a band of Myrish pirates, brandishing scorpions.

The fools had the gall to loosen projectiles at the Red Queen, a favor she repaid by bathing their ships in dragonfire. However, despite the bolts sliding off Meleys’ tough scales like water droplets, his grandmother was not so fortunate.

A stray arrow had caught her right in the shoulder. She'd kept fighting, of course, blasting the ships till they’d scattered on the waves. But the wound had been grievous, and she was forced to return to Sharp Point to be tended by a Maester.

It was unbridled madness.

“That doesn’t matter,” Luce countered. His twin seemed just as haggard as he.

When the guard mother had sent out to find her had at last escorted her back, the flush of drink was still kissing her cheeks, fiercer than it had before. Jace had eyed the laces she'd loosened at the winesink with apprehension, wondering just why they were almost torn open. Nevertheless, the pain in his skull and his mother's ham ringing made it easier to set aside those thoughts.

And as the hours passed, that flush slowly deserted her, till her skin was green with barely contained sickness.

“Grandsire has been languishing in bed for nigh on two months now. And all they’ve done is prowl the Gullet like discontented cats. They’ve never dared fire at a dragon.”

Everyone agreed the Triarchy had more sense than that. While they were perfectly content to battle the Velaryon fleet, they never made moves to seize Driftmark or any other neighboring island. That would mean open conflict with the crown and an inevitable rain of dragonfire.

“Perhaps,” his stepfather offered. Not imbibing the night before gave him the advantage of a clear mind. He sat in a cushioned chair, leg resting on his knee. His hand was caressing Dark Sister's hilt, compulsively sheathing and unseating the blade. “Or perhaps they were at last given permission.”

All eyes in the room pivoted toward him.

“You can’t mean…” His mother balked.

Daemon only offered a poignant glare.

“Has… has he taken leave of his senses?” she sputtered. “He and Vaemond spent six years in the Stepstones fighting the Triarchy.”

“Yes, well now he and the Three Daughters have a common enemy—us.”

“What could Daemion possibly hope to achieve with this? He surely can’t think some foreign pirates can kill us all and topple the Targaryen dynasty?”

“Doubt his thoughts are quite that deep.” His stepfather chortled.

“Even if, by some calumny, they secured Driftmark for him, that still would not guarantee him the seat.” His mother continued. “We would certainly not let him keep it. Unless he somehow manages to force us to legitimize his claim through other means.”

“See, that he has considered.”

They all gaped at Daemon in stunned silence. Jace grasped his meaning long before any of the others.

“He's on Driftmark now, isn’t he? He's come for her.”

If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he glimpsed pride on Daemon's face. Wordlessly, his stepfather reached into one of the pockets of his wool doublet to pull out a raven's scroll.

At last, the others made sense of his words too.

“Seven save me…” Mother bellowed.

Rhaena, who up untill that point was curled on the settee, silently weeping, vaulted to her feet.

“He wants to wed Baela?”

“Are you shocked? Vaemond has wanted her for him since the day she'd flowered. He weds her…”

“He can unite their claims.” Mother finished, lips pressed so tightly, they were bloodless. “And acquire a dragon rider to his side.”

“Baela would never fight for him,” Rhaena scrunched her nose. The genuine fire he glimpsed in her teak eyes made her look like her sister's mirror. “She's despised him since we were girls.”

“If she won't fight for him, then she can play hostage. A deterrent that keeps us and the Velaryons from striking back at him.”

“Grandmother would never allow it,” Rhaena protested. Tears welled in her eyes anew, and she wiped at them with her sleeve.

“If she cannot prevent it—which, she presently cannot—she would never dare move against him. She values you and Baela above all others,” Daemon grumbled.

For once, there was no trace of bemusement on his face—the frown cresting his brow carved deep grooves into his forehead, and the fire in his eyes burned hot enough to melt steel.

For all his faults, there was one thing he would never tolerate—someone threatening his family.

“Others take me!” his mother wailed. Her head fell into her hands, and she let out an exasperated groan. “Why, just why can’t things go our way, just once?”

“I warned you we should have killed that insolent little shit from the first. But you wouldn’t listen.”

“Yes, yes, you were right!” Rhaenyra bellowed, cheeks aflame. “But please, reserve your smug gloating for later. At least until we’ve decided what we should do.”

“What we should do?” he forced, his voice shattering.

The rage that had been building in the pit of his belly slowly began rising upward till it was sitting in his throat. He recalled that smug, scornful smirk Daemion had regaled him with, in the gardens.

He'd always despised him. The few times he and his cousins had visited Driftmark after Luce's departure, he'd shown nothing but contempt for him. He’d constantly tried to draw Baela and Rhaena away, to consort with him and the other Velaryon cousins. It was unpleasant to be sure, but Jace, perhaps could have borne it. The man at least never attempted to openly hurl insults at him.

What he couldn’t bear was the way he'd started leering at Baela the moment she'd flowered. The smiles he shot her way. The gifts he'd send her. Silks and jewels, fine fur coats, and curious weaponry.

She'd laugh and accept it gladly—after all, a beautiful maiden was due admiration. And Baela was nothing if not beautiful.
However, she claimed she'd never entertain him.

“If he wants a mount to bend to his will, he can get a horse. I’m a dragon—I get to choose my rider myself.”

Jace had laughed—if she were to choose a rider, he had no doubt he would quickly become the ridden.

Still, it plagued him. She may have despised presumptuous men with notions of their own entitlement, but she also valued something else— daring. And he couldn’t think of anything more daring than a rogue son rising against a kingdom to win what he thought was his birthright.

Hot-tempered as she was, she might consider entertaining him.

-No, she wouldn’t.

She would never betray her family. There was too much love in her to do that.

She'd never betray him either. Not after what they’d shared. Not after...

-What?

After he'd run off like a sullen craven? After he'd derided all her passion, too mired in his own misery to ever pursue his true desires?

The spite she had for him was enough to push her into Daemion's arms—even if it was just to see him burned.

-She and Daemon are one and the same.

All fire, no sense.

-If they're fire, then so am I.

If she wanted daring, he was going to give it to her.

“Here's what we should do,” he drew closer to Mother, the rage in his throat as hot as untempered steel. “We should mount our dragons and fly to Driftmark. We should turn every last one of Daemion's little ships to ash. Then we take him, his little cousins and all the wretched pirates he's gathered and we toss them into that fucking sea they love so much.”

“Jace!” Rhaena gasped behind him, her pallor deepening. “What are you saying? They are kin! We can’t just murder them.”

Mother released an exasperated sigh.

“We can't burn Driftmark to end this foolishness, Lord Corlys would have our heads!”

“Calm down, Jacaerys. This is no time to be having childish tantrums.”

He couldn’t decide what enraged him more—his stepfather’s chiding tone, or the scowl he was flashing at him. As if he were a babe, squealing for a toy.

“Tantrums?!” he growled. “You dare speak to me about tantrums? You? Prezys se ānogar. Fire and Blood. You’re always prattling on and on about how we should be dragons, how we should take what is ours. Well, why aren’t you doing that?”

“Jace…” Luce sounded behind him, her voice low. Daemon’s scowl did not falter once.

He couldn’t contain himself.

“Daemion means to take your eldest and rob your youngest of her inheritance. And all you’re doing is sitting in your chair, deriding my mother for stopping your murderous spree!”

He blinked—Daemon had vaulted upward. The chair he was sitting in fell back with a dull clatter. Dark Sister was clutched in his right hand, his fingers squeezing the scabbard so tightly, blood fled the knuckles.

He expected to feel fear. There were few things as terrifying as the Rogue Prince's wrath. Instead, he felt a sick kind of vindication.

“Go on, do it,” he spat, the red rage in his throat turning into a most miserable bitterness. “Gut me. Just like you always wanted.”

For a moment he was convinced he would do it. Those tight knuckles twitched, as if he meant to loosen the blade. A figure blocked his path. Mother immediately moved to wedge herself between them, her amethyst eyes as wide as boiled eggs.

“That’s enough, both of you! I’ll have no more of this nonsense.” She spat, her hands coming to press against his chest. “Go to your quarters, now. You've said enough.”

Though the palm she was resting against him was soft, comforting, the force of her words made it feel heavy—as if she had shoved him.

“Jace, come,” Luce neared, her fingers wrapping around his forearm.

He couldn’t stomach it.

“Why do you always take his side?” he forced, gritting his teeth.
His eyes burned, and he knew he meant to weep. But the sight of that ghastly scowl made him beat back tears—he'd sooner die than allow Daemon to see him that weak.

His mother attempted to say something, but he couldn’t bear to listen. Shaking off her grip, he flew right past Luce and Rhaena. He didn’t know where he was headed. Just that he needed to be as far away from Daemon as possible—so he wouldn’t plunge a blade into his throat.

Somehow, he found himself in the godswood. The ancient stoic visage carved into the hearttree observed him in silent contemplation— judging all his failings.

-Just a bastard.

A mongrel of diluted blood who couldn’t stand against one madman with a sword. Who was too weak to seize what he wanted.

“Don't bother. I don’t need a sulking boy who doesn’t know what he wants. Neither do the Seven Kingdoms.”

Baela had meant it as a base insult—something to hurt him for spurning her. Yet she had the right of it. He was never going to be able to rule if he couldn’t confront his basest fears.

-Be a dragon.

Daemon liked repeating that phrase so often, he might as well have made it their house words. Jace chortled, leaning against the trunk, the white bark brittle on his fingers.

-His house, not mine.

Bile rose up into his throat. No, it wasn’t just his house—it was Jace's too. He might have been a Strong, but he too had the blood of Old Valyria. He felt it sear his veins every time he neared Vermax—every time he spoke to him, flew him up into the clouds.

The beast was uncertain at times, possibly due to his garbled Valyrian. However, during those rare times when he allowed them to align, his feelings mirroring Jace's own, they would become one. He would be a dragon—and dragons weren’t afraid.

They took their due.

Vaulting to his feet anew, he bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the anguished cries of his inflamed muscles.

It was fortunate he'd had the sense to map the tunnels he and Luce had once used to sneak around the Keep. Otherwise, he would have easily gotten lost in the cramped darkness of the passageway. Passing through the trap door, he barreled down the stairs into the city. Bundled in the same tattered wools he’d worn the day before, it was easy to blend into the unwashed press of citygoers.

-Seems being non-Valyrian looking pays off.

He wondered what Daemon would think if he told him he was glad he looked nothing like him—he’d most like laugh, and call him a fool.

-Let's see if you laugh now.

The Dragonpit's dome loomed above the city press like a beacon. Rushing past the guards posted at the gate, he slipped inside the inner courtyard, lungs heaving for air.

“Hey, you! Get out, you can't be here!” one of the novices threw at him, staff raised.

“Keligon!” he hissed, raising his head high. The acolyte furrowed his brows, before his purple eyes widened in recognition.

“My Prince,” his head dropped. “Forgive me, it’s almost daybreak, I did not…”

“Bring Vermax up to the back gate.” He cut him off.

Silence lingered, as sharp as a knife point.

“Now!”

The skinny thing recovered in a flash, and quickly fled inside. Jace sucked in a breath and made his way to the postern entrance, to the cliffside overlooking the Blackwater. The pink and red rays of dawn were cresting the horizon, a roaring fire slowly sparking to life.

When he made it out to the riverside, the Keepers were already waiting for him.

His dragon was restless. It was plain the acolyte had roused him from sleep, for he was rumbling, a deep, displeased growl resonating in his chest. The green of his scales glistened like polished obsidian in the dim light, and when Jace neared to press against them they were as hot as heated iron.

-I am a dragon.

And he was not afraid.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he moved for the ropes to vault up into the saddle.

The voice bid him pause.

“Jace!” like an apparition, his sister had materialized out on the cliffside. She barreled right over to him, her stride purposeful.

He resisted the urge to sigh.

-Of course.

If anyone knew him well enough to gauge his behaviors, it would be his twin.

“Get back to the Keep, Luce. You shouldn’t be out!” It filled him with so much dread to know she'd followed him throughout the city alone and unarmed in the dark.

“Neither should you. But it seems you can’t help yourself.” She paused, lips pressed into a firm white line. “You mean to go, don’t you? To Driftmark?”

The redness colored his vision, the rage making his skin prick up. Behind him, Vermax stirred, that low rumbling rising to a discontented hiss.

“Of course, I mean to go.”

The dejected ways she shut her eyes, left the cup overflowing. “You can’t fly like this “

“Gods, do not start!” he bellowed, fists balled. “Did you earnestly believe I was just going to sit on the sidelines, allowing Daemon to dictate all we do? No. He doesn’t know everything. And we deserve more.”

Vermax was keening now, his growl echoing down the Blackwater like a war cry.

“We're just as strong, just as worthy as he is. And we should have a say in how things are run. Now I don’t care if he thinks I’m a weak, stupid mongrel who cannot stand up for himself. I am going to Driftmark to do what is right. And neither he nor you can stop me!”

His voice shattered, and Vermax let out a sonorous shriek.
Luce took his outburst with solemn dignity, her brown eyes pinning his. At last, she forced down a swallow, and released a breath.

“I meant you can't fly without a cloak. You'll freeze up there.”

For a moment, he regarded her with stunned apprehension. Then, as she began unfastening the button that held her wool cloak in place, her words finally sunk in.

“You… you aren’t here to stop me?”

The laugh she let out was sweet, but forlorn.

“You said it yourself. I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. And I shouldn’t either.” She draped the cloak about his shoulders straightening the fabric till it was pressed snugly against his throat.

“Fire and Blood. Just as you’d said. Daemon will never hold us in high regard. The curse of being born with non-Valyrian blood.” She paused. “But he will respect us—if we show strength. Be what he values. Dragons. And dragons need no one's permission to take what is theirs.”

He didn’t think. Faster than she could blink he seized her into an embrace, his flesh quivering in agony.

“Thank you…” he whispered to her.

He may have resolved not to care for the opinions of others, but it still warmed his heart to know his twin was firmly on his side—no matter what folly he decided to engage in.

“Fly high, and fly fast. I heard Daemon say Baela’s letter was sent three days past. Daemion may not have made moves to enter High Tide yet, but I cannot imagine he'll hold off forever.”

Releasing her, he rested his hands on her shoulders.

“You hold fast here. Watch out for Mother and Rhaena. The little ones too. I’ll come back soon.”

Smiling she pressed her forehead to him.

“Give him fire, and nothing less.”

Heart in his throat, he brushed his lips against hers and turned on his heel. Vermax was already bent low, ready to take him into the saddle.

Chapter Text

Lucera had been right—he was freezing.

He’d scarce spent an hour flying that his fingers had gone numb from the cold. Icy air blasted his cheeks, carrying with it the sharp tang of saltwater. The only relief was that Vermax's scales radiated enough heat to prevent him from turning to ice.

Gritting his teeth, he cracked his whip, driving his dragon harder—he was displeased. Pinpricks stabbed into his flesh every time he dared to lash him, an obvious sign of his discomfort.

Jace could hardly blame him— he’d roused him from sleep, not fed him, and was driving him across the bay to an ambush of Myrish pirates.

-At least he'll see Moondancer again.

Even if her rider would be displeased to see Jace.

When the sun had begun descending behind the horizon, pale ivory towers crested in the distance. From up above, Driftmark looked like a haphazard patchwork of color. The rocky terrain rose like unopened buds from the sea, slowly giving way to the surrounding towns. First, he came upon Spicetown.

A collection of driftwood bound together by rope and stone, the planks began in the shallows, before rising into ramshackle wooden taverns and houses that stretched inland. The wood was painted in a myriad of different colors, all warm and rich, and he was sure that if he flew overhead, the decadent scent of a thousand different spices would embrace him like a lover.

In contrast, Hull looked washed out. Located on the eastern bank, the port town was a collection of grey cobbled rocks haphazardly stuck together into small fisherman huts. The Merlin road ran through the center of the grey sprawl, leading up a hill where Driftmark castle stood. A lumbering monstrosity, it was made out of white marble and chiseled gray stone. Two towers rose above the flattened keep, sharp and pointed like the ears of some rabbit.

Even at a distance, he could see the ocher flames burning at the top of the left ear—a signal that the Lord was home.

-Mad bastard.

He’d assumed Daemion would take up residence in the castle. After all, grandsire had passed it to Vaemond to steward the day he'd erected High Tide to serve as his primary seat.

Nevertheless, it incensed him to see the fool proclaim himself its lord so unabashedly.

As he neared the coast, to pass Spicetown, he dared to fly lower. A part of him yearned to bid Vermax to blast that cursed ear with fire, but the sight of ships prowling in the distance gave him pause.

He spotted two of the five war galleys his stepfather had let sail from Kings Landing anchored at Hullport. What he thought had to be the remainder was cruising in the bay.

But the other ships he didn’t recognize. Six vessels braved the waves around Hull, making swooping arcs across the water. Their sails were black, bearing the sigil of a skeleton, holding up a crown with a serpent entwined around the points.

-Pirates.

If he had to hazard a guess, they had to be from Tyrosh. He couldn’t imagine anyone else painting their ship hulls with such gaudy dyes. However, there was a seventh vessel that trailed the column, as inconspicuous as a shadow. Compared to the war galleys, this ship was tiny, with a slender hull, shaped like an arrow. Its sails were a pale gold, and bore no sigil to mark them.
He frowned, shrugging deeper into his cloak.

-Just what madness have you concocted?

Whatever it was, he knew he was about to find out. The sight of his dragon had roused the rabble below and panicked shouts rang out to announce his presence.

No sooner had he neared the edge of Spicetown's port, that warning bells rang out in the distance. Vermax released a fierce shriek, suddenly bucking.

Jace lurched forward, almost losing grip of his reins. His heart thundered in his throat and he had to grit his teeth to stop them from chattering.

When he peered at the ships he was startled to see them change course to head right toward him.

-He's… he’s lost his senses.

A blockade he understood. A few sturdy ships could easily ward off any vessels Dragonstone or its vassals could send—especially if they were led by a Velaryon.

But a dragon? Jace didn’t think he'd ever felt more insulted in his life.

Rage simmering in his belly, he cracked his whip. For once, Vermax obeyed without protest. His dragon angled downward, wings slashing at the air. If that fool wanted to go against them, he would be more than happy to remind him of the true meaning of his house words.

Bucking in his seat, he focused on his target, blinking away the salty wind blasting his face. The ships had formed a wide crescent as if they meant to surround them.

-Drop then turn, drop then turn.

He repeated the commands in his mind like a prayer, his heart in his throat. If he did the maneuver right, he could set them all aflame in just a few quick swoops.

All he had to…

Something whizzed right beside his ear. Jace jerked, hands yanking on the reins. Vermax screeched, wings angling to the right.

They were firing at him. He was close enough to just about make out giant scorpions dotting the deck on each galley. However, none of the bolts seemed to be in range.
-How in the seven…

He saw it coming this time. He ducked, just in time for the pale projectile to miss his head by mere inches. When he felt a searing tightness in his left shoulder, he angled his head down— two of them were embedded in Vermax's wing blades.

-Arrows. It's arrows.

Pale yellow, with plumage that reminded him of peacock feathers.

His eyes locked on that small, slender ship. To his bewilderment, it was that little cog leading the charge. He couldn’t see any scorpions on deck, but he could make out men scurrying about, their arms trained upward.

No sooner had he pegged them for archers that they loosened another hale at him.

Jace didn’t even need to duck. His dragon bucked, screaming a fierce cry. He beat his wings in a panic, sharply turning before the blanket could descend on him.

Head pounding, he grabbed furiously at the reins.

“Daor, daor!” he bellowed, muscles weeping against the strain of the ropes. “Dohearīs!”

Vermax answered his demand with a violent shriek. He kept flying away, toward the mainland—to Jace's horror, another hail greeted him there.

But this time, the scorpions he encountered were not out of range. The weapons crested Driftmark's parapets, loosening their trained projectiles the moment he flew overhead.

It was fortunate Vermax immediately vaulted higher to avoid being skewered. In the distance, another alarm rang, and he could have sworn he glimpsed men rolling out a trebuchet just outside Driftmark's walls.

Cracking his whip, he drove Vermax up, till the air had cooled down so much, his teeth began chattering anew. He flew inward, intent on reaching High Tide—the pinpricks stabbing into his skin told him Vermax needed to land to recuperate from the yellow hale.

The gods disagreed—for when he glimpsed those ivory towers stretching up into the heavens, he found the same scene.
Rows of scorpions were trained right at the castle, nestled behind a wall of siege spikes. The moat was flooded, and the gates barred, so there was a low chance of anyone attempting to storm inside. Nevertheless, tents dotted the pale sands beyond, and the moment Vermax's wings shadowed the ground, shouts rang out.

With a labored groan, those scorpions started turning, seeking out their target.

-They won't let me land.

Even if every single bolt missed him, they were going to keep firing at him till Vermax grew too exhausted and fell out of the sky of his own accord.

-Fight, now.

He needed to blast those cursed things, at least once. A bit of fire would send the wretches running, and give him an opening to enter.

“Come on boy, come on!” he cracked the whip anew. Fire seared his veins and he gritted his teeth, Vermax bucking under him.
The beast resisted against the pull of the reins, shrieking call after call.

“Dohearīs, come on, dohearīs!” He lashed him with a whip harder, but all that made him do was hiss and vault higher.
Screaming, he yanked on those ropes, the skin of his palms weeping red. Vermax wept with it, angling himself down for a drop.

The word came, sweet and powerful, resting on the tip of his tongue—but rather than Vermax blasting fire, the flames came from a different source.

A hale of fire arrows rained down on the men manning the scorpions, a blanket of candle wicks against the white sand. Shouts rang from below, as the attention shifted to the castle walls.

Jace had just enough time to pull the reins back and direct the dragon toward High Tide's towers. Vermax made a sharp turn, the force of the swivel making the chains fastening him in his seat dig into his sides.

He jerked when a projectile whizzed behind him, his muscles liquid. The scorpion bolt flew over Vermax to strike at Driftmark's parapets. A fierce shriek sounded, and Jace had to avert his eyes, unable to bear looking at the defender the bolt had skewered like a rabbit.

Vermax paid no mind to his direction. The dragon simply bore down inside the inner courtyard, crushing what he thought was a wagon of supplies. Chaotic shouts rang around him like a song, and he almost tumbled down his dragon's wings, his legs as sturdy as pudding.

“Peace, peace!” he bellowed.

Descending with an agonizing thud of boots, he lifted his hands. The pinks of sunset had blanketed the courtyard in a smoky haze, and Jace had trouble making out just how many arrows were pointed at him.

“I come on behalf of my mother, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Crown Princess of Dragonstone, and heir to his grace, the King.”
More garbled shouts and a figure in scuffed steel armor strode over to him.

“My Prince!” the man bellowed, silver hair sticking to his glistening skin. “Seven hells, you alright? Were you hit?”

Jace blinked at him, hands nervously pawing at his chest. His muscles screamed in such agony, he might as well have taken hundreds of arrows.

“No, I don’t think so,” Vermax hissing behind him bade him whirl on his feet. Half a dozen little golden arrows were lodged in the gaps between his scales. “Well, sort of.”

Reaching over, he yanked one of the projectiles, his arm shaking with the effort. Vermax released a fierce hiss, but his molten slits seemed to radiate annoyance more than pain.

“Lykiri, it’s alright.” Jace eyed the arrow, the wood surprisingly light in his hands.

“Ah, I see you’ve met our distinguished guests.” The man behind him spat.

He was familiar—a Velaryon cousin, to be sure, but he lacked that trademark umber skin, and dark eyes. Instead, his coloring was more akin to a Lyseni native— fine, silver locks, an ivory complexion, and pale eyes the color of a still lake.

“What’s happened, who were those men?”

The man scowled, his skin crinkling like crumpled parchment.

“Our new overlords. That stupid boy brought them here. Turned this island into a Tyroshi piss sink!”

Jace blew a breath, yanking out another arrow. Vermax's displeasure grew and he was certain that if he didn’t finish this quickly, his dragon would spit a fireball at his head.

“Pirates.”

“Aye,” the man spat. “The worst of the swill. They’ve been pilfering the island ever since they got here. Stripped Hull bare. We haven’t had a single trading cog sail in for fear of being ripped apart by those rabid dogs.”

“I take it they’re the ones who brought in the scorpions?”

“You reckon? The Triarchy has learned a thing or two since Prince Daemon first descended on them in the Stepstones with Caraxes. They don’t send out ships unless they have at least two of those blasted things on deck. If they could, they’d probably shove one in their asses to shoot scorpions whenever one of them farts.”

His arms shook with effort as he loosened the last arrow from Vermax wing blades. The dragon hissed, bending his head down to peer at him.

Jace patted it.

-Love you too.

“And Daemion? He's taken up residence in Driftmark, hasn’t he?”
The Velaryon man's scowl deepened so much, he was convinced those lines would remain permanently etched in his ivory skin.

“Strode right in there, the little shit, and proclaimed himself Lord. He means to bury his uncle beneath the waves while the man yet draws breath.”

He paused. “He's proclaimed himself the Lord of the Tides?”

“Eh, not yet. Just Lord of Driftmark castle. The boy is stupid, but he has not yet ascended to that level of foolishness.” The man paused, squaring his shoulders. “He needs his prize for that.”

His words must have been a summons, for the castle doors creaked open with a loud cry of hinges. A figure barreled out, bundled in riding leathers.

“Where is he?” Baela scoured the yard, brows furrowing when she spotted Vermax stretching behind him. Then, her teak eyes locked with his and that frown turned into a vicious scowl.

Against his better judgment, Jace smiled. She still looked so lovely. Dressed in armor and padded leather, she cut the image of a Valyrian war goddess. Those lush silver curls he'd spend hours twirling about his finger were tied at her nape in a braid, and her umber skin glistened gold in the setting sun.

“Baela…” he was shambling toward her, hands extended. His mind had emptied of all thought, and he yearned for nothing else save to embrace her, and bury his head into the crook of her slender neck.

But instead of a caress, he was dealt a blow. Faster than he could blink, she marched over to him, fist knocking to swing.
Despite the pain wracking his entire body, the blow seared. He stumbled back, his vision white. The numbness in his jaw rapidly gave way to a burning agony, and the taste of metal filled his mouth.

“Seven hells!” he hissed, hand going for his lip. He was certain his entire body would swell into one grotesque bruise. “What was that for?!”

Head high, she crossed her arms on her chest.

“You look like a street urchin. Get out.”

Jace blew a breath.

-Lovely.

“It's good to look upon your face as well.”

She pursed her plump lips, her cheeks hollowing out.

“Why are you here, I sent for my father?”

“Well, he sent me.” He fired before he could truly consider his words.

As expected, Baela grimaced.

“No, he didn’t. Why would he?”

“I don’t know, perhaps because he trusts me to handle this matter to our advantage?"

“He has no reason to trust a boy who doesn’t even trust himself.”

The way she scoffed made her look like Daemon's shadow. He inhaled, the hurt blooming in his chest, as hot as freshly spilled blood.

“Leave, Jacaerys. There is naught you can do for us here, save be a nuisance.” Her teak eyes pivoted to the Velaryon man. “Cousin Caelyn, make sure my dearest stepbrother departs unharmed… or not. He could do with an arrow or two in his chest.”

Lashing him with one more indignant look, she turned on her heel to march back inside.

“Well my Prince, you heard her. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Who he recalled was Caelyn Velaryon drew closer, as if to seize his forearm. The pain in his lip dulled to a low throb.

“No.” He hissed. “I’m not leaving.”

The old man groaned, “Come now, lad…”

“No. I didn’t get pummeled into porridge for her little tantrum to drive me off. I’m staying. And if you take issue with that, you are welcome to lodge your complaints with Vermax.”

His dragon had enough sense to release a warning hiss. Caelyn's eyes widened like ripe figs, and when Jace barreled up the stairs to follow Baela, no one dared stand in his way.

Stepping inside, he scurried after her, down winding paths, his muscles aflame. They somehow ended up in the Hall of Nine, surrounded by a plethora of exotic treasures his grandsire had gathered during his famed nine voyages. The scent of wood, steel, and bone danced in his nostrils, and he had to blink away the haze blurring his vision.

“Always so pigheaded, except where it counts,” she spat, ascending the dais toward the Driftwood throne. “I told you, I didn’t need you. Then or now.”

As always, the pain lashed his heart anew, but he beat it down in a blind fury.

“Good, I don’t care!” he had only the barest moment to feel satisfaction at her wide-eyed stare.

“I just spent nigh on two days without sleep. I’ve not eaten anything save yesterday’s bowl of porridge, and I almost got skewered by half a dozen scorpions to get here. So with all due respect, stepsister, I am staying until this matter is resolved. Whether you like it, or not.” He drew closer, ascending the dais, till he towered over her. To his undying pleasure, those few inches he'd grown in the last year meant he had half a head on her. “Do you understand?”

For a moment, he thought she would sock him in the face again. Her nostrils had flared, and a most ravishing flush had attacked her cheeks. However, she merely arched a brow, eyeing him from head to toe.

“Fine,” she announced at last. “I hope you know I will spend the entire time insulting you.”

It was a blessing from the Mother herself that he resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Marvelous. Will you give me a chair to sit on now? I think I shall collapse.”

Crossing her arms on her chest, she called for the servants. In two quick strides, he found himself in the lavish dining hall, sprawled in a cushioned chair. The servants had laid out a lavish feast of roasted cod, buttered clams, and honeyed shrimp, with freshly baked bread and potato mash. Jace inhaled it all in a frenzy, not stopping until his belly hurt from being overfilled. After he downed a cup of strong wine to dull the ache in his muscles he collapsed back into the pillows.

Baela regarded him from her seat at the head of the table, her expression unreadable. She’d hardly touched any of the food on her plate, preferring to skewer the shrimp with the dinner knife. The flames of the roaring heartfire played across her smooth skin like dancers. Against his better judgment, that familiar warmth tied his gut into knots.

“You look vile,” she said at last, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip.

“I think we've already established that,” he chortled. He dared not rub at his eyes again—the last time he made the mistake of touching any part of his face, he almost collapsed from the agony.

“Do I have my father to thank for knocking some sense into you at last?”

“As if your father would ever deal me blows himself. He'd sooner let unwashed pit fighters do his dirty work for him.” He shuddered, recalling that ghastly mask of crusted blood. “He took us to a brawling ring in Flea Bottom, and had me participate.”

A brief moment of silence lingered, filled only with the soft whisper of the crackling heart fire.

“And? How did you fare?”

He pinned her gaze—the blackness seemed to be crackling just as vibrantly as the fire.

“Only you would take no issue with his choices.”

“I’ll assume you got pummeled silly then?”

His fingers squeezed the cup tighter—the way she arched that silver brow of hers was pure wickedness.

“I’ll have you know I was the one who did the pummeling. And I also called your father a cunt.”

The pucker bloomed into a wide grin.

“And I take it he did not care in the slightest. Well done. Knowing you, it could have gone either way.”

“I could say the inverse of you. Why haven’t you gone out to blast Daemion's ships with dragonfire the moment they appeared in Hullport?”

At last, that wicked grin faltered, and Jace relished stumping her for once.

“You think I haven’t? The moment we received news he was bringing a pirate fleet to seize Driftmark, I was prowling the skies. But then they brought over that blasted Swan ship and Moondancer got grounded.”

He leaned over. “Swan ship? They have Summer Islanders fighting for them?”

He immediately recalled that slender cog with golden sails leading the charge against him. Baela grimaced, knocking back a swallow from her own cup.

“Mercenaries Daemion hired, but still lethal. He and Vaemond kept close ties with the distant kin we have there. It wasn’t hard to find souls willing to aid his cause.”

Jace arched a brow, but then recalled Lord Corlys' lady mother had been a Summer Islander. A high priestess from Wallano, she'd brought over the culture and shipwright secrets that saw his grandsire become the most famed sailor of his time.

“I managed to get three of the pirate galleys, but the moment they brought the goldenheart bows out, my advantage was stifled.
The memory of those queer golden arrows flashed before his eyes. The shaft had been obscenely long, almost the size of a short spear, and impossibly lightweight for a projectile of that caliber.