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Chapter Text

For as long as she could remember, Lyara Stark had dreamt of a door. There was nothing particularly interesting about the door, it was tall and arched like many doors in Winterfell, but something about it made her chest ache with familiarity. Lyara did not dream of the door every night- in truth, she had seen the door quite rarely- but it was always the same. It was always firmly closed and locked without a key in sight. A small sliver of yellow light emanated from the gap at the bottom. In her dreams, she sat in front of the door at the end of an empty hallway. No matter how many times she explored all the long corridors of Winterfell, of which there were numerous with many long abandoned or forgotten, she could never find whichever hallway led to her door. If the door even existed outside of her dreams at all.

In the waking world, the door in her dreams did not preoccupy Lyara’s thoughts very much. She went most days without thinking of it at all. Her time was better spent being educated in all the ways a girl of noble birth should be. Her sewing was passable, though she did not particularly enjoy it. She knew the words and steps to many songs and dances. She loathed arithmetic, but knew enough to manage a household. Most of all, Lyara loved reading and history. She could often be found in the library tower reading some book or another. She could also be often spotted in the large godswood held within the walls of Winterfell. While not excessively devout, Lyara displayed a healthy respect and knowledge of the Old Gods and their traditions. More than anything, the young girl seemed fascinated with the intricacies of the religion and its history.

By most accounts, Lyara was an exceedingly normal child. She had the telltale looks of a Stark, brown hair that fell in slight waves and she kept mostly tied back in simple styles and grey eyes, a few shades darker than those of her younger brother, Cregan. She was described as polite, if a little shy at first, though with a bad habit of senselessly speaking her mind as if she was never taught to bite her tongue. The children’s tutors and members of the Stark household agreed that it was a minor flaw that Lyara would grow out of.

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Crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was to be wed, and House Stark rode south from Winterfell to King’s Landing. The party consisted of Lyara and Cregan, their parents Lord Rickon and Lady Gilliane, and two dozen Northern bannermen. It was a long, arduous trek in Lyara’s opinion, who was feeling both exhausted and restless by the time they were welcomed to the royal palace. They arrived only the day before the festivities began, which gave them very little time to settle into their accommodations and ready themselves for a royal wedding. Not that Lyara would have noticed; she was worn out from travel, of which she spent most time in a carriage with her mother and Cregan, who at six was still too young to be riding a horse for very long and had only learned the basics. Lyara’s main worry was that she would not have enough time to visit the library of the Red Keep in between all the feasts and activities.

As it stood, Lyara and the rest of her family were preparing themselves for the welcome feast that night. She was overall ill at ease, apprehension and fear already bubbling up inside of her. Lyara looked at herself in the mirror, her dark grey eyes making sure every detail was correct. The dress she was wearing was made of thicker material than what was strictly comfortable in the heat of the south, but not so heavy that it was unbearable. It was a soft grey color with embroidered and beaded direwolves decorating the hem, sleeves, and neckline. On the insistence of her mother, Lyara paired it with a necklace, the pendant of which was a branch, delicately carved from a weirwood tree and from it hung three garnets that resembled the tree’s blood-red leaves. Her brown hair was mostly loose with two braids that started at each of her temples and connected at the nape of her neck and fell down her back with the rest of her hair. She smoothed her dress and tried to convince herself that she looked like the daughter of House Stark that she was and not the child playing dress up that she felt. Assuaging her anxiety must have taken too long for her brother’s liking because his reflection soon joined hers in the mirror, his face twisted up in annoyance.

“Lya, come on. You’re taking too long,” Cregan whined. Lyara turned and scowled at Cregan.

“Just because you do not care to look decent in front of the royal family does not mean I should not try to look my best,” Lyara retorted. Lyara didn’t actually care to keep up appearances, but thought herself much more grown up and responsible at her age of eight than Cregan’s six.

Moreover, her comment was a half truth if anything; Cregan didn’t care much for parading around the Red Keep for the house of the dragon, but that did not mean that their parents didn’t force him into his best garments anyway. Similarly to his sister, Cregan was dressed in varying shades of grey with subtle red detailing. Side by side, they made a very charming pair. House Stark so rarely made the journey to King’s Landing, and their mother and father were both insistent on making a good impression, as little as they cared for the chivalry and court politics of the south. It was always good to remind the rest of the noble families of the ancient strength of House Stark before they returned to their remote lands.

“Both of you, enough,” warned their mother with a sharp look as Cregan opened his mouth to make a snide comment back. Both brother and sister were successfully subdued, and they followed their mother and father down to the Great Hall to reunite with their bannermen before making an entrance.

The halls of the Red Keep were splendidly decorated. The Targaryen three-headed dragon sigil was everywhere. Long, thick tapestries cast intimidating shadows elongated by the torches that lined the walls. Everything was red and black, the whole castle a shrine for onlookers to worship the Targaryen kings. Occasionally, Lyara saw symbols of the Faith of the Seven, seven-pointed stars weaving their way into the decor but far overpowered by the regalia that harkened back to the days of Old Valyria and the greatness of House Targaryen.

Lyara tried to catalog it all with wide eyes, for she had never seen anything like it all. Winterfell was never so elaborately decorated. There was not enough time to take it all in, though, because soon enough she was led by her mother to stand next to Cregan. Just ahead, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was introducing the noble family before them. Both she and her brother put on their best smiles to be announced before the rest of the attendants.

The Lord Commander bellowed out, “House Stark with their lord Rickon Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell.”

She carefully and slowly stepped forward into the Great Hall, which was somehow more beautifully adorned than the corridor before. Members of many noble houses were seated at long tables with food atop every available surface. At the front of the room was a table situated higher than the rest. There sat a man that Lyara knew to be King Viserys, the First of His Name. He was different than she expected, maybe more human with his thinning hair and greying beard. Lyara had read of the ethereal beauty that people of Valryian blood were said to possess, but seated at the table was merely a man. Handsome, perhaps, in his youth, with kind eyes bracketed by crow’s feet and the signature long, silver-gold hair of House Targaryen and many descendents of Old Valyria.

House Stark moved before the dais to pay their respects to the royal family. Lyara heard her parents say the necessary pleasantries and make small talk, but she was otherwise preoccupied. The anxiety she had been trying to push down and away was steadily making itself known, nausea bubbling up in her stomach. As to not dwell on that panic, Lyara looked to the king’s right, where his daughter sat.

The Crown Princess Rhaenyra lived up to every bit of the otherworldly elegance that Lyara had heard and read about, and she felt both the need to immediately look away and to continue gazing at the princess forever. Her silver-gold hair was put into an elaborate updo woven with glittering rubies. Her bridal dress was form-fitting and painstakingly detailed in gold. Princess Rhaenyra was truly a vision. As their fathers briefly exchanged words, Rhaenyra looked down and happened to make eye contact with Lyara, who blushed and quickly averted her gaze after a small, respectful bow. Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted toward Cregan, who did the same. Some of Lyara’s anxiety ebbed away as they stepped away from the royal family’s table and took their seats near the lords and ladies of the Riverlands. She had succeeded in not making a fool of herself in front of the king and princess, and that was enough for now.

More noble families were introduced, but it was not long before the groom and his family made their entrance. With everyone standing and applauding, it was too difficult for Lyara to see much of anything. She managed to catch glimpses of the party, dressed magnificently in sea green and silver with seahorse embellishments. Once they settled into their seats at the table of the royal family, Lyara could see that the blood of Old Valaryia was strong in House Velaryon as well, but in a different way than House Targaryen. Their skin was darker, and their hair leaned more heavily toward silver. Princess Rhaenyra’s groom, Ser Laenor, was a striking man with strong features.

They will have cute children, Lyara thought to herself. Before she had the chance to ruminate further, a single man walked through the doors and hushed whispers erupted from each table.

“Who is that?” Cregan leaned over and whispered to her, but Lyara could only shrug. It was clear that this man was also of Valryian descent, though his silver-gold hair was cropped shorter than that of any other Targaryen or Valeryon in the room. He was dressed in the colors of House Targaryen and boldly made his way before the king. No words were exchanged, but the man proudly took a seat at the end of the table. Even with the uncultivated social skills of a girl of only eight name-days, Lyara could sense the tension in the room, and so could almost every other guest. Cregan was oblivious, craning his neck to see the new arrival.

“I think it’s Prince Daemon, the king’s younger brother,” Lyara whispered back to Cregan. The hall was mostly quiet now, save for a few whispers here and there. After a moment, everyone’s attention was back on the king as he began to give his speech. It was a futile effort, for soon after there was another arrival. Whispers soon started up once again, louder this time.

The woman needed no introduction. King Viserys’ Hightower queen who he had married after the death of his first wife, Queen Aemma Arryn. She was younger than Lyara would have thought, looking closer in age to the princess than the king. Queen Alicent was dressed in a stunning emerald gown, and she carried herself confidently. Lyara couldn’t take her eyes off of her.

Princess Rhaenyra was exquisite in a way that did not seem human, almost like a goddess in the flesh in her looks, and Queen Alicent, with her heritage going back to the Hightowers of Oldtown, could never even hope to compare, but the woman certainly was lovely. Her face was youthful and pleasant even with the serious look on her face. Her hair was auburn, long and finely arranged, and her eyes were a deep, warm brown. Those eyes swept over the crowd; she made sure to openly acknowledge the members of her birth house. There were whispers of the color of the gown she chose, but Lyara could not fathom why that would be important and did not pay much attention to them. Instead, she herself began whispering and giggling back and forth with Cregan.

It was not long until King Viserys demanded everyone’s attention once again, finishing his speech and allowing the guests to feast and dance. Despite seeing several other children in attendance, none were in the immediate vicinity of their table. Lyara and Cregan continued to interact with each other, while their mother and father mingled with their bannermen and the lords and ladies of other houses.

“You were staring at the Queen,” Cregan teased Lyara, as he was wont to do in the times where Lyara seemed to forget herself and all the social cues she had ever been taught as a noble lady. Lyara elbowed him, which caused him to cry out and their mother to give them a stern look and warning.

“Shut up, Cregan,” Lyara hissed. She could feel her cheeks heating up and was sure they were a bright red. She loathed how easily she blushed. “The queen is very beautiful.”

Cregan rolled his eyes at his sister, tired of her acting so grown up and mature on this venture south. Lyara, truly, was also already bored of the fanfare of this wedding, and it was only the first day out of seven. Perhaps it was the fact that they had such little time between arriving and the first night of feasting.

Lyara and Cregan were told they must be on their best behavior at all times, but most importantly during the welcome feast and the feast after the actual wedding were by far the most important. So for now, Lyara and Cregan sat and chatted amongst themselves. They watched as Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor had their sophisticated first dance. Even as more lords and ladies joined the dance, most of the Northern party stayed seated. The customs of the south were a far cry from those of the North, and the dances were ones Lyara was not familiar with.

The atmosphere was light and jovial, and the drinks flowed freely, not that Lyara or Cregan were permitted any. Soon enough, guests were more loose and their dances grew more unrefined. Their parents finally joined the others on the floor, dancing hand in hand. The two siblings were not far behind their parents, though their dance consisted of little more than jumping in circles and giggling with each other.

Soon, the floor was a crowded sea of bodies, dancing and laughing. As the dancing and drinking continued, many grew more and more inebriated. Lyara didn’t know when her surroundings crossed the threshold from social and fun to suffocating and panic-inducing since it happened so fast. She stopped her dance with Cregan, who also halted and looked at his older sister oddly.

“Lya? Are you alright?” he asked, grey eyes full of worry. Lyara could not answer her brother because her emotions were running haywire. There were too many people. Too many sounds. Too many strange bodies surrounding them.

“Get me out,” Lyara pleaded quietly. Cregan nodded, more understanding than most when it came to his sister’s emotions. Lyara clung to Cregan, their hands tightly clasped together as he led her back to a more secluded corner toward the front of the Great Hall. There was room to breathe there, but Lyara struggled to swallow down her anxiety.

Waves of nausea hit her, and she felt like she couldn’t get in a true lungful of air. She thought she was going to be sick, and that thought made her even more nervous and scared. Lyara squeezed her eyes shut to block some of it out. Everything was so loud.

“I’m going to find mother or father, okay Lya?” Cregan said. He sounded so far away, but she could still feel his hand in hers. Lyara nodded shakily and forced herself to release the vice grip she had on her brother’s hand. She would have to apologize later. “I’ll be right back.”

Her eyes still squeezed shut, Lyara took careful breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on breathing and eventually everything would be fine.

“Do you need help?” a gentle voice suddenly asked, causing Lyara to gasp and open her eyes wide. In front of her stood Queen Alicent herself, looking at her with open worry on her face. The Queen’s hand was stretched out, but she was careful not to touch the girl. Lyara was immensely grateful. She sucked in one last deep breath.

“Yes, Queen Alicent, thank you,” she said in the most steady voice she could muster. Her heart was still hammering in her chest, but the panic was slowly fading. After a moment, all Lyara felt was exhausted and embarrassed. She felt herself flush hotly. “I’m sorry, queen Alicent. I didn't mean to interrupt the feast.”

Alicent gave her a small smile and shook her head to calm the young girl’s fears. She made a point to look behind her, where most guests were still dancing and drinking. “No worries, sweet girl. No one has even noticed, and you collected yourself admirably for a girl of your age. We have yet to be introduced, may I ask your name?”

Lyara tried to return Alicent’s smile, but she was sure it came out more of a grimace. She would reprimand herself for looking like such a fool in front of the queen later, but right now she would have to try to salvage this first impression.

“Lyara of House Stark, your grace,” she said, politely curtseying. The woman, though again Lyara did not think she looked very grown at all, looked surprised for a moment but managed to cover it up quickly.

“All the way from the North!” Alicent remarked, pretending to be shocked. “It could not have been easy to travel all the way to King’s Landing, and we thank you for your presence in court.”

Lyara giggled at the exaggerated interaction and thanked the queen. She still felt a little shaky, and she started to pick at her nails. It was a nervous habit that many had tried and failed to break. Lyara’s nails were always whittled down to the quick from her picking or biting. Alicent’s eyes flicked down at the movement, and she frowned. Before Lyara could feel self-conscious, Queen Alicent spoke again.

“Do you give me permission to touch your hands, Lady Lyara?” she asked softly. Lyara nodded, and Alicent took the girl’s hands gently into her own, stopping her from picking.

“Thank you for, um, asking me before. My queen,” Lyara said, tripping over her words, adding on the title hesitantly. “Not everyone does.”

“It is nothing, Lady Lyara, more people should ask permission, don’t you think?” the woman asked, and Lyana nodded seriously and pulled her hands away from Alicent’s delicate grasp. The queen smiled serenely, the interaction clearly reminding her of something else. “My daughter, Helaena-”

The queen was cut off by Lyara’s father rushing toward her. He crouched next to his young daughter, his lips downturned and eyebrows drawn together in worry. Her father laid a gentle hand on Lyara’s shoulder. “Lyara, are you okay?”

Cregan and their mother followed shortly after, and suddenly all of House Stark was standing in front of Queen Alicent. Her father collected himself and stood from where he was knelt next to her.

“Your grace! I apologize, I forgot myself worrying about my daughter-” he began to save face, but Alicent politely waved him off with a small smile.

“That is all right, Lord Stark; I understand completely. I would have done the same for my children,” the queen assured the older man. Rickon exhaled and thanked her. Lyara’s mother stepped in.

“Thank you for seeing to Lyara, your grace. It is the first time our children have traveled outside of Winterfell, so emotions are running a little high, as I’m sure you know,” Gilliane said, bowing politely. Alicent remained composed.

“Like I said, Lady Stark, it is completely understandable. I have three young children of my own, so I certainly do know,” she said, lips quirked up. “Lady Lyara here was very courteous in our introduction.”

Lyara beamed at the praise, and she could tell her parents were proud that she had held her own as well. Her father squeezed her shoulder gently, proud. She was thankful the queen was so kind to her, and she remembered that Alicent had begun an anecdote right before her family arrived.

“Your grace, you were telling me about your daughter, Princess Helaena,” Lyara prompted the young queen. Alicent blinked, caught off guard, and then smiled down at Lyara.

“Oh yes, I was saying that Princess Helaena is not fond of people touching her without her permission, either. She is a few years younger than you, Lady Lyara, as she recently had her fifth name-day. She has been known to get… overwhelmed by large gatherings like this as well,” Alicent explained, smiling softly at the thought of her young daughter.

“I would like to meet her,” Lyara decided, speaking all too bluntly in front of the queen. Her parents went to step in, but Alicent assured them again that it was fine.

“I’m sure that can be arranged, Lyara,” the queen smiled sweetly at the young girl. She then turned her attention to Lady and Lord Stark. “Is your party attending the tourney? The king and I would love to have you join us.”

Chapter Text

“What do you think it’s going to be like?” Cregan asked as he and Lyara settled on the lowest bench in one of the royal boxes, waiting for the tourney to start. Their mother and father sat in the row behind them, and there many other members of noble houses seated nearby. No members of the royal family had arrived yet.

“Violent, I guess,” Lyara replied. The Northern children had never seen a tourney, and they were unsure what to expect save for a few tidbits here and there of what the adults around them said. Talk of the one a few years before, to celebrate an anniversary of the King and Queen’s wedding. The name Criston Cole was thrown around more than once, not that Lyara or Cregan knew who that was.

The tournament grounds were a decent sized plot of land that was currently set up to hold the day’s competitions, archery and jousting. It was lined with spectator boxes and the heraldry of the houses that were participating.

Down the stretch, Lyara spotted the aquamarine coat of arms of House Manderly. Lord Manderly’s eldest son, Ser Medrick, and his men had met the party at Moat Cailin on their journey to King’s Landing. He was a talented man, skilled with a longsword and a halberd, though young and comparatively untested against many of the season knights who would be participating in the tourney with him. Lyara had not interacted with Ser Medrick very much on their way south, but knew he was knighted not long ago and that the tourney was a chance for him to prove his mettle. Not many Northmen were competing, so Lyara was excited to cheer on the White Harbor lord.

Cregan opened his mouth to respond, but quickly shut it again when they saw the royal family arriving. At least, it was the king and queen, their arms interlocked as they took their seats, a few rows up and over from Lyara and Cregan. Behind them were three children, all with the same silver-gold hair of their father. Lyara assumed these were the princes and princess. Alicent leaned down to whisper to the oldest one, a pouting boy around the same height as Lyara. She pointed to where her and her brother were sitting, and the boy led his siblings over to them rather reluctantly. They sat to the right of them on the long wooden bench.

“Hello,” Lyara said politely. The oldest boy, prince Aegon, did not look particularly enthused to be at the tourney, but that would not deter Lyara. “I am Lyara Stark, and this is my brother Cregan.”

“Stark?” Prince Aegon said, incredulous. “Like from the North?”

Lyara tried not to beam with pride for her house and homeland. She nodded. “Yes, from Winterfell. We are pleased to meet you.”

Lyara nudged Cregan with her elbow, trying to get him to also interact with the princes and princess. Sometimes Lyara felt like she was the only one between the two of them who cared about making a good impression! Cregan shot her a glare.

“Yes, it is nice to meet you,” he said simply. Her brother was never one for many words. Lyara would have to pick up the slack.

“Princess Helaena, I have been looking forward to meeting you,” she said, turning her eyes toward the princess. She was younger than Lyara, five the queen had said, and she had wide lilac eyes that were currently staring ahead at the tourney grounds. Besides a soft hum and her eyes flickering over the older girl’s face, Princess Helaena did not seem to even register that Lyara was talking to her at all. It must not have been an uncommon occurrence, because prince Aegon just scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t bother with her,” he said. Lyara huffed in annoyance, but Aegon paid her no mind and opened his mouth to speak again “I heard that people from the North were savages!”

“We are not!” Lyara replied hotly, whipping her head around to glare at him. “That is a very rude thing to say!”

Prince Aegon just shrugged, not caring that he offended the older girl. “It’s just what I heard. I also heard that you worship trees, is that true?”

“No!” Lyara cried, her cheeks burning and flushed an angry red. “All of that is incorrect!”

“So no trees?” Aegon needled further. Lyara floundered for a moment, thinking back to the acres of the godswood in Winterfell and the bleeding, carved faces of the weirwood. She hated to concede this point to the young prince.

“Well-” she began, but was cut off by the prince guffawing, which caused Lyara to simmer in anger. She was outraged over how the prince talked about the North, like it was no better than Beyond the Wall. Her cheeks felt hot, and she crossed her arms. “We worship the Old Gods, it’s different!”

It may have occurred to Lyara to not speak so plainly and in such a tone to the prince, but in the moment she could not have cared less. Who was this boy, to speak so poorly about my home like this?, she thought, frowning. He had no right, prince or not! She would never think to say awful things about the people in the south or about the Faith.

Aegon just shrugged again, now seeming bored and uninterested with her and looking down at the tourney grounds. Lyara glanced over to Cregan, where he had moved to sit next to Helaena, who seemed to need a gentler social touch than the one Lyara was able to give. Or maybe it was the loud and rambunctious nature of the tourney. Either way, Cregan was always able to sit in comfortable silence in a way Lyara could not. She always sought to fill that silence, make comments and jokes and oftentimes stick her own foot in her mouth along the way. She didn’t realize she was doing it in the moment, and always reprimanded herself in private when thinking back on her social interactions.

Behind them, Lyara saw her mother and father interacting with some of the other lords and ladies that sat in their box. She recognized Lady Erena Cerwyn, who accompanied the Northern party to King’s Landing, and Princess Rhaenys Velaryon from the feast the night before, both talking with her mother. Her father was talking with three men she did not recognize. They must have been some southern lords.

The grounds were set up for archery, and the first batch of participants were taking their places to begin. An announcement was made, rattling off the names of the men. Lyara recognized most of the surnames, but she did not know anything beyond that. They were almost all southern knights with a handful of squires or freeriders. Still, out of all of the tourney’s events, archery was the only one Lyara knew she enjoyed. Back in Winterfell, she could often be found watching men be trained in archery by the master-at-arms there, Hullen Hornwood. Lyara had been pleading with her father and Hullen to teach her to shoot since her fifth name-day, and they had finally acquiesced right before the Starks set off for the capital. Here at the tourney, Lyara would make sure she was paying close attention to the archery. She would show how diligent she was when it came to acquiring this new skill, so neither man would go back on their word. On top of that, it was better than having to interact with Aegon again.

Unfortunately for Lyara, the princeling seemed to have a different idea. He had moved to sit next to her, and Lyara desperately looked over to where Cregan was sitting with Helaena; the younger girl seemed to come out of her shell a little, and they were both keeping the younger prince, Aemond, entertained. Her brother was of absolutely no use!

She kept her eyes locked on the archers, watching how each one drew back the bow and aimed carefully. She noted the different bows each man used and how they affected the shot. Lyara was so focused on the event that she jumped when Prince Aegon touched her arm and spoke again

“You find archery that interesting?” Aegon asked her rudely, staring at her. Lyara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She did not like that the younger boy put his hand on her so casually, but she ignored it.

“It is a fascinating sport,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the ground below. The second batch of men lined up, and their names and titles were recited to the crowd. From the corner of her eye, Lyara noticed Aegon rolling his eyes. It seemed he had no qualms over acting impolitely, which Lyara would have to remember next time she forced down a rude remark or gesture.

“I would not say so,” Aegon scoffed. Lyara huffed and elected to ignore him, eliciting an eye roll from the young prince. The older girl continued to ignore the boy, instead focusing on this next group of archers. Aegon did not take kindly to this, and he frowned in her direction. “What do you find so interesting about it anyway?”

His voice was petulant, and he put his hand on Lyara’s arm. She tried to subtly shrug it off to no avail. Lyara didn’t like being touched by anyone other than her family at the best of times, nevermind when Aegon had been nothing but a rude little boy! She knew her place and could mask her discomfort most of the time, but she was quickly being worn down.

“It just is!” she snapped. Lyara could already hear her mother chiding her for losing her temper, especially at a prince of the realm, so she attempted to reign in her emotions. For what it was worth, Aegon just rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, archery is the most boring one! Jousting is the best event, you will see,” he babbled on about jousting. His chest was puffed up in pride and excitement for it. “There are several members of the Kingsguard participating in the events. They are the best knights in the entire realm.”

Aegon continued on, talking about the different knights of the Kingsguard and the City Watch, neither of which Lyara knew much about. She listened and responded to him as politely as she could, but she was hyper-aware of the fact that Aegon’s hand was still on her arm.

“Can you please stop touching me? I don’t like it,” Lyara said, her polite words edging more towards strained and upset. With wide eyes Aegon released his hold on her.

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled, sheepish like he did not even realize he had been so permissive with touching her. Lyara took a few deep breaths and calmed herself down. After a moment, she offered Aegon a small grin. He may have been rude before, but that did not mean she still couldn’t try to be friends.

“It’s alright,” Lyara shrugged. The archery event was finishing up, and both children watched attentively. There were two men going head to head. One had a coat of arms that Lyara did not recognize, latticed silver and white with a bright blue swordfish. She turned to Aegon questioningly.

“That is… Ser Bar Emmon,” Aegon said, squinting at the man from afar. He did not sound completely sure of himself, but Lyara would not know the difference so she took his word for it. The other man’s coat of arms was a black and red horse’s head, bronze with a black border. “I don’t know that one.”

“That’s Morgan Ryswell,” Lyara said, her turn to beam with pride. Morgan was the nephew and heir of Lord Rogar Ryswell, and he had joined their traveling party at Moat Cailin. The wedding’s tournament events were opened to all men of the Seven Kingdoms, and even followers of the Old Gods were free to join.

Lyara talked the poor young man’s ear off during their travels south. She asked him a barrage of questions about archery, how he trained, what type of bow he preferred… On more than one occasion, her mother had to drag Lyara back to their carriage.

Now, Lyara and Aegon watched as each man took their turn drawing their bows back and letting them fly towards the target. It was too far a distance for the children to really see what was going on, but they still waited with bated breath as a winner was determined. Lyara cheered the loudest by far as the Northern man was declared the champion. The rest of the crowd was much more subdued, clapping politely but also lamenting the fact that a knight from the Crownlands lost.

Lyara and Aegon did not talk much during the next few events, as Aegon was caught up in the spectacle. Lyara found them to be mildly interesting, but the sun was starting to get to her. She was not used to the heat, and it was making her irritated. Glancing around, Lyara noticed that Cregan and Helaena had wandered off. The youngest, Aemond, was back in his mother’s arms; Alicent was holding him at her hip as she had joined the circle of women socializing.

“I’ll be back,” Lyara said to Aegon, who was more interested in the mock battle between knights than her at that point. She departed to look for her brother and the princess. They were in a dark corner in the back of the box. Helaena had a large centipede in her hand, which made Lyara’s skin crawl a little bit. Cregan, on the other hand, was allowing Helaena to show him the insect. They both looked up at Lyara as she approached.

“Lya, c’mere, look at what the princess found,” her brother beckoned her over. As much as Lyara did not want to, she wanted to be polite more. The centipede scurried up Helaena’s arm as Lyara got closer, but it did not seem to faze the princess in the slightest.

“Hello,” she said. It was a little overwhelming to have Helaena’s wide lilac eyes focused on her, especially in tandem with the princess’ soft, dreamy voice. “My name is Helaena.”

“Hello, princess Helaena. I’m Lyara Stark,” she introduced herself politely. Lyara tried to avoid looking at the centipede as it crawled back down the princess’ arm. The hairs on the back of Lyara’s neck were standing up at the sight.

“Would you like to hold it?” Helaena asked, the insect now back in her hand.

“Oh, no thank you,” Lyara said quickly, and when the other girl’s eyes dimmed a bit she was quick to add on, “but can you tell me about it? I’ve never seen one that big before.”

This seemed to placate Helaena, and the younger girl began to tell Lyara and Cregan all about the centipede, and how they were usually found deep in the dungeons and tunnels underneath the Red Keep. Lyara paid attention politely, and as much as the centipede made her feel kind of squeamish, listening to Helaena talk about it was genuinely fascinating. She was also impressed with how much the young princess knew, listing facts as the centipede eventually crawled back to the ground and disappeared through a crack in the wall. Not a moment after, the unmistakable white-blonde head of Aegon came bounding up to his sister and the Stark siblings.

“The jousting is about to begin, c’mon,” Aegon said excitedly, and he grabbed Lyara’s hand to pull her along back to their seats. She tried to pull away, but his small hand had a surprisingly strong grip on hers. Cregan quickly followed after, and Helaena was slower to follow him. Aegon finally stopped when they arrived at the railing of the section. Sure enough a knight from house Rosby was positioned opposite an Arryn man, poised to charge.

Lyara ripped her hand out of Aegon’s, her heart beating quickly. “Please don’t do that,” she reminded Aegon sharply, but the young prince was solely focused on the jousting match. Lyara was irritated, her skin starting to feel a little too tight over her body. Cregan sat down next to her, and his presence calmed her.

The two Northern children watched with mild interest at the joust. The sport was not popular in the North, and they had never seen it before. Lyara could see why the game never took root in her homeland; she found it to be dreadfully dull. Aegon, on the other hand, was entranced by the event.

The prince would constantly turn to her and point out things on the field. Lyara tried to politely pay attention as much as she could, but her patience was wearing thin. Aegon would pull on her hand or arm, or he shook her shoulder in excitement.

Lyara clenched her fists over and over again in an attempt to calm herself down. But the prince kept touching her, and it was so hot, and everything was beginning to sound very loud. Tears were steadily building in her eyes, and she bit her lip hard.

“Lya…” Cregan began quietly, noticing the way his sister was getting overstimulated. Lyara took a deep breath, but then Aegon grabbed her arm again and she snapped.

“Stop touching me!” Lyara yelled at the prince, pushing him away forcefully. She began to cry uncontrollably and ran up the steps towards where her mother was standing with a group of other noble ladies. Lyara hugged her mother’s legs, crying into her skirts.

“Lyara!” her mother said, surprised. Gilliane knelt down to console her daughter, looking concerned. “Lyara, sweetling, what happened?”

The young girl’s cries slowly calmed as her mother brushed her hair back from her face and hugged her closely. Eventually Lyara wasn’t crying anymore, but she was still sniffing and shaking slightly. She felt exhausted, and she just wanted to go home.

“Prince Aegon would not stop touching me,” Lyara said, her voice muffled against her mother’s shoulder. “And it’s very hot. And loud. And I want to go home, mama.”

A new round of tears started for the young girl. Everything just felt so overwhelming, and she wanted to go back to where things felt normal. Her mother rubbed her back, whispering “I know, I know,” comfortingly. Once she calmed down again, her mother pulled away and Lyara got a good look at the other women around them.

Queen Alicent, Princess Rhaenys, Lady Erena, and a woman with bright red hair were all looking at Lyara with a motherly expression of compassion and understanding. Lyara hid against her mother’s skirt again, now shy and self conscious. Then suddenly their eyes went behind her, and the Queen stepped forward.

“Aegon-“ the young Queen stepped forward, and Lyara spun around to see the prince standing behind her. He looked apologetic, his hands fiddling with the hem of his tunic and dark purple eyes downturned. Cregan was standing next to him, arms crossed and glaring at the older boy.

“I’m sorry,” Aegon muttered, staring intently at the ground. Lyara did not move from her mother’s side, still feeling shaky and tired.

“Thank you,” Lyara accepted his apology reluctantly. Aegon finally looked up from the ground, his eyes wide as they met hers. He opened his mouth to say something more, but he was interrupted by commotion from the crowd.

Queen Alicent and the other ladies rushed forward to see what was happening. Everything got so much louder as screams erupted from the crowds. Gilliane pulled both of her children close, peering down at the jousting grounds. When she saw the way the dirt was soaked with blood, she pulled them away quickly. The Queen did the same, ushering Aegon and Helaena to the exit with Aemond still on her hip.

Chapter Text

Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, the Knight of Kisses, was on death’s doorstep after the tragic incident between him and Ser Criston Cole during the tourney. Alicent knew that it had not necessarily been an accident, that Ser Joffrey had threatened Ser Criston prior to the match. Holding the fact that Ser Criston had slept with Rhaenyra over his head.

Criston had been ready to take his own life that night, had Alicent not found him in the godswood. She could not bear to let that happen. He was a good man, she knew it. He had confessed to her the truth whereas Rhaenyra had denied it. And so Alicent requested that Ser Criston be made her sworn shield. He was there, in the corner of the room as Alicent and her children broke their fast and prepared for the day ahead of them.

Her darling Helaena was off in her own world, as she so often was. The young girl was mumbling to herself as she picked apart an orange slice. Alicent moved to stop her daughter, but her attention was drawn to Aegon as he went to mess with Aemond’s plate while her youngest was not looking.

“Aegon, stop it right now!” Alicent scolded him. The boy froze, and then he sat back in his chair and sulked with his arms crossed. Her eldest always felt his emotions deeply, and he wore them plainly on his face.

“Are we seeing the other children today?” Helaena asked softly. Alicent looked back over to the young girl, feeling too much like she did not have enough hands or eyes to properly monitor all three children. Thankfully, one of the maids had come over to help Aemond and wipe the stickiness from her younger son’s face and hands. “I liked Cregan.”

“No!” Aegon said loudly with an angry look on his little face. “His sister was mean to me! I do not want to see her ever again!”

Aegon had made his dislike of the Stark girl very clear over the last three days since the beginning of the tournament and wedding festivities. He had been vocalizing his dislike for Lyara often and loudly, but Alicent could not help but think that it was not dislike at all but rather a sense of bewilderment and cautious interest.

Aegon was the oldest child in the Red Keep, so it was rare that he did not get his way. He fell into the role of bossing his younger siblings around with ease, and, as much as he liked using it, he did not always understand the meaning of the word ‘no’. Lyara, a year older than Aegon and with her own younger sibling to be the boss of, had not taken kindly to Aegon’s demands for her attention. This was something new to the boy; even the other noble children who occasionally frequented the Red Keep had rarely pushed back against him. Especially not so literally! It was the savage way of the Northmen, Alicent supposed. It seemed like the Stark girl was similar to Helaena in the way that she got overwhelmed by things the other children did not, though Alicent’s daughter would never go as far as pushing another child.

“Lyara Stark did not like that you were touching her without her permission,” she reminded Aegon. “She got overwhelmed, just like your sister does.”

“Helaena is stupid too!” Aegon shouted, puffed up in anger and frustration. The girl’s pale eyes grew glossy with tears, and Aegon deflated when she turned them on him.

“Aegon! Do not talk about your sister that way!” Alicent immediately reprimanded him, and then his own eyes were filled with tears. Alicent sighed heavily. She had little in the way of patience these days, and this week in particular. The young queen composed herself and reached over to put a gentle hand on Helaena’s shoulder. She did not notice the way that the girl shied away from her touch. “Apologize to her, that was very cruel of you.”

“Sorry, Hela,” Aegon mumbled. He did not meet the younger girl’s eyes and instead turned his gaze downwards and pouted. It was not the first time that Aegon had spoken carelessly to his siblings and offended them. Though he sometimes went out of his way to be unkind, Alicent did not think that Aegon truly wanted to be mean to Helaena and Aemond, or to the Stark children for that matter.

“Lady Gilliane spoke about how Lyara wished to visit the library here in the Red Keep. Would you two be interested in accompanying them today?” Alicent continued more calmly now. Thankfully, neither Helaena’s or Aegon’s tears spilled over into a larger crying fit.

“The library?” Aegon said with distaste, his face scrunched up as he thought about it. He was never a big fan of the library or reading or staying still for the maesters’ lessons that he had begun earlier that year.

“You could show her the book of dragons,” Alicent suggested. She hid a small smile as her son’s eyes lit up at that. It was the only book that the boy liked. Leather bound with gilt pages, it was too heavy for him to carry himself. All of her children enjoyed poring over its pages, but it was always Aegon who spent the most time with it. After a moment, he nodded.

So, their plan for the day was made. After they finished breaking their fast, Alicent handed Aemond off to his nursemaid and took her older two children to get ready for the day. For herself she had chosen a pale green gown, the style more like the ones she wore as a maiden, and even the light shade of green served as a reminder of her Hightower roots. Though she had begun to incorporate more greens into her children’s wardrobes, today Helaena had on a purple dress while Aegon was clothed in the traditional Targaryen colors of black and red.

Once they left her chambers, Helaena slid her small hand into Alicent’s. It was unusual for her daughter to initiate any physical affection, so Alicent was surprised but smiled down at the girl. On her otherside, Aegon also grabbed hold of Alicent’s hand and immediately began tugging on it. They walked down the corridor, Helaena silent at her side and Aegon babbling away in front of her.

The last few days had been tense to say the least. More fraught than even the worst days Gilliane had experienced in her time as Lady of Winterfell. The castle was full of whispers about what happened at the tourney, though Lyara and Cregan had been given a pared down, not so gruesome version of events. Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor were hastily wed afterwards, and it was said that the groom had returned to Ser Joffrey’s bedside not long after and refused to leave the other man’s side since. Despite the rushed ceremony, many of the noble families had not yet left the capital. The Starks themselves were not yet expected to depart for another few days.

Gilliane could tell that Lyara was getting sick of King’s Landing, and that Cregan was as well. It was much hotter than Winterfell or anywhere else that her children had been in their short lives. The heat, as well as the constant activity around the castle, constantly irritated her daughter. There were also only so many times an eight year-old girl could be put into an uncomfortable dress and made to curtsy in front of cooing noblewomen before she had enough, Gilliane supposed.

“Are we going to the library today?” Lyara asked her mother, more of a demand than a question. She stood in front of Gilliane with her hands on her hips and an expectant look on her face. Lyara was a willful and outspoken child, and Gilliane would be lying if she said that she did not know where the girl got at least a little bit of it from. It did not help that Rickon was no better at curbing some of their children’s more willful behaviors.

“Yes, Lyara,” Gilliane said patiently, holding a comb in her hand. She motioned for Lyara to sit in front of her. “As soon as you and Cregan finish preparing yourselves for the day, we can visit the library.” It was just Gilliane and the children for the day. Her husband had gone off to discuss trading agreements with some lords from the Riverlands and the Reach.

With renewed vigor, Lyara sat down in front of her mother for the woman to brush out her hair. Across the room, Cregan made a face at the idea of going to the library, but he made their family walk up and then all the way back down the Street of Steel when their parents took them into the city the day before, so Gilliane had a feeling that Lyara did not feel very guilty for him being dragged along today.

Lyara had been reminding her parents that they promised to let her visit the Red Keep’s library since the city had come into view on their travels south. The young girl had developed a love of reading from an early age and quickly made her way through all the age-appropriate materials in Winterfell’s library, so the Red Keep’s collection was a new and interesting new adventure for her.

Gilliane could tell that Lyara was trying not to squirm while she pulled the comb through the girl’s dark locks again and again. The act of haircare was not always an easy one; Lyara hated it with a passion, and there were days where she would scream and cry while it was done. Thankfully, today was not one of those days, and her mother finished and sent the young girl off with a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Thank you, mama!” Lyara chirped and skipped off to let a maid help her get dressed. The dress Gilliane had picked out for her to wear today was simpler than the others she had worn in King’s Landing, and thankfully lighter and cooler as well. She twirled in the mirror before spotting Cregan’s reflection behind her making a face. Giggling, Lyara turned and went to chase him.

The children were weaving their way through the furniture in the room when a household guard, Therry, came in. Lyara and Cregan waved to him happily as they ran past, Lyara trying to catch up to her brother. Therry waved back before greeting Gilliane.

“The queen is here to see you, Lady Stark,” the man said. Lyara and Cregan stopped running around the room and met each other’s eyes, their curiosity clearly peaked.

“The queen?” Gilliane repeated, shocked. She put her teacup down with a soft clink. She and Queen Alicent had met and talked somewhat during the tourney a few days ago, along with Princess Rhaenys and Lady Falia Redwyne, but she was not sure why Alicent was seeking her out now. “Send her in, of course. Thank you, Therry.”

Therry bowed respectfully to Gilliane, and he returned a moment later with not only Queen Alicent but her two oldest children as well. Cregan shifted slightly, as if to put himself between Lyara and the two royal children, or, more likely, just the prince.

“Excuse us for interrupting your morning, Lady Stark,” Queen Alicent said politely.

“You are always welcome, your grace. You were kind enough to allow us to intrude in your home. And, please, call me Gilliane,” the Northern woman replied. She smiled pleasantly at the young queen, and Alicent returned it with a small smile of her own.

“Thank you, Lady Gilliane. The Red Keep is always open to visitors such as your family,” Alicent replied. She was clearly well-versed in formalities, but there was an underlying anxiety about her. She tore at her cuticles before catching herself and forcing her arms to her sides, but the queen’s subtle fidgeting did not escape Gilliane’s keen eye. “We were actually hoping that you would allow us to accompany you on your trip to the library today. Aegon and Helaena have been asking after Lyara and Cregan ever since the tournament.”

Gilliane doubted the truth of that statement, at least in the case of Prince Aegon. Her and Rickon had a long conversation with Lyara about how she had acted at the tourney. That doubt began to wane, though, when she caught sight of the group of children across the room.

Cregan was standing by the princess, and he would throw annoyed looks at the prince every so often. Aegon, it seemed, had gone straight for Lyara. There were a lot of large hand gestures and giggling between them, and the two children seemed to be getting on better than they had a few days ago. Gilliane’s eyes softened as she looked at them. Lyara and Cregan were thick as thieves, and she was grateful for that, but there were only so many chances for them to interact with children of their own age and of a similar standing.

“We would like that, your grace, thank you,” Gilliane replied with a smile. She had not expected Alicent to return it with her own grin, completely lightning up her face. It was different than the regal way she usually presented herself, and it immediately reminded the Northern woman that the queen was just a few years younger than her.

The two mothers rounded up their children and began making their way across the castle to the library. As the group walked, Lyara and Aegon raced ahead with Cregan hot on their heels while Helaena hung back closer to her mother. Many of the noble guests were out enjoying all that the capital had to offer, so the halls were not as busy as they had been over the last few days. Still, there were quite a few maids and servants running about.

“Is your family enjoying their time in King’s Landing, Lady Gilliane?” Alicent asked politely.

The older woman thought for a moment on the best way to phrase her response. There were many things in King’s Landing that Winterfell lacked, but the city also left much to be desired. “King’s Landing is… different,” Gilliane settled on and then tried to soften it, “Certainly livelier.”

“You do not have to mince your words about the city with me,” Alicent replied in good humor. “I have come to love King’s Landing, but I spent my childhood in Oldtown and know the capital is not what everyone expects when they visit for the first time.”

“I suppose it is not what I expected,” Gilliane conceded with a light laugh. The two women chatted amicably while their children led the way to the library, Aegon leading Lyara by the hand. The girl looked much more agreeable to physical contact today, as she trailed after him with a grin.

They were close to the library tower when Gilliane turned her head toward Alicent again. “When did you come to King’s Landing, your grace? I did not know you lived here before your marriage to the king.”

“In 101, when I was just one and ten. My father served as Hand to the Old King in his final years,” Alicent answered. She did not tell the Stark woman about the bond her and Rhaenyra shared before her marriage to Viserys, or how their continued bitterness towards each other broke Alicent’s heart in ways that she did not know how to articulate.

“Well it is wonderful that you get to stay in a place you have come to love so much,” Gilliane said good naturedly, but inside she could not help but be a bit horrified. Lords and kings had married maidens many years their junior throughout all of history, such was the way of the world. But for King Viserys to wed someone that he had known when she was but a girl- and when she was still barely coming into womanhood no less!- it left a sick feeling in her stomach. It was no wonder why there was an air of anxiety around the queen.

Gilliane was only one and seven when she married Rickon, and they had nicely settled into a friendship by the time Lyara came a little over two years later. Their relationship had been able to grow stronger in the years afterwards and the birth of Cregan. It did not seem like any such bond existed between the king and queen despite the three young children they shared.

It was not long before their group reached the library, and the children went racing forward. Even Helaena, who had stayed relatively close to Alicent during the trek over, ran along with her brother and newfound friends.

“Lyara, look! This is the book of dragons,” Aegon said excitedly. He instinctively went to grab her hand but stopped himself and first looked to Lyara for permission. She nodded her head, and they ran over to the book together. Gilliane could not help but smile at the exchange. Whatever book the young prince was so intent on showing to Lyara was chained to the desk, and Aegon dragged a chair over and began to climb on top of it.

“Aegon, get down from there!” Alicent began to reprimand. Aegon turned back to his mother with a pout, and Gilliane laughed gently.

“They are just children, your grace,” the older woman reassured her. She recognized Alicent’s fretting for what it was: fear for her son. Gilliane did not know of the pressure and dread Alicent felt when it came to her children, but she could relate to the anxieties of motherhood. Her two children felt like more than enough to drive her into an early grave some days. “They are practically indestructible. On our way south, Rickon let Cregan practice riding. He fell once while dismounting, and I almost pitched a fit, but he popped up a second later and was fine.”

Gilliane laughed at the memory, and the jest seemed to do its job in calming Alicent. She nodded, and Aegon triumphantly went back to showing the other children the book. Lyara eventually climbed atop the chair with the princeling, while the two younger children found more interest in hiding under the table and weaving in and out of the chair legs. Aegon began babbling excitedly about the different beasts on each page while Lyara listened intently, appropriately amazed by it all.

“Do you have a dragon?” the Stark girl asked curiously. To her knowledge, all Targaryens had dragons. That was how they conquered Westeros, the first Aegon and his sister-wives. Even King Viserys once had a dragon, Aegon’s legendary Balerion the Black Dread even, before the great beast died of old age. She had seen Princess Rhaenyra flying her mount twice over the last few days, a bright yellow streak in the sky.

“No,” Aegon replied sadly, but he soon perked up. He straightened with confidence and beamed at Lyara. “But one day I will! It will be the best, most beautiful dragon in the world!”

Lyara giggled and listened intently as Aegon boasted about the dragon he would have someday. One of the ones from the Dragonmont or even a hatchling from a clutch of his older sister’s dragon. Lyara could not imagine it, the bond that a dragon and their rider shared, or even really fathom an animal that big. Her father had told her and Cregan about the sigil of their house, the direwolf, and how they used to run free all over the North but now were scarcely seen south of the Wall. They grew to be as big as the ponies she and Cregan had learned to ride on, but even they would be nothing compared to the immense size of an adult dragon.

“When you get a dragon, you will have to fly to Winterfell to show me,” Lyara practically demanded with a determined look on her face. Gilliane moved to remind her daughter of the appropriate ways to speak to others, but the tender look on Alicent’s face as they watched Aegon nod happily at the request stopped her.

The rest of the afternoon passed without much fanfare. The younger children quickly grew bored of the rows of books and instead took to playing a game of hide and seek, never straying too far out of their mothers’ sights. Aegon had taken it upon himself to act as Lyara’s personal tour guide around the library, though most of the collection was strictly off limits to them. After a while, they joined in the game Helaena and Cregan had going on.

The sun was beginning to set by the time Alicent and Gilliane rounded up their children. Gilliane had found that she quite enjoyed the royal family’s company, and it seemed like she was not the only one. Lyara and Aegon continued to stay at each other’s sides as they walked back through the Red Keep. The halls were much busier now, causing all the children to huddle more closely to their mothers.

Once they arrived back at the Stark family’s chambers they began to exchange their goodbyes for now. Lyara seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Gilliane went to intervene given that she knew the bouts of anxiety her daughter sometimes had. She was glad she did not, though, when Lyara reached forward and gave the prince a quick hug.

“Thank you for showing me the dragon book, Aeg!” she said after stepping back from the hug. Both Alicent and Gilliane shared a look of mild shock at the use of a pet name she had used for Aegon, but neither children noticed it. Aegon simply chirped his own goodbye, and Lyara skipped through the door. Cregan followed shortly after, saying his own goodbye to Helaena and a much more surly one to Aegon.

The prince and princess returned to their mother to hang off her skirts while she and Gilliane looked back at each other. “Thank you for accompanying us today, Queen Alicent. I hope we get the chance to speak again before my family departs from King’s Landing,” she said, her emotions genuine.

“I hope for that as well, Lady Gilliane,” Alicent replied. The two women shared a smile before the Northern woman followed her children inside. Alicent again took hold of Aegon and Helaena’s hands and led them down the corridor, not feeling like it was as much of a death march as it was before.

Chapter Text

“It looks… odd,” Lyara remarked as she and her brother stood in front of the large tree in the middle of the Red Keep’s godswood. Like the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood, the tree was old and hulking, but beyond that it bore no resemblance to the weirwoods that the siblings were familiar with. The bark was a warm brown instead of bone white, and the leaves on its long limbs were green and not red.

“Where is its face?” Cregan inquired as well, which was another good question in Lyara’s opinion. The base of the tree was rough and furrowed, and while there were a few knots in the wood, it did not have anything like the solemn face that adorned the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood or the serene face on the one at Deepwood Motte’s.

Rickon chuckled, a deep sound, and put a large hand on Cregan’s head, the other on Lyara’s shoulder as he tugged them both closer. He was the one on his own to spend time with his children today, as Gilliane took her midday meal in the company of some ladies she had gotten to know during their short time in the capital.

“This is not a weirwood like back home. This heart tree is an oak,” he explained to them.

Lyara whipped her head around to stare up at her father with wide eyes. “You can do that?” she asked, amazed.

“Can the gods still see us here?” Cregan wondered shortly after while still looking intently at the tree’s vacant trunk.

“The old gods have thousands of eyes to see from, and not just those carved into wood,” Rickon answered sagely. The children were properly revered by his words, and the small trio of Northerners looked up at the great oak tree. The worship of the old gods was an important custom for House Stark, and a deep tradition of the fiercely proud First Men besides, so there was no question that Lyara and Cregan would be taught the ways of the religion. Rickon and Gilliane made sure to impart the same wisdom that they had learned from their mothers and fathers.

Wind rustled the leaves and sent a chill down Lyara’s spine. It was too much for a girl of only eight namedays to truly comprehend. Cregan was much the same, narrowing his eyes at the tree, as if looking harder would make the old gods appear before him. Of course, that did not happen, but the Stark children did catch something out of the corner of their eyes.

“Aegon!” Lyara exclaimed. With a wide smile on her face, she raced from her father’s side over to the prince’s. Cregan stayed put at their father’s side, his arms crossed and something that looked suspiciously like a scowl in his face. Aegon, too, was pouting. He brightened slightly when he saw Lyara running towards him, but the sour look on his face mostly remained.

“The prince, I assume?” Rickon asked with a grin as he and Cregan walked over to where Lyara had gone. There was a timid looking nursemaid with the princeling, wringing her hands with her head bowed. She nodded at his question.

“Sorry, m’lord,” she said to Rickon. “I did not mean to interrupt, it is only that the prince was getting restless in the nursery.”

The Northern lord waved off her concerns. “No need to apologize, lass, it looks like Prince Aegon and my daughter are getting along just fine,” he reassured her. Lyara was talking incessantly, telling her friend everything she had done in the short time since they had seen each other last.

“Where’s Helaena?” she suddenly asked, looking around for the young princess as if she was hiding behind Aegon and his nursemaid. It only caused him to sulk more, his bottom lip jutting out.

“Helaena is an idiot,” Aegon spat out. It only caused Lyara’s face to fall and for her to put her hands on her hips.

“That’s not true!” Lyara argued, now glaring at him. He was being mean for no reason! She didn’t know why Helaena wasn’t brought out to the godswood with Aegon, but she knew it was not because the younger girl was an idiot. Helaena had been nothing but kind and sweet to her and Cregan, even if she was a bit odd. Lyara was a bit odd, too!

“Is so!” Aegon snapped back.

“Is not!”

“Perhaps I spoke too soon,” Rickon muttered under his breath. He watched as his daughter, who was unable to hold her tongue at the best of times, took the young prince to task for insulting his sister. Cregan stood to the side, unsure whether to back up Lyara or let her handle it herself. The maid that had come with Aegon looked like she was at a loss for what to do, her eyes flitting anxiously between the arguing children and Rickon.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Rickon said. His gruff voice was loud in the otherwise empty godswood. Lyara and Aegon stopped at once. Both of them had their arms crossed over their chests, glaring at the other. Rickon got down on one knee to be closer to eye level with them, and he looked at Aegon first. “That was an unkind thing to say about your sister, prince Aegon. I think it would upset her greatly if she heard you say it.”

Aegon’s eyes grew glassy with tears then. He looked guiltily down at his feet. “She was crying, and no one could understand what she was saying!” he sniffed.

Rickon looked to the young maid for a better explanation. She shuffled, clearly uncomfortable and unsure how much to tell someone who was not a part of the royal family, but she answered anyway. “The princess had a fit this morning, m’lord. She was crying, talking about winter, and how long the night was. No one knew what she meant, and the Queen is with her now.”

The Stark man reeled back, as if struck by this new information. Lyara, however, didn’t miss a beat.

“That doesn’t make Helaena an idiot!” she scolded Aegon. Her anger was on behalf of her friend, since she had been able to bond easily with Helaena, but also herself as well. She was only a child, but Lyara was acutely aware of the ways in which she was different from many others her age. If Aegon thought Helaena was an idiot, what did he think of her?

“Lyara, enough,” Rickon said, snapping out of it and looking over at his daughter. His tone left no room for arguing. Once his attention was back on Aegon, he softened his voice. “Are you worried for your sister, prince Aegon?” The young boy hesitated before nodding slightly. Rickon hummed softly. “Calling her names is a poor way of showing it. Brothers have to protect their sisters. Do you want to protect princess Helaena?” Aegon nodded more eagerly at that, which made a small smile form on Rickon’s face. “Good lad.”

Rickon patted Aegon’s shoulder twice before getting up from his kneeling position. The boy continued to look up at him with starstruck eyes, even as Lyara came to stand in front of him.

“Princess Helaena is too kind for you to be mean to,” she told Aegon. She was scowling, hurt and anger still evident in her expression. “You have to be nice to her!”

Aegon chafed at that, not used to being given orders from other children, and stomped his foot in indignation. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

“Can too!” Lyara argued back. “If you’re mean to Helaena, we can’t be friends anymore!” She was not willing to back down, not even to a prince of the realm. Aegon must have realized that as well, because after a few moments of the two children glowering at each other, he huffed and relented.

“Fine,” he spat, sounding like it was anything but. Lyara looked skeptical for a moment, searching for any sign that he might not be sincere. She looked to her father for reassurance, and when Rickon nodded she returned to smiling at Aegon.

“Thank you,” Lyara told him. There was no lingering resentment in her voice, which worked to lower the prince’s raised hackles. She then grabbed Aegon by the hand, pulling him and Cregan away from the heart tree.

The group of children left Rickon and the nursemaid behind as they ran over to a squat elm tree. Cregan climbed up first and pulled Lyara up behind him, who in turn pulled Aegon up onto the lowest branch of the tree. The Stark lord watched as his son and daughter played alongside the Targaryen boy, swinging from the branches and climbing higher than advisable. He could not bring himself to stop them, knowing that in only a few days time he and his children would be headed back north, likely to never see King’s Landing again.

The journey back North was as eventful as the journal south, which was to say not very eventful at all. After saying their goodbyes to their newfound friends in King’s Landing, Lyara and Cregan were tucked away into the wheelhouse with their mother and father.

It was nearly a moon and a half before Winterfell came into their sights on the road, and before long House Stark was settled back into their daily lives. There was no Sept in Winterfell, as very few followers of the Faith of the Seven were to be found north of White Harbor. Winterfell had two maesters in its employ, and while Maester Wyllis, a withered and shrunken old man with wispy hair that had gone white from age, tutored Lyara and Cregan in sums and the laws of nature, it was not always a maester who taught them their lessons. A woman of words from the winter town taught the children to read and write.

Yna was a short and broad woman with olive skin and long, curly black hair that was graying at the temples and kept in a neat bun. She had striking dark eyes and a round face that had the beginning of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth as she entered her late fifties. Yna was a freeborn woman from Myr and the daughter of a cartographer who had taught her to read, write, and do sums. She married a Northern merchant, Lonnel, and they had two sons together, Byan and Hugo. Byan was the spitting image of his mother with the same dark hair and eyes; Hugo took after his father more, with gray-brown eyes and flaxen hair. The brothers could often be found in the kitchens, Byan a baker and Hugo a butcher.

All of the children who frequented the castle loved Yna’s stories of life beyond the Narrow Sea, which she told often and with much enthusiasm. She spoke with a lilting Myrish accent as she enthralled the children with stories of pirates and wizards and the passing Dothraki khals.

Currently, Yna was supervising the Stark siblings as they worked on their letters in the Great Hall. Lyara had grown bored of the task she was currently on. Cregan was working on a book that his sister had completed more than a year before. The young girl huffed in annoyance, and Yna looked over at her.

She had her hands on her hips and eyed Lyara. “What is it? Surely you have not finished with your work already.”

“It’s boring!” Lyara whined, fidgeting in her seat. Usually, the young girl went along easily with whatever work Yna put in front of her, but today Lyara felt especially restless and nothing kept her attention.

“How about you write a letter,” Yna suggested, passing Lyara some blank parchment. The idea was tempting, but Lyara struggled to think of who to send a letter off to. As if sensing her pupil’s indecision, Yna continued, “What if you sent one to your cousin?”

Lyara wrinkled her nose at the suggestion; Godrick never wrote back anymore! He had recently had his four-and-tenth name-day and had begun to take on even more responsibilities as his father’s only son, and nearly a man grown besides. Her Uncle Gilrick was mother’s older brother and Lord of Deepwood Motte. Lyara loved when her uncle and cousins visited Winterfell, and Godrick always played Lyara and Cregan’s games with a smile. She wrote him often to practice her letters but sparingly got a response back. It would be nice to have a more equal partner in which to exchange letters and to not feel like a child being indulged.

Her mother spoke up from the table over where she was working on the household books, “What about writing a letter to Prince Aegon, Lya? Would it not be nice to keep in touch?”

Lyara perked up a little at that. The younger prince got on her nerves a lot when her family visited King’s Landing for Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding a few moons ago, but he also made her laugh and showed her the library in the Red Keep. While she thought it over, Gilliane shared a knowing look and small smile with Yna.

The young girl nodded as she made up her mind, picking up her quill. “I will, thank you!”

She wrote a short, simple letter. Her handwriting was neat and well-practiced, taking extra care to make sure each word was legible, and it was as complex as any eight year old’s writing would be.

Dear Prince Aegon,

I hope you are doing well. I am happy to be back in Winterfell, but it was nice seeing King’s Landing. I hope I get the chance to come back one day, and that you can come here!

Cregan has started his lessons in swordplay with Hullen. I think he looks ridiculous, but Hullen says he is very good for his age. Father says I can finally start training with a bow, too, but not until after my ninth name-day. That is only in a few moons, but it seems like ages away!

Are your lessons as boring as mine? Sewing and harp lessons are fine, and I love history, but I am rubbish at sums. I wish I did not have to do lessons all day, I would rather be in the library or playing in the godswood!

I hope to get a letter back from you soon. I would like to know how you are doing.

Best,
Lyara Stark

Her mother helped Lyara seal the letter with wax, stamped with the Stark direwolf. Together, they walked through the courtyard and up into the rookery. Only Maester Henryk was there, tending to the birds. He was not as old as Wyllis, Lyara could tell by his head full of dark hair, as opposed to Wyllis’ balding white hair, and he was still quite spry. Wyllis had grown too old to maintain the rookery of Winterfell, and the Citadel sent Henryk to take over that responsibility instead. He did not have as many links on his chain as Wyllis, but he had two black iron ones to signify his expertise in ravenry.

Gilliane greeted Henryk warmly while Lyara peered at all the caged birds. Most of them sat on their perches and groomed themselves or looked around the room with their beady eyes. A couple of them flapped their wings or cawed in the direction of Henryk. Lyara did not dare stick her fingers through the bars of the cages, remembering the way she did so as a child no more than four name-days and had gotten her fingers pecked at for the trouble.

“Lyara here wanted to send a letter to King’s Landing,” Gilliane said after exchanging pleasantries, more for her daughter than for Henryk. It did the trick, and Lyara turned away from staring at the ravens to look at the old man instead.

“Is that so?” Henryk said, genial. Lyara nodded, proud, and presented the man with the scroll. He took it gently from the child’s hands. “I will send this out right away, Lady Lyara. You shall have a response from the capital in no time!”

Lyara giggled, always enjoying the maester’s friendly and easygoing demeanor. She watched intently as Henryk gently took one of the ravens, a larger one with shiny black feathers that looked almost purple in the light, and tied the scroll to its leg. Once the man walked over to the window and released the bird, it flew off into the distance.

“Thank you, Maester Henryk!” Lyara said as the bird’s dark shape disappeared against the heavy clouds. The old man smiled at the young Stark girl and went back to tending to the ravens left in the rookery.

“Remember that you may not receive a letter back for a while, if at all. King’s Landing is far south, and Prince Aegon may not be able to write you back,” Gilliane gently warned her daughter as they made their way back to the Great Keep. She wanted to prepare Lyara for disappointment if she did not hear back and let her daughter know that it was not a personal issue.

“I understand,” Lyara said, sounding every bit like a child who was just trying to appease their mother. She knew how busy the royal family must be! It must have been the right answer, though, because her mother just smiled and wrapped Lyara in her heavy cloak with her like she did when Lyara and Cregan were very small.

Chapter Text

Once the final guests of his sister’s wedding left King’s Landing, Aegon’s life in the Red Keep returned to normal. Rhaenyra’s new husband Laenor quickly vacated the castle, going back to Driftmark and making the trip back across the Blackwater Bay once a moon or so. Regardless, Rhaenyra fell pregnant quickly, according to the maids; Aegon rarely saw her, and when he did she was always being trailed by her new sworn shield.

Whether he saw Rhaenyra often or not made no real impact on Aegon’s young life. His father, though, was even more preoccupied with his chosen heir now. That afternoon was another where the father and daughter pair were taking their tea alone in Viserys’ chambers.

Aegon, on the other hand, was stuck with his mother and siblings. He sulked, his arms crossed over his chest, as the servants left the pot of tea and plates of cakes on the table. Alicent had a fragile sort of smile on her face, one that didn’t meet her eyes all the way, as her children reached for various sweets. The queen only sipped a cup of lukewarm ginger tea.

“Blue and bronze, wine and honey, tumbling-,” Helaena began to murmur after some time. She was seated next to Aegon, clutching a dragon toy so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her soft words went unnoticed as Alicent stood up. The young woman looked nervous, glancing at the door as if waiting for someone to come in.

“My children, I wanted to share with you that I am with child again,” she said as she gently cupped the barely there swell of her belly under her gown. In an instant, Aegon’s heart fell into his stomach.

“No!” he cried out without meaning to. Mother already had to split her time between him, Helaena, and Aemond. With a fourth babe on the way, she would surely have no time to spend with him at all! Aegon vaguely remembered when Aemond was still in the cradle, always a fussy babe that only calmed for his mother, and on more than one occasion, Alicent had to be pulled away from reading to or playing with Aegon in order to tend to his little brother. He had only been four, like Aemond was now, but Aegon was older now. He had his seventh name-day not too long and did not need to spend as much time attached to his mother’s skirts, at least according to the tutors and maesters. But that did not mean he did not still want to! He still needed his mother!

Alicent’s eyes turned towards him after his outburst, startled and crestfallen. “Aegon-,” she began. Tears were already spilling onto her eldest son’s cheeks by then.

“I don’t want another sibling!” Aegon cried.

“I’m sorry that is how you feel, Aegon, but you do not get a say in the matter,” Alicent tried reasoning with her child. She looked around, as if searching for someone else in the room to help her calm him down. It did nothing to quell his fears.

Aegon felt helpless. So he ran. He pushed away from the table and ran straight for the door, too small and quick for Ser Criston or Ser Erryk to catch him. He ran the short distance back to the nursery and curled up on his bed. It was only then did his tears come in earnest, making him sob heavily.

He did not want his mother to be stolen from him even more. She already had to spend most of her time taking care of Aemond because he was still practically a babe, or calming down Helaena when she had one of her episodes. With this new sibling, Aegon was sure he would never get to see her anymore! She wouldn’t have time to tell him stories about King Uthor of the High Tower or Maris the Maid or Prince Peremore! The thought only made him cry harder until, eventually, he ran out of tears.

Aegon must have fallen asleep, because sometime later he woke up in someone’s lap, a gentle hand rubbing his back. The nursery was dimmer, lit by torches with the sky outside now dark.

“Are you awake, my sweet boy?” his mother’s voice asked.

“Mummy,” was the only word he could get out before burying his face against his mother’s middle. He hugged her tightly, her hand still massaging his back as she spoke soft, calming words to him.

“Having another sibling will not make me love you any less,” Alicent reassured him. The young child looked up at his mother, his eyes ringed with red. “You’ll always be my first son. My Aegon. I will always love and have time for you. And you will love your new sibling, and you will protect him or her like you will for Helaena and Aemond.”

Alicent cradled his small face and smiled sadly down at him. She kissed his forehead gently and gathered him into her arms. Aegon did not believe her. He knew that he would lose precious time with her, and he did not feel nearly brave enough to protect three little siblings. He did not voice his fears, though, and instead just clung to his mother even tighter.

A few days later, Aegon was still not happy with his parent’s decision to have another child. He trailed after Alicent like a duckling, seeking her out all hours of the day. It immediately bothered Aemond, and even Helaena had begun to grow irritated with her older brother’s demands for their mother’s attention.

They were having their midday meal in the queen’s chambers like any other day when one of his mother’s ladies came in carrying a handful of scrolls. She handed all but one of them to Alicent, who began to sift through them straight away. The handmaiden still did not leave, though, and Alicent looked up questioningly at her.

“Prince Aegon also has a letter, your grace,” his mother’s handmaiden said timidly. She handed Alicent another scroll, and the woman inspected it closely.

“Me?” Aegon asked, his cheeks puffed out from the amount of food he had stuffed in his mouth. His mother gave him a displeased look and told him not to chew with his mouth open, but he did not care. A letter had come for him? Aegon did not have anything to himself anymore, not since Aemond was born and certainly not with the new babe on the way. He had even given his precious wooden dragon figure to Helaena after a particularly bad meltdown. Ignoring his mother, Aegon got out of his seat to peer over her shoulder at the scroll she held in her hand before trying to grab it from her.

“Aegon!” Alicent admonished him, making sure he did not take the scroll from her hands. She attempted to correct his behavior, “What you did was very rude. Ask before you take.”

The young prince nodded, but he was too focused on finding out who wrote him a letter to really listen to his mother. For her part, Alicent just sighed and handed her son the scroll. It had a thick, slightly misshapen direwolf seal on it, almost like a child stamped it. She watched as he tore the seal and began reading the letter.

“It’s from Lyara!” Aegon exclaimed, a grin growing on his face as he continued to read. The Stark girl both intrigued and annoyed him; she had spoken to him like she did not care that he was a prince, had even pushed him, but she had also been fun to play with.

The letter was simple, only a few lines long, but it was to him! He had never received a scroll via raven before, or had sent one for that matter.

“Oh, that is wonderful, my son,” Alicent expressed her happiness for Aegon’s apparently continuing friendship with the Stark girl, but she was also preoccupied with trying to grab a fork from Aemond’s tightly clutched toddler fist. Her eldest son did not notice, though, as he was too busy staring at the letter. Finally, with the fork safely away from Aemond, Alicent sat back down and looked at Aegon. “Would you like help writing a letter in return?”

The boy’s wide eyes met Alicent’s, filled with a distinctly childlike wonder and excitement, and he nodded enthusiastically. Once the queen put her younger two children down for their afternoon naps, she sat next to Aegon as he penned his reply to Lyara. He was huddled over the table, partially blocking her view of the letter and writing with careful concentration. Alicent just looked on with a small smile.

Dear Lyara,

I do not know if I would like Winterfell. Is it as cold and gray as everyone says it is? I do hope you come back and visit King’s Landing some day though!

I cannot believe you will be allowed to use a bow. I think my mother would have a fit if Helaena wanted to learn how to use any weapon! And doing sums is easy it is history that is dull. Makes sense that you like it.

My lessons are boring as well. The library sounds boring too, and the godswood here is always empty. I hope I can bond with a dragon soon, that way I’ll never be bored as I will spend all my time with him!

Mother is with child again, and I do not want another sibling. The nursery is too loud with just Hel and Aem, and another babe would make it worse. She says it’s not up to me, but it should be! No one asks my opinion on anything!

Aegon

Once he was done writing, Alicent helped him seal the letter with a dark green wax. He walked with his mother to the rookery, thinking of the response he would receive back from the North.

After the initial letters, ravens were sent flying across the continent once every moon or so. Just as soon as the Red Keep was settled after Rhaenyra’s wedding, things began to change again.

The queen’s fourth pregnancy did not go as smoothly as her previous ones, and certainly not as smoothly as the princess’ first. At first, it was just the usual bouts of morning sickness that Alicent had grown more or less used to with her first three. The maesters kept a close eye on her, though, and began to grow concerned once the queen’s fifth moon of pregnancy came and went without any sign of the sickness letting up. They could see nothing wrong with her, but the queen could barely keep food down most days.

Aegon worried for his mother; her skin took on a sickly pallor, her cheeks became gaunt, and heavy bags formed under her eyes. In the early moons of her pregnancy, Alicent continued to visit the nursery. Week after week, though, she looked more exhausted. Eventually, it got the point where the queen seldom left her chambers at all. Instead, the children were brought to her by a nursemaid.

“I’m so happy to see you, my loves,” Alicent said from the bed. Her voice was weaker than it usually was, and she was only in a nightgown.

Aegon was gone from the nursemaid’s side in an instant and began to climb onto the bed. Helaena was not far behind, and Aemond began to wriggle away from the poor young woman holding him. Alicent tiredly put her arms out for him, and soon enough all three of her children were nestled against her. She dismissed the maid with the promise of ringing for her when the children would need to be taken back to the nursery.

“Mummy is sick?” Aemond asked with his head on his mother’s shoulder.

“Of course she is sick, stupid,” Aegon replied from where he and Helaena were kneeling at her other side. It caused Aemond to frown and hide his face.

“Aegon, please, do not be mean to Aemond,” Alicent scolded him, and even that was more feeble than usual. Aegon huffed in displeasure; it was a stupid question! If their mother wasn’t sick, she would be playing with them and reading to them like usual!

Their mother continued, though, her fingers running through Aemond’s hair softly. “Your new sibling will be here soon, so I need lots of rest,” she explained softly to them. Her eyes filled with tears. “That means I can’t come see you like I used to.” She gave them a watery smile. “But your grandfather is going to come and help.”

Aegon did not want their grandfather to come help, he wanted their mother. Helaena and Aemond must have been of a similar mind, because all three of them were dangerously close to tears, sniffling sadly. Aegon burrowed next to Alicent, his arms around her just above the swell of her belly, where his new sibling was. Helaena was just below him, her head in their mother’s lap, and Aemond was on the other side. Eventually, they all drifted off to sleep.

Otto Hightower was a stern man that hardly ever smiled. He had no fun and didn’t want anyone else to have any fun, either. At least, that was Aegon’s opinion of his grandsire.

Only a few weeks after Alicent told them that her father would be coming, the Hightower man arrived at the Red Keep. Aegon did not remember much of his mother’s father, as he had been dismissed as Hand when the prince was very young- before Aemond was born, even!- but his reintroduction was cold to say the least.

Aegon was the eldest, but he wanted to hide behind his siblings, which was silly because Aemond was still practically a babe and Helaena was a girl. Aegon was supposed to protect them, not the other way around, but Otto didn’t look at him like he did his siblings. There was something more demanding in his eyes, like Aegon just wasn’t up to par with his expectations.

“What about you? Have you begun your studies yet?” Otto asked, his hands clasped behind his back. Aegon nodded, staring at the ground. “Look at me when you speak, boy.”

The reprimand startled Aegon, and his gaze met Otto’s. “Maester Ryles says I am doing good. He is teaching me about Aegon the Con-que-cor,” he replied, stumbling over the last word. Otto hummed, his lips a flat line.

“Conqueror,” he corrected in a sharp tone, causing Aegon to wilt. Without another word, Otto dismissed the children and left the nursery to see Alicent. Aegon glared at the man’s back as he went. When he was finally out of sight, Aegon took Aemond by the hand.

“C’mon, Aemy, let’s see if Hel wants to play hide and seek,” he said. His little brother cheered and rushed over to their sister, Aegon only a step behind.

Over the next few weeks, Otto reintegrated himself into the Red Keep with ease. He was not welcomed back into the Small Council’s meetings, but he was able to whisper into the king’s ear once again nonetheless. Much to Aegon’s dismay, his grandfather also began to oversee his lessons. He was much more demanding than Maester Ryles, as well as more irate when Aegon did not do something perfectly. The young prince could not wait until Otto left again to go back to Oldtown.

It wasn't until the queen began into her labors did Aegon begin to understand why his mother called for Otto’s company during her difficult pregnancy. Alicent, the midwives, and Grand Maester Mellos had been holed away in the birthing chambers for hours.

No one was telling Aegon and his siblings anything. The night dragged on; first Aemond began to cry and beg to be brought to their mother, then Helaena joined in with her hiccupping sobs. In the chaotic state of the nursery, Aegon was able to give the nursemaids the slip.

The birthing chambers were not too far from the wing that housed the royal apartments, but the distance was enough to not hear the noises associated with women giving birth. Namely, the screaming and sobbing. Aegon had never heard wailing so loud, not even when his siblings were born. He could hear his mother screaming, begging with the midwives.

“Please, please, it hurts!” Alicent cried from behind the closed doors. Aegon peeked around the wall, peering down the hallway. His grandsire and Ser Cole stood outside the room, the former pacing.

It reminded Aegon of a similar scene only a fortnight earlier. He had run away from his maids, something that was becoming increasingly common, and ended up in the very same hallway he was now. Rhaenyra had been the one screaming in pain, not Alicent, and it was not Otto and Cole in front of the door then, but instead Ser Laenor, the princess’ sword shield Ser Harwin Strong, and even Viserys. Now, though, Aegon saw no sign of the king.

Viserys had spent the last two weeks showing off his first grandson to everyone in the castle. It did not matter to the king that the babe looked nothing like those with the blood of Old Valyria, something Aegon’s grandfather made sure to point out once in the safety of his daughter’s private chambers. Jacaerys Velaryon was nothing but perfect in Viserys’ eyes, because he came from Rhaenyra.

Aegon didn’t care what color hair or eyes the babe had, only that he woke up crying in the middle of the night and didn’t settle even for the maids. Jacaerys only calmed for his mother, and Rhaenyra did not hesitate to dote on the infant. Once or twice, Aegon caught the eye of his older sister when she visited the nursery, but Rhaenyra always looked away and left shortly after that, Jace in her arms.

A midwife poked her head out of the birthing chambers, pulling Aegon out of his thoughts. She turned to Otto, a somber look on her face.

“The babe is reluctant to come. Her grace is asking for you,” she said. Aegon rushed forward, eager to get to his mother by any means necessary, but he was stopped by Cole. Otto looked down at the boy, a look of exasperation on his face. He opened his mouth to scold Aegon, but a particularly pitiful cry from inside the room stopped him.

“Take the boy back to the nursery, Cole,” Otto instructed. He was quick to enter the birthing chambers, leaving Aegon to stare up at the knight. The young child’s eyes were glassy, indicating tears would soon spill over. Cole sighed at the sight.

“Let us get you back to bed, my prince,” Cole said, putting a gentle hand on Aegon’s shoulder.

“Will my mother be okay, Ser Criston?” Aegon asked, his voice small. They were walking down the hallway, the queen’s cries growing fainter until he could no longer hear them at all. The man looked down at him, his look soft and the hand on his shoulder comforting.

“Of course she will be, prince Aegon. You will have a new brother or sister by sunrise,” Cole reassured him. Aegon was not sure if he believed him, but he nodded regardless. There were no more muffled cries of babes like before when they entered the hallway to the nursery. Most of the rooms were unused and closed off, but the door to the king’s chambers was open and a soft glow emitted from the inside.

Aegon shrugged off Cole’s hand and ran up to peek at his father. Viserys was sat at his model Valyria set, content as he painted a tiny figurine. It was as if he was completely unaware that his wife was just a corridor away, wailing as their fourth babe came into this world. He was nervous when Rhaenyra gave birth and stayed outside her rooms until the end, even when servants had to bring a chair for him to rest. The memory of Queen Aemma had been close to the surface, he had said, but no such agony was present when it came to Aegon’s mother. At that moment, the prince decided that he hated his sire.

“It is late, my prince,” Cole said softly from behind him. His hand hovered behind him but did not make contact, as if Aegon was an easily startled animal. Numbly, he nodded and allowed Cole to lead him to the nursery.

Chapter Text

The morning that Lyara was to begin her archery lessons, the young girl could barely contain her joy. She was nearly bouncing off the walls of Winterfell, chattering nonstop about it. Her ninth name-day had been just a few weeks before, and for it her father gifted her a bracer and a shooting glove that he had gotten made for her. They were simple and leather, as she would eventually outgrow them and need replacements, but they were the most precious thing in the world to Lyara at that moment.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she gushed as she hugged her father tightly. The girl was practically vibrating with excitement. Rickon laughed, a deep sound from low in his chest, and hugged her back just as tight.

“Of course, my girl, but you must promise to stay diligent when learning this new skill, just as we discussed,” he told his daughter. Lyara nodded seriously, and there was a determined look in her eyes.

Her will did not waver, even as she was placed next to Cregan in the courtyard despite him being two years her junior. Cregan, too, was learning the basics of archery, but he also had additional lessons with Hullen in swordplay and other pursuits not afforded to young girls.

Nocking the arrow to the bowstring was easier said than done, even as Lyara watched carefully as Hullen walked her and Cregan through the steps. Her small fingers were clumsy as she tried to copy the movements. Aiming, too, was more difficult than she anticipated, and her arms trembled a bit from the exertion as she held the bow upright.

“Loose!” Hullen commanded the siblings. Lyara let go and watched as her arrow flew through the air before landing short of the target and planting in the ground. Cregan’s, on the other hand, soared right over the target he was in front of. The siblings giggled at each other’s failed attempts.

Lyara watched as Hullen crouched next to Cregan and physically moved the boy’s arms so they were in the correct position. He angled the arrow downward a bit and mimed the action of aiming and releasing, with Cregan following the movements. This time when he let the arrow fly it at least hit the target but was still wide of the bullseye nailed to the center. Hullen clapped Cregan on the back with a grin, and then he made his way towards Lyara. Like he did with Cregan, Winterfell’s master-of-arms crouched down so he was eye level with her.

“That was not a bad shot, lass, but you need to aim a bit higher,” Hullen told her as he angled her arrow a bit upwards with his pointer finger. “At this distance, you want to use the tip of your arrow to guide your aim. Try again.”

Lyara did as she was told, her left eye closed and her tongue between her teeth as she tried to point the arrow at the bullseye. When she felt like she had the shot lined up, she released the arrow and watched as it flew towards the wooden target. The projectile whizzed past the target in an attempt that was closer than the previous one but still too wide to actually hit the wood. Lyara dropped her arms and pouted slightly, clearly unhappy with the result.

Hullen chuckled at the girl’s dissatisfaction and clapped her gently on the back. “That was better; keep trying, you’ll get the hang of it,” he reassured her. Lyara had no doubt that she would improve, but she was nothing if not slightly impatient and hoped that she would at least hit the target sooner rather than later.

By the end of the training session, Lyara’s arms were practically shaking from the physical activity, and the tips of her fingers were a bit numb from the cold. As soon as Hullen dismissed them, Lyara and Cregan put away their bows and ran back into the Great Keep, their laughter echoing in the courtyard behind them.

It was only a few moons short of Cregan’s eighth name-day when Domeric Cerwyn arrived in Winterfell to be fostered by the Starks. The family gathered in the courtyard, bundled in heavy cloaks, as the Cerwyns arrived. Lyara stood next to Cregan and could not help but pick and bite at the tips of her nails. Used to her nervous behavior, Cregan quickly noticed and elbowed Lyara to get her to stop. It was not hard enough to actually hurt, but Lyara still frowned and elbowed him right back. It would have turned into a larger tussle, but their mother shot them a quick look just as the Cerwyn party stopped in front of the welcoming family.

Lord Joros Cerwyn was older than Lyara’s father; his sandy blonde hair was gray at the temples, and his eyes were bracketed by deep crows feet. He was a jovial man, and he was laughing about something with his lady wife, who rode beside him, as he dismounted his horse.

Lyara knew that Lady Erena Cerwyn was Lord Joros’ second wife. His first wife and their son died in the birthing bed before Lyara was born. Erena was a Karstark by birth and a good friend of their mother, Lady Gilliane. After she dismounted her own horse, Erena greeted their father warmly and then embraced their mother tightly. As their parents caught up with each other, Lyara and Cregan were left to peer at the son.

Domeric was a narrow boy of barely nine name-days, shorter than Lyara by an inch or two, which made her happy since Cregan was showing signs of being as tall as their father and had already surpassed her in height despite being two years younger. The Cerwyn boy had the same blonde hair of his father and the blue eyes of his mother. He had an easy smile on his face, like leaving his home to live among another family wasn’t a big deal. The closeness of Castle Cerwyn, only half a day’s ride from Winterfell, probably did a lot to alleviate the anxiety.

Erena noticed the twin pairs of grey eyes looking at her son, and she turned her attention towards the Stark children. She rested one hand on Domeric’s shoulder, and the other combed through his curls.

“Mother!” Domeric protested, attempting to swat the woman’s hand away. There was a slight embarrassed blush on his cheeks as his eyes darted between his parents and Lyara and Cregan.

“Oh, hush Domeric! You are still young enough to let me fuss over you,” Erena chided but dropped her hand to rest on his other shoulder. She nudged him forward slightly. “Why don’t you introduce yourself while your father and I talk with Lord Rickon and Lady Gilliane?”

The woman gave her son no time to argue as she joined the circle the other three parents had formed. Domeric smiled sheepishly, as if embarrassed by his mother’s actions. Lyara understood that feeling well; her parents did something that embarrassed her at least three times a day.

“I’m Domeric, but most people just call me Dom,” the Cerwyn boy said.

In an uncharacteristic move, Cregan was the first to introduce himself between him and his sister. Neither of the siblings were overly gregarious, but Lyara was usually the one to take the lead.

“Cregan,” he replied and then pointed at his sister. “And that’s Lyara.” She waved politely at Dom. “Do you know monsters-and-maidens?” Cregan asked. When Dom nodded, Cregan folded his arms and frowned. “Lyara always makes me be the maiden.”

Ever the older sister, Lyara smiled triumphantly. “Now you and Dom can take turns,” she informed them. “You can still be the maiden this time, though. C’mon!” She turned and began walking in the direction of the godswood, assuming the younger boys would follow.

Domeric and Cregan got on like a house on fire. They two boys were found almost exclusively by each other’s sides after Dom arrivedl; as they did lessons, as they trained with Hullen, and especially as they ran through the halls of Winterfell. Occasionally, Lyara joined them, playing along while also keeping a watchful eye on the two younger boys. She usually trained with Hullen side-by-side with Domeric and Cregan, honing her archery skills with determination.

More often than not, though, Lyara was off on her own. She had claimed a corner in Winterfell’s library tower as her own sanctuary. It was peaceful, and Lyara loved being alone among all the books and scrolls. Many were still off limits to her, but the things she could get her hands on she read voraciously.

While Lyara was content with her bouts of solitude, her mother fretted over it in private with her husband. Lady Gilliane was proud that Lyara was such a bright and intelligent young girl, but she was also worried that her young daughter was lonely without even knowing it. As much as Lyara loved her brother and enjoyed spending time with him and Domeric, she was without any sort of female companion. Someone she could confide in those things she could not tell her mother.

“I worry for her,” Gilliane expressed to her husband, not for the first time. It was late evening, and she was sitting in her smallclothes in front of her vanity as she combed out her long, dark hair. “Cregan has bonded so easily with Domeric, and I wish the same for our Lya.”

“I know, Gil,” Lord Rickon said from their bed, scanning recent correspondences from the other Lords of the North; this conversation between them had been had many times before. Tonight, though, he proposed a new idea. “Perhaps it is time to seek out a companion for Lyara? Thom has a daughter of three-and-ten name-days.”

Gilliane considered the thought. Thom Mollen was the master-of-horse at Winterfell, and his daughter Barbrey was usually seen around the kitchens or in the glass gardens. The girl was tall for her age, with straw colored hair and a freckled face. She was always courteous, but Gilliane knew Thom bemoaned his middle daughter’s willfulness to Rickon when the lord visited the stables. Barbrey would make a good companion to Lyara, she thought.

The woman climbed into bed next to her husband, covering them both with the thick furs. She blew out the candle on her bedside. A tiny sliver of light from the moon shone into the room, but it was otherwise dark.

“That is a good idea,” Gilliane said quietly. She shifted so she was on her side, and her husband wrapped his arms around her. He hummed, and she could feel his chest vibrate as they laid together. “You’ll have to discuss it with Thom.”

Thom was on board with having Barbrey be Lyara’s companion, but Gilliane made sure to ask her daughter what she thought about the arrangement before anything was set in stone. When around those she was comfortable with, Lyara was quick witted and outspoken, but she was shy and awkward around new people. More so than any other child Gilliane had ever known.

Per usual, Gilliane found her daughter in the Library Tower. The young girl was curled up on a large chair with a book of stories on her lap. She looked up once she heard Gilliane walking towards her.

“Hello, mother,” Lyara said pleasantly. The childrens’ lessons with Yna had finished a few hours before, and Cregan and Domeric were now in the courtyard working on their hand to hand skills.

“Hello, sweetling,” Gilliane greeted her. She sat in a chair opposite of the girl. Noticing that her mother wanted to speak to her, Lyara closed her book and looked at her with questioning eyes. “Lyara, how would you feel about having some more companionship?”

Lyara’s nose scrunched up in confusion. “Like a pet?” she asked. Her eyes suddenly glittered, and she smiled widely. “Can it be a cat? Can I get a cat?”

That made Gilliane pause and chuckle softly. She shook her head at her daughter and corrected her gently. “No, not like a pet, but we can ask to see if any of the stable cats recently had a litter. Your father and I were discussing a companion for you, especially now since Domeric has settled into Winterfell. Thom’s daughter Barbrey is only a few name-days older than you.”

Apparently that was not as interesting to Lyara, who only shrugged. She knew Barbrey well enough, so it would not be a complete stranger as her companion. “I guess. I like Barbrey.”

--------

Almost a full moon later, Lyara had a day planned with Barbrey Mollen and a black kitten on her bed. She promptly named the tiny thing Tyanna.

“As in… The Cruel King’s wife?” her father asked later that morning. Rickon looked extremely puzzled, staring at the stubby little cat that had a blue bow wrapped loosely around its neck. It gave an adorable little yawn, squeaking softly.

“Yes,” Lyara answered, unperturbed. She ran a finger along Tyanna’s head as the kitten drank out of a bowl filled with warmed milk. “She has black fur, and look- her eyes are green just like the queen’s were.”

Rickon opened his mouth to say more, but his wife put a hand on his arm and just shook her head. There was a soft, fond smile on her face.

--------

Barbrey found the young Stark girl to be a bit… odd. Not that she would ever say that outloud, of course. Her mother and father had taught her well, and she was prepared to be a good companion to Lyara. Barbrey was a few years older than her, but she was prepared to defer to Lyara in most situations.

The two girls had settled on the godswood for their first outing. Neither of them knew what to say, and additionally Barbrey was a bit nervous to say the wrong thing. It was late spring, but there was still a considerable amount of snow on the ground. The previous days had been particularly cold, so there were a couple stray patches of ice. Barbrey tried to step around them carefully, but there were a couple that were particularly well hidden that resulted in a couple of close calls for her and Lyara. Each time either girl caught themselves, they both laughed awkwardly and carried on their banal conversation.

“I quite like embroidery,” Lyara said, clearly a bit nervous herself. “I do not know how good I am at it. I like to think that my skills are at least passable. I get impatient, and my thread constantly gets tangled-”

Barbrey was trying to keep up with the younger girl’s rambling. She was nodding her head as they walked along one of the small pools from the hot spring, her arm in Lyara’s. It distracted her from where she was walking. Her next step was on a patch of ice, and Barbrey slipped backwards. In doing so, she unbalanced Lyara as well. The girl lost her footing and tripped into the pool.

When it was all said and done, Barbrey was on her back and Lyara was sitting in a thankfully shallow part of the pond. It was very quiet for a moment, neither girl knowing what to do. Then Barbrey caught Lyara’s eye and both of them began to laugh. They laughed until they were breathless, and Lyara let herself flop back into the pool.

After a moment, Lyara got up and trudged over to Barbrey. She was dripping wet, but there was a smile on her face as she held out her hand to help the older girl up. Barbrey took the hand gratefully and let Lyara help her up. They took stock of each other, Lyara soaking wet and Barbrey’s backside now sore and entirely covered in melting snow. Again, they broke into giggles.

Barbrey positioned her elbow for Lyara to take again, and the younger girl did so. “I’m starting to think I’m clumsy,” she joked as they began to walk back to the castle.”Are you alright, by the way? I’ll make sure we both get baths and some new clothes.”

There was not a word of blame or even really any indication that Lyara was angry about the small accident. She complained about her wet dress and hair, and how heavy they felt, but it was more casual complaining than anything else. Barbrey chimed in with her own complaints of her sore bum, as well as the bruise that was sure to form at the back of her head. Conversation flowed a bit easier from there, and eventually Barbrey forgot that she was ever nervous to speak to Lyara in the first place.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s third child came after a very short respite following the quick succession of her first two. With how little Ser Laenor was actually in King’s Landing, it was a wonder how they conceived at all. At least, that is what some of the more chattier staff around the Red Keep were whispering among themselves.

Aegon, ever a curious child, had reached double digits and had taken to sneaking off on his own. He was a terror for the nursemaids, always slipping away from their watchful eyes. In his endeavors, Aegon overheard many whispers between castle servants. The true meaning of the vast majority of them went right over his head, but the ones about his half-sister and her sworn shield always stuck out to him.

Jace was almost three now, a round faced adorable toddler with suspicious coloring. Luke was the same, and now the new babe was said to have dark curls as well. It caused rumors about their true parentage to spread rapidly. The blood of the First Men was particularly strong, some of the maids that tended to the queen whispered and giggled as they folded linens. Aegon wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but thankfully there were enough loose-lipped guards that were much more vulgar and concise.

“The Realm’s Delight seems to be the Captain’s Whore,” a man of the City Watch joked. The captain was Ser Harwin Strong. Breakbones, his men called him. Aegon had seen the man trailing after Rhaenyra as her sworn shield. He was occasionally in the yard when Aegon had training lessons with Cole.

Jace and Luke did have the same curly hair as Ser Harwin, Aegon supposed, and the new babe apparently did as well. He had not yet caught a glimpse of the child since he came into the world a moon ago. Aegon was rarely in the nursery now that he had moved into his own chambers. He very badly wished that he was back in those chambers now, no matter how boring they may be, instead of where he was now.

It was a rare occasion where the king decided to dine with all of his children. Viserys sat at the head of the table, with Alicent and Rhaenyra on either side of him. Even Ser Laenor had made the short trip from High Tide to be present, and he was seated next to his wife. Aegon sat next to Alicent, and Helaena next to him. At the far end of the table were the younger children, Aemond and Daeron next to Helaena, and Jace and Luke on the opposite side.

Aegon watched Laenor interact with his sons. He answered all of the questions Jace had with a placid smile, and he gingerly wiped the mess that Luke inevitably got all over his face. It made something heavy and sick settle in Aegon’s stomach. His eyes kept bouncing between Laenor and the two boys. Their brown curls contrasted starkly with the man’s bone-white locs, his brown skin different from their ruddy cheeks. They did not even have the purple eyes that both of their parents bore.

One of the older maids told Aegon that he was the spitting image of his father at the same age, and Aegon was inclined to agree. They had the same silver-gold hair, the same violet eyes. Yet Aegon struggled to remember the last time his father treated him with the gentleness and love that Laenor was freely giving out to his sons now. Viserys was there everyday in the castle, even, when Laenor was more often at High Tide than King’s Landing!

It was too much for the ten year old to truly wrap his head around. Instead, Aegon picked idly at his food. On his left, Helaena was mumbling something under her breath. It was too soft for him to make out, so he tuned into the strained small talk the adults at the table were making instead.

“Jace’s bond with Vermax is getting stronger by the day,” Rhaenyra was boasting to their father. From across the table, the young queen’s grip on her goblet tightened. The topic of dragons was a touchy one for Alicent; even a boy as young as Aegon could see that.

Jacaerys and Lucerys both had eggs placed in their cradles shortly after birth. For both children, the eggs hatched easily and the Targaryens welcomed a new dragon. A batch of eggs was even to be brought to King’s Landing for Rhaenyra to pick out for Joffrey. This was not a privilege granted to Aegon and his siblings. He remembers Daeron and Aemond’s cradles being cold and eggless, and he assumed Helaena and his were the same. There was no mention of giving them the opportunity to bond with an egg or dragon. The eggs in his nephews’ cradles had come from Syrax, and this most recent clutch was the same.

“That is wonderful to hear, my girl!” Viserys said, smiling proudly at his daughter. “The Dragonkeepers should have the new batch of eggs from Dragonstone within the next tenday, then you can choose one for young Joffrey!”

Aegon scowled into his meal. His father only ever thought about Rhaenyra and her children, and he was sick of it! He was a Targaryen, too, and should be given the chance to bond with a dragon.

The same thought occurred to his mother, it seemed, as Alicent cleared her throat softly. She smiled at Viserys, covering her husband’s hand with her own.

“It was Aegon’s tenth nameday only two moons ago, my dear, perhaps he could have a chance to choose an egg,” Alicent suggested, playing the part of a dutiful wife and mother. She gave Rhaenyra a strained smile as well. “After you pick one for your new babe of course, princess.”

Rhaenyra hardly looked placated, in fact she looked like she had just swallowed a lemon, but she knew that it was not worth making a scene over. Especially as Viserys clapped, always happy to see a plan come together and pretend he had something to do with it.

“That is a splendid idea, my love,” he said, patting Alicent on the arm. Viserys then looked at Aegon. It felt odd to have his father’s undivided attention. The king smiled at his son, and in that moment Aegon realized how much older his father looked compared to his mother. He squirmed in his seat.

“Once Rhaenyra picks an egg for your new nephew, you’ll have the pick of the litter. How does that sound, lad?” Viserys asked. Aegon shrugged and went back to pick at his food, but Alicent caught his eye and gave him a stern look.

“Thank you, father,” Aegon replied, trying to sound cheerful. The idea of claiming a dragon, even just an egg, was thrilling to the boy, but he also was acutely aware of the pressure his mother was placing on him. Should he not bond with an egg, he might jeopardize his siblings’ chances at a bond. Aegon continued to pick at his meal, frowning down at his plate.

It was closer to a fortnight later when his mother told Aegon that he would get his chance to bond with an egg. Rhaenyra had apparently picked out Joff’s egg the day before, a pale violet thing. A handful of other eggs remained, stored in the Dragonpit.

His mother accompanied Aegon to the Hill of Rhaenys. He peered out the window of their carriage; it was a warm, sunny day, and the Street of Sisters was bustling. Vendors hawked their wares, and peasants walked to and fro every which way. Men of the City Watch surrounded the carriage on all sides, but the chaos of the city was an almost dizzying sight. The Red Keep was never so busy. Soon enough, though, the royal carriage was approaching the Dragonpit.

The building was a massive thing, bigger than nearly anything else in the city. Its domed shape cast a long, dark shadow over the Hill. Aegon vaguely remembered Maester Ryles, the man in charge of the royal children's education, telling him that the Dragonpit’s construction had taken over a decade, spanning the rule of both Maegor the Cruel and the Old King. Rhaenyra’s dragon, Syrax, was burrowed away in one of the many deep caverns underneath the Dragonpit, and Seasmoke was being kept there while Laenor stayed in the capital. Vermax, Jace’s olive and orange juvenile dragon, had also recently been relocated into the building.

Aegon’s mother cleared her throat softly and sat up in her seat. She reached over to straighten his tunic and run her hand through his hair. Aegon tried not to scoff; as if the dragon would care about the state of his hair!

“You know this is important, right, Aegon?” Alicent asked, her dark eyes boring into Aegon’s. The boy nodded, unsure what to say. His mother nodded back, not blinking. She tried to manage a smile but did not quite succeed. Kissing Aegon on the head, which he balked at immediately, Alicent bid him goodbye, “Good luck, my son.”

Aegon climbed out of the carriage. A handful of Dragonkeepers were waiting for him, dressed in robes and wielding staves. Most of the Dragonkeepers were dragonseed or otherwise of Valyrian descent, and they spoke and japed with each other in the Bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities. It sounded harsh to Aegon’s ears, more used to the High Valyrian that his maester droned on in.

The Dragonkeepers greeted Aegon formally and led him into the Dragonpit. It felt like the building was swallowing him whole as he walked through the doors. The ceiling was high and domed, and he craned his neck to look up at it. A couple of the Dragonkeepers laughed at his obvious awe, but Aegon couldn’t care less.

The eggs from Dragonstone were kept in a special brazier, and it was brought out for Aegon to browse. There were four to choose from in all different colors: rich turquoise, baby pink streaked with black, jade green with pearlescent speckling, and bright, metallic orange. He examined them all carefully, and he even laid a careful hand on the jade egg. It was so hot it almost burned him, and he tore his hand away quickly.

There was a sinking feeling as Aegon realized that he did not feel a pull to any particular egg. That was something he knew should be present. Before it hatched, Jace loathed to be separated from his egg. There was some type of connection that existed between a dragon and its rider, and the lack of one did not bode well for Aegon. He was poised to just randomly choose an egg when a Dragonkeeper suddenly barked out an order.

“Arlī!” the keeper shouted down one of the dark caverns of the Dragonpit. Aegon abandoned the brazier to get a better look. He had seen Syrax only sparingly, and he was keen to get a good look at his half-sister’s dragon now. Perhaps he would regale Aemond with an over-exaggerated version of the tale later.

The responding growl from the dragon did not sound like Syrax, though. It was too high pitched, almost like a shriek, that was more like a juvenile than a fully grown dragon. The spout of flames that followed up the growl was also not Syrax’s. His half-sister’s dragon breathed pale yellow flames, but this one spat another spout of golden flames. Unconsciously, Aegon stepped even closer.

“Qrugh! Get back, princeling!” another Dragonkeeper swore, grabbing Aegon by the shoulder. The boy looked up at the man and shrugged off his hand indignantly, but he did not step any further. He wanted to, though. Especially as the dragon crawled its way out of the cavern, the initial keeper guiding it.

The dragon had brilliant gold scales, accented with pale pink membranes on its wings. It was larger than Vermax, but not yet as large as Syrax or any other fully grown dragon. Not yet large enough to fly. This dragon must have hatched on Dragonstone and spent the first few years of its life on the island, surviving the wrath of the Cannibal. The young dragon was clearly spirited, as it bucked against the chains it was in and growled once again at the keeper.

Aegon felt a pull in his stomach, and he knew that this dragon was meant for him. He stepped forward, disregarding the protests of the Dragonkeeper behind him. For a moment, he struggled to recollect exactly what the maester told him about bonding with a dragon. Aegon always imagined that he would just act on instinct, and he did so now.

“Lykiri!” he shouted, reasonably sure that was something used to placate dragons. Aegon continued forward, now only a few feet from the dragon. It looked at the Dragonkeeper and snapped one last time before turning to Aegon. The beast moved forward and nudged its nose against Aegon’s chest, knocking him on his ass. The dragon craned its head toward Aegon, and both keepers rushed forward in alarm, but it merely blew out a puff of hot air straight into Aegon’s face. The prince broke out into giggles and sat up. He reached out and ran his hand over the dragon’s scales. They were pleasantly warm underneath his palm.

Alicent waited impatiently in the carriage inside. Even Rhaenyra had a hard time getting her to step foot into the Dragonpit back in their youth, so she had no desire to follow her son into the monstrous building. She worried about him, though. She prayed to the Seven that Aegon would bond with an egg, for the sake of his and his sibling’s lives. A lot was riding on Aegon; too much, perhaps, for a little boy, but that was not something that Alicent could give too much thought to. The queen picked anxiously at her cuticles, tearing at a piece of skin until beads of blood welled up. She sucked at the new wound and bit at the skin.

It was no longer than an hour later when the door to the carriage opened. Alicent jumped, caught off guard, but calmed when she saw that it was only her son. She looked over him frantically, checking for any injuries, and she noticed that he was lacking an egg.

“Aegon!” she exclaimed. “Where is the egg? Did you-”

“C’mon!” Alicent’s line of questioning was cut off as Aegon grabbed her hand. The boy pulled his mother out of the carriage and began leading her to the Dragonpit. She flinched but allowed herself to be led through the doors. It had been a long time since she stepped foot in this building. A lifetime ago. It was a surprise when Aegon led her over not to an egg, but to an already fairly large dragon.

All dragons were terrifying in Alicent’s eyes, and this one was no exception. Despite that, though, she could admit that this was one of the more regal looking beasts she had seen in her limited experience. It was slightly larger than a war horse and had gleaming gold scales. Its horns were tipped with pink, matching the membranes of its wings.

“Look, mother!” Aegon exclaimed excitedly. It warmed her heart to see her son so animated, as he was already showing signs of being a somewhat sulky child. Now, though, he was grinning broadly, her eyes crinkling at the sides. Alicent managed a smile back, but she felt her heartbeat dramatically quicken when Aegon put his hand on the dragon’s nose, petting the beast.

“Bisa- muna,” Aegon said, talking to the dragon now. An odd feeling came over Alicent. Muna. That was what Rhaenyra called Queen Aemma, what her children called her now. Alicent knew that it was merely the Valyrian word for ‘mother’, yet Aegon using it for her still left an odd feeling in her chest.

Aegon was still petting the dragon, speaking in halting Valyrian to it. He beckoned her over, and Alicent forced her feet to move. He instructed her to pet the beast as well- which, in fairness, it looked like it was thoroughly enjoying the attention- and she reluctantly did so once. Her hand dropped from the dragon’s scales.

“Does he have a name, Aegon?” Alicent asked instead. The question made Aegon pause, clearly not having thought about that prior to that moment. His hand was on his chin, deep in thought. After a moment, the boy lit up.

“Sunfyre,” he announced proudly. The dragon seemed content with the name, if his low purr was anything to go by. Alicent smiled softly at Aegon.

“A wonderful name,” she told him, making him beam. She allowed the Dragonkeepers to step in and instruct Aegon on the care and keeping of Sunfyre. He listened with rapt attention, which was something Alicent very rarely saw in her son. Perhaps claiming a dragon would be better for him than even she believed.

The two returned to the carriage after Aegon was given the first of what would be many lessons on his bond with his dragon. Alicent took a deep breath once outside of the Dragonpit and got a lungful of fresh air. She was eager to get the scent of the pit off of her once they returned to the Red Keep.

Aegon was still smiling brightly. He surprised Alicent by hugging her tightly once he got into the carriage.

“Thank you, mummy,” he murmured. Alicent felt tears well up in her eyes, and she hugged her son back just as tightly.

“Of course, my love,” she whispered and kissed the top of his head. Aegon extracted himself from her and sat back in his seat, his demeanor closer to his usual aloofness. They did not talk further as they rode back to the keep, but the air felt light.

Lyara,

I did it! I bonded with a dragon! His name is Sunfyre, and he is still too young to fly, but he is growing quickly. He is the most beautiful dragon in the Pit; maybe even in the world! I wish you could see how his scales glitter in the sun. I cannot wait to fly with him. He is much better than a little cat.

I am envious that you and your brother have other companions. I only have my siblings and nephews, and none of them are any fun except for telling them what to do. Mother refused my request for a companion, and she said that father would do the same. She recommended that I spend more time with Aemond. I will not be doing that.

Aegon.

Chapter Text

Winter blew into the North without much of a thought towards autumn. There was still a layer of light, fluffy summer snow on the ground when the first major snowstorm hit Winterfell. The winter town filled up faster than Lyara could remember ever seeing, going from nearly deserted to packed in less than a moon. With the influx of people, there was soon an outbreak of illness.

Scores of peasants visited Winterfell as they repopulated the winter town. At first, it was to make pleas for food and supplies to be sent, as winter had come more quickly than anyone had anticipated. Lyara’s father listened to their complaints with a keen ear. His children were occasionally present, learning how a lord acts in front of his people. Cregan was required more often than Lyara since he was the heir and because she was a lady.

This hardly bothered the girl, who would rather spend her time in the needlework circle anyway. Lyara and Barabrey had become fast friends, and the two girls could almost always be spotted together somewhere on the grounds of Winterfell. They often occupied the godswood, making snow castles or hunching over the hot spring pools and whispering to one another.

By the time the winter town had completely filled and settled, the illness had torn through the peasants and had spread to the servants of Winterfell. Those who contracted the illness complained of a rattling cough and severe pain in the chest. It did not come and go like many other outbreaks and instead lingered around. The sickness almost consumed those it afflicted, making them lose weight quickly, shaky and feverish.

Barbrey was the first person Lyara knew personally that fell ill. She had been coughing for a few days, and then her father told Lyara’s that Barbrey was too ill to attend lessons or accompany the Stark girl anywhere. Lyara was under the table in her father’s solar, writing a letter to one of her cousins as her father and his master-of-horse had this conversation.

“Take all the time you need, Thom,” Rickon reassured the other man, relieving him of his duties for a few days.

“Thank you, Rickon, truly. Jeyne and I appreciate it,” Thom replied, and then the two men gave their goodbyes to each other.

Once Thom was gone, Rickon sat back in his chair, sighing heavily. He rubbed his eyes, as if feeling the weight of his years coming down on him.

Underneath the table, Lyara signed off on her letter, unsure why her mother and father even made her do this. Her cousin, Benjen, was the oldest son of her father’s younger brother and was three years her younger. He responded to one out of maybe four of Lyara’s letters. It seemed a waste of time in her opinion, but she was never the type to be lost for words, so she continued to send letters to her kin, Benjen and others. Not to mention her continued correspondence with Aegon, as they exchanged letters every other moon or so.

“Will Barbrey be okay, father?” Lyara asked, peeking up at the man. Rickon dragged his hand down his face, nodding.

“I am sure young Barbrey will be fine,” he reassured his daughter. It was clear that something was still on his mind, though. The consumption was affecting more and more people, and he could not guarantee that his own children would not fall ill. Not while they were in Winterfell, that was.

Rickon shook the negative thoughts off, though, and reached underneath his desk to grab his daughter. He hauled Lyara up like she was still a babe, tickling her as she tried to get out of his grasp. Her high-pitched giggles and his deep chuckle filled the room.

A fortnight later, Lyara and her brother were aboard a ship bound for Bear Island. There was no sign of the sickness sweeping through Winterfell letting up, so Rickon arranged for his children to be sent to the Mormont’s keep as temporary wards. Dom was with them as well, paired up with Cregan as they took turns seeing who could spit the farthest from the side of the ship.

Lyara shuddered. Boys were gross. Because Barbrey was still sick, the Stark girl was left without a companion on this trip. She was actually quite glad that her friend wasn’t there; the amount of seasickness that Lyara had upon setting sail was frankly embarrassing. She was enjoying the trip now, though, and hoped the best for her friend back in Winterfell. She had entrusted the care of Barbrey not only to the healers but to Tyanna, as well, since the cat could not accompany Lyara to Bear Island. The black cat was aloof, as most were, but she had a fondness for Barbrey.

The ship was carrying only a few passengers and was full of supplies for the people of Bear Island. Winter was well on its way now, and the small island would need reinforcements periodically to sustain them.

Lyara did not know too much about the Mormonts. Lord Mormont had died while hunting just over a year before, and Lady Marna was ruling as regent for her eldest son, Jon, until he came of age in two years. There were also the twins, Olly and Osric, who were a few years younger, as well as a little girl, Robyn.

It was the night before they left for Bear Island that Rickon reminded his children of all of this. They were gathered in their parent’s chambers, seeing their mother for the last time before they departed. Gilliane was on her sick bed, looking a bit worse for wear, and chimed in occasionally with bits and pieces about her youth with Lady Marna, who was a Liddle by birth. The woman was soon laughing and spinning stories of what they got up together, but a coughing fit soon took over, and Rickon escorted his children out to tend to his wife.

That was less than a week before. Now, Lyara stood next to her brother and Dom, looking around at the island that was going to be their home for the next few weeks.

Bear Island was a tiny, remote piece of land just north of Deepwood Motte. It was densely forested and populated more by bears than by people. Lyara loved it immediately. Even the wolfswood wasn’t so green! The Mormont Keep wasn’t nearly as grand as Winterfell and was made of strong oak logs. The gate that heralded their welcome was adorned with a large carving of a woman in a bearskin, a babe suckling at her breast in one hand and a battle axe in the other.

Lyara remembered her lessons on the Northern houses well. She was fascinated by the way women of Bear Island often became warriors. It was out of necessity, as their men were often attacked at sea. It was a location that was oft hit by raids from both the ironborn and the free folk.

Lady Marna was a stout woman with long, straw blonde hair that she kept in a tight bun. She had the beginning of crow’s feet around her eyes, which were a warm hazel color. Her middle children, twins Olly and Osric, resembled their mother greatly. Meanwhile, the oldest and youngest must have taken after their father with their dark hair and eyes.

“Welcome to the Mormont Keep,” the woman said. Her voice had an almost smoky quality to it, and her accent was noticeably different than Lyara’s own. Her children were on either side of her---the twins were on the right, and the oldest was holding the youngest on the left.

Robyn was a toddling girl no older than four, and she had a frown on her face and stick grasped in one hand. She squirmed and demanded to be put down. Jon immediately complied. Lyara wasn’t expecting Robyn to run straight up to her, waving her stick enthusiastically.

“Mama said that I’m too young to use an axe or sword yet, but that I can practice with a good stick!” the Mormont girl informed her. Lyara nodded along, a bit confused and overwhelmed, then Robyn turned her questioning on the older girl. “You look old enough to use a sword- are you any good at it?”

Lyara had held a sword twice. Maybe. “Uhh, oh, no, I don’t-” she began, looking back helplessly at Lady Mormont, who was smiling, her arms crossed. Marna, thankfully, took pity on her and called over to her daughter.

“Enough interrogating the guests, Robyn,” she said, motioning for her to come back over. The girl did so with a pout and a stomp, but she quickly hurried back to her mother’s side. Marna then looked back at the newcomers. “Come on, then, we’ll show you around.”

Mormon Keep was not ostentatious, but it was finely crafted nonetheless. There was beautiful woodwork to be found everywhere, when one looked with a keen eye. The carving of the woman in bearskin was just the beginning, and Lyara noticed many more pieces with bear motifs. In the middle of the main hall stood a huge carving of a grizzly bear on its hind legs and mid-roar. Marna must have caught the girl looking at it extra hard, and she spoke up about it.

“Some of the finest woodwork in Westeros; there may be some fancier, but none sturdier,” the Mormont woman boasted. Lyara nodded, her hands on the base of the sculpture, her head turned upwards.

“It’s beautiful,” she said in awe.

Marna showed the guests to their rooms shortly after. Cregan and Dom were to share a room, which excited the boys, but Lyara was in her own quarters by virtue of being the only girl. It was down the hall from Robyn’s room, which had previously been the nursery.

It felt odd, being in this new place, and the uncertainty of it all made Lyara feel a bit nervous. There was nothing familiar to be found, and it made her feel small and alone. There was not much time to dwell on those emotions, though, as she was soon called to the training yard with the rest of the children.

When she arrived, the Mormont boys had already begun sparring with Cregan and Domeric. Both parties looked excited at the prospect of fighting new opponents. Lyara was proud to see that Cregan was more than holding his own against Jon despite being five years his junior. She was more excited still when she saw Robyn sitting off to the side, watching the boys with rapt enthusiasm. The girl had a small wooden training sword clutched in her hands.

“Hello, Robyn!” Lyara greeted, taking a seat next to the girl, who barely acknowledged her presence. Too caught up in watching her brothers, the Stark girl supposed.

Lyara looked around and spotted a couple of targets and a rack of bows and arrows tucked away in the corner. She lit up at the chance to show Robyn that while she could not wield a sword, she was at least proficient with a bow.

“Would you like to join me by the shooting range?” Lyara asked, and this seemed to pique the Mormont girl’s interest. She glanced over at her companion.

“Are you any good?” Robyn asked in return, which made Lyara laugh and shrug.

“I would like to think that I am passable,” Lyara replied. She got up from the bench and motioned for Robyn to follow, which the girl did, if skeptically.

Lyara picked up a bow and tested its weight. The range was stocked for men, ones much older and stronger than her, so it took a few tries to find a bow small and light enough for her. Once she found a good fit, she made her way to the first target and knocked an arrow.

The range was made up of five posts, each with circular canvas targets pinned to them. Three rings were painted onto the canvas, white, blue, and red. Lyara squinted her eyes, altering her aim slightly before letting the arrow fly. It hit the blue, just left of the red bullseye. She groaned and immediately lined up another shot. This one was better, and it hit the red still just slightly left.

“Woah,” Robyn said, standing a few feet away from Lyara. She looked appropriately impressed, much to Lyara’s delight. Robyn grinned up at her. “Not too bad.”

The Stark girl laughed loudly, a bit stunned by the young girl’s audacity but mostly amused. She lined up another shot and took it, this one landing closer to the center. The final two shots landed in the blue, one a bit too high and the other right on the edge of the red. Lyara turned and took an exaggerated bow, giggling a bit.

“Would you like me to show you how?” Lyara asked. Robyn nodded immediately, and while there were no bows small enough for the girl, Lyara could at least walk her through the motions. So, she showed Robyn the steps just like Hullen had done for her only a couple of years before.

It was not long after that the children were called inside for supper. There was to be a small feast held to welcome the guests to Mormont Keep. It was a much more subdued affair than some of the celebrations held at Winterfell, but that was to be expected. Lyara certainly did not mind and was more than happy to talk and partake in the festivities. She even got Cregan to dance with her!

The Stark children’s stay at Mormont Keep was short-lived, however. After just a few weeks, their father wrote to Lady Marna to recall the siblings and Domeric back to Winterfell. The letter carried tragic news, as well. Their mother had succumbed to the sickness, and they would be returning to attend Lady Gilliane’s funeral.

Winterfell was just as cold and dreary when they arrived as when they left, yet everything felt different. Lyara’s nose was cold and running as she stood in the godswood, and she could feel tears clinging to her eyelashes, half frozen. Cregan was next to her, tears in his own eyes that he was clearly desperately trying to hold back. Their father knelt beside them, his head bowed just like theirs as they all prayed. Lyara wanted to curse the old gods and demand that they bring her mother back, but all she could do was cry silently.

Gilliane was buried in the crypt beneath Winterfell, just like all the other Starks before her. Some of her most precious belongings would be sent to Deepwood Motte so her Glover kin could mourn as well. Their uncle Gilrick and his heir Godrick had made the journey through the wolfswood to attend the funeral rites for their sister and aunt. Lyara had seen her father greet Gilrick with a handshake and then a tight hug, both men more solemn than she had ever seen.

When he was done praying, Rickon got up from his knees and turned to his children who quickly followed suit. There was red rimming his eyes but no tears actually fell. Lyara rushed into her father’s arms and hugged him tightly, and Cregan did the same. She cried into Rickon’s chest, his hand warm on her back as he comforted her.

“All will be well,” Rickon assured his daughter, his voice gruff and raw with emotion. His other hand was cradling the back of Cregan’s head. Rickon looked down at his son, and he sighed. “Do not cry, lad,” he told Cregan, who looked conflicted though nodded and visibly tried to steel himself. Lyara continued to cry.

Later that night, Cregan did something that he had not done since he was a little boy fresh out of the nursery and snuck into her room.

“Lya,” he whispered harshly, unsure if she was still awake. Lyara was. She was just laying in bed, staring into the darkness. She turned over to look at her little brother.

“What?” she whispered back.

Cregan shifted nervously, and Lyara remembered that, for all his intensity and seriousness, Cregan was still just a young boy. “Can I sleep in here tonight?” he asked after several silent moments. Lyara just nodded and scooted over, lifting the heavy furs for her brother to climb in.

Once they were situated, Lyara pulled the furs over their heads. It was quiet, the outside world blocked out and only the sound of each other’s breathing between them. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, and then Cregan began to cry softly.

Lyara felt her heart break, and she pulled her little brother into a tight hug. He sobbed into her shoulder, and she felt tears well up in her own eyes. Soon they were both bawling messes, letting out all the emotions that had built up over the last several days. When they were finally out of tears, it was back to just the sound of their breathing and now sniffling.

“Father told me that men should never cry,” Cregan said, sounding a bit guilty. Lyara shook her head.

“Father isn’t always correct,” she told him, her tone more harsh than she meant it to be. Lyara had only seen ten and one namedays, but she was sure that that was the truth. Rickon was a formidable and well-respected lord, but that did not mean he was infallible. Lyara had been free to cry and grieve the loss of her mother, and her father and brother should be able to as well. She sighed. “We lost our mother, Cregan. Of course it is okay to cry. I bet father is too, he just does not want to worry us by showing it.”

It was dark, but Lyara could see that Cregan looked equal parts conflicted and relieved. It was too much for him, and his face crumpled as he teared up again. Lyara pulled him into a tight hug. Cregan had always been closer to their mother; she remembered him constantly clinging to Gilliane even as a baby, colicky and crying if anyone but her held him, trailing after her as a little boy. Lyara missed her mother fiercely, but she had to be there for Cregan as well. She would keep him safe. That was her last thought as they drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Aemond Targaryen was an exceedingly solemn child. At nine namedays old, he was a mere slip of a boy and the polar opposite of his brother when he was the same age. Aegon was like a tornado— he dove into activities with enthusiasm, quickly lost interest, and left the wreckage in his wake. Aemond, meanwhile, pursued his interests with an almost viscous rigor. He never bemoaned attending a lesson and strived for perfection in everything he did. It was something that pissed his older brother off endlessly.

The differences between the brothers did not stop there, either. Aegon and Aemond seemed the opposite in every way. The elder’s anger burned hot and quick, while the younger’s was quiet and cold. Aemond was never to be found underfoot like Aegon constantly was, and while Aegon chafed against the restrictions their mother put on them, Aemond found a sort of comfort in them. Most importantly, though, was that while Aegon could not be bothered to notice most things happening around the Red Keep, Aemond noticed it all.

These observation skills were why when there was suddenly someone new in the castle, the young prince noticed it immediately. Over the last few months, Aemond had settled into his new role as Ser Arryk Cargyll’s page, and while he was far from the only page in King’s Landing, he took notice when a new presence appeared among them.

The boy was of a similar age to Aemond, and he had a mess of black hair and wide, dark eyes to match. There was a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and he was currently missing one of his front teeth. His mother said he came from the Reach.

“Blackcrown,” the queen had told Aemond when he inquired. “House Bulwer. They are sworn to the Hightowers. Do you remember their words, dear?”

“Death Before Disgrace,” Aemond answered with ease, and Alicent beamed with pride.

“Very good, Aemond. House Bulwer has a long history of great warriors,” she informed her son. Alicent delighted in telling her children stories from the Reach, when she could. Now was a perfect time. With Aemond at her side, she delved into the tale of Garth Greenhand.

“Long before Aegon conquered the Seven Kingdoms, Garth Greenhand was the High King who led the First Men into Westeros,” she explained to a starry-eyed Aemond. “He showed the men how to plant and sow, and so they were able to settle down in this new land. It was said that he fathered a great number of children, and many noble houses of the Reach proudly trace their lines back to Garth Greenhand, including House Hightower.”

“Really?” Aemond finally spoke up, fascinated by the idea of his mother’s house being one of great mythos. Alicent smiled indulgently down at Aemond and nodded.

“Yes, Garth Greenhand’s daughter, Maris the Maid, was the fairest maiden in all of the Reach. A tourney was held for her hand, and over fifty lords competed! A man named Argoth Stone-skin won, but Uthor of the High Tower married Maris before Argoth could. Uthor and Maris went on to have children, beginning House Hightower,” Alicent continued. Aemond was cuddled up to her side now like he was still a babe, and she made no move to dislodge him.

“Garth Greenhand had many more children, including Bors the Breaker,” she said. “They said he had the strength of twenty men from drinking bull’s blood! Perhaps even enough to grow a pair of black horns!”

Alicent mussed Aemond’s hair then, making the boy burst into unexpected giggles. It warmed her heart to see him laugh; her second son always acted far beyond his years, and she worried that he did not act enough like the child he still was. She was glad that he could still be regaled with stories of mythical kings and warriors.

Aemond kept in mind the story of Bors the Breaker in the next few days. He was not surprised to see the Bulwer boy in the training yard. Only Aegon was old enough to train with an actual sword, dulled as it was. Aemond was stuck with a wooden training sword for the time being. The other boy was wielding the same, and it wasn’t long before they were paired against each other.

The Bulwer boy’s technique was good, for a child, but Aemond’s was better. The yard was full of the sound of wood knocking against wood and the grunts each boy let out as the other landed or blocked a hit. It was somewhat clumsy, as all beginners were, but both boys showed promise. The drive was certainly there, as neither gave up or went easy on the other. The Bulwer boy was clearly well-practiced. They went back and for some time, more or less evenly matched, until both boys were panting.

Ser Arryk, who was overseeing the sparring, stopped them then. They separated, and Aemond glared at the other boy, who was now red-faced and peering questioningly back at the prince. The black-haired boy was not one to be deterred from making a new friend, though. He walked over to Aemond.

“I’m Wyott. You’re one of the princes, right?” he asked.

“Aemond,” the other boy confirmed, looking over Wyott with a squint. “You are the Bulwer, from the Reach?”

Wyott nodded and smiled broadly, showing off his missing left canine. Aemond could see the pearly white of a new tooth beginning to grow back in.

“Yep!” he chirped. “I’m Ser Cuy’s page and Lord Beesbury’s cupbearer!”

This piqued Aemond’s attention. “Cupbearer?” he repeated. “You sit in on his meetings then?”

Wyott nodded again. “When Lord Beesbury requests it, which is often. He’s old.” The Bulwer boy scrunched up his nose; this was probably his least favorite duty. “The meetings are often long, and sooo boring.”

The comments didn’t phase Aemond. If this boy was the cupbearer to the master of coin, that meant that he then got the opportunity to sit in on the meetings of the Small Council. Aemond was young, but even he realized how important the goings on of the council were. Being cupbearer to a member would provide invaluable insight. So, without further ado, Aemond nodded to the other boy and gave his farewell. He had to set out to gain this responsibility immediately.

“Mother,” he brought up over dinner that night. “I would like to be made a cupbearer for father.”

Alicent paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. She composed herself after a moment and looked at her son. “You have just recently become a page for Ser Arryk, Aemond. Why don’t you settle into this role first before you take on extra responsibilities?” she asked, choosing to broach the topic lightly.

Aemond, of course, was not content with this answer.

“I have been a page for almost four moons now. He says that my technique with a sword is coming along nicely, the best in my age group,” he boasted. It was a point of great pride for the child, and he straightened his back and puffed out his chest a little, to make sure his mother knew he was capable of taking on such a responsibility. This had Aegon rolling his eyes and mumbling something derogatory under his breath, low enough for only Aemond to hear. The younger boy huffed in annoyance.

“Besides,” Aemond continued, ignoring Aegon. “Wyott Bulwer, the boy from the Reach, is both a page and cupbearer, and he is my age!”

Alicent sighed at that. Her second son had grown ravenous for responsibilities in the last few moons. She would be lying if she said she did not know what was the cause. It had been bad enough when Aegon took his first flight on Sunfyre half a year ago, but then Helaena claimed Dreamfyre, Queen Rhaena’s mount, only three months ago. Both of her eldest children had strong bonds with their dragons, and Alicent knew that Aemond was feeling left out. He was unlike the other children, her Aemond. He had a fire in him that urged him to prove himself no matter what.

Still. it was one thing to deter Aemond from an opportunity, but it was another to deprive him of it entirely. Especially when the same opportunity was given freely to other noble children. Alicent remembered when Rhaenyra was young and a cupbearer to Viserys. It was an offer that was never extended to Aegon, who, in truth, was never one to go out of his way to add to his responsibilities. If Aemond was the one pushing the issue, though…

“I shall bring it up with your father,” Alicent eventually replied, a tight smile on her face. “You know that your father is very sick, and he spends much of his time in his chambers. He does not always attend the meetings of the Small Council.”

That was an understatement. Viserys was content to let his advisors run his kingdoms for him rather than be a hands-on presence. He had chosen well for that purpose; his Hand and Master of Coin were undoubtedly loyal to Viserys. Still, his absence allowed Alicent some freedoms she wouldn’t have otherwise had, such as sitting on the council, which she did more often than not. She had managed to claw her way to some control, like her agreement with the Clubfoot.

True to her word, Alicent broached the topic with Viserys. They laid together in bed a few nights after their son’s request.

“Aemond had asked to become your cupbearer,” she mentioned, which caused Viserys to chuckle.

“Ah, he is an ambitious boy!” he remarked with a tired grin. There was a faraway look in his eye that Alicent had come to recognize as nostalgia. He was probably thinking of days past, of when Rhaenyra was still a girl and would serve him wine as he sat on the council.

Alicent held back a sigh, knowing it would be a moment before she got Viserys' attention again. When he came to, though, he was amenable to the idea.

“It is a good idea, wife,” he said, patting Alicent’s hand. “I will attend the next Small Council meeting, and Aemond can join me as cupbearer.”

The boy did not have to wait long for his opportunity. The council met two days later with Viserys in attendance. The king listened to the updates from his advisors, beckoning Aemond for wine every once in a while. Aemond, for his part, tended to his duties with perfection. He paid close attention to the Lord Confessor and Master of Whispers, Larys Strong.

Larys was an interesting man. He watched more than he spoke, his eyes always calculating. Aemond listened as the man went over the numbers of criminals locked away in the cells and recounted their pleas for the king’s mercy. Viserys waved the issue away, trusting Larys to take care of it. Aemond looked closely at Larys, and could see that the man was pleased with this freedom and trust from the king. He also happened to catch the man’s eye. Larys grinned at Aemond but did not otherwise acknowledge him.

The meeting droned on, and even a boy as astute and willing to learn as Aemond felt his attention wane. This was the first time Viserys had attended the council in many moons, and the advisors were all happy to give him lengthy updates on how the running of the kingdom was going. By the time the meeting ended, Aemond was more than ready to go back to his room and crawl into bed.

Viserys was helped out of his chair by Ser Westerling. The sound of the king’s cane echoed off the floor as he left the room. There was a beat of silence, then all of the other men rose to take their own leaves. The rapping of another cane was coming toward Aemond, and he looked up to see the Lord Confessor walking over to him.

“It is good to see you, young prince,” he said, dipping his head. He carried himself in a way that made him look smaller than he actually was. There was an unsettling air around him, though, that did not match the unassuming posture. “It is a shame that the king does not make it a habit to attend these meetings and will not need a cupbearer very often.”

“He will serve me,” a new voice said. It was the queen, stepping into the room with a hard look on her face. She was not quite glaring at Larys, but the look was not friendly. She stood behind Aemond and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her grip was almost painful.

“Goodnight, Lord Larys,” Alicent said, still not looking away from the man. She led Aemond out through the doors and down the hall without another glance toward the Strong man. Aemond, curious, peered back at Larys, who was looking back at the prince.

Chapter Text

Winter did not let up for over a year after Lady Gilliane’s death, and it still hardly felt like spring by the time a white raven arrived from the Citadel to officially herald the new season. It rained heavily, turning the piles of snow into hard chunks of ice, and even the hot springs did little to warm the chambers of Winterfell. Lyara felt that the horrible weather matched her poor mood perfectly. She had felt stuck since losing her mother. Each day passed, feeling the same as the last, and she carried on her lessons and her embroidery and her archery until her eyes watered and her fingers were sore. Nothing, not even the things she previously loved the most, could lift the fog that seemed to follow her everywhere.

While Lyara went about her days in a sort of haze, Cregan mirrored the way their father chose to grieve. Which was to keep their heads down, work, and not talk about it. No one had mentioned Gilliane since a moon after her death, when Lyara offhandedly said something and then watched her father’s face go sad and then cold. She nor Cregan dared to bring her up again, fearing how it would affect their father.

Lyara worried that she would forget even the most essential things about her mother; how she smelled, the sound of her voice, even what she looked like. How could she preserve it all when no one even dared talk about the woman anymore? Lyara kept some of her mother’s old dresses along with her favorite perfume, but she felt more and more slipping through her fingers each day.

Her dreams grew more vivid each night. Many times, she dreamt about her mother. Sometimes her face was blurry, but her voice was always clear. Always saying Lyara’s name. There were other dreams, too. Ones that left her shaking as she woke in a cold sweat. They were full of unfamiliar places and people, like something from a different world. It was always hard to fall back asleep after those dreams.

Part of Lyara felt like the dreams were trying to tell her something, or show her something. There was always a film over the dreams, like she had yet to completely break through. Most of her chalked it up to nonsense, too many stories that she had read before bed. Perhaps it was simply the east that she dreamt of.

The heart tree in the godswood heard all of her prayers and worries, but if it had any response it did not show on its melancholic face. Lyara begged for some sign of what she should do. Some days, when she felt especially sad, she prayed for the gods to make her happy again. Even the joy she did feel was tinged with sadness now.

All of it made Lyara miss her mother more, as most things did these days. Gilliane always had an ear to listen to her daughter’s ramblings. She would have something to say about Lyara’s strange dreams. But she was gone, and Lyara was left with only her father.

Lyara loved her father dearly, but her mother he was not. He did not understand things in the way that women of the world did. Lyara wanted to approach him with a request but had to be careful about it. She sat in front of the mirror one night, brushing out her hair, when she built up enough courage to march into her father’s solar.

“Lya,” Rickon greeted his daughter with a smile. The room was lit by candlelight, all the windows hatched to keep out the cold night air. He beckoned her forth.

“Father,” she said in return. She rocked on the balls of her feet, her hands clasped behind her back. Rickon looked at her expectantly, and she decided to just come out with it. “I would like to learn swordplay.”

Rickon laughed at first, a deep chuckle, but he sobered when he realized his daughter was serious.

“No,” he said immediately. Lyara looked crestfallen.

“What? Why not?” she asked. Rickon merely shook his head.

“Absolutely not,” he replied. He looked at Lyara. Their eyes were mirrors of each other, echoes of the same storm. “That is not a lady’s place.”

“The women of Bear Island learn to fight! I saw them!” Lyara pleaded, looking more outraged now.

“You,” Rickon began, pointing at his daughter. “Are not a lady of Mormont Keep! You are a lady of Winterfell and under my roof besides! I will not have my daughter learning to wield a sword, am I understood?”

Lyara glared at her father. It wasn’t fair! Yet she knew that there was no getting through to him.

“Fine!” she bit out. She stalked out of her father’s solar and slammed the door behind her. Tears threatened to fall as she made her way back through the corridors of Winterfell, but she successfully kept them in until she was back in her rooms. Lyara dove into her bed and cried. She curled up beneath all of her covers and furs, letting the weight sink into her as tears fell down her cheeks. She wanted her mother.

Three days had passed since Lyara and her father’s argument, and things were still noticeably cold between them. Still, they had a hunting trip planned. Early one morning, they set off into the wolfswood in search of game. The hunting party was not large, only a dozen or so people and half a dozen hounds. They left out the Hunter’s Gate into the fields of the wolfswood. A camp was set up a few miles outside Winterfell in a clearing of tall evergreen trees. Everything was blanketed in a heavy layer of snow, and the world seemed almost muffled. Lyara loved it.

She had been given a garron to ride for the day, a russet colored beast named Cinnamon. While not prodigious in the saddle, Lyara could ride well enough. She rode along a river for some time by herself before looping back around and dismounting the horse when she got back to the camp. There, she found Cregan and Domeric planning to go out into the forest to hunt. They had no objections when Lyara piped up to say that she wanted to join them.

The world that they made their way through was a mix of giant oak trees, snow covered evergreens, black briers, and more. Lyara spotted a weirwood or two on their travels through the wood as well. They trio had been walking for some time when she decided to speak.

“I asked father to let me learn swordplay,” Lyara announced when they were sufficiently far enough from Rickard. Domeric’s brow wrinkled, his mouth a flat line. Cregan’s reaction was more subdued, but they both meant the same thing: disapproval.

“Why?” her brother finally asked.

Lyara shrugged. How could she explain that she wanted to be able to protect herself? Cregan and Dom wouldn’t understand that, they were boys! Lessons in swordplay and knowing how to defend themselves were things afforded to them as the sons of lords. Ladies only had their wits and their embroidery needles, it seemed. Courtesy was a lady’s armor. Lyara hated it.

“The women of Bear Island learn swordplay,” she decided to point out instead. A mix of women and men had always been training in the yard of Mormont Keep when they visited. Even Lady Marna wielded an axe.

“That’s because they need to defend themselves from Ironborn raiders. You’re safe here in Winterfell,” Cregan dismissed immediately Lyara huffed, feeling her anger begin to rise.

“What if one day I’m in danger?” she countered.

“You have me and Dom,” her brother answered. Lyara hated when Cregan got like this, acting like he knew everything. Domeric was looking back and forth between the siblings, and he nodded at Cregan’s comment.

“What if one day I don’t?” Lyara fired back immediately. “One day I’ll be married to some lord, and what if he decides to hurt me? I won’t be able to defend myself!”

“I’ll kill him,” Cregan said matter-of-factly, confident in a way only a lordling could be.

Lyara groaned in frustration. He didn’t get it!

“Well father said no, so there’s no use arguing anyway!” she shouted. She then stomped off into the forest, not caring where she was going as long as Cregan and Domeric were at her back.

“Are all boys so stupid?” she muttered to herself as she trudged through the snow. Lyara took her bow from her back and knocked an arrow. She shot it in some random direction to get out some of her anger. Then, she did it three more times. She wanted everything to feel better after that, but now it felt like the world was pressing in on her more than before. Her vision tunneled and her breath picked up. Tears began to fall down her cheeks. Everything felt off, numb. She was panicking.

Lyara dropped her bow and then dropped to the ground. She let out a sob, her breath heavy. The cold of the snow barely even fazed her. Laying on her back, she began to try and identify the trees around her. Black brier. Soldier pine. Evergreen. Evergreen. Sentinel. Soldier pine.

Eventually, the panic let up. She stared up at the grey sky above her, willing herself to breathe.

Everything felt a bit better after a moment, and Lyara got up. She shook the snow from her cloak and hair and then went to fetch her arrows.

She found two plunged into the bark of trees nearby, and they were easy enough to pull from their targets. The third was found three-quarters buried in the snow, only its grey goose feather distinguishing it from the white around it. Lyara was still searching for the fourth when she heard a noise and was on high alert in an instant. She held her bow in her hands and moved quietly, stepping around the large bush where the noise was coming from. It could be anything from a boar to a treecat.

Lyara had begun to string her arrow when a red fox bolted out from the bush and into a clearing. The Stark girl dropped her arms in relief.

“Aw,” she cooed at it. The animal was an adult with beautiful, bright orange fur. Lyara almost wanted to reach back for the bow again. The animal was adorable, but this was a hunting trip, and she did have an idea for some fox fur… But the thing scurried away before she could finish her thought. Lyara sighed and put the bow and arrow back over her shoulder. She turned and began walking back toward where she thought she left Cregan and Domeric.

It took her longer than anticipated to make it back to them, and once she caught up they were getting closer to camp and the sun was beginning to set. They each had a turkey slung over their shoulders, which made Lyara feel worse for coming up empty handed. She would have to make up for it in the coming days.

Lyara walked up and knocked her shoulder against Cregan’s free one. He gave her a small smile in return. That was all that was needed between them.

There was a large fire going back at the camp, and it looked like someone had already begun preparing a boar for their dinner. The hunt had been successful, and there was much merriment to be shared. Casks of ale were broken open, and even Lyara, Cregan, and Domeric were allowed a cup each. Lyara sat by the fire and grinned.

The morning after they returned from the hunting trip, Lyara did something that she had not done in some time. She sat down and wrote a letter to Aegon. It soothed her, the familiarity of doing it. Their last correspondence was a formal letter, expressing his condolences over the loss of Lady Gilliane. It was probably sent under the guidance of the Queen, but it included a personal note from Aegon expressing true grief for her and her mother, which Lyara appreciated.

Aegon, she wrote,

I am sorry that it’s been so long since I last sent a letter. Days here have been long, but they say that spring has come. To apologize for my lack of correspondence, I have attached a small token. You drew me a picture of Sunfyre, so I embroidered it on a handkerchief! How you managed to make such a beast as a dragon look so unintimidating, I will never know. Hopefully I also captured his likeness.

Your letters have kept me entertained these last few moons. It is funny, based on what you have written to me, it seems like you are jealous of this Bulwer boy for taking Aemond’s attention away from you. But I know that cannot possibly be the case!

Father took us hunting. I asked him to let me learn how to wield a sword, and he laughed at me! I cannot stand him sometimes. My brother and his stupid friend are on father’s side as well. All because I’m a girl! Tell me, are your siblings as vexing as mine? I swear I want to throttle Cregan most days, as much as I love him.

Write soon!
Lyara

It was not long after that Lyara received a reply back from Aegon. It was like they had never missed a step, and she was grateful for that. Reading his letter, though, made her remember just how annoying Aegon could be, though, even through just writing.

Lyara,

I suppose you are forgiven, but do not forget like that again. And don’t ever insinuate that I am jealous of Wyott Bulwer! I don’t miss Aemond being around constantly, sulking and disapproving of everything I do, so don’t think anything different. He has been especially pissy since Daeron claimed Tessarion. Mother somehow frets over flying even more now that Daeron has a dragon too. At least you only have the one sibling to worry about. All three of mine bother me. Well, except Helaena I suppose.

My half-sister is still toting around her spawn like she can pass them off as her husband’s. It’s like she does not hear the whispers about her and that captain in the City Watch. I do not really mind, the little buggers are actually fun to mess with. For once it pays off to be the oldest because they’ll do basically anything I say. I’m planning a prank to pull on Aemond. We’re going to get a pig from the kitchens and put wings on it and present it to him as his dragon. He’ll be so wroth! It’ll be hilarious! I have to do SOMETHING to keep things interesting. Everything is so dreadfully dull here. Lessons, dinners, training, all of it!

I want to say that I hope Winterfell is more interesting, but I know that it is not. I liked the handkerchief, and thank you for it. You are better at embroidery than you are at drawing. I still don’t know what Tyanna looks like besides being a black blob with whiskers.

Aegon.

Lyara couldn’t help but shake her head fondly while reading Aegon’s letter. His ridiculous plan to prank Aemond made her frown. Maybe Lyara just didn’t understand how brothers bonded, but it seemed unnecessarily cruel to her. She showed the letter to Barbrey, her close companion. Barbrey was three years older than Lyara, so at six and ten she was practically a woman grown.

“Are all boys so annoying and dumb like this?” Lyara asked as they poured over the letter in the main hall one afternoon.

“Yes,” Barbrey replied. “I don’t even think they realize it most of the time.”

“Really?” the younger girl asked, scrunching her nose up in distaste. Barbrey only nodded.

“It’s why they need women,” she said matter-of-factly. “To keep them from doing stupid stuff like this.”

It didn’t make perfect sense to Lyara, but it tracked enough. Even though Cregan was more subdued and quiet than his sister, it always seemed like him and Domeric were getting into some sort of trouble. More often than not, Lyara had to bail them out. Perhaps she would do the same with Aegon, in a way.

Aegon,

You whine too much. Surely not everything is as dull as you say. I think you are just determined to not enjoy anything. Go to the library and find a good book or scroll to tell me about so I can live vicariously through you. Maybe on Old Valyria. We only have one lousy scroll about it!

And do NOT pull that prank on Aemond! And if you already have, apologize to him! Being the oldest doesn’t mean that you can just act like an arsehole. And I remember many letters from you bemoaning the fact that you did not have a dragon!

Winterfell is fine, don’t be rude. We’re preparing a trip up farther north soon, father says maybe even to the Wall!

I am glad you liked the handkerchief! That stupid needle is the closest thing I’m going to get to a sword.

Lyara

Once she was finished with the letter, Lyara brought it to the rookery to be sent off to King’s Landing. She was unsure if it would arrive before Aegon did anything stupid, and the gods only knew if he would actually heed her advice in any case. Lyara often sent Aegon advice, almost unable to stop herself from writing it into her letters. Whether or not Aegon ever followed any of it remained to be seen.

Chapter Text

“In all of King’s Landing, is there no one to take my side?” Alicent lamented before taking a large gulp of her wine. Larys Strong sat across from her, the table between them set with food and drink. The Queen was left with a simmering rage after the Small Council meeting and the discussion between Viserys and Lord Lyonel. She took another sip of wine. “Rhaenyra proposed a betrothal between Helaena and her oldest boy. The king seemed all too eager to accept.”

Larys raised his eyebrows in surprise, but Alicent was sure he had at least some inkling of the idea before she did with how much information he was able to collect from the castle’s occupants. It might not have been a good idea, to divulge this information to a third party, but Alicent truly did feel alone in King’s Landing. If anything, Larys may have a better proposal for a betrothal for her sweet daughter than the princess’ bastard.

“The king has yet to arrange a betrothal for his eldest son,” Larys remarked. Alicent suppressed the urge to roll her eyes thinking of her firstborn; she loved the boy dearly, but Aegon was a lazy and insolent child. Still, what Larys pointed out was true. Her and her lord husband had not discussed potential matches for their son. It was typical for the king to ignore the children Alicent bore him until his precious Rhaenyra brought them up. “What about a marriage between Aegon and Helaena?”

Alicent grimaced at the idea. The Targaryens certainly had queer customs, and the one Alicent detested the most was their tendency to marry into their own family. It was for a reason, she knew. To keep their Valyrian blood as pure as they could, as well to limit the families that had power over their precious dragons.

The Queen did not want her only daughter to be wed to a bastard and potentially used as a bargaining chip, or worse a hostage, in the coming years. She also did not want Helaena to marry Aegon, who would undoubtedly be an awful husband to her. Larys noticed her discomfort at the mere idea of her two oldest marrying each other.

“Do you have any other potential brides, my queen? Perhaps outside of King’s Landing. You know better than many how advantageous the right marriage could be,” he remarked. Alicent nodded absentmindedly; a wife from a strong house for Aegon would serve their cause well, would help keep her children safe. Alicent racked her brain trying to think of a suitable bride.

A girl from the Reach would correct the slight that was that daughter of a second son of House Hightower becoming Queen, but the Tyrells had no daughters of an appropriate age. It was likewise with the Lannisters and any notable Westerlands families. Lord Borros had a daughter only a few years younger than Aegon, but the Baratheons would be having their own succession crisis soon enough, with four daughters and no sons. Alicent was also sure she would not be able to look to the Vale for support, either. Lady Jeyne was the female head of House Arryn, and, besides, she was Rhaenyra’s cousin. That ruled out several of the kingdoms already.

“There is no girl that comes immediately to mind-” Alicent then stopped herself, her eyes going wide with a realization. “Lyara Stark.”

She had not thought of the disaster that was the wedding between Rhaenyra and Laenor in many years. It was difficult to think past the gruesome death of Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, but Alicent did recall the daughter of Lord Stark. A Stark through and through with her long face and grey eyes. She had been a polite little thing that made Alicent coo with how eager she was to meet her sweet Helaena but with an unruly penchant for openly speaking her mind. The more she thought about it, she remembered the girl putting Aegon in his place more than once during the week the Stark family was in King’s Landing. It was not becoming of a highborn lady, but Alicent assumed the girl had grown out of such an unseemly trait. If not, well… Aegon could stand to be put in his place a little more.

Alicent was not so easily sold on the archaic religious beliefs that the North still held, praying to unnamed gods in front of trees, but it was Lyara who would be coming south, not Aegon going north. The girl would have to do with the tiny godswood inside the Red Keep.

There would be those who would call into question how Valyrian their children would be, of course. Especially from the likes of Prince Daemon, and especially if the children came out looking more of the First Men than of Old Valyria. It was worth those risks, Alicent thought, if it meant the support of the North when the time came.

Larys raised one eyebrow and smirked. His hands were on his cane, and he rested his chin on top. “The North is very loyal to the Starks. Wed Aegon to the Stark girl and you may have the support of many Northern lords when the time comes.”

“But that does not solve the problem of Rhaenyra wanting to betroth her bastard to Helaena,” Alicent pointed out. Larys waved an unconcerned hand.

“Discuss it with the king. Helaena is only one-and-ten. tell him it’s improper for Helaena to be betrothed before his eldest son. Have him take care of Aegon’s betrothal to give us more time to think of a more… advantageous marriage for Helaena,” Larys proposed. Alicent hummed and mulled the idea over. As it stood, she saw no other path forward. She nodded. In the morn, she would propose this idea to her husband.

“Thank you, Lord Larys, for your advice on this matter. Your council is always appreciated.”

Aegon POV:

It had been a week since Aegon had pulled the Pink Dread prank on Aemond with Jace and Luke, and it had been two days since Aegon received a letter from Lyara for chastising him for it. Things between Aegon and Aemond had been especially tense since the prank, and their current lessons together were no exception. He, Aemond, and Helaena were sitting at a table in the library as Maester Ryles instructed them on High Valyrian. The old man was half asleep as he and his siblings worked independently.

Aegon shifted in his seat. The hostility that Aemond clearly still felt towards him over the prank was slowly eating at him. Damn that stupid Stark girl for making me feel bad about a stupid prank. he grumbled internally. He had never felt guilt over pranking Aemond before! At least, not as strongly. His mother seemed to scold Aegon more for teaming up with his nephews than for actually hurting Aemond, but in her letter Lyara said he was failing at his responsibilities as an older sibling. The stupid girl also said that he was jealous of that stupid Bulwer boy Aemond was always hanging around now, and he absolutely was not!

And responsibilities. That was a word he was sick of hearing! It seemed like he had nothing but responsibilities. Still, it was announced the day before that Rhaenyra and her sons would be heading to her seat at Dragonstone soon. Then it would be just him, Helaena, and Aemond in the Red Keep, since even Daeron was leaving for Oldtown in just a few moons. It was always more fun to mess with Aemond when he at least pushed back a little bit. A brooding, sulking Aemond would be no source of entertainment for Aegon. That was the reason he needed to apologize, not because of any actual guilt. Absolutely not.

Aegon was snapped out of his thoughts as old Maester Ryles stood up from his chair at the head of the table, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. He shuffled out of the room to discuss something with one of the household guards.

Aegon had absentmindedly torn off a piece of the parchment that was in front of him while he was deep in his thoughts and had rolled it into a tiny ball. He flicked it across the table at his little brother, hitting Aemond square in the forehead. The twat didn’t even look up, just knitted his eyebrows together and continued to stare at his work. Aegon scowled and ripped off a bigger piece of parchment this time, rolling it into a ball and lobbing it at Aemond’s forehead again. The younger boy finally looked up.

“What, Aegon?!” Aemond snapped, glaring at him. Aegon bit back the urge to snap back at him, and he internally praised himself for his restraint. He cleared his throat dramatically, which deepened Aemond’s frown.

“I’m… sorry,” Aegon eventually got out. Gods, apologizing was worse than pulling teeth. Aemond didn’t look convinced of his sincerity either. That was fair; they could both count the times he had actually apologized on one hand. Aegon continued in hopes that the earnestness of his apology came through. He did remember what it was like to not have a dragon. “For the pig prank.”

The sincerity of his apology did not, in fact, come through. In fact, Aemond’s eyes narrowed further.

“Why are you apologizing to me all of a sudden? You never apologize to me,” he said, clearly suspicious of his older brother’s motives. Aegon was about to retort that he had so apologized to Aemond before, but Helaena spoke up before he could.

“The snow of the wolf tempers the dragon’s flames,” his sister said in that light, dreamlike tone of hers. The tone she always used when the words weren’t quite her own, coming from somewhere else but through her. Aegon nearly jumped. Helaena was so quiet that he sometimes forgot she was there at all. His cheeks also flushed bright red, as good as a confirmation as any.

“Oh my gods, the Stark girl?” Aemond said, his eyes glinting with mirth. He was clearly enjoying Aegon being the one embarrassed for once.

“No! It has nothing to do with her! Hel, be quiet!” Aegon exclaimed frantically, but there was no real use. It was obvious that Helaena was referring to the letters Aegon and Lyara exchanged. Who else would be referred to as a wolf other than a Stark? Why did it have to be that moment for Helaena to start making sense?!

He hid his face in his hands. Aemond laughed at his older brother’s embarrassment and Helaena’s light giggling joined in, but even with his face hidden Aegon could tell that their laughter was not cruel. It was certainly less antagonistic than all the times Aegon laughed at them.

Aegon peeked out from between his fingers. Aemond was looking back down at his work and grinning, but Aegon was surprised to find that it wasn’t that full of malice. Something loosened in his chest, but he didn’t dwell on it. Maester Ryles hobbled back into the room and took his seat at the head of the table. All three siblings looked back down at their work. Aegon’s finger trailed the lines of the text in front of him.

“I am, by the way. Sorry,” Aegon whispered across the table. Well, as close to a whisper as Aegon could get, which was not very. Maester Ryles barely stirred.

Aemond stared at him for a moment, his purple eyes clearly looking for some sign of jest in his older brother’s face. After a moment, Aemond merely nodded and went back to his work. There, the matter was over and done with. Aegon gave his apology, and Aemond accepted it. Or at least Aegon assumed that was what his nod meant.

The most surprising part was that Aegon actually meant his apology. He did feel bad about it, especially since Lyara’s letter brought up how he had felt when he himself didn’t have a dragon. Their mother also told Aegon that Aemond had ventured further into the dragonpit afterwards and had stumbled upon Dreamfyre, who scared him off.

Aegon had brushed off her concerns at first, calling Aemond a twat, but it did leave an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t the first time Aemond had gone too deep into the dragonpit, and Aegon was sure it would be far from the last. Aemond was lucky that he had only stumbled upon Dreamfyre, as the she-dragon was more docile and used to people. A more feral dragon would have done much more damage to Aemond than a bruised ego, and the thought of his brother going down there because of him and then getting hurt or worse… it certainly nagged at Aegon.

He also thought about what his mother had told him about being a challenge to Rhaenyra. Aegon didn’t want the throne. Far from it, in fact. His father had named Rhaenyra as heir, and who was he to steal that from her? Yet his mother was insistent that it was not enough to not want it, that even being alive was a challenge to Rhaenyra’s claim, and that they would all be sentenced to death should she sit the Throne.

Contrary to popular belief and to the way he chose to conduct himself, Aegon was not stupid. He knew that he was the oldest living son of the king and by all precedent should be named king after Viserys. Even if he bent the knee to his half-sister in the sights of all the lords of the seven kingdoms, it still wouldn’t be enough for some who only wished to see someone with a cock between their legs on the Iron Throne. He did not know what to make of that. More than anything, he wished Rhaenyra could just inherit the throne, pass it on to her oldest bastard, and leave Aegon and his siblings out of it. He also knew that it was not so simple. His mother had made sure he knew that.

He and Helaena both had dragons and strong bonds with their mounts. Aemond tried relentlessly to bond with a dragon, and Daeron was still young. None of the eggs placed in the siblings’ cradles had hatched, not like those given to Rhaenyra’s bastards. Aegon frowned. It wasn’t fair. They were trueborn children of the king, blood of the dragon! He should not have to fear for his life, or his siblings’ lives, simply because he did not have the good fortune to be birthed from Aemma Arryn’s cunt instead of Alicent Hightower’s. No one questioned Jace or Luke or Joff’s parentage despite them obviously not being Ser Leanor’s children, yet it was always Aegon and his siblings that felt they needed to prove themselves as Targaryens. Aegon had claimed Sunfyre, Helaena claimed Queen Rhaena’s mount Dreamfyre, they shared the Valyrian look with their father, and yet it was still not enough for some members of the court. For some members of house Targaryen itself.

“Prince Aegon, unless you are ready for me to quiz you right now, I suggest you pay more attention to the work in front of you,” the croaking voice of Maester Ryles pulled Aegon out of his thoughts. Aegon scowled and went back to studying his translation.

It was late into the afternoon as Aegon crept around the servant’s passageways. He was on his way to swipe some wine from the kitchens and maybe sneak down to the dragonpit to sit with Sunfyre. He stopped near the Small council chamber, hearing the voices of his mother and father inside.

“The proposal is a good one, my queen. We're a family. Let us put aside these childish quarrels. Join hands and be stronger for it,” his father said, sounding tired. Aegon strained his ears to hear more clearly.

“You may do as you wish, husband when I am cold in my grave,” his mother said curtly. He was going to slink away, assuming his mother was done, and then she spoke again. “Need I remind you that you have not yet set up a betrothal for Aegon? Or have you forgotten?”

Aegon had to stop himself from groaning out loud. Betrothals. One of his least favorite topics. He didn’t want to be married off to some highborn girl he didn’t know! The wine be damned, he had to listen to more of this conversation. His father sighed heavily

“I have not forgotten, Alicent, but what do you want me to do? Marry the boy to Helaena?” his father said, and Aegon paled. Maybe he didn’t need to listen to more of this conversation. Sunfyre was waiting, after all.

He hurried off before he could hear what his mother’s response to that proposal was. The only thing that would be worse than being married away to some noble lady was being married to Helaena. She was his *little sister*! She was odd and quiet, and he would not be a good husband to her. She would probably prefer her bugs over him! Aegon did love her, but only as a sister.

He continued his trek down to the dragonpit mechanically, muscle memory from doing it so often guiding him as he was wrapped up in his own thoughts. He even forwent the detour to the kitchens, the promise of wine long forgotten. Sunfyre trilled when he saw his rider, sensing the turmoil coming from Aegon. The great beast craned his neck towards him, and Aegon reached out a hand to run it over the golden scales.

“We should just run away together, Sunfyre. Just you and me, to Essos or even Sothoryos. Wouldn’t you like that?” Aegon said in the common tongue. Sunfyre only let out a plume of hot air right into Aegon’s face and rested his head again. He gave the dragon an unimpressed look. “Thanks, boy,” Aegon said flatly, but he still curled up next to the beast.

Lessons on how to tame and care for their dragons were the only ones Aegon shared with his nephews as well as his siblings. Since Daeron had recently claimed Tessarion, who was little more than a hatchling, Aemond had become the only one without a dragon. He had only become more insufferable because of this, and while Aegon had tried to cut back on how much he made fun of his brother, Jace and Luke still poked fun and looked to Aegon for approval, like they always had.

Today, though, Aegon was completely focused on Sunfyre. He was sure that the dragon was large enough to ride now. His boy had even shown him, flapping his wings in the crowded space of the dragon pit and crooning lowly.

Sunfyre was the largest of the dragons currently out in the pit, a few years older than Vermax and much larger. Arrax and Tessarion were both practically lizards next to the juvenile Sunfyre. The Dragonkeepers knew that the golden scaled dragon was almost large enough to ride, and they knew that Aegon was getting impatient, especially since Helaena would take to the skies soon on Dreamfyre. Due to her size and age, Helaena was always taken back into the caves where the giant beast slumbered to have her lessons. She was learning how to saddle and mount Dreamfyre, and they would fly together soon. Aegon was determined to do so before that.

“Is he large enough to ride yet?” Aegon asked the nearest Dragonkeeper.

“No, my prince, but soon,” the man, Galeo, said, and his common tongue had a heavy Essosi accent. All the Dragonkeepers all spoke High Valyrian, and some came from the Free Cities and even boasted Valyrian blood by way of Lys.

Aegon huffed at the dismissive answer from the Dragonkeeper. He knew Sunfyre was ready to fly, and he didn’t know why the keepers were holding him back. He would show them all.

By the time that Helaena was brought back out from the depths of the caves and their carriages were getting ready to take the royal party back to the castle, Aegon had devised a plan.

“Tell Ser Criston I’m in the other carriage,” he muttered to Aemond. His brother gave him a questioning look, but they had been on better terms since Aegon apologized and laid off of him.

“Why? What are you planning? Aegon-!” Aemond started, but the older boy merely waved him off. He saw the Dornish knight coming and quickly moved to hide behind an outcropping of rock. He pressed back into the shadows and waited for the carriages to leave. He then had to wait for the Dragonkeepers to walk the four dragons back to their caves.

It was around a half hour later when Aegon finally crept out from his hiding spot. Time was ticking; the trip between here and the Red Keep wasn’t long, so he had to be quick. It was easy enough to sneak his way through the pit, and he had become very familiar with the way to the cave Sunfyre had claimed for himself. The dragon squawked and stretched his neck to bump Aegon in the chest. The boy laughed and ran his hand over the beast’s scales.

“I know you’re ready to fly, Sunfyre,” Aegon said, placing his forehead to the dragon’s. “I’m going to take you boy, don’t worry.”

The first problem was that Sunfyre had no saddle. The Dragonkeepers had emphasized the need for such a tool to secure the rider to the mount, just like a saddle on a horse. If a horse could be rode unsaddled, though, so could a dragon. At least in Aegon’s opinion.

His attempts to get onto Sunfyre’s back were clumsy. The dragon wiggled and moved, and at one point let out a growl when Aegon pulled on the wrong spike. Eventually, he was sat on the dragon’s back. It was already his favorite feeling in the world.

“Go, Sunfyre,” Aegon commanded. He had to think for a moment of the word the Dragonkeepers and his High Valyrian tutor taught him “Sōves!” Fly!
Sunfyre was already moving. He crawled with his wings and back legs, going back towards the pit. The dome was open, showing the late afternoon sky above. The juvenile dragon wasted no time in flapping his wings and taking off. Aegon had to hold on for dear life as Sunfyre shot up towards the sky, and for a second he thought his stomach was going to fall out through his ass. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest, his blood pumping . He dragged himself into a better position and allowed himself to trust Sunfyre. The feeling was euphoric.

The wind whipped around Aegon, mussing his hair before blowing it all out of his face and back behind him. Sunfyre flew him higher and higher until it felt like he could reach out and touch the clouds. He could feel the dragon’s warmth underneath him, and it was almost like their pulses were beating in tandem.

The sight of the capital was beautiful below him. There were so many bridges and canals and towers and houses. The people looked like hundreds of thousands of scurrying ants. It would be easy, to feel above all of it while literally flying over the city, but looking down at it, Aegon had never felt more connected to King’s Landing.

As Aegon marveled at the view, Sunfyre began to flag. They were flying over Blackwater Bay, and the dragon was dipping lower and lower. Without a saddle or harness, it was difficult for Aegon to redirect the dragon. He pulled up on the beast’s horns, hoping to guide him up. Sunfyre roared in response, not earth-shatteringly loud but noisy enough, and skimmed his one wing over the Bay. Aegon got a faceful of cold water, and he sputtered.

They were flying back in the direction of the dragon pit now. The late afternoon was steadily giving way to early evening, and the sun had begun to hide behind the clouds. Aegon knew that he had been gone long enough for someone to have noticed, and there was likely someone waiting in the pit to drag him back to his mother.

His assumptions were proved true as he saw a dozen or so Dragonkeepers standing in the pit as Sunfyre lowered himself down into it. The same Dragonkeeper that Aegon had talked to earlier, Galeo, was waiting with his arms crossed.

“I told you that your mount was not big enough to ride yet, my prince,” he scolded the boy. Aegon had an arrogant grin on his face as he slid off Sunfyre's back.

“I could tell that Sunfyre was ready,” he replied. He pet his boy over the ribs.

“Riding without a saddle is very dangerous, my prince. Your mother will not be happy,” Galeo continued. Aegon groaned and then scowled. By that time, Ser Criston was at the doors of the dragon pit, looking disapproving. He escorted Aegon out of the pit and back to the carriage that was waiting for them.

“That was reckless of you, Prince Aegon,” was all he said. Aegon didn’t regret it in the slightest.

Aemond and Helaena were waiting in the carriage when Aegon climbed in. It must have not gotten to the castle yet when they saw Aegon flying and turned around. Helaena looked slightly annoyed and opted to look out the window instead of at Aegon. Aemond, on the other hand, was all star eyes.

“What was it like?” he asked, his voice full of wonder.

“There’s nothing like it,” Aegon answered in a rare moment of sincerity. “It’s the best feeling in the world.”

Chapter Text

The Wall was a marvel like no other. Leagues and leagues of ice, like a white scar upon the earth. Eerily quiet, like there were no other living beings in the world. The day the Starks arrived was a cloudy one, but the Wall still wept and gleamed with melting ice. It was strangely beautiful, Lyara thought.

They had gone up in a cage large enough to fit ten men, but only her, Cregan, Domeric, Lord Rickon, and Lord Commander Medger Flint went up to the top of the Wall. There were a couple of brothers of the Night’s Watch milling about, like shadows in their all-black clothing. Lyara paid them little attention and instead chose to take in the view. There was a sea of green trees topped with white, blowing this way and that in the hard winter wind. Further in the distance were huge mountains, the Frostfangs, and, further still, the Stark girl knew there was the Land of Always Winter.

It all made her feel impossibly small. And it was cold.

Warmth was hard to come by on the Wall. Lyara was dressed in three of her thickest pairs of socks, woolen breeches, and fur-lined cloak on top of one of Cregan’s extra cloaks that she stole from his pack, and she was still freezing and shivering so hard she thought she might chip a tooth from how they couldn’t stop chattering.

Cregan and Domeric did not seem to be having a problem. They were leaning over the side of the Wall, taking turns spitting and watching it fall. Lyara walked over and joined them, adding her own spit over the Wall.

“That’s gross,” Dom remarked, his face carefully blank.

“You’re gross,” Lyara immediately quipped back. She stuck her tongue out at the younger boy, who grinned and did the same thing in return.

“Both of your tongues are going to freeze off,” Cregan remarked flatly, walking past his best friend and sister still making stupid faces at each other. Lord Rickon had come back from his walk along the length of the Wall and was calling them back over to the iron winch cage.

It was time for the watch to change, so some of the brothers came down in the cage with them, and more were waiting at the bottom to go back up. The Starks were guided out of the cold and into the main hall, where even more men were gathered and sat. A large hearth in the front of the hall warmed the room, but almost everyone still stayed huddled under their cloaks.

Lord Rickon was accompanied further into the keep by Lord Commander Medger Flint. Meager Medger, the men called him, since he was bone-thin and gaunt cheeks with pale, sunken eyes. Their father liked the man, as far as Lyara knew. He was a stern but capable commander of the Night’s Watch, a hardened Northern man who had seen more than a dozen winters in his sixty odd years. He and Rickon went back into the Lord Commander’s solar to further discuss matters of the Night’s Watch.

“He was named Lord Commander to make up for that lass,” one man near the fire spoke up as the children were left alone. Lyara, Cregan, and Domeric were sitting on a bench with warm glasses of spiced mead pressed into their hands. They looked at the man curiously, and he gave them a smile. He was missing one of his front teeth, and the rest were yellowed and cracked.

“Brave Danny Flint,” the brother explained, and they remembered her song at once, a sad ballad. “She was a young lass, couldn’t have been much older than you, girl,” he pointed a meaty finger toward Lyara. “She dressed up as a boy, she did, and ran away to the Night’s Watch. And what did our brothers do to her once they found out she was a girl? They raped and killed her!” The man laughed, hard and loud.

It was not a new story to any of the Northern children, but it was the callousness that the story was told with now that took them off guard. Lyara looked near tears and was glaring at the man, while Cregan stood, his hand fisted at his side.

“Do not bother with him, boy,” a voice said. A man was suddenly at Cregan’s side, and he put his hand on Cregan’s shoulder.

“Andrik has to get his entertainment where he can these days, since he was gelded for being a raper himself,” the man explained. Lyara gasped and covered her mouth, looking back at the other man.

“Ah, fuck you, Duncan,” the first man said, waving him off. He downed the last of his ale, wiped his mouth, and left, leaving the children with the other man.

“Danny Flint died at the Nightfort, if it’s any consolation,” the man, Duncan, said. “Plus, Lord Commander Medger is from Widow’s Watch, not the mountains. Danny was from the mountain Flints; it was how she got the Night’s Watch in the first place.”

The children were listening with rapt attention, but the spell was broken when the aforementioned man, as well as Lord Rickon, returned to the main hall.

“That’s enough, Duncan,” Medger warned.

“Father!” Lyara exclaimed and ran over to Rickon, hugging him tightly. Though the story was not new to her, the tale and song of Danny Flint never failed to make her sad. It reminded her of the cruelty women and girls faced at the hands of men.

Her father hugged her back tightly and kept one hand on her shoulder once he pulled away. “Children,” he announced. “Prepare yourselves to go north of the Wall. We will pay our respects to the old gods.”

The Lord Commander huffed, like he wasn’t completely on board with the idea, but nodded nonetheless.

“Brothers of the Night’s Watch will escort you, Lord Stark, but I’ll warn you not to linger in those woods,” he warned in his gruff voice. “Direwolves still roam north of the Wall, and there have been mutterings of queer things happening besides. Not even the wildlings of Whitetree venture far into the forest now.”

Rickon gave Medger a sharp nod, a serious look in his eye, and then gave his hand a firm shake. “We’ll be sure to watch out, Lord Commander,” he assured the older man.

The party they left with was small. Besides Lyara and her family, five brothers of the Night’s Watch accompanied them. They were all dressed in black, stark against the white of the snow. Lyara herself was bundled in a furred cloak, a hat pressed over her head so far that the fur lining almost obscured her vision.

Being beyond the Wall was a bit like being atop it; there was a stillness to the world. When she was seven hundred feet up, the silence was impenetrable, but half a league into the forest it seemed almost fragile. She feared a wild animal or a band of wildlings would burst forth from the trees at any moment. They made it to the godswood without any incident, though.

What was in front of them was a small cluster of weirwood trees, eight or nine. Lyara gasped when she saw them. So many of them huddled together! Even in the wolfswood back home, they only grew in pairs or rarely triplets.

The group dismounted their horses before entering the grove. The black brother stuck back while the Starks and Domeric stepped forward. Each weirwood had a different face, but all of them had eyes that seemed to watch you no matter where you went. Dried sap cried from their eyes and seeped from their mouths, glistening like rubies.

Lord Rickon knelt before the weirwood in the center, the largest with long, spindly arms covered in blood red leaves. Lyara, Cregan, and Dom followed his lead. The group said their prayers, all of them silent.

Lyara wasn’t sure what to say to the old gods. Praying came easily in front of the heart tree in the godswood of Winterfell, but this place was different. It was more ominous and cold than her usual place. Still, she bowed her head. The young girl prayed for her family, for Domeric and his family at Cerwyn Castle, for Barbrey Mollen and her father Thom, who was the master-of-horse. She prayed for a plentiful harvest this year, a long spring and a short winter. It felt a bit silly, including someone she had not physically seen in many years in her prayers, but she snuck one in for Aegon and his family as well. Finally, Lyara prayed for health and happiness, for herself and for all young women around the realm.

By the time she was done, Cregan and Domeric were already standing back by the brothers of the Night’s Watch and only Rickon was still knelt before the heart tree, head bowed. They gave him a few more moments of silence before he stood, his tall stature making his head brush against the lowest branches of leaves. Lyara wondered if Cregan would be as tall one day; he was already as tall as she was at only one and ten.

The trek back to the wall was as silent as the journey beyond it. Fat, wet snowflakes fell sluggishly down around them, landing on their noses and making them sniffle. Lyara was glad when the gates leading to Castle Black came back into view. She would be happy with a hot mug of tea pressed between her frozen hands, but she would be even more happy when they were finally meant to leave and go back south.

When the Stark party finally departed Castle Black and left the Night’s Watch behind, their destination was not Winterfell. They passed the land of the New Gift with its large, empty fields. It has been a gift from the Good Queen Alysanne some sixty years before, but what had once been good land for the Umbers and even the Karstarks was now left vacant and untended. Lord Rickon grumbled angrily about it, but he waved off any concerns when Cregan asked.

“No use complaining about it now, son. What’s done is done,” he said, clapping his hand on his son’s back. “Now tell me, do you know the names of the Northern mountain clans?”

Cregan nodded, proud. He puffed out his chest as he listed them.

“The Harclays, Wulls, Norreys, Burelys, Knotts, Flints, and Liddles,” he responded. Rickon gave him a grin and nodded approvingly.

“Now how about which clan is closest to the New Gift?” he asked. Cregan looked puzzled for a moment.

“The Norreys, Lord Rickon,” Domeric piped up, his horse behind Cregan’s.

“Ah, good lad,” Rickon remarked. He led the narrow line of horses, a bit further up from the wagon that carried their luggage.

“Are we going into the mountains, father?” Lyara asked, trying to glance around him but his big, heavy garron was too wide and the trail too narrow. All she got was a look at more and more trees.

“Yes, Lya,” Rickin answered her. They had departed from the kingsroad several hours earlier and were now going down a much less traveled path. “Lord Norrey wrote to me himself, inviting us to his keep. You all must be on your best behavior and thank Lord Hallis for his hospitality.”

After that, the ride was more or less silent. The Norreys were so close to the Wall that they did not have to stop for camp, leaving early in the morning and arriving after dusk. A large man with a chest like a barrel greeted them, a broad grin on his bearded face.

“The Stark!” he bellowed as they arrived. Rickon dismounted and shook Hallis’ hand, both of them patting each other on the back in a sign of camaraderie. The man then looked at the children, and he had a good belly laugh as he eyed them. “Your kin, ah, the Rickon?” he asked.

Rickon nodded, a proud smile on his face. He pointed at each child as they dismounted their own horses.

“We have Lyara, my oldest, and Cregan, my heir. And then this here is Domeric, Jonos Cerwyn’s boy. He’s been fostering at Winterfell for the last few years. Good lad, just like his father,” Rickon listed them off.

The two men carried on talking, and the kids scurried after them to keep up. The Norrey’s keep was humble, even more so than the Mormont’s. It was built with defense in mind, as the mountain clans were sometimes raided by wildlings coming over the wall. It didn’t happen often, but it could be devastating when they hit, taking women and children along with livestock and other goods. The inside was snug, their hall not at all like the wide open space of Winterfell’s.

Lyara loved it immediately. What most caught her eye, though, were the four little heads peeking out from the top of the stairs.

“Girls!” Lord Hallis bellowed, and down came four girls, their ages ranging from one-and-ten to six-and-ten. They all shared a similar look, dark hair with large dark eyes. Hallis placed his hand on the eldest’s shoulder, his other on his hip. “These are my daughters, Dacey, my eldest, Jonelle, Rowan, and my youngest, Arra.”

The girls all greeted them politely, and, to Lyara’s surprise they were all wearing trousers and tunics, without a dress in sight. It made Lyara look down at her own gown with some self-consciousness. It was a navy blue with thread of silver detailing, little wolves chasing winter roses at the hem and bottom of the sleeves. She had been excited to wear it, but now she seemed ill-equipped somehow.

She didn’t have time to dwell on her feelings, though, because Lord Hallis was soon ushering them all into the dining hall, which was a more open space with a tall ceiling, lit by half a dozen hanging lanterns. Good smells wafted in from the kitchen, meat and vegetables stewing mixed with the bright scent of fresh apples.

The group situated themselves around the tables as dinner was prepared to be served. Lyara ended up facing Dacey and Jonelle, and down the bench Cregan was sitting across from Arra. There was a look on his face that Lyara had never seen on her little brother before. He had a shy sort of smile toying at his lips, and he was chatting with the girl. Cregan was slow to open up even to his family, so to see him casually conversing with the youngest Norrey girl was a surprise.

Of course, Lyara’s father and Lord Hallis were sitting by each other, still discussing the new agreements between the Norreys and Winterfell, as well as reminiscing about the days of their youth.

“Strong as a bull, I was, and twice as tough,” Rickon was boasting. He had grown leaner as he aged, no longer as thickly muscled as he was as a young man. Their father then clapped Cregan on the back. “Cregan’ll be even stronger, I’d wager, and good with his sword. Isn’t that right, Cregan?”

The boy nodded seriously, and Hallis laughed a loud belly laugh. He was red-faced from the ale and smiling widely.

“I have no doubt, lad, no doubt,” he assured. “My girls are mighty tough themselves!” He pointed at the oldest two, who grinned as they ate. “Dacey and Jonelle have been duelling with spears since Nell could walk! Now Rowan, she’s good with knives, but her real calling is horses. Best horsebreaker this side of the Wall. I swear she’s half a horse herself! And Arra,” Hallis reached over and mussed the youngest’s hair. “she’s coming along quite nicely with her axe.”

“You fight with an axe?” Cregan asked, wide-eyed, and Arra nodded proudly. The two were back into their own conversation, and soon Dacey and Jonelle turned to Lyara.

“What do you do for fun?” the younger girl asked. Lyara felt that same self-consciousness. These girls surely didn’t want to hear about her boring books or girlish embroidery.

“Um, I like archery. I think I’m pretty good at it. Not bad, at least,” she rambled through an answer. Jonelle nodded, but Dacey groaned.

“Ugh, I hate using a bow,” she complained.

“She just never got the hang of it,” Jonelle accused, which caused her sister to elbow her side forcefully, resulting in them shoving each other.

“We can show you the basics of a spear,” Jonelle continued once she got the final elbow in. Dacey nodded, the fight forgotten.

Lyara thought about it for a moment, but then she caught sight of her father from the corner of her eyes. I will not have my daughter learning to wield a sword, he had said. She assumed spears fell under that rule as well.

“No thank you, but I’d love to watch,” she eventually answered. The older girls looked disappointed, but nodded.

It wasn’t until the next day that the Norrey girls got a chance to show off their skills in the training yard. The morning air was crisp as they stepped out into it, a fresh layer of snow on the ground. True to their word, Dacey and Jonelle took up practice spears and immediately began to spar. The older girl had a farther reach, but Jonelle’s hits were clearly stronger.

They danced back and forth in their padded armor, and back behind them were the younger girls utilizing the targets. Rowan eyed the target before positioning her arm and throwing the knife she had in her hand. It landed just left of the bullseye.

Arra, it looked like, was trying out different grips along the length of her axe. She looked back to make sure Cregan was watching before gripping her axe tightly and throwing it. It flung through the air and hit the outer ring of the target. She glanced back and smiled at Cregan, all pearly white teeth. Lyara elbowed her brother, who had a faint blush on his cheeks.
The older girls tried to goad Lyara into sparring with them, and even Rowan tried to press a throwing knife into her hand, but under the watchful eye of her father, Lyara again refused. To placate them, she did take an offered bow and quiver full of arrows. She shot three of them, two hitting the outer ring and one flying past the lefthand side of the target.

“I’m a little out of practice,” she said sheepishly, but the other girls merely grinned, and Dacey patted her heartily on the back. Still, Lyara felt foolish for letting herself fall behind on her target practice. Had she been spending too much time on frivolous, girlish things? She wanted to think not…

The rest of the stay at House Norrey’s keep was short. The Starks had only planned to stay for three days and three nights, just enough to recoup enough to make the trek back to Winterfell. To the children’s surprise, and to Cregan’s hidden delight, Arra would be returning with them.

“She will learn and train beside you, just like Domeric,” Rickon told them. Arra was off saying goodbye to her family, her things already packed away into the wagons they had brought.

Lyara was excited for another girl in Winterfell! She loved Barbery dearly, but she was like an older sister to the younger Stark girl. It would be nice to play that part for another girl, since all she had was a younger brother. Arra was the same age as Cregan, one-and-ten to Lyara’s one-and-three. She could tell already that the two had formed small infatuations with the other. The romantic side of her hoped that she got the chance for something real to blossom between the two of them. All in all, she could not wait to return to Winterfell.

Chapter Text

A few moons after Rhaenyra and her sons left, Aegon’s mother woke him up early. The Targaryens of King’s Landing were preparing to leave for Driftmark in a couple days in order to attend Lady Laena’s funeral, but he had no clue why his mother was waking him up so early on that day. Aegon was still groggy, tangled in the sheets of his bed, his hair a frizzy halo around his head. His mother strided into the room, a blurry vision of green.

“Rise, Aegon. We need to discuss something,” she said. Aegon only grunted, not willing to get up just yet. His mother tore the sheets off of him, which caused him to shriek and hurry to grab it back to cover his naked body. His mother was not deterred and stated more firmly this time, “We need to talk about your betrothal, Aegon.”

Aegon’s mind raced, still not fully awake or coherent. Panic welled up in his chest. “You can’t make me marry Helaena, I won't do it! I’ll run away on Sunfyre, I’ll-” he protested frantically and was cut off by his mother.

“You will do no such thing,” she said sharply. The queen took a moment to compose herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “As it so happens, you won’t be marrying your sister. Your grandsire and I have made plans to write to Lord Stark, to ask for the hand of his daughter.”

“Lyara?” Aegon said, still trying to process all of the information. He glanced over at the mess on his desk, which was mostly used to pile junk on. There sat a mostly written letter, one that he planned on bringing to the rookery to get sent off to Winterfell. His mother followed his line of sight and also saw the parchment and a still open inkwell. Her face softened a little.

“You still write to the girl?” she asked him. All Aegon could do was nod dumbly. Of course his mother knew that Aegon wrote to Lyara when he was younger; she took him to the rookery herself to send off the first few letters. Once Aegon was old enough to do it himself, they never discussed it again. It was likely that she thought he eventually stopped writing to Lyara all together over the years. It was a safe bet; he was never particularly diligent in anything he did. Alicent took another deep breath and nodded. “Good. Do you remember our conversation about you being a challenge to Rhaenyra?”

Aegon was puzzled, his confusion showing on his face. “Yes? What does that have to do with Ly-”

“It has everything to do with Lyara Stark!” his mother snapped. She gripped his face tightly, and her long, slender fingers dug into the hollows of his cheeks. Her patience was clearly already running thin this morning. “The North will support a Stark queen, they will support you. But do you understand what will happen if Lady Stark does not approve of you? Or if Lord Stark does not want you to marry his daughter?! We cannot face Rhaenyra with the strength of the North at her back! You need to not mess this up!”

The mother and son shared a tense look for a long moment. His mother sighed, and she released her grip on his face to instead smooth his hair as if he were a child again.

“Send your letter to Lady Lyara. Be prepared to leave for Driftmark,” were the last words she said before swiftly exiting the room. Aegon let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and flopped back down onto his bed.

Betrothed to a Stark. Betrothed to her. It had been years since they had seen each other at his half-sister’s wedding, both of them just children then. Lyara hardly even seemed real in his mind; it was difficult to imagine the person on the other side of the realm, penning him letters, no longer a child just as he. Now, all he could imagine was a hard and stern Northern woman, ready to dismiss him for all of his incompetencies. Never again would he be able to write her letters simply spewing all of his thoughts and feelings. Now any relationship he had with her would be just another thing he could not bear to fuck up. Another duty he had to fill. Aegon scowled. Yet another thing ruined by his mother and grandsire’s insistence on putting him on the throne.

Rising from his bed, Aegon pulled on some smallclothes and walked over to the desk.The letter was already mostly written, and Aegon scrawled his name and one final note at the bottom of the page.

Driftmark was damp and dreary. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks was constant, and the air smelled strongly of brine. It was a miserable place in Aegon’s opinion. On top of that, he had never even met Laena Velaryon. He supposed he felt some pity for her two young daughters, Baela and Rhaena if he remembered correctly, but any semblance of that was gone once he saw their father stalking around the island castle. Other than his grandsire, Daemon Targaryen was probably the man Aegon feared most.

“I wonder what she looks like now,” Aegon asked, thinking about his betrothal once again. Aemond rolled his eyes; he had heard enough about Lyara Stark the last couple of days to last a lifetime. They were standing near their sister as Helaena held a spider in her hand, mumbling nonsensically to herself.

“It doesn’t matter. You will perform your duty to the woman mother betrothed you to,” Aemond replied, clearly unimpressed with Aegon.

Aegon only scoffed. “It may not matter to you, but it matters a great deal to me.” He snatched another goblet of wine off of a passing servant’s tray and took a large drink, leering at the girl.

He had been only six during his half-sister’s wedding, but he had some half-formed memories of it. The tourney, Ser Joffrey Lonmouth’s eventual death, having to be dressed up and shown off by his mother as a perfect little prince. And between all of that, Aegon vaguely remembered the little girl who pushed him. He drained the rest of the wine and went in search of a refill.

The funeral was bleak, that was to be expected, but there was wine at every corner, and who was Aegon to turn his nose up at it? The Velaryons were gracious enough to provide it, so he would drink it. He did the rounds of the terrace until the sky grew a dark gray that washed what little color Driftmark had completely out. He was feeling pleasantly tipsy.

“I’m going to bed, Aemma,” Aegon heard his father say to his mother, and his stomach rolled. He did not know if he needed to cut himself off from the wine or drown himself in more of it.

“Shall I see after Queen Alicent, your grace?” Ser Westerling’s gruff, accented voice asked, pointing out the mistake that the king failed to notice.

“No, Ser Harrold,” Viserys said after looking at his wife for a long moment. His mother did not even look like the late Queen Aemma, with her dark eyes and chestnut hair. It did not matter to his father, who only saw what he wanted to see. Aegon was sure that he needed more wine now.

Aegon grabbed another goblet off of a serving plate and stumbled down the stairs leading to the beach. He sat down ungracefully at the landing and kicked his feet out. There was so much fucking sand everywhere on the gods forsaken island, and it clung to everything Aegon owned. He grumbled as he polished off the goblet of wine in several long gulps. He sat there for a while as it grew even darker, and he tried to stop himself from thinking about anything at all.

Aegon did not know how long he sat there, drunk and miserable, before Aemond arrived. He grinned up at Aemond from where he was seated on the hard stone landing.

“Where are you off too, dear brother?” he drawled, actually curious as to where Aemond was planning on going. There was only beach in both directions, which was just boring piles of sand in Aegon’s opinion.

Aemond hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not he wanted to share his plans with Aegon. He eventually relented, “Mother said I could try to bond with a dragon. After the funeral.”

Aegon’s eyebrows went up at that, and he whistled lowly. Whatever their mother had promised to Aemond about him bonding with a dragon- if she promised anything at all- Aegon was almost certain that she did not mean immediately after the funeral. But who was he to put an end to Aemond’s hopes and dreams?

Driftmark was close enough to Dragonstone that a juvenile dragon or two could possibly be nesting about somewhere on the island. If any had managed to escape the Cannibal, that was. No harm in letting Aemond go off and search for one, if there were any at all. It wasn’t like Aemond was going to let Aegon stop him either.

Aegon caught a glimpse of their grandsire lurking at the top of the stairs, a disappointed twist to his lips. There was no way that he would be able to get past the man without getting a lecture from him, and that was the last thing Aegon wanted to go through. He looked back towards Aemond. Maybe stumbling around the beach with his brother would prove to be more entertaining than sinking even deeper into his cups.

“I shall join you, make sure you don’t get eaten,” Aegon said, smirking when Aemond refuted the idea of him being eaten by a wild dragon, all puffed up in defense. He did not fight against Aegon going with, though. Probably because Aemond knew that there was nothing he could do to deter his brother, at least not without their mother finding out and putting a stop to the entire idea.

“I would like to come as well,” Helaena’s voice came out of nowhere, causing Aegon to jump. How their sister managed to walk up to them without making a sound, he would never know.

“We need to put a bell on you,” Aegon grumbled much to the amusement of both Helaena and Aemond. Before anything else could be said, Aegon spotted Otto coming down the stairs. He grabbed his siblings’ hands and pulled them towards the beach. “C’mon, let’s go find Aemond a dragon.”

As soon as their feet hit the sand, Aemond took the lead. It was as if he knew exactly where they would find what they were looking for. Aegon did not mind, as his head was still swimming a bit from the wine, and he and Helaena trailed after their little brother.

The sun was rapidly setting, and soon it would be nightfall. Waves steadily began to creep further up the beach as the tide came in. It wasn’t until they ventured further and further into the dunes that Aegon got an inkling of what Aemond was searching for. Once he heard deep, guttural snoring his suspicions were confirmed.

“Are you looking to claim Vhagar?!” Aegon asked, alarmed. Aemond immediately looked closed off, as if Aegon was going to go running to their mother to tell on him right that second. Helaena only nodded serenely, as if she was aware that that was the plan the entire time. Aegon folded his arms across his chest, feeling a bit defensive at both their reactions. Aegon was never the one to go tattling to their mother. And he thought Aemond was looking for a hatchling or young dragon, not the oldest dragon in the world!

“Laena Velaryon just died. We are at her funeral,” Aegon pointed out flatly. None of them knew their cousin, but her family would surely take offense. They had all heard enough of Otto’s rants about Daemon Targaryen to know that their uncle was a dangerous man as well.

“She’s been calling to me since we arrived,” Aemond confessed. There was a look in his eyes that told Aegon that his brother would not be swayed. He would try to claim Vhagar, no matter the cost. “She might fly away after this, go nest on Dragonstone or somewhere else. I might not get another chance.”

Their mother was going to kill him, Aegon thought, but he could not deprive Aemond of this. If Vhagar called for him to be her rider, then it would happen, no matter the hurt feelings it would undoubtedly cause. Aegon sighed and nodded.

The three of them were crouched down on the grassy hill, spying on the great beast. Vhagar was the largest dragon alive. She was as old as Balerion the Black Dread was when he burnt Harrenhal, and Gods, did she look it in Aegon’s opinion. His Sunfyre was much more beautiful, but he could not deny that Vhagar was the perfect dragon for his brother. Aemond loved their family’s history, he knew the names of all the dragonriders, and Vhagar was a living legend—she had been Queen Visenya’s mount.

After only a moment, Aemond got up and ran towards the dragon. Aegon attempted to grab him, but his little brother was too quick and was able to run down the hill. He looked so miniscule next to Vhagar that it would be comical if Aegon’s heart wasn’t racing so fast. Is this what their mother felt every time he or Helaena went flying? If so, he would have to apologize for being so dismissive of her fears because this was truly nerve-racking.

At his other side from where Aemond just vacated, Helaena was lying there as calm as could be. “He will not fail, and he will not fall,” she said. She looked and sounded almost ghostly in the moonlight. “He will have to lose an eye.”

Aegon turned to her with a puzzled look, but his attention was dragged back to Aemond and Vhagar as the dragon’s giant head lifted from the sand. She growled, but Aemond did not cower. Privately, Aegon could admit that he certainly would have if he were in Aemond’s place staring down the giant she-dragon.

Again, Aemond grabbed for the harness, and this time Vhagar was snarling and began to unhinge her jaw. The fire at the back of her throat bathed everything in orange, and Aegon was already half to his feet when his brother called out.

”Dohaeras!” he yelled. Obey. For a terrifying moment, Aegon did not think she would listen. “Dohaeras, Vhagar! Lykiri!” Obey, Vhaghar! Calm! Mercifully, the great beast’s maw closed, and she allowed Aemond to grab hold of her harness. He climbed up as if he were climbing a mountain. When Aemond gave his dragon the command to fly, Aegon thought that his brother was going to get flung from the saddle as Vhagar shook off the sand covering her. Aemond managed to stay put, though, and soon took to the skies.

Aegon found himself jumping up excitedly as Aemond flew Vhagar over the water, her giant wings skimming the surface. Helaena was also cheering, and they could hear the faint sound of Aemond screaming and laughing as he took his first flight as a dragonrider. Vhagar was so massive that she momentarily blotted out the moon as they flew past.

After a few minutes, Aemond landed Vhagar near the dunes where they found her. She let out a deep, contented rumble as her new rider dismounted and settled back into the sand. Aegon and Helaena ran toward Aemond, and Aegon pulled his brother into a tight hug. Even Helaena joined the embrace, and they were all giggling like small children.

“I knew you could do it,” Aegon remarked with a smirk, ignoring that he had, in fact, been telling Aemond the exact opposite for years. He mussed the younger’s hair, which caused Aemond to push him away.

“Aegon!” he complained, but his smile was bigger than any that Aegon had ever seen on his brother’s usually solemn face.

“How did it feel to fly, brother?” Helaena asked. She was clearly just as happy for Aemond as Aegon was, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she smiled.

“Amazing,” Aemond answered with a look of pure elation on his face. Aegon knew that there was no other word for it; nothing could compare to being on dragonback.

“I cannot wait for you to join me and Dreamfyre in the skies,” Helaena continued. Her smile broadened as she thought of her own mount napping somewhere else on the isle. “Sunfyre’s flying is always too flashy for my sweet girl.”

The comment was paired with a half-hearted look of annoyance pointed at Aegon. He only grinned, as shameless as ever.

“Can you blame him for trying to impress Dreamfyre, Hels?” he asked; he would not begrudge his boy for taking an interest in Helaena’s dragon. Aegon slung his arm around Aemond’s shoulders, Helaena on the other side of their younger brother, and they walked back towards the castle.

Like most good things in his life, though, Aegon and his siblings’ happiness was short-lived. As they entered the bowels of the keep, they were greeted by not only Jace and Luke but Daemon’s girls as well.

“It’s them,” one of the twins said. Which one, Aegon did not know nor particularly care.

“It’s us,” he replied, smirking at the girl. Without really realizing it, Aegon and Aemond moved in front of Helaena, standing between her and the others.

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon,” the girl continued. It was obvious that she was hurt, still mourning her mother, but what could they do? It was not as if Aemond could take back his bond with Vhagar.

“And she was our grandfather’s before hers, and Queen Visenya’s before his,” Aegon reminded her curtly. The reminder that Vhagar had been the Spring Prince Baelon’s mount before Laena Velaryon’s worked to cow the other group of children, at least for a moment.

“She was mine to claim!” the same girl argued, so that must have been Rhaena. The other one- Baela, if his memory served him- had an egg that was still warm to the touch, while her twin’s had gone cold and turned to stone. Rhaena was clearly hurt and upset, but no matter the young girl’s wounded feelings, she was wrong. If she had been meant to claim Vhagar, then she would have known.

“Then you should have claimed her!” Aemond snapped. He sneered at the girl. “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

Aegon flinched a bit at that. That was moons ago! He had apologized for it, thought it over and done with, and he did not know that Aemond was still nursing wounds from the prank. It had clearly affected his brother deeply, and Aegon didn’t know that. He felt like he should have.

There was no time to dwell on that, though, because Rhaena immediately screamed and rushed forward to push Aemond. The older boy easily pushed her to the side, but her twin was not far behind. Baela’s fist connected with Aemond’s nose, and Aegon was quick to grab her in retaliation. He was able to subdue her with little trouble, given their age and size difference. Baela was not one to give up without a fight, though, and struggled wildly against his grip.

“Stay still, you stupid girl,” Aegon snapped at her. His hands were clamped firmly down on her arms.

“Let go of her!” Jace shouted as he rushed toward the pair. His oldest nephew’s fist collided with Aegon’s nose, and it was a surprisingly hard hit for someone so much younger. Aegon was forced to drop his hold on Baela, who scrambled away quickly. Warm blood trickled out of his now aching nose, dripping down to his upper lip. The pain now blossoming across the middle of his face jarred Aegon momentarily.

Helaena was backed up against the wall of the cave. There were tears in her eyes, and she was repeating something frantically to herself, too quiet to hear. In front of her, Aemond had been ganged up on by the other four, and they were hitting and kicking him. Aegon rushed forward and forcefully pushed Rhaena to the side, then Baela. He stayed in front of them, in case they tried to rejoin the fight. It wasn’t difficult after that for Aemond to kick up and knock Jace onto his back. Then it was just Aemond and Luke.

Aemond grabbed Luke by the throat, just tight enough to hold him in place even as the younger boy squirmed. A large rock that Aemond had picked up at some point was clutched in one hand, raised as if ready to strike. Once it was clear that no one else would attempt to attack him, Aemond lowered the rock an inch. Aegon thought it could have been all over at that point, but his little brother always did have a flair for the dramatic.

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did!” he spat out, looking between Jace and Luke. The latter was still crying and sniveling, but the former looked like he knew exactly where this was going. Aemond spat out the next word like it personally offended him, “Bastards.”

“My father is still alive!” Luke cried, and for a moment Aegon felt bad for the boy. He was younger than even Daeron. No one dared to bring up the fact that Ser Laenor was obviously not the boys’ father, so Luke had no reason to believe differently. Jace was older, though, and the facade had begun to crack. There was a deep well of anger there, considering how hard he was glaring at Aemond.

“He doesn’t know, does he, Lord Strong?” Aemond taunted. That was clearly the wrong thing to say, because Jace pulled out a dagger from his doublet. Aegon doesn’t even know where a ten year old would have gotten a blade!

“Are you fucking mad?!” Aegon yelled, but it fell on deaf ears. Jace charged Aemond with the weapon clenched in his hand, but thankfully the older boy outmaneuvered him. The dagger was knocked from Jace’s hand, and then the boy was flat on his back. With the rock still in his hand, Aemond once again looked around to make sure that no one else would rush him. Baela and Rhaena were behind Aegon, huddled closely, and Helaena was even further behind them.

Aegon spotted the blade in the sand, and he dove to grab it, if anything to eliminate it from the fight completely, but Luke was closer and got there first. During the commotion, Jace threw sand in Aemond’s face, and Luke took the opportunity to swipe at him.

It felt like everything happened in slow motion but also all at once. More blood than Aegon thought possible gushed from the slash Luke left on Aemond’s face, seeping through his fingers as he pressed his hand against the wound. Blood fell onto the sand, staining it a deep red. Aemond was hunched over on his knees and screaming.

Aegon rushed over, pushing Luke aside in the haste to get to his brother. Helaena was right behind him, her soft sobs barely audible over the sound of Aemond still wailing. Aegon could not recall a time Aemond cried so loudly, not even as a babe. He and Helaena only had the chance to place their hands on Aemond’s shoulders before the Kingsguard finally rushed in. Too late, Aegon thought bitterly.

“Cease this at once!” Ser Harrold Westerling shouted over the commotion. The other children fell quiet, but Aemond was still screaming in pain. The other guards went to subdue the others, while Ser Harrold approached Aemond. Aegon and Helaena were still huddled close to him, as if trying to shield their younger brother. “Prince Aegon, Princess Helaena, please step aside-”

“No,” Aegon snapped, cutting the old man off. Westerling was a member of the Kingsguard and was supposed to be loyal to the entire royal family, but Aegon knew that not to be true. He may have corrected the king when he humiliated Aegon’s mother, but Aegon knew that Westerling was, above all else, loyal to Viserys and to Rhaenyra.

“Please, my prince. I can help the young prince,” Ser Harrold began again, but Aegon still didn’t move.

“We will help him,” Aegon told the knight sharply. He wouldn’t allow anyone but him or Helaena touch Aemond; they couldn’t trust anyone else.

True to his word, Aegon slung Aemond’s arm over his shoulders to balance him. For a moment he internally bemoaned the fact that he never took training seriously; the younger boy’s body was heavier for Aegon than it maybe should have been, but he trudged along. Helaena remained close, hovering near Aemond’s other side.

It wasn’t until Ser Cole approached the siblings that Aegon gave up the reins. He knew he wouldn’t be able to lug Aemond all the way up the stairs, especially not with the way that he had basically become dead weight. Supporting the boy’s body was easier for Cole, and Aegon and Helaena trailed closely behind him. In a similar fashion, Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena followed after Ser Westerling and a couple of the other members of the Kingsguard.

Before long, Aegon found himself and his siblings on one side of the Hall of Nine, and the other set of brats were on the other side. Several members of the Kingsguard had run off to fetch different people, so the children were left with just Cole and Westerling.

They must have sent the fastest knight to get the maester, because he was the first to arrive. It was High Tide’s maester, Kelvyn, who had been in the service of Lord Corlys for many years. Even with his experience, the man’s eyes widened when he saw Aemond’s wound.

“By the Light of the Seven,” Kelvyn muttered to himself, preparing his instruments. Aemond was semi-conscious, his head lolling to the side. Aegon and Helaena both stood nearby, their eyes trained on their brother. Helaena was still sniffling, and there were tear tracks down her cheeks that cut through the thin layer of grime that had accumulated. Aegon was sure that he looked no better; he could feel remnants of dried blood still clinging to his upper lip and had his fair share of sand and dirt still on him.

Aegon flinched in sympathy when the maester began to clean the wound, Aemond also jerking and making a pained sound. Kelvyn wiped the blood and sand away from the boy’s face and then sighed when he got a good look at the damage done. The maester then selected a thin needle and a long, fine thread.

“This will be painful, my prince,” Kelvyn warned. Aemond visibly steeled himself, but he still hissed through his teeth as the needle went in and out of his already tender skin. Aegon couldn’t bring himself to look away from the maester stitching up Aemond’s eye. With each suture, the needle and silk thread came away covered in more blood and gore.

To his credit, Maester Kelvyn did not even look up when Alicent flung the doors into the hall open, even as Aegon’s own eyes were torn away from Aemond to look at their mother. Alicent was only looking at Aemond, though, as she rushed over to him with a cry of his name.

“Oh, my son,” she lamented once she saw the gruesome state his face was in. She stood just behind the maester, watching carefully as he sewed up the wound. Alicent turned away, her eyes now scanning the room to look for a possible culprit, anyone she could take her anger out on. She caught sight of Aegon and Helaena, though, and faltered. She had tunneled in on Aemond before, not noticing her older two children. She registered the blood on Aegon’s face, the remnants of tears on Helaena’s, and the dirt speckling both their clothes. If possible, this only further fueled her righteous anger. It was only interrupted by the king entering the hall.

Viserys was leaning heavily on his cane as he came in, and he was still dressed in his nightclothes like his wife. He walked over to Aemond and took a good look at his second son. The half stitched up gash made him grimace. Viserys put one hand on Aemond’s shoulder and squeezed it in an attempted act of comfort.

“You are tough, my boy,” he said and then turned to face Cole and Westerling, who were standing to the side. Viserys walked towards the middle of the room, the sound of his cane hitting the stone floor echoing. Aegon had to stop himself from glaring daggers at his father’s back.

“How could you allow such a thing to happen? I will have answers,” Viserys demanded from the two members of the Kingsguard. The man was never known for being particularly harsh, but the anger he was feeling was now very apparent.

“The princes were supposed to be abed, My King,” Westerling answered, his voice gruff but somewhat subdued. All of his charges, minus the toddler Joffery, were not where they were supposed to be that night.

“Who had the watch?” Viserys continued to question Westerling and Cole.

“The young prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace,” Cole tried to defend both himself and Westerling, but it was of no use. Viserys would not hear it.

“You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” he yelled.

“I am very sorry, Your Grace,” Westerling said, bowing his head. The old knight truly looked abashed.

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes, Your Grace,” Cole added.

“That is no answer!” Viserys shouted. He swayed a bit on his feet, and Westerling was quick to pull him up a chair.

Meanwhile, Alicent was still hovering near Aemond and the maester. She was biting at her nails anxiously, her eyes trained on her son. The gash was close to fully stitched up now. It was still quite raw and bloody, with a deep bruise already forming. Aegon had the terrible urge to reach out and poke at the marred skin, but he restrained himself.

“It will heal, will it not, maester?” Alicent asked, all but pleading with the man.

“The flesh will heal,” Kelvyn began, sounding regretful. “But the eye is lost, Your Grace.”

The noise Alicent let out was one of immense grief. She squeezed her eyes shut and then turned to her oldest two children.

“You were both there?” she asked, and Helaena and Aegon nodded. For a stressful moment, Aegon thought that their mother would turn her anger on them, or at least him, but some tension seeped out of her shoulders and she stepped closer to them.

The chaos of the evening left Helaena desperate for comfort, and she leaned into the touch as Alicent ran her fingers through her daughter’s long hair softly. With Helaena’s head on her shoulder, Alicent then looked at Aegon. He stiffened when she reached out to him, but she only placed her hand on his cheek. She cupped Aegon’s face, but it was gentle even as she moved it to get a good look at the dried blood and beginning of a nasty bruise.

That was all it took for Aegon’s defenses to break down. He leaned into his mother’s comforting touch. Hot tears were beginning to well up in his eyes, much to his embarrassment; he wasn’t the one to lose an eye. Alicent only tugged him closer.

“I tried to protect him,” Aegon whispered into her neck.

“Thank you,” his mother whispered. She pulled away a few moments later, turning back around to see who was storming into the Hall of Nine to join them. It was Lord Corlys and Lady Rhaenys, coming down the curved flight of stairs.

“What is the meaning of this?” Corlys boomed. Baela and Rhaena hurried over to Rhaenys, who pulled them into tight embraces and immediately asked what had happened. It was a reminder to Aegon that this was not over; his brother lost an eye, and now they would have to sit through a rehashing of the night’s events.

To make matters worse, Rhaenyra arrived only seconds after Corlys and Rhaenys. She beelined to her sons, kneeling down and inspecting Luke’s face. Aegon peered around his mother to get a better look. There was some sand clinging to Rhaenyra’s dress. Clearly Aegon and his siblings weren’t the only ones taking late night trips out to the dunes. Interesting.

Further behind Rhaenyra, still loitering in the doorway, was Daemon. He was leaning against the frame, a small smirk on his face and Dark Sister at his hip like always. What he could have possibly been smirking about Aegon did not know, but he knew it probably meant bad news for them. Aemond claiming Laena Velaryon’s dragon on the day of her funeral was not likely to go over well with their uncle.

“Who did this?” Rhaenyra demanded, still kneeling in front of Luke.

“They attacked me!” Aemond defended himself, more lucid now. He sat up in the chair to glare at Rhaenyra.

“He attacked Baela!” Jace shouted in retaliation. “He broke Luke’s nose!”

“Baela attacked first!” Aegon found himself adding in to all the yelling, stepping out from behind his mother.

“He stole my mother’s dragon!” Rhaena argued.

“He was gonna kill Jace!” Luke continued.

“Enough,” the king said, but it wasn’t enough to cut through the noise.

“I didn’t do anything!” Aemond defended himself.

“It should be my son telling the tale!” Alicent yelled. It was difficult to keep track of all the yelling, the room growing more and more chaotic. Helaena put her hands over her ears and shut her eyes tightly, as if it were all too much.

“SILENCE!” Viserys finally yelled. It cut off all the other arguments, including whatever Luke had begun to say. The young boy whispered it to his mother, who immediately went into high alert. Aegon’s own back straightened, recognizing a potential threat.

“Aemond…” their father began, his voice sounding almost as tired and weary as the man looked. “I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”

“What else is there to hear?” his mother answered instead. “Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.”

“It was a regrettable accident,” Rhaenyra said as she hugged both of her sons close. Jacaerys and Lucerys were at her side, both with dried blood on their faces and cowering next to their mother.

An accident? Aemond lost an eye at the hands of her bastards, and their whore of a half-sister had the gall to call it an accident? Anger simmered low and hot in Aegon’s gut, and it was clear that it was in their mother’s as well, but before Alicent could voice her ire, Helaena spoke up instead.

“It wasn’t an accident,” she said. Her voice was soft and quiet, but it did not tremble. Suddenly everyone’s eyes were on Helaena, and Aegon shifted nervously next to her, but she did not waver.

“What do you mean, Helaena?” Rhaenyra asked, clearly surprised by the younger girl suddenly speaking up. If there were any of her half-siblings that Rhaenyra even vaguely cared about, it was Helaena. She posed no real threat.

“Jacaerys brought the knife. The fighting had almost stopped when he got it out,” Helaena explained. “It wasn’t an accident, it was because he and Lucerys were called… bastards.”

The last word was whispered, but everyone heard it. Aegon knew it was a lost cause after that. Viserys pretended to love and care about the wellbeing of his second wife and their children, but it was a pale imitation of his actual love for Rhaenyra. Above all else, he was dedicated to protecting her and covering up this lie. Everyone knew that Rhaenyra’s sons were Ser Harwin Strong’s bastards; they looked nothing like Ser Laenor, and the flimsy excuse that they had Baratheon blood through Princess Rhaenys was laughable. The king was the only one seemingly unable to see it. Though perhaps that had more to do with Viserys’ refusal to see anything Rhaenyra did as wrong than any form of reason.

“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace. This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders,” Rhaenyra immediately pounced on the opportunity to sink her claws in. It was like she was talking about a lifelong criminal and not her ten year-old half-brother!

“Over an insult?” Alicent said, incredulous. The desperation was evident in her. “My son has lost an eye.”

“You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?” Viserys asked Aemond. Aegon wanted to be in disbelief that his father would deem it necessary to question Aemond so soon after getting his eye sewn shut, but he wasn’t. Not in the slightest.

“We all train at arms together,” Aegon found himself saying. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on him. His stomach lurched, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick all over Corlys’ shiny, new Hall of Nine floor. “You had us train together, father, and ‘bastard’ is an insult we have all heard when in the training yard. Bluster! Nothing more.”

Viserys limped over to Aegon, back hunched slightly and leaning heavily on his cane. He eyed his son angrily, and Aegon made sure to stare forward and not meet the king’s eyes. “Who did you hear these calumnies from? Who said it? Tell me the truth of it!”

“Everyone,” Aegon managed weakly. Bile burned at the back of his throat. He forced himself to stare straight ahead. He did not even glance at his mother, or his nephews, or even his brother. Instead he stared at a bit of blood that dried onto the floor. “Everyone knows, father. Just look at them.”

If anyone had a reply to that, they dared not voice it. The hall was quiet save for Viserys’ ragged breathing. He walked back toward the middle of the room, his cane rapping against the stone. Next to him, Helaena reached out and grabbed Aegon’s hand. It was odd to be comforted by his sister like that, but it did not stop him from squeezing her hand back tightly.

“This interminable infighting must cease! All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!” Viserys demanded. No one moved. Aegon looked at his mother. She had tears in her eyes, and she looked as if she had just had a realization. The king did not even have the decency to look his queen in the eye as he walked past.

“That is insufficient,” Alicent said, pleading. Appealing to a sense of honor that was not there. Not when it came to Rhaenyra. She was near breaking, her voice coming out as if the words were stuck in her throat. “Aemond has been damaged, permanently, my king. ‘Goodwill’ cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye,” Viserys replied. Aegon was furious for his brother. Their father was barely reacting to his son being maimed. Aemond’s entire life had been changed in an instant, and their father insisted that they do nothing about it. Was this truly the king’s justice?

“No, because it’s been taken,” she said. Aegon’s cheeks burned with humiliation. His mother was pleading with her husband, begging him to protect his children. And Viserys failed at every turn.

“What would you have me do?” he bit out.

It was clear that Viserys would do nothing. He would never defend the children he had by his second wife, certainly not against Rhaenyra. Aegon was never under the illusion that his father loved him; the man had made that quite clear. It was not Alicent Hightower that he wanted sons with, and Aegon’s mother was just a pretty bride dangled in front of him, one he was actually able to fuck on their wedding night. No, Viserys would have only been interested in sons by Aemma Arryn. He only loved Rhaenyra, and how his favoritism was laid bare for everyone to see.

“There is a debt to be paid,” Alicent said firmly. Rhaenyra was hugging her sons behind her, clearly afraid for her bastards. Aegon’s mother visibly steeled herself before speaking again. “I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.”

Whispers immediately broke out. The two brats huddled closer to their mother.

“My dear wife…” Viserys began.

“He is your son, Viserys. Your blood,” Alicent begged, her desperation clear in her voice. Aegon knew, of course, that his mother had to have gone through significant suffering. He knew basic arithmetic; she was only six-and-ten when they wed, seven-and-ten when he was born, still more a girl than a woman grown. She bore him four children, and she held her tongue even when his attention drifted from each of them and back to Rhaenyra or his stupid Old Valyria model. After all of that, this was the breaking point for Alicent.

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” his father had the audacity to say.

“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will,” Alicent said, finally broken. “Ser Criston… bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.” Muttering broke out once again, and even Cole looked conflicted whether or not to comply. “He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son,” Alicent continued.

“You will do no such thing,” Rhaenyra immediately refuted, hugging her sons close to her.

“Stay your hand,” Viserys warned Cole. Aegon felt almost dizzy with the way his eyes bounced back and forth between them all.

“No, you are sworn to me!” his mother demanded, white-hot with anger.

“As your protector, my queen,” Cole said slowly. Even he had the good sense to not go through with what she wanted.

“Alicent, this matter is finished. Do you understand?” Viserys said to Alicent as if he were reprimanding a child. There were faint tear tracks down the queen’s cheeks. “And let it be known: anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons should have it removed.”

“Thank you, father,” Rhaenyra said, and that was the end of it. No mention of the eye Aemond lost, only a promise to keep up the lie that they had all been living. The demand that they accept a reality that they all knew was false. If Aegon had any remaining trust or goodwill to his father, it would have been crushed in an instant. Luckily, he had rooted any of that out years ago.

His mother, it seemed, had not, and she rushed to grab the dagger that Viserys always kept on him, the foolish old man. She charged toward Rhaenyra, her knuckles white from how hard she was gripping its dragonbone hilt. Screams and chaos broke out, and Aegon was at a loss for what to do. He stepped back, dragging his sister with him as multiple people surged forward to stop Alicent from maiming her former friend.

“You’ve gone too far,” Rhaenyra said, fending off Alicent by the arms.

“I?” Alicent asked, half crazed. The flame glinted off the rippling Valyrian steel of the dagger, tantalizingly close to Rhaenyra’s face. “What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout all to do as you please.”

“Alicent, let her go!” Viserys demanded.

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It’s trampled under your pretty foot again,” she cried. She did not stop even as her father called for her to cease. “And now you take my son’s eye, and to even that, you feel entitled.”

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness,” Rhaenyra said, and then she whispered something that Aegon could not hear. His mother thrashed against Rhaenyra’s grip, and she ended up cutting her deeply down her forearm. His half-sister bled, her blood as hot and red as anyone else’s. It dripped onto the floor and seemed to echo as his mother came to her senses. For the first time in several minutes, Alicent became conscious of what she had done, and she looked terrified.

“Do not mourn me, Mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon,” Aemond said after stepping forward. His serious, dramatic little brother. Aegon took a half step forward, but stopped himself as Viserys dismissed everyone and people began filing out of the room. Aemond embraced their still stunned mother, his head on his shoulder. Aegon wanted to move forward as well, to comfort and be comforted by his mother again, but he could not bring himself to take the first step.

“Mother was the only one to seek justice for Aemond,” Aegon muttered once they were back in their chambers. He had followed Helaena all the way back to hers, and now they were sitting on the bed, next to each other but not touching. He had to stop himself from reaching out for comfort; he knew that Helaena did not like it and likely had enough of everything tonight. The way she held herself, holding her arms close to her chest with her shoulders pulled tight, closed herself off to touch. He wished there was someone to comfort him, though. Mother was with Aemond, watching over him even as the pain and the milk of the poppy caused him to go under, and Aegon would sooner rather die than seek comfort from his grandsire.

Helaena nodded grimly. They were speaking what they had both ultimately already known. There was no united house Targaryen. It was them against Rhaenyra and her family. The Greens versus The Blacks.

The events of the night were running on a loop in his head. Before the haze of the chaos, he remembered what Helaena had said as they watched Aemond caim Vhagar. He’ll have to close an eye. She had known; she had said it to him, but he didn’t listen.

“Hel, how did you know that Aemond was going to lose his eye?” Aegon asked her.

“I dreamt about it,” Helaena answered. That answer, at least, was expected. Helaena often talked about her dreams, but he had always viewed them as insignificant nonsense.

“Do you dream like that often?” he asked. For perhaps the first time in his life, Aegon wished his little brother was there. Aemond knew everything about the history of House Targaryen, the bookish little twat. He would know more about Daenys the Dreamer than Aegon did, who was lucky he remembered his ancestor’s name at all.

“Every night,” she said, her lilac eyes haunted. “Not all of it comes true. I used to see two dragons, golden and pale blue, but not any more.”

Aegon did not have to think particularly carefully about what that meant. Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, her and him, and he knew Helaena had pieced that together as well. It brought to mind the conversation that he eavesdropped on a few weeks ago.

“I heard mother and the king talking about the possibility of betrothing me to you,” Aegon told her, and they shared mirrored looks of disgust. “You not seeing it anymore is good, right?”

Helaena only shrugged. “It is always changing. I still see them, but it’s different now. I see rivers, and a language that I do not recognize. Most of it does not make any sense.”

“You should write them down,” Aegon suggested. “Or better yet, tell them to Aemond— I bet he could figure them out.”

The mention of their brother brought the mood down. Realization set into Aegon. Whether they liked it or not, he and his siblings would be pulled into this mess. It had become clear tonight that their sister did not care for them, and Aegon did not doubt that Rhaenyra would kill him if it came down to it. Or well, have him killed. She would not do her dirty work herself, would probably have Daemon do it.

All Aegon knew is that he would have to get much more aggressive at playing the game of thrones, as his and his siblings’ lives hung in the balance.

Chapter Text

The Stark party returned to Winterfell nearly two moons after they first left. The first order of business was to get Arra settled in her new home. She shared the same wing of the castle as Lyara, Cregan and Domeric occupying another. It wasn’t until the day after they got home did the castellan deliver the mail that had accumulated in their absence.

Much to her delight, Lyara had received a letter from Aegon while she had been away. Strangely, Aegon’s letter came with an official missive from the Crown as well. Instead of the green wax Lyara has grown used to when receiving letters from the capitol, this letter was sealed with marbled red and black wax and stamped with the familiar three headed dragon of House Targaryen. While Aegon’s letter was handed straight to Lyara, the other letter went into the hands of her father. The young girl tore into hers.

Lyara,

You sound too much like my mother. I enjoy plenty of things, like riding Sunfyre and drinking. You were probably right about pulling that prank on Aemond. It was entertaining at the time, but your scolding made me feel bad. I apologized to him, are you satisfied now? I think he may have even accepted the apology. It’s always hard to tell with Aemond, he is so dour all the time. I would also like to remind you of the time you locked your brother and his friend in a closet for hours. That was not the action of a good older sibling, now was it?

My half-sister packed up her bastards and ran off to Dragonstone. Good riddance. His Grace is distraught that the only child he cares about is leaving, but he’ll get the chance to see her again soon. Lady Laena Velaryon died, and we’re all going to Driftmark for the funeral. I did not know the woman, and I cannot think of a more dreadful place to be. Grandfather will be there as well, which makes it worse. He’ll be vying to be Hand again no doubt, since Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin Strong died in a fire at Harrenhal. There are already several rumors of who could have set that already half-burnt husk ablaze. My coin is on Larys, I don’t trust him.

Of course, before she left, my half-sister had to make my life that much harder one last time. She was stupid enough to propose a marriage between Jace and Helaena. I’ve never seen my mother look so livid! To get out of it, she brought up the fact that I’m not yet betrothed, and it would be improper to betroth Helaena before me. Now I may have to be saddled with some highborn lady that I don’t care for! I suppose it would be better than marrying Helaena, which was the last proposal I heard. Whoever it is, I loathe her already.

Aegon

Below his signature was a hastily scrawled final line. It was clearly added after the rest of the letter was written, and it was done in a hurry. What it said made Lyara look up from the parchment and towards the head of the table, her eyes wide.

“Father?” she asked, her voice soft and thin.

It seems I am betrothed to you. Sorry.

She looked up from the letter, the paper still clutched in her hands.

“Lyara, I will decline this betrothal if you want me to, the king be damned,” her father said. The family was still sitting around the table in the Great Hall after reading the letter from the king. The king probably had very little to do with this, Lyara thought. If Aegon’s letters were anything to go by, the man hardly ever paid any attention to the affairs of his children by Alicent.

Lyara sat in silence for a moment, darting her eyes everywhere but her family’s watching eyes. Even their new arrival Arra was looking at her with sympathy. She didn’t have a response for her father. She didn’t know if she wanted to be betrothed to Aegon! Or anyone for that matter! Her coming of age was just a few short years away, but that seemed more like an eternity to Lyara. She hadn’t even had her moon blood yet!

“She doesn’t have to decide now, right father?” Cregan asked, his eyes flitting between the two.

“No, of course not. Lyara, nothing has to be decided today-” Rickon was quick to reassure his daughter, but Lyara quickly cut him off.

“Accept it,” Lyara suddenly said, and it felt like a previously unknown weight was lifted off her shoulders. A new panic welled up in her, the sudden anxiety like a lead ball in her stomach. She pleaded, “But tell them to let me stay in Winterfell until the wedding!”

Her father confusedly acquiesced to his daughter’s pleas. “Of course, Lya, you don’t have to go anywhere. You will stay in Winterfell until the prince comes of age, I will make sure of it.”

Lyara nodded, more to herself than anything, and she tried to reign in her feelings to process them. The whole situation was so much bigger than her, and she felt it weighing down on her. Her shoulders sagged with it, and she curled in on herself. Accepting the betrothal felt right, but it also left her feeling strangely raw.

“Are you sure?” Barbrey asked her, leaning over to whisper only to Lyara. She didn’t feel sure. In truth, she felt sick; her stomach was rolling and she felt bile at the back of her throat. Anxiety was a feeling Lyara was all too familiar with, and she took a few deep breaths to center herself.

“I’m sure,” Lyara responded to Barbrey. The words sounded frail even to her ears.

In a way, she envied her handmaiden and close friend. Barbrey had celebrated her six-and-tenth name-day a couple moons ago, and Martyn Holt, the son of Winterfell's blacksmith, had begun courting her. Neither girl had complete control of their lives, so few ladies did, but at least Barbrey would never be used as a political pawn. Or worse, as some sort of prized bride from a Great House. Not like Lyara.

In the back of her mind, Lyara always knew she would have to marry, that she would be shipped out of Winterfell to some lord. She had always assumed she would stay in the North, but marrying Aegon might not have been the worst outcome. At least he was her age. At least they had met before. At least they had some track record of getting along.

Lyara sighed and continued eating.

Aegon,

I certainly hope you do not loathe me. That would make this betrothal very awkward, and our marriage even more so. And please do not apologize! Better you than some old lord I don’t even know, right?

I am sorry I did not get your letter sooner. I was away in the mountains, and we even travelled to the Wall! Hopefully nothing interesting has happened in the meantime. We have brought home with us a girl from one of the noble houses from up in the mountains. Her name is Arra Norrey, and she is around Cregan’s age. She is an absolute darling, though I think she would hit me if she heard me call her that. You have a little sister, do you have any tips from me? Since you’re so eager to point out my mistakes!

I bet the castle feels empty without your nephews, hopefully that is a good thing for you. Maybe you’ll find NEW people to torment (preferably who aren’t related to you). Wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace?

We are getting ready for the harvest feast that’s coming soon. I think my father plans on sharing the news of our betrothal during it. He believes it is good tidings for the North, and I hope so too. I hope that for both of us.

Best,
Lyara

It was decided that Lyara’s betrothal would be announced at the upcoming harvest feast. The lords closest to Winterfell would all gather in her halls to celebrate the harvest as autumn froze to winter. It was a rare time where mummers and singers were called to the North to entertain the guests, do their plays and sing their songs.

Lyara was especially looking forward to this festival, not only because her betrothal was to be announced, but also because her father would finally allow her to drink wine! She would be turning four-and-ten soon, Domeric had just turned two-and-ten and Cregan would be soon as well, so the boys would be permitted one glass while Lyara got two. She was excited to see what all the fuss was about, especially since Aegon had tried it himself and had hyped it up in her mind.

Of course, simply anticipating the harvest feast wasn’t enough. Much to her dismay, her body had decided to surprise her with her first moon blood.

Lyara woke up early one morning and felt something odd between her legs. She reached down to feel something warm and slightly sticky, and examining her fingers afterwards made her panic. They were covered in blood! She pushed away her furs to see a dark stain beneath her as well as on her nightgown.

Her first moon blood meant a lot of things. That she was a woman grown, that her body was ready to conceive a child, that she could officially be sold off into marriage, had that not recently been taken care of. Most of all, it meant change. Imminent change. And oh how that terrified Lyara. Before, things like getting married and having children seemed far off ideas, but now they were rapidly becoming her reality.

She wanted to scream and cry. Nothing good would come of her stupid moon blood, and she wished she never had it at all! Mostly, Lyara missed her mother. Gilliane was the one Lyara wanted to talk to, to console her.

The only other person she knew would have had their moon blood was Barbrey, but it was too early in the morning to fetch her for something as mundane as stained sheets. Lyara’s only other option was telling her father. So, she crept through the empty halls of Winterfell to her father’s chambers and slowly pushed the door open.

Rickon was asleep on the bed, his limbs thrown every which way. He was snoring loudly, the noise emanating from deep in his chest. Lyara walked over to the side of the bed and shook her father. When he did not wake, she shook him harder.

“Father,” she whispered into the silence of the night. “Father!”

Rickon Stark woke up with a start, sitting up in bed and nearly pushing Lyara over. He always woke the always the same way, the rare times where she would crawl into his and Gilliane’s bed at night. He looked around until his eyes found hers in the dark.

“Lya?” he asked, confused, then his gaze drifted downwards to see the stain on her night dress. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Oh, Lyara…,” he began, and then he lifted his daughter like she weighed nothing and placed her on the bed next to him, not caring about the blood.

Rickon sat next to Lyara, both of them silent. He sighed again. “Your mother had an entire speech planned out,” he told her eventually. Lyara looked to her father, who nodded. “She knew exactly what she was going to say, about how you’re a woman now but not to be afraid.”

“It’s okay,” Lyara murmured.

Rickon rubbed his hand over his face again, holding his jaw like he was deep in thought. “I know, Lya, I know,” He placed his hand on her head, pulling her into a sideways hug. Lyara buried her face in his shoulder. “I’ll call for a bath, and Yna will talk to you tomorrow about this, alright?”

It was not a conversation Lyara was particularly keen on having. She felt embarrassed enough already, but she knew that Yna would not judge and would only help her. For now, she kept her head on her father’s shoulder.

Winterfell was awash with colors as people from all over the North flooded in. Strips of fabric hung everywhere, painting the halls and courtyard with swathes of yellow, brown, and red. A host of activities were planned for the full event, which would take place for over a week. Camps were set up in the wolfswood, with tables upon tables set up in the courtyard and main hall. There would be a giant feast, of course, but also horse racing for the adults, sack racing for the children, and wreath-making for all. Both nobles and smallfolk alike were to partake in the festivities.

The first few days were full of scores of people coming to Winterfell. The closest of the clans, the Harlcays, had come down from the mountains to enjoy the festivities. The Tallharts were in from Torrhen Square, the Stark’s Glover kin ventured through the wolfswood, and even the Mormonts of Bear Island were to attend. Lyara was excited at the notion of seeing Robyn again. And those were far from the only houses attending, too.

The Cerwyns were attending, of course, since their keep was less than a day’s ride from Winterfell. Dom was off spending time with his family, and Cregan was along with him. In the crowds of people, Lyara also spotted the blue-green merman of the Manderlys, the big brown bullmoose of the Hornwoods, and even the flayed man of the Boltons. The blood red droplets on the pink field sent a chill down Lyara’s spine, but she chalked it up to the ancient tales Yna had told the children to scare them, of Boltons with Stark-skin cloaks.

Once everyone was settled, the festivities began in earnest. The first event that would take place was the sack racing contest. With her three-and-ten nameday having passed a few moons ago, Lyara was officially too old to participate, but her brother, Dom, and Arra would all be competing. She had to admit that watching was not nearly as good as participating, but it was still all good fun.

The racers all stood in a row, ages ranging from seven to twelve. They all had their sacks around their legs and pulled up to their waists, the younger kids clutching them tightly. Lyara waited with anticipation, and at the blow of a whistle, the race began.

The participants took off, some jumping and others trying futilely to run. A couple of the youngest tripped over themselves not far from the starting line, falling face-first into the dirt. Cheers and laughter erupted from the crowd, different voices jeering and yelling. A group of forerunners had broken out, including Cregan and Arra. Dom had lagged behind, his too-tight grip on the sack causing him to trip and fall.

Cregan and Arra were neck and neck, and they were approaching the finish line quickly. Cregan had a slight height advantage over the girl and was slightly ahead of her. Still, Arra looked determined. She continued jumping, angling herself slightly toward Cregan, just enough to cross a bit into Cregan’s lane. Her foot shot out, and Cregan went tumbling onto the ground. It was just quick enough, and a slight enough movement, for her to get away with it. Arra made her last few jumps, undoubtedly the winner.

The crowd cheered her on loudly, Lyara clapping and hollering herself. She looked back at Cregan, who was still laying in the mud. There was a distinct look of wonderment on his face. Lyara grinned broadly.

“Good job, little brother,” she remarked. Cregan didn’t even seem to notice her, his eyes still locked on Arra.

--

The next day the horse racing competition was held. While she was technically old enough to compete, Lyara was never confident in her skills as a horse rider. She could never get herself to truly trust her mount, and the horse could always somehow tell how anxious she was. Still, she had a lot of fun watching the horse races.

Many lords and quite a few ladies had signed up to race. They all sat bareback on their mounts, looking at the relatively short course ahead of them. All in all, the race would take less than two minutes; the riders would go around the courtyard thrice. The course was set up in the winter town’s courtyard, a spacious area, and the crowd was gathered in the middle to witness it all. Although the course was not long, it held tight turns that often saw riders and horses tumble.

At the blow of the horn, the twenty racers took off. A clear pack of leaders quickly emerged, and to no surprise it was a Ryswell at the forefront, a woman with long golden hair that cascaded like a banner behind her. There was a large, confident smile on her face as she rode, even as two men and their horses nipped at her heels.

At least one horse tumbled and fell with every turn. Most of the time, they fell to their sides with their riders also landing in the packed dirt. Every once in a while, a rider would get bucked from the horse, but the mount would continue running without its jockey. It happened to the man who had been closing in on the Ryswell woman for most of the race at the penultimate turn. Groans went up from the crowd, but even more cheers soon drowned them out.

After less than two minutes, the race was done. The Ryswell woman was declared the winner, and the crowd mobbed her as she ran through it. Lyara clapped and cheered her heart out, and her kin were around her doing the same. Once upon a time, her father might have competed in the horse race, but that was many years ago. Now, they watched as a family.

--

Lyara and Barbrey were walking side by side through the many stalls and tents set up by merchants, all hawking their wares. They called out about all the goods they had, goldwork from Lannisport, fireplums and rich red wines from the Reach, even leatherwork and steelcraft from the streets of King’s Landing. The girls had picked up their fair share of items, and Lyara was contemplating getting some knitted socks when she heard a voice.

“Care for a fortune telling?” a withered old woman called out. She was sat in a tent that was draped in deep purples and greens, a smoke slowly drifting out from the sticks of incense she had lit. She was probably the oldest woman Lyara had ever seen, her face so wrinkled you could hardly make out her eyes, and when you finally did, one was a milky white indicating half blindness. She beckoned the two girls closer.

“C’mon,” Barbrey said, pulling Lyara along with her. The younger girl went along happily, and they entered the tent together.

Barbrey went first, the old woman taking the girl’s hand in hers. She opened Barbrey’s palm, tracing the lines there with a thin finger.

“Hmm,” the woman croaked, and then she smiled. “I see a man in your future, a good man with working hands. And children!” Barbrey giggled and blushed and nodded excitedly for her to continue. “I see a parting of friends, but do not worry, for I also see a reunion in your future.” With her free hand, Barbrey reached over and squeezed Lyara’s gently.

The old woman finished her reading, and she smiled a toothless smile up at Barbrey. She patted her hand and then let go.

As if on cue, though, a voice came calling for Barbrey. Lyara’s friend turned to look at her.

“Shit, that’s Martyn, I promised I’d meet up with him in the market,” she told Lyara, looking apologetic. Lyara simply waved off her concerns, not worried at all. “Come find me after, yeah?”

Lyara nodded and watched as Barbrey left the tent, and then she turned back around. The old woman’s eyes were still on her, as if watching her.

“Come now, girl,” she said, and Lyara stepped closer. Once she was within reaching distance, the old woman snatched her by the hand. Her withered appearance belied her strength, and she clutched Lyara’s hand tightly, forcibly unfurling it to show her palm. It was done with much more force than Barbrey’s reading.

The crone’s fingernail dug into the lines on Lyara’s palm, and she looked off into the distance. When the old woman looked back at the Stark girl, it was like she saw right through her. Even her blind left eye looked like it was seeing something.

“You’re in the reeds, girl,” the old woman murmured. Her voice was harsh and gravelly. “You must not get lost, with so many doors to walk though.” Lyara tried to pull her hand away, but the woman had a tight grip on her wrist. “I see a wolf, prowling around a stone cage and howling its lament. There are dragons- so many dragons!- all flying overhead, firebreathing, warring, devouring, cannibalistic beasts-!”

Lyara finally wrenched her wrist out of the woman’s grasp and stumbled backwards. Her grey eyes were wide as saucers; this certainly had not been what she was expecting. The old woman was still looking at her, her gnarled finger pointing at her.

“Beware of the rats, girl, and beware of the false sun,” the crone gasped out, and then fell back into her chair.

“Th-thank you,” Lyara stuttered out, unsure of what else to say. She dropped a few silver coins into the woman’s jar and hastily left her tent.

Once she was free of the incense heavy air, Lyara felt like she could breathe again. She took in several lungfulls of air. She was back in the marketplace, with people bustling all around her. There were shouts from vendors, the scent of sweetmeats in the air. The sky was a familiar grey above her, and her two feet were on the ground.

“Lya!” a voice called out, and the girl turned to see Barbrey and Martyn arm and arm, the older girl calling her over. With one more shaky breath, Lyara gave them a smile and approached. “How was your reading?”

“It was… odd,” Lyara answered, furling her brow. She didn’t necessarily want to talk about the encounter with the old woman and the strange predictions of the future she was told. She just wanted to enjoy the rest of the festival. Lyara shook her head. “Nevermind. It was nothing. C’mon, I want to get those socks.”

--

That night, a more secluded tradition took place. It was one that was foreign to Lyara, that Arra had brought with her from the mountain clans. The ritual was to light a large bonfire, meant to light the final days of autumn and into winter. The fire was also meant to cleanse them and to drive away the others. A few men from the Harclay and Burley clans also spoke up about wanting to participate in the traditions, so a sizable group gathered in a clearing in the wolfswood.

The fire was a need-fire, made by rubbing two sticks together until they ignited. When the fire caught, the bonfire blazed. Heat rushed past Lyara’s face, flushing her cheeks a light pink. The crowd was cheering, and she found herself cheering as well. Dancing and merriment began, and drink was passed around. They sang and drank and danced and laughed until the bonfire began to wane and the beginning of the sunrise poked at the horizon.

The final part of the tradition included taking the fire back to their homes and lightning their own hearths with it. Rickon Stark was the first to gather his, lighting a torch that he marched through the wolfswood and back to Winterfell with. The main hall would be heated by the ritual fire, protecting them from the winter. Men took fire back to their camps, and some of the men who lived in the winter town took it back to their own homes. Once they were done, the once giant bonfire was nothing but smoldering ash.

--

The harvest festival ended with a giant feast in Winterfell’s main hall. The courtyard was also packed full with smallfolk from the winter town, and they would also be fed and given drink for the evening. It was a celebration of the harvest, of the North and its resiliency, and to grant each other well wishes for the upcoming winter.

Lyara was seated at the head table with the rest of her family. The Cerwyns were also given a spot of honor, with Domeric sitting next to Cregan as the two boys whispered and laughed together. The Glovers were another prominent family, a reminder that Gilliane was still sorely missed.

The tables were all piled high with food, and drinks were being opened and passed around by the cask. Lyara’s own plate had bits of everything on it, from glazed yams to roasted salmon. There was soft breads and cheeses, and dish after dish of smoked meat, pickled vegetables, soups and stews. Everywhere around her, lords and ladies were talking and laughing.

Once the wine reached her, Lyara eagerly poured herself a goblet. It was a deep, rich red from the arbor. She had enjoyed the ciders that she had been previously allowed, even the one pleasant, giggly feeling she got after a cup or two, so she had similar hopes for the wine.

Her, Cregan, and Domeric all drank from their cups at the same time. They each drank deeply, but once the dry flavor of the wine hit her tongue, Lyara recoiled. She scrunched up her nose in distaste.

“This stuff is disgusting!” she remarked loudly, much to the delight of the nearby adults.

“It’s… interesting,” Dom said, sniffing his own wine. He frowned. “Not a good interesting.”

“I like it,” Cregan announced, setting down his goblet.

“It’s rancid,” Lyara maintained. She felt a bit sulky that something she had been waiting for for so long had turned out to be so disappointing. Wine truly was truly not all it cracked up to be.

She didn’t have too much time to sulk, though, because her father stood from his seat and got the attention of the room. Everyone’s eyes were on Rickon as he cleared his throat.

“A toast!” he shouted, raising his own cup so some ale splashed out from the side. “We have received a letter from King’s Landing; my daughter, Lyara, will marry the king’s eldest son, Aegon!”

A roar raised from the crowd, everyone cheering and drinking deeply. Lyara took another sip of her own wine but quickly put it back down.

“In just two years, we will see my daughter off to the capital to marry into the royal family! An honor to the North!” Rickon continued, his voice booming throughout the hall. More cheering erupted from the lords and ladies, and then a chant began.

“Stark! Stark! Stark!” the men cried out, raising their glasses and toasting to the news. Lyara felt her face heat, as many pairs of eyes were now on her. She sunk down in her chair a bit but managed a smile. Everyone was in a jovial mood, especially with the news, but Lyara also overheard some of the nobles discussing political matters of the south.

“Has the king named his son his heir yet?” one of the Tallharts was saying, leaning across the table in an attempt to whisper to a Hornwood, who only shrugged.

“Last we heard, it’s still his daughter,” the Hornwood replied, much to the confusion of the first man.

“Surely he won’t keep her, if this son is set to marry a Stark,” the Tallhard said.

“It’s a bloody disgrace,” the Hornwood man stated.

Lyara suddenly felt queasy, and she excused herself from the table. She didn’t want to think about something as droll as the succession, especially on a night of celebration such as tonight. Instead, she made her way to the clearing on the floor where pairs and groups had begun to dance.

It was rare to see singers and musicians in Winterfell, as they very rarely travelled so far North. With the harvest feast, Rickon had spared no expense in getting a few to come up and play. They were doing their jobs now, playing loud and rousing songs like Iron Lances or Fity-Four Tuns. Lyara took her turn on the dance floor and joined a group of similarly aged children in a group dance which was more or less just jumping in and out of a circle. One of the little girls involved was a familiar face, that of Robyn Mormont.

The girl of Bear Island had grown a lot since the Stark’s stay. She had gone from the toddling girl of three or four to a rambunctious seven year old. Her hair was cut choppily and hung around her face, and she was missing one of her bottom teeth. Once she caught Lyara’s eyes, she stomped over to the older girl.

“You’re going south?” she asked in lieu of a greeting, which made Lyara laugh and nod.

“It would seem so,” she replied. She hadn’t put too much thought into going to King’s Landing yet; it was still a couple years away, and the thought was a little too daunting for her. The Stark girl was excited by the prospect of seeing Aegon and his siblings again, but it would all be so different this time.

“I want to go with you,” Robyn demanded, folding her arms across her chest. There was a determined look on her young face, her brows pulled together. Lyara smiled down at her.

“You’ll be my first lady-in-waiting,” she guaranteed the younger girl, who thankfully looks placated at that.

“Good,” she decided. “Mama said that Jon and Olly and Osric will go on to have adventures one day, but that I would be married and have children.” She screwed up her face at that, obviously displeased. “I don’t want that. I want adventures too! So you’ll take me to King’s Landing.”

“I’ll take you,” Lyara agreed. “But for now, let us enjoy the North.”

Chapter Text

Driftmark was awash with whispers the day after the funeral. Not only had the incident with the children occurred, but Ser Laenor was also dead, his burned corpse nearly unidentifiable. Apparently there had been a fight with Ser Qarl Correy, who fled in the night. Laenor’s body was sent off to see just like his sister’s had been the day before. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys were beside themselves with grief after losing both of their children, and Rhaenys had pleaded with Daemon to allow at least one of their granddaughters to stay with them on High Tide. Daemon must have refused, because he and both his twins left along with Rhaenyra and her children, returning to Dragonstone.

The King left soon afterwards as well, but his wife and children remained for a few days more. Aemond’s condition was too perilous to allow him to travel even the short distance it was from High Tide back to King’s Landing. His eye needed to heal over more before he could make the trip, maester Kelvyn had said. So Queen Alicent stayed by her son’s side, day and night.

Most of the time, Aemond was too out of it to know much of what was going on, his head clouded by milk of the poppy to help numb the pain. He spent most of his time sleeping, and when he was awake he cycled between sobbing and being nearly catatonic. As much as Aegon hated the crying, it was much preferable to the lost, vacant look Aemond’s remaining eye had the rest of the time.

The maester checked on him multiple times a day, cleaning the wound and checking the stitches. He said it was healing nicely, and that Aemond would be ready to return to the capital soon, but Alicent still fretted.

Aegon and Helaena were left to their own devices while at High Tide. The Velaryons were understandably not up for being very good hosts, so it was up to entertain themselves. Helaena had her boring sewing to do, so Aegon was on his own most of the time. He begged wine off of the cooks and serving girls in the kitchens and wandered around the beach castle. The taste was sweet on his tongue, and he enjoyed the pleasant feeling it gave him. Best of all, it made all his problems seem a million miles away. Nothing mattered when he got deep into his cups, and he could almost forget that his uncle and his half-sister would one day probably kill him and his family.

Aegon did not like the after effects, of course. The nausea and headaches the day after, and he hated vomiting, but that was all an afterthought. Drinking was an easy way to pass the time and to dull his mind, and he sorely needed that.

The rest of the time, when he was sober, he was left bothering Helaena or going and visiting Sunfyre, who had taken tremendously to the freedom of being outside the dragonpit. His dragon soared above the ocean everyday, and sometimes Dreamfyre joined the golden dragon. Sunfyre had become a favorite sight of the smallfolk of High Tide, some of the servants whispered.

Vhagar was a constant in the sky. Once Aemond woke up the day after the funeral, the milk of the poppy had worn off and his eye had been throbbing with pain. Outside, Vhagar roared and took to the skies. She circled the island again and again, her giant form like a dark cloud.

Finally, after over a week spent at the Velaryon’s keep, Aemond was declared healthy enough for travel by the maester. What was left of the Targaryen family on High Tide made their return to King’s Landing.

The Red Keep did not stay empty for very long after the events at Driftmark. Queen Alicent was a force to be reckoned with, and it seemed even Viserys recognized it this time. Especially when news came that Rhaenyra had married Daemon on Dragonstone. Word was that she was already pregnant with his babe. It would certainly be seen as a slight against the Velaryons, since neither spouse waited out the formal mourning period before remarriage.

More pages and squires, as well as young ladies and maidens, made their way to the capital city. It was the queen’s hope that her children would find new companions and forge new alliances. That was how Aegon ended up face to face with a Riverlander.

Forrest Frey was tall and lanky, awkward in the way that young men his age were. He had dark hair and even darker, hooded eyes. His nose was prominent with the hint of a hook in it, but it sat nicely on his face. He was in King’s Landing to squire for a man of the City Watch, but it was likely that he would be knighted sooner rather than later.

“They call you Fool Frey?” Aegon asked, smirking at the older boy’s piss poor luck. “You must tell me what you did to incur that epithet.”

“That is a question better suited for your sister, prince Aegon,” Frey replied, scowling. He clearly resented being known in such a way.

His answer made Aegon pause and furrow his brow. “My sister?” he asked, disbelieving. Helaena was the kindest person Aegon knew; she would never call someone a fool, save for himself and Aemond when they were being fools. She would certainly never do so maliciously.

Frey only rolled his eyes, fed up with the younger boy’s antics. “I’m sure Princess Rhaenyra has regaled you all with how I so egregiously failed at my attempt for her hand and made a fool of myself in the process,” he said, looking at Aegon more expectedly now.

And, oh. That sister. It had been a decade since the crown princess’ disaster of a betrothal tour, yet clearly some wounds remained. The man in front of Aegon couldn’t be that much older than him, though, so it would have put him at a very young age when he asked for Rhaenyra’s hand. No wonder they called him a fool.

“No, it seems she forgot that one,” Aegon replied dryly, his voice taking on that certain tone it did when discussing his elder sister. Disdain, wariness. Whatever it was made Forrest look at him with new eyes.

Although he was making a gallant name for himself already, the Frey was not necessarily the most tactful man. “So the rumors are true, then?” he asked. “There is strife between factions of the royal family.”

“Say it louder, why don’t you. My sister and her new husband didn’t hear you on Dragonstone,” Aegon muttered in response.

“Just trying to hedge my bets, my prince,” Forrest said. And oh, how Aegon hated these games.

As far as anyone knew, the house of the dragon was as strong as ever. They still had their dragons to enforce their rule, and Viserys had his heir and more than one spare. On the surface, the Targaryens were doing fine, but anyone could see the turmoil boiling underneath if they looked hard enough. It was only a matter of time before it all boiled over. What would happen if both sides had dragons? Aegon wondered idly.

“Let me know what you’ve figured that out,” Aegon remarked before turning on his heel and leaving. He was certain he would be seeing more of Forrest Frey around, and he didn’t find himself minding too much. He was older than the prince, so he wouldn’t be as malleable as Aegon’s dumb nephews. Still, he could prove interesting.

Aegon walked to the Tower of the Hand and took a moment to dread all the steps he needed to go up. He hated this stupid tower, but unfortunately the man he sought was at the top of it.

It was known that King Viserys was a man fond of familiarity, so when he was tasked with naming a new Hand of the King, he simply chose the one he had dismissed before. So the Tower of the Hand was once again draped in green and silver, and Otto Hightower was once again occupying it.

Aegon had come to an unfortunate conclusion on Driftmark. Whether they liked it or not, he and his siblings would be forced into this political game the nobles loved to play. His only choice was to submit himself to the hands of his grandsire, to allow Otto the opportunity to mold him into something resembling a king.

“Grandfather,” Aegon greeted, and the man looked up. There was a look of interest in his eyes.

“Aegon,” Otto replied, and then beckoned the boy to come in. Aegon closed the door behind him. “Your lessons are done for the day, are they not? Your mother tells me you often take a ride on your dragon afterwards.”

The prince tried not to squirm at that; he disliked that his mother and grandfather were discussing him and his habits. Still, he pushed on and nodded. Otto had sat back down at his desk, peering at the papers in front of him.

“They are, and I do,” he agreed. “But, grandfather…” Otto looked up again, looking curiously at his grandson. Aegon steeled himself to the torture he was about to put himself through. “I am seeking extra lessons. From you.” When Otto did not say anything, Aegon continued. “Teach me to be king.”

Otto’s responding grin was something sly and pleased. He quickly hid it, his face going blank. “This is certainly a change of attitude, as far as I know. What has caused this?”

Bile rose in the back of Aegon’s throat as he remembered all the blood pouring from Aemond’s eye just a few weeks ago. Vhagar had kicked up a fit at her new rider’s condition, roaring and thrashing. The she-dragon had not taken well to the dragonpit at first, and she had flown overhead for days. The smallfolk took it as an omen, but Aegon knew that she was just mourning the little boy who lost his eye.

“Aemond,” he simply replied.

A solemn look took over Otto’s face. “Take a seat.”

The following hour was painstakingly boring, and on top of that, Otto Hightower was not the kindest of teachers. His anger was cold, but he grew aggravated with each wrong answer Aegon provided. They discussed issues smaller houses had raised with the king, land disputes and unpaid taxes to the crown.

“Lord Blount has accused a local whorehouse of giving his heir the pox,” Otto laid out another issue for Aegon to tackle. “The master of the house is arguing that Ser Warrick came into the establishment with pox already; they have also sent a letter detailing the exact damages done by the pox, as well as evidence of a large sum owed by Ser Warrick to the establishment. Now, who do we side with? Remember, the Blounts pay their taxes directly to the crown.”

“So does the whorehouse,” Aegon pointed out and felt quite clever for doing so. His grandsire merely hmm’d and gestured for him to continue. “It would be difficult for us to tell who had the pox first, if both sides are pointing fingers at each other. Are the Blounts a poor family? This could be a ploy to get out of the debt.”

Otto raised one eyebrow at his grandson. “The Blounts have no debts to the crown directly and they pay their taxes on time, but their gold is not infinite, it is true. They are among the poorer of the region’s houses.”

“I would demand that House Blount pay their debt, and that debt be in turn used to pay for the damages done due to the pox-ridden whores,” Aegon concluded. His grandsire scratched something onto a piece of parchment and then looked up at him. His dark eyes peered at Aegon, assessing him.

“That would be seen as us favoring a whorehouse above a loyal vassal. It would please the whores, no doubt, but enrage the Blounts,” Otto explained. Aegon felt a bit defeated at that. Were there no right answers in this game? “You must think of the issue from all angles, Aegon, lest you make too rash of a choice.”

Aegon felt like this all angles thing heavily benefitted the nobility above the smallfolk, but he held his tongue. The noble houses were key to the political balance of the realm. His grandsire had made it clear that they would need the support of many houses to win the Iron Throne against Rhaenyra.

“Your mother did good work, setting up the betrothal between you and that Stark girl. The North is loyal, and they will fight in your name, if we play our cards right,” Otto remarked.

Aegon wanted to be upset that his marriage would be nothing but a political maneuver, but the truth was that he had little in the way of good examples. His own parents were hardly a paragon of a healthy marriage; Rhaenyra and Laenor, too, had been a political match, and they ended up with three bastards and one spouse dead. Aegon thought that his marriage could be different, but it wasn’t shaping up to be that way. It was also difficult for his mind to wrap around the fact that this political pawn was the same girl he’d been writing letters to for years.

“I will try to do so, grandfather. Thank you,” Aegon responded, standing up from his chair and stretching. He wasn’t used to so much sitting around. Otto had already gone back to shuffling through papers and looking at letters. There was clearly no need for Aegon to linger.

The prince headed back down the spiralling staircase. The stairwell was dark, lit only by sparse torches on the wall; the sun had gone down not too long ago, the remnants of it still lingering on the horizon.

Aegon had a certain destination in mind as he made his way out of the Tower of the Hand: a certain tavern that didn’t look too closely at his age or his Targaryen features, as long as he had the coin to pay. He usually got a couple pints deep before Cole or whichever one of the Cargyll twins that hadn’t gone with Rhaenyra found him and dragged him back to the Red Keep.

This was a habit that existed before the events of Driftmark, but that whole catastrophe certainly hadn’t helped things. Aegon was drinking more than ever, anything he could get his hands on. His mind felt so cluttered and chaotic when he was sober. When he was drunk, he felt more loose and able to think clearly. For a bit, anyway, but then he usually gets too drunk and things get blurry.

Alcohol was everywhere in King’s Landing. There was plenty of beer and ale to be had at feasts and in taverns all across the city. Liquor from the Free Cities made their way to the capital as well, rum and brandy and gin. Not to mention the wine. Wine flowed endlessly throughout the realm. Nobles and smallfolk alike drank all different types, and each kingdom seemed to have their own speciality wines that they loved to boast and share. It was served at every occasion, and even his mother was known to indulge in a goblet or two. Children were given watered down wine, and boiled wine was used to clean wounds. How could something like that pose a problem?

So Aegon did not view his habit as an issue. Who cared that he spent a few nights getting drunk? Perhaps he would even go into one of those brothels he had seen leading down the Street of Silk…

Deep in his thoughts, Aegon did not notice where his feet were taking him. He ended up back in his family’s wing of the castle, but it wasn’t his room he was standing in front of. It was Aemond’s.

The weeks since Driftmark had been difficult for Aemond, obviously. He spent the first few days after the accident asleep off milk of the poppy. When he was awake, his head was still in the clouds. It was in that condition that they moved him from Lord Corlys’ castle back to the Red Keep. Maester Mellos took over care of the prince, replacing his bandages and making sure the wound was clean.

Aemond’s eye remained a grievous sight for quite a while. The flesh was pink and splotchy from blood, and the swelling had yet to completely subside. It remained puffed up around the suture where his eye had been. The scar that stupid little whelp left on Aegon’s brother’s face went from the hollow of his right cheek, split his brow in two, and ended halfway up his forehead. It was a deep cut, and infection was a constant concern.

Despite all of that, though, Aemond seemed to be healing steadily. Maester Mellos told him that he would need to get used to living with just one eye, that his vision would never be the same, and that there was a chance that he would not be able to wield a blade again. Aegon snorted at the thought. Aemond was the most stubborn person he knew, and he loved swordplay. If he wanted to use a sword again, he would. Aegon had no doubt about it.

He could hear a voice coming from Aemond’s room. That night seemed like it was a rough one for his little brother. Pain still overtook him sometimes, his eye throbbing. Perhaps it was Mellos, giving him a dose of the poppy to relieve him.

As Aegon crept closer, though, he saw that that was not the case. It was not Mellos in the room with Aemond, but instead it was a friend of Aemond’s. The Bulwer boy- Wyott. He was sitting cross-legged on Aemond’s bed, a big book open in front of him. Aegon hovered in the doorway to hear what the boy was saying.

“-and he had a staff with blades on both ends, so he could chop down men two at a time!” Wyott was saying, pointing at the book. Even from a distance, Aegon knew that it was a book of stories that their mother used to read to them from. It was large and the pages were illuminated with drawings done in beautiful colors. “Symeon Star-Eyes, they called him, and he didn’t have either of his eyes!”

Aegon knew of the story, vaguely. He had heard the songs during feasts and in the taverns, as it was a rousing tune. Symeon Star-Eyes was a knight, according to the songs, who had lost both of his eyes and replaced them with sapphires. He travelled all over the realm, before the seven kingdoms were one, even up North to the Wall. Aegon was glad someone was telling the story to Aemond; he deserved to hear it.

He was about to turn and leave when a thin, wispy voice called out.

“Aegon…” Aemond called, looking at the doorway to see his older brother.

“What?” Wyott asked, whipping his head around to see Aegon as well. He smiled, obviously a bright and happy young boy. “Oh, hullo, prince Aegon!”

Aegon erased the worried look from his face and slunk into the room, his hands in his pockets. He grinned at the two boys, but it didn’t meet his eyes all the way. “Aemond, Wyott,” he greeted.

“I was just telling Aemond the story of-” Wyott began.

“Symeon Star-Eyes. I heard,” Aegon interrupted. He was at the side of the bed now, looking down at Aemond. He seemed smaller, there in the bed. His brother was always such a presence in the training yard, it was easy to forget his shorter stature, but here it was plain to see. Something tugged at Aegon’s gut. Aemond’s good eye peered up at him, a glossed over look in them from the milk of the poppy.

“Yeah!” Wyott replied. “I was telling him he could still be a knight!”

Aegon grinned at that, and it felt odd on his face. “Is that true, brother? Shall we get you a sapphire?”

It was somehow the wrong thing to say, or it came out wrong, or something, because Aemond looked away from his older brother, and his eyes began to turn red and glassy from barely held back tears. Aegon cursed himself, it was like he could not help but be a twat. Not knowing what else to do, he patted Aemond on the leg and made his leave.

The night was still young, and there was still plenty of opportunity for him to sneak out into the streets. He needed wine more than ever.

Despite the late hour, the streets of King’s Landing were still busy. The usual merchants that lined the streets during the day were replaced by those selling more seedy wares, along with those calling out which foods or drinks they were selling.

People bustled around, going about their lives without giving Aegon a second glance. The prince could easily slip in and out of the crowds, and he did so with practiced ease until he found the street he was looking for. Eel Alley, where one could find everything, from the nicest of taverns and inns to the absolute seediest. And the tavern Aegon was looking for was pretty damn seedy.

The place had no name that Aegon could discern. The sign hanging outside of it had been painted with a molar and a rooster, but the paint was faded and peeling in places. There were barely any torches lit, so it was dark and musty inside. But the ale was good, and the wine was even better, if you had the coin for it.

With his cloak still drawn up, Aegon approached the bar and asked the wench working for an entire bottle of a sweet Arbor red and a goblet. He paid and tipped her extra for the smile she gave him.

About half the tables in the place were occupied. Most people had their hoods up like Aegon, drinking alone or in pairs. There were one or two groups towards the back, not making too much noise now but would probably be quite rowdy later. Aegon was about to make his way to the corner of the tavern when a familiar head of hair stopped him. It was the same person he had met earlier in the castle- Forrest Frey.

The prince made eye contact just long enough to catch the older boy’s eye, which was a mistake. Both of them looked startled to see the other. Forrest reacted faster than Aegon, who was still looking to make his way to a secluded, dark corner, and he motioned the younger boy over.

“Bollocks,” Aegon muttered under his breath but began walking that way regardless.

Forrest had snatched up a table for two off the side of the bar, and he was nursing his own goblet of either ale or wine. He nodded to Aegon as the prince arrived, then looked at the seat across from him for Aegon to sit. “Well met.”

Aegon returned Forrest’s nod with one of his own, taking a seat. He uncorked his wine and poured himself a healthy glass.

“Getting to know the capital night life already, eh, Frey?” Aegon asked over the rim of his goblet. The edges of Forrest’s lips quirked up, but otherwise he did not respond.

“I could ask the same of you, my prince,” Forrest answered, and immediately Aegon shushed him, looking around paranoid. He didn’t want anyone over hearing anything and looking too closely at him.

“No wonder they call you a fool,” Aegon remarked meanly. The Frey man bristled at that, and then he rolled his eyes.

“You will have to forgive me,” he responded, unmoved. Aegon merely waved his hand.

“What are you doing in such an establishment?” he asked instead. Forrest obviously became more guarded at that. Mistrustful, this one was, and with no luck hiding his emotions on his face. “Relax, Frey. I’m here, too, aren’t I?”

Forrest’s hackles lowered a bit at that, and he took a deep breath and nodded. “Just here to drink, same as you.”

The pair sat in silence for a while, each nursing their own goblets of wine. The tavern was loud around them, scores of smallfolk all drinking and talking and laughing. It was a pleasant sight, and it, along with the wine, dulled Aegon’s nerves.

“You never did tell me why they call you Fool,” he said after a long stretch of silence. Forrest rolled his eyes, but he ultimately acquiesced.

“When your sister,” he began.

“Half-sister,” Aegon interrupted, just to be an ass. Forrest glowered at him, and the prince only smirks in return.

“When your half-sister came to the Riverlands, I made the mistake of brazenly asking for her hand,” the Frey man continued. “The princess laughed at me, called me a fool, and said that if she wanted a child to marry, she would simply wed her younger brother.”

“How old were you?” Aegon asked.

“Eight. The nickname of ‘Fool’ just happened to catch on among the men at the Twins,” Forrest said, shrugging. Outwardly, he did not seem very bothered by the nickname, but Aegon could tell that something about it rankled him. Perhaps it was the slightest downturn of his lips when he mentioned the nickname.

“It seems we both dodged a blow there,” Aegon joked, and he raised his goblet for Forrest to toast with him. The older boy did so, and they both drank deeply.

After that, conversation came more easily between them. Forrest had a dry sort of humor to him, understated but absolutely biting. Aegon found himself enjoying his time with the Riverlander. By the time Ser Cole came and fetched Aegon, he and Forrest were both piss drunk and laughing uncontrollably. The knight ended up having to haul them both back to the castle.