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Chapter Text

Rhea Royce was certain she would despise the child. 

She lay nude on the bed, drenched in the sweat of labor as the sun rose over the cold mountains. After thirteen hours and countless curses, the lady of Runestone had at last brought forth her child into the world. 

It screamed instantly– a good sign, maester Rhys had said. Rhea could hardly look at the squalling infant as she collapsed against the bed, her body aching all over. 

The maester bustled forward, wrapping the babe in warm blankets before placing it into her arms. “A girl, my lady,” he beamed. “Healthy as can be.”

R hea stared at the tiny face, scrunched and red. Her first instinct was to push the child away, as if ridding herself of it would free her from her husband at last, to ignore whatever traits he had passed down. 

But Daemon had not cursed this child. 

She had a thick patch of brown hair– Rhea almost laughed at how dull it was, and how happy that made her. This was no pureblooded Valyrian babe. This was a child of the Vale. 

Her cries quieted as she stared up at her mother, her tiny fists waving weakly around in the air. Rhea felt something tug at her– an ache that was not painful, but rather a tether that pulled at her chest. 

This was the babe she had carried for nine months, who had changed her body irreversibly. Her body had not been her own– was it ever? – but even now, seeing this child, Rhea wondered if some part of her had carried her daughter her entire life. 

She traced her finger against the child’s cheek, marveling at the softness. “You are mine,” she said, almost incredulously. A declaration to the gods, or perhaps her husband who hadn’t bothered to show up. 

For all that Daemon had taken from her, this child was hers to keep. 

“What will you call her, my lady?” Rhys said quietly. 

Rhea didn’t answer immediately, instead silently running her fingers over the patch of downy hair on the babe’s head. She had briefly considered Valyrian names, but none had suited her tastes. The Vale was her home, the windswept mountains, the vast cliffs. Not that blackened island to the south, or the ruins of Old Valyria.  

“Carys,” she murmured. “She shall be called Carys.”

 Rhys nodded approvingly, scribbling the name into his records. Rhea paid him no mind. The world around her had ceased to exist, her gaze only focused on the tiny girl in her arms. 

This was her daughter. Her future made certain. Her flesh and blood. 

Rhea lifted the child a bit higher, gently kissing her brow. For the first time in months, she felt no anger, no bitterness. 

“We will endure,” she whispered, her voice steady as stone. “Together.”

She almost believed it.

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It was a month until Daemon came to visit the child. 

A raven had been sent soon after her labours, but Rhea had yet to hear from him. 

It was no matter. The first few weeks of motherhood had changed her drastically; Rhea refused to allow anyone to nurse Carys but her, and her nights were spent pacing her chambers with the babe in her arms. Sleeplessness suited her, she thought. It gave her an odd sharpness, a clarity she hadn’t felt in years. 

Daemon had arrived at daybreak, the great wings of the Red Wyrm beating down on Runestone. Rhea had seen the shadows descend on the keep even before he had landed, and had cringed at the sight of her husband. 

Rhea had remained in her chambers when a servant came to announce his arrival. She had not bothered to greet him– why should she? The prince had not bothered to meet his child, instead galavanting around Westeros without a single care. 

Instead, she finished nursing, adjusted her gown, and settled herself before the hearth, Carys nestled securely in her arms. 

Daemon strode in, harshly pushing the door open, his great black cloak flaring around him like some dark phantom. His silver hair glinted in the light, his eyes narrowed as he observed the mother of his child. He looks more like a conqueror than a father. 

“So,” Rhea said dryly. “You’ve finally come.”

He made no move to inspect the child closely, instead leaning back against the mantle, his expression stony. Rhea wondered how she had ever thought this would be a happy marriage, when his demeanor towards her– and most other people– was 

“I always intended to,” Daemon shot back. “She is my child, afterall.”

Rhea just sighed. She was too tired to fight with him, instead adjusting her hold on Carys, the babe cooing softly against her chest. “I see your intentions are as timely as ever.”

Daemon just snorted, flicking his hair over his shoulder. He cast his gaze around the room, his eyes flicking over the ornate tapestries on the walls and the carved posts of her bed frame. “A warm welcome as ever, wife.”

Rhea ignored his use of the word ‘wife’ as though it were an insult. For a moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire. 

Memories of their union flooded her. Their wedding had been a lukewarm affair– neither party had been interested at all, and the only person excited about the marriage had been his aging grandmother, the good queen Alysanne. 

If the wedding had been lukewarm, the wedding night had been even less exciting. Rhea had laid flat on her back for what had seemed like eternity, staring up at the ceiling as Daemon rutted against her for a few moments before collapsing. It had been another month before she had discovered she was pregnant, and by then the couple had gone to their respective domains. 

“You’re yet to even look at her,” Rhea said finally. “Are you afraid she might resemble me too much for your liking?”

Daemon’s smirk faltered. He straightened, pushing off the mantle and stepping closer. “Don’t be impossible.” He stopped a pace away, his eyes finally falling to the child in her arms. His expression was unreadable, a mix of curiosity and something Rhea couldn’t quite place. 

“She has your hair,” Daemon noted, his voice quiet now. “And my eyes.”

“You say that like it means something to you.” 

“It does,” her husband retorted. “She’s my blood.”

“Your blood, ” Rhea repeated, incredulous now. “And yet it took you a month to see her. Why?”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against Carys’ cheek. He lingered for a moment longer before pulling back, his eyes flicking up to Rhea’s face. “We’ll be expected to live at King’s Landing. My grandmother wishes to meet the child.”

Rhea snorted softly, shifting Carys in her arms. “There is no way in the seven hells that my child will live with you in King’s Landing.” She looked down at Carys, gently stroking her hair. “And if Alysanne wishes to see her, she may come to Runestone at her pleasure.”

His expression darkened. “She’s my daughter. A princess of the realm- not some Vale-born lady tied to a backwater keep.”

Rhea’s grip tightened on her daughter protectively. “She may be your daughter by blood, but she is mine in every other way. I will not allow her to suffer under the yolk of that court of vipers, in that stinking shit-hole of a city.”

Daemon scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. Rhea wanted to strike that self-important expression off his face. “You’d deny her what’s rightfully hers? Her place at court, her title, her station?”

“I’d deny her the poison of living with you ,” she hissed back. “King’s Landing is no place for a child, certainly not my child.”

“You think you can simply decide her fate without me?”

“She’s barely a month old, and this is the first time you’ve laid eyes on her.” Rhea wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “So yes, I think I can.”

“She’s a princess,” Daemon pressed, his voice rising. “She deserves more than this god-forsaken rock.”

“She is a Royce,” Rhea said matter-of-factly. “She will know her mother’s people, and understand her own worth. Not as a pawn in your plots against Viserys.”

For a moment, they stared at each other, the firelight casting sharp shadows on their faces. Daemon took a step back, smirking slightly. “You think you’ve won, but this isn’t over.”

Rhea met his gaze unyieldingly. “You’re mistaken, husband. It is over.” She held his gaze for a moment longer before turning back to Carys. “If Queen Alysanne wishes to see her grandchild, she may visit Runestone at her pleasure. But you will not take her to King’s Landing, nor anywhere else.”

Daemon’s smirk faltered, his jaw tightening as his hands balled into fists. He opened his mouth as though to argue but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he turned abruptly, the edge of his cloak snapping as he moved toward the door.

“This isn’t the end of it, Rhea,” he called over his shoulder, his tone laced with anger and frustration.

Without looking at him, Rhea adjusted Carys in her arms, brushing her lips against the soft brown curls on her daughter’s head. “Goodbye, husband,” she said dismissively, her voice as cold as the Vale’s winds.

Daemon stormed out, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind him, leaving Rhea and Carys alone once more. For a moment, the room was silent except for the crackling of the fire.

Rhea sighed, the tension in her shoulders slowly easing. She looked down at her daughter, her expression softening. “Don’t fret, my sweet girl,” she murmured. “You’ll grow up strong and proud, far away from his chaos.”

Outside, the wind howled, carrying Daemon’s frustration away as he mounted Caraxes and took to the skies.

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Alysanne had arrived within the fortnight. She brought no procession with her, no fanfare, and no pomp– only her silver dragon. 

Silverwing landed gracefully in the courtyard, her wings beating gently as she descended onto the stones. Despite her advanced age, the Good Queen dismounted with ease. Her vivid blue eyes were warm as she looked around, her hair windswept from her journey.

Rhea met her in the courtyard of Runestone, dressed in her finest garments of deep blue and bronze. Gerold stood close behind, the retainer of Royce guards behind him. 

“Lady Rhea,” Alysanne greeted her. Rhea had always liked the queen, who was more kind in nature than the other members of her house. After having lost so many children, Alysanne had resorted herself to a life of quiet solitude, wishing to spend her winter years in peace. 

“Your Grace.” Rhea curtseyed smoothly. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to Runestone.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” The queen looked around, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Where is my great-granddaughter?”

Rhea hesitated for a moment, before gesturing to the keep behind her. “Come. I’ll take you to her.”

The nursery was a cozy room at the top of the main tower, not far from Rhea’s own chambers. The walls had been painted a soft blue, and in the center of the room was a cradle carved from the trunk of a great oak tree. Carys was swaddled in soft linens, sleeping peacefully even as Rhea and the queen came to look over her. 

“She’s beautiful,” Alysanne whispered, gently stroking her round cheeks. “A princess, through and through.”

Rhea felt a flare of pride run through her. “It pleases me to hear your Grace say that.”

Alysanne didn’t look up, her attention focused wholly on Carys. “I expect Daemon has come to see his daughter?”

“He was here briefly.” Rhea said nothing more– there was no reason to. Alysanne knew of her grandson’s behavior, had seen it grow and shift during his childhood. Rhea had no doubt that she loved her kin, but even so, Daemon was the dark mark of his generation.

“I was told you refused to allow the child to live at King’s Landing.” The queen looked at her at long last, her blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”

Rhea swallowed awkwardly. She couldn’t turn away from the queen’s sharp gaze, instead nervously picking at her fingers behind her back. “The Red Keep is no place for a child,” she said at last. “I want my daughter to know her mother’s family. To live among her people for a time.”

Alysanne studied Rhea for a long moment, her gaze piercing. Rhea resisted the urge to shrink under it. 

Finally, the queen nodded, though her expression remained guarded.

"It is not an easy decision, to keep her from her father’s house," Alysanne said evenly, her tone more contemplative than accusatory. "But I understand your reasoning. The Red Keep has its own... challenges."

Rhea felt a flicker of relief. "It is not just the court, Your Grace. It is him." She hesitated, unsure if she should continue, but Alysanne’s silence encouraged her. "Daemon may love his daughter in his own way, but he is not suited to be a constant presence in her life. His restlessness, his ambitions—they are not what she needs."

Alysanne sighed deeply, her gaze returning to Carys. "Daemon has always been a difficult one to guide. I love him dearly, but even I cannot deny his flaws. Still, Rhea, you must tread carefully. He will not take kindly to feeling excluded from her life."

Rhea bristled slightly, her pride prickling. "He has excluded himself, Your Grace. He came and went without so much as holding her. A month passed before he even saw her. What kind of father is that?"

Alysanne frowned, her expression softening. "I do not defend his actions. But I know my grandson well enough to say this—he will not relinquish his claim on her so easily. The blood of the dragon runs through him, as it does through her. To Daemon, she is not just his daughter; she is his legacy."

"She is my daughter, and I will not let her be used."

The queen’s eyes glimmered with a hint of approval, though her expression remained grave. "Spoken like a true lady of the Vale. Your strength will serve you well, Rhea, but strength alone may not be enough. You will need wisdom, and perhaps a bit of cunning."

Rhea met her gaze steadily. "I will do whatever it takes to protect her."

Alysanne inclined her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I do not doubt it. But remember, Rhea, blood ties are not so easily severed. There will come a time when Daemon’s fire burns too close to her. When that time comes, you must be ready."

Rhea said nothing, her heart heavy with the weight of the queen’s words. She watched as Alysanne leaned over the cradle once more, her hand resting gently on Carys’ tiny fist.

"She is strong, this one," Alysanne murmured, her voice almost wistful. "I can feel it. Whatever path she walks, it will not be an ordinary one."

For a moment, the room was quiet save for the crackling of the hearth. Rhea’s pride hardened further as she watched the queen, a woman who had lived through storms greater than any she could imagine, gazing lovingly at her child.

"I will raise her to meet whatever challenges come her way," Rhea said softly.

Alysanne straightened, her smile faint but genuine. "Of that, I have no doubt."

When the queen departed later that day, flying away on Silverwing as silently as she had arrived, Rhea stood in the courtyard, Carys in her arms, and watched her vanish into the horizon. The queen’s words echoed in her mind, a warning and a blessing both.

The path ahead was uncertain, but Rhea Royce had never been one to shy away from a fight. Not for her family. Not for her daughter. Not for the Vale.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2 

“You’re gripping the reins too tightly again.” 

A bitter wind swept through the rocky hills as Rhea guided her horse up the narrow trail, deftly maneuvering through the crags. Carys rose behind her mother, her cheeks red from the cold. 

Their morning ride had taken them miles beyond Runestone into the surrounding hills. Carys had chosen her favorite horse, a little chestnut gelding who often spooked at his own shadow, but she loved him nonetheless. 

“I’m trying,” she retorted hotly, relaxing her hands. “He’s just nervous, that’s all.” Carys leaned down to stroke his neck, trying to ignore the numbing cold that had seeped into her limbs. 

“Because you’re making him nervous.” Rhea looked back at her daughter, her lips pinched in a tight line. “Horses feed on our energy. It doesn’t help that you chose the most frightened one, either.”

Carys just sighed. Too often would her mother critique her riding– a skill she had never fully developed. She felt too awkward on a horse, too gangly and tall. Her limbs seemed to bounce everywhere, and it didn’t help that at even twelve years of age, Carys was taller than most of the other girls her age. 

Despite her unease at riding, Carys craved any time she could spend with her mother. Too often was Lady Royce caught in dealing with matters of Runestone, and Carys was often left to her own devices, wandering the halls like some lonely ghost. 

The days had felt heavier recently. It was as though a weight pressed down on her chest, pressing any joy for life out of her. The hours stretched endlessly, each one identical to the last. Her lessons with her septa offered little reprieve– her needlework, her numbers, even the books she read all seemed to blur in her mind, offering no source of joy. 

Runestone was a lonely place for a child. 

There were no children her age, no friends to confide in. Sometimes, Carys dreamed of King’s Landing. The shining gem of Westeros, a city with endless possibilities. She imagined walking through the vast markets, seeing the goods and jewels from across the Narrow Sea. Carys liked to pretend she was living the life of a true princess, spending time at court with her cousins and living in harmony for the rest of her days, with a kind husband and beautiful children. 

She didn’t have the words to explain what she felt— how could she? Carys didn’t fully understand it herself. Only that she wanted more. All the joy she had found in the little things- smelling fresh bread from the kitchens, hearing Gerold play his lute, or the warmth of the sun on her face during a warm day offered her no pleasure. 

Ahead, her mother’s voice broke through her reverie, her long braid shaking behind her as the trail widened into a plateau. “You cannot just coddle a horse into bravery, Carys. You need a strong and steady hand.”

Carys bit her tongue. “I don’t coddle him,” she shot back. She glanced down at her horse, who flicked his ears nervously. “I just don’t want him to be scared.”

Rhea’s words stung, but Carys saw the truth in them. She was a woman who believed in strength above all, of cutting your own path through the world. But Carys didn’t feel strong. She felt as brittle as glass, shaking against the cold wind. 

Her mother dismounted gracefully, pulling her grey cloak tighter around her. “Fear is natural,” she said, more gently now. “But you cannot let it control you. Or him. The world doesn’t stop for nerves.”

Carys clumsily dismounted, her legs numb from the cold. She scowled as she brushed dirt off her skirt. “Not everything needs to be a lesson.”

Rhea just laughed lightly, turning her face towards the warm sun. “Life is nothing but lessons, my girl. Best you learn them early.”

Carys fell silent, walking over to stand beside her mother. The Vale stretched out before them, an endless sea of emerald grass. The rugged hills and ancient woods were bathed in warm light, finally finding reprieve from the endless winter. Runestone stood tall and proud in the distance, its towers a stark contrast against the sky. 

Her mother stood behind her, squeezing her shoulders gently. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Rhea said softly. 

Carys nodded, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to agree. The Vale was beautiful– harsh and cold, and its beauty felt distant. It was something she could never touch, never claim as her own. 

Rhea’s hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment longer before she stepped away, her bronze eyes clear. Carys always thought her mother was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, with her dark brown hair, round face, and shining eyes. Lady Rhea was the heart and soul of Runestone, and the dream of any young lord– if she had remained unmarried, that is. 

Carys ignored the thoughts of her father that rose in her mind. She had not seen Daemon in a long while– the Rogue Prince preferred to spend his days in the capital, far away from the home of his daughter. She wondered if her father’s dislike of her had anything to do with the fact that Carys did not look like him in any way but her eyes. Would he love her more if she was a “pure” Valyrian girl?

“You’re quiet today,” her mother noted, raising a slight brow. 

Carys just shook her head. “I’m just thinking,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes trained on the horizon. 

Rhea didn’t need any more information. Daemon had been a dark cloud over their family for years, always lingering within reach and yet never truly disappearing. His only acknowledgement of Carys as his daughter was the name and title he had given her at birth. No letters, no visits, no gestures of affection. 

These feelings of doubt rose in Carys occasionally, particularly surrounding the event of her name day. In three days time, she would turn ten and three, and like every year before there would be no sign of him. 

Carys had long ago stopped expecting anything from her father, but the ache of his absence still lingered. She wondered if he even remembered her, or how old she was, or even what she looked like. 

“Thinking too much again,” her mother teased, pulling Carys from her thoughts. 

“I suppose,” Carys said lightly. Strands of dark brown hair had begun to fall from her braid, whipping across her face in the wind. She turned to her mother, hesitating for a moment, before opening her mouth to speak. “Will father ever come back?”

Rhea sucked in a breath. Carys couldn’t blame her for being surprised. They didn’t discuss him often– even saying his name felt like a disturbance of the peace. 

Her mother’s expression softened, but something flickered in her bronze eyes that Rhea couldn’t quite place. “Daemon…” she hesitated, her voice trailing off. “Your father is a man who follows his own whims. He doesn’t look back.” 

As much as Rhea tried to comfort her, Carys wasn’t sure it was enough. She wanted to believe her mother, to trust her wisdom, but Daemon’s absence was a wound that would never heal. 

“But doesn’t everyone look back at some point?” Carys asked. Her violet eyes shifted towards Runestone, the glint of the towers catching her gaze. “Doesn’t everyone have regrets?”

Rhea shook her head sadly. “Some do. But Daemon… regret isn’t a burden he carries.”

Carys frowned at that. How do people not feel guilt for the terrible things they’ve done? “Maybe he just doesn’t know how.”

Rhea reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before cupping Carys’ cheek. “Perhaps,” she said gently. “But that doesn’t mean you should spend your life waiting for him. Your life, your happiness- that’s what matters. Not his.” 

She knew Rhea was right, but they didn’t do much to soothe the knot in her chest. Carys gave a small nod, smiling slightly so her mother would believe everything was alright. 

“Shall we head back?” Rhea smiled. “We can race back to Runestone– I’ll let you get a headstart.”

Carys laughed at that. For the first time all morning, she finally felt something similar to happiness bloom in her chest, chasing away any thoughts of Daemon. 

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Her name day was a modest affair, consisting of some of her elder Royce cousins, Gerold and his wife, and her mother.

Nonetheless, Carys was content. There were very few times that her family was able to gather at once, and seeing them all at the great table filled her with joy. 

She had dressed well for the occasion, choosing a gown of flowing purple silk to match her eyes. The fabric shimmered with every step, and its square neckline and long, loose sleeves gave her the air of a true lady– no, a princess. Her hair was pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck, held in place with pearl-tipped pins.

Her mother sat at the head of the table, dressed in a gown of deep blue. Carys was happy to see that Rhea was smiling– a rare sight these days– as she listened to cousin Jon recount his scuffle with pirates in the Narrow Sea during his voyage to Braavos.

“You should have seen their ship,” he guffawed, wine cup in hand as he leaned back in his chair. “Largest fucking boat I’ve ever seen–”

“Language,” Rhea admonished him with a mock-stern glance, though the corners of her mouth flicked up into a smile. Carys just giggled as she listened to Jon’s story, her eyes bright from the small cup of ale Rhea had allowed her to have. 

“Right, right, sorry,” Jon said, not sounding sorry at all. “Like I was saying, it was the largest boat I’ve ever seen. I thought we were going to be fish food by the time the sun rose.”

Though Jon’s stories were often exaggerated, Carys loved the way he told them. He had a way of drawing people in, making even the dullest details sound like the stuff of legends

Jon, who was ten years older than Carys, managed the Royce family’s affairs in Gulltown. Their ports flourished under his leadership, bringing in more profit than they had ever seen before. He often allowed Carys to look over the paperwork, letting her understand the business and the numbers. 

She liked Jon well enough, but one had to be in a certain mood to deal with his boisterous manner. He was a broad man with a loud voice and an ego that demanded he be the center of the room. 

He caught her eye and grinned. “And here I’d thought you’d be too serious for all this pirate talk, cousin. Tell me, Carys, do you think you could lead a ship of cutthroats and scoundrels?”

“I don’t think I’d ever want to,” Carys muttered into her cup. 

“Smart girl.” Gerold cocked his head toward his nephew, his brown eyes narrowed slightly. Carys never got the feeling that the pair had never gotten along well, but put aside their differences for appearances.  

“So what did you do?” Gerold pressed.

“What did I do?” Jon repeated, his smile widening as if he had just caught a fish in a trap. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “Well, uncle, you’ll be pleased to know that I handled the situation with all the grace expected of our house.”

Gerold snorted. “You mean you didn’t insult their captain on sight?”

Jon feigned offense, clutching his chest. “You wound me,” he drawled, earning a giggle from Carys. “I may be a man of adventure, but I know when to rein it in. Most of the time.” 

“Go on, then,” Rhea cut in, clearly amused despite herself. “Tell us how you saved your ship from these pirates.”

Jon’s grin returned as he launched into his tale. “They were Tyroshi pirates, you see. All these big brutes with dyed hair and hideous earrings. Half the men on our ship were scared out of their wits, but when their captain appeared I waved the white flag and…” he paused for dramatic effect. “I invited them for dinner.”

Carys’ jaw fell open. “Dinner? Truly?” She knew Jon was bold, but not stupid.

“Truly!” He exclaimed. “Truly,” Jon said with a laugh. “Fed them like kings, poured them our best wine, and had them laughing at my jokes by the time the night was done. We struck a deal—no Royce ship would ever see their flag again, so long as we sent them a cask of Dornish red every year and kept the Crown’s ships out of their business.”

Gerold shook his head in disgust. “You bribed them with food and drink,” he accused Jon. “That’s hardly fair terms for a negotiation.”

“There’s an art to these things, uncle,” Jon admonished him. “You have to give people what they want to get what you need. A lesson I’m happy to tell people, if they ever choose to listen.”

Carys couldn’t help but laugh at his self-satisfied tone. “You make it sound so easy!”

“It is easy.” Jon ruffled her hair affectionately. “All you need is charm, wit, and a little bit of luck. Fortunately for me, I have all three.”

“And an ego the size of that Braavosi ship,” Rhea quipped, earning a round of laughter from the table. 

Jon raised his cup in salute. “True enough, dear aunt. But as they say, it’s not bragging if you can back it up.”

As the last of the dishes were cleared and the conversation softened to murmurs, Rhea rose from her seat, smoothing the folds of her blue gown. She rested a gentle hand on Carys’ shoulder, her touch warm. “It’s time for bed, my sweet.” 

Carys opened her mouth to argue, a dozen reasons to stay bubbling on her tongue, but the look in her mother’s eyes quieted her. Sighing, she pushed her chair back, accepting her fate. “Yes, mother,” she muttered. 

Jon raised his cup in salute. “Dream well tonight, cousin,” he called after her. “And happy name day.”

Yara, her old nursemaid, was waiting for her in her chamber. The bed had been made, and after Carys pulled on her nightgown, Yara tucked her in, smiling fondly.

Carys chuckled softly, her lips curving into a faint smile as her head sank deeper into the pillow. 

“I’m ten and three now,” she teased, a playful lilt in her voice. “You don’t have to tuck me in like a child anymore.”

“You’ll always be a little girl to me,” Yara replied warmly, brushing a stray strand of hair from 

Carys’ face. “I remember when you were just a babe, tugging at my skirts with those tiny hands of yours.”

Carys laughed. “That was so long ago, Yara. You make it sound as if I’m still in leading strings.”

“To me, it feels like just yesterday,” Yara said with a fond smile, tucking the blanket securely around Carys. “You’d always fight sleep. It wasn’t until I hummed one of those old tunes that you’d finally give in. Like magic, it was.”

The firelight cast a warm glow over the room as Yara leaned back, her work done. “Goodnight, my sweet girl,” she said softly, pressing a light kiss to Carys’ temple.

“Goodnight, Yara,” Carys whispered, her voice just a whisper.

The older woman smiled, lingering for a moment before quietly retreating to the door. The faint creak of the hinges and the soft click as it closed signaled her departure, leaving Carys alone in the gentle stillness of her chambers.

The echoes of Yara’s words and the soothing cadence of her voice carried Carys into her dreams, where the world stretched far beyond Runestone.

As she drifted off, her mind wandered to Jon’s story of pirates and narrow escapes. In her dreams, she was no longer sitting at the table listening to tales. She was soaring through the skies on dragonback, the wind rushing through her hair and the shimmering seas spread out beneath her like a great, glimmering map.

The dragon beneath her was as silver as the moon, its scales shimmering as they streaked across the sky. The Narrow Sea stretched endlessly before them, and Carys felt invincible, like a hero from the stories she loved so much.

In her dream, she commanded the skies, her voice ringing out like a song. The dragon roared in answer, and together they flew toward the horizon, leaving behind the worries of the waking world.

For a moment, she was truly free.

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Rhea was still in her study well past midnight, dreary-eyed and half awake as the moon shone through her window. An open decanter of wine sat in front of her, the majority of the contents already having found a way into her stomach. 

The castle was silent now. The laughter and chatter of earlier had faded into the stillness of night, leaving Rhea alone with the relentless tide of her memories. She traced the rim of her goblet absently, her thoughts drifting back thirteen years to the day Carys was born.

She could still see her—tiny, wrinkled, and red, a new and strange presence in Rhea’s life. In those early days, she had felt more fear than love, overwhelmed by the weight of motherhood. But now, Carys was everything. She couldn’t imagine a life without her daughter. It was as if her entire purpose had been to bring her into the world, regardless of her failed marriage.

Their daughter had grown up under the weight of their union– a princess by blood, but nothing more. She had inherited the Targaryen name, their vivid eyes, and yet Rhea wondered if Carys had ever inherited Daemon’s fire and passion. 

Guilt had consumed her in the first few years. Endless letters and pleas from the royal family had arrived at Runestone, asking Rhea to bring her daughter to court to be a proper princess– a proper Targaryen. 

She could never do it. 

Her own memories of court life were suffocating, enduring the sidelong glances the other ladies gave her when they thought she wasn’t looking. They had all hated her, for taking their precious prince, their darling Daemon. As if Rhea had wanted him in the first place. 

Rhea had no desire to see her daughter molded into one of them – a vapid, self-obsessed broodmare. No, Carys deserved better than that. She deserved to live free, to become someone strong and whole. Not a pawn to be used by her uncle and father. 

A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Rhea straightened, setting her goblet down as the door creaked open to reveal a servant, holding a scroll in his hands. 

“A raven just arrived from King’s Landing, my lady,” he said, stepping closer to place the message on the desk.

Her heart sank when she saw the royal sigil, stamped in black wax. Rhea furrowed her brow as she broke the seal and scanned the letter quickly, her eyes narrowing as she read. 

By royal decree, Carys was to travel to King’s Landing to serve as Princess Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting. 

honor, no doubt, but it felt like an arrow had lodged itself in her chest. Carys—her Carys—pulled from the safety of the Vale and thrust into the viper’s nest of court. 

“When did this arrive?” She said sharply. 

“Minutes ago, my lady.” The servant bowed nervously before scampering away, shutting the door behind him.

Rhea sank deeper into her chair. Her gaze lingered on the scroll, the weight of it all sinking onto her. 

How could they do this? They had no right to uproot her from her home, to force her into that cesspool. Her fingers curled into fists. She had spent thirteen years protecting her from that life, keeping her from the gilded cage of King’s Landing. 

But refusing a royal summons meant a charge of treachery– against both of them. 

Her thoughts churned as she looked out the window, her stomach rolling. What choice did she have? What mother would send her child into a pit of snakes?

Her throat tightened as she thought of Carys in the Red Keep, her dark brown hair illuminated by the candles, her sweet face catching the glow of the torches. 

No. If she had to send Carys, it would not be without preparation. She would ensure her daughter would be well-equipped to navigate the court, to protect herself from any who might do her harm. 

The thought steadied her, if only slightly. Rising from her chair, Rhea crossed to the window, the cool night air brushing her face. Somewhere, beneath this same sky, her daughter slept soundly, unaware of what awaited her.

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Yara had served the Royce family for six decades, and not once in her life had she met a child like Carys. 

The princess had always been a curious little thing, darting around the halls and gardens to find some excitement. Her inquisitive nature, however, was often dulled by her loneliness– there were very few children at Runestone, and Carys was often left alone. 

Yara, well into the winter of her life, tried her best to fill the void. She spent countless afternoons with Carys in the gardens, pointing out the names of flowers and telling folk tales from the Vale. On dreary days, they gossiped over needlework or sat by the hearth with a book in hand. In those moments, Yara had become more than just a maid or a caretaker– she had become a friend, which was what Carys needed the most. 

So when Lady Rhea summoned her to her study early in the morning after Carys’ name day, Yara’s heart sank at the news. 

“She can’t go to King’s Landing,” she protested. “Runestone is her home.”

“I know,” Rhea said heavily. Yara had taken care of Rhea as a babe, and her mother as well, nursing three generations of their family from infancy to womanhood. She had grown into a mother-figure for Rhea after the passing of her own mother, often providing advice– unsolicited, most times, but heeded nonetheless. “But there’s nothing to be done. I can’t ignore a royal decree.” 

Yara racked her mind for any possible solutions, for any way to keep their precious girl in the Vale. “Betroth her,” she said quickly. “To cousin Jon. Or any other Vale lord. Jeyne would approve of it, I’m sure.”

Rhea’s lips pressed into a thin line. “She’s a child , Yara. I will not marry her off like some broodmare.” 

The lady paused for a moment, leaning back against the heavy wood of her desk. “And even if that were to happen, I cannot be the one to arrange her marriage. Any choice of husband she may have falls under Viserys’ jurisdiction.”

Yara felt a bitter taste grow in her mouth. Silence grew between them, becoming heavier and heavier with each passing moment. She often wondered if Rhea regretted having only one child– or having any children at all. Rhea had always been abrasive, strong, and stoic,  and Yara often wondered how her union with the Rogue Prince had resulted in someone as sweet as their daughter.

“When does she leave?” the old maid asked at last. 

Rhea shook her head. Burying her face into her hands, she sat like that for a long while, her shoulders sagging with the weight of it all. 

“Within the fortnight,” she said at last, her voice hollow. “I’ve already decided I’m taking her to the capital myself. And then…” her voice petered off, her eyes flicking away in shame. The thought of returning home without Carys was too painful to finish aloud. 

Yara nodded slowly, looking past Rhea out the window where the early morning sun painted the hills in gold. She had spent her entire life in the Vale, born in a backwater village in the Fingers before leaving her brute of a husband and finding work with the Royces. The thought of Carys leaving Runestone, of leaving her , overwhelmed her. “Have you told her yet?”

“No,” Rhea mumbled. “I…” she looked desperately at Yara, her bronze eyes wide. “I can’t bring myself to do it.”

Yara reached across the desk, wrapping her weathered hand around Rhea’s. “Then let me do it,” she whispered softly. “When I wake her in the morning. It might be easier coming from me.”

The lady of Runestone nodded solemnly. Without another word, Yara pulled her into her arms, holding Rhea tightly. The two women stood there for a long while, until Yara was sure she could feel their hearts beating in the same rhythm. 

“She’ll be brave,” Yara murmured. “You know she will.”

Rhea pulled away from the embrace, wiping a tear from her cheek. “She’ll have to be,” she said shakily. “There’s no room for anything else in King’s Landing. 

Carys was already awake by the time Yara opened the chamber door, breathless from the climb up the stairs. At seven and five, she could hardly muster the strength to get out of bed, much less climb up five flights. 

Her heart swelled when she saw the girl reading in her bed, the blankets drawn up around her. Her hair had been unbound from its nightly braid, the dark strands strewn across her pillows. The candles on her bedside table had been relit, casting a faint orange glow across the bedspread.

“Yara!” Carys exclaimed happily, showing her the leatherbound book. “I found the End of the Tall Men – it was under my bed.”

Yara forced herself to laugh at that. Wringing her hands nervously, she sat on the edge of the bed, watching Carys as she pored over the pages of her book.. 

She loved the girl with all her heart. With no children or grandchildren to speak of, Yara had come to see Carys and her mother as her own family, nursing them as babes and ushering them into adulthood. The thought of Carys leaving Runestone cast a great shadow over her, and for a moment, Yara briefly considered not saying anything at all. 

As Carys continued reading, Yara took a good look at her face. She looked so much like her mother, having inherited her round face, olive skin, and long dark hair, but there were traces of her father in her, too. Her nose was sharp and stern, and her bright purple eyes were framed by thick lashes. 

Taking a deep breath, she took Carys’ hand, squeezing it gently. No time like now.  

“Princess, a message arrived from King’s Landing last night,” she began softly. 

That caught her attention. Carys set her book aside, fully acknowledging Yara now. “Is everything alright?”

No. No, it’s not. Yara shook her head, looking down at her lap. “Your uncle– the king,” she quickly corrected, “has summoned you. To be princess Rhaenyra’s lady in waiting.” 

Yara paused, waiting for the girl’s reaction. Carys’ eyes lit up, her face glowing with unrestrained joy. “Truly?” she gasped softly, sitting up straighter in bed. “The Red Keep? The court? I’ve always wanted to see it?”

Yara forced a smile, though her heart clenched. “Yes, my little princess,” she said, brushing a strand of hair away from Carys’ face. “It’s a great honor, to be sure.”

Carys looked away, chewing her lip nervously. Is she nervous at all about leaving? Yara wondered. No, of course she is. Runestone is her home.  

“What will I do?” She said suddenly, flopping back onto the pillows. “Will I need new clothes? Will I meet any dragons?” 

The old maid couldn’t help but smile– truly smile– at her excitement. “All in due time, dearest. There will be plenty of time for that in the coming days.” Pushing herself up off the bed, she held her hands out to the girl. “Now, come. Let's break our fast. There’s much to do, and little time to do it.” 

The girl nodded eagerly, her excitement bubbling up once more. As she and Yara departed the cold bedchamber, the old maid took her hand, squeezing it tightly. Yara had sworn years ago that she would protect the Royce women, and the fear that she may not be able to protect Carys from this overwhelmed her. 

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Her last morning in Runestone was dreary. A harsh storm had come in from the east, sweeping over the rocky crags and casting a torrent of rain on the land. 

Despite the storm, her mother determined that they would still leave that day. “The storm won’t wait, and neither will the king,” Rhea said firmly. The decision to press forward had been made days ago, even when the storm first broke as Carys’ belongings had already been sent to the Red Keep in preparation for her arrival. 

Carys stood in the entryway of Runestone, the torchlight flickering across her face. She wore a warm grey cloak lined with fur, the edges trimmed with silver thread. Yara had twisted her hair into a simple knot at the top of her head, fastening it with a silver pin.

She fidgeted with the clasp of her cloak as Rhea gave instructions to the castellan, her voice cutting through the sound of the rain. Outside, a carriage waited to take them to Gulltown, where a ship– sent by King Viserys himself– sat moored and ready to carry the Targaryen princess to the capital. 

Yara stood close by, her dark eyes cast to the ground. Carys could tell she was terribly saddened by her leaving– a shared feeling, as Carys had often cried herself to sleep, feeling guilty for leaving her family for King’s Landing. 

It’s not as though you have a choice , she reminded herself. But the guilt of being happy about leaving still clawed at her. Carys tried to push it away, focusing instead on the patter of rain. 

She looked at Yara, who still hadn’t met her gaze, her weathered hands clasped tightly in front of her. 

“Yara,” she said softly, stepping closer to her. She reached out and touched the old maid’s arm, squeezing it gently. “I’ll write. I promise. As often as I can.”

At that, Yara finally looked up, her dark eyes glistening. “You better,” she scolded teasingly, gently pinching Carys’ cheek. “Or I’ll march to King’s Landing myself and wallop you.” 

Carys giggled, the small joke easing some of the heaviness between them. She threw her arms around Yara, pulling the older woman in close and burying her face in the soft wool of her gown. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. 

Yara hugged her tightly, holding the back of her head. “I’ll miss you as well, my little princess. But you’re destined for greater things. Never forget that.” With a gentle kiss to her cheek, Yara pulled away, still holding her hands. 

Rhea’s sharp voice cut through the moment, bringing Carys back to reality. “It’s time,” she called out. The Royce matriarch stood by the carriage, her hand resting on the door. 

Yara reluctantly let her go, her wrinkled hands falling to her side. With a heavy heart, Carys turned away, keeping her eyes trained to the ground so her mother would not see her cry. As the carriage door shut behind her, she forced herself to breath, keeping the tears at bay. 

She was solemn as the carriage began to pull away, the walls of Runestone soon fading into the distance. Rhea had sat across from her, silently staring at the keep, her bronze eyes unreadable. 

Carys wondered if her mother felt the same way she did: grieving the fact that her only child was leaving home and the familiarity of the life she would be leaving behind. Rhea had always been strong, had always been her own soldier, but there was something in the way that her jaw clenched and her hands gripped the edges of her cloak that gave Carys pause. 

Silently, she reached across the carriage, taking her mother’s hand. “It will be alright, mama,” she said quietly. “Do you think I’ll do well there?”

Rhea looked at her at last. For a moment, she didn’t answer, and Carys feared she had asked the wrong question. “You are my daughter,” she said at last, her voice strained. “You’ll do more than well. You will thrive.”

Carys nodded, her chest tightening at the rare words of encouragement. She wasn’t sure if her mother believed it, but it warmed her heart all the same. 

The carriage jolted over a bump in the road, causing Carys to pitch. The motion seemed to drag Rhea out of her reverie once more, her bronze eyes focusing solely on her daughter. 

“Carys,” she said, her tone soft. “Whatever happens, remember who you are. Not just a Targaryen, but a Royce, too. We are strong. Don’t let anyone let you forget it.”

“I won’t,” Carys promised, though her voice trembled slightly.

Rhea nodded, satisfied, and turned her gaze back to the window. The walls of Runestone were no longer visible, swallowed by the storm and the distance. Carys stared at her mother for a moment longer before looking away, the weight of her departure settling fully on her.

The world beyond the Vale was waiting, and Carys knew she could not turn back now.

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Night had fallen over Westeros, and Aemma Arryn was bored. 

Seated in her husband’s study, she had abandoned her needlework long ago, the half-finished pattern lying forgotten in her lap. Instead, she watched Viserys fumble with his model of Old Valyria. He had spent countless hours on the city, molding it into the exact likeness of the once-great empire, as if it were going to transport him back in time. 

She had once found his obsession endearing, a testament to his passion for history and his Targaryen blood. Now, it seemed more like an escape, a way for him to retreat from the burdens of the crown and the mounting distance between them.

Aemma had finished her duties hours ago, finding solace in Viserys’ quietness. They spoke less often these days. Her pregnancies had left her drained in every sense of the word, her body and spirit stretched thin. And Viserys, weary from the demands of kingship, often sought solace in quiet tasks like this. The silence was not hostile, but it was heavy. 

She had only just recovered from her most recent pregnancy. The babe had only survived in her womb for four months– she hadn’t even begun to show when she woke up to her sheets drenched in her own blood. No one had known the news yet, not even Rhaenyra, who occupied her mind the most these days. 

But tonight, something else nagged at her. Ever since she overheard Viserys discussing his intention to summon his niece to the capital, one question lingered: How had Lady Rhea allowed it? 

For thirteen years, Rhea Royce refused to send her daughter to King’s Landing, keeping her far from the court. Aemma couldn’t blame her for it. She understood all too well the harshness of court life, the whispers, the judgments, the constant scrutiny. The Vale, with its rugged beauty and isolation, must have seemed a sanctuary compared to the vipers’ nest that was the Red Keep.

“Viserys,” she said gently. 

He didn’t look up. 

“ Viserys ,” she said again, more pointedly this time. 

Her husband looked up from his model at last, eyes wide. “Yes, my dear?”

Aemma hesitated for a moment, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. In recent months, she had forced herself to accept that some of the decisions he made as king would never make sense to her– but this baffled her. 

“Why did you summon Carys to King’s Landing?” She kept her voice gentle. Past experiences had shown that Viserys could not handle any sign of confrontation, particularly during meetings with the small council. Aemma hated to infantilize him, but Viserys was a man who thrived on harmony, even if it meant going against sound judgement. 

Viserys sighed, leaning back in his seat. His long hair gleamed in the moonlight that shone through the windows, turning the silver strands wholly white. “It was time for her to come to the capital,” he said at last. “She’s a princess. The Red Keep is where she belongs– not that rocky barren.”

“That’s what I mean ,” Aemma pushed. “She’s a Targaryen princess, yet she’s serving her cousin as lady-in-waiting. Is that any station for someone with her title?”

Her husband frowned, his thick brows knitting together in mild irritation. “Titles mean nothing if they aren’t earned, Aemma,” he said shortly. “Carys is young. She’ll learn her place at court, and serving Rhaenyra will teach her the grace and discipline expected of her.”

Aemma tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes. Did any of us truly earn our titles? “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But there are other ways she could have been brought into court life. To serve as a lady-in-waiting – while it is an honor – is not befitting someone of her standing.” 

Viserys threw his hands up. “I had no other options!” He exclaimed. Aemma jolted at his change in nature; there were few times he had erupted, but his outbursts were not unfamiliar to her. “We spent years trying to bring Carys to court– my father, Alysanne, Jahaerys. All of them failed. Her mother would not allow her to leave Runestone.” 

Viserys rose from his chair suddenly, turning away from her to look out the window. He looked down at the city for a long while, exhaling slowly. “This was the only way I knew how to get around Rhea,” he said, calmly this time. “No other solution would have worked. Daemon saw to that, when he abandoned his wife and child.”

Aemma sat back, her hands tightening around the arm of her chair as she observed her husband. “Rhea kept her safe,” she said softly. “Runestone may be small, but it is still sheltered. You must understand how difficult this will be for her.”

“I know ,” he muttered, casting his gaze to the floor. “Which is why I put her in Rhaenyra’s service. Let her learn from her cousin. I know it wasn’t fair to Rhea,” he admitted reluctantly. “But keeping Carys away from her family– her birthright– is less than what she deserves.”

She knew what Viserys wasn’t saying. This was his way of providing for the girl, of fostering her survival, since Daemon had taken no part in her life whatsoever. No matter how foolish her husband was, Aemma could not help but feel proud of him for trying– even if it wasn’t how she would have done it. 

Aemma stood, smoothing her skirts out quickly before going over to Viserys and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I trust you, in whatever you think is right,” she said gently. “You know I do.” 

She had learned long ago that no matter how much she disagreed with him or his methods, showing a united front to the people– and to the court– would keep the peace. 

Viserys took her hand, bringing it up to kiss her knuckles. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

They stood together for a long while, hand in hand as they looked down at the bustling city. The lights of King’s Landing shone like stars, reflecting back against the night sky above. Aemma watched the movement of the streets, the flickering torches of late-night travelers, and thought of the girl of the Vale who would soon walk among them. 

She turned her head slightly, carefully observing Viserys’ profile. Despite his flaws and missteps, she loved him for his undying hope to bring his family together. His decisions, while not always wise, stemmed from good intentions. That was all she could ask for. 

“She’ll do well here,” Aemma said at last. “She’ll learn, with this chance that you’ve given her.”

Viserys nodded solemnly. “I hope you’re right.” Bidding her goodnight with a soft kiss, Viserys turned away, disappearing into the dark of his bedchamber. 

Aemma left for her own rooms soon after. A new feeling had arisen inside her– an undeniable urge to watch over Carys, to guide her, as she had done with Rhaenyra. If her own mother could not protect her here, Aemma silently promised to the Lady of Runestone that she would watch over her daughter as if she were her own. 

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By the end of the week, Carys had at last arrived in King’s Landing. 

She stood on the main deck of The Wailing Widow, excitedly watching as the capital came into view. It was even more awe-inspiring than she had imagined—houses with terracotta rooftops dotted the hills surrounding the city, all leading up to the great sept. In the distance, the Red Keep stood tall and proud, its vivid red walls standing out against the muted browns of the surrounding buildings.

Her mother had remained below deck during the duration of their journey. Rhea was not fond of sailing and had spent most of the time with her head in a bucket. Carys, on the other hand, reveled in sailing on the high seas, standing on the deck as she watched the waves shift below them.

Carys and Rhea were expected to present themselves to Viserys in the throne room upon arrival. Her clothes had been laid out the night before by the maidservants that accompanied them, chosen specifically for this occasion. 

She looked at herself in the small hand mirror, admiring their work. The maid had braided her dark locks into three separate braids, twisted them together into a thick bun. A small silver wreath with pearls and precious rubies sat atop her head, supporting the long white veil that fell down her back. 

The gown, chosen by her mother, was cut in the traditional style of the Vale. Made from shimmering blue cloth, it was square across the neckline, and the long sleeves billowed past her wrists, sweeping the floor with every step.

“Are you sure this is alright?” Carys asked pensively, looking back over her shoulder at her mother. “I don’t know about the veil.”

Rhea clicked her tongue in disapproval. “The veil is fine,” she said firmly. She straightened in her seat, her complexion still pale from the journey. “You’re a daughter of the Vale, Carys. Let them see it.” 

Her mother’s gaze softened slightly as she stepped towards Carys, settling a hand on her shoulder. “You look beautiful,” Rhea said gently, kissing her temple. 

Carys looked back at her, her violet eyes wide. “And if they don’t like me?”

Rhea stroked her cheek with her thumb, her lips pressed in a firm line. “Then that’s their mistake. Not yours.” 

Before Carys could respond, a sharp knock interrupted them. A sailor poked his head through the door, bowing low. “We’ve docked, my lady. The carriage is ready to take you to the Red Keep.” 

Rhea straightened, adjusting her own cloak. “We’ll be there shortly,” she said, nodding curtly. 

Carys exhaled slowly, taking one last look at herself before following her mother out of the cabin. The stairs creaked underfoot as they ascended, the smell of salt and the sea overwhelming her senses.

The moment she stepped up onto the deck, Carys felt the warm weather hit her. The air in King’s Landing was heavy, almost stifling, and she felt as though she might melt before she ever made it to the Red Keep. 

Along the main deck and on the docks, she could hear sailors yelling out to one another, their voices high above the screeching of gulls. The smell of fish, smoke, and brine lingered in the air, but Carys hardly noticed the stench. She was too preoccupied with the city before her, shocked by its liveliness and color. 

A carriage waiting for them at the end of the plank, drawn by two great black horses and accompanied by a Kingsguard. Carys could hardly contain her excitement as she followed her mother off the ship, lifting her skirts up in order not to trip. 

The Kingsguard was much taller than she had expected, his armor gleaming in the sunlight. “Good morning, Princess Carys, Lady Rhea,” he greeted them. His voice was smooth and deep. Befitting for a knight , Carys thought. “I hope your journey went well.” 

“As well as it could be, Ser Harrold,” Rhea replied. “It’s been too long since we last saw one another.”

“Aye, it has.” His warm eyes flicked over Carys, his dark brows furrowing. “Princess, if I may?” 

He extended a hand to help her into the carriage. Carys hid her smile as she stepped up, placing her hand on the cool metal of his gauntlet. “Thank you, Ser Harrold,” she said politely. 

Ser Harrold inclined his head, the sunlight glinting off his polished helm. “Of course, Princess.” He replied. “Welcome to King’s Landing.”

The door shut behind them, muffling the sounds of the bustling harbor. Carys sank into the soft cushion of her seat as she watched the dock disappear behind them, intent on watching the city as they rode by. 

Her mother sat stiffly on the other side of the carriage, her hands perfectly placed on her lap. Carys could sense her tension– from the few stories Rhea had told her about the capital, she had no love for the city, calling it “a den of vipers” whenever she thought Carys wasn’t listening. 

“Ser Harrold seems nice.” Carys tried to break through the silence, looking over to her mother for her reply. 

Rhea shrugged lightly. “He’s a good man. One of the few I trust in the city.” She paused for a moment, watching her daughter carefully. “Carys…”

“Yes, mother?” 

Her mother hesitated again, her lips pressed into a thin line as if she were unable to say the words. Carys watched her, waiting for her mother’s sharp, assured tone to soothe her nerves. 

Instead, Rhea looked out the small window, her bronze eyes narrowing in trepidation as the city moved past them before turning back to her daughter. 

“You must be careful here,” she said at last. “You’re a Targaryen in name, but they’ll only see you as a Royce– a girl from the Vale. You must be sharp, and keep your wits about you.” 

“I understand,” Carys said quietly. She wasn’t entirely sure she did. 

Rhea shook her head. “I don’t think you do, not yet, at least.” Her tone gained its usual edge as she leaned toward Carys. “You’ll have to learn quickly. You’ll have your uncle’s goodwill, but the court will try to undermine you– undermine anybody they don’t immediately like.” 

She paused again, letting the words linger in the air. “You cannot let them see weakness, even for a moment.” 

Carys wasn’t sure what to say. All her life, her mother had urged her to be strong, and smart, and willful, but upon hearing her mother’s words she wasn’t sure if she was any of those things anymore. 

Suddenly, the idea of the Red Keep was looming over her. Carys felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the cabin as she looked back out at the city. What was I thinking? I couldn’t have been so stupid to think that court life would be easy.  

What have I done?”

“Your uncle has plans for you,” Rhea continued slowly. “You’ll serve Rhaenyra, yes, but there will come a time when…” her voice faltered, and for a moment, Carys felt her heart sink into her stomach. “... when you’ll be expected to do more.”

Carys felt the words sink into her. The Red Keep was coming into view now, the great building rising above them like some terrible beast. The excitement and anticipation that had carried her through the journey disappeared now, leaving only trepidation in its place. 

“What kind of plans?”

Rhea hesitated, her gaze focused on the great towers above. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But Viserys wouldn’t have summoned you without some ulterior motive.”

Carys clenched her hands, her fingers twisted into the fabric of her dress. “What if I fail?” she asked quietly, her voice hardly above a whisper. 

Rhea leaned forward, her bronze eyes catching Carys’. “You won’t,” she said firmly. “You’re my daughter. You’ve got the blood of the Vale in your veins, and we do not break .”

The conviction in her mother’s voice quelled any doubts Carys had– for now. Satisfied for the moment, she sat back against the seat as the carriage came to a rumbling halt. The sound of footsteps and low voices filled the air, and Carys took a deep breath as the door swung open. 

Whatever awaited her beyond those gates, there was no turning back now. 

Chapter Text

Never before in her life had Carys felt this small and insignificant. 

The massive doors to the throne room groaned as they swung open, revealing Rhea and Carys to a hundred watchful eyes. The hall was massive, its cold stone walls bearing heavy banners that proudly displayed the Targaryen sigil. 

At the end of the long room was the Iron Throne, looming over them like some jagged beast. Seated upon it was her uncle– nay, the king– dressed in finery suitable for a son of House Targaryen. His expression was unreadable as they began walking towards the throne, their heads held high. 

Carys ignored the sharp stares of the court on either side. A feeling of unease washed over her. Do they even think I’m a Targaryen? I don’t even look like my family. Her mother, ever the picture of grace, seemed to move far more delicately among the courtiers, her bronze eyes trained forward. 

She wondered, for only a moment, what living in the Red Keep must have been like for her mother. Rhea hardly ever talked about it, but Carys knew that she had been miserable among the court. 

A terrible thought filled her mind, suddenly– if Rhea had hated it, would she hate it as well? They had both been raised in the Vale, had grown accustomed to life in the rocky mountains, but Carys desperately wished that she would find something to love about the capital. Something to make this new life worth the sacrifice.

Her gaze never left the Iron Throne. Viserys sat tall, his silver hair gleaming brightly in the dappled sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows, watching their approach with intent scrutiny. He didn’t look unkind, but he did not look welcoming, either. 

On his right was a stern– looking man, with a neatly-trimmed beard and a furrowed brow. Carys recognized him as Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, and quite possibly the true power behind the throne.

To his left stood Queen Aemma Arryn and the princess Rhaenyra. Carys’ breath caught in her throne when she spotted her cousin. At ten and four, Rhaenyra was already captivating, her long silver hair brushed to perfection. She wore the most ornate gown Carys had ever seen, made of rich purple fabric and embroidered with tiny pearls.

But Carys’ excitement faltered as her gaze swept the dais again. Her father was nowhere to be found. A knot tightened in her stomach, though she pushed the disappointment aside.

As they approached the Iron Throne, Carys and her mother fell into a deep curtsey, their eyes falling to the floor. 

“Your Grace,” Rhea called out, her voice steady and calm. “We are honored to stand before you.”

Viserys leaned forward, his eyes softening now. “Lady Rhea, it has been far too long since we’ve seen you at court.” His tone carried genuine affection, and some of Carys’ doubts fell away when he cast his gaze on her. “You must be Princess Carys. Come, child, let me get a better look at you.”

Blushing slightly, Carys stepped forward. The king descended from his great throne with surprising ease, examining his niece as though she were some fragile object. “You’re much taller than I remember you,” he jested, earning a small laugh from the court. “And you’ve grown into a fine young lady.”

Carys glanced at her mother instinctively, noting the brief flicker of displeasure in Rhea’s eyes at the sight of the king. She quickly turned her attention back to Viserys, curtsying once more. “You are most kind, Your Grace,” she said, her voice steady despite her nerves. “It is an honor to be here.”

“Nonsense,” Viserys said kindly. “It is my pleasure to welcome my niece to the Red Keep at long last.” 

He stepped even closer to her now, his eyes warm as he opened his arms. “Come here, dear child.” 

Carys hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, allowing her uncle to pull her into his embrace as a gesture of his goodwill. The gesture was far more intimate than she expected, for an uncle she had never met, and Carys felt the eyes of the court bore into her. 

“It is an honor to welcome you to court,” Viserys declared suddenly, his voice ringing out through the hall. “A princess of House Targaryen in our midst once more!”

The courtiers erupted into polite applause, their murmurs of approval filling the air. Carys politely stepped back from Viserys, forcing a smile onto her face. Though the gesture had meant to be welcoming, she couldn’t help but feel as though she had been put on display. 

Viserys turned to the gathered nobles. “There is to be a feast tonight, in honor of my niece’s arrival,” he declared. “You may all go and prepare yourselves.”

The court began to trickle out, their whispers trailing behind them as they exited the hall. Carys caught snippets of their conversation, already hearing her name on their tongues. 

As the last of the nobles appeared, Carys felt her shoulders relax slightly. She was about to turn to her mother when she saw two figures approaching out of the corner of her eye. 

Queen Aemma Arryn was even more beautiful up close, with skin like porcelain and bright blue eyes. Her hair, more brassy in color compared to the silver-gold of her kin, was fitted tightly into a beaded snood.

Rhaenyra bore a striking resemblance to her mother, her features even more fine and delicate than Carys had expected. She was almost serpentine in nature, her purple eyes looking over Carys in quiet curiosity. 

Aemma reached out, taking Carys’ hand in her own. “Welcome, my dear,” she said, her voice soothing. “We’re so happy to have you in the capital at last.”

Carys felt a rush of affection for the queen almost instantly. She was kind, warm, and made her feel a little less alone in this strange place. “Thank you, your Grace. I’m happy to be here.”

Rhaenyra, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. “It’s nice to finally meet you, cousin,” she said, her tone polite but distant. 

She studied the princess carefully, unsure of what to make of her. Out of all her kin, Rhaenyra was the most foreign to her, despite the two girls being close in age. Her beauty and confidence were undeniable, but there was something in her gaze that gave Carys pause. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, cousin.”

The princess nodded politely, her expression softening as she stepped back. Aemma smiled, still holding her hand. “I know it must feel overwhelming, but you are family. We’ll make sure you find your place.”

Behind her, Carys felt her mother stiffen. She had remained silent for the entire exchange, instead choosing to watch as it played out. Carys could see the tightness in her shoulders, how her lips were pressed in a firm line, and her general discomfort at having to stand in the Red Keep once more.

Viserys, oblivious to her demeanor, leaned closer, his expression eager. “How long will you be staying with us, Lady Rhea?” His voice was far too casual; Carys was surprised at the shift in formality.

Rhea pinched her lips slightly, her eyes darting between her daughter and her king. “Just till the end of the week,” her mother replied stiffly. “Gerold is riding from Runestone, then we’ll take a ship back up.” 

“Ah, what a shame,” Viserys replied lightly. “We were hoping you would stay longer– your old rooms have been cleaned and readied for you, of course.”

“That’s very kind of you, you Grace. But I wouldn’t want to disrupt the court with an extended stay.” With a curtsey to Viserys and Aemma, Rhea pulled herself together once more. “If I may be dismissed, your Graces, I find myself quite tired from the journey.”

“Of course,” Aemma said quickly. “You should rest before the feast tonight. It will be a fine occasion, and I’m sure you’ll want to be refreshed before then.”

Rhea inclined her head graciously. “Thank you, your Grace.” She turned to Carys, giving her daughter a quick nod. “I’ll see you tonight, then?”

“Yes, mother.” Carys watched her mother sweep from the throne room, her skirts brushing the floor with every step. She wished– and not for the first time in her life– that her mother would be less abrasive. Their guests had always seemed unnerved by Rhea’s stoic nature, and she had doubtless doubled down on her stoicism when facing Viserys and his court. 

Carys knew she could do very little about it. After all, Rhea was Rhea– she had always been like this. But it didn’t stop Carys from hoping that her nature would be dulled in the presence of her royal kin. 

Carys turned back to the king, smiling graciously as any noble girl should. “I must apologize for my mother. She’s not very fond of sailing.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Viserys said, though Carys didn’t miss the sideward glance he shot the queen. “You both must be exhausted from the journey. It’s not easy, making the long trip from Runestone.”

“Quite so,” Carys agreed. She was happy that her family was so agreeable; they seemed interested in her and her wellbeing, despite her mother’s iciness towards them. 

She wondered what the relationship between Rhea and her uncle had been, before her mother’s departure from the capital. Had they been close before she left? Was Viserys forcing his politeness, or was he genuinely concerned with the Lady of Runestone, just because she was his brother’s wife?

Another question filled her mind suddenly, dampening her mood: Why is my father not here? 

Carys was desperate to ask about Daemon’s whereabouts, particularly why he had not bothered to greet his daughter in King’s Landing. Before she could say anything, Viserys gently squeezed his daughter’s shoulder, clearing his throat softly. “Rhaenyra, why don’t you show Carys to her rooms? I’m sure she’ll want to rest before the evening.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head. “Of course, Father,” she said, gesturing for Carys to follow. 

Carys dipped into a curtsey, nodding politely to Viserys and Aemma before following her cousin out of the throne room. The princess walked quickly, as though she were trying to escape some creature nipping at her heels. 

Maegor’s Holdfast was separated from the rest of the Red Keep by a grand, winding staircase. Carys ran her fingers over the intricate murals decorating the walls, feeling the cool tiles underneath her palms. 

She glanced at Rhaenyra, taking in the princess’ demeanor. The silence between them felt heavy as they walked through the long halls, the grandeur of the castle only amplifying the space between them. 

Carys desperately wanted Rhaenyra to like her. She hadn’t known very many other girls her age– the only one had been a scullery maid who had disappeared after becoming pregnant– and Carys wanted so badly to be normal.

Thoughts of her own social disposition filled her mind, casting doubts over her until she quickly realized they had arrived. 

Rhaenyra stopped before the doorway, twisting the handle and pushing the door open. Carys was taken aback at the spaciousness of the chamber– it was far grander than her rooms at Runestone, bathed in warm light and scarcely decorated. 

The antechamber held only a simple settee, a few tables, and an empty bookshelf, with two open archways adjacent to one another. One door led to a grand bathing room, while the other led to her bed chamber. 

Carys couldn’t hide her excitement at seeing her new rooms. She loved them immediately– the spaciousness of her apartments, and the way she could make the space her own, without any interference. 

“I helped mother pick your rooms,” Rhaenyra said proudly, puffing her chest out. “They’re close to mine, so we can see each other as much as we like. Father wanted to decorate, but I told him that you’d like to do that yourself.”

Carys was surprised at the sudden switch in nature. In the throne room, Rhaenyra had seemed icy, almost distant towards her, but now she was talking as though they had been friends for years. 

She pushed her doubts out of her mind, instead accepting Rhaenyra’s sudden kindness. “Thank you,” she said graciously. “They’re lovely– I’ve never seen a bed as big as this!”

Rhaenyra laughed, the sound ringing through the room. “I’m glad you like them. I think they belonged to princess Gael, or one of Jahaerys’ other daughters,” she added offhandedly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just three doors down, so you’ll be able to find my rooms easily.”

Carys smiled, her excitement bubbling to the surface despite herself. “I’ll be sure to visit soon, then. I’d love to see how you’ve decorated your chambers.”

“Oh, they’re far less empty than this,” Rhaenyra teased. “But that just means you can do whatever you like with this. I’m sure you can ask Mother for some tapestries or cushions– she loves that sort of thing.”

Carys nodded quickly, already envisioning her plans for the space. “I think I will,” she said, more confidently now. “I’ve never been able to decorate my own room before.”

“Things are different here,” Rhaenyra said quickly. Stepping closer to Carys, she took her hands in hers, squeezing them gently. “You’re a Targaryen princess, Carys. You can decide what you want. No one else.”

The words were meant to be encouraging, but Carys wasn’t sure that they were entirely true. She didn’t feel much like a princess– but the thought of carving her own space filled her with some hope.

“Thank you,” Carys said again. “For thinking of me, when you picked these rooms.”

Rhaenyra shrugged as though it was nothing, but her expression was pleased. “Of course. You’re my cousin,” she said gently. “And my friend, I hope.”

The sincerity in her words surprised Carys, and she couldn’t help but smile. “I hope so, too,” she replied earnestly.

Rhaenyra straightened, glancing towards the door. “I should let you settle in,” she said at last. “You’ve had a long week. The feast tonight will be loud and crowded, but don’t worry– if you get too overwhelmed, we can always slip away.”

Carys felt a swell of gratitude at her offer. “I’d like that.” Her nerves were eased, if only for a moment, but Carys was grateful for her words. 

Rhaenyra gave a small wave before she left, her footsteps echoing down the hall. 

Alone in the room, Carys felt her heart swell, all her doubts and insecurities slowly fading away. Perhaps the Red Keep wouldn’t be so daunting after all. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The feast later that night was the grandest she had ever been to. The king and queen had stopped at nothing, going all out for the arrival of the Targaryen Princess. Long tables had filled the empty space in the throne room, laden with roasted meats, fine wine, and sweet cakes that made her mouth water. 

Carys sat at the high table between her cousin and mother, overwhelmed by the conversation around her and the clinking of goblets. The throne room, so imposing earlier in the day, was made comfortable by the light of a thousand candles, casting a warm glow over everything. 

Despite the splendor, Carys couldn’t fully relax. Her gown, chosen specifically for the feast, was too tight, and her hair had been braided so intricately it pinched at her scalp. She shifted slightly in her seat, trying to ease the pinch of fabric without drawing any attention to herself. 

Carys glanced at her mother, seated to her right. Rhea remained silent, focusing on the meal before her, but Carys could tell she was uncomfortable due to her rigid posture. 

Feeling the weight of a thousand eyes on her, Carys sat up straighter, her gaze darting around the room. She tried to adopt the calm expression her mother drilled into her over the years, but she could not ignore the whispers that caught her attention. 

“Daemon’s daughter? Really?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Rhea had rutted against some sheep.”

“I wonder what he’ll do with her, now that she’s here.”

“Where is Daemon, anyways?”

The words stung. Carys forced herself to ignore them; it was rumor, speculation, and all of them were lies. One look at her violet eyes would have told them she was a trueborn Targaryen, but Rhea had always told her that stupidity had no cure. 

Viserys stood suddenly from his seat, raising his goblet in the air. A sudden hush fell over the room; the court’s attention was immediately focused on the king, all conversation and speculation halted. 

“Tonight, we celebrate the arrival of our kin to the Red Keep,” Viserys declared. “At long last, Princess Carys has graced the Red Keep with her presence.”

Carys blushed at that, looking at her uncle bashfully. Viserys continued on, ignoring the small smattering of applause from the court. “A toast!” He boomed. “To our trueborn cousin finding her way home.”

The entire hall lifted their goblets in her honor, cheering loudly before sinking into their cups. Even Rhea seemed pleased at the toast, pouring herself more wine. 

She quickly raised her own goblet, her cheeks flushed red under the weight of so many stares. “Thank you, your Grace,” she managed, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her chest. 

Beside her, Rhaenyra smiled faintly, leaning back in her chair. “See? You’re already the talk of the court.”

Carys couldn’t tell if her cousin was teasing or encouraging her. She focused on the latter instead, raising her cup slightly to Rhaenyra before sipping her wine. 

The sound of the feast– lively conversation and booming laughter– was suddenly interrupted by the doors opening, the creaking sound filling the room. All festivities stuttered to a halt when all eyes turned to the door, curiosities raised. 

There, framed in the doorway like a shadow, was none other than Daemon Targaryen. Carys felt her skin grow cold at the sight of her father– his hair of pure silver fell over his shoulders, his riding leathers still dusty from the road. At his side was Dark Sister, the long blade gleaming in the candlelight. 

She felt her mother stiffen beside her. Neither of them had seen Daemon in years, and suddenly, he was here with no word? It was too strange for either of them to speak. 

Viserys was the first to break the shocking silence, rising from his seat once more. “Daemon,” he called out to his brother. “You’ve decided to join us, then.”

Daemon smirked as he strode forward, his boots clicking against the floor. “How could I miss such a grand occasion?” His eyes swept over the room, judging carefully, before falling on Carys. His expression was unreadable, his stoic mask slipping for only a second. 

“Daughter,” he said, inclining his head. The word felt foreign to her. Carys looked at her mother– for her support, or for her comfort? She didn’t know anything at that moment; only that no one had expected this. 

“You arrive uninvited, without so much a word, and now suddenly you disrupt the feast?” Viserys snapped. 

“Disrupt?” Daemon just laughed, climbing the steps of the dais. “Isn’t this a celebration of family?”

His words were a challenge. Carys could not think of any other man who could defy the king so openly, and still be breathing. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife.”

“Daemon,” Aemma interjected. “Perhaps you’d like to take a seat and join us.”

But Daemon ignored her, instead swiveling around to face Carys. “I see you’ve been keeping my daughter entertained,” he said lightly.

Carys swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. She felt Rhea’s hand take hers under the table—a small, grounding gesture—but it did little to calm her nerves.

“You’re late,” Carys said finally, her voice quieter than she intended but steady nonetheless. 

Daemon raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “A Targaryen is never late. We arrive precisely when we mean to.”

“Enough,” Viserys snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Sit down, Daemon, or leave. I won’t have you ruining this evening for everyone.”

For a long, dreadful moment, it seemed as though Daemon might argue. His smile faded as he titled his head, studying Viserys as though he were some foreign creature dredged from the sea. 

Then, just as the silence grew unbearable, Daemon laughed. The sound was low and sharp, but Carys caught her mother involuntarily flinching out of the corner of her eye. 

“As you command, Your Grace,” Daemon said mockingly, the words dripping with insincerity. He sauntered toward the high table, his boots echoing loudly against the stone floor. When he reached the empty seat at the far end of the dais, he sank into it with a flourish, as though he were doing them all a great favor.

Viserys glared at him, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the arms of his chair. “Behave yourself, Daemon,” he warned in a low voice. “Or you’ll find yourself unwelcome here once again.”

Daemon didn’t respond immediately, instead reaching for a goblet of wine and swirling it lazily before taking a sip. “Don’t worry, brother,” he said with a sly grin. “I’m here to enjoy the feast, not ruin it. After all”—his eyes flicked to Carys, lingering there—“it’s a special occasion.”

Carys felt the weight of his gaze, her breath catching in her throat. She had imagined this moment a thousand times—the reunion with her father, the questions she’d ask, the words she longed to hear. But now, with him sitting there so carelessly, she felt only confusion and anger.

Rhea looked as though she might vomit. As the feast continued from where it had left off, her parents ignored each other, each one focused carefully on the contents of their cups. 

Carys found herself wishing the night was over already. At some point, the guests had begun to trickle out, until the hall was empty enough that Carys mustered the strength to big goodnight to the king and queen and dart out of the hall. 

The weight of it all slammed into her almost immediately. Far away from anyone who might have seen her, Carys slid down the wall, gasping for air. Her limbs felt shaky. Tears stung in her eyes, and Carys felt as though she couldn’ breathe. She had only felt her nerves breakdown like this once in her life, when she had fallen off her horse and rolled down a hill at eight years old. 

Carys pressed her face into her hands, trying to catch her breath. The feast, the stares, Daemon’s sudden arrival—it all felt like too much. She tried to push the thoughts away, but they pressed harder, threatening to suffocate her.

“Darling?”

Her mother’s voice was soft, almost hesitant. Carys looked up to see Rhea standing in the hall, her own vision blurring with tears. Her mother stood a few paces away, concern etched into her usually composed face. 

“Mother,” she sniffled, wiping her eyes. “I- I’m alright. I just needed some air.”

Rhea ignored her. Instead, she sat on the floor beside her, wrapping her arms tight around Carys. “You don’t need to pretend with me, child,” her mother teased gently. “After all, I did give birth to you.”

Carys let out a shaky laugh, the sound more bitter than amused. “I feel ridiculous,” she admitted. “It’s just a feast. Why can’t I handle it like everyone else?”

Rhea shook her head, brushing a loose strand of hair from Carys’ face. “Because you’re not ‘everyone else.’ You’re my daughter. You’ve always been more introspective than other people.”

Carys felt her throat tighten as her mother’s words sank in. She hesitated, but the question that had been gnawing at her all evening finally slipped out. “Why don’t you and father like each other?”

Rhea’s face hardened instantly, her hand pausing mid-motion. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

Carys’ chest tightened. “Did he do something to you?”

Rhea stood slowly, her gaze distant now, as if she were looking through Carys and into a memory she wished she could forget. “Daemon is… not an easy man,” she said finally, her voice measured. “And he doesn’t take well to being denied what he wants. Let’s leave it at that.”

“But—”

“Carys.” Rhea’s voice was firm now, though her eyes were still gentle. “You’ve had a long night, and you need rest. Come.”

She reached down, taking Carys’ hand and helping her to her feet. Without another word, she guided her daughter through the winding halls of the Red Keep and into her chambers.

Once inside, Rhea busied herself pulling back the covers of the bed, her movements precise and efficient, as though she were trying to distract herself from whatever ghosts Carys’ question had stirred.

“Get in,” she said softly, nodding toward the bed.

Carys hesitated, watching her mother closely. Rhea’s calm exterior had returned, but there was a tightness in her posture that hadn’t been there before. Obediently, Carys slipped under the covers, the cool silk sheets a stark contrast to the warmth of her mother’s hand as she smoothed the blanket over her.

Rhea lingered for a moment, her hand brushing Carys’ hair in a rare display of affection. “Rest now,” she murmured, her voice softer than Carys had ever heard it.

As her mother turned to leave, Carys’ voice stopped her. “Mother?”

Rhea paused, looking back over her shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Carys said quietly.

For a fleeting moment, Rhea’s composure cracked, and she gave her daughter a small, genuine smile. “So am I,” she said simply, before slipping out of the room and closing the door behind her.

Carys stared at the ceiling, her mind still whirring with questions, but the comfort of her mother’s presence calmed her nerves. Slowly, she let her eyes close, sleep pulling her into its embrace.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

“How is it possible that you may be the most ignorant man alive?”

Viserys stood before the great table in his chambers, his palms flat against the wood as he glared at his brother. His voice reverberated through the room, his anger barely contained.

Daemon’s arrival had disrupted the entire night, to the point where both Carys and Rhea had left early. Viserys could not blame them, no matter how infuriated he was– his brother’s presence was like a black cloud, storming over the family without end.

By the time the feast had ended, Daemon was so deep in his cups that it took two Kingsguard to haul him to Viserys’ chamber. The Rogue Prince had flopped into the chair closest to him, slouching like an uncouth as he looked up at his elder brother. He said nothing to defend himself, instead drumming his long fingers on the arm of his chair. 

The king paced around the table, shaking his head in disbelief. “No one has heard from you in months ,” he snapped. “And tonight, of all nights , is the night you choose to make an entrance? To make yourself feel better?”

“That was not my intention,” Daemon slurred. “Is it so wrong for me to attend a feast in my daughter’s honor?”

Viserys whirled around to face him, his face flushed red. “ Honor ?” He spat out. “You arrive unannounced, days late, drunk, and armed. You sneer at my court and make a spectacle of yourself. That is not honor, Daemon– that is selfishness.”

He stopped pacing at last. Taking a few breaths to calm himself, Viserys leveled his face with Daemon’s. “Do not pretend this is about Carys.” Daemon winced at his voice, his tone so soft it could have cut the air between them. “This is your own selfish nature compelling you. No one has heard from you in months – no ravens, no messengers– your own daughter has not seen you since she was a child, and this is the night you choose to show your face?”

Daemon rose from his chair, startling Viserys. “I owe no one an explanation for my whereabouts,” he hissed. “Not you, not your fucking Hand, and certainly not Rhea.”

“Any strife between House Targaryen and Lady Rhea is because of you. ” Viserys could no longer reel in his anger. “It took years for us to convince Rhea to send her daughter to court, and even then it was because of a royal summons! Any goodwill that was built between us is now gone, thanks to you.” 

“From what I gather, Carys was more than content in Runestone,” Daemon snapped back. “So tell me, brother, was bringing her to King’s Landing out of the kindness of your heart? To be closer to family?”

Viserys’ jaw tightened, the weight of Daemon’s accusation hanging in the air. He opened his mouth to speak, but any words he had died on his lips. His hesitation was all the confirmation that Daemon needed. 

“Ah,” the Rogue Prince smiled coyly. “I see it now. You didn’t summon her here out of familial duty. You brought her to use her as a pawn.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Viserys snapped, though his voice trembled. 

“Absurd?” Daemon laughed at him. “You’ve spent years arranging marriages like a merchant haggling his wares– a gift you received from our grandmother, no doubt. What better ways to shore up alliances than to offer a Targaryen princess? Carys isn’t here to be closer to family– she’s here to be sold to the highest bidder.”

Viserys took a step forward, his hands trembling with rage. “And what would you have done?” He shot back. “Let her rot in Runestone? You’ve had years to be a father, Daemon, yet time and time again you prove to be nothing but a failure. Don’t lecture me on what’s right for Carys.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, his face contorted with anger. There were very few times that the brothers had argued like this– most of them taking place in their adolescence– but Daemon’s actions did nothing to prove to Viserys that he was a capable father. 

Or heir, for that matter. 

“I brought her here to protect her,” Viserys said at last. “You’ve done nothing but abandon you, Daemon. She deserves better than you.”

Daemon stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then, with a snort, he turned and strode for the door, his boots echoing off the floor. 

As his fingers latched around the handle, he looked back over his shoulder, glaring at Viserys. “Know this,” he said coolly. “The more you control her, the more you’ll drive her away. She’s my daughter, whether you like it or not. And she’ll see right through you. The same way I always have.”

With that, he yanked the door open and disappeared into the hall. Viserys sank into the chair, his hands trembling as he rubbed his temples. 

Carys’ face flashed in his mind– young and uncertain, yet she had remained determined in the face of scrutiny while facing the court today. She reminded him of Daemon in some ways, but there was a gentleness to her that made Viserys want to shield her. 

Was Daemon right? Had he cast her into the very fire he tried to protect her from? 

Viserys let out a sigh, letting his hands fall to his side. His gaze drifted across the model of Old Valyria, the lines of the buildings and temples blurring in his vision. He had always believed in the strength of House Targaryen, in the duty to fortify and defend their lineage. 

But now, for the first time, he wondered if duty had cost them more than it gained. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

In the middle of riding a silver-winged dragon over the Narrow Sea, Carys woke up from her dream. 

It was almost startling, to be pulled from her unconscious and thrusted into the morning. She had forgotten to close the curtains last night, and was now blinded by the harsh sunlight that beamed through the windows. 

Groaning, Carys pulled the blankets away and rose from the bed. She was still in her dress from the feast, the laces tangled from a night of tossing and turning. 

Memories from last night flashed in her mind. Daemon, striding through the great hall like some prancing bird; her mother’s stricken face at the sight of her father; and the court, with their wide eyes and hushed whispers. 

Carys shuffled to the window, her bare feet cold against the wood. She squinted against the blinding sunlight, shielding her eyes with her hand. The streets of King’s Landing were already bustling with activity, the sound of merchants haggling and creaking carts filling her ears. King’s Landing was so unlike Runestone. There, the mornings were quiet, the air crisp and clean. Here, everything felt heavy, cluttered, and oppressive. 

Her fingers grazed the edge of the windowsill as she leaned forward, taking in the view. From this height, she could see the Blackwater Rush snaking its way towards the Narrow Sea, the dark water glimmering in the sun. She imagined herself soaring above it again, as she had in her dream, the beat of wings filling the air. 

But the dream faded, leaving only the dull nature of reality. 

Carys turned away from the window and caught her reflection in the mirror, nearly cringing at the sight. Her round, olivine face was gaunt and pale, with bags beginning to develop underneath her eyes. Her hair was tousled from sleep, the dark brown strands tangled within one another.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it. A knock at the door startled her, and she turned quickly, her heart racing. 

“Come in.” 

The door creaked open to reveal a maidservant carrying a tray, laden with bread, fruit, and a pitcher of what looked like honeyed milk. The girl curtsied quickly, her eyes darting around the room. “Good morning, Princess,” she said cheerfully. “The queen thought you might like breakfast sent up to you.”

Carys blinked, caught off guard by the kindness. “Oh,” she said awkwardly. “Thank you. Just leave it on the table.” 

The maid nodded, setting the tray on the table before the settee before making her exit. 

Carys sank onto the seat, picking at the food in front of her. Now that she was in the Red Keep, she had no idea about what exactly she was supposed to do during the day. Being Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting seemed simple enough, but she had received no summons from the princess, and Carys was far too shy to approach the issue herself. 

A sudden thought entered her mind: if she were truly a princess, wasn’t she entitled to the same privileges as Rhaenyra? Perhaps her own guard, or even her own ladies-in-waiting?

Rhea had never wholly explained what it meant to be a princess. While her mother had drilled in her a knowledge of the histories and even hired a High Valyrian tutor– at the behest of Viserys– none of these skills seemed to matter now that she was in the capital. 

Carys’ gaze fell to her lap, where her hands were tightly clasped. She was raised to be dutiful, and a sudden feeling of guilt washed over her at the thought of her own greed. You cannot expect the world to simply hand you its treasures because you are a Targaryen.  

But was it so wrong to want more? 

Sighing, Carys pushed herself off the settee, her slippers padding against the floor as she strode towards the wardrobe. Yanking the door open, Carys stared at the dresses for a long while– some from Runestone, some that had been provided for her– and wondered if any of them were truly her.  

Before she could dwell on the thought, there was a sharp knock at the door. 

“Come in,” she called.

The maid from earlier stepped inside the room, quickly closing the door behind her. She hesitated upon seeing Carys, her dark eyes widening slightly. 

“Forgive me, princess. I thought you might need fresh linens.”

Carys waved a hand dismissively, though she took on a softer tone. “It’s alright. Thank you.”

The girl looked surprised that Carys had said ‘thank you.’ Her eyes darted around the room, uncertain as she took in the scarce decorations and pale sunlight. 

Curiosity overtook her. Before she could stop herself, Carys whirled around, fully facing the maid now. If she was to make the capitol her new home, it wouldn’t hurt to know the people around her.  “What’s your name?” 

The maid dipped her head. “Norei, princess.” 

Her accent was unlike anything Carys had heard before. It was lilting and soft, her r ’s rolling gently off of her tongue. Looking at her dark complexion and thick black curls, Carys could guess that the girl was from the Summer Isles. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Norei.” Carys turned back to the wardrobe, frowning slightly. “I would greatly appreciate your input.”

“Of course. What would you like help with, princess?” Norei came to stand beside her, politely clasping her hands in front of her. 

Carys gestured to the wide array of dresses before her. “This,” she half-laughed. “I’m supposed to look like a princess, but I feel like a child playing dress-up.” 

Norei stepped closer. She studied the contents of the wardrobe carefully, her dark eyes roving over the gowns before reaching out for the sleeve of a deep crimson gown. “This one,” she said at last. “It reminds me of a ruby.”

“Excellent choice.” Carys pulled it from the wardrobe, examining the gown. It was pretty, and simple too, with a square neckline and long skirt that would pair well with her height. 

“It suits you,” Norei smiled. “Here, let me help you.” 

Carys turned, letting the girl quickly undo the laces of her gown. She liked Norei well enough– the girl was soft-spoken and gentle. Very few of the maids in Runestone had lasted more than a year, often finding husbands or dying of some strange illness before Carys could get to know them. 

She discarded her day-old shift and pulled on a fresh one, turning so Norei wouldn’t see her wholly naked. Carys didn’t know how women’s bodies were treated in the Summer Isles, but in Westeros the best quality a young maiden could have was chastity. 

Norei helped her shimmy into the crimson gown, tying the laces in the back before stepping away to admire her work. “It suits you, princess,” she smiled, her teeth a pearly white. “The color goes well with your complexion.”

Carys observed herself in the mirror. The dress was lovely, and form-fitting too– unlike gowns in the Vale. “Thank you, Norei.” 

The girl nodded quickly, smoothing her skirts down. “I received word from a maid of Princess Rhaenyra that she’s landing in the courtyard with Syrax soon. If you’d like to go visit with her.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Carys exclaimed, her voice lifting with excitement. She had grown weary of her own company and longed for the warmth of a familiar face. Her mother had been distant since the night before, and the prospect of seeing Rhaenyra was a welcome distraction. “Would you like to accompany me?”

Norei blinked, surprised by the invitation. “Oh—I, yes, I’d like that very much, Princess.”

The halls of the Red Keep were bustling with activity, the corridors flooded with servants and courtiers alike. As the summer days grew hotter and hotter, the court was wandering inside the palace, protecting themselves from the burning heat of the sun. 

Carys ignored the dozens of curtsies and polite nods that were thrown her way; she strode through the halls, her chin high as she made her way to the courtyard. Norei followed close behind, lifting her skirts in order to keep herself from tripping behind the princess.

Several of the Kingsguard and dragon keepers crowded in the courtyard, anticipating the arrival of Rhaenyra and Syrax. 

Carys had heard stories from Yara about her cousin and her dragon. Rhaenyra had claimed the yellow beast at just nine years of age, climbing on her back and soaring high above King’s Landing. Never before had any dragonrider claimed a dragon so young – the eldest had been Maegor the Cruel, who had waited thirty years to claim the Black Dread.

Now, Carys watched as Syrax descended on the Red Keep, her great yellow wings beating in the sky as she slowly landed. She could see the gleam of Rhaenyra’s silver hair, bright in the sunlight, as the princess slid from the saddle and landed squarely on her feet. 

Norei gasped softly behind her. Carys could not help but be impressed; riding a dragon had been a dream of hers for years, but seeing Rhaenyra with her own dragon, she wondered if her dreams were ever to become a possibility. 

“Cousin!” Rhaenyra smiled at her. “Come meet Syrax.”

Carys laughed, stepping closer to the dragon. Her great golden eyes roved over Carys, huffing her nose as she came closer. Carys felt her heart begin to race as Syrax sniffed the top of her head, testing whether she was a threat or a friend.

“Don’t be afraid,” Rhaenyra chided her. “She’s just curious.”

Carys nodded, though the rapid beat of her heart suggested otherwise. Slowly, she reached out her hand, letting it hover just inches from Syrax’s snout. The dragon huffed again, her nostrils flaring as she took in the scent of this new stranger. Syrax pulled back slightly, her great eyes narrowing in assessment, before releasing a soft rumble that echoed through the courtyard.

“She likes you,” Rhaenyra said with a grin, her tone triumphant.

Carys let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, a tentative smile spreading across her lips. For a moment, as Syrax turned her head and preened under Rhaenyra’s touch, the doubt inside her ebbed away, replaced by something brighter.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

Rhea stood on the veranda overlooking the courtyard, her fingers gripped tightly on the balustrade. 

In the short time they had been in King’s Landing, Rhea saw how much Carys loved the capital. How much joy she derived from court life and her own kin. 

It made Rhea sick.  Not with jealousy, but with guilt– a twisting, gnawing feeling in her gut at the thought of keeping her daughter in Runestone all those years. How much had Carys missed, living at Runestone under the guise of protection? How much had Rhea taken from her in an effort to preserve her own mental sanity?

Her thoughts drifted to the early days of her marriage. Daemon would be gone from Runestone for days, whoring and drinking his way through the Vale before returning to her and falling into her bed. She had begged him to leave her on those nights. His breath stinking of ale, his clammy hands on her skin. He wouldn’t listen, of course. That wasn’t in his nature. 

 Daemon would leave the next morning, and Rhea would spend the day in bed staring numbly at the wall.

Then came the pregnancy. 

 Rhea loathed being with child, and thought she would hate the child growing inside of her. Nothing good could have come from Daemon’s seed inside her, but as soon as she saw that screaming babe, her heart seemingly opened at last. 

It was her sole reason for protecting her daughter, lest Carys be subjected to the hell she herself had to go through. Carys became her purpose, her anchor. The reason she fought so hard to shield her daughter from the hell she had endured.

But had she done too much? 

Rubbing her neck, Rhea swallowed the painful memories down. In four days time she would leave, and Carys would be alone in King’s Landing. 

“I see you’re alone.” 

A voice from behind her broke her from her reverie. Rhea whirled around, her long braid sliding across her shoulders, to see Daemon leaning against a pillar. He was the same as he was all those years ago; his purple eyes, his beautiful silver hair, that serpentine charisma. 

She hated it.

Disgust curdled in her stomach at the sight of her husband. Rhea rolled her eyes, turning her gaze back to their daughter. “Leave me,” she snapped. “You never wished to be in my company much, anyways.”

Daemon tsked, slowly striding towards her. Rhea involuntarily flinched as he approached, settling his pale hands on the balustrade. 

“You raised her well,” her husband murmured. “She’s quite the young woman.”

“Not as though you had anything to do with it,” Rhea snorted.

Daemon cast a sideward glance at her. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start? ” she repeated, incredulous, turning to glare at him. “She’s good. Kind. The best child a mother could ask for.” Her chest heaved as she struggled to contain the wave of emotion rising within her. Her hand clutched at the neckline of her dress, her voice trembling with fury and pain. “And it has nothing to do with you.”

“I know,” Daemon said quietly. His voice lacked its usual sharp edge, the admission soft and almost… contrite. “I know, Rhea.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know. You don’t know her.” Rhea looked back out at Carys and Rhaenyra. The words died on her lips, unable to be spoken. 

“She’s too good for this place,” she whispered at last. 

Daemon said nothing, and not for the first time, Rhea didn’t mind his silence. 

Without another word, she turned away, her shoes clicking on the tiles. 

Chapter Text

Carys did not like fish. 

It was the favored breakfast of Rhaenyra, and due to the persuasion of her cousin, Carys thought she ought to give it a try. That was a mistake on her part. She wrinkled her nose at the thick slab of herring on her plate, the stench filling her nose and lingering in the air. 

“You don’t have to eat it,” Rhea remarked, her bronze eyes flicking to her daughter’s plate. “I’m sure there’s bread and honey to spare if you ask.”

Carys sighed, nudging the fish with her fork. “Rhaenyra said it’s an acquired taste.”

Meals at Runestone largely consisted of the same items: thick cuts of meat, some fruit, and red wine to wash down hard bread. Carys thought her arrival in the capital to be the best chance of trying new foods, and wasted no effort in doing so. Her breakfasts over the past three days had been a series of experiments: fresh honey drizzled over warm oats, sweet pastries filled with jam, and even a dish of eggs cooked with herbs and creamy cheese.

Today, however, she had ventured into less pleasant territory. The fish, though freshly prepared, made her stomach turn.

Rhea gave a snort, setting her knife down with a clink. “Rhaenyra has a dragon and half the realm bowing at her feet,” her mother said drily. “That doesn’t make her infallible.”

Carys looked up, surprised at the sudden edge in her mother’s voice. Rhea just leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap as her gaze wandered to the courtyard below. 

Time spent with her mother was becoming rarer and rarer—a realization that had kept Carys up for hours the previous night. She had lain awake in her chambers, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she had wasted too much of the time they’d had together.

“I wish you would stay longer,” Carys murmured, her eyes dropping to her lap. 

Rhea’s gaze snapped back to her, her expression suddenly softer than Carys had expected. “You don’t need me here.”

“That’s not true.” Carys’ response was quicker than she had intended, taking on a defensive edge. “It’s… nice having you here.”

Her mother just shook her head, her dark waves rustling around her face. Within seconds, her soft expression took on its usual stoic mask, her brows furrowed ever so slightly. “Runestone won’t run by itself. And you’ve settled better here than I’ve expected.”

“Because I had to,” Carys said, exasperated now. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you here.”

“Carys, you’re nearly a grown woman.” Her mother rubbed her temples in annoyance. “And you’re stronger than you think. You always have been. I’ll only be a raven away.”

“That’s not the same,” Carys whispered. Rhea didn’t seem to hear her– or perhaps she had, and just chose not to respond. 

Instead, her mother rose from her seat, bending down slightly to hug Carys. Carys wrapped her arms around her mother with all the strength she could muster, biting her lip to keep the tears at bay. 

“You’ll visit, won’t you?” She mumbled into the folds of her mother’s dress.

Rhea hesitated, her gaze turning back to the courtyard. “We’ll see,” she said at last, her tone distant. 

Carys’ chest tightened at that. For a long while, the two remained in their embrace, even when the servants came to clear breakfast away. 

The clatter of hooves echoed across the courtyard later that afternoon, signaling Gerold’s arrival. He was sweating from his ride, his dark hair clinging to his forehead. He dismounted his great stallion, his boots scraping against the cobblestones as he steadied himself. 

From the window, Carys watched him speak briefly with her mother, who nodded sharply before turning toward the harbor.

The farewell came too soon.

The salty air filled Carys’ nose as they approached the docks, the sharp cry of gulls punctuating the quiet. Rhea’s ship bobbed gently in the water, the white sails flapping in the breeze. Viserys had already offered his goodbyes to the Lady of Runestone in the courtyard, kissing his good-sister on both cheeks. Words were exchanged between the pair, inaudible to everyone except them, and with a quick nod the king disappeared back into the Red Keep. 

A carriage took Aemma, Rhea, and their daughters to the docks, where the ship The Black Fish waited for Lady Royce. Gerold offered a quick goodbye to Carys, kissing her on the cheek before disappearing into the hull of the boat, mumbling something about taking a well-needed nap. 

The queen and Rhaenyra stood nearby, the former wearing her usual warm expression, while the latter fidgeted with the edge of her cloak, her purple eyes darting around the docks. 

Carys stood beside Rhea, dressed in a dark blue cloak and matching shawl. Norei had tied her hair into a quick braid, securing it with a red ribbon to keep the dark waves from tangling in the breeze. They watched as the last of Rhea's belongings were hauled onto The Black Fish. Above them, sailors shouted incoherently as the wind blew harder, causing the sails to flap furiously.

“Write to me,” Carys pleaded, her voice barely audible above the lapping of the waves. She clung to her mother’s hand in desperation, as though the act itself would keep her in King’s Landing. “Please.”

Rhea gave a faint smile, brushing a strand of brown hair from her daughter’s face. “I will, darling,” she murmured. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Carys’ forehead. “I promise.”

Aemma stepped forward then, offering a kind smile to the pair. “Carys will be well taken care of, Rhea,” she said gently. “You needn’t worry.”

“I do,” Rhea replied softly, her gaze lingering on Carys. “She always manages.”

She straightened her shoulders, her expression determined. Pride surged in Carys’ chest suddenly– her mother was the Lady of Runestone, and no power in Westeros could take that from her. 

She reached for Carys’ hand one last time, squeezing it tightly. Placing one hand on the back of her daughter’s head, Rhea pulled her closer, kissing her forehead. “I love you,” she whispered. “Never forget that.” 

Carys nodded, her throat tight. “I love you, mama.”

Rhea hesitated for a moment, her fingers trembling slightly as she cupped Carys’ face with unexpected tenderness. From the folds of her cloak, she withdrew a small brown box, the crest of House Royce gleaming faintly on the lid.

“I wanted to give you something before I go,” her mother said softly, her voice thick with unspoken emotion. She lifted the lid to reveal a delicate necklace nestled on a pale yellow cushion.

Carys drew in a sharp breath. The necklace was exquisite, its thin silver chain shimmering. At its center hung a round pendant no larger than her thumb.

“My mother gave this to me on my tenth and sixth nameday,” Rhea continued. Lifting the necklace from the box, she reached her arms around Carys’ neck, fastening the chain before settling it gently on her chest. “I thought it best to give to you now.” 

Rhea smiled faintly, her eyes tracing the outline of the pendant as though remembering something distant. “My mother gave this to me on my tenth and sixth nameday,” she explained, lifting the necklace carefully. 

She reached around Carys’ neck, her fingers cool but steady as she fastened the chain and adjusted the pendant until it rested perfectly on her chest. “I thought it best to give it to you now. Her mother turned the pendant over, revealing an engraving on the back—a thin line with two outstretched branches.

“It’s the algiz rune,” Rhea murmured, tracing her thumb over the symbol. “It means protection. My father had this carved for my mother when they married.”

Carys touched the pendant with tentative fingers, her heart swelling. The cool metal warmed against her skin, as if to affirm its purpose. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

“And so are you,” Rhea replied, brushing a strand of hair from Carys’ face. For a moment, the weight of what could never be said passed between them. 

At long last, the sailors called for boarding. Rhea gave Carys’ hand one last squeeze before letting go, her cloak whipping in the wind as she ascended the gangplank. She turned briefly at the top, glancing down towards the dock where Carys anxiously watched her mother. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment before Rhea turned away, disappearing on the main deck.

Carys stood motionless as The Black Fish began to drift away, the wind carrying the faint creak of wood and the snapping of the sails. She stared at it until the ship became a dark speck on the horizon, her chest heavy with the ache of missing her mother.

With a sudden realization, Carys realized that her mother was not with her for the first time in her life. It was a daunting thought, one that made the tears flow all the more faster.

Aemma stepped closer, lightly resting her hand on Carys’ arm. “Come,” she said softly. “The sea breeze will chill you to the bone. There’s a fire waiting in my chambers– we’ll all have tea together.”

Carys hesitated, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Then, reluctantly, she nodded and turned away to follow Aemma and Rhaenyra back to the Red Keep. She looked back over her shoulder one last time before the path curved, the docks disappearing from view. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

In the days following her mother’s departure from the capital, Carys threw herself into court life. 

Her mornings were spent in solitude by reading on the balcony, eating her breakfast. Carys found herself drawn to the histories and poetry, particularly the writings of Peremore the Twisted, the man who had first established the Citadel in Oldtown. 

Her duties as a lady-in-waiting were far more fascinating than she previously expected. The mornings in Rhaenyra’s chambers were a mix of quiet and chatter, depending on the princess’s moods. When Rhaenyra was pensive, her ladies would cluster around her as she read scrolls and letters, often sharing passages aloud that interested her. On livelier days, Rhaenyra engaged them in conversation, the topics ranging from court gossip to dragon lore. Her cousin possessed a sharp wit, and Carys found herself laughing more often than not. 

By the afternoon, Rhaenyra made her way to visit Syrax, accompanied by Carys alone. She was the only one who dared to walk with her cousin to the Dragonpit. Most of the other ladies were terrified of the great beasts, and hid their fear behind polite decorum, but Carys was thrilled everytime she caught a glimpse of their scales. 

Syrax was kept in a large cavern on the highest level, basking in the warm sunshine that filtered through wide cracks in the stone. Her yellow scales turned gold in the sunlight, her milky eyes flickering between Carys and Rhaenyra as they slowly entered. A low purr rumbled from her throat when she saw her rider, a hot cloud of air puffing from her nose. 

“She knows you,” Carys murmured, watching in awe as her cousin began to stroke Syrax’s nose with her hand. 

“She ought to,” Rhaenyra laughed. “Syrax is more than a dragon; she’s a part of me.” She kissed Syrax on the nose, giggling when the dragon licked her hand. “One day, you’ll understand.”

There was nothing Carys wanted more than to claim a dragon. Her dreams were still filled with that silver creature from before– every night, she would close her eyes only to find herself soaring on dragonback over the Narrow Sea. It felt so real, so vivid, that waking up each morning to the Red Keep was dull in comparison. 

“Are there any dragons unclaimed?” She wondered aloud, her curiosity getting the better of her. 

Rhaenyra turned, squinting her eyes against the sunlight that beamed down. “Yes,” she mused. “Silverwing and Vermithor still reside on Dragonstone, unclaimed since Alysanne and Jaehaerys. Vhagar is nowhere to be found. Not since Baelon died.”

She paused for a moment, as though debating on whether to say more. Then, her expression shifted, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. “Actually, there is another,” she said quickly. “Veraxes.” 

“Veraxes?” Carys echoed. “I’ve never heard of him.” The name didn’t carry the same weight as the others– no ballads or histories came to mind at the mention of his name. 

“Not many have,” Rhaenyra shrugged. “He’s an ancient creature– one of the first to arrive in Westeros. He was bonded to Aerion Targaryen, the father of the conquerors. After he died, no one dared to claim him.” 

A shiver ran down Carys’ spine. “Where is he now?”

“Somewhere in the Dragonpit. No one has seen him except the dragon keepers.” Rhaenyra’s voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in closer so Carys could hear her. “Some say he’s blind.”

“Blind?” Carys repeated incredulously. She looked over at Syrax, who was now chewing loudly on a slab of raw deer meat. “Why would a dragon be blind?”

“It’s not confirmed,” Rhaenyra said quickly. “He’s just spent so many years in the dark, deeper in the pit than any of the others. His eyes have most likely lost the ability to adjust to the sun.”

Before Carys could press the matter further, a dragonkeeper stepped into the cavern, bowing deeply to the princesses. “Princess Carys, Princess Rhaenyra,” he greeted them. “You have a visitor waiting in the courtyard.”

“Oh?” Rhaenyra turned around. Her hands were stained with blood, as she had unsuccessfully tried to pull a sharp bone from Syrax’s maw. The dragon had simply spit the bone into the corner, curling inwards upon herself for a long nap. “Who is it?”

“Lady Alicent Hightower and her brother.” 

Carys exchanged a quick glance with Rhaenyra. Since her arrival less than a month ago, she hadn’t met Otto Hightower’s children yet, as they had been in Oldtown attending to family matters. She knew very little of Alicent– only that she was Rhaenyra’s closest companion, and was a favorite of the court due to her sympathetic nature. Even less was known about her elder brother– Gwayne, was it? – who remained in Oldtown with his uncle and the rest of his family. 

“Shall I send them to the Red Keep, princess?” The dragon keeper asked. 

Rhaenyra shook her head, wiping her bloodied hands with a damp cloth. “No, that’s alright. It would be rude to keep them waiting.”

Carys followed her cousin out of the cavern, the torchlight guiding their way. The walk to the courtyard was brisk, the warm air day hitting Carys as soon as she stepped outside. The courtyard was bustling with attendants and dragon keepers alike, but it was impossible to miss the pair standing by the carriage. Lady Alicent’s thick, auburn hair tumbled well past her shoulders, framing a round, pretty face with dimples. 

Beside her, Gwayne stood tall and composed, his sharp green eyes scanning the courtyard with an air of quiet confidence. Carys’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than was proper. He was handsome, with strong features softened only slightly by the hint of weariness etched into his expression. His dark tunic fit snugly over broad shoulders, and though his face was serious, there was a warmth in his eyes that intrigued her.

It was then that Carys noticed the siblings were both dressed in morose black. Alicent wore a heavy kirtle over a white chemise. Gwayne wore only a dark tunic over grey trousers, his expression solemn as Rhaenyra and Carys approached.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Alicent curtsied. Her voice was melodic and warm, but Carys wasn’t entirely sure what to make of her. “I apologize for the interruption. We only just arrived back in King’s Landing–”

Rhaenyra cut her off, taking Alicent’s hand in hers. Carys was surprised to see the princess embrace the lady, wrapping her thin arms around Alicent’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry about your mother,” Rhaenyra murmured.

Alicent froze for a moment, before relaxing into Rhaenyra’s embrace, her eyes glistening. “Thank you,” she whispered. “She passed peacefully, at least. Father said it was a mercy.”

As Rhaenyra murmured something else, Carys towards Gwayne. Despite his composure, his knuckles were gripped tightly on the hilt of his sword, the skin pale. Grief clung to him like a dark cloud, but there was something else to it, too– an alertness, as though he was looking for an unseen enemy. 

Rhaenyra pulled away from Alicent, turning her attention to her brother. “And you, Gwayne,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Gwayne dipped his head in gratitude, swallowing quickly. “Thank you, princess.” His voice was steadier and deeper than Carys had expected, his inflections rich. “It has been a hard time for all of us, but your words are appreciated.”

Carys hesitated, unsure if she should speak. “Please accept my sympathies as well,” she said softly. “Losing a parent is a heavy burden. No child should have to go through that.”

His sharp gaze drifted towards her. For a moment, the courtyard seemed to grow silent. There was a flicker on something in his eyes as the corners of his lips curled into a tight smile. “Your words are most kind, Princess Carys,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Carys resisted the urge to look at him any longer than she needed to, feeling her cheeks grow warm. It’s just the sun, she told herself. 

Rhaenyra, as always, broke the silence. “Come,” she said, gesturing to the Red Keep looming in the distance. “You must be weary from the road.” 

Alicent nodded her thanks. The two girls stepped inside the carriage, sliding onto the cushions besides each other. Carys and Gwayne lingered outside for a moment longer, standing in awkward silence.

Carys glanced at Gwayne, noting how his auburn waves shifted in the breeze, the sunlight catching them just enough to make them gleam. He was a striking figure, no matter how stoic he appeared. She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips as she took a step closer.

“How long will you be in the capital?” she asked quickly, her voice tinged with curiosity, though she allowed just enough playfulness to slip through.

Gwayne shrugged, though his eyes stayed on her, perhaps for a beat too long. “That depends,” he said lightly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t found much about the capital that I like. I came here with Alicent to make sure she’s alright, but…” He paused, his gaze flickering over her for a moment, before he continued. “It’s not quite what I expected.”

Carys raised an eyebrow, a hint of mischief creeping into her expression. “Not even the Red Keep?” she asked, her tone teasing, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

His smile grew just slightly, his gaze meeting hers with an almost amused glint in his eyes. “Perhaps it’s the company here that leaves me wanting,” he replied, his voice lower than before, though still light, his lips curling at the edges.

Before she could respond, an attendant appeared at their side, bowing deeply. “Princess Carys, Ser Gwayne, the others are waiting.”

Gwayne’s smile faltered for a brief second, though his expression remained playful as he turned back to Carys. “It seems duty calls,” he said with a shrug, the lightness returning to his voice. “But I’ll be around, Princess. We’ll see if King’s Landing can win me over yet.”

Carys’ smile lingered as she turned toward the attendant, feeling the spark between them hum in the air. “I look forward to it, Ser Gwayne,” she replied, her voice just a little more teasing than before. 

He held out a hand, helping her into the carriage. As Carys settled herself onto the plush cushions inside, her heart was still fluttering from the exchange. She dared a glance at Gwayne through the open door, and he met her gaze, his smile lingering in the corner of his mouth. 

“Will you not ride with us?” She asked, leaning out of the door to hear him better. 

Gwayne shook his head. “Nay. I’ll be riding to the Red Keep on my own.” With a deep bow, he stepped away, walking towards his horse.

Carys sat back against the cushions, disappointed in the sudden end to the conversation. Ignoring Rhaenyra and Alicent’s teasing looks, she leaned her head against the window, watching as the streets rolled by.

For the rest of the ride, the teasing from Rhaenyra and Alicent continued, but Carys’ mind wandered elsewhere. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something  undeniably thrilling.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The shift from summer to fall happened quietly, without anyone noticing it until the mornings became cooler and the leaves had started to turn orange.  The long summer had been a prosperous one; House Targaryen and its servants had relished in bountiful harvests, warm weather, and an increase in money that had never been seen before. 

Carys was not a stranger to these changes. She, too, had changed during her time in King’s Landing. After three months, Carys had forgone her Vale dresses and donned gowns that reflected the customs of the Targaryens, stunning in deep reds and purples. Her days were spent at Rhaenyra’s side, accompanying the princess wherever she went. The initial thrill of visiting the Dragonpit and wherever else Rhaenyra decided to go had become quickly dull. Carys, in all her excitement of coming to the capital, wanted a new adventure. 

She soon discovered that it wasn’t enough to simply be at Rhaenyra’s side. She had spent her early years following her mother around, chasing after cousin Jon or Gerold. Now, at ten and three, Carys wondered if her life would ever be her own. 

Rhaenyra seemed to chafe at her constant companionship as well. More often than not, the princess took to the skies on Syrax, soaring over the Narrow Sea from dusk to dawn. Carys didn’t mind it– in fact, she preferred it. She did not want things with Rhaenyra to sour, and there was no other way to protect their friendship.  Their unspoken agreement about spending time away from one another led Carys to wandering around the Red Keep one cold morning, with Norei following close behind. With her red cloak drawn around her shoulders and her hair pinned in an elaborate style, she was the image of a Targaryen princess. 

Her morning walk brought her all the way to the upper training yard, cold in the shadow of Maegor’s Holdfast. There, all the knights of the Kingsguard and other men or boys who wished to be renowned for their strength trained with one another. Carys stopped on the veranda overlooking the courtyard, placing her hands lightly on the balustrade.Her walk today was not entirely without purpose. There, in the center of it all was Gwayne, sparring with Ser Tommen of the Kingsguard. 

A soft blush rose into her cheeks. Gwayne had stayed in King’s Landing longer than anticipated, spending most of his time with his sister or father. They rarely spoke, but when they did, Carys felt herself becoming more and more drawn to him. Carys felt almost ashamed of her interest in him. Gwayne was mourning his mother still, and grief was a heavy thing. He did not need the weight of her wandering thoughts, the quiet rush of joy she felt whenever she saw him. And yet, Carys couldn’t help but watch– drawn in by the way he moved or how he handled his sword. 

“You could have told me there was a reason we walked all this way in the cold,” Norei said drily. Her maidservant stood beside her, shivering slightly in her cloak. Her hair, unbound from its normal cap, puffed out in a halo around her head. “I would have had one of the other maids come with you.”

Carys laughed a little at that. Wrapping one arm around Norei, she teasingly shook the girl, trying to warm her up. “We’ll be done soon, I promise. I just wanted to check in on things.”

“You mean you wanted to check in on someone.”

Carys turned her head, but Norei’s smirk was hard to miss. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said airily. The words felt weak, even to her. 

Norei hid her smile. “Of course not, princess. Just like you didn’t insist we take the long way through the castle this morning. Or stop at the best vantage point overlooking the training yard.”

Carys huffed, but there was no real annoyance behind it. She turned her attention back to the yard, watching as Gwayne dodged a swift blow from Ser Tommen, the clash of their swords ringing out. 

“I’m only curious,” she muttered, more to herself than to Norei.

“Curious,” Norei echoed. “Then I suppose we’ll stay until your curiosity is satisfied?”

Carys bit her lip, torn between laughing and protesting. But she didn’t move. Not yet. 

Minutes later, Tommen ceded to Gwayne after a long and hard duel. Carys couldn’t help but smile when Gwayne emerged victorious, laughing as he clapped Tommen’s back as they exchanged a few words. His face was flushed red, his auburn hair damp from sweat. 

Carys pressed her lips together to stifle her smile, but Norei caught her anyway. “You look as though you just won the match.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s good,” Carys admitted. “Better than I expected.”

“And handsomer too, I take it,” Norei replied. “Princess, I beg that we go inside. I’m not made for cold weather.”

Carys didn’t respond. Instead, she turned her back to the courtyard just as Gwayne looked up, scanning the veranda above. 

For a moment, their eyes locked. Then Gwayne just smiled– a small, unexpected thing, but it sent her heart into a flutter nonetheless. 

She swallowed hard, gripping the balustrade. “We should go.”

Norei, to her credit, didn’t argue. But Carys heard the amusement in her voice as she said, “As you wish, my lady.”

As they turned to leave, Carys nervously twisted her fingers in the hem of her cloak, willing her nerves to calm. She had no business lingering in the cold just to watch a knight– not when there were duties to attend to. But as the two girls ascended the steps, the distant murmur of voices reached her ears. At first, Carys thought little of it– there were always servants gossiping together in the corners when they had time– but then a voice, sharp and hard, cut through the chilly air. 

Daemon. 

She knew it before she even rounded the corner, before she and Norei found themselves by the door of the small council chamber, which had been left ajar. 

Carys grabbed Norei’s sleeve, pulling her back against the wall so no one would see them. Her heart pounded as she leaned in her head to listen, with Norei angled just underneath her.

“Am I being punished for doing too good a job?” Daemon’s voice was thick with mock innocence. Carys wondered just how many times her father had been reprimanded by the council– and if he had ever managed to perfect his defense. 

It was Ser Otto Hightower who spoke now, his dry voice filled with disdain for the prince. “You were named Commander of the City Watch to maintain order. Not terrify the smallfolk into submission.” 

Daemon scoffed. “The people of King’s Landing sleep soundly now, do they not? No longer do they have to fear thieves, murderers and rapists walking their streets again.”

“And if more appear? What then?” Viserys’ voice cut through the din. “Will your mass slaughter take place every year?”

“If it must,” Daemon replied coolly.  

Norei inhaled sharply beside her, the sound barely audible over the tense silence that now filled the council chamber. Carys felt a roaring sound begin to fill her ears; this was not a conversation she was meant to be listening to. 

Viserys sighed heavily. Carys pictured him rubbing his temples, exhausted from his brother’s provocations. “You go too far, Daemon,” he said at last. “This is not the way.”

Daemon barked out a laugh. “And yet, it works. Perhaps you should ride out to the city for once, brother. Ask the people whose methods they prefer.”

Carys rolled her eyes. Perhaps her mother had been right about Daemon, had been correct in her belief that he would have added nothing beneficial to Carys’ life. The only impression she had of her father was a conniving, ambitious man who only looked out for himself and his own bloodlust.

The scrape of chairs pulled her from her thoughts. “We did not dismiss you,” Ser Otto snapped. “Your Grace, if you continue to permit Daemon–”

“Are you two enjoying yourselves out here?” Daemon’s voice rang through the hall. 

Carys went rigid. Her father stood before her now, dressed in all black as though he were some demon coming to haunt the Red Keep. His violet eyes bored into her, his brow furrowed as he glared down at his daughter and her maid, lurking in the hall. 

Shit. 

“Well?” He prompted, cocking his head. “Do you intend to sculk in the hallway all day, or do you intend to join us?”

Carys could hear Otto scoff from inside. She hesitated, her heart hammering as she straightened. She was no frightened babe. If Daemon wanted to intimidate her, then she would not cower. 

Her mother would have never permitted it. 

“I was only passing through,” she lied, though she doubted he’d believe it. 

To her horror, Daemon stepped aside, sweeping his arm out towards the chamber. “Come then, daughter. If you’re so interested in politics, let’s see if you have the stomach for it.”

Carys hesitated again, only for a moment. Then, she lifted her chin, striding into the chamber with all the strength she could muster. Norei followed her sheepishly inside, quickly curtseying to Daemon before coming to stand behind Carys. Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the men that now stared at her. At the head of the table sat her uncle, with his Hand to the right and Daemon’s empty chair to the left. The other chairs were filled by Lord Corlys, a maester, and other men she did not recognize. 

Viserys looked at her, his expression one of mild disappointment. “You are meant to be with Rhaenyra.”

“She’s flying,” Carys said simply. “I thought to entertain myself elsewhere.”

“So you chose to eavesdrop on a small council meeting?” Otto replied coolly. “That is no small offense, princess.”

“It’s not my fault you left the door open,” Carys retorted, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at him. It seemed Rhea’s impatience for old, blithering men had passed onto her. “Everyone can hear you.”

A beat of silence followed. Then Corlys, who had been watching with mild interest, chuckled softly. “Well played, princess.”

Carys resisted the urge to glance at Otto, who must have been seething now. 

Viserys sighed, waving a hand. “Very well. If you wish to stay, stay. But do not make this a habit, Carys. Lurking outside of doors is unbecoming of a princess.”

Carys bowed her head respectfully. “Yes, uncle.”

Daemon took his seat once more, casting a sideward glance to his daughter before looking around the table. “Shall we continue?”

Otto cleared his throat. “As we were discussing before the… interruption, Daemon’s methods of protecting the city remain under scrutiny.”

“Under whose scrutiny?” Daemon retorted. “The smallfolk are safer than they’ve ever been.”

“The smallfolk fear you,” Viserys reprimanded him. “That is not the same.”

Carys observed carefully, watching the way her father smirked at the Hand’s irritation. He was enjoying this. She had heard stories of the infamous city watch reforms– how he guided their bloody hands all for the sake of protecting the city. She wondered what it must be like, to move through the world with such confidence. And yet, despite herself, Carys was fascinated by her father. He was not swinging Dark Sister, nor was he astride Caraxes, and yet his presence seemed to defy the scrutiny of the men around him. Even when his own brother glared at him in frustration, even when Otto was seething with rage, Daemon held the upper hand by refusing to bend. 

Viserys, looking weary, just shook his head. “Enough. The matter is settled. For now.” He gave his brother a pointed look. “But if I hear about another night like the last, trust you will be dealt with.”

Daemon merely smiled. “Of course, brother.”

Carys knew it meant nothing. He had not looked at her again, but she could feel his awareness of her all the same.

When the council adjourned, Daemon was the last to rise, lingering at the table as the others filtered out. Carys hesitated for a moment before stepping forward.

“You enjoy provoking them.”

Daemon smirked. “And you enjoy eavesdropping, it seems.”

“Not eavesdropping. I enjoy learning. There’s a difference.”

His expression morphed into something like pride, or perhaps amusement at the little girl who stood before him. Then with a small chuckle, he stepped past her, ruffling his hair as he left. 

“Careful, Carys.” Daemon called out over his shoulder. “You might just turn out like me.”

And with that, he was gone.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The days grew colder as the winter continued on. Inhabitants of the Red Keep were forced to stay inside as the weather outside raged on, protecting themselves from the frigid rain. Rhaenyra was more inclined to stay inside as well. Instead of flying every day, she resorted herself to spending time in her chambers with Carys and Alicent. The three of them often read together in silence, or practiced their needlework, or even dreamed together of the strong and handsome knights they would marry– Carys and Alicent in particular. 

Carys liked Alicent well enough. She was quiet and reserved, still in mourning for her recently departed mother. Alicent, like her, enjoyed the histories and literature. The two often exchanged books they enjoyed, and discussed the works of Lomas Longstrider and other notable writers. 

Their habit of quiet solitude in Rhaenyra’s room was interrupted one day when Aemma Arryn summoned the three girls to her solar for afternoon tea. 

Rain gently pitter-pattered on the grand windows as Rhaenyra, Carys, and Alicent sat around the queen. The table before them was laded with spiced tea from Dorne, sweet cakes, fruits, and other delicacies that had become rare since the winter shut down most trading ports. 

Carys helped herself to a slice of lemon cake, listening to Rhaenyra and her mother bicker back and forth. Aemma tutted as Rhaenyra pushed away her cup, wrinkling her nose at the tea. 

“It smells bitter,” Rhaenyra complained. “I prefer mulled wine.”

“You’re too young for that,” Aemma admonished her. “At least try the tea.”

Carys hid a smile behind her teacup, taking a careful sip. She preferred darker teas from the Reach, but this tea was pleasantly spicy. Across from her, Alicent stirred a bit of honey into her cup, quiet as always.It was a comfortable and familiar scene, but there was something different about Aemma today. She seemed more pensive than usual, her eyes darting around the room as though she were looking for the words. 

Sure enough, as the conversation began to lull, Aemma set her cup down and drew herself up tall. “I am glad I have the three of you here today,” she began. “It is important for young ladies to keep good company, to learn from one another.”

Rhaenyra arched her brow. “Is that why you summoned us?”

Aemma shook her head, a small smile on her lips. Then, with deliberate grace, she placed a hand over her stomach. 

“I wished to tell you myself,” she said calmly. “I am with child.”

A long silence followed, broken only by the soft patter of rain on the windows. 

Carys felt her fingers around her cup. She knew what this meant– for the queen, for the realm, and most of all, for Rhaenyra. Carys was no stranger to the difficulties of Aemma’s pregnancies; had heard stories from Yara about the children the queen had lost over the years. 

Rhaenyra, for her part, merely blinked, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she forced a smile. “That is… good news, mother.”

Aemma’s own smile wavered, but she nodded. “It is.”

Alicent, ever the dutiful one, was the first one to offer true congratulations. “May the gods grant you strength and good health, your Grace.”

Carys hesitated before adding, “And may the babe be strong."

The words were expected, polite, but she could not ignore the flicker of unease in Rhaenyra’s eyes as she took another slow bite of her fig, chewing deliberately as if swallowing down something far more bitter.

Chapter Text

Carys missed her mother. 

Their correspondence had dwindled somewhat during the last six months, and Carys found herself wishing she could hear her mother’s voice. The Red Keep had grown stifling. The king and queen had formally announced she was with child again, and Aemma was more secluded in her chamber as of late at the behest of Maester Mellos. The air of the castle was stale, as though all life within it had faded away. 

Daemon had disappeared again—no one seemed to know where he had gone, though it was hardly the first time. It infuriated her to no extent– a feeling Carys was not familiar with until she had come to King’s Landing. She had traveled all this way to connect with her father’s family, and yet she felt like an afterthought. 

She hated how much it bothered her. 

Even the friendship between Carys and Rhaenyra had changed—the two still enjoyed one another’s company, but in Carys’ solitude, she found herself shutting those around her out.There was a time when they had whispered secrets beneath the shade of the apple trees, when laughter had come easily between them.

Now, the silences stretched longer. Carys caught herself retreating, seeking solitude where once she would have sought Rhaenyra’s company. They were still friends. They still walked together, still shared meals, but something had shifted.

Her only solace these days was in the gardens, wandering aimlessly among the tall hedges and bare trees. Normally, Norei walked with her, but she had taken the day off without mentioning any particular reason. Carys resorted to taking another maidservant with her– a high-pitched girl named Lola.

Carys’ favorite spot in the garden was a low bench by the grand fountain. There, her obsessive thoughts were drowned out by the sound of water gurgling and birds chirping. She leaned back slightly, exhaling through her nose, trying to let the noise soothe her.

But then—humming.

Lola, standing a short distance away, swayed slightly as she hummed some tune Carys didn’t recognize. It was a grating, chirping sound, too cheerful, too out of place in the quiet she sought. Carys clenched her jaw, willing herself to ignore it, but irritation itched beneath her skin.

She dropped her gaze to her hands, curling and uncurling her fingers in her lap. Would they ever let her claim a dragon? The thought had lingered in her mind for some time now, growing heavier with each passing month. She was a Targaryen, was she not? So why did it feel as if she was merely playing the part, a child dressing in silk that did not truly belong to her?

“I need to fetch some herbs for the chef,” Lola chirped suddenly, pulling Carys from her thoughts. The girl’s voice was as nasally as ever, utterly unaware of how much she grated on Carys’ nerves.

Carys inhaled slowly, steadying herself. "Then go," she said coolly, waving a dismissive hand. "I'll manage on my own."

As the maid disappeared from sight, Carys exhaled a sigh of relief. She was tired of being constantly followed around by someone; spending excessive amounts of time with Rhaenyra and her other ladies in waiting exhausted her these days. 

Carys rose from the bench, feeling her limbs ache from the cold. Her fur-lined cloak wasn’t enough to keep the biting weather from numbing her. Some movement would do her good. 

The gardens were sparse. Most of the bushes had shriveled in the cold, and flowers were no longer blooming. The trees lost their leaves, looking skeletal against the grey sky as Carys silently ran her palm across their rough trunks. 

She missed Runestone. She never considered solitude to be a gift until now, but being surrounded by people every day was quite tiring. Carys missed riding with her mother in the mornings, or looking over cousin Jon’s shoulder as he received reports from his ship captains. 

Here, even the gardens felt suffocating. 

Carys sucked in a breath, feeling her lungs fill with cold air as she turned the corner. Rounding the path, her gaze was caught by movement up ahead. Carys stilled, her fingers gripping the edge of her cloak. She hadn’t expected anyone else to be outside, but that auburn hair was unmistakable. 

Gwayne stood beneath one of the bare trees, his arms crossed, speaking with a girl Carys didn’t recognize. They were close– closer than formality demanded. When the girl laughed and touched his arm, Carys felt an uncomfortable twist in her stomach. 

She shouldn’t care. She had no reason to care. 

She had no reason to care.

Absolutely no reason. 

And yet, when she saw the girl laugh—standing too close, her hand brushing against Gwayne’s arm—something inside Carys twisted, sharp and unwelcome. It was foolish.

Before she could think better of it, Carys turned away as quickly as she could, but her cloak snagged on a particularly large thorn, tearing a large rip in the fabric. 

“Shit,” Carys hissed, trying to tug it away. Doing so only made it worse, and the tear grew to the size of her hand. 

The curse was louder than she intended. Gwayne turned around at the sound of her voice, his eyes widening in surprise before settling in amusement as she spotted her struggling with the thorn.

“Are you alright?” Gwayne called out, walking to her immediately. He was well-dressed for the cold, wearing a doublet made of grey wool. His cheeks were pink from the cold as he looked down at Carys in concern.

No, Gwayne, I’m not alright . Carys hid her face from him, attempting to hide her scowl. She ripped her cloak free and wrapped the fabric tightly around herself. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Carys responded, her voice cool. 

She immediately felt guilty for being so harsh; the look on his face made her doubt how annoyed she actually was. 

Almost.  

“I didn’t know princesses were so secretive about their activities.” Gwayne’s voice was half-teasing as he fell into step beside her, striding through the tall hedges. 

Carys bit the inside of her cheek in frustration. “Well, I don’t need to tell you, anyways.” 

She wanted to ask who the girl was, why exactly he was with her, but Carys was too annoyed with him to think logically. She chided herself, then, for being so petty, but that only made her irritation worse

“My apologies for the intrusion, then.” Gwayne swept into a mock-bow, his blue-grey eyes twinkling in amusement as he looked up at her. “I’d hate to think I ruined your day.”

“You didn’t.” Carys kept her voice as level as possible. She turned the corner, finally making it past the hedges to find herself standing before a grand gazebo. The pillars were covered in vines blooming with small, purple flowers that cast a sweet smell into the air. 

The sun was setting now; golden rays extended far above the city, turning the sky a rich pink hue. Carys felt her annoyance at Gwayne dissipate as she took in the scene, silently walking towards the gazebo. 

She rested her hands delicately on the balustrade, her gaze sweeping over the view below. The waters of Blackwater Bay were honey gold in the sunset, the waves crashing against the cliff below, sending up a spray of sea foam. 

Gwayne stepped into the gazebo alongside her, his teasing tone replaced by his usual quiet thoughtfulness. The air smelled of salt and flowers, and for a moment, Carys let herself forget the embarrassment curling in her stomach. 

She traced her fingers on the smooth stone of the balustrade, watching the waves roll and break beneath her. The sunlight danced across the water, casting shifting gold patterns that extended far into the horizon. 

Beside her, Gwayne exhaled softly. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured. 

Carys nodded silently, her grip tightening on the stone. The moment felt horribly fragile; any feelings of annoyance she had were replaced by something else– something she couldn’t quite place her finger on. 

His hand rested near hers on the railing, fingers barely grazing the hem of her sleeve. She held her breath, her pulse quickening, though she wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or anticipation. 

“Carys, I wanted to–”

“Princess!”

She jolted back, snatching her hand away just as Lola burst into view, her skirts rustling as she ascended the steps. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her round face beaded with sweat.

“Princess, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Lola said, her voice strained. She barely spared Gwayne a glance as she leveled her gaze with Carys. “I was looking in the wrong places, it seems. But it’s time for supper. 

Carys hid her annoyance, twisting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. She cast a glance towards Gwayne, whose face had morphed back into its usual easy charm. 

“My apologies for frightening you, Lola. We were just admiring the sunset.” With another work, she stepped away from the gazebo, leaving the sunset– and whatever had just passed between them behind. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The setting sun cast long shadows across the floor of Norei’s room as she lay flat against the cold stones, breathing in and out slowly. 

She had taken the day off, saying that she had caught whatever small sickness was going through the Red Keep. Carys believed her well enough, and had even been kind enough to send soup and bread to her rooms. 

The platter was now lying empty on her bed. Norei wore nothing but her thin shift, the pale sunlight filtering through the window turning her dark skin into gold. 

The past week had overwhelmed her; Westeros was vastly different from the Summer Isles. The air was colder, the people awfully pale, their frocks made of thicker cloth than Norei was used to. 

King’s Landing smelled awful as well.  The sea was different from  the shores she played on as a child– it was a heavy, acrid stench that filled the air, as well as the smell of human feces wafting from the lower streets if she traveled far enough out of the Red Keep. 

These were all trivial worries compared to the way the other servants treated her. At least the highborn knew enough to be polite– the other maids couldn’t help but stare as she walked into the kitchens. They were not unkind, not openly, but she still felt their practiced niceties. 

There were days when she thought she could still smell the sea breeze of home, salt-sweet and warm, only for the acrid stench of King’s Landing to remind her that she had stepped onto a different shore. 

Taking a deep breath in, Norei opened her eyes, looking up at the low ceiling of her room. Her fingers were splayed out against the floor, the pads of her fingertips pressing down, grounding herself in the present. In this world, at least. 

But the other world– the one filled with her dreams– was never far. It lingered in the far corners of her mind, consuming her days with obsessive thoughts, whispering through the gaps of her consciousness. The silver dragon. 

She did not remember a time before the dreams, when the silver dragon was not the source of every waking thought. It had appeared in her mind since childhood, its scales gleaming like moonlight over a vast expanse of land. Upon its back, there was the rider she could never see or touch; they were always out of her reach, just a breath away until she was pulled from sleep in the early morning. 

The first time she saw the  dragon, she thought it to be a message from the gods of her homeland. Norei had been asleep in her family’s small house, on the coast of an unnamed patch of land in the Summer Isles, when she saw the great beast flying through her subconscious. 

The dreams never faded, nor did they lose their urgency. Night after night she would be haunted by the same dream: the great beast soaring through the sky with its rider, before suddenly falling towards the ground below. 

The dreams only grew stronger, and so Norei followed them. All the way from her childhood home, away from her heavy handed stepfather and ailing mother, across the Narrow Sea to the shores of Westeros. Dragons only existed in Westeros; if her dreams meant anything, they had to be there. 

At first, she thought the visions would fade once she stepped foot on the cold and stony shores of Westeros. Perhaps the sea would sweep them away like footprints on the shore, but they only grew stronger. The silver dragon still lingered in her mind, its wings cutting through the endless skies before plummeting towards the land. 

Why? Why had the gods shown her this? Why had the gods led her here, to this stony hellscape jutting out of the water like some hulking beast?

Norei had thought herself foolish at first, chasing this dream across the sea. But as she stood among the servants of the Red Keep, scrubbing stone floors and pouring wine for adulterous lords, Norei realized the truth:

She had been led here. The dreams never revealed the rider’s face, until three months ago, when Norei stood in the hall of the Targaryens and she saw her at last. 

Carys Targaryen. 

Norei had expected someone fierce, someone who carried themselves like the conquerors of old. Instead, she found a girl who was quiet and reserved, and hardly the make of a dragonrider. Perhaps her time in the Red Keep would make a woman of her. But the gods did not make mistakes. 

Carys Targaryen was the rider from her dreams– of that, Norei was certain. And if the girl was not yet the woman she would become, then time would shape her. Fire would forge her. Or perhaps it would be Norei. 

She had followed the silver dragon across the sea, and she would follow it still. Norei could wait. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

Aemma was tired of being pregnant. 

Her life over the past six months had changed drastically. No longer did she participate in feasts or tourneys or court events. Instead, she was sequestered to her chambers for her own health, as well as the child’s. 

It infuriated her to no end. She had been with child six times before; if anyone knew what was best for her health, it was her. 

Maester Mellos was the sole object of her ire; the bumbling man seemed to always hover around her, checking on the babe. At his behest, she spent more time in the tub than she did standing, letting lukewarm milk soak into her skin.

Her lithe fingers gripped the rim of the tub. Sighing, Aemma slipped deeper into the milk-bath, her entire body submerged up to her nose. Despite the privilege and the honors that came with being queen, her entire life– and her womb, for that matter– was spent in servitude to the crown. No Targaryen had truly been able to free themselves from its chokehold without ruining something else in the process.

Aemma ran her hands along the smooth rim, feeling the stone underneath her palms. Two nights ago, Viserys had come into her rooms, slipping through the door in the darkness. She had been sleeping peacefully for once, and his disturbance resulted in her spewing several unqueen-like curses at him. 

It was then, in the darkness, that Viserys told her of his dream. A babe, wearing the crown of the conqueror, sitting on the Iron Throne, and a tiny pink cock between his legs. 

Aemma thought it ridiculous. No one, not even the wisest man in the world, could predict the sex of a child before it was born. The notion was so far-fetched, Aemma had laughed at her husband until he left her rooms in anger, and she was allowed to sleep once more. 

In the days following, however, her thoughts were consumed by the other babes she had carried. Each one had carved a piece from her, had taken some part of her soul with them when they died, leaving her bereft and heartbroken. 

Their names were not recorded, yet Aemma Arryn named them all the same. 

There was Daella, who died in the cradle only two years ago, only living a single month past her birth. Both Aerion and Daeron died in the womb, her boys blue in the face when Mellos pulled them out of her. Aemma had lost count of how many she had lost before they had come to term, but held them in her heart nonetheless.

But Rhaenyra, oh, Rhaenyra . Her sole joy, her sun and stars. Aemma spent the first year of Rhaenyra’s life in constant fear that she would not live. She was only ten and five when her first child was born; there was some childish instinct she had held onto when she first became a mother, fear gripping her throat and chest until Rhaenyra spoke her first words and all anxieties were relieved.

She leaned her head against the tub, looking up at the high ceiling. Rhaenyra still clung to her childhood, racing through the halls and laughing with her ladies. But soon, her husband would speak of alliances, and Rhaenyra would be sold off, as Aemma herself had been. 

They would look at her the same way they looked at Aemma: not as a woman or a person, but a womb. A vessel. 

She pictured Rhaenyra, pale and sweat-soaked on her bed, gripping the sheets below her as she fought to bring a child into the world. The thought made her stomach lurch. No mother could protect her daughter from that pain, no matter how hard they tried. 

Aemma then thought of young Carys. The girl was kind, if not naïve at times, but unlike Rhaenyra, she did not have her mother to protect her here.

The door creaked open. In came her husband, wearing only his night robe and sleep cap. His movements were tentative as he pulled a chair closer to the tub, sitting close to his wife. 

Viserys' eyes were dull, the dark circles beneath them more prominent in the dark of the room. His hair fell limply from underneath the cap, framing his round face. Viserys had been handsome when they first married, but years of ruling had left their mark on him. 

“You’re still awake?” He asked softly. Viserys reached out slowly, cupping the curve of her cheek in his hand. 

Aemma hummed lightly, running her fingers along the edge. “Sleep evades me these days,” she mused. 

He was silent for a long while, his eyes trained on the swell of her belly. “I’ve been… thinking about the child.”

She felt her nostrils flare in annoyance. “You mean the boy.” 

Her harsh tone caused him to flinch slightly. “Yes,” Viserys replied defensively. “You think me a fool for believing in a dream. Daenys had a dream over a hundred years ago, and look where we are now.” 

“I think you’re a fool for building your hopes on it,” Aemma responded shortly. “Dreams don’t guarantee healthy babes.” 

No more than crowns guarantee good kings. 

Viserys sighed, rubbing his chin. “I don’t want to argue, Aemma.”

“Then we shan’t argue.” She propped her elbows on the side of the tub, the water sliding down the curve of her body. His eyes flicked to her chest briefly, before his cheeks turned a pale shade of pink and he looked away. “I’ve been thinking about the girls.”

His brows twitched in confusion. 

“Rhaenyra and Carys,” she amended quickly. “What is your plan for Carys? Or our daughter, for that matter?” 

Viserys rubbed his chin, exhaling slowly. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You’ve seen the pile of letters I get from the lords. Each one thinks they’re the better option, and yet I cannot decide all the same. Rhaenyra deserves the world.”

“That, we can agree on.” Aemma chewed her lip, deep in thought. “There might be a husband in mind for Carys, however.”

“Oh?”

She nodded eagerly. “Gwayne Hightower.”

Viserys looked at her, his eyes wide with surprise. “Otto’s son?”

“They make a good pair. I’ve seen them in the gardens,” she said, barely hiding her smile. “He’s a good boy, with a good head. He’ll be good for her.”

Her husband shook his head, the silver strands of his hair shaking under his cap. “Otto would never allow it. He’ll look for more advantageous matches– and besides, he and Daemon would never agree to their children marrying one another. And besides, Carys is young. There’s time for us to find a match for her.”

“Then what of Rhaenyra?” Aemma pressed, her gaze narrowing as she studied her husband. “If we delay Carys’s future, surely we must do the same for Rhaenyra. She is ten and four, Viserys.”

“You were eleven when we married,” Viserys retorted. “Were you a woman yet?”

“No,” she snapped. “And yet I became one all the same. But I beg you, please, do not do the same to our daughter. Or your niece.” She took his hand in hers, looking eagerly into her eyes. “Let them have one more year without talk of marriage or the childbed.”

Viserys was silent for a long moment, his gaze never leaving hers. For a brief moment, Aemma saw the boy she married all those years ago– the nervous, twitchy bridegroom, was the same man that sat before her now. 

“I can’t promise that, Aemma,” Viserys said, his voice hoarse. “The council won’t let me. You know as well as I do that the moment Rhaenyra becomes a woman, the lords will turn their gaze towards us. They already do.”

Aemma felt a cold lump in her throat. She knew the truth of it. The lords of the realm had long been eyeing Rhaenyra as an asset, as if she were some bargaining chip. Her daughter would just be another womb for their sons, another broodmare for their pedigree. 

The reality of the world was inescapable.

“She should not have to be someone’s pawn,” Aemma said quietly, her gaze dropping to the water again. “Let her be a girl for just a little while longer.”

Viserys sighed deeply, sounding weary of the conversation he started. “I want that too, Aemma. But I have no choice in the matter. The council will not allow either of them to remain unmarried for so long.”

Aemma’s heart twisted at the truth of his words. “Then let me protect them for now,” Aemma urged, her voice soft but insistent. “Let me shield the girls from that weight for just one more year. Just one more.”

Viserys just stared at her for a long while. Finally, he nodded, rising from his chair to kiss her on the brow before leaving. 

Aemma let out a long breath and leaned back into the tub, feeling the warm milk settle against her skin once again. She would fight for Rhaenyra, and for Carys, despite how no one had fought for her. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

For the past month, Carys' dreams were all the same. 

She would close her eyes to sleep, and open them to find herself falling towards the Narrow Sea. Her screams, which were never silent in her dreams, tore at her throat, the sound echoing in her ears and ringing across the water. 

Carys knew that screaming would do nothing. Within seconds, her freefall would end and she would find herself gripping onto the scales of the great silver dragon. 

There was no name for the beast, and yet she knew him all the same. Even in her dreams, Carys could feel the powerful beat of his wings, his heart beating under his scales and muscle. 

In her dreams, they were one. One creature, one heart, one soul. 

The dreams ended all the same. She would find herself soaring towards a broken keep, its towers in ruin and crumbling towards the ground with her very eyes. Every time, she would fall from the dragon, screaming once more until she woke up. 

Tonight was different, for she did not fall. The dream lingered even as she was shaken awake, firm hands gripping her shoulders.

“Princess, you must wake up!”  

Through her blurry vision and in the darkness, Carys could barely make out the silhouette of Norei standing before her. The maidservant wore only her night frock, her feet bare and her dark curls unbound. 

Grumbling, Carys lit the candle on her nightstand, lifting it up to get a better look. Norei looked as though she were in despair, her thin face gaunt and dark eyes wide.

“Norei, I was sleeping,” Carys scowled at her, flopping back onto the pillows. “I was having a dream.”

“I know you were,” Norei said, her voice wavering. “The other maids could hear you screaming down the hall. I came as fast as I could.”

She gently sat on the edge of the bed, taking Carys’ hand. Norei was surprisingly gentle; usually, her stoic nature intimidated Carys, but tonight there was a gentler side to the girl that Carys had not seen before. 

“Were you having a nightmare?” Norei asked quietly.

Carys rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. The dream faded from her vision at last, leaving only the shadowy corners of her room. “No,” she said hoarsely. “I saw him again. The dragon.”

“Tell me.”

Carys sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. She recounted the dream to Norei, whose eyes seemed to grow wider with every passing second. 

“I know him,” she whispered at last. “I swear on my mother’s life. But I don’t know how.”

Norei chewed her lip. Her gaze roved around the room, as though she were looking for some hidden object, before falling back on Carys. “I’ve had dreams, too. Of that silver dragon.” 

She rose suddenly, her expression fierce. “We need to go to the Dragonpit.”

Carys could only look at her in shock. Norei, in her silence and stoicism, had never been this outspoken before. She wondered for the first time what had truly brought her to Westeros; Norei never spoke of her life before, and yet Carys had the sense that Norei was in the capital because of it. 

“We can’t go. We’re not allowed.”

“Damn the rules!” Norei threw her hands up in exasperation. “No one will know. If you’re having dreams of a dragon every night, don't you think that’s a good place to start?” 

Carys hesitated. The urge, despite how wild and reckless it was, was irresistible. Something gnawed at her, deep in her soul, and without a second thought Carys lept from her bed. 

Together, they threw on their cloaks, quietly shutting the door behind them. The halls of the Red Keep were eerily dark, and Carys’ heart pounded every time the white cloak of a Kingsguard came into view. 

At long last they reached the lower courtyard, which was only used by the maids and kitchen staff. No guards were on watch, except the old sheepdog Rufus, who was snoring loudly in his kennel. 

“How are we going to get out?” Norei whispered behind her. “The gates are closed.”

Carys frowned. She hadn’t thought ahead of their exact plan for getting to the Dragonpit, but out of the corner of her eye she saw a stack of boxes leaned opportunistically against the wall. 

“That way.” Carys jutted her chin to the wall. 

They crept to the stack of crates, pressed against the cold stone wall. Carys climbed first, her fingers slipping on the damp wood. She hoisted herself up with a grunt, careful to avoid the jagged glass embedded in the top. From the top, she extended her hand to Norei, who climbed with impressive speed

They dropped down to the other side, landing hard on the cobblestones below. Norei hissed as her bare feet scraped the ground, but she waved Carys off when she tried to help.

The city was quiet this late at night, the usual roar of voices replaced with the occasional distant shout from the docks. The stars above were pale and scattered, half-obscured by the smoke of the city’s chimneys.

Silently, the two girls crept through the empty streets, ducking behind a corner when the occasional drunk came strolling past. Stray cats darted across their path, and Carys nearly tripped over a pile of discarded fish guts near the fishmonger’s square.

The Dragonpit loomed in the distance, perched atop Rhaenys' Hill like a great, slumbering beast. Its massive dome reflected faint moonlight, the ironwork giving it the look of scales from afar. As they reached the base of the hill, Norei stopped, gripping Carys' wrist. "Are you sure?"

"We’re here now," Carys said, though her voice trembled.

The entrance to the Dragonpit was guarded, of course. Two men stood with spears at the ready, their helms reflecting the torchlight. Carys crouched behind a barrel with Norei, watching.

“We can’t just walk in,” Carys whispered in the darkness. 

Norei chewed her lip. "Follow me."

Circling around the side of the hill, they reached a narrow maintenance entrance. “One of the older maids brought me here,” Norei whispered back to Carys. “We were bringing some supplies from the kitchens to the dragon keepers. Most people don’t know about it.”

The lock was rusted, but a hard tug broke the corroded metal with a sharp crack.

They slipped inside.

The tunnel was damp and cold, the air thick with the stench of dragons. The walls were slick with moisture, their footsteps echoing faintly as they walked deeper. Carys' heart raced as they reached a spiral staircase leading up.

The Dragonpit's cavernous interior swallowed them whole as they stepped into the central chamber. Above, the iron lattice of the dome stretched high into the night sky. The faint glow of the moonlight illuminated the sandy floor, pockmarked with deep gouges and ancient scorch marks.

The building was a series of structured rings, each one containing vast tunnels that housed the dragons. Carys remembered that from Rhaenyra’s stories, of the forgotten Veraxes, she would most likely find him dwelling in the lower rings. 

The staircase leading down to the lower levels seemed to stretch on for eternity. Carys wondered if it would ever end, and by the time her feet had begun to ache, they reached the bottom. 

Carys took a cautious step forward, her breathing shallow as the dark cavern swallowed them whole. The air was heavier down here, thick with the stench of burnt stone and old meat. 

Norei pressed a hand to Carys’ shoulder, a silent warning. But Carys couldn’t turn back now. A low growl rumbled through the chamber, vibrating the very stone beneath their feet. Then, a sound—ragged, rasping breaths, like a bellows long unused. The shadows shifted, and from the darkness emerged Veraxes.

Her heart pounded in her chest as the beast lumbered toward them. Carys felt her knees grow weak, her hand gripping Norei’s as Veraxes came into view. He was larger than she expected, his once-glorious scales dulled to a sickly gray-black. His wings twitched, half-unfurled, their membrane tattered with age. But the most striking thing was his eyes—clouded and sightless, his irises turned to milky white.

Carys’ heart clenched. He was blind, she realized suddenly. Never before had she heard of a blind dragon, and yet, here he was. 

The dragon let out a warning hiss, head swaying as if trying to catch her scent. Then, suddenly, he recoiled, nostrils flaring wildly. With a deafening roar, Veraxes reared back, his throat swelling with fire.

“Carys, move!” Norei’s voice cut through the chamber as she grabbed Carys by the arm, yanking her back onto the stones. 

They pressed themselves down into the stones, arms wrapped tightly around one another. Flames burst forth, illuminating the cavern in a blinding inferno. 

Without another word, Norei rolled away and dragged Carys with her, pulling her up off the ground. Heat seared past them, licking at their heels as they stumbled toward the stairs. Carys’ mind reeled—Veraxes was afraid. Alone for years, abandoned in the dark, and now two strangers had come to him.

But there was no time to think. The fire rushed closer, the stone walls glowing orange as they fled. Norei hauled Carys up the endless spiral, their feet pounding against the steps. Smoke curled behind them, thick and suffocating.

At last, they burst into the open air, gasping for breath. Carys doubled over, her lungs burning. Norei collapsed beside her, her dark skin covered in soot. With a bitter laugh, Carys realized that she herself was dirty, her white nightgown smeared with soot as well. 

Then she heard the slow, measured clink of metal.

She lifted her gaze and froze.

Ser Harrold Westerling stood at the top of the stairs, his Kingsguard armor gleaming in the moonlight, his expression unreadable as he glared down at the two girls. 

Oh, fuck.  

Chapter Text

The walk back to the Red Keep was long and silent. Carys could not ignore the feeling of shame that curdled in her stomach; the stony look on Ser Harrold’s face left no room for argument as he and the rest of the Kingsguard dragged the girls out of the Dragonpit. 

Their silent troupe shuffled along the cobbled streets of King’s Landing. Carys had a sneaking suspicion that this very public walk had something to do with the king– if he could not keep Daemon in line, Viserys would do his best to force Daemon’s daughter to kneel. 

She was filled with even more guilt at the sight of Norei, walking glumly behind them, her head hung low. Carys would face the king’s anger, to be sure, but her stupidity would ruin Norei’s life. 

It was all her fault. Entering the Dragonpit without explicit permission from either the king or the dragon keepers would result in imprisonment. It was the only way they could ensure the smallfolk didn’t disrupt the slumbering beasts. 

Dawn crept over the horizon, golden rays of sunlight spilling over the city as they entered the gates to Maegor’s Holdfast. Carys nervously chewed on her lip as the wooden gates swung open, allowing Ser Harrold to escort them into the courtyard. 

The Hand of the King stood before them, his green-grey eyes boring down on them. Carys despised the man– he was a leech, sucking on the king and the council for his own gain– and yet he remained the second-most powerful man in Westeros. 

“Princess,” Ser Otto greeted her coolly. Since the death of his wife, his beard had grown out into a frazzled mass, his eyes burdened with dark bags underneath. 

Nevertheless, Carys was intimidated by the Hand. “Ser Otto.” Carys offered no other acknowledgement of his presence, instead looking at him through narrowed eyes. “What brings you here, this early in the morning?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Otto snapped. “You know very well what you–” his eyes shifted behind her to Norei “ – and your maid did.”

“Norei did nothing wrong.” Carys jutted her chin out. “I was the one who dragged her with me.”

“The king will decide who is to blame.” Otto exhaled slowly, flexing his hands at his side. He was frustrated with her, Carys realized. Like father, like daughter.  

Without another word, Otto gestured for her to follow. The Red Keep was quiet at this hour; while the servants silently bustled through the halls, most of the lords wouldn’t rise until after the sunrise. 

The king’s chamber was on the top floor of Maegor’s Holdfast, not far from the small council room. Carys felt her heart begin to pound in her chest as they began to ascend up the winding staircase, ignoring the stares of the servants that passed them. 

Finally, they reached the royal bedchamber. Otto knocked three times, his bony knuckles rapping on the door, before pushing it open. Carys and Norei silently followed him through, ducking their heads in shame. 

Viserys was seated before the great model of Old Valyria. His hands were clenched around the arm of his chair, his dark purple eyes narrowed as the two girls stood before him. Carys thought he looked rather silly in his nightcap and nightgown; he looked like a withered old man, rather than a king.

“Thank you, Otto.” The king nodded to the Hand, who stepped aside with a quick bow. Viserys turned his gaze back to Carys. His face was flushed in anger, and no sooner than he opened his mouth to speak, Carys felt her heart drop into her stomach. 

“Explain exactly to me, why in the seven hells , you snuck into the Dragonpit in the middle of the night,” Viserys gritted out. 

Carys picked at the hem of her sleeve nervously. “I’m sorry, uncle,” she murmured. 

Viserys raised a silver brow. “Sorry isn’t enough,” he snapped. “Tell me why I had a dragon keeper run all the way from Rhaenys’ Hill to the Red Keep, shouting at the top of his lungs that someone had broken into the Dragonpit.” He rose from his seat, sliding his palm across the table for leverage. “Not only that, but a princess broke into the Dragonpit with the help of her maid.”

Norei bowed her head in obeisance, her dark eyes cast to the floor. “Your Grace, it was my fault–”

“No .” Carys cut her off, holding out her hand in front of the maidservant. “It was mine. Norei would have never come along if I hadn’t told her to.”

Norei opened her mouth to argue, but stopped when Carys turned to glare at her. She refused to let Norei take the fall– if her mother’s lessons had taught her anything, it was that no one was exempt from the consequences of their own actions. Not even a princess.

Viserys let a slow breath out through his nose, his grip tightening on the edge of the table. His anger was evident, but underneath it all Carys could see that exhaustion gripped him. 

“You remind me of your father. Daemon was– is,” he corrected himself. “Reckless and arrogant. “As much as I love my brother, he thinks himself above the laws of gods and men. Tell me, Carys, do you believe the same?”

“No,” Crys replied stiffly. 

“Then why did you do it?”

A long silence stretched between them. It seemed ridiculous now, that she was chasing a dream. How could she explain it all? That she wanted to see the only unclaimed dragon in the dragonpit, who was centuries old and mostly blind? 

She hesitated too long. Viserys scoffed and shook his head. “You broke the law, risked your life– your maid’s life– for what? Veraxes is blind, Carys. There’s a reason why no one has claimed him since Aerion Targaryen.”

Carys flinched. “He was scared,” she rebutted. “No one has seen him in years. I just–” 

“Enough.” Viserys held his hand up, cutting her off. “You are a princess of the realm. I expect you to act like one.”

She clenched her fist, biting her tongue to hold back the stream of curses she wanted to spew at him. Her anger would not help her now. 

“The Targaryens have been dragonriders for years.” Carys kept her voice as level as possible. “We are not caged birds. I am not a caged bird.”

Viserys exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “You are not a caged bird, but you are not a reckless fool,” he snapped. “Maegor believed himself for greatness, and put half the realm to the sword.” He took a slow step forward, his night robe dragging along the floor. “Do you think you are the first of our kin to yearn for a dragon? To believe the gods have favored you with a beast that belongs only to you?”

Carys swallowed. “I am not Maegor.

“Then prove it,” Viserys said, the fire in his voice momentarily dimmed. “You wish to act like a Targaryen? Then act as our ancestors did—with wisdom, not impulse. If you are meant to claim Veraxes, you will. But not like this. Not by sneaking into the Dragonpit like a common thief.”

The king sighed, sitting back down in his chair, rubbing a hand over his brow. “I will speak to your mother about this,” he said at last. “As for you, Norei… you are dismissed from Carys’ service. From now on, you will report directly to the castle steward, Lord Hogg.”

Carys’ eyes widened. “No! Uncle, please–”

“It is done.” Viserys’ sharp tone left no room for argument; behind her, Carys could feel Otto’s eyes boring down on her. “Be grateful I did not send her to the dungeons for aiding you in this foolishness. You both are dismissed.”

Norei looked devastated. Carys could not tell her how sorry she was, because the maidservant was quickly escorted out of the room. 

“Leave me,” Viserys muttered, flapping his hand and waving her away. “Before I change my mind about my mercy.”

She felt a lump rise into her throat. As Carys turned to leave the royal chamber, Otto Hightower lingered by the door, watching her with his horribly sharp eyes. 

“Do you see now, princess?” He murmured. “Your father’s nature is in you, and it will be your undoing.”

Carys wanted to punch him in the stomach. Instead, she held her head high as she left the chamber. She turned on her heel and stormed away, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

“I hate that insufferable lecher .”

The morning sun soon gave way to an afternoon of clear blue skies, but Carys had no desire to relish in the first warm day since winter started. Instead, she was seated on the chaise in Rhaenyra’s rooms, her head buried in her hands. Rhaenyra was the first person she had gone to see after being dismissed by the king, as Norei had disappeared rather quickly. She was too ashamed to go to her own rooms, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, and Rhaenyra was happy to visit with her cousin. 

“Otto is insufferable,” Rhaenyra agreed. She set a cup of lavender tea in front of Carys before taking a seat across from her, smoothing her skirts out. “But I have to agree with my father. Going to the Dragonpit in the middle of the night…” she hesitated, her lilac eyes pinned on Carys. “I don’t think I need to tell you how inexplicably stupid it was.”

“I know, ” Carys muttered. “I just…” 

The words died on her lips. She wasn’t sure if Rhaenyra would understand her dreams at all, particularly one that was based on her claiming a forgotten, blind, and centuries old dragon. 

But she had to tell someone. There were dreamers in the Targaryen line, weren’t there? Her own ancestor, Daenys, had saved their house from utter ruin before the fall of Old Valyria. Aegon himself was rumored to be a dreamer as well. 

Was it possible that she was a dreamer? It seemed highly unlikely, but Carys wondered if there was something that her ancestors deigned to give her, if it was not claiming a dragon. 

Exhaling slowly, she stood, rubbing her hands nervously together. Carys stood before the latticed windows in Rhaenyra’s chambers, feeling the weak winter sun warm her skin. 

“I had a dream,” she said at last. “About Veraxes.”

Rhaenyra paused for a long moment. Before she could speak, Carys cut her off, feeling as though the words would spill out of her one way or another. “I claimed him, Rhaenyra,” she whispered. “I felt him underneath me. We were flying over the Narrow Sea, and–”

“If you dreamt of Veraxes, then you must claim him.” Rhaenyra cut her off, her voice harsh. “Damn my father and Otto. You are a Targaryen. I suggest you start acting like it.”

“That’s just it.” Carys whirled around to face her, her long braid slapping her back. “Everyone expects me to act like a Targaryen. And yet, when I do, I’m told I act like Daemon.”

Your father’s nature is in you, and it will be your undoing. 

Otto’s words rang like a bell in her mind. Shame suddenly overcame Carys, from a source she could not name. She clenched her hands at her side, forcing her nerves to calm. 

Rhaenyra came to stand beside her, taking her cousin’s hand in her own. “You are not your father,” she said quietly. “And you are not your mother. You are your own person, Carys.”

Carys smiled sadly at her cousin. I wish that were true.  

Rhaenyra sat back down on her sedan, smoothing her skirts around her. In the soft sunlight, her silver hair turned gold, her expression serene. “I was young when I claimed Syrax,” she began. “My mother was furious– mostly because she was terrified, but none in our line rode a dragon as young as I did.”

Carys tilted her head slightly, drawn in by the memory Rhaenyra was sharing. “How did you know she was yours?” she asked, her voice quieter now, laced with longing.

Rhaenyra smiled, but there was something wistful in it. “I didn’t,” she admitted. “Not at first. My father had told me stories of Balerion, of how Aegon the Conqueror had bonded with him as if it were destiny. I thought it would be the same for me—that Syrax would simply know I was meant to be her rider.”

She exhaled, fingers tracing the embroidery on her sleeve. “But when I first stood before her, she did nothing. She did not lower her head or rush forward. She only watched me, waiting. I had to prove myself to her.”

Carys frowned. “How?”

“I spoke to her,” Rhaenyra said simply. “I let her hear my voice. Let her know I was unafraid.” She smirked. “Or at least, I made her believe I was unafraid.”

Carys looked down at her hands, thinking of Veraxes—of the moment she had first seen him, hidden away like some forgotten relic of their bloodline. No one has seen him in years. The words clung to her like a curse.

“And when she let me touch her,” Rhaenyra continued, “I knew.”

Carys exhaled shakily, lifting her gaze once more. “And if she hadn’t?”

“Then she would not have been mine to claim,” Rhaenyra said, her tone even. She studied Carys for a long moment before adding, “Viserys is not wrong to be afraid for you. But fear is no reason to stop chasing what is yours.”

Carys pressed her lips together, a war waging inside her. “Veraxes is mine,” she whispered, half to herself. “I know he is.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened. “Then make him believe it.”

The words settled deep in Carys’ chest, grounding her, steadying her. She clenched her fists, feeling the ember of determination reignite.

She would prove it.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

In the months following the incident at the Dragonpit, Carys’ life passed by with little consequence. 

Her days were filled with her lessons in High Valyrian, numbers, or penmanship, and if she wasn’t doing that, she was tagging along with Rhaenyra somewhere. Any correspondence with her mother dwindled in the past months as well. Rhea was busy dealing with skirmishes with house Shett, but Carys knew there was more than that. Lady Rhea had never been one to be wholly expressive in her writing, but even her usual clipped responses had grown infrequent. 

Despite all the comforts provided to her in the Red Keep, Carys knew that Viserys was working hard to keep her away from the Dragonpit. A Kingsguard was sworn to watch over her whenever she walked outside the walls of the keep, and the dragon keepers would not permit her to enter the pit unless Rhaenyra was with her. 

Interactions with the residents of the Red Keep had dwindled as well. The queen, who was getting close to giving birth every day, was secluded in her chambers at the behest of Maestor Mellos. Viserys and his council spent hours in their meetings, droning on and on about politics and money and what not. 

Carys desperately missed Norei’s presence- not as her maidservant, but as her friend. She hadn’t seen her in months, not since Viserys removed Norei from her service, but every now and then Carys heard the castle servants mention Norei’s name in passing. 

At least she’s still here.  

A new maidservant had been assigned to her just days after the Dragonpit incident. Carys woke one morning to find Gwenys Waters, a cheery girl with a penchant for rambling on, setting breakfast out for her. Carys had no qualms about Gwenys. She was a nice girl, just a year older than she, with a round face and red curls that bounced whenever she walked. Though pleasant as she was, Carys had little time to dwell on her. There were far greater matters occupying the Red Keep.

News of the heir’s tourney had spun the castle into a frenzy; Carys couldn’t turn a corner without running into some servant carrying flowers, or the Master of Revels muttering over the tourney list.

Carys could not hide her own excitement, either. This was her first true tourney– the knights of the Vale only pitched against one another when they were bored– but this would be one of spectacle and glamour. Rumor had it that her father had returned for the occasion, but if they were true, Carys could not prove them herself. She could not remember the last time she had spoken to Daemon– or seen him, for that matter. He seemed to be flitting off from place to place without so much a word, and expected everyone to be fine with it. 

Carys pushed her father’s disposition out of her mind; the day of the tourney arrived swiftly, and she could think of nothing else. 

Her gown was chosen weeks before, with Gwenys’ help. Carys could not help but admire the beauty and craftsmanship of it, made by one of the best seamstresses in the city. Unlike her other dresses, this one was wholly in the style of King’s Landing– a square neckline, cut just right, to preserve her modesty; long, flowing sleeves that draped down; a skirt that fell naturally over her hips and to the floor; and made of a stunning, rich brown velvet paired with shimmering gold brocade, adorned with delicate embroidery in hues of red and green. Her dark hair was styled snuggly under a beaded snood, and when Carys looked at herself in the mirror for the first time, she imagined herself not just a princess, but a queen.  

“Princess?” Gwenys came through the door once more, her big blue eyes wide. “It’s time. Would you like me to escort you to the field?”

Carys gave herself one more look-over before twirling around to face Gwenys. “Yes, I would like that very much.” 

She supposed that if Norei could not be in her service, there was no reason to be unkind to Gwenys. As they made their way through the Red Keep, Carys fought to keep her jitters down, and focused her efforts on making smalltalk with her maidservant.  

“You must be eager to see the joust,” she said at last, looking at the girl. 

Gwenys nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes,” she smiled. “I’ve lived in King’s Landing all my life, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Carys arched a brow. “Truly? You’ve never been to a joust before?”

“Nay, princess. My mother is a seamstress in the Red Keep– that’s how I got this position– but we lived in Flea Bottom my whole life.” She spoke the words plainly and without shame. “I don’t know who my father is– my mother said he’s some highborn, but she never seemed to mind, and neither do I.”

Carys hesitated. She admired the girl’s candor. Bastardy was not uncommon, especially in the capital, but few spoke of it so freely. 

“Then you’re in for quite the spectacle,” Carys said at last. “My uncle Gerold always said a grand tourney is as much about the pageantry as the competition.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Gwenys agreed. “And your gown—everyone will be pleased. You look every inch a princess.”

Carys preened slightly, smoothing her skirts. “Gwenys, if you keep flattering me, I may just have to keep you around.”

The girls giggled as they stepped out onto the tourney field, where the grandstands were already filling with nobles dressed in their finest. Banners of great houses flapped in the wind, and the air was thick with the scent of churned earth and excitement.

Just as Carys was about to find her seat, a Royce servant approached, dipping into a quick bow. “Princess Carys,” he said respectfully, “your cousin, Ser Jon, is in the tent and requests your presence.”

Carys blinked, exchanging a glance with Gwenys before nodding. “Very well,” she said, her curiosity piqued. “Take me to him.”

The servant led her to the great red tent at the edge of the field, where the tourney knights were preparing themselves for the day ahead. Carys discreetly looked around for a certain Hightower knight, but all her girlish desires were erased when she saw her elder cousin.

“Cousin Jon!” A wide smile stretched across her face. Jon stood in the middle of the tent, wearing metal plate of burnished steel and a cloak in the colors of House Royce. 

When he saw Carys, Jon grinned and opened his arms to embrace her. Carys giggled as he lifted her off her feet and twirled her around before setting her back down. “Aye, you’ve grown,” Jon laughed. “Your mother will be happy to know you’re healthy and alive.”

Carys teasling swatted his arm. “And you, cousin, look every bit of the knight of legend.”

Jon snorted as he rubbed his beard– a new addition, Carys noted. “Flattery already? You must want something.”

Carys shook her head bashfully. “Can I not be proud of my kin?”

“It’s good to see you, Carys. Truly.” Jon kissed the top of her head, his voice carrying the warmth of home. “Now, the tourney’s about to start. I suggest you find your seat, to watch how a true knight fights.”

Carys kissed him good-bye on his cheek before scurrying up the stairs to the main box just as the king began to address the crowd, his arms spread wide. 

“Be welcome!” Viserys declared. The jewels of his crown gleamed in the sunlight, his face stretched into a smile as he looked around at his subjects. “I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not be disappointed.” 

Carys took her seat beside Rhaenyra, smoothing her skirts down as she looked around the arena. She had never seen so many people in her life– the seats were filled with noble livery from across Westeros, hailing from the North all the way to Oldtown. 

Viserys continued on. “When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news that I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labors!”

The crowd cheered raucously, the sound of clapping echoing through the stands like the hooves of a thousand horses. Out of the corner of her eye, Carys caught Rhaenyra gripping the arm of her chair, her lips pinched into a thin line. 

“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!” Viserys took his seat as last as the crowd gave their king one final cheer, eagerly awaiting the start of the tournament.

The first joust would be between two minor knights, one of whom Carys had never heard of before. Almost immediately, the poor Tarly knight was knocked off his horse, hitting the ground with a harsh thump. 

The mysterious knight brought his horse around, bowing in respect to the king. His shield was an ugly mustard yellow color, with dozens of black circles emblazoned over it. 

“A mystery knight?” Rhaenyra wondered aloud. 

“No, a Cole of the Stormlands.” Alicent leaned closer so Carys could hear her as well, her eyes trained on the knight below. 

Carys frowned slightly. “I’ve never heard of House Cole before.”

Their musings were interrupted when Boremund Baratheon, the younger cousin of Rhaenys, rode to the royal box. From what Carys had heard about the man, he was quite the whoremonger– rumor had it Storm’s End had more of his bastards than servants. 

“Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!” Boremund shouted up to her, removing his helm. “I would humbly asked the favor of ‘the Queen who never was.’”

Carys scowled at Lord Boremund. If she were Rhaenys, she wouldn’t have given him anything at all. The older woman was a kinder spirit than she, it seemed, because Rhaenys graciously dropped her wreath of white peonies and dahlias onto his lance. 

“Good fortune to you, cousin,” she called down to him. 

“I would gladly take it if I thought I needed it.”

Alicent, Carys, and Rhaenyra all glowered at the man as he rode away, the sound of his clanking armor ringing through the arena. Carys fidgeted with her own wreath– made of orange blossoms and bay leaves– as she watched the next joust begin. 

Jon would combat Ser Harman, a distant cousin of house Karstark. Carys watched with bated breath as Harman nearly knocked Jon off his horse during the first go. Jon triumphed over him when he swept his lance underneath the hooves of Harman’s horse, sending his opponent toppling to the ground.

Rhaenyra turned to her and Alicent, a wicked grin spreading across her pink cheeks. “Lord Stokeworth’s daughter is promised to that Tarly squire.” 

Carys frowned, steepling her fingers underneath her chin. “Lord Massey’s son?”

“Mm-hm. They’re to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.” 

Alicent scoffed. “Best get on with it. I heard Lady Elinor’s hiding a swollen belly under her dress.”

The three girls giggled conspiratorially as they turned to watch the tourney once more. Within a matter of seconds, Boremund was dismounted by the Cole knight. Carys hid her smile, clapping politely as the new knight rode away. 

Rhaenyra flicked her fingers, summoning Ser Harrold to her side. “What do you know about this Cole, Ser Harrold?”

Harrold frowned slightly. “I'm told Ser Criston is common-born, son of Lord Dondarrion's steward. But other than that, and the fact that he's just unhorsed both of the Baratheon lads, I really couldn't say.”

With that, he rose from his seat and walked away, leaving Carys to watch as a Targaryen banner was unfurled. A group of knights rode onto the field. The Master of Revels, bearing the sigil of House Ashford, stepped forward and swept his arms wide to address the crowd. “Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!”

Carys felt her heart sink as her father rode out among the knights before him, his black and red armor a stark contrast to the bright hues of the knights around him. She had seen her father fight in the training yard before—had watched him revel in the chaos and delighting in the spectacle of combat. But this was different. 

This time, his opponent was not some nameless knight or an overeager squire.

This time, he had chosen Gwayne.

Across the field, Ser Gwayne Hightower sat astride his horse, adjusting his grip on the lance. His posture was rigid but composed, the green and grey of Oldtown standing in sharp contrast to Daemon’s darker colors.

“For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King.”

A hush settled over the crowd, anticipation crackling in the air. From the corner of her eye, she saw Rhaenyra reach for Alicent’s hand, the latter looking pale and tense. Carys felt guilt wash over her– if Daemon was truly as bastardly as the rumours said, nothing would stop him from brutalizing Gwayne. Or even killing him.

Without warning, Gwayne rode towards the royal box, raising the visor of his helmet. His face was shiny with sweat, but Carys could not mistake the bright hue of his eyes. Auburn curls clung to his face from under his helm, and in that moment, Carys thought he was the most beautiful man alive.

“Princess Carys!” His voice rang out, the sound loud and clear, as he smiled up at Carys. “I would humbly ask for your favor.” 

On either side of her, Rhaenyra and Alicent hid their giggling. Carys blushed slightly, her fingers tightening in her lap as all eyes turned to her. Around them, the crowd murmured in interest. A request for the favor of a princess was not uncommon– it was encouraged, even– but for Gwayne to ask it of her, before riding against her father was strange to say the least. 

Carys smiled graciously as she rose from her seat, lifting her skirts so she wouldn’t trip. Gwayne lifted his lance a little higher so she could drop her wreath of primrose and little white flowers onto the pole.

“Best of luck to you, Ser Gwayne,” she called out to him. 

Gwayne winked up at her, causing her stomach to fill with butterflies. “I thank you, princess.” Before closing his visor, and when no one else could see, he winked at her before riding off. 

Carys felt a giddy feeling swell in her chest, and returned to her seat. . Behind her, Viserys– and even Otto, surprisingly enough– were smiling warmly at her. On either side of where she sat, Rhaenyra and Alicent hid their giggling. 

The joust started. Daemon looked towards the box, grinning widely– Carys wasn’t sure who this was targeted at– before charging forward. She felt triumph rush through her as Gwayne struck Daemon in the ribs, but the Rogue Prince remained mounted on his horse. Both riders retrieved new lances before rushing forward once more. This time, Daemon ducked low, sweeping his lance in front of the hooves of Gwayne’s horse. Both Gwayne and the horse tumbled to the ground, a harsh squeal emanating from the animal. 

Carys gripped the edge of her chair, filled with angst as Daemon rode victoriously towards the royal box. She suspected her father was furious with her giving Gwayne her favour, because when Rhaenyra and Alicent approached him, he hardly cast her a sideward glance. 

“Nicely done, Uncle,” Rhaenyra grinned. Carys rolled her eyes. 

“Thank you, Princess. Now, I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it.” 

Alicent nodded hesitantly. Her laurel wreath was left on her chair; Carys avoided her glance as Alicent retrieved it, going back towards Daemon

“Good luck, my Prince.” Alicent graciously dropped her wreath onto his lance, glancing between Otto and Carys before sitting down again. The crowd cheered as Daemon rode away, his black armor gleaming in the sun. 

Behind her, Carys saw maester Mellos whispering to the king. Without warning, Viserys rose from his seat, quickly rushing out of the box. 

Her curiosity at this exchange was quelled by the next joust, between a knight of House Tully and Trystane Lannister, the son and heir of Lord Jason. The tournament dragged on for quite some time, and Carys found herself staring at various people in the crowd, making up stories for them. 

She was pulled out of her daydreaming when the Master of Revels appeared once more, his jovial face dripping with sweat. “Ser Criston Cole will now tilt against Ser Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City!”

With a start, Carys looked up from her lap just as her father and the Cole knight charged at one another. The two men collided, their steeds squealing with the impact.. Daemon landed on the barrier in the center of the joust, just barely failing to get back on his horse before falling off the end. He pushes away a man helping him up as Criston dismounted his horse, stumbling to the ground. Daemon barked at a young squire to bring his sword, his gloved hand wrapping around the hilt. With a chill, Carys recognized it as Dark Sister, the blade first held by Visenya the conqueror. 

The Master of Revels laughed gleefully at the scene. “Prince Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!”

Criston approached Daemon with his morningstar, a weapon rarely used these days. The younger knight hit Daemon from behind, pinning one of his arms to the ground with his boot.

“Yield!” Criston yelled down at him, spittle flying from his mouth. “Yield.”

Daemon yielded after a moment of pause, swatting Criston’s hand away as he got up. As Daemon surveyed the crowd, his purple eyes narrowed in anger. Carys watched as her father stumbled away, gripping his shoulder. Criston removed his helmet as he approached the box, dark curls sticking to his forehead. Alicent gasped slightly– unlike the other knights, Criston Cole was no pale lordling– his skin was a warm brown, his eyes darker than night. He approached the box, panting in exhaustion as he humbly bowed before them. 

“Gods. He's Dornish,” Alicent exclaimed. 

Ser Criston inclined his head, his expression composed. "I was hoping to ask for the Princess's favor."

Rhaenyra, without hesitation, plucked the wreath from her lap and tossed it down to him, a playful smile curving her lips. 

“I wish you luck, Ser Criston,” Rhaenyra beamed down at him.

As she took her seat, Carys nudged her, grinning. “Seems I’m not the only one caught by a knight.”

“Oh, hush,” Rhaenyra scowled, but she could not hide the blush that rose to her cheek. 

Carys' attention drifted as Otto Hightower and Lyonel Strong exchanged hushed words behind her. Within moments, they turned to the lords beside them, and a ripple of murmurs spread through the royal box like a gathering storm.

It was Rhaenys who finally leaned down, her voice low but deliberate as she ensured the two princesses could hear her.

Aemma Arryn was dead. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

In the days following the queen’s death, a dark shadow fell on the Red Keep. 

The royal family had secluded themselves entirely to their personal apartments. Carys herself could not stop crying– in the year she had known her aunt, there was no one else in the keep who had shown some maternal instinct towards her, in lieu of her own mother. Now, with her sudden absence, Carys felt as though the world had crumbled beneath her feet. Aemma Arryn was the only one who had urged Viserys to keep both her and Rhaenyra from marrying, and now her future was left in the hands of an uncle who was ambivalent towards her. 

She was not the only one in mourning. The halls of the Red Keep were unusually silent. Servants moved with lowered heads, their footsteps soft against the stones. Courtiers only murmured their formalities before drifting away, the dark colors of their clothes darkening the halls. Carys had tried to visit her cousin, but Rhaenyra would not let her in. No one had seen the princess since the announcement of her mother’s death. 

Despite the court’s period of mourning, rumors still swirled around. Some said that Rhaenyra refused all food and drink, while others said that she spent the night pacing her bedchamber. Carys did not know what to think, except that the girl who had once been so proud and unshakable was now a ghost behind a locked door. 

Left with nothing else to do, Carys found herself wandering up to the queen’s solar one day, without meaning to. She trailed her fingers over the fine wood desk, the parchment left untouched since its last use.  A half-written letter lay on the desk, with the words unfinished, next to a pot of ink. 

Carys swallowed hard and turned away. She could not stay here. Carys desperately wanted to return home, to the embrace of her mother and Yara, but what could she do? Perhaps the king would grant her leave, but Carys suspected that with the recent death of a member of their house, Viserys would begin looking for ways to expand their ranks.

The day of the funeral arrived under a sky filled with grey clouds. The great terrace of the Red Keep overlooked Blackwater Bay, where the Targaryen fleet stood still, their black banners rippling in the wind. The city was unusually quiet; even the smallfolk, who were usually detached from the life of the nobility, seemed to sense the weight of the day. Carys stood among the gathered mournings, her black wool cloak drawn tightly around her. Before the mourners was a great pyre that held the queen and her infant son, who had not survived past his first day of life. 

To her left were Rhaenyra and Viserys. The king’s face was etched with grief, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his loss. Somewhere in the crowd was Daemon, but Carys had not spoken a word to him since the tournament. She suspected that her father was furious with her, for giving Otto Hightower’s son her favor, but Carys found that she didn’t care about it at all. Not when Aemma Arryn was dead. 

Rhaenyra’s face was a mask of stone, though the tears in her eyes betrayed her true emotions. Syrax had been summoned from the Dragonpit to burn the pyre, but Rhaenyra could not muster the strength to burn her mother. 

A long silence stretched on and on, until the mourners began to question Rhaenyra’s hesitance. 

Without waiting any longer, Carys gently nudged her hand, leaning over to whisper in her ear. 

“They’re waiting for you,” she murmured. 

Rhaenyra just shook her head. “Nyke pendagon lo, during lī dorolvie hours ñuha lēkia glaestan, ñuha kepa finally found biarves.” I wonder if, during those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness. 

Carys took her cousin’s hand in her own and gently squeezed it. “Aōha kepa jorrāelagon ao tolī sir than ziry mirre ēza.” Your father needs you now more than he ever has.  

“Kesan dōrī sagon iā tresy.” I will never be a son.  

Without another word, Rhaenyra stepped forward, turning her gaze towards her dragon. She attempted to call out, but the words would not come. Rhaenyra cleared her throat before trying again, lifting her head to the sky. 

“ Dracarys. ”

Without hesitation, Syrax reared her head back, opening her jaw wide. Hot flames spewed from her throat, engulfing the pyre in fire until nothing remained but ash and smoke. 

The heat pressed against Carys' face, but she did not step back. No one did. They stood together, bound by grief, by duty, by the weight of loss that had settled over them like a shroud.

Rhaenyra remained motionless, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. For all her composure, Carys could see the slight tremble in her cousin’s shoulders. The firelight reflected in her violet eyes, turning them molten gold, but her expression remained unreadable—locked away, as if she feared what might happen if she let herself break. Beside her, Viserys let out a shuddering breath, his grief writ across his face. He was a king, but today, he was just a man who had lost his wife and child.

The silence stretched, broken only by the crackling of flames and the distant cries of Syrax, mourning with her rider.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

“I don’t see why this is necessary.”

The long winter had brought heavy rainstorms to King’s Landing, with a never ending rain that pounded on the windows. 

Carys stood before her uncle in his chambers, her hands folded neatly together. She had been summoned by Viserys and Otto earlier that morning, but the only information she received from the king’s groom was that it was of the utmost importance that she attend. 

Viserys, seated at his desk, exhaled sharply and gave her a pointed look. "Do not be impertinent, Carys," he said, his voice edged with impatience. "I did not summon you at this hour for my own amusement."

She pressed her lips together, straightening slightly but offering no apology.

Viserys rubbed his temple, as if already regretting this conversation, before he leaned forward, his tone hardening. "Daemon will no longer be my heir."

That, at least, gave her pause. Her posture stiffened, and the room seemed to grow smaller.

Viserys continued before she could respond. "His behavior has left me no choice. He spoke of Baelon’s death as if it were sport, as if my grief—our grief—was nothing more than another jest at court." His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the flickering candlelight cast deep shadows across his face, making him look older than he was. "He has made a fool of me for the last time."

Carys said nothing, though her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

"And so," Viserys went on, his gaze steady, "I have chosen Rhaenyra. She will be my heir."

The fire crackled in the hearth, the rain continued its assault against the windows, and the air between them thickened.

"And you," Viserys added, his tone sharpening, "will stay in line, Carys. You will not follow the path of your father."

A warning. A command. 

She inhaled slowly, lifting her chin just slightly. "You think I would?"

Viserys studied her, his annoyance giving way to something heavier. "I think the blood you share with him makes it a possibility."

Otto, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “The blood of your house runs thick, princess. It is up to you to decide how you will face your duties.”

“The blood of your king’s house, as well,” Cary shot back at him. 

“That’s enough!” Viserys snapped. “I did not bring you here to bicker.”

Viserys exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face as if trying to rub away his frustration. When he spoke again, his voice was heavier, quieter.

“I will name Rhaenyra as my heir,” he said, each word deliberate. “The realm must have certainty, and she will be the future of House Targaryen.”

Carys kept her expression composed, though something in her chest tightened.

Viserys leaned forward. “Which means you must also do your duty.”

Silence stretched between them, the steady rhythm of rain against the windows filling the space. He studied her, as if measuring her response, before exhaling and continuing.

Viserys looked at her with heavy eyes now, his expression weathered. “There is another matter I wished to discuss with you.”

Carys felt her nerves begin to jitter once more. She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded politely, as though there was not a care in the world. 

The king sighed, steepling his hands before him. “The queen wished that you remained unmarried, until your tenth and sixth name day,” he began. “As much as I mourn my wife–” his voice cracked at this “ – I do not agree with her.”

It was as though the floor fell out beneath her. In order to steady herself, Carys sat down in the chair nearest to her, clenching her fingers on the arm. 

“Uncle, I am too young,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. 

No. No, no, no, no NO .

Viserys gave a tired sigh. “You’ll be ten and four in less than a month,” he contested. “It is time. For the future of our house… and your own future.”

Carys bit her tongue in order to keep the bile brewing in her throat down. Not once, in the year that she had stayed in King’s Landing, had she ever imagined she would get married this soon. 

Was this what the king wanted her to come to the capital for? To make her a broodmare? 

The realization clicked like a candle being lit in her head. It was what Viserys intended exactly. To get Carys away from her mother, under the influence of the Targaryens, and become some lordling’s wife. 

Fuck.  

All words escaped her; Carys felt nothing other than shock. Swallowing her pride, she glanced at the other man in the room. Otto Hightower stood behind the king, as still as stone, his ever-watchful eyes fixed on her. He did not seem surprised at the king’s decree– why would he? He had known this was coming. 

A flicker of rebellion sparked in her. If Carys was to be married, perhaps there was a way she could choose her own husband. To please the king and herself. 

“There is… one match I might consider,” she said hesitantly. Her heart pounded as she forced herself to meet Viserys’ gaze. “Ser Gwayne Hightower.”

The silence that followed was deafening. 

Otto’s face went white. His lips parted slightly, though he said nothing, and in that moment, Carys knew she had spoken out of turn. She did not understand why—Gwayne was of noble birth, a knight of good standing, and from one of the most powerful houses in the realm. But was there something else at play here, something she had unknowingly disturbed? 

Viserys exhaled, rubbing his temple. “That is not possible,” he said, not unkindly. “I have already been in discussion with Lord Jason Lannister.”

Carys blinked, barely able to process his words before he continued.

“You will marry his son, Trystane.”

The words crashed over her like a tidal wave. Trystane Lannister . A stranger. A boy she had never met, never even thought of. 

And yet, just like that, her future was sealed.

Her gaze flickered back to Otto, whose expression had smoothed into careful neutrality. But she was not so blind as before—she saw the relief in his eyes, the way his fingers relaxed against the pommel of his cane. He had feared something. 

Carys did not know what he was so afraid of. But as she sat there, her fate being decided for her, she wished she had never spoken at all.

Chapter Text

Rhea hated King’s Landing. 

Even from a distance, she could see the gleaming spires and thick walls of the capital, shining brightly under the sun, like a jewel in the light. 

But she remembered all too well the stinking shit-hole of Flea Bottom– how Daemon had disappeared soon after their wedding night to fuck one of his whores in a lowly brothel. How Rhea and her maids had drunkenly tracked him through the lower neighborhoods until they found the Rogue Prince, his head tipped back in ecstasy as a young girl buried herself hungrily between his legs. 

She shook her head quickly, almost forcing the memory to fade away. This was not the moment to be reflecting on the past. Rhea was here for one thing, and one thing only. 

Carys. 

Her daughter’s letter had arrived a week after the queen’s death. A raven had come during the night, bearing a message that was nearly two-pages long and tearstained, detailing the horrors of the past month and her impending marriage to the Lannister boy. Rhea could have hardly believed Carys wrote it, until she recognized her daughter’s messy signature at the bottom of the page. 

She and Gerold had departed Runestone the day after, on The Wholesome Whale, its white sails flapping in the wind. Rhea had spent the entire three-day journey on the upper deck, her fists clenched around the rails as she envisioned what exactly her only child had endured. 

Rhea now stood before the grand doors to the king’s bedchamber, fists clenched at her side and wondering why she had even come to the capital in the first place. It was for Carys, she reminded herself. Everything she did, she did it for her daughter. To protect her, and their family, and everything that went with it. It was why she had finally agreed to send her only child to the capital. Rhea thought she would have been safe with the Targaryens– Aemma especially– and by all accounts, Carys was safe and happy. 

But the events of the past few months had proved her wrong. Aemma Arryn was dead. Rhaenyra and Viserys had disappeared into their own grief. Daemon was nowhere to be found, and Carys was alone in the capital. 

Rhea balked at the thought of her sweet girl, alone and scared. Carys had never been a particularly sociable child; why would that have changed in the Red Keep? She needed to take her home. To keep her under her wing for a little while longer, until Carys was whisked away to Casterly Rock. 

Steeling herself, Rhea knocked on the door thrice, her knuckles rapping sharply against the wood. Almost immediately, the door swung open to reveal Ser Otto Hightower and his dark eyes boring into her. 

“Lady Rhea,” the Hand greeted her, his voice monotone. “The king is not expecting visitors right now.”

“I don’t care,” she snapped. Rhea sidestepped him, her boots clicking on the stone floor as she ducked into the king’s chamber. Her gaze immediately fell on the massive model of Old Valyria in the center of the room, the stone buildings and dragons gleaming in the low candlelight. 

Viserys sat on the other side of the table, slumped in his chair. Since his wife’s passing, he looked nearly ten years older. His hair was limp and his eyes were dull, and his robes sagged around him rather un-king-like. 

Rhea cleared her throat as Otto stormed over to her, fists clenched at his side. “You cannot be here,” Otto rasped. “It is unbecoming-”

“Oh, shut up, Otto,” Rhea snapped. She ignored him as she looked at Viserys now, her bronze eyes blazing. “Your Grace, I need to speak with you.”

“If you need to speak with the king so badly, a message from Runestone would have sufficed. There was no reason to make the journey-”

“Enough!” Viserys slammed his palms against the table, rattling the little stone figures. Both Rhea and Otto fell silent, their eyes wide as their king rose to his full height. 

“I will not sit here and listen to you bicker like children,” he snapped, his eyes flicking between them. “Otto, leave us. I shall speak to lady Rhea alone.”

The Hand of the King paused for a long moment, his jaw clenched. With a curt nod he spun on his heel and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Rhea stood still for a long while as she watched Viserys sink back into his chair, burying his head in his hands. She felt almost guilty at the sight of him, so bereft and undone, but the thought of Carys stoked the fire in her. 

“Your Grace,” she said gently, taking the seat beside him. “You have gone through something unimaginable. I cannot express how sorry I was to hear about Aemma.” Rhea looked down at the palm of her hands, chewing her lip as she thought of what to say. “That being said, I need to discuss a great matter with you.”

Viserys choked out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. Rhea could see the lines in his face better from up close; how deep they had grown in the days following the queen’s passing. “I imagine it is a great deal, considering you sailed all the way from Runestone.”

Rhea smiled softly at that. She held no quarrel with the king; he had always been kind to her, even when Daemon had spurned his wife and child. “It concerns Carys,” she said gently. 

“I thought so,” Viserys sighed. 

She cleared her throat, urging herself to go on. “I wish to bring Carys back to Runestone,” she began. “My daughter’s place is not in the capital. She belongs at home, with her family.”

“Her family is here,” Viserys argued. “Rhaenyra has depended on her cousin now, more than ever. She has been a pillar in these dark times.”

That’s not what she told me, Rhea thought to herself. “I just think that some time with her mother might do her good,” she replied. “Before she’s wed.”

Viserys looked away from her, his gaze turning to the grand windows behind him. A long silence continued after that; the room was so quiet that Rhea could have sworn she heard the candle wax dripping onto the table. 

“I was six and ten when I married Aemma,” he said at last, rubbing his hand over his knuckles. “She was eleven. As soon as Jaehaerys made the betrothal announcement, she came to King’s Landing to live at court until we were wed.” Viserys looked back at her, his purple eyes dull in the low light. “I cannot imagine it was easy for someone her age, and yet, Aemma carried herself with grace. She always did.”

“I know she did,” Rhea conceded, keeping her voice soft. “But Carys is not Aemma. She’s not experienced the harsh realities of the world–”

“Your daughter broke into the Dragonpit one night,” Viserys cut her off. “I can imagine that she’s made of stronger stuff than you think.”

Rhea balked at that. She had heard no reports of this event– why had Carys not told her?

Taking a deep breath in, she steeled herself, wrapping her fingers around the arm of her chair. “I know my daughter is strong,” she retorted. “That doesn’t mean I don’t wish for her to return home. Just for a short while.”

Viserys shook his head. “The wedding arrangements are underway. She will marry Trystane Lannister on the day of the new year.” He clenched his jaw as he looked at Rhea, annoyance flickering in his eyes. “My decision is final.”

“You made this decision without me!” Rhea could no longer keep in her anger. She leapt up from her chair so suddenly, her leg bumped into the table, knocking over a figurine. “Her mother. Viserys, I–”

“You will call me your grace, or you will leave,” Viserys snapped back. “She will marry Trystane Lannister to preserve the interests of the Crown across Westeros.”

Rhea wanted to pull her hair out and scream at him. She hated his indifference towards the plights of women– how could a man ever understand what it was like to have a daughter taken from her mother’s arms?

“Then marry her off to Isembard Arryn,” Rhea gasped. “They’re the same age. It would keep the Vale tied to the crown, and she’d be closer. This would not be the first time a Targaryen married a Valeman. Or woman. "

Viserys just scoffed at her and shook his head. “You do not need to remind me of who Daemon and I married,” he snapped. “How well did that turn out for us? I cannot imagine Daemon has been the most attentive husband.”

Rhea bit her tongue to keep a slew of curses from flying out at him. “This isn’t about us,” she hissed. “This is about my daughter. About your own self interests in keeping the Lannisters at heel–”

Viserys slammed his hand against the table once more, silencing all arguments from Rhea. 

Rhea clenched her fists, her breath coming in short, angry bursts as she glared at Viserys. The firelight flickered across his weary face, but there was steel in his expression—he would not budge.

But neither would she.

“My daughter is not a bargaining chip to be thrown to the lions,” Rhea hissed, stepping closer to the table. “You would send her to Casterly Rock, to a family she does not know, to a boy who will see her as nothing more than a womb to fill. And for what? Gold? The Lannisters would fall in line regardless.”

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Carys is a princess, Rhea. This is her duty.”

“Duty?” she spat. “It was duty that sent Aemma to her grave, was it not? Duty that had her torn apart on a birthing bed while you stood by and watched?”

His face twisted in fury, and for a moment, Rhea thought he might strike her. But instead, he just sagged back into his chair, eyes burning.

“Do not speak of Aemma as if you knew her better than I did,” he said, voice hoarse. “She was my wife. The mother of my children.”

“She was also my kin,” Rhea shot back. “And I will not see my daughter suffer the same fate.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Rhea’s heart pounded. She had overstepped, and she knew it. But she did not regret it.

Viserys rubbed his temples, looking every bit the tired old man he had become. “Carys stays,” he said finally, his tone brooking no argument. “She will wed Trystane Lannister as planned.”

Rhea’s nails dug into her palms. “Then you leave me no choice.”

He lifted his head, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

She straightened, squaring her shoulders. “If you will not send my daughter home, then I will remain in King’s Landing until she is wed.”

Viserys frowned. “You would uproot yourself from Runestone?”

“I would uproot the whole of the Vale if I had to,” she said fiercely. “You may hold power here, Your Grace, but in the Vale, I hold the loyalty of my bannermen. I will not sit idly by while my daughter is bound to a life she did not choose.”

For the first time that night, Viserys hesitated. He had expected anger, even pleading. But defiance? That was something else entirely.

Rhea leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She is my child, Viserys. And I will not abandon her.”

Viserys held her gaze for a long moment, then finally sighed, looking away. “Do what you must,” he muttered. “But my decision stands.”

Rhea gave a short nod, her mind already racing. She had lost this battle—but the war was far from over.

Turning on her heel, she strode toward the door, her boots echoing against the stone floor.She would find Carys. And she would make sure her daughter knew that no matter what the king decreed, she was not alone.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The gardens of the Red Keep were quiet, save for the distant murmur of water trickling from the fountain. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the neatly trimmed hedges and flowers.  

Carys sat on the edge of a stone bench, idly plucking off the petals of a rose. Rhaenyra sat solemnly behind her, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she watched Carys with little interest. 

“You used to love the gardens,” Carys murmured, tilting her head towards her cousin. “We’d walk through them everyday. Have things changed so drastically?”

She knew that she was stroking Rhaenyra’s temper. In the days following Aemma’s death, the princess had grown nearly volatile, shrieking at everyone she saw before burying herself underneath her covers. It was the grief talking, Alicent would say, and soon enough her anger coolled, but Carys was still at the sharp end of her fury from time to time. 

“Things were different then.” Rhaenyra exhaled slowly from her nose in annoyance. 

“They don’t have to be,” Carys said gently. “Rhaenyra–”

“You don’t get it,” her cousin snapped suddenly. “You don’t understand. You never understand how hard it is for me. To be a princess.”

Carys clenched her jaw, feeling heat rise in her chest. "You act as if you're the only one who carries a burden," she said, forcing her voice to remain even. "But we are all Targaryens. We are all expected to—"

"You are not like me," Rhaenyra cut in, her tone edged with something sharp and bitter. "You have no dragon, no claim to power. What would you know of expectations?"

Carys stiffened. The words struck deeper than she cared to admit. She had always been reminded of what she lacked. Of what she had yet to prove.

Rhaenyra must have seen something in her expression, because she sighed and turned away, as if she had already dismissed the conversation. "Go play at being noble elsewhere, Carys. I am tired."

Carys swallowed down the sting. She should have let it go—should have left her cousin to her grief and anger—but instead, she rose from the bench, lifting her chin.

By midnight, nearly all the occupants of the Red Keep had at last gone to their beds. The servants were nowhere to be found, and all the lords and ladies tucked themselves into their featherbeds. Only the guards roamed now, their armor quietly clinking as they moved. 

Carys could not sleep; her excitement was too great. All her months of anguish and despair that she was no true Targaryen finally boiled down into one moment. 

She would claim Veraxes tonight. 

Her dreams of the silver dragon had faded, but in her heart she knew that he was hers, and she would be his dragonrider. It was the first thing she was sure of in months. 

As she paced the floor of her bedroom, her bare feet pitter-pattering against the cold stone, Carys wondered how she would get into the Dragonpit. Viserys had explicitly forbidden her from stepping foot inside after her last attempt. He had looked at her with that same tired disappointment, his mouth pressing into a thin line as he told her it was for her own safety.

Her own safety.

Carys scoffed under her breath. What safety? What purpose did she have if she was not a true Targaryen? If even Rhaenyra—the cousin she had adored more than anyone—looked at her with doubt in her eyes?

No. She would not be shut out. Not from this.

She paused mid-step, a slow smile appearing on her face as the realization dawned on her.

There was one person who could help her.

Norei.

If there was anyone in the Red Keep who would be willing to risk their own neck for this mission, it was Norei. They both had seen Veraxes in their dreams- it had to mean something, didn’t it? 

Still, Carys knew she had to convince her. Sneaking into the Dragonpit would not be easy– especially with the dragonkeepers and guards on watch– but if anyone could help her, it was Norei. 

Carys hurried to her wardrobe. She would need something dark, that wouldn’t catch the torchlight. From deep within, she pulled out a black wool cloak and plain tunic, along with her pair of soft-soled boots. 

The castle was silent as she eased her door open. Only the faint crackle of torches in the distance betrayed any sign of life, but Carys still held her breath. 

No footsteps. No voices. 

Now wholly assured, Carys stepped out and moved quickly through the halls. Norei’s room was located on the lower levels of Maegor’s Holdfast, in the servant’s quarters near the kitchens. If luck was on Carys’ side, Norei would already be awake. If not, well, Carys would simply wake her. 

Carys followed the winding stairs down to the kitchens, pressing herself against the wall as she looked for any kitchen maids making a late-night brew. After spotting no sign of life, Carys slipped through the tables and made her way through the door leading to the servant’s chambers. 

A horrible thought dawned on her. She didn’t know which room was Norei’s. 

A slight panic overtook Carys as she clutched the edge of her cloak, forcing herself to stay calm. She couldn’t very well go knocking on every door, without waking half the servants. If she made too much noise, someone might alert the guards, and then her plan would be ruined before it had even begun. 

Carys took a deep breath, forcing herself to think. Norei had once said her room faced Blackwater Bay, and the small window was partially broken, so a draft would come in every night and chill her to the bone. She had also spoken about being near the outer wall, where the wind howled the loudest. 

That narrowed her options down partially. Moving carefully, Carys padded through the hall, running her fingers across the stone wall. Some of the doors were sturdier, meant for the higher ranking servants, but some were simply made of weathered wood. She passed one, and then another, pausing only when she felt the faintest chill on her skin. 

This had to be it. 

Carys raised her hand and rapped her knuckles lightly on the wood once. Then twice. 

A heartbeat passed. Finally, the door creaked open, revealing the dark shadows of a very small room. The door cracked open even further, and there was Norei in her nightgown, a furious expression on her face. 

“What are you doing? ” Norei hissed, blinking blearily at her. 

Carys grinned, breathless with anticipation. “I need your help.”

Norei stared at her for a long while, gaping, before she finally grabbed Carys’ arm and yanked her into the room. Carys was surprised at how small it was; only a tiny window on the wall opposite the door let any moonlight in, casting silver beams on the cot in the corner. 

“You cannot be this daft,” Norei snapped. 

“I’m sorry,” Carys whispered back. “But it’s urgent. I couldn’t think of anyone else I could trust with this.”

“At this hour?” Norei crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Yes. Now.”

The maidservant squinted at her, her dark eyes flickering over the cloak and the tunic. “Gods help me, what are you planning?”

Carys leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m going to claim Veraxes.”

For a split second, Carys wondered if Norei would laugh at her, or simply throw her out of her room. She wouldn’t blame the girl if she did– Carys knew how ridiculous this all sounded, even in her own head. 

But to her surprise, Norei did neither of those things. Instead, she drew herself tall and set her jaw, a look of determination etched on her face. “I can’t say I’m shocked,” she said at last. “But Carys, you know what the king said.”

Carys shook her head. “I don’t care what Viserys said,” she retorted. “You and I both dreamt of the silver dragon. It has to mean something.”

She didn’t know why Norei was so worried about going to the Dragonpit all of the sudden. Wasn’t it her idea that Carys would ride Veraxes?

Norei’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I know what we dreamt,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But dreaming and doing are not the same, Carys. If you’re caught—”

“I won’t be.”

“You don’t know that,” Norei shot back, stepping closer. “Guards are stationed outside the Dragonpit at all hours. It’s not like sneaking into the library or stealing pastries from the kitchens.”

Carys exhaled sharply through her nose. “I’m not a child playing at adventure. I am a Targaryen,” she said firmly. “And Veraxes is mine.”

For a long moment, Norei said nothing. Her dark eyes studied Carys’ face, searching for any hesitation, any doubt. But Carys had none left to give.

Finally, Norei let out a resigned sigh. “If we do this,” she muttered, “we do it my way.”

A triumphant smile broke across Carys’ face. “Then tell me what we need.”

════ ✣✤✣ ════

Making it out of the Red Keep and through King’s Landing had been easy enough; there was no one to catch Carys and Norei as they crept through the halls and past the guards along the outer walls of the keep. No one in the city cared if two girls disguised as boys were darting through the streets, but Carys wondered what kind of freedoms would have been granted to her if she were born a man. 

Getting into the Dragonpit proved harder than they expected. An increased number of guards roamed the perimeter, their torches flickering light over the massive gates. Carys and Norei pressed themselves into the shadow of an alleyway, watching the patrols with wary gazes. 

“This is impossible,” Norei whispered, clutching Carys’ sleeve. “There’s no way to get inside without getting caught.”

Carys chewed her lip as she thought about their options. She could almost feel Veraxes calling out to her, his deep roars echoing in her soul. 

“There has to be another way in.” She dug deep into her memory, looking for anything she had learned about the Dragonpit that might help them now. “The old tunnels– Maegor had them built beneath the hill in case anyone needed to move the dragons unseen.”

“What do you mean?” Norei squinted her dark eyes at her. 

Carys pointed to the side of the great structure, where the stonework gave way to jagged edges and fallen debris. “The hill beneath the pit is old. It crumbled in places where they built it over, but I think there might be an entrance over there.”

“Wouldn’t it be guarded?”

“Maybe,” Carys admitted. “But the guards would expect people to sneak in obvious ways. No one knows about the Dragonpit falling apart.”

Because the Targaryens didn’t want people to know their work was crumbling, Carys thought to herself, but she said nothing to Norei. 

Norei let out a quiet sigh, scanning the dark path ahead. “You’re sure about this?”

“I have to be.” Carys slipped out of the alley, motioning for Norei to follow her. They kept low as they navigated the edge of the hill, making their way up the rocks. Loose stones shifted beneath their boots, and dust billowed in the moonlight, but Carys pressed on. Norei followed close behind, panting softly as she tried to keep up. Thankfully, the guards rarely patrolled this edge of the hill– there was no reason to. Most people wouldn’t have thought to climb the rubble to find a way in without risk of being seen. 

It either made Carys very, very brave or very, very stupid. 

As they reached the base of the collapsed stonework, Carys ran her fingers over the jagged edges, looking for their way in. Her heart pounded as her fingers brushed over a narrow crevice in the wall, half-hidden by rubble and ivy. 

“Here,” she whispered. 

Norei squeezed beside her, peering into the darkness beyond. The tunnel sloped downward, disappearing into the depths below the Dragonpit. The air that wafted from within was stale and heavy with the scent of the earth and something faintly metallic. 

“If we die down here, I’m haunting you,” Norei hissed. 

Carys just grinned. “Come on.”

With that, they slipped into the tunnel, allowing the darkness to swallow them whole. Carys sucked in a breath as they moved through the passage, running her fingers along the damp stones in order to feel her way. 

“We need to get into the lower levels,” she whispered to Norei. “That’s where Veraxes was last time.”

Norei’s only response was a jut of her chin; she was farther up ahead. 

Carys felt her nerves begin to fray as her eyesight completely deteriorated in the dark. With a sudden realization she understood how exactly Veraxes had grown to be completely blind: he had spent the past fifty years or so in the shadows, hidden away from the sun and the sky. 

The thought unsettled her. Dragons were meant to roam the earth, not be trapped underneath it. 

A low gust of air rustled past her. Carys stilled, her heart pounding in her chest. 

“Norei?” She whispered up ahead. 

“I’m here,” came the hushed reply. “We’re close.”

Carys took another careful step forward, pressing her hand firmly against the wall. If Veraxes had spent five decades in darkness, that meant he had learned how to navigate in the shadows. A sense of worry filled her chest– would he even accept her as his rider? Would he accept anyone?

The air grew thicker and warmer, the scent of sulfur– unmistakably draconic. Carys swallowed her fear, her breaths coming in shallow as she crept along. She could hear the faint scrape of Norei’s boots ahead, but her focus had shifted to the massive cavern before her. 

Then, she saw him. At first, he was nothing more than a mass of shifting shadows, a shape blending seamlessly into the darkness. But as her eyes adjusted, Carys caught the faintest glimmer of silver scales, catching what little light shone through the stone above. 

Veraxes. 

He was more beautiful than she remembered. Carys’ heart slammed in her ribs as she crept closer and closer. His wings, folded tight against his body, looked powerful, and his head rested on a pile of stones as his nostrils flared as he took in their scent. 

Norei stiffened beside her. “Carys…” she began, her voice tight with warning. 

Carys ignored her. She knew, deep in her soul, that this moment was written long before she was born. That Veraxes was meant for her, and she was meant for him. 

“Veraxes,” she breathed. Carys extended her hand out to him, inching closer and closer. His nostrils flared in and out ever so slowly, almost waiting for her to make the wrong move. 

Carys felt her heart slam against her ribs as she was mere inches away from him now, until she pressed the palm of her hand to his nose. With that simple motion, it was as though she unlocked a door. Any feeling of worry or fear disappeared; Carys only felt a profound sense of understanding.

Veraxes exhaled, sending a warm gush of air over her. Carys let out a shaky breath, barely able to believe what she had done. What had just happened. 

Carys took a step closer, then another, until she was standing right beside him. She could feel the heat radiating off his silver scales, the power coiled within his massive form.

Slowly, she reached for the jagged spikes along his neck and hoisted herself up. Her breath hitched as she swung her leg over, settling atop his broad back. Veraxes shifted beneath her, testing her weight, but he did not throw her off. Instead, he rumbled deep in his chest—a sound of acknowledgment.

Carys swallowed hard, her hands tightening around the ridges of his spine. The words came to her instinctively, as if they had been waiting on her tongue her entire life.

"Soves, Veraxes."

Fly, Veraxes.

The dragon let out a snort, his wings flexing in anticipation, but Carys turned her gaze downward. Norei stood frozen below, torn between awe and fear.

“You have to go back the way we came,” Carys said. “If you’re caught here, they’ll know you helped me.”

Norei hesitated before giving a sharp nod. “Be careful,” she whispered.

Carys didn’t reply. She couldn’t. The moment was too big, too overwhelming. Instead, she turned her gaze back toward the entrance of his cavern.

Veraxes crouched low, muscles coiling, wings unfurling.

And then—

He leapt.

The force of it nearly knocked the breath from Carys' lungs as they shot upward, the world dropping away beneath them. She clung to him as the wind roared past, her hair whipping behind her. The rooftops of King’s Landing stretched below like a sea of flickering lanterns, the first golden rays of dawn breaking over the horizon.

As they soared above the city, a laugh bubbled up in Carys’ throat—wild, breathless, free.

She had done it.

She had claimed her dragon.

As they ascended, Carys felt the world fall away beneath her. The wind roared past her ears, pulling at her hair, but she didn’t care. The Red Keep, the city, and even her own fears, all shrank away as she clutched onto Veraxes, feeling the dragon move beneath her. 

He was much larger than she had anticipated– much larger than Syrax, or even Caraxes. Carys quickly reminded herself that Veraxes was older than even Vhagar, as he had been a hatchling when Aerion Targaryen, the father of the conquerors, claimed him. 

As they climbed higher, she realized that because Veraxes could not see the world the way other dragons could, he relied solely on his other senses. She noticed how he tilted his head, listening to the distant cries of gulls or the sounds of the city below. How he inhaled deeply, as though he were drinking in the air itself. 

He doesn’t need his eyes to fly, Carys thought in awe. He has always known how to fly without them. 

She loosened her grip on his spines slightly, trusting him, deepening the bond between them even further. He turned, banking over the rooftops of King’s Landing, and she leaned with him, her body moving instinctively. 

For the first time, Carys understood. He had been waiting– not just for any rider, but for her. Someone who would see him for what he was, and not what he lacked. Perhaps Carys had been waiting for someone to do the same with her. 

As the first light of dawn touched the horizon, painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson, Carys knew that there was no turning back. She had claimed him, and soon, the whole world would know it. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

It was well after dawn when Veraxes finally landed in the courtyard of the Dragonpit. A horde of dragon keepers had rushed toward them, shouting incoherently in High Valyrian. As Carys slid from his back, dozens of hands reached out to assure that she was safe before ushering her into a carriage and slamming the door behind her. 

Her mind was racing; Carys was confused and angry as they ushered her away from her dragon. Wasn’t it supposed to be a proud moment, when a Targaryen claimed a dragon? 

The carriage rattled over the uneven cobblestones of the capital, the shouts of the dragonkeepers still echoing in her ears. She had expected triumph. She had expected to stand tall and proud, and accept the legacy that was finally passed down to her. 

Instead, she had been swept away as though she were a reckless child. 

Carys clenched her hands into fists, forcing herself to calm down just as the carriage pulled into the Red Keep. As soon as it rolled to a stop, the door swung open, revealing Ser Harrold Westerling and a gaggle of other guards behind him. 

“Princess,” he greeted her sternly. “You’ve been summoned to the small council chamber.”

A knot formed in her stomach. “By whom?” she asked innocently. 

It was a stupid question. Carys knew very well who had summoned her. 

The halls of the Red Keep were filled with whispers as she was ushered by Ser Harrold up the stairs to the small council chamber. The few lords and ladies that were awake this early watched her warily as she strode by, hiding their murmurs behind their paper fans. 

By the time they reached the doors of the council chamber, Carys could hear voices ringing out from inside. 

“... reckless beyond words.” She recognized Otto Hightower’s voice immediately. “There’s a reason why Veraxes has been left unclaimed this long. She could have been killed.”

“But she was not,” came her mother’s chilly reply. “She succeeded. That cannot be ignored.”

“Perhaps,” Otto conceded to Rhea. “But now she must be reined in. There cannot be any more delay.”

Without any warning, Ser Harrold pushed the door open, announcing her arrival to the chamber. 

“Princess Carys of the House Targaryen, your Grace.”

Viserys was seated between both Otto and Rhea, his face drawn with exhaustion. To his left, Otto’s hands clenched the arm of his chair, his grey eyes narrowed at Carys. Only her mother looked proud, her bronze eyes sparkling with amusement. For a moment, silence hung between them like a heavy rain cloud. 

Finally, Viserys sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. “Carys, what am I to do with you?” His voice was laced with something between exasperation and reluctant admiration. “You claimed a dragon.”

“I did.” There was no use in denying it. 

“You disobeyed the king’s orders,” Otto scorned her. 

Carys whipped her head towards him, nostrils flaring. “Since when has it been wrong or immoral for a Targaryen to claim a dragon?” She snapped at him. “Viserys claimed Balerion, a dragon even larger than Veraxes. Rhaenyra claimed Syrax when she was eight- nay, seven years of age.” Carys lifted her chin high. “I obeyed the will of my blood.”

Otto’s expression darkened, but Viserys held up a hand. “You have done what many could not. But this–” he waved a hand over her “ – does not change what has already been set in motion.”

Carys narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

She noticed how her mother’s gaze quickly avoided her, as though Rhea was ashamed. Viserys and Otto cast a sidewards glance at one another, before the king exhaled heavily. “You are four and ten now. The time for delays has passed. It is time for you to be wed.”

Carys’ breath caught. She could feel her heart sink into her stomach as her gaze darted between the king, the Hand, and her mother, as though begging one of them to save her. “No.”

Viserys’ brows furrowed. “You cannot refuse.”

“You expect me to go from claiming my dragon to being shackled to a man I do not want?”

Otto’s voice was cold. “You are a Targaryen princess. Your duty is to your house. You will wed Trystane Lannister during the next full moon.”

A sharp, ringing silence filled the room. Carys felt her hands tremble, though she forced them still. This is how they reward me?

Her stomach twisted, the taste of freedom still fresh on her tongue. She had soared higher than the city, beyond the reach of anyone, and now they sought to cage her before she had even touched the ground. Her gaze flicked to Rhea, searching for help, but her mother’s face was unreadable.

“This is not fair.” Carys wanted to cry.

Viserys’ face softened, but he did not yield. “This is the way of things.”

Carys straightened her shoulders. She had faced a dragon that night. She would not crumble before them now.

“You cannot make me love him,” she said.

Otto’s mouth curled. “Love is not required. Obedience is.”

Carys’ nails dug into her palms. Let them try to tame me.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out of the Small Council chamber.

Outside, the halls of the Red Keep felt colder than ever, but Carys walked with purpose. She had claimed Veraxes. She had already flown. And she would not be bound by their expectations.

Not now. Not ever.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since Carys claimed Veraxes, and yet, she hadn’t been able to visit him since– duty, as always, came first. 

Wedding preparations were relentless. Carys found herself annoyed at the endless stream of questions– what color for this? Or, where do these need to go? It was as though her life was slipping away from her, falling faster and faster until she was no longer able to take control. The promise of escape—of flying freely atop the great dragon—felt like a distant dream, locked away behind layers of obligation and expectation.

Norei, who was permitted to return to her service, was dedicated to helping Carys prepare for the first dinner with the Lannisters, who had arrived in King’s Landing earlier that day. The family’s presence in the capital was a spectacle, and Carys was no exception to the scrutiny. 

She stared at her reflection in the mirror as Norei adjusted the delicate fabric of her crimson gown, fingers brushing lightly over the hem.

"Are you ready, my lady?" Norei asked, her voice soft.

Carys didn’t respond immediately. Her thoughts were far from the dinner ahead—thoughts of Veraxes, of the life she could be living, flooded her mind. But there was no time for that now. 

"Yes," she said, her voice tight. "I’m ready."

With a quick nod, Norei escorted her out of her chambers and to the royal family’s personal dining hall, located on the top floor of Maegor’s Holdfast. Carys hardly acknowledged the lords and ladies that bowed to her, instead setting her mind to the task ahead. 

She was expected to be polite and cordial to her new husband. This was their first meeting, after all, and despite her reluctance to be wed, Carys saw no reason to be cold towards him. 

Her mother and Rhaenyra were waiting with the king outside the doors. Both Rhaenyra and her father wore the black and red of the Targaryens, their silver locks styled perfectly, while Rhea wore a simple blue gown. 

Daemon, as usual, was not in attendance. Not after Viserys had banished him from the city, and now that he and Corlys Velaryon had begun their war against the Crabfeeder, Carys was not surprised at his absence. 

Rhea greeted her daughter with a quick kiss on the cheek before turning back towards the doors. All four of them were rather formal in their attire, but there was a sense of unease that hung in the air. Carys could feel it in the stiffness of her own posture, in the way her mother avoided meeting her eyes as she walked past.

The great doors to the hall swung open with a low groan. Viserys began walking towards the great table almost immediately, with Rhaenyra, Carys, and Rhea following close behind. 

The light of the chandeliers flickered off the lion crests of the Lannisters that stood before them, their chins held high. Carys recognized the two older men at once– Lord Jason Lannister and his twin, Ser Tyland, both decked in the red and gold colors of their house. Behind Lord Jason stood a younger man, and with a jolt, Carys recognized him as Trystane. He was handsome enough, with tanned skin and golden locks that curled over his ears. 

Lord Jason stepped forward first, greeting the king with a deep bow. “Your Grace,” he groveled, sweeping his cloak around him. “And Lady Rhea. It has been too long since I’ve been in the capital.”

Viserys gave Jason a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A pity that we have not been given the grace of your presence,” the king said. “May I introduce my niece, Princess Carys, and my own daughter Rhaenyra?”

Jason’s gaze swept over to Carys, almost hungrily. “A pleasure at last, princess.” Jason took her hand and kissed it gently. “I’ve been eagerly anticipating meeting my son’s bride.”

Carys forced a polite smile, though the weight of his stare made her skin prickle. “My lord,” she replied, offering nothing else. 

Jason didn’t seem perturbed by this, and instead turned his attention to Rhaenyra and Rhea. Carys allowed herself a glance at Trystane, before quickly realizing that he was studying her. 

He was younger than she had expected– perhaps only a year or two older than she was. Carys could see that his eyes were far more striking than his father’s or uncles, taking on a vivid green hue that almost captivated her. 

"My lady," Trystane finally said, bowing his head in greeting. His voice was smooth, polished. "It is an honor."

Carys dipped into a small curtsy, her heart steady despite the weight of expectation pressing upon her. "My lord."

Jason clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, grinning. "A fine match, wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?" he said to Viserys.

The king chuckled, though it lacked warmth. "I should hope so," he said before gesturing toward the grand table. "Come, let us dine."

The hall was filled with the rich aroma of spiced meats and wine as servants moved around swiftly, laying platters of food before them. Carys settled herself on a seated cushion beside Trystane, her skirts billowing slightly as she sat. 

Jason raised his goblet high, beaming down at the table. “To the union of our houses,” he declared. “May the bond between the Targaryens and Lannisters strengthen the realm.”

The table murmured their agreements as they drank, but before the conversation could move forward, Jason leaned forward with an eager grin. “My lady wife and daughters shall arrive in the capital on the day of the wedding,” he announced, directing the comment toward Carys. “They are most excited to welcome you into our family.”

Carys forced a smile, unsure of what to say. The thought of more Lannisters descending upon her did little to ease the tightness in her chest.

“How delightful,” Viserys said smoothly, though he barely glanced up from his plate.

Rhea, still poised but visibly displeased, gave her own goblet a contemplative glance before setting it down. “Strengthening the realm,” she echoed. “A fine sentiment. Though I would think it more important that my daughter’s happiness be considered in such arrangements.”

Jason chuckled, though there was something stiff about it. “Happiness? A wife’s happiness is in the home she builds with her husband, is it not?” He gestured grandly to Trystane. “And my son will provide a most comfortable home for the princess, of that I can assure you.”

Trystane, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke, his voice smooth and polite. “I will do my duty, as any lord would,” he said, glancing at Carys. “And I hope my lady wife will find Casterly Rock to her liking.”

Carys, who had been pushing food around on her plate, forced herself to look up at him. “I am certain it will be... grand.” She chose her words carefully, unwilling to betray the unease curling in her stomach.

Rhaenyra, who had been quiet up until now, let out a short huff. “A shame we did not have six more months to wait, as we originally intended.” She glanced pointedly at her father.

Viserys stiffened slightly but did not immediately respond. Instead, it was Tyland who smiled and replied, “Six more months would have been wasted time. The people needed a great celebration, and what greater joy than a royal wedding?”

Rhea’s bronze eyes darkened. “Joy, is it? Or a spectacle?”

Jason scoffed and leaned back in his chair. “Gods, Lady Rhea, must you sour the mood at every turn? I understand a mother’s reluctance to part with her daughter, but the arrangements have been made.”

Rhea’s lips pressed into a thin line, and her fingers curled slightly on the table. “A mother’s reluctance,” she repeated, her voice sharp. “Tell me, Lord Jason, do you often find yourself telling women how they ought to feel?”

Jason’s face flushed slightly, and Tyland, ever the diplomat, quickly stepped in with a chuckle. “Perhaps we should all take another drink. Weddings are joyous occasions, after all.”

Carys, feeling the weight of too many eyes on her, lowered her gaze to her plate. This was her fate, decided long before she had a say in it. No amount of wishing would change that.

She exhaled softly, setting down her goblet and turning slightly toward Trystane. If she was to spend her life with this man, she might as well make an effort to know him.

“My lord,” she began, offering a small smile. “Have you spent much time in King’s Landing before now?”

Trystane barely looked up from his plate as he replied, “A few times, for matters of court.”

Carys waited for him to elaborate, but when he merely speared another piece of venison onto his fork, she pressed on. “And did you enjoy the city?”

“It serves its purpose.” His chewing was obnoxious. 

She blinked slowly, forcing her annoyance to subside. “And what purpose is that?”

Trystane finally glanced at her, as if only now realizing she was trying to have a conversation. He tilted his head slightly, then shrugged. “Politics, trade. The affairs of the realm.”

Carys resisted the urge to sigh. “I see,” she said, attempting to keep her tone polite. “And what of Casterly Rock? I have heard many tales of its splendor.”

“It is the greatest stronghold in the realm,” he said simply. “Safe, prosperous, unyielding. A good home to raise children in”

Like speaking to a stone wall, indeed.

Jason, who had caught the tail end of their conversation, grinned at his son. “That’s the Lannister way, eh, boy? We are not a house of idle chatter.”

“Evidently not,” Carys muttered under her breath, though she kept her expression serene.

Rhaenyra, who had been following the exchange with veiled amusement, leaned in slightly. “Princess Carys enjoys needlework and flying her dragon,” she offered. “Do you, my lord?”

Trystane gave a noncommittal shrug. “Those are women’s activities. I prefer riding.”

Carys glanced at Rhaenyra, who raised her brows as if to say I tried.

Deciding to give it one last effort, Carys asked, “Do you have a favored steed, then?”

Trystane took a sip of his wine before answering, “A gelding. He serves me well.”

Carys gave up. “How lovely.”

As the last of the dishes were cleared and goblets drained, Viserys let out a weary sigh and pushed himself up from his seat. “It has been a long evening,” he announced, resting a hand on his belly. “I shall take my leave.”

Jason and Tyland Lannister rose at once, bowing deeply. “Of course, Your Grace,” Jason said. “Rest well.”

With a final nod to the table, Viserys departed, and soon after, the rest of the guests began to make their excuses.

“It is late,” Jason remarked, stretching his arms. “And we have another long day ahead of us on the morrow.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “Indeed, my lord,” she said. “It would not do for the groom to appear tired and haggard at his own wedding.”

Trystane chuckled, though it was more of an exhale than genuine amusement. He turned to Carys. “Shall I escort you to your chambers, my lady?”

Carys smiled politely, though the last thing she wanted was to prolong the evening with more awkwardness. “That is kind of you, my lord, but I fear I feel a headache coming on,” she said smoothly. “I believe I shall retire on my own.”

Trystane studied her for a moment before nodding. “Very well.”

Jason gave a hearty laugh. “A sensible choice, my dear. A good night’s rest will do you well before your wedding day.”

Carys forced another smile before rising from her seat. She bid the table goodnight and, with as much grace as she could muster, made her way toward the doors, exhaling quietly as soon as she was out of their sight.

She felt numb as she returned to her chambers, quickly shutting the door behind her. The moment the latch clicked into place, she exhaled, her shoulders slumping under the weight of the evening. Inside, Norei was waiting, seated by the hearth with a small embroidery hoop in her hands. At the sight of Carys, she quickly set it aside and stood. “You’re back later than I expected,” she murmured, studying Carys’ expression.

“The feast dragged on,” Carys replied, moving toward the vanity to remove her jewelry. The golden earrings felt heavy as she placed them on the polished surface, their gleam mocking her.

Norei stepped forward, reaching to undo the fastenings of Carys’ gown. “Was it dreadful?” she asked, her voice light but laced with concern.

Carys hesitated before answering. “No more than I expected.”

Together, they worked in silence—Norei unfastening the heavy silk and brocade, Carys slipping into a soft nightgown. The warmth of the fire did little to ease the chill settling in her bones.

As she climbed into bed, pulling the furs over her, her thoughts drifted. The walls of the Red Keep felt smaller than ever, the air in her chamber too thick to breathe. She closed her eyes, but instead of sleep, her mind wandered to Veraxes.

If she saddled him now, if she left under the cover of darkness, how far could she fly before they sent someone after her? Before they dragged her back?

She let out a slow breath, curling into herself beneath the blankets. It was a foolish thought, and a childish one, at that. Still, it lingered as she drifted into uneasy sleep.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The soft light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. Carys woke slowly, the weight of the day ahead already pressing down on her. The events of last night were still fresh in her mind, but she pushed them aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. She had to prepare.

Her eyes fluttered open to the quiet sounds of the morning—distant murmurs of servants, the faint smell of bread baking in the kitchens. The bed felt unusually empty, and for a moment, she almost wished for the comfort of her mother or someone else familiar by her side. But today wasn’t about comfort, was it? It was about duty.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, the door creaked open. Norei stepped in first, carrying a small tray of tea, the steam rising in delicate swirls. “Good morning, Princess,” she said softly, setting the tray on the bedside table.

Carys gave a tired smile, stretching out her limbs. “Good morning, Norei. Is it time already?”

“Almost,” Norei replied, her voice laced with a knowing calm. “The others are waiting.”

With a slow nod, Carys sat up, rubbing her eyes. The weight of the upcoming wedding day settled back onto her shoulders, but there was no turning away from it now. “I suppose I should get up then.”

As Carys stood and began to change into her nightgown, the door opened again, and Gwenys Waters, Alicent, and Rhaenyra entered, all with determined smiles and an energy that Carys envied.

In a rare moment of unity, all four of her companions had come to dress her for her wedding day. Gwenys had twisted her dark brown hair into intricate plaits that fell down her back. Norei painted her lips and lined her violet eyes with black powder, enhancing their effect. Alicent was gracious enough to help her into her gown, and Rhaenyra was the one to pin the veil into her hair.

The veil, passed down from her grandmother to her mother, was made of sheer fabric embroidered with dozens of tiny pearls and cairngorms beads along the hem that sparkled in the light. A silver diadem in the shape of two dragons twisted around one another sat upon her head, holding the veil in place. 

Carys ran her hands along the skirts of her gown, admiring the way the fabric shimmered in the sunlight shining through the windows. Her dress was one of her own choosing, made of ivory silk. The long sleeves tightened at her elbows before cascading to the floor, creating a lovely draping effect with the skirt that now pooled around her ankles. The neckline was cut straight across, revealing the soft curves of her collarbone.

As Carys admired her reflection, the room buzzed with the soft chatter of her friends. They gathered near the window, exchanging excited whispers about the upcoming feast and the lords who would be in attendance.

“Did you see Ser Willem Karstark when he arrived?” Gwenys giggled behind her hand, her eyes bright. “He is as handsome as they say.”

“And Harwin Strong,” Alicent chimed in, smoothing the folds of her lilac gown. “A proper knight, if ever I saw one.”

Rhaenyra, lounging on the chaise, kicked her feet slightly and laughed. “You only say that because he smiled at you in the hall yesterday.”

Alicent huffed, though a splash of pink colored her cheeks. “That is untrue.”

“Is it, my lady?” Norei teased gently, adjusting the diadem on Carys’ head. “I thought he looked right at you, as well.”

Carys smiled at their banter, though her mind was elsewhere. She smoothed the silk of her gown once more, letting their conversation wash over her.

The door creaked open, and a hush fell over the group as her mother stepped inside. At once, all four of them greeted the lady of Runestone politely before exchanging glances and quietly slipping from the room, leaving mother and daughter alone.

Rhea looked resplendent in her bronze kirtle and black overcoat, with her dark hair twisted into an elaborate braid. For the first time in her life, Carys noticed that her mother wore cosmetics on her face. 

“You look lovely, mother,” Carys greeted her, taking Rhea’s hands in hers and kissing her mother on both cheeks. 

Rhea beamed at her daughter, cupping Carys’ cheek with her hand. “Oh, my sweetling.” Her mother kissed her forehead gently. “I never thought this day would come so soon.”

Carys looked down at the floor for a moment, hiding the wave of sadness that overcame her suddenly. Rhea was already up-in-arms with Viserys about her betrothal to Trystane Lannister; she did not want her mother to take on anymore than she already had. 

“It’s for the good of the crown,” she replied hollowly, looking back at her mother. “Viserys seems to think so, anyway.”

Rhea scoffed and shook her head. “If he ever decides to remarry, the crown could find their coin with the Velaryons.” 

“It matters not.” Carys turned away from her mother and faced the grand windows, her gaze sweeping over the city sprawl before her. 

Rhea seized her shoulders now, clenching them slightly. Carys was caught off-guard by her mother’s sudden outburst, and flinched when Rhea’s long fingers dug into her skin. 

“It does matter, Carys,” Rhea said, exasperated now. “Your position in the family matters, and so does your marriage. Viserys isn’t marrying you off just to get rid of you.”

Carys stiffened under her mother’s grip, hiding her hands in her skirts. “You think I don’t know that?” she asked quietly. “You think I don’t understand the purpose of this marriage? That I don’t know what’s expected of me?”

Rhea loosened her grip slightly, though she didn’t let Carys go. “Then why do you act like it?”

Carys bit her lip. She did not want to tell her mother that she had dreamed of something different—something more. That in the quiet moments of her girlhood, she had imagined a life where she could choose. Where she might have wed a man who made her heart race, rather than one chosen for duty.

She swallowed hard, keeping her gaze locked on the city beyond the window. “Because I know what my life will be,” she said instead. “I know what is expected of me. I know what I must do. But that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

Rhea studied her for a moment before sighing, her hands slipping from Carys’ arms at last. “Happiness is a fleeting thing, child. It is duty that remains.”

Carys finally turned to face her mother, searching her expression for something—sympathy, understanding, anything that might ease the weight pressing down on her chest. But Rhea’s face was carefully composed, as unreadable as it had always been.

“So that’s it, then?” Carys asked, her voice quieter now. “I am to do my duty and expect nothing else?”

Rhea’s lips pressed together, as if she were weighing her words carefully. “You are to carve your own happiness where you can find it. But never forget who you are, or what you owe to your family.”

Carys wanted to scoff, to argue, but what was the point? This was her fate, decided long before she had a say in it. No amount of wishing would change that.

The door creaked open, and Ser Harrold Westerling appeared in the door, bowing to both Rhea and Carys. “Princess,” he greeted her. “It’s time. The king’s carriage awaits.”

Rhea gave a curt nod to Ser Harrold, her bronze eyes flashing towards Carys. She reached out, fixing the veil around Carys’ shoulders with steady hands, as a final gesture of reassurance. 

“Come,” Rhea said. “Let us not keep the king waiting.”

Carys swallowed the lump in her throat. Forcing herself to move, she followed her mother out of her chambers. The weight of the gown and the diadem seemed to grow heavier with each passing step, until she could only focus on putting one foot in front of the other and nothing else. Together, they stepped into the hall, allowing their attendants to sweep them through the Red Keep. 

As they descended the steps from Maegor’s Holdfast, Carys spotted the royal carriage in the courtyard. The gold rims of the wheels and doors shone brightly in the sunlight, and inside she could barely make out Rhaenyra and Viserys seated across from one another. 

The carriage was deathly silent as Rhea and Carys climbed in, with the help of the Kingsguard. Almost immediately, the coachman urged the horses on and the carriage lurched forward, the wheels creaking over the cobblestones.Carys folded her hands together in her lap to keep them from fidgeting. Across from her, Rhea and Viserys looked out separate windows, their faces solemn as they watched the smallfolk cheer the carriage on. Rhaenyra, sitting beside her, gazed out the window, lazily tapping her fingers on the glass.

Outside, the cheers of the gathered crowd almost eased the nausea Carys felt, accompanied by the sweet smell of flower petals crushed underneath the carriage. 

Rhea was first to break the silence. “The people seem eager to see their princess wed,” she remarked, her voice soft.

Viserys nodded in agreement. “A celebration was needed, after this long period of mourning.”

Rhaenyra shifted slightly, her hands folded in her lap, though her fingers twisted together in a way that betrayed her thoughts. Carys stole another glance at her, catching the slight downturn of her mouth. They had spoken of this before—of how this marriage could have waited another six months, how it was nothing more than a display to restore the people’s confidence in Viserys after his long mourning for the queen.

Carys let out a slow breath, turning her gaze toward the small window. The streets were lined with onlookers, throwing flower petals onto the path before them, their cheers blending into a distant hum.

Viserys shifted, gripping his cane a little tighter. “It is a joyous day,” he said, his voice even. “A union between two great houses.”

Carys swallowed the bitter response that rose in her throat. Instead, she simply nodded.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered toward her, and for the briefest moment, Carys thought she saw something. But then the carriage turned a corner, the Great Sept rising before them, and she knew that the time had come. 

The carriage came to a halt with a soft jolt, and for a moment, Carys sat motionless, unwilling to face what awaited her. Her stomach twisted, and she breathed shallowly. The door to the carriage opened, and the sunlight rushed in, forcing her to move.

Rhea stepped out first, followed by Rhaenyra. Both of them turned back to her, offering their quiet well-wishes.

“Good luck, Carys,” Rhea said softly, her voice thick with a mother’s guarded pride. She placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, squeezing lightly before stepping aside. 

Rhaenyra gave her a small nod, her usual cool demeanor softened by something else—perhaps a quiet empathy. “You’ll do fine,” she said, her voice low, before offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

With those last words hanging in the air, Carys felt the weight of them. She was alone in this. She knew it.

Viserys stood by the door, looking rather imposing in his robe of black and gold. His eyes met hers, and without a word, he offered his hand, helping her out of the carriage. 

Before they entered the sept, Viserys took the maiden cloak from a waiting footman, and gently rested the heavy fabric onto her shoulders. It was made specifically for her wedding, with one half of the cloak embroidered with the sigil of House Royce, and the other embroidered with thousands of red and black beads to create the sigil of the Targaryens.

The crowds were already gathered, an endless sea of faces from houses all across Westeros. Lords and ladies, knights and common folk—each one present, each one watching, their eyes flicking to her. But in the sea of unfamiliar faces, Carys’s gaze was drawn to the Hightowers standing near the front

Her heart skipped as her eyes locked with Gwayne’s. He stood among his family, tall and dignified in his grey doublet. For a fleeting instant, she thought she saw him glance away, a quiet understanding between them. But then the priest called for the bride, and her attention was forced forward.

Viserys stepped beside her, remaining silent as he guided her towards the altar. Carys took one final breath, trying to steady the flutter of nerves in her chest. The Great Sept stretched above them, and as they moved forward, the soft murmur of the crowd filled the air. The light filtering through the stained-glass windows created patterns of color on the stone floor, a stark contrast to the harshness of what was to come.

In the front rows, she could make out the faces of the Hightowers, their stony expressions betraying nothing. Gwayne’s eyes, however, were soft—gentle even—and as they briefly met again, she saw something flicker there.  Her heart skipped as her eyes locked with his, and she caught what could have been a glimmer of sympathy, perhaps, or something deeper.

Carys couldn’t be sure of it, as she forced her attention back to the grand dais where Trystane and the septon stood. Her husband-to-be wore the most ornate doublet she had ever seen, made of red velvet and embroidered with dozens of gold beads. 

Carys swallowed her nerves as Viserys escorted her up the dais, his hand gentle as he removed the maiden cloak from her shoulders. The weight was quickly replaced by the bride’s cloak Trystane now laid on her shoulders, made of heavy red fabric with dozens of roaring lions emblazoned across the velvet. 

Both Carys and Trystane turned towards the septon. He was quite possibly the oldest man she had ever seen, with a wrinkled face and a beard that nearly reached the floor. Septon Edric was respected among the capital and the royal family, however, and no one dared to say a bad word against the man. 

He lifted his arms, and at once, the murmurs in the Sept faded into silence.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Houses Targaryen and Lannister,” he began, his voice thin and reedy, like the whisper of wind through an open window. “This is a historic union, one that has never been achieved by either house—”

Behind her, a lord coughed awkwardly. Carys’ lips twitched. She supposed the septon had conveniently forgotten certain failed betrothals, but no one was fool enough to correct him now.

Edric pressed on, unbothered. “It is an honor to preside over this wedding.”

His gaze fell upon Carys and Trystane, his brow furrowing slightly. “As the bride’s cloak has already been given, we shall commence with the vows.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Carys caught Trystane’s faint blush. The septon was meant to instruct him to cloak her, but tradition had already been set aside.

Edric motioned for them to extend their hands, and with careful precision, he wrapped a ribbon of red, black, and gold around their joined palms, knotting it firmly over their clasped fingers.

“In the sight of the Seven,” he intoned, “I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity.”

For eternity . Gods, she wanted to piss herself. Had anyone ever stopped to think about how long eternity really was?

“Look upon one another and say the words.”

Carys turned to Trystane, meeting his gaze at last. His eyes—clear and steady—held no hesitation. He would speak the words easily, without faltering. She wondered if he knew how much effort it took for her to do the same.

She swallowed.

“Father, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his, and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The feast later that night was the grandest she had ever been to. Carys had never seen this many people in one room. Lords and their wives hailed from the North all the way down to the Crownlands, eager to celebrate the marriage of a Targaryen princess, and perhaps curry the favor of their king. 

She and Trystane sat at the head of the high table, positioned between Viserys and Lord Jason. Beside Viserys sat Rhaenyra and Rhea, while Lord Tyland sat beside his twin, deep in his cups. Carys felt an almost childish giddy at the sight of the gifts given to her and her new husband. Lord Rickon Stark had gifted her a beautiful cloak made of black wool, lined with deer and moose pelts. The Velaryons brought with them a trunk of ebony wood which held four silver goblets with dragons and lions twisted around their stems. 

The oddest gift of all, however, was the one Carys received from her good-mother, the lady Johanna Westerling. She was a seemingly gentle woman, with a robust figure from bearing seven children, and kind blue eyes framed by brown curls. 

“Daughter,” Johanna greeted her, kissing the princess on both cheeks. “I’m sorry we were not able to exchange greetings before the wedding.”

Carys rose in suit, kissing Johanna on her cheeks as well. She could grow to like Lady Lannister, if this current display of affection was unlike her son’s manner. 

“It matters not, Lady Johanna,” Carys smiled at her graciously. “I’m glad to meet with my good-mother at any chance.”

Both Johanna and Viserys beamed at her manners; Carys had never seen her uncle so proud of her before. Lady Lannister stepped back slightly, waving her hand to her servant, who held a wicker basket in his arms. 

“When I first came to Casterly Rock, I found that leaving my home was quite difficult,” Johanna confessed. She removed the lid of the basket herself.“It wasn’t until my lord husband suggested I find companionship with animals, that I grew to love the Rock.”

Carys gasped slightly as Johanna produced a kitten from the depths of the basket, with snow-white fur and eyes the color of a pale blue sky. “I’m more fond of dogs, myself, but cats are a woman’s best friend.” 

She extended the kitten to Carys, who immediately took it into her arms. Beside her, even Trystane seemed captivated by the animal, running his spindly fingers over the white fur. “He’s adorable,” Carys cooed, scratching the kitten’s belly. 

“ She ,” Johanna corrected kindly. “You may name her whatever you wish– she’s yours now, afterall.”

Carys looked up at her good-mother with bright eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate the kind gesture.”

Johanna smiled kindly at her once more before curtseying to the king, making her way down the steps of the dais. Rhaenyra leaned over the table, catching her cousin’s gaze. “What will you name her?”

Carys thought for a moment– as a child, she had always loved the name Jonquil, from the old folktales Yara used to tell her at bedtime. As she looked down at the small kitten, she wanted something more fitting. Her mind drifted to old stories of the Valyrian Freehold, of the pantheon of gods and goddesses that lorded over the volcanic city. 

“Aegarax,” she said at last. 

Viserys raised a brow in question. “Aegarax was a male deity of Valyria,” he questioned. “The kitten is female, no?”

Carys shrugged. “I thought it was fitting. He was the god of all creatures, was he not?”

The king let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Aegarax it is, then,” he conceded, watching as the kitten nuzzled into Carys’ arms. “A fierce name for a small creature.”

Carys smiled down at the kitten, running a finger over its soft fur. “She’ll grow into it.” She gestured for a maidservant waiting behind the table. “Take her to my chambers,” she instructed, passing Aegarax to the girl. “Make sure she has milk and a warm place to sleep. The feast may be overwhelming for her.”

The maidservant curtseyed and hurried off. Aegarax’s small ears twitched in curiosity as she was hurried away. Satisfied with the course of the evening, Carys turned back to the table, taking a sip of her honeyed wine. Trystane seemed preoccupied with his father– the two Lannister men were deep in conversation– but Carys had no interest in speaking to her husband right now. 

The feast carried on with little consequence, until a shadow fell over the table and Carys looked up to see Ser Gwayne Hightower standing before her. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, so handsome in his blue doublet. His auburn hair was groomed and cut above his ears now, better framing his pale eyes. 

“Princess,” he greeted her. “Lord Trystane. I wanted to give my congratulations to the newlyweds.”

Trystane raised his goblet, drunkenly grinning at Gwayne. “Aye, I haven’t seen you since the Heir’s Tourney. How are you, my man?”

Gwayne inclined his head, his expression remaining carefully neutral. “Well enough, my lord. And you?”

Trystane let out a bark of laughter, sloshing wine over the rim of his goblet. “Never better! I have a wife, a title, and one day the Rock itself. What more could a man ask for?”

Carys kept her expression composed, even as annoyance swelled inside her. Trystane’s lack of subtlety would never cease to irritate her, but it still irked her at how easily he let his guard down around others. 

Gwayne’s gaze flickered over her, lingering for a moment before he spoke again. “A fortunate man, indeed.” His voice was smooth, and almost unreadable. Then, after a moment’s pause, he turned his full attention to Carys. “Princess, may I have this dance?”

Her heart swelled at the offer. Carys almost leapt at the chance to say yes, until Viserys cleared his throat and she was forced to wait for Trystane’s permission. 

Trystane waved a hand lazily. “Go on, wife, and dance with the man. I’ll drink in your stead.”

Carys studied her husband for a moment, then gracefully set down her goblet and rose to her feet. “It would be my pleasure, Ser Gwayne.”

Gwayne extended his hand, and she placed hers in his, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor. As the music swelled and the lords and ladies turned to watch, Carys glanced back toward Trystane. He was already refilling his goblet, paying them little mind.

Typical , she thought.

She forced any thought of her husband out of her mind as Gwayne placed his hand on the small of her back, twirling them across the floor. “Is marriage as wholesome as you expected?” He teased slightly. 

Carys felt her skin warm at his touch. She tilted her chin upwards, matching his gaze. “I don’t think ‘wholesome’ is the word I would use to describe it,” she confessed. “But perhaps I’m too cynical about it all.”

Gwayne’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles as he spun her around before pulling her back into his arms. “I must confess, I’m still rather hopeful about it all.”

“Oh?”

He nodded slightly. “I can imagine myself, living in a keep by the sea, with a wife I love and our children running underfoot.” His blue-grey eyes met hers. 

Carys lowered her gaze for a moment, willing the blush in her cheeks to fade away. When she looked up again, she met Gwayne’s expectant gaze, his eyes warm at the sight of her. 

“I once wished for the same,” she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “For a different life… or perhaps a different husband.”

It was the one thing she had never allowed herself to admit until now. In the weeks leading up to her wedding, Carys refused to think of her unchangeable future, lest she grow despondent over it. 

Gwayne squeezed her waist gently. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered– understanding, perhaps, or regret. The music swelled around them, yet the space they were in grew smaller, almost intimate. 

“But it is too late for wishes,” she added, forcing a small smile onto her face. 

Gwayne held her gaze for a moment longer before exhaling a quiet chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But that does not mean all is lost.”

“What do you mean?”

His grip on her was warm and assuring as he pulled her into a smooth dip, their noses almost touching. “I am more than happy to remain your friend, Princess. As long as you are in my life, I think I can be content with that.”

Something tightened in her chest. She had spent so long believing she had lost him, that her choice had sealed their fates forever. But here he was, offering her something still.

Carys swallowed the lump in her throat and gave him a small, genuine smile. “Then I suppose I shall have to keep you in my life, Ser Gwayne.”

His lips quirked again, and this time, his smile reached his eyes. “I would expect nothing less.”

As they continued to dance, Carys allowed herself, just for a moment, to imagine what might have been.

Much to her dismay, the music eventually died and Gwayne returned her to the dais with a brief kiss to her hand. Carys watched as he disappeared into the crowd, his blue doublet flashing before her eyes for the last time. A strange ache twisted in her chest– Carys did not know when she would see him tonight, and perhaps even for a long time after that. 

She barely had time to dwell on the thought before Viserys rose from his seat, silencing the crowd immediately. 

“While it warms my heart to see my subjects gather with my family,” he began, “I’m afraid it’s time for me to bid farewell. It has been a joyous occasion, and I trust you all have feasted and danced well.” 

A murmur of agreement rose from the guests. Viserys gave a slight nod to the hall, then turned towards Carys. His expression was one she had never seen towards her before– was it regret, or perhaps sadness? Before she could determine it, the king exited the hall with Ser Harrold Westerling at his side. 

Carys released a slow breath, preparing to take her seat, but Trystane pushed his goblet aside and rose from his chair. 

“My friends,” he drawled. “And fellow countrymen. The night is not yet over.” Trystane looked down at Carys, his thin lips curling into a smile. “It is time for the wedding night!”

Carys felt her heart drop into her stomach as the lords and ladies erupted into cheers around her. Before she could react, hands—too many hands—latched onto her arms, her waist, even her legs, lifting her off the ground as if she weighed nothing. A cry of protest caught in her throat as she was hoisted into the air, her struggles met with laughter and drunken jeers. Panic seized her chest, her breaths coming too fast, too shallow.

She twisted, frantically searching the sea of faces for her mother, for Rhaenyra—someone who would stop this, who would help her—but neither of them were anywhere to be seen. The dais was empty save for the remnants of their feast, her father long gone, and no familiar face remained to offer her even a shred of solace.

“Wait—please—” she gasped, but no one listened.

The men carried her through the halls, their grips rough and unrelenting. She could feel their fingers digging into her flesh through the silk of her gown, and the horror of it all sent a violent shudder down her spine.

It was tradition, she knew that. The bedding ceremony—a practice meant to be lighthearted, a jest, a celebration of the consummation to come. But there was nothing lighthearted about this.

Across the hall, she caught sight of Trystane, carried by the ladies of the court with just as much fervor, their laughter ringing in her ears. He did not fight it. He was grinning, laughing along with them, letting them tug at the laces of his doublet.

A fresh wave of dread washed over her as the doors to her chamber loomed closer. No, no, no—

The doors swung open.Carys was unceremoniously deposited onto the featherbed, her gown pooling around her as the women descended upon her. Nimble fingers reached for her skirts, for the laces at her back, tugging and pulling.

She thrashed, shoving them away as best she could, her voice raw with desperation. “Stop! Get off me!”

Laughter. Hands pushing hers away. Fabric loosening around her shoulders.

Tears burned behind her eyes. No one was listening. No one cared.

Her ears were roaring by the time the court fled her bedchamber, shutting the door harshly beside them. Carys realized soon enough that she was standing beside her bed, opposite Trystane, who was now stark naked, save for his breeches. 

Carys tucked her now ruffled hair behind her ears, laughing nervously in an attempt to dispel the thick, suffocating tension. “Well,” she said awkwardly, glancing away from Trystane’s heavy stare. “Perhaps we should go to bed.”

She did not mean it as an invitation. She had no desire—none at all—to share a bed with him tonight. Her skin still crawled from the hands that had stripped her bare, the laughter still rang in her ears. Her body was not her own tonight; it had been passed from one set of hands to another, paraded and delivered to this chamber like an offering on an altar.

But Trystane did not hear the hesitation in her voice. Or, if he did, he did not care.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. “Aye,” he murmured, stepping toward her. His hands found her waist, trailing over her skin in a way that sent a shudder through her spine—not from pleasure, but from unease.

Carys stiffened. “I—I think we should rest,” she tried again, her voice softer, careful. “It has been a long night.”

Trystane hummed as he pressed his lips against her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin. “You are my wife now,” he whispered against her throat. “This is our duty.”

Her stomach lurched. A pit of dread coiled deep within her, tightening with every brush of his fingers.

She tried to pull away. “Trystane, please—”

He caught her wrist.

Carys stilled, willing herself to relax, as though she were apart from her body and watching the events unfold below her. She turned her face away as he undid the laces of her shift, her breaths shallow as Trystane forced her onto the bed.

She thought only of Gwayne. She thought of how he held her hand so delicately when they danced, of the warmth in his gaze when he spoke of the future. 

Her fingers dug into the sheets below, and Carys felt a tear fall down her cheek. The room was silent, save for the quiet creaking of the bed, and Trystane panting above her. 

She did not move, nor speak. 

She only waited for it to be over. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

As the morning light shone through the open curtains, Carys found herself curled on the foot of her bed, with only a thin blanket covering her. The warmth of the rising sun did little to soften the ache in her bones. 

The events of last night seemed to blur in her memory. At some point, Trystane had finally left her chamber, adjusting his breeches before unceremoniously shutting the door behind him. Carys had not moved, nor had she wept. The deed was done. There was nothing she could do to change that. 

She remained motionless long after dawn, even as Norei came in to deliver her breakfast. There was no reason for any explanation– the rumpled bed, the specks of blood on the sheets, and Carys’ disinterest in eating. Norei understood well enough. 

“Princess, would you like me to bring anything else?” Norei approached her slowly, her gentle hands clasped in front of her. “Or… or would you like to fly this morning? It may be a relief to your stress.”

Carys shook her head, the tangled brown strands covering half her face. “No,” she said hollowly. “It would hurt too much.”

Pity flashed across Norei’s face. Seeing her maidservant’s anguish towards her, Carys wanted her to leave immediately. 

She cleared her throat, sitting up at last. “Could you bring my mother, please?” she asked, her voice softer now. 

Norei nodded, leaving the room as quickly as she had come. Carys forced herself to rest her head on the pillows, grimacing as a headache began to develop around her temples. 

Within minutes, the door creaked open again. Rhea entered without a word, wearing only her wool night robe. Her dark curls were unbraided and spilled over her shoulders.

Her mother crossed the room quickly, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Oh, my sweetling,” she murmured, drawing Carys into her arms. 

Carys just shook her head, burying herself into her mother’s embrace. Rhea’s arms tightened around her, her hand gently cradling the back of Carys’ head, fingers gently weaving through her tangled hair. 

They lay like that for a long while, until the sun reached its peak. Carys had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms at some point, her head tucked into the crook of Rhea’s elbow. 

When she woke, Rhea was looking down at her, her bronze eyes filled with worry. “Are you alright?” she asked gently. “After the lords took you and Trystane away, they wouldn’t let me see you.”

Carys shook her head, swallowing. 

Rhea sighed, brushing a strand of hair from Carys’ face. “I suspected as much,” she muttered. “I wanted to be there for you, but they refused to let me in. Even after Trystane left.”

Carys swallowed again, her throat dry. “I don’t think it would have changed anything,” she admitted. “The deed is done.”

Rhea’s grip on her tightened, her thumb brushing in soothing circle’s on Carys’ shoulder. “Even so, you should not have been alone.”

Carys said nothing, for what was there to say? She had lain there for what seemed like hours afterward, trying to pretend that her body wasn’t hers. Would her mother understand that the only thing she had done was count the cracks in the ceiling, or watched the way the wax melted off the candles just to keep herself from thinking about what happened?

Her stomach twisted. The deed is done. The words felt heavier now. She forced herself to believe them, that the past could not touch her now, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?

Because she could be with child. 

Carys felt her breath hitch in her throat. She had seen what marriage did to women. What childbearing brought on the mother– seven hells, what it had done to the queen. Her own mother had only borne her before Daemon lost interest in trying to sire more children. 

The rest of her life stretched out before her in an endless, suffocating loop: a wife to a man she did not love, a mother to children she never asked for. The walls of her chamber suddenly felt smaller, the air too thick to breathe.

Rhea must have sensed her panic, because she cupped Carys’ cheek, tilting her face upward. 

“Breathe,” she instructed gently. “Slowly.”

Carys inhaled shakily, forcing herself to match the steady rhythm of her mother’s breathing.

Rhea’s expression remained unreadable, but her voice softened. “You do not have to accept this without question, Carys,” she said. “Not everything is beyond your control.”

Carys twisted around to look up at her mother. Rhea’s heart broke a little when images of Carys as a wee babe flashed in her mind, morphing into the face of the young woman before her. 

“Mother,” she asked, her violet eyes wide. 

Rhea pushed a strand of hair out of her face, cupping Carys’ cheek with her hand. “Yes, my sweet?”

Carys was silent for a long while, chewing her lip as though she were biting back the words. “If you never married father,” she began, “and I was never born. Would you have everything you wanted?”

Rhea shook her head sadly. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t have you.” Rhea kissed her forehead gently. “What brought this line of inquiry on?”

“I just…” Carys buried herself deeper into the covers, wrapping her thin arms around her mother. She didn’t want to say that she had no desire to be a mother. The realization had only come this morning, and it felt almost selfish to say, as though she were committing some great sin by not bearing children.

Rhea rubbed Carys' back in slow, soothing circles, waiting for her daughter to continue. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the faint patter of rain against the window.

"I just wondered if... if I made you give up something," Carys said at last, her voice small. "Something really important."

"Oh, my darling girl," Rhea whispered, tightening her embrace. "You didn't make me give up anything."

Carys didn’t know what to say. She wished that she could spend the rest of her days, tucked in her mother’s arms and hiding from the world. From her husband, from her uncle, and her father. But those were childish dreams. Reality had hit her at last, and Carys realized that she had no choice but to face it with a stiff lip. 

Rubbing her eyes, Carys sat up, flicking her tangled hair back over her shoulder. “When do you return to Runestone?” 

Rhea shrugged, adjusting herself to sit on the edge of the bed with her hands cupped in her lap. “I’m not sure,” she confessed. “Gerold is taking care of things while I’m away. I told him I’d return after the wedding, but…” her voice faltered as her gaze flickered back to her daughter. “I’m afraid to leave you here.”

It was the first time Carys had ever heard her mother confess to feeling fear. Almost instinctively, she wrapped her arms around her mother, tucking her head into the crook of Rhea’s neck. “You needn’t worry about me, mother,” she said softly. “I’m old enough now to take care of myself.”

Her mother laughed lightly, clearing her throat. “I know. But you’ll always be my daughter.”

Rhea kissed her brow and squeezed her gently before withdrawing. “Why don’t we get dressed and go riding in the Kingswood? It’s a beautiful day out.” 

Carys nodded eagerly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She winced a little as her feet touched the cold floor, but the warm sunlight streaming through the windows was enough to urge her on. 

Just as Rhea was about to leave, three sharp knocks sounded on the door, silencing both women. Rhea and Carys looked at each other in confusion.

“Come in,” Carys called out as she pulled on her robe. 

The door creaked open, revealing Norei once more. “Forgive me for the intrusion.” She nodded to them both, her dark eyes flickering between mother and daughter. “Princess, His Grace requests your presence in his chambers. At once.”

Carys frowned. “Did he say why?”

“No, princess. Only that it was urgent.”

Rhea straightened, her brow furrowed. “Can it not wait until later in the day?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady.”

Carys sighed, brushing down the wrinkles in her shift. “It’s alright. I’ll go.” Despite the calmness of her tone, a knot had begun to form in her chest. Was there something she had done wrong last night? Had Trystane told the king of some indiscretion that had occurred unknowingly to her? 

At the thought of Trystane, her heart sank into her stomach. She had no desire to see him whatsoever– not now, not ever. The only thing worse than being wed to him was the possibility that her husband was a petulant little boy who ran to the king every time something went wrong. 

Rhea placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be alright,” her mother soothed. 

Carys swallowed her fear. “I know,” she lied. “Norei, will you help me dress?”

Her maidservant nodded quickly, dashing over to the wardrobe. Rhea kissed her on the brow before leaving the room, gently shutting the door behind her. 

After dressing in a gown of lilac satin, Carys followed Norei through the halls of the Red Keep, keeping her hands still at her side. The light of the early afternoon warmed the hallways, turning the red stones a nice shade of orange. 

Despite the serenity of the day, Carys could not ignore her nerves. Every step that brought her closer to Viserys’ solar made her worry even more, until she was so consumed by her thoughts that she did not realize they were already there. 

Norei gave her one last apologetic look before opening the doors. “Your Grace, the princess is here.” 

Carys drew herself tall, ignoring how clammy her hands began to feel. Over Norei’s head she could see Lord Jason standing before the king, his hands folded nearly before him. 

“You may go, Norei,” the king instructed. 

Norei curtseyed before shutting the door behind her, leaving Carys alone with her uncle and good-father. Viserys was seated in his chair, half-turned in the light with a goblet of wine resting on the table before him. The room smelled faintly of parchment and myrrh, like secrets sealed in wax. 

“I trust your wedding night was… successful?” Viserys began. 

Carys swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to put a pleasing smile on her face. “Yes, uncle,” she lied. “You asked to see me?”

“I did,” Viserys sighed, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Lord Jason believes it is time you begin your life at Casterly Rock.”

Carys blinked. “So soon?”

“Yes, princess.” Jason addressed her at last, his voice hoarse from the night’s festivities. “It is only natural that my son’s wife resides at Casterly Rock. She is no longer a maid of the court– You are a Lannister now.”

Carys swallowed. A Lannister . The thought made her sick. 

Viserys sighed, rubbing his brow. “Lord Jason, my niece has just been wed. Surely a grace period is expected. There is no rush for her departure.”

For the first time in a long while, Carys felt grateful towards her uncle. She opened her mouth to speak, but not before she was cut off by Jason. He turned to her now, his green eyes narrowed. 

“You understand, do you not, Princess?” His voice was deceptively gentle, as though he were addressing a small child. “It is your duty to produce the next generation of Lannisters. A son must be born before we can even discuss anything else.”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, but he did not correct Jason. 

Carys picked at the hem of her sleeve, trying her best to cool her annoyance. “And if I don’t wish to leave King’s Landing?” She asked coolly. “My lady mother did not leave Runestone when she wed my father.”

“With all due respect, princess, Lady Rhea was the ruling lady of Runestone,” Jason retorted. “I’d also pray that your marriage proves to be far more successful than your parents.”

Carys bristled at that. She turned to her uncle, looking for some sign that he would stand up to Jason on her behalf. But Viserys only gave a tired, almost apologetic look. 

“You are wed now, Carys,” he said gently. “Your place is with your husband.”

Carys felt her heart sink into her stomach. It didn’t matter what she wanted. It never had. 

Jason’s voice cut through her thoughts. “We leave for Casterly Rock in a fortnight.”

“Fine,” Carys said coolly. “But do not expect me to ride in a carriage the entire way there. I’ll be flying on Veraxes.”

Jason’s smile tightened, the amusement in his golden eyes dimming. “We do not have room for a dragon at Casterly Rock,” he said, his tone clipped. “It is a fortress built into a mountain, not a stable for winged beasts.”

Carys lifted her chin, defiant. “Then build something. With all the Lannister gold, I’m sure you can manage.”

Jason let out a sharp breath, clearly unamused by her insolence. “That is not how these matters work, Princess.”

“I’m not a child, my lord,” she snapped back.

Viserys shifted in his seat, exhaling as if weary of the conversation already. “Jason,” he said, his voice holding a note of warning. “She is a dragonrider. It is not unreasonable for her to wish to fly rather than travel by carriage or ship.”

Jason’s jaw flexed, but he inclined his head. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Carys felt a flicker of triumph.Jason turned his gaze back to her. “But understand this,” he said. “Casterly Rock is my domain. Your dragon will not rule over my lands, nor will it disrupt the order of my household. You are Trystane’s wife now, and you will abide by our customs.”

Carys met his gaze unflinchingly. “I will abide by them when they suit me.”

Jason’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing more.

Viserys sighed, rubbing his brow once more. “Enough of this. It is settled. Carys will fly to Casterly Rock on Veraxes.”

Jason gave a curt nod, but Carys could see his irritation bubbling. His jaw was clenched, and behind those green eyes, she could see doubt begin to grow about this new alliance with House Targaryen. 

It was exactly what she wanted. Perhaps she could make Lord Jason and his horrible son despise her so much, they would send her away. 

“You are dismissed, Lord Jason.” Viserys rose from his chair wearily, turning his back to the two of them to face the window. “Carys, a word.”

Jason bowed to the king, casting a furtive look to Carys before swiftly exiting the room. Carys stood calmly before the king’s model of Old Valyria, her eyes tracing the edges of the rooftops and the wings of the dragons perched on the walls. 

Viserys sighed, exhaling slowly as he turned around to face Carys again. “You have not made things easy for me,” he began, his voice dry. 

Carys bowed her head, allowing strands of dark hair to hide her face. “Forgive me, uncle. It was not my desire to be difficult during this mourning period.”

“Hm.” Viserys only watched her with careful eyes, stroking his beard as he thought. “Nevertheless, it has been a disservice to you, and our house, it seems.”

Carys could not hide her shock. Never before had she heard her uncle– or any man, for that matter– admit his wrongdoings. 

Viserys’ voice softened as he sat down again, angling his head towards her. “Your father was a good man,” he began slowly. “But Daemon burned too many bridges to ever cross back over them. I see his fire in you, Carys. I can only wonder what might happen, if it were left untamed.”

Carys looked up slowly, her face half-shadowed by her hair. “And what would you have me do, uncle?” She asked coolly. “Smile sweetly, bear golden-haired sons, and allow my dragon to be left chained in the dark again under Casterly Rock?

“Veraxes has spent too long in the dark, and so have I.” Carys drew herself tall, jutting her chin out. “I will do what you ask. I will bear Trystane Lannister’s children, and I will be a good wife, but do not expect me to cower behind my husband.”

Viserys’ eyes lingered on her, and for a moment, Carys could see the faintest flicker of pride in his eyes. But it was fleeting, quickly buried beneath a man who was too accustomed to disappointment. 

“Then hold fast to that strength,” Viserys said at last. “But do not let your ambition consume you. There is more to life than want. We– the crown– must be driven by necessity. For the people, and for the realm.”

The king looked at the marble city before him, his gaze running over the buildings of Old Valyria. “You may not see it now, but this alliance with the Lannisters will do us good. We need their gold, and we need their support.”

Carys raised a brow in question. “But our coffers are larger than they have ever been,” she questioned. “Why is their gold so important now?”

“Because if Daemon pursues this war, I expect it will take quite a bit of coin to bring the Stepstones to heel.” Viserys shook his head mournfully. “I have no intention of aiding my brother in this mummer’s farce, and yet, I suspect that I’ll be forced to cover for his indiscretions, somewhere along the line.” 

He turned back to Carys now, his purple eyes dark. “The sins of the father are always passed down to the child,” he warned her. “Never forget that.”

Carys felt a chill run down her spine. The king’s words sank deep into her skin, and for the first time, Carys finally understood why they needed this alliance with the Lannisters so badly. If not for Daemon’s impulsivity, she might have been left alone to be content in the world. Instead, she was bartered like a merchant’s wares. 

All because of her father. 

Carys looked down at her hands, watching her fingers curl around one another. They bore no rings yet– no sign of her new station– but already, she could sense the weight of the metal on her skin like chains. 

Her voice was soft when she spoke again. “I will do what is needed. I always have.”

Viserys didn’t respond. His gaze had returned to the city beyond the balcony, lost in thought or regret—perhaps both. The silence between them stretched long and taut, broken only by the faint crackle of the brazier and the distant caw of a gull overhead.

Then, gently, Carys rose. She bowed her head, not in submission, but in farewell.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The warm afternoon faded into a cool night. Rather than eating dinner inside, Carys took her meal out to the gardens of the Red Keep, to eat in quiet solitude. 

A cool breeze blew threw the gazebo, tousling her hair and playing with the hem of her gown. The chilly weather made Carys crave for home; the sweeping steppes around Runestone, the jagged rocky hills that surrounded the castle. She missed Gerold, and Jon, and Yara desperately, but any desire she had to see them was dashed away. Carys would not see Runestone for a long, long time. 

She had not seen Trystane yet today; it was not as though she desired to. Carys wondered if her new husband was deep in his cups somewhere, or emptying his balls into some poor whore in Flea Bottom. It mattered little to her. 

Carys' thoughts twisted painfully, and her grip tightened on the knife in her hand, the meat suddenly tasteless. How quickly everything had shifted — how her world had shrunk to a mere shadow of the life she had once known. She had left Runestone, her home, her family, all of it, behind.

The gardens, beautiful as they were, offered her nothing but silence and the mocking rustle of leaves in the breeze. How could her life have changed so much? She was a princess, but with Trystane as her husband, she felt more like a prisoner. Carys was afraid that she now had no choice but to smile and play the role of dutiful wife, all while dreading each night that awaited her, each night that she feared would be a repeat of the last.

The thought of him made her stomach twist. The fear of what awaited her when she returned to their chambers tonight gnawed at her, a sensation that had followed her since their wedding night. He had claimed her body and soul, and Carys feared it would never stop. She would bear him a son, as she was meant to do. That was the extent of her existence now, wasn't it?

A chill ran down her spine. Carys blinked back tears, forcing herself to focus on the food in front of her. She refused to cry over a man, but the thought of Trystane seemed to weaken her resolve. 

The sound of footsteps approaching from behind broke through her thoughts, and Carys stiffened instinctively, though she quickly relaxed when she recognized the figure that came into view.

It was Gwayne.

He stepped into the garden, his expression softening when he saw her sitting there alone. He paused for a moment, his blue-grey eyes searching her face, but he said nothing. 

Carys wiped her cheeks and forced herself to smile at him. “Ser Gwayne,” she greeted him hoarsely. “I’m surprised to see you. I thought you would have returned to Old Town already.”

Gwayne dipped his head, hiding his face momentarily. “I leave tomorrow morning. My father has permitted me to travel with the Tyrells down the Blueburn river, then I’ll ride with my uncle back to Old Town.”

“It sounds like a pleasant journey.” Carys gestured to the table, clearing her throat softly. “Please, sit.”

He sat across from her, carefully maintaining the distance between them, though the air between them felt heavy, charged with unspoken things. Gwayne didn't try to fill the silence with idle words, and for that, Carys was grateful.

Finally, he spoke, his voice gentle. “I’m sorry for what happened last night. The bedding ceremony is awful enough– the king should have never permitted his lords to strip you like that.”

Carys chewed her lip, forcing herself to look at him. “It’s alright,” she lied. “It only happened once.”

“It should have never happened.” Gwayne shook his head vigorously. “If I’m ever going to get married, I’d rather die than allow my wife to be subjected to that.”

Carys’ heart clenched at the thought of Gwayne marrying someone else. Instead, she sighed, setting her fork down. “Any lady would be lucky to have you.”

“I don’t think so, no.” Gwayne laughed lightly, his auburn hair shining in the moonlight as he tossed his head. 

Carys looked up at Gwayne, her brow furrowing slightly as she tried to read his expression. His voice had softened, and she could sense the weight of something unspoken in the air between them.

“I’ll be traveling with a larger group of knights for a while,” Gwayne said, his tone guarded, as if choosing his words carefully. “So... marriage isn’t exactly in the cards at the moment. My duties will keep me away for some time.”

Carys nodded, her heart sinking a little at the thought. She hadn’t expected an immediate proposal, not after everything that had happened. But hearing him say it out loud, seeing the gentle disappointment in his eyes, made something twist in her chest. She wondered how long it would be before they could find a moment of peace, a moment to share what they truly felt.

Gwayne, seemingly sensing the change in her, cleared his throat and leaned forward, his hand brushing lightly against the table. "But there is something I’d meant to give you, something I forgot to present during the wedding feast. I didn’t want to add to the spectacle of it all, but now, I think it’s time.” 

Gwayne reached into his cloak, frowning slightly as he searched for whatever he was looking for. Carys’ curiosity grew when he withdrew a knife, no longer than her forearm. The blade was sheathed in a leather scabbard, but the hilt was wrapped with black leather, with a dragon’s head serving as the pommel.

“I commissioned a blacksmith on the Street of Steel to make it,” he began. His slender fingers quickly unsheathed the blade. Carys gasped softly. The blade was made of Valyrian steel, with swirling whorls of dark and smoky silver dancing along its length.

Carys reached for it hesitantly, her fingertips brushing against the hilt. “Valyrian steel?” she murmured, hardly believing it. It was a rare thing, forged only by dragonfire. Carys had no idea how he had come into such a precious metal, but in her heart, she knew not to ask. 

Gwayne nodded, watching her expression carefully. “I thought you should have something of your own. A reminder that you are still of the blood of the dragon, no matter where you go.”

Her throat tightened at his words. Carys knew then that Gwayne, out of everyone in her life, was one of the few who understood the weight of what was happening, the way she felt caged by her life and the men around her. She tightened her grip around the hilt, feeling the perfect balance of the blade.

“This is…” She swallowed, forcing her voice to steady. “This is not an ordinary gift, Ser Gwayne.”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile forming. “You are not an ordinary woman, Princess.”

Carys exhaled softly, her fingers tracing the dragon-head pommel. For the first time since her wedding, she felt something close to control. This blade was hers. No one could take that from her.

She met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. “Thank you,” she said, meaning it.

His blue-grey eyes met her violet ones, and for a moment, Carys almost forgot all the horrible things that had transpired. She only thought of Gwayne, asking for her favor for all the eyes of the world to see. 

Gwayne inclined his head. “May it serve you well.” 

Before she could say anything, Gwayne turned on his heel and left the gardens, leaving only behind the soft crunch of gravel under his boots. 

Carys bit her lip, looking down at the knife in her hands. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The sharp wind of the morning cut through her wool cloak, but Carys cared little for the chill. For the first time in weeks, she was going to fly. 

All of her things had already been sent to Casterly Rock with the Lannisters. At Carys’ behest, Viserys begrudgingly agreed to send Gwenys and Norei along with her to the Rock to serve her once more. There was an overwhelming amount of girls in the city who needed jobs, and Carys was certain Viserys felt he could spare some of his retainers. 

The dragon keepers brought Veraxes out from the Dragonpit, watching him carefully. Since having been moved to the higher levels of the pit, into a cavern with natural light, Veraxes’ temperament had seemed to improve exponentially. Carys could not contain her joy as she approached him, gently touching her hand to his silver scales. Veraxes exhaled, sending a puff of warm air over her. 

“I can’t believe you’re leaving so soon.” Rhaenyra stood a few yards away, dressed in her own riding leathers. Upon hearing of Carys’ departure, she had immediately declared that she was going to fly with her cousin to the edge of the crownlands before turning back on Syrax, giving Carys one last farewell. 

Carys smiled mournfully at her. “It’s time,” she conceded. “At least, your father seems to think so.”

Ser Harrold Westerling stood beside Carys, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “You’ll be missed at the Red Keep, princess.” The older knight smiled- a rarity, for such a gruff man. 

“Aye, I  suspect I’ll miss you all more.”

She turned her face toward the wind, letting it whip through her hair as Veraxes crouched low, ready for flight. With one last glance at the Dragonpit, Carys swung into the saddle. The straps were tight beneath her fingers, the leather familiar and comforting. Ser Harrold stepped back as Veraxes gave a low rumble, his wings beginning to unfurl. The warmth of the dragon’s body seeped through her boots as he shifted his weight.Nearby, Rhaenyra climbed into Syrax’s saddle, urging the smaller dragon to take to the skies almost immediately. 

“ Soves , Veraxes.”

Carys could not contain her whoop of laughter as Veraxes pushed himself off the ground, his great wings flapping as they soared into the clear blue sky. The earth fell away beneath her, the city shrinking below them as they soared even higher to meet Rhaenyra. 

The chill no longer bit her skin. Carys was flying again, and free, if only for a while. 

Syrax slowed to meet them. It was almost comical how she was dwarfed by Veraxes, her entire body smaller than one of his gargantuan wings, but she made up for it in skill and grace. 

Carys turned her head just enough to meet Rhaenyra’s eyes across the wind. Her cousin grinned, flushed with exhilaration, and Carys couldn’t help but grin back. For a heartbeat, they were girls again—untouched by duty, unburdened by the weight of alliances and bloodlines.

They soared together above the rolling green of the Crownlands, weaving through the clouds like dancers in the sky. Far below, the kingsroad twisted through the hills, but up here there was nothing to bind them—no marriage, no kingdom, no king. Just sky.

Eventually, the forest began to thin, the lands growing rockier as they approached the western reaches. Veraxes let out a low rumble, and Syrax answered, curling into a graceful arc. It was time.

Carys slowed her mount and turned to Rhaenyra, hovering side by side above the cliffs. Their dragons steadied themselves on the wind, the silence between them more eloquent than any words.

“I wish I could go with you,” Rhaenyra said at last, voice carried on the breeze.

“I wish you could, too.”

They stayed a moment longer, neither wanting to be the first to turn away. Then Syrax dipped her head in farewell, and Rhaenyra gave one last, lingering look before wheeling back toward the capital.

Carys watched until her cousin was only a golden speck in the sky. Her heart ached at the thought of never seeing Rhaenyra for a long while, but Carys quickly forgot her worries when Veraxes took to the skies once more, flying towards Casterly Rock. 

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The following weeks at Casterly Rock passed like clouds on the sea– cold and grey, each one a little paler than the last. Despite the grandeur and elegance of the castle, Carys had become incredibly bored by the lack of intrigue in her life.

Her days as Trystane’s wife were filled with quiet needlework besides Lady Johanna, wandering through the gardens, or weekly sermons at the sept. If this was the life of a lady, Carys had no desire to keep it. 

On another particularly dull day, Carys stood before the mirror, her violet eyes tracing her figure as Norei gently tugged the laces of her gown. The fabric was soft, dyed a rich blue, but it pinched oddly at her ribs in places it hadn’t before. 

Norei frowned, placing her hands on her hips as she took a step back. “You’ve filled out.”

Carys whirled around, aghast.  Excuse me?” 

She had never given much consideration to her body before– yes, she was taller than the other girls at court, and perhaps her chest was a bit larger, but Carys saw no issue with that. 

“The gown,” Norei said, motioning to it. “It’s tighter than it was last month. Have you been eating more?”

“I don’t think so,” Carys replied, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “I’ve hardly had an appetite, truth be told.”

The maid stepped forward again, peering closely, then hesitated. “Forgive me, princess,” she murmured, lifting her hand delicately before placing it against Carys’ breast. Then her eyes went wide.

“Oh.”

Carys looked up sharply. “What is it?”

Norei’s mouth parted, but it took her a moment to speak. When she did, her voice was hushed with wonder.

“You’re with child, my lady.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Carys stared at her reflection—at the pale face, the flushed cheeks, the gown that no longer fit quite right. And for the first time since her wedding, her hand moved to her belly.

She hadn’t wept since leaving the Red Keep.

Chapter Text

As other girls prayed for handsomeness in a lover, or for wealth, or for power, or for poetry, she had prayed fervently: let him be kind. 

Anaïs Nin ; A Spy in the House of Love

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Time was ever changing, whirling and spinning eternally with the seasons until Carys finally understood that she could no longer allow herself to be complacent in the events of her life. 

While Jason and his son may have been ambivalent towards her, Carys quickly realized that the only way to insert herself with the Lannisters was with their women. Johanna had bore her husband two sons and five daughters in between, creating a tight-knit circle of women that controlled the Rock in their own way. Even Jason was not immune to the whims of his daughters– Carys often saw him laughing with his twin girls, or bouncing little Lenora on his knee during meetings. 

Carys learned quickly. She joined their morning walks in the sun-drenched gardens, listened carefully during their private luncheons in Johanna’s solar, and soon, her presence became expected, and even welcomed. 

Trystane’s younger sisters were wholly their own person. There was no denying that each vied to be their own person, and Carys could not fault them for it. 

There was Cerelle, who looked the most like Trystane, with a heavy bosom and golden curls that framed a lean face. Tyshara, who was only a year younger than Carys, was more plain looking than her sister, her mass of yellow hair seemingly untamed and her green eyes a dull shade. 

The twins, Genna and Alanna, often dragged the younger Lenora around with them– the trio was never seen apart from one another, and the only way Carys could tell them apart was by the color of their frocks. 

Loreon, the youngest of his father’s brood, was quiet and sullen. He was his father’s second son, and yet he was often overlooked in favor of Trystane. Carys felt sorry for him, and tried to talk to the boy as much as she could. 

There were two others of Jason’s seed that wandered around the halls somewhere. Carys had learned from Gwenys that both of them were his daughters, born from a kitchen maid, but she had not seen them yet. 

Johanna was overjoyed when Carys announced she was with child; while Jason and Trystane openly wished for a male to further their name, Johanna secretly confessed that she would be more than happy to welcome another girl into their home. 

“Too many boys make a home loud and restless,” Johanna said one night, brushing Carys’ hair like she was one of her own daughters. “A girl softens things.”

Carys appreciated the sentiment, however, Johanna’s kind words did nothing to soften her nerves. She hated the way Jason was already boasting about the future heir, and how his lords fawned over him. She hadn’t seen Trystane in three nights, and when she did, he barely looked at her. Carys hated the way her body had become a commodity to the men around her, as though she were just a vessel. 

It wasn’t until her fourth moon of carrying that Maester Roderick called her into his chambers after her monthly examination. The maester of Casterly Rock was fairly young, with bright blue eyes and a head full of red hair. He was a Tully bastard, or so the rumors said, but his skills rivaled even the most experienced physician. 

Carys watched as Roderick furrowed his brow and chewed his lip, his gaze darting between his notes and her stomach. 

“I’d not say this lightly, princess,” he began, “but I’ve examined your womb with care. And it seems you’re not expecting one babe, but two.”

Carys blinked at him, stunned. “ Twins?” 

He nodded. “It often skips a generation– Jason and Tyland are twins, as you know, but so are Gemma and Alanna. It seems the gods have blessed you with two babes as well.”

She sat there in silence for a long moment, her hand drifting to the swell of her belly. Two. Two lives within her. Two children whose futures were already being dreamed up by men who did not know them.

Carys had mumbled her thanks to Roderick before quickly leaving, her mind reeling with the weight of the news. The corridors felt colder than usual as she walked, the stone walls closing in with every step.

Despite her discomfort in her new home, Carys could not deny the beauty of the Rock. The keep was built into the cliffs overlooking the Sunset sea, with nearly fifty levels carved into the earth. At the top was the ringfort, designed by the former occupants of the Rock to protect those within its walls. 

Carys’ favorite part of the Rock were the wall-gardens. Unlike the Red Keep, where the garden was contained to one area, the gardens at Casterly Rock followed the paths of the stone walls, creeping and curling along the crags like stone lace. Vines of blood red roses trailed up the pillars, and bursts of purple and pink blooms spilled from crevices in the rock itself. At dawn, when the sun rose above the Sunset Sea, the dew caught the light and for a moment, the stone fortress seemed soft. 

She walked there often, trailing her fingers among the flowers and vines as she cradled her swollen belly with one hand. Carys was still cautious of motherhood, and labor terrified her, but she could almost imagine watching her child running along the vines, their laughter catching in the wind. 

Her rooms at the Rock came into close second with the gardens. They were nestled high, nearly a hundred feet above the sea, with narrow windows that opened to the vast expanse of blue. The sound of waves crashing below was a constant presence, one that Carys had quickly grown accustomed to. The stone walls were painted in robin’s egg blue, flecked with gold dust that caught the sunlight, though Carys often kept the shutters drawn when she wasn’t there. 

The chambers– which consisted of her bedroom, solar, and the bathing room– were sparsely decorated when she arrived months before. Carys had brought with her rugs and decorations from the Red Keep, as well as her dresses, her books, and her growing jewelry collection. 

Carys now stood on one of the many balconies, mindlessly fiddling with the algiz rune around her neck. Letters from her mother and Rhaenyra grew few and far between; Rhea was dealing with pirates off the coast near Gulltown, and Rhaenyra… well, Carys had no idea what her cousin was up to these days. 

“I thought I might find you out here.” 

Carys glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes widening when she saw her husband leaning against the doorway. 

Trystane was still the person she wanted to see least these days, but had become less of a mystery over the past few months. Through numerous questions passed along to the servants, Carys discovered that he was only two years older than her, that he was a prolific horse rider, and he was fond of military strategy and drinking.

The worst discovery of all, however, was the rumors that Trystane had bastards running around the Keep. No one could determine who they were, or who the mother was. Carys had no desire to go digging around, but still, the thought that he forced himself onto some other poor woman wasn’t comforting. 

Despite Trystane’s growing familiarity towards her, particularly since she was carrying his children, Carys was still not wholly trustworthy of him. Trystane’s touch still made her shiver, and her heart began to race every time she saw him. 

These shivers or nerves were not out of excitement; Carys was on the verge of tears every time she thought of him forcing himself onto her, and was particularly worried about what might happen after the babes were born. 

“I love the view,” she admitted softly, turning back to face the sea. “King’s Landing is beautiful, yes, but the city stinks.”

Trystane hummed softly, coming to stand beside her. His golden hair was swept back from his face by the sea breeze, revealing the sharp cut of his jawline. “I’ve never been fond of the capital.”

“Not many are, it seems.” Carys rested her hands lightly on the bannister, forcing herself to look ahead. “I met with Maester Roderick today.”

“Oh?” He turned towards her now, a brow raised in question. “And how is my son?”

Our children, she wanted to snap at him. Instead, Carys cleared her throat, delicately placing her hands above her stomach. “He thinks I’m carrying twins.”

Trystane’s face lit up, and for the first time, Carys saw an expression other than indifference splashed on his face. “Twins!” He proclaimed, grabbing her hands in his. “How splendid. Twice the chance for a son, then.”

Carys frowned at that. “I cannot promise the babe is a son,” she conceded. “I just pray that they are both whole and healthy.”

His mouth twisted, and the glimmer of excitement in his eyes faded away. “You best hope at least one is,” he snapped back. 

Carys resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him, instead pulling her hands away. “Only the gods can know,” she said, trying to placate him. “Not you. Not me.”

Trystane stepped forward in a blink, his fingers seizing her jaw—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her breath catch. “Then we’ll just keep trying until they give us a son.”

Carys stared up at him, violet eyes burning. “Why?” she whispered. “Why do you need one so desperately?”

For a moment, he looked like he might answer. But whatever words hovered on his tongue, he swallowed them. His grip loosened, then dropped. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He left without another glance, his footsteps echoing against the stone. Carys leaned back against the bannister, catching her breath. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

Dinner at Casterly Rock was quite unlike meals at the Red Keep. While breakfast was eaten in solitude, Lady Johanna urged her family to eat dinner together in the Sun room, seated around the great table. 

Carys sat between Johanna and Cerelle Lannister, trying to position herself as comfortably as she could. Her womb had quickened in the past few months– carrying twins was no easy feat, and Carys often felt like she was waddling around more often than not. 

Both Jason and Trystane were seated at opposite ends of the table, silently cutting into their meat as the younger Lannister children talked amongst one another. The only exception to Johanna’s dinner rule was Ser Tyland. As his brother’s primary treasurer, Tyland was more often than not traveling from keep to keep, collecting payment from the Lannister vassals and ensuring that the Westerlands were financially stable. 

“I heard that Elenda Lorch is with child again,” Tyshara said, her green eyes sparkling as she sipped her wine. “But the child is not her husband’s.” 

Johanna glared at her daughter, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Rumor-mongering is an unladylike trait,” she warned.

Tyshara shrugged. “Is it not important to know the indiscretions of our vassals?” She said lightly, picking at her venison. “If Alain Lorch is allowing his children to run amok in his own home, how can we determine he is keeping his lands in place?”

“ I have control over my lords, thank you very much,” Jason cut in, his sharp gaze silencing his daughter once in for all. “Besides, it isn’t your concern.”

Carys set her cup down, keeping her voice even. “Why isn’t it important for Tyshara to know what’s going on?” She asked lightly. “Shouldn’t she be prepared to rule beside her lord husband one day?”

Jason Lannister’s eyes cut to her like a knife. “If she wants something to control, she can start with her tongue.” He took a slow sip of wine before adding, “as for you, Princess, I suggest you concern yourself with your own charge. Your dragon has been roaming free across the Westerlands for weeks now. I’ve had three ravens about scorched fields and sheep gone missing.”

Carys stiffened. “Veraxes does not take without cause.”

“Oh?” Jason’s tone turned sardonic. “Tell that to the shepherds outside Kayce. Or perhaps the tanners at Fair Isle. The Dragonpit is being built, but until it’s finished, perhaps you should show the same attentiveness to your mount as you do to my daughter’s manners.”

Tyshara smirked behind her goblet. Johanna said nothing, just cut neatly into her meat with a small sigh.

Carys met Jason’s gaze squarely. “I’ll see to Veraxes. You have my word.”

Jason gave a slight nod, then returned to his meal, satisfied—for now.

She had no cause to pursue an argument with her good-father. Perhaps her emotions were heightened by childbearing, or perhaps she was simply tired of being spoken over, of being treated like a girl rather than a woman grown, married, and carrying life within her.

Cary’s appetite had vanished. She picked at the rest of her meal in silence, offering faint nods and empty smiles until the platters were cleared and the table quieted.

When the moment allowed, she rose from her seat with practiced grace. “I’m rather tired,” she said, brushing a hand over her belly. “The twins are taking more out of me than I thought.”

Johanna gave her a warm, understanding look, but Jason simply nodded without meeting her eyes.

Carys made her way through the golden-hued halls of Casterly Rock alone, her footsteps echoing off the stone. Once inside her chambers, she wasted no time shedding her slippers and draping a shawl over her shoulders. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting flickering light over the walls.

She sat in the grand velvet chair before the hearth in her rooms, mindlessly stroking Aegarax’s soft fur as she read Ten Thousand Ships, a book about the chronicles of Queen Nymeria and her people. 

Reading in her chambers was her only solace these days. Roderick had urged her to remain in the keep, rather than fly on Veraxes and risk the babes. If she could not ride her dragon, if she could not speak freely at her own table, then she resolved to draw strength from the women who came before her: the travelers, the conquerors, and the queens. 

“Princess.” 

Carys looked up from her book to see Gwenys standing in the doorway. Within the four months of living at Casterly Rock, Gwenys had found herself a good husband, and was now expecting her first child at the end of the year. 

“Yes, Gwenys?” Carys closed the book and set it aside, making sure not to disrupt Aegarax. 

“A letter from Princess Rhaenyra arrived just minutes ago,” Gwenys began. “Maester Gareth told me to give this to you.” 

Carys extended her hand, allowing Gwenys to hand the small scroll. She ran her fingers over the red wax, feeling the Targaryen sigil running underneath the pads of her fingertips. 

“Thank you, Gwenys,” Carys smiled at her. “You may be done for the day.”

Gwenys dipped into a small curtsey before leaving, shutting the door behind her softly. Carys withdrew the small knife from her belt, carefully cutting the wax before unspooling the parchment. 

Cousin, 

I write to you with a heavy heart, for your absence in King’s Landing has led to a great number of changes. 

Your father has now officially begun his war in the Stepstones, along with the Crabfeeder. I do not pretend to know Daemon’s motive, nor his ambition for this war, but we all pray for his safe return along with the Sea Snake. 

My own father has declared that he is going to marry Lady Alicent Hightower before the year’s end.. I need not tell you how this has unsettled me. She was my friend, once. But now, she will be my stepmother—and, no doubt, she will bear my father more children. My place as his heir remains, for now, but I fear that may not always be so. If my father has sons… well, you know how men think.

Carys crumpled the parchment in her hand, chewing her lip as her thoughts began to race. She wasn’t surprised that Viserys chose to remarry, but announcing his betrothal within a year of his wife’s death? It was almost shocking. 

What was more shocking, however, was that he chose to marry Alicent Hightower. Carys wondered the motive behind it– if Viserys had indeed married Laena Velaryon, the crown’s navy would have been secured, their coin doubled. 

Then, the realization clicked within the blink of an eye. Carys gasped slightly as she remembered how Otto had paled at the mention of her marrying Gwayne. Otto had never intended for his son to marry into House Targaryen. Why had one child marry a princess, when another could marry a king? Carys could see it now. The careful machinations of the Hand, the whispers into Viserys’ ear, the words spoken in darkened rooms as Alicent lingered by his side. 

Carys rested a hand on her stomach as she felt the babes kick inside her. Did Rhaenyra realize what was happening? Did Viserys? Or was he too blinded by grief and loneliness to see that he had been led exactly where Otto wanted him?

Sighing, she opened the parchment again, reading the rest of her cousin’s writing. 

I fear that the tides are shifting once again, allowing my position as heir to waver if Alicent bears the king a son. 

I hope that I can count on your support, and that of the Lannisters, when the time comes. 

As always, I miss you dearly, and hope to see you soon. 

With love, 

Rhaenyra.

Carys snorted as she flicked the letter into the fire, watching as the flames consumed it. 

The tides were turning, indeed.  

Chapter Text

The rain pounded relentlessly on the windows as Rhaenyra watched the dark clouds over King’s Landing, her lips pressed into a grim line. 

The warm summer was fading away into the autumn at long last; after nearly a year and a half of heat, Rhaenyra would be grateful for the cooler weather. 

Somewhere in the Red Keep, wedding preparations were taking place. Seamstresses darted through the halls with bolts of silk, while the musicians rehearsed cheerful tunes that soured in her ears. Rhaenyra had not been asked to help in the planning– not as though she wished to do so– but the lack of consideration from both her father and Alicent annoyed her to no end. 

She turned away from the window, jaw tightening. She hated the fact that Viserys was marrying so soon after her mother’s death. Aemma had been dead less than a year, and yet here he was, marrying a girl his daughter’s age. 

Rhaenyra felt her fingers curl into fists. She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to calm, but the anger would not pass. How could it, when Viserys was so insistent on producing a male heir? Was she not enough?

The question rotted inside her like spoiled fruit, finding its way into her mind and poisoning her thoughts. Rhaenyra walked to the hearth, where the fire still crackled, extending her hands to feel the warmth of the flames. Her thoughts were filled with memories of her mother; Rhaenyra would never forget the way her mother played the harp, or teaching her how to dance, even when her womb betrayed her and she could barely mask the pain.  How Viserys had kissed her forehead before the pyre was lit—and now he kissed another.

Alicent.

Alicent, who had held her hand at her mother’s funeral. Alicent, who had smiled and brought her books and spoken softly of prayers and peace. All the while lying to her, hiding the fact that she was to marry Viserys.

A knock at the door startled her from her thoughts.When she did not respond, the door opened just enough for the steward to slip a sealed letter onto the table.

"From your cousin, princess," he said before bowing and closing the door behind him.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat. She crossed the room swiftly and broke the wax seal, her fingers prying open the parchment. She had waited for Carys’ response for weeks, ever since she sent a raven in frustration. 

And yet, nothing– until now. 

She had only learned of Carys’ condition through her maidservant, who had heard it from a Lannister maid trailing after Ser Tyland during his annual visit to the Red Keep. Rhaenyra still could not believe that Carys was with child, and she hadn’t even known until well into her pregnancy. The thought had stung like betrayal, though she’d tried to temper it with reason. Of course Carys hadn’t written. Of course she was tired. Of course there were things left unsaid.

But now, as she unfolded the letter, hope bloomed in her chest.

Dearest Rhaenyra, 

I’m sorry I didn’t write to you sooner. I suspect you’ve heard the news by now that I am with child. Carrying two babes is no easy feat, and the maester here insisted I remain in bed for most of my days, so my daily activities are limited. 

I am not surprised to hear your father is going to marry again. I’m sure his council of lords pushed him to do so– Viserys is a rather pliant man when it comes to the matter of duty. I grieve with you, even from afar. Aemma was the last true voice of reason in that court, and now they silence you in her absence. 

I cannot imagine that your position as heir would remain intact if Alicent does bear the king a son. You must begin securing your place now—through marriage or otherwise. You need more than courtiers who like you. You need lords who owe you. Alliances that cannot be undone by a sudden shift in favor or a new baby in the cradle.

The queen that would sit the Iron Throne must be cleverer than the men who doubt her. Find strength where they least expect it. Bind the houses to your cause, even if it means a match that does not please your heart.

I will do my best to garner the support of my husband and his family– while the men may be stalwart in their opinions of women, I know Lady Johanna and her daughters may be sympathetic to your cause. 

With love, 

Carys

Rhaenyra held her breath as she read the letter again, her eyes darting over the paper. Carys’ voice was clear, even in her writing– Rhaenyra could almost hear her soft, lilting tone through the page, persuading her to remain steadfast in her role. 

Sighing, she flopped back onto the soft cushions of her chaise lounge, looking up towards the ceiling as her thoughts began to race once more. What Carys said was true. At some point, Rhaenyra would need to marry for both her own gain and the future of their house. 

But Rhaenyra had seen the impact of marriage on the women around her– Aemma, Rhea, Carys, and now Alicent. None had married for love, and it was becoming increasingly clear to Rhaenyra that she would not be able to, either. Not if Viserys had anything to say about it. 

Rhaenyra’s hand drifted to the necklace around her throat, absentmindedly toying with the Valyrian steel. Her thoughts shifted to Daemon. Her uncle was somewhere across the Narrow Sea, fighting for his own gain in the Stepstones with Corlys Velaryon. In a perfect world, she would have been able to marry within the family: perhaps her brother, if Aemma had ever given birth to a boy, or another cousin if any of Jaehaerys’ brood had ever sired children besides Aemon and her own grandparents. 

But her dreams were only dreams, and soon, reality would come crashing down around her. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

“This tastes awful.” 

Carys wrinkled her nose as she swallowed the bitter tea, the taste of old oats and grass washing over her tongue.  

The summer was fading at long last, with the warm weather shifting into grey clouds that hung over the Sunset Sea. Carys was perched on the window seat in her chambers, balancing Aegarax in her lap and a cup of tea in her hand. 

Having been pregnant for six moons, she felt almost boarish, waddling around Casterly Rock. Her dresses had stopped fitting her long ago, but Johanna had been kind enough to offer some of her old frocks from when she was with child. 

Norei just smiled as she poured tea into her own cup. “It’s good for you,” she chided Carys. “My mother drank this when she was pregnant with each of her children, and all came out healthy.”

Carys gave her a pointed look, but took another sip, wincing all the same. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Aegarax purred in her lap, her long white tail flicking against Carys’ arm. Carys rubbed between her ears absentmindedly, feeling the soft fur underneath her fingers. Like her, Aegarax had grown as well, nearly doubling in size and chasing after mice whenever it pleased her. 

“We never spoke of it again,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “The dreams we both had. About Veraxes.”

Norei stilled, her cup halfway to her lips.

“I thought maybe… after I claimed Veraxes, they would return. But they didn’t. Not even once.” Carys shifted, her hand settling protectively over her stomach. “Do you think that was it? That claiming him ended whatever path I was on?”

Norei finally took a sip of her tea, eyes clouded with thought. “If that were the end, I wouldn’t still be here.”

Carys frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t have come to Westeros just to tend to a dragon dream that ended with its hatching.” Norei looked at her then, her voice quiet but sure. “Dreams like that don’t come to people without purpose. Something called us both. Maybe Veraxes was only the beginning.”

Carys let the words settle. They filled the room like fog, clinging to her skin and curling in her lungs. “And what happens next?” she asked, voice softer now.

Norei shrugged, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “I have no clue.”

Outside, the clouds rolled heavier over the Sunset Sea. But somewhere beyond them, Carys imagined wings cutting through the sky.

Chapter Text

As the autumn stretched on, Carys saw the change in weather as a reflection of her own station. Dark clouds roamed over the Sunset sea like a black blanket, casting rain storms on Casterly Rock for the foreseeable future. All ships in Lannisport were forced to remain docked at the orders of Jason Lannister; he could not afford to lose more cargo than he could afford. 

Carys was no longer allowed to leave the Rock, nor walk through the gardens, and spent most of her time in her rooms. Maester Roderick insisted she remain in bed at all hours until the arrival of the twins; at nine moons pregnant now, Carys could no longer walk more than a few minutes without growing tired. 

Her only comfort these days were Norei, Aegarax and surprisingly, Johanna and her daughters. The Lannister women were more than happy to sit with her throughout the day, gods willing they were able to, practicing their needlework or even making light conversation. Even on her fifth and tenth nameday, Carys was forced to remain in bed, only celebrating the occasion with the Lannister women and Norei. 

It was on this grey morning that Johanna sat at her bedside now, knitting a wool blanket for the babes. Carys was propped up in bed, lazily flicking through the pages of a book she had read a dozen times before, her dark hair tied back into a thick braid. Trystane and his father had left Casterly Rock earlier in the week for the wedding of Viserys and Alicent. Tyshara and Cerelle had accompanied them in Carys and Johanna’s place, leaving the two women to look after the Rock. 

“You’ve done well here,” Johanna said suddenly, not looking up from her work. Her needles clicked steadily while she spoke, her voice low. 

Carys’ eyes flicked up towards her, but she said nothing, waiting for Johanna to speak.

“Trystane’s… former amusements barely lasted,” the lady continued, her expression a mix between disappointment and regret. “They were all too proud, or soft-skinned. Casterly Rock can grind a girl to sand. But you–” Johanna glanced up, her eyes twinkling. “You’ve put down roots. The servants respect you and my daughters admire you. That’s no easy feat– and I’m their mother.”

 Carys closed her book and laid it on the coverlet, chewing her lip. “I still feel out of place,” she admitted, twisting the sheets between her fingers. “Trystane ignores me, and Lord Jason acts as though I’m invisible.” Her voice faltered as she searched Johanna’s face, unsure whether she’d said too much.

Johanna just shook her head, the strands of greying hair shaking around her face. “Jason ignores most matters that do not glitter. That is his failing. And Trystane..” her voice faltered, her eyes darting around the room as though she were looking for the words. “My son’s affections blow like the autumn leaves. I do not excuse it, but I know it well.”

Then why haven’t you stopped it? Carys’ throat tightened, but she said nothing, simply dropping her eyes to her lap. “I was so afraid of marriage,” she whispered. “And the childbed. I thought… I thought marrying Trystane– or anyone, I suppose– would prove me wrong. But it hasn’t” 

Johanna reached across the coverlet, laying her hand gently over Carys’ twisting fingers. “Fear doesn’t make you weak,” she said gently. “It means you understand what’s at stake.” She lifted Carys’ chin with her hand, peering into her violet eyes. 

Carys felt her heart pounding in her chest. She frowned slightly at that, feeling Johanna’s grip tighten. “What do you mean?”

“I am saying,” Johanna said calmly, voice lowering slightly, “that whatever slights or unkindness you face must be forgotten. The alliance sealed by your marriage must not be disrupted. It’s too important to Jason, and your uncle.”

Carys’s pulse thundered in her ears as she looked into Johanna’s eyes. “Forget them?” She questioned. “You would have me pretend nothing is amiss?”

Johanna smiled, seemingly pleased that Carys bent to her will. “For now, yes.”

“I see.” She pulled away from Johanna, feigning a yawn. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady, the babes grow restless. And I…” Carys raised a hand to her temple. “I’m suddenly very tired. A short nap would be best, I think.”

Johanna nodded, picking up her knitting. “Rest then. We’ll speak later.” 

Carys managed a courteous dip of her head before turning her head to the window, shutting her eyes against the grey sky, and the counsel she could not bear to accept. 

If Johanna forced her to be docile in her station, who in Casterly Rock could she trust? Her daughters were wholly loyal to their mother. The servants talked, but at the end of the day, they were loyal to the Lannisters. Norei was loyal to her, but she held little sway over the Rock. 

Wind whistled through the narrow windows. Carys laid a hand on her belly, feeling the twins move underneath. You won’t grow up trapped, she thought. I’ll find a way. 

The stone walls gave no answer. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

Carys woke hours later, opening her eyes to see the sky beyond her windows had turned black. The rain had begun, quietly pitter-pattering on the glass panes. 

She stretched her arms above her head, yawning slightly as she sat up. A sudden, sharp pressure in her belly made her gasp, and then she felt it– a warm rush of water soaking the sheets beneath her. 

Panic and excitement warred inside her as Carys swung her legs over the bed without a second thought, standing on both feet with some difficulty. Without even bothering to grab her dressing gown, Carys hurried into the hall, flinging her door open. She barely registered the cool stones beneath her feet as she searched for someone, for anyone , to help her. 

Her heart pounded in her ears as she saw a maid round the corner, carrying a pile of fresh linens in her arms. “You!” Carys exclaimed, rushing towards her. The poor girl’s face went white when she saw Carys, her dark hair unbound like some wild stormcloud behind her and her violet eyes wide. “Find maester Roderick and Norei– now!”

The girl bobbed a clumsy curtsey and darted off, leaving Carys to stand in the hall alone, trembling slightly as a cramp seized her. She leaned against the wall, forcing herself to breathe steadily. 

It wasn’t long before she heard hurried footsteps running down the hall. Roderick was the first to appear, his face white as he rushed towards her. Behind him came Norei and Johanna, both still dressed in their nightgowns. 

“Princess,” he began, reaching for her arms. “Come, we must get you to bed.”

Carys shook her head fervently, but allowed Roderick to guide her back to her rooms. “No. I do not wish to lie down any longer.”

“I’m afraid you must.” Roderick guided her towards the room, quickly ordering Norei to prepare the childbed. The soaked sheets were stripped, replaced with fresh linens even as Johanna and Roderick guided her onto the bed. Someone tossed a blanket over her legs to preserve some modesty, though piety was the last thing on her mind right now. 

“We must prepare for a long night,” Roderick said, his face grim. “Twins do not come easily.”

Johanna nodded in agreement, pressing her hands together. “It took my Gemma and Alanna a full day to come into the world. All will be well, dearest, but it will be hard.”

Carys bit her lip, forcing her mind to calm as another cramp overtook her. “I want my mother,” she whispered. “Please.”

Norei was at her side in an instant, braiding her hair back away from her face. Her touch was gentle, her hands soft. “I know you do,” Norei said gently. “If she could be here right now, she would.”

Johanna sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand, rubbing her palm softly. “We’re all here,” she added. “For you. And the babes.”

A great swell of emotions overtook Carys at that moment. She could not stop herself from crying, either from pain or joy– she could not tell. She had spent the last nine moons in fear of dying, of losing her children, of losing everything. It had all spiraled so fast, Carys was not sure what to think anymore. 

She tightened her hold on Johanna’s hand as another contraction built, rising like a cruel tide inside her.

“That’s it,” Maester Roderick encouraged from the foot of the bed, his voice steady. “Breathe through it. You’re doing beautifully, princess.”

The pain crested, a deep and terrible force, and Carys cried out, her body trembling. She thought of her mother—of warm arms, of lullabies sung in a voice she barely remembered—and tried to draw strength from the memory. Time blurred again after that.

Hours passed, the storm raging against the castle walls. Candles burned low. Norei and Johanna worked tirelessly, offering cool water, whispered comforts, and the steady presence of hands that never let her fall.

At some point in the night, she was stripped of her sweat-soaked nightgown, left as naked as the day she was born. Rain hammered the windows; lightning lit the chamber with white flashes. Carys gritted her teeth as another contraction hit, gripping the bedpost with white knuckles. No, not yet, she thought to herself, but the twins had their own plan. 

Johanna laid a damp cloth against her brow, her face etched with worry. “Norei, more water. Maester, ready your herbs.”

“What herbs?” Carys cried out. 

Johanna smoothed her dark hair back, shaking her head. “Only milk of the poppy, dear, and very little of it. To dull the edge.”

Carys gripped the sheets, feeling her back arch with the pain of another contraction. “A hint won’t touch this,” she hissed. 

Maester Roderick stepped closer, rolling his sleeves up. “More would slow the labor and cloud the babes. Hold fast, princess, and breathe.”

The hours blurred together in a hazy memory of heat and sweat. Carys vaguely remembered Johanna’s hand on her shoulder and Norei positioned at her side. Maester Roderick exclaimed that the first babe had crowned, and she nearly wept. 

“ Push, princess.”

Carys forced herself to breathe as she pushed, and pushed, and pushed. The world around her narrowed to pain and the rasp of her own breath. Then a wet, sudden release, and a thin cry split the room. 

A daughter. Golden hair, lungs strong. 

Carys let out a gasp of air as she heard the wails of her first child echo throughout the room. Tears burned in her eyes as Carys watched Norei take the babe immediately, cleaning her newborn skin and wrapping her in blankets. 

Her work wasn’t done yet. The second twin remained stubborn. Johanna forced a rag between her teeth as the maester worked, his brow knit with worry. 

“The second lies crosswise– I will have to turn the child from the outside.”

“What does that mean?” Carys pushed herself up on her elbows to get a better look at the maester, her eyes wide. 

Roderick shook his head as he pulled on a pair of leather gloves. “Lay still, princess.”

Her fears were not coolled, but Carys lay back down, shutting her eyes against the pain. A muffled cry tore from her throat as Roderick’s hands pressed against her belly. Sweat pooled at her temples; every breath felt like fire in her ribs. 

The second child was refusing to come. Cold slid through Carys’ chest as Roderick’s worried expression never faltered. 

“If the child won’t turn, princess, I’ll have to reach in. It will hurt, and… it will bleed.”

For one heartbeat, Carys wondered if this was where her story would end. Fear clawed in her chest as she imagined never flying again, never feeling Veraxes’ body pulse through the sky. She would never see her mother or Rhaenyra again.

“Do it,” she rasped. 

The maester worked, gentle as he could, brutal as he must. White pain flared—Carys bit the rag so hard her jaw shook. Blood slicked the sheets. The chamber spun.

Johanna gripped Carys’ shoulders. “Look at me,” she urged. “Focus here. One more push when he says.”

Roderick nodded sharply. “Almost… almost—he’s turning—now, my lady, push!”

Carys bore down, the rag muffling a raw scream. The sensation of searing pain seemed to last forever, until at last the pressure was relieved, and a second, louder cry echoed in the chamber. 

“A boy!” Johanna exclaimed, her face crumpling with relief.  Norei wrapped the second child quickly and laid both children on her bare chest, smiling down at Carys. 

Carys could not stop her tears as the weight of the twins settled on her, their tiny bodies warm and wriggling against her skin. She looked down at them through blurred tears, rubbing her hand gently over their small patches of golden hair. The girl laid nearest to her heart, her mouth rooting instinctively against Carys’ bare skin, while the boy cried out, his tiny arms flailing. 

Norei pulled the blanket over Carys’ figure, while Johanna wiped the tears from her eyes. Maester Roderick busied himself nearby, murmuring about poultices and tonics, but his voice was distant, secondary to the thunderous, breathtaking sight of her newborn children.

Carys could hardly think, could hardly breathe for the sheer immensity of it. She cupped the back of their small, damp heads with her hands, overwhelmed by how impossibly soft they felt.

The boy quieted at her touch, his mouth forming a small, quivering "o" of surprise before he blinked up at her, his eyes a cloudy newborn grey.

After a long while, Carys was left alone with her children. She closed her eyes at long last, allowing herself to finally rest, while the storm sang their names into the night.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The sky above the Stepstones was pale blue as Daemon soared above the rocky crags, feeling Caraxes’ body pulse underneath him. 

It had been several months since their arrival in the Stepstones, but they were behind. Supplies were dwindling, their men were growing unrestless, and the Triarchy remained stubbornly entrenched in their strongholds. 

Corlys’ ships weren’t arriving fast enough, either. The autumn had brought tumultuous storms to the eastern shores, mooring ships in place for weeks at a time. he autumn had brought tumultuous storms to the eastern shores, mooring ships in place for weeks at a time. Supplies rotted in their holds, and the men trapped on the Stepstones grew leaner and angrier with each passing day.

Daemon’s patience, never abundant to begin with, had long since worn thin. Every delay gnawed at him like a dog worrying a bone. He needed ships. He needed men. And the longer they waited, the more ground they lost to the Triarchy’s damnable tactics.

Daemon tightened his grip as Caraxes let out a deep snarl, flicking his serpentine head back and forth. Below, the sea glittered around the broken islands like shards of glass, and the makeshift camps of their forces stretched along the rocky shores. 

They needed a victory– and soon. 

With a disgruntled sigh, he steered Caraxes back down to the camp, landing the great dragon far enough away from camp so that he wouldn’t disturb the men. 

Soldiers scrambled out of his way as he dismounted, his crimson cloak whipping behind him like a lash.

He stalked toward the largest tent—Corlys Velaryon's—his boots grinding against the rocky ground. The Sea Snake looked up from a rough map of the Stepstones spread across a table, his brow furrowing at Daemon's dark expression.

"Where are they?" Daemon snapped, barely giving Corlys a chance to greet him. "Your ships, your men—you promised they would be here by week's end, and yet the shore is bare!"

Corlys straightened, his mouth tightening. "Winds have been poor. The tides work against us. My ships will come, Prince Daemon—"

"Not quickly enough," Daemon growled, slamming his hand down on the table. The map fluttered beneath his fingers.

Before Corlys could respond, the flap of the tent burst open. A page stumbled inside, nearly tripping over his own feet, a rolled parchment clutched tightly in his hand.

"My lords!" the boy gasped, his face flushed from running. "A message—urgent, from Princess Rhaenyra!"

Daemon snatched the parchment from the boy before Corlys could react. He broke the seal with a sharp flick of his thumb, his eyes scanning the neat, hurried script.

Uncle, 

I know not why you seek some grand adventure in the Stepstones– perhaps for your own ambition, but I cannot pretend to know your intentions. 

I bring urgent news from King’s Landing. Viserys has married Lady Alicent, solidifying Otto’s hold on the court. My position, once assured, now rests on rocky ground. I know I was the reason you were supplanted as heir, and for that, I bear the guilt for your departure. Yet I need you now, more than ever. I am not blind to the gathering storm, nor am I willing to bend to it. 

But I send happy news as well. Your daughter has given birth at long last– a boy and a girl. 

Please, return soon. 

– Rhaenyra.

Daemon’s hand closed tightly around the parchment, crumpling it into a tight fist. He stared at the mess of ink and paper, his heart pounding in his chest. The words were clear, the message plain, but they felt like a slap.

I am not blind to the gathering storm.

Rhaenyra’s words echoed in his mind, their implication cutting sharper than a blade. She had taken his place. She had taken his crown, his birthright. And now, she was asking for his support, after all this time, after all that had passed between them.

Daemon gritted his teeth. The fury rising in his chest threatened to consume him, but beneath it all—beneath the anger, the bitterness, the cold rejection—there was something else. The tiniest flicker of something that resembled regret.

He shoved the crumpled parchment into his belt, never taking his eyes off the map spread out before him. The Stepstones were in turmoil, the Triarchy growing stronger by the day. The war was far from over, and Rhaenyra’s plea rang in his ears. She needed him.

Daemon wanted to throw something, to break something. The world felt like it was closing in 

on him. His eyes locked on Corlys, who was watching him with a raised brow.

Without another word, he stormed out of the tent, his boots striking the earth with heavy, determined steps.

Corlys called after him, but Daemon didn’t stop. His mind was too loud, too crowded with thoughts of his brother, his niece, and his daughter. 

The letter, the children—it was all just complicated. It always was with family.

But there was one thing Daemon knew for certain as he marched toward the war front, the weight of his decision settling in his chest. He would finish what he started in the Stepstones. The crown, the throne—it could all burn for all he cared.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

It took Rhea two weeks to arrive in Casterly Rock, only bringing her horse, a guard, and Gerold with her. 

Her heart was pounding as she dismounted her horse, feeling the mud underneath her boots squelch. Rhea ignored the servants and lords swarming the halls as she hurriedly greeted Jason and his wife. Her bronze eyes swept over the grand halls, impatiently wishing to see one thing, and one thing only: her child. 

Jason stood before her now, his own expression a mix of annoyance and anger. Rhea had not told him she was arriving in Casterly Rock– the message from Carys about the birth had spurred her into action, the events of the past two weeks occurring quickly. Before she realized it, they had arrived in the Westerlands after the king’s wedding, making their way through the rolling hills and small villages towards Casterly Rock. 

“Jason,” she greeted him coolly. “Where is my daughter?”

The lord and lady of Casterly Rock gave each other a sideways glance before looking back at her. Jason cleared his throat awkwardly, clasping his hands together in front of him. 

“We were not expecting you,” he said dryly. “I was surprised to hear from my castellan that you rode all the way from King’s Landing.” 

Rhea resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. She had always thought Jason– and all the Lannisters, for that matter– was a pompous bastard, whose head was so far up his ass that he could not remove it. 

“When I heard the news, I wished only to see my daughter, then wait another week and travel by carriage,” she replied smoothly. 

Jason’s jaw twitched, but his wife laid a hand on his arm, stopping him before he could speak. 

“Of course, lady Rhea,” she said gently, though there was a tightness in her expression that Rhea could not place. “We are grateful for your visit. Carys has been resting in her chambers.”

Rhea nodded curtly, not missing the way Johanna placed herself between Rhea and Jason, as though to stop things from escalating. She had no qualms with the woman, but Rhea found that after marriage, most of the wives of Westeros became complacent– almost dulled in their husband’s shadow. 

“I will go to her,” she said, not waiting any longer. 

Jason’s expression soured further. “Of course. Go up the stairs to the fifth floor. She’ll be in the last room on the right– don’t mind the dogs in the hall, either. My men have been lax in keeping them out.”

Rhea didn’t bother answering. She strode past Jason and Johanna, her boots striking the stone floor as she ascended the steps. Every moment she wasted on these foolish pleasantries was another moment missed with her daughter, and her grandchildren, for that matter. 

As she climbed higher, the sounds of the keep faded away, until Rhea stood before a great wooden door at long last. She didn’t hesitate for another moment, instead knocking gently and pushing the door open. 

There, seated on a plush couch was Carys, with a book in her hand and a cat in her lap. Her dark hair was styled into a thick coronet around her head, her face drawn and pale rather than its usual olive hue. Dark bags hung beneath her violet eyes, though Carys looked more peaceful than Rhea had seen her in years. 

She looked up from her book, a smile stretching across her face. “Mother!”

For the first time in what felt like years, Rhea’s heart ached– not with anger or frustration, but with love. She rushed forward, kissing the top of Carys’ head gently. 

“Dearest,” she murmured, a smile breaking out. “You look well.”

Carys nodded, setting her book aside. “I feel well,” she smiled. “Better than I have in months.”

Rhea was half-surprised to hear that. She had never been well-suited for motherhood, approaching as though she were a soldier in war, but Carys seemingly embraced it. Rhea brushed a strand of hair away from her face, studying her with a habitual frown. The lines of exhaustion around Carys’ eyes seemed more prominent, but she seemed softer, almost gentler now. 

“And the babes?” Rhea asked gently. “How are they? Where are they?”

Carys gestured towards the great windows. There were two cradles, positioned snuggly against one another, each one holding a golden-haired babe. Rhea leaned in, breath catching at the sight. The first slept soundly with his tiny fists curled underneath his chin, while the second stretched one arm free, her fingers twitching in the sunlight. 

“Twins,” Carys said proudly. “Aethan and Aelinor.”

Rhea didn’t miss the matching names– a tribute to their Targaryen lineage. She traced a gentle finger on Aelinor’s cheek, and felt an odd, unfamiliar warmth grow in her chest. 

For the first time in a long time, Rhea was more than the Bronze Bitch of Runestone, married to a man she hated. She was a grandmother, now nothing more than a woman kneeling at her daughter’s side, admiring the next generation of their line. 

“They’re beautiful,” Rhea said softly. She turned to look at Carys, her eyes twinkling. “I’m proud of you.”

Carys blushed slightly and looked down. “There’s nothing to be proud of. I only did my duty.”

“ No. ” Rhea surged to her knees, standing before her daughter now. “I’ve been hard on you. Harder than you deserve, I suppose. I thought… I thought motherhood meant being strong, and unbending– ready to meet the world’s cruelty with your own.”

Her daughter frowned, confusion flicking across her features. “Why?” She asked softly. “Why realize this now, after I’ve given birth?”

Rhea hesitated, feeling her fingers curl at her side. She hated being vulnerable, hated exposing herself to the world, but now she had nothing but her own words. Only the truth. 

“I’ve never held other women to a high standard, once they married,” she said at long last. “Once they bent their heads to their husbands, they were… lost. Shadows of themselves.” Rhea looked away, almost ashamed of the words as she said them. “They gave themselves up. And I despised them for it, because I thought they wanted me to do the same.”

She exhaled slowly, looking back at Carys. “I thought I could spare you from it. But I was wrong. I thought strength was the tempering of a blade, the harsh sound of stone against a man’s skull. But sometimes it means staying whole.”

Carys bit her lip, rubbing her hands across the back of the couch as though she were calming her nerves. “I’ve always been strong, mother. Even if you never saw it.”

Rhea swallowed. In all of Carys’ fifteen years, she had never admitted to herself the truth: she was afraid to see her daughter for who she was, lest she became a shell of herself. Better, Rhea had thought, to keep her distance, to steel herself against disappointment, than to witness her daughter lose her fire and become just another shadow of the girl she had once been.

“I know,” Rhea whispered. “I never let myself see it before. But…” she looked at the twins, then back at her daughter. “You became more.”

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other—the weight of years, of silence, of unspoken hurt settling between them like dust. Then Carys shifted, tilting her head.

“You stayed the same, too,” she said quietly. “Even when Daemon and everyone else tried to break you.”

Something in Rhea’s chest cracked open at those words. She gave a small, rough laugh and 

shook her head.

“Maybe,” Rhea murmured. “But I’m ready to be something more, too.”

Chapter Text

The wind roared past Carys’ ears as she soared above the Sunset Sea, her face split into a grin. Veraxes’ warm body pulsed underneath her as he flapped his wings, nearly scraping the clouds above. 

It was the first time in over a year that Carys had flown; her body had nearly recovered in the six months since the twins were born. She refused to remain indoors any longer, and had taken Veraxes from his corral earlier that morning to fly. 

The sun was high above them now by the time Carys guided Veraxes back to Casterly Rock. The cliffs before them shone like gold, and the ocean below was a vast expanse of blue that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Veraxes let out a slow, contented sigh as they descended toward the keep’s high courtyard. 

As they landed with a heavy thud of wings and clawed feet, Carys slipped out of the saddle, feeling the pebbles crunch beneath her boots. The chill of the sea breeze nipped at her pink cheeks, but her smile remained. 

Waiting just beyond the edge of the patio stood the twin’s nursemaid– Marla, a heavyset woman with wrinkled hands and soft eyes. She clutched a heavy woolen shawl around her shoulders, her brow furrowed as she took in Carys. 

“Princess,” Marla called out, quickly walking towards her. “The twins have woken from their nap. They’re crying for their mother.”

Carys’ smile faltered, the wind tugging a loose strand of hair across her face. She brushed it aside, nodding as she stepped down from the stones and onto the patio proper.

“Of course they are,” she said, her voice softer now, touched with a guilt she hadn’t expected.

Marla hesitated before continuing. “They were calm earlier, but as the hour passed…” Her eyes flicked toward the massive shape of Veraxes now settling into the far end of the courtyard. 

Carys glanced over her shoulder at her dragon, who let out a low hum and folded his wings with care. She turned back and exhaled, already moving toward the doors. “Then I won’t keep them waiting.”

As she passed Marla, the nursemaid fell into step beside her. “Also, princess… your husband returned from the western reaches not an hour before you did. He’s in his solar. He asked to speak with you.”

Carys didn’t slow, but her jaw tensed. “Then he can wait.”

The door to the nursery creaked open on well-oiled hinges, and Carys stepped quietly into the warm, dimly lit room. The scent of lavender and milk hung gently in the air, mingling with the faint crackle of a fire burning low in the hearth.

She stopped short at the threshold only to see that Trystane was already inside. 

Trystane stood above a cradle, his back to her, gently rocking it with a slow rhythm. One of the twins– Aelinor, by the looks of it– was nestled in the crook of his arm, her tiny fingers curling around the edge of his tunic.

To her surprise, Trystane had been increasingly present with the children. She would often find him playing with Aethan in the nursery, or toting Aelinor around the halls, showing her the different banners and paintings. Carys had no desire to let him back into her bed– not when he had forced his way there the first time. She was increasingly cautious around Trystane when he was with the children, and often asked a maid to discreetly follow him around while he carried one of the twins. 

Trystane had been gone for the past week, traveling across the Westerlands for his father to ensure that the vassal lords remained loyal. It was a yearly expedition that typically lasted a month, though Tyland Lannister had taken on half the work, allowing Trystane to return home sooner. 

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard her step, his face unreadable in the flickering light. “They missed you,” he said flatly. “Though you wouldn’t know it.”

Carys ignored the barb. She crossed the room with careful steps, eyes locked on her daughter’s flushed cheeks and blinking violet eyes. “I was gone for a few hours.”

“That’s long enough,” he snapped back. 

He turned toward her fully, just enough for the firelight to catch the child in his arms. Aelinor blinked up sleepily, her eyes a brilliant shade of violet—so stark against the pale gold of her downy hair that it still startled Carys on occasion. The girl’s lashes were long and dark, casting tiny shadows on her cheeks, and she made a soft cooing sound as her father adjusted her.

In the cradle beside them, Aethan stirred but did not wake. He was the smaller of the two, though only by a margin, with the same pale hair that glimmered like honey in the firelight, and eyes just as unmistakably Valyrian. They looked like her, Carys knew, more than they looked like Trystane—but there were flashes of her, too. In the dimple of Aelinor’s chin. In Aethan’s stubborn little frown when he didn’t get his way.

“That’s long enough,” Trystane said again, his voice rougher now. “They need more than a glimpse of their mother before she disappears into the clouds again.”

Carys moved closer, her gaze still on the twins. “And what do you want, Trystane?” she asked, her voice cool. “Praise for doing what you ought to have done from the beginning?”

He stepped back from the cradle, expression dark. “I want a wife who acts like she wants to be here. 

Carys just scoffed at him as she reached down to hold Aethan. There was no point in arguing with him any longer– not when she knew she wouldn’t win. “Marla said you wished to speak to me?”

Trystane just stared at her for a long while, before sighing and sitting down in one of the plush chairs. “I traveled to the Banefort, before coming here.”

Carys waited for him to continue as she stroked Aethan’s golden hair, feeling his hands curl around the hem of her riding leathers. She was familiar with the way Trystane told his stories; pausing in the middle as though he were waiting for a question. It irked her to no end. 

“Lord Isaac Banefort has ten children,” he continued. “Ten. All lively and obedient and well-behaved. His wife glows when she speaks of them.”

“It sounds like Lord Banefort is fortunate as he is rich,” Carys cut in, her violet eyes narrowed slightly. “But I do not understand the point of this story.”

“I wish to have more children.” 

Carys barked out a laugh. “You cannot be serious!” She exclaimed. “I have given you what you desired the most– a son– and yet you are still not satisfied?”

Trystane just gave her a long, hard look as he continued to bounce Aelinor on his knee. “My mother bore my father seven children,” he said, his voice dangerously soft now. “You could try to not vanish for hours at a time. You could try acting like our children were something more than a burden.”

Her temper flared. “They are not a burden,” she hissed. “They are the only light in this wretched keep.”

Trystane’s jaw tightened, his lips pulling into a thin line. Aelinor let out a soft coo, unaware of the rising tension in the room.

“You’ve made it plain enough that you despise everything else,” he said, his voice laced with contempt. “Including me.”

Carys stood straighter, clutching Aethan protectively against her chest. “Don’t mistake your guilt for love, Trystane,” she said sharply. “You wanted a wife who would bear you children, and I did. You wanted heirs, and I gave you two. But do not expect me to give you joy as well.”

While his inattention towards her had been a gift at first, Carys soon began to discover that it was the opposite. She had no idea how Trystane maneuvered, how he reacted to things: only the sudden outbursts of emotion she had seen only a handful of times. 

He was unknown to her, and for that, he scared her even more. 

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“I was most surprised to hear you were coming today, princess.”

Rhaenyra crossed one ankle over the other as she looked around the room, hiding her scowl. The other ladies around her swanned through the room, taking their pick of the tea and selection of treats laid out before them.

Alicent– the queen now, as foreign as it was to say– had invited a select group of ladies to her salon for afternoon tea. Rhaenyra had been extended an invitation as well. It would have been rude not to invite the king’s daughter to an event hosted by the queen, but nevertheless, she begrudgingly participated. 

The queen sat across from Rhaenyra, with one ankle daintily crossed over the other as she smiled and nodded along to whatever story lady Elys Harroway was spoon feeding her. The room smelled of roses and tea cakes, the scent cloying in the air. 

Rhaenyra was seated on the low couch between Florian Ashford and Hollis Conklyn; both daughters of minor lords from the Reach. Alicent had expanded her soiree of handmaidens since taking the crown, and now boasted a retinue of eight ladies. 

“I’ve been rather tired, as of late,” Rhaenyra lied, turning to Hollis. She was a stout girl, with red cheeks and a mass of brown hair, but friendly enough that Rhaenyra had no qualms with her. 

Hollis beamed at her, taking a sip of her lavender tea. “Well, we’re all pleased to have you here.” She looked around the room, then leaned in, almost conspiratorially. “I wonder why the queen has summoned us all today.”

Rhaenyra shrugged. “Must there be an ulterior motive to afternoon tea?”

Florian cut into the conversation, her reedy voice ringing in Rhaenyra’s ears. “She’s only invited three or four ladies at a time for tea,” she whispered. “This must be some special announcement.”

A special announcement, indeed. Rhaenyra felt her heart sink into her chest as she considered why Alicent had summoned them all at the same time. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering once more to Alicent. She was laughing softly at whatever Elys said, one hand fluttering to her chest in feigned modesty, the image of gentle nobility. But Rhaenyra knew her well enough to know that she was utterly disinterested in the story, and she was only playing along. 

It hadn’t always been this way. A year ago, they would have been sitting together, shoulders brushing, hands tangled together as they giggled behind fans. They would have laughed at Lady Elys’ story– not because it was funny, but because they were united in their disdain for courtly dribble. 

Now there was a chasm between them. There was no way to fix it; not from Rhaenyra’s end, at least. 

Alicent looked up at Rhaenyra at last. Their gazes met for the briefest moment, and Rhaenyra felt the familiar fluttering sensation in her chest that she hadn’t felt in a long time. 

Then Alicent stood, and the entire room went silent. “If I may have everyone’s attention,” she said gently, her posture poised as she clasped her hands together. 

Rhaenyra already knew. The certainty sat like stone in her stomach. 

“I am pleased to share that the gods have blessed us,” Alicent began, her smile widening. “I am with child.”

Gasps and murmurs of congratulations rippled through the room. Rhaenyra sat frozen among the fluttering fans and clinking of porcelain, her hands gripping the armrest. She forced her lips into a tight smile, but her mind raced ahead. 

Her eyes stayed fixed on Alicent, who now looked radiant beneath the sunlit windows, every inch the perfect queen—glowing, demure, untouchable.

As the conversation shifted elsewhere, Rhaenyra rose quietly and crossed the room, ignoring the eyes that followed her. She stopped just before Alicent, her voice low, meant only for her.

“How long have you known?”

Alicent blinked, a flicker of hesitation betraying her composure. “Four months,” she answered. “Since shortly after the wedding.”

“Four months,” Rhaenyra echoed. Her voice was quiet, but cold. “And you waited until now to tell me.”

Alicent’s expression softened. “I wanted to. I’ve tried to talk to you so many times, but I—I didn’t know what to say.”

“You might’ve said the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth now,” Alicent insisted gently. “I didn’t want you to hear it from the court. I wanted to look you in the eye.” She reached forward, as though to touch Rhaenyra’s hand, but Rhaenyra stepped back.

Alicent’s hand hovered, suspended between them, before retreating slowly. “I miss you,” she said, voice just above a whisper. “I miss what we were. You were the one person who saw me, 

before all of this. I would give anything to go back.”

Rhaenyra’s throat tightened. For a moment, they simply stood there, close enough to touch, memories pressing in like a tide. The warmth in Alicent’s eyes was achingly familiar, and 

Rhaenyra hated how her heart responded to it—how easy it would be to lean in, to forgive, to pretend none of it had happened.

But she couldn’t.

“You married my father,” Rhaenyra said quietly. “You carry his child. You smile at me like nothing has changed.” She hated how her voice cracked. “But everything has.”

Alicent’s brown eyes glistened. “Does it truly have to be this way, Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra looked at her for a long, heavy moment. “I cannot forget this betrayal,” she said. Her voice was steady now, resolute. “And I will not pretend you didn’t hurt me.”

She turned and walked out of the room, tears burning in her eyes, the soft rustle of her skirts the only sound in the silence she left behind.

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The fire in Trystane’s study had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls as he finished the last of his wine. The keep was quiet at this hour, hushed and still, save for the distant hush of waves against the bluffs below. He had nearly risen to retire for the night when the soft scuff of footsteps echoed down the corridor beyond his door.

He stepped into the hallway, surprised to see a young servant boy moving quickly, clutching a sealed letter in both hands.

“You there,” Trystane called, placing his hands on his hips. “Why are you running?”

The boy froze mid-step and turned, lowering his head. “My lord.”

Trystane peered at the boy. “That message. Who is it for?”

The boy fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting back and forth. “For Princess Carys, my lord. It came by raven from Oldtown not an hour past.”

Trystane stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’ll see it delivered to my wife. You’re dismissed.”

The servant hesitated only a moment before handing it over. “Of course, my lord.” He bowed and scurried off into the dark.

Trystane stood alone for a moment, turning the letter over in his hands. It wasn’t sealed with a house crest—just plain wax, hastily done. His brow furrowed as he broke the seal, his thumb working the wax apart.

My dear Carys

It has been some time since we last spoke– that is a mistake on my behalf, I’m afraid to say. I’ve been riding with a group of several knights throughout the kingdoms on behalf of my lord uncle, and my correspondence has not been exemplary. 

I was rather disappointed when I heard you were not attending the king’s wedding, but congratulations are in order for the birth of your children. Twins, I hear. I can only imagine how proud you and Trystane are. 

I often find myself wondering how you’re settling into motherhood. I imagine you to be quite a force, as you always have been. I hope they have your eyes– the sort of eyes that don’t just look, but see. 

There is much I wish to say out loud, but ink must suffice for now. In truth, I’ve thought of you more times than proprietary allows. It is strange how little we’ve interacted, and yet you have had such an impact on my life. The roads have taken me far from court, but not far enough to forget. Perhaps I never truly wanted to. 

If the gods are kind, perhaps my travels will bring me close to the Westerlands. Should you be amiable, I would welcome the chance to see you again. 

Until then, I will remain on the road and in the saddle . 

Yours forever, 

Gwayne

By the time he reached the signature at the bottom, Trystane was trembling slightly. He locked the letter away into a drawer, though a gnawing curiosity twisted in his chest. He had no idea what he intended to do with it– perhaps nothing, perhaps something, but for now, the contents simmered in the back of his mind. 

Yours forever, Gwayne. 

Sighing, he stood from his desk and turned to the door, feeling the weight of his surroundings sink into his skin. The walls seemed to press in, suffocating him with the weight of his duties and the course his life had taken over the past months. Carys. She was a woman of duty, of course, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped, bound by the expectations of his father. 

The sound of footsteps on the floor broke him out of his reverie, and without a word, Trystane motioned to the servant standing in the doorway. “Send for Falyse,” he said hoarsely. 

The servant bowed and left, his departure leaving Trystane alone in the dim flicker of the hearth. 

Trystane closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back against the cold stone of his desk. He loathed the idea of his marriage to Carys. No room for freedom, for desire, for anything he could truly call his own. He thought about the letter in the drawer, the secret words from Gwayne Hightower, but the bitterness soured in his chest, fading as quickly as it had come.

And then, the soft sound of the door opening broke his reverie. Falyse entered the room, her skirts sweeping over the stones. 

“My lord,” she said, her voice as smooth as water, as though it were an invitation. 

Trystane didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His mind was a blank slate as he made quick work of the laces of her blouse, pulling the fabric over her head and wrapping his lips around the soft bud of her nipple. Falyse moaned softly, burying her hands into his curls. 

But his thoughts returned to Carys, and his children, even as his tongue worked. She was errant and often defiant, wanting to spend more time on her dragon than she did with him. The only time they bonded was over the twins, and even then, Carys was reserved. 

Trystane hated her indifference towards him. It gnawed at him ever since they wed. He thought there was potential; perhaps she would grow to love him, but now, it seemed that there was something that always held her back from truly connecting with him.

He cursed under his breath, his hands tightening around Falyse, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t rid himself of the thoughts of Carys, of their marriage, and the distance that stretched between them. She had a way of pulling away, of making him feel as though he was an outsider in his own home. And yet, every time he tried to break through, she grew colder, more distant.

Falyse seemed to sense his frustration, because she pulled back gently, her lithe fingers pulling his breeches down. Trystane could only stare as she wrapped her lips around his cock, her mouth forcing all other thoughts to flee his mind. 

Chapter Text

115 AC

Golden sunlight filtered through the leaves as Rhaenyra sat beneath a great oak tree, paying no attention to the book in her lap. She had been sitting in the Kingswood for nearly an hour now, mindlessly flipping through the pages without actually reading the words – she had no interest in the contents, nor much interest in anything else these days. 

The king’s retinue had arrived in the Kingswood just the day before, pitching their tents of red and black in an open field. One by one, various houses from across the kingdoms had come to join them, hoisting their own colors around the king’s tents. 

As soon as they had arrived, Rhaenyra split from her father and Alicent, mumbling something about her book as she trudged across the field and into the woods. Criston followed suit, promising his king to keep an eye on the princess. 

She’d needed the silence, for anything to dull the hum of court politics. But even as she sat cloaked in sunlight and shade, her thoughts wandered back to the camp and the lords who had come to whisper in her father’s ear. Among them was Otto, of course, and Lyonel Strong, the Lord of Harrenhal and the new Master of Law. The Strongs weren’t a very powerful house, nor were they wealthy– especially with Harrenhal under their control– but their patriarch was wise and thoughtful, and seemed to give good advice to her father. 

Nevertheless, Rhaenyra had no desire to return to the camp. Aegon’s first nameday celebration was just a chance for Viserys to boast the fact that he was fertile and strong, and so was his new wife. 

His new wife , Rhaenyra thought bitterly, feeling her fingers curl around the edges of her book. Alicent paid no heed to her these days, not since Aegon was born. She had tried to reconnect with Rhaenyra after the wedding, proclaiming that her new status would not destroy their kinship. 

But it already had, hadn’t it? She could no longer look at Alicent the same way, not after she swept in and stole her mother’s place. Even if Alicent had been following her father’s wishes, she could have said no, couldn’t she? These were the thoughts that consumed her the most these days. Rhaenyra felt nothing but anger most of the time, could hardly stomach seeing her father and his new wife and son at the table. 

Most of all, she missed Carys’ presence in the capital. Nearly three years had passed since her cousin left, and yet the hole was never filled. Rhaenyra longed to fly with her, to soar over the Narrow Sea and never have to return to Westeros. She desperately wished that Carys would come to the Kingswood– the Lannisters had sent no word on whether they would participate or not– and Rhaenyra suspected her cousin was far too busy with her children these days to answer her correspondence. 

“Princess?” A soft voice cut through her reverie, pulling Rhaenyra back to reality. Ser Criston stood before her, having left his post. “It’s getting dark. We should return to the camp soon.”

“I’m almost done reading,” she lied, refusing to look up from her book. “And I’m not afraid of the dark.”

“No, but I suspect you haven’t turned a page in the past half hour,” he said gently. “It’ll also be hard to read when you only have the moon for light.”

Rhaenyra bit her tongue, swallowing her retort. There were very few people she could stand to be around these days, only tolerating the presence of the Kingsguard sworn to her. Criston was far less reserved than the other white cloaks, to be sure, but she tolerated it because no one else would be this patient with her. 

“Fine,” she sighed, pushing herself up onto her feet. “Let’s go. But if they’re serving rabbit again for dinner, I won’t eat it.”

She could see Criston smiling out of the corner of her eye. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, princess.”

The walk back to the camp was quiet, save for the crunching of twigs underneath their boots. Rhaenyra forced herself to look ahead, ignoring the feeling of Criston’s eyes boring into her. He was nice enough, and not that much older than her, but the past year had left such a mark on her that Rhaenyra refused to think about marriage or men, especially after the death of her mother. 

Twilight fell upon the Kingswood when they returned. The wooden tables were laden with meats, breads, ales, sweets, fruits, and various flasks of wine as the lords and ladies gorged themselves. Despite the cool weather, the heat of the bonfire was enough to protect the congregation from the chill of the night. Servants darted back and forth, refilling chalices with wine. 

Rhaenyra kept to the periphery, slowly ambling around until she reached the high table where her father and Alicent sat. Viserys was bouncing Aegon on his knee, grinning as the boy played with a toy dragon clenched in his tiny fist. Alicent just smiled warmly at the scene, one hand resting on the great swell of her pregnant belly. 

Before Rhaenyra could disappear again, Alicent caught her eye and beckoned her over. “Rhaenyra,” she said, her voice cheery and light. “Come sit. There’s enough ham to go around.”

Rhaenyra bit her tongue, ignoring the strange look her father gave her. “Oh, I’m not feeling well,” she lied, forcing a smile on her face. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Alicent’s expression remained unfazed. “Nonsense, Rhaenyra,” she chastised. “You’re family. There’s no imposition.” She gestured to the open seat next to Viserys, a sweet smile still plastered on her face. 

Reluctantly, Rhaenyra crossed the few paces and slid on the bench, smoothing her skirts beneath her. Her grip tightened on the stem of the goblet before her– touching whatever object was in her vicinity had become an unfortunate nervous habit. 

“Are the Lannisters coming?” She asked, piercing the silence. 

Viserys nodded, bouncing Aegon a little faster to keep the child from growing restless. “Yes. They were last seen at the edge of the Kingswood, but there’s no sign of them yet.” 

Rhaenyra nodded slowly. Good. That meant Carys was coming. 

She desperately missed having her family under one roof. It was as though Aemma’s death had pulled them all apart, leaving only a vast chasm of grief. Carys had departed from the capital not long after the funeral, as had Daemon, and Rhaenyra wished only to see them again. Even if it was only for a day. 

Rhaenyra kept her gaze locked on Aegon, who was now slobbering over the dragon toy. It was hard to hate him – he was only a babe, after all – but Rhaenyra could not shake the image of her dead brother out of her mind. There was a voice in the back of her mind, whispering  it was supposed to be Baelon over and over again until she could no longer stomach the sight of Aegon. 

Dinner passed unceremoniously, with Alicent bidding goodnight to everyone rather quickly. Her second pregnancy left her more tired these days, leaving everyone to suspect that the next child would be a girl. Rhaenyra paid no heed to their whispers, only wishing that she would have her sister Visenya at last. Not that she would ever admit it to Alicent.

Aegon was taken away by his nursemaid, leaving Viserys and Rhaenyra to sit in awkward silence. Her father had very little to say to her these days, only asking how her lessons were going before becoming preoccupied again. His attention had never been focused solely on her, even before her mother died, but these days, Viserys seemed to be swept away in his own world. 

It was only when the silence became unbearable that Rhaenyra bid her father goodnight, ignoring the way his gaze lingered on her as she quickly walked away with Criston on her heels. Tears burned in the corner of her eyes, but she forced them to subside. There was no point in crying over something she could not change, after all, but that didn’t mean it hurt less. 

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“Are we there yet?”

The carriage bounced uncomfortably over potholes in the road, nearly throwing Carys against the wall. 

Carys looked down at Aethan, who was perched in her lap, his big violet eyes looking up at her. She smiled gently, brushing his golden curls back and kissing his brow. 

“Almost, darling,” she said, rubbing his back. “We’ll be there soon. We just have to cross over the hill.”

On the other side of the carriage sat Norei, with Aelinor on her lap. The former was concentrated on the countryside rolling past them, her brown eyes warm in the morning light, while Aelinor was fast asleep in her arms, her thumb in her mouth. 

At three years of age, the twins had never ventured this far outside of Casterly Rock. Carys would come to regret never taking them to Runestone nor King’s Landing early on, but they seemed content enough with the high walls and windows of their father’s home. Despite the comforts of the Rock, Aethan was persistent in his desire to leave the carriage, spending every waking moment crawling over the seats and floors. Carys could not blame him; three days was a long time for a little boy to stay inside. 

She looked out the window mournfully, watching as the trees slowly gave way to an open plain. This was the first time in three years that she was beyond the Westerlands, and yet Carys could not help but feel her nerves rise. 

So many things had changed since her last time in the capital. No one had heard from Daemon in months, though on all accounts, the war in the Stepstones seemed to be tipping in favor of the Triarchy. Viserys was no longer a widower, with a son and another child on the way. 

Carys chewed her lip slowly, mindlessly running her hand through Aethan’s curls. There was no doubt in her mind that if Alicent bore the king another son, Viserys would have to kneel to his small council and name Aegon his heir. Another girl was tolerable, but another boy would push Viserys into forgetting he ever named Rhaenyra heir at all. 

She felt a twinge of guilt burrow in her gut. Her devotion to Rhaenyra had been lacking these last few years, and her cousin needed her support now more than ever. She might have grown distant – the bonds of marriage, motherhood, and the routines of her own life consumed her – but her loyalty to Rhaenyra would never be severed. 

Carys began turning over the influence she held in her own right. There was her mother’s house, of course, and perhaps the Vale beyond that, though their loyalty would be secured through Aemma Arryn. The Lannisters now whispered in the king’s ear from time to time, and Carys briefly wondered if she would be the one to further support Rhaenyra's claim through Jason and his house. 

“I see the Targaryen colors not far ahead.” Norei’s soft voice pulled Carys from her reverie and into the present. 

Aelinor was awake now, and had crawled towards the window, pressing her chubby hands against the lattice. 

“Mama, mama, there are tents!” She exclaimed, looking back at Carys with wide eyes. 

Carys forced a small smile for her daughter. “Yes, darling. We’re almost there.”

Their carriage began to take a subtle turn, following the rest of the Lannister caravan. The flags above the nearest pavilions, a riot of black and red, grew clearer against the morning sky. 

Carys took the twin’s hands in her own, squeezing them gently. “Stay close to me when we disembark, hm? We must be careful, and we must be on our best behavior.”

The twins nodded fervently, though Carys wasn’t entirely sure they understood what she was saying. The wheels of the carriage crunched over gravel before coming to a slow stop, halting not too far away from the pavilions. 

Carys drew a shaky breath, smoothing down Aethan’s tunic and Aelinor’s skirts. “Ready?”

They both nodded again, their eyes filled with both nervousness and awe as Carys helped them climb from the carriage. Across the site, she caught Trystane and his father stepping down from their own coach. Her pulse quickened when Trystane caught her gaze, his expression almost weary, but before she could do anything Carys felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Three years, and I’ve barely heard from you!”

Carys grinned when she saw her cousin before her, arms folded across her chest. Rhaenyra’s eyebrows were raised in a mixture of reproach and affection, the corner of her mouth tugging up just slightly, with a warmth that made Carys’s defenses ease.

“That’s not entirely fair,” Carys said quietly, reluctantly letting go of Aethan’s hand. “I wrote… when I could.”

Rhaenyra stepped forward and drew Carys into a tight embrace. “ When you could . Which, evidently, was not often.” She paused, then added softly, “I missed you.”

Carys tightened her own grip. “I missed you, too.”

For a moment, the two fell into a comfortable silence, letting their reunion ease the years that kept them distant. The children pressed close to Carys’s skirts — Aethan peeking out with a nervous expression, Aelinor tugging on her mother’s sleeve, both unsure what was expected of them.

Rhaenyra turned her gaze down toward the children, a softness creeping into her normally nonchalant demeanor. “Who are these two creatures I’ve yet to meet?”

Carys placed a gentle hand on each of their shoulders. “ This is Aethan, and this Aelinor.” She ruffled their curls as she said their names, indicating which one was which. Despite Aelinor wearing a frock and Aethan in his little tunic, they were still wholly identical. 

Rhaenyra crouched down, grinning as she took in the twins. “They have your eyes,” she noted. Aelinor promptly hid behind her mother’s leg, though Carys caught her smiling into her skirts. “And that hair! So blonde it might be silver. They look more Targaryen than you.”

It was a jest, though Carys found no humor in it. The smile slid off her face, but before she could respond, footsteps approached from behind. Trystane came to stand at her side, his red doublet impossibly clean despite the arduous journey. His presence was stiff and formal, and he paid little mind to Carys. 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” he said, falling into a deep bow. “It’s been some time.”

“Ser Trystane.” Rhaenyra inclined her head politely. “I think the last time I saw you was your wedding.”

Carys felt her stomach twist, but kept her eyes forward. Trystane offered a thin smile. 

“A day I’m sure we all remember fondly,” he replied, though there was no warmth in his tone. Carys wanted to smack him. 

Rhaenyra said nothing for a beat, her gaze flickering between the two. Then, as if deciding to let it pass, she forced the smile back on her face. “Come. You should present ourselves to the king and queen before the welcoming feast. I’m sure Viserys will want to see your children—and Alicent will pretend to.” 

Carys raised one brow; she knew that the relationship between Rhaenyra and Alicent was strained, but she did not imagine it was ruined enough that Rhaenyra felt comfortable to openly speak against the queen. 

Without another word, she took Aelinor’s hand, while Trystane took Aethan’s. He extended her arm to her, more out of obligation than affection. Carys hesitated, then gently placed her fingers on his arm. There was no harm in presenting a united front, even if both parties despised each other. 

Together, they walked towards the king’s pavilion, keeping their steps slow for the children toddling beside them. 

“I can’t imagine how much money Viserys spent on this,” Trystane murmured, keeping his voice low so that only she would hear. 

Carys nodded in agreement, looking around at the tents and banners. There were noble houses from all across the realm– Tarth, Manderly, Hornwood, and Baratheon– but the king’s tent was the grandest of them all, standing taller than the rest. “And for a nameday the prince won’t even remember.” 

Trystane huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s not for the boy,” he admonished. “It’s for appearance’s sake. And Alicent’s.”

Carys didn’t respond. She merely watched as a servant hurried past them, carrying a tray laden with wine glasses and a decanter. Laughter rang out from a nearby tent, where a group of Reachmen lounged in the shade. 

The closer they came to the tent, the more crowded it became. Nobles stepped out of their way, smiling courteously at the princess and her family. Rhaenyra walked just ahead, saying nothing, but Carys could feel the shift in her pace. She was hardened by the events of the past few years, her skin thicker and her words sharper, though Carys could sense that Rhaenyra was still the same soft girl she had met all those years ago.

At last, the flaps of the king’s pavilion appeared before them, embroidered with dragons and stitched with gold. Two Kingsguard stood on either side, unmoving and stone-faced. One stepped forward and lifted the flap without a word, allowing them to duck inside. 

Inside, the air was thick with incense and summer heat, despite the efforts of the servants desperately waving fans. Targaryen banners hung from the ceiling, and golden candelabras were lit, even in broad daylight. Musicians played quietly in the corner, the music of their harps adding to the quiet ambience. 

Viserys sat on a cushioned chair on a dais, looking out at the courtiers below him. His cheeks were flushed, most likely due to the glass of wine in his hand. Carys was shocked at how much older he looked; his hair was thinner than the last time she saw him, his skin more sallow. Alicent sat beside him, preening like some bird of paradise on her chair, pristine as ever in her gown of red silk. The prince was nowhere to be seen; Carys had no doubt that he was being passed around by cooing ladies. 

Rhaenyra stepped forward, dipping her head slightly. “Father, may I present the princess Carys and her husband, Trystane Lannister, as well as their children, Aethan and Aelinor.”

Viserys’ face lit with joy. “Family needs no presentation, Rhaenyra,” he said, rising to his feet. He stepped down from the dais, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Come, let me look at you properly.”

Carys guided the children forward. Aethan bowed stiffly, like they’d practiced, while Aelinor continued to hide behind her skirts, blushing shyly. 

Viserys’ eyes crinkled kindly as he looked them over. “My grandnephew and niece,” he beamed, ruffling the hair on Aethan’s head. “So much of Casterly Rock in their faces. But I see the blood of the dragon in them, too.” He looked up at Carys, his voice softening. “You were just a girl the last time I saw you. Now look at you– a mother.”

Carys dipped her head with a small smile. “It’s good to see you again, Uncle.”

Before he could respond, Alicent rose beside him, hands folded primly. “It is always a pleasure to welcome kin to court,” she said, offering Carys a faint, practiced smile. “Though I regret we see each other so rarely.”

“Your Grace,” Carys replied, curtsying low.

Alicent’s gaze slid toward Trystane, lingering just a moment too long. “And Ser Trystane,” she added, her tone polite but cool. “The roads from the Westerlands are long. I hope the journey was not too harsh.”

Trystane inclined his head. “It was tolerable.”

A silence fell, just long enough to be noticeable. Rhaenyra stepped in, her voice smooth as silk. “Perhaps they’d like to rest before the feast. It’s been a long ride, and the children could use something to eat.”

“Of course,” Viserys agreed, clapping his hands once. “They’ll have the royal quarters for the night. And tomorrow, the tourney! Aethan, will you watch the knights tilt for the prince’s favor?”

Aethan looked up, eyes wide. “Yes, Your Grace.”

That brought a true laugh from the king. “Spoken like a true little lord.”

Alicent said nothing, but Carys caught the brief flicker of annoyance in her expression.

“I’ll see them to their rooms,” Rhaenyra offered quickly, already reaching for Aelinor’s hand. “Come, little one. There are lemon cakes hiding in the kitchens, if you know where to look.”

Aelinor glanced at her mother, and at Carys’s nod, she followed. Aethan trailed behind, glancing back at the king with something like awe.

As they stepped from the pavilion, Carys looked over her shoulder. Trystane was already drifting toward the wine table, his back turned.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The festivities dragged on with little reproach. The scouts still had not found a beast suitable enough for the king to kill, and Carys could sense the nobility around her growing impatient. All the wine in the world could not satiate the hot weather, so they crammed inside the grand tent, posturing themselves to their king and queen as well as they could. 

All the babes had gone down for a nap; the twins were resting on Carys’ bed in the Lannister tent, with Norei watching over them. Aegon’s departure had thinned the number of children running underfoot, once the young prince was carried to his room by his wetnurse. 

Carys fanned herself faster, praying for some reprieve. The oppressive air seemed to seep into her very bones, making each breath feel heavy. As a breeze stirred gently through the canvas, tugging at the edges of the rich tapestries, Carys turned and let her gaze wander to the entrance. 

It was then that she saw Rhaenyra slowly make her way through the tent, looking entirely uninterested in the events around her. While Carys could empathize with her cousin, her attention was drawn away by the gaggle of women that perched around Alicent. 

Alicent was seemingly glowing with her second pregnancy; Carys was slightly taken aback at how natural motherhood came to the young girl. There were similarities between them, she supposed. They were both young mothers, but while Alicent had a cohort of devoted women, Carys felt stranded on a cliff’s edge, her children’s futures resting on her ability to keep them safe. 

Johanna sat beside Carys on the low couch, nursing a chalice of wine. Her hair had begun graying at the edges, the lines in her face deeper, but she was no less beautiful than she was as a younger woman. None of her younger children had come to the king’s hunt; Tyshara and Cerelle were entertaining suitors, while the other four chose to remain at home. 

“Did you hear the rumors from Lord Swann’s holdings?” Lady Ceira Redwyne whispered to Johanna, keeping her voice a careful notch above silence. “Lady Jeyne is reported to have been abducted when one of her husband’s ships sailed through the Stepstones” 

Carys raised her brows in concern. Reports of casualties in the Stepstones were not unknown to her, especially with Lannister holdings and cargo scattered across the Narrow Sea. While Jason would never openly admit it, he was more wary about the war than Viserys was. 

“What will happen to Lady Jeyne?” Alicent leaned forward as far as she could, her brown eyes wide with worry. Carys mirrored her sentiments, silently praying to the gods for Jeyne’s safety. 

“She’s to be sold to a pillow house in the Free Cities. If you believe the rumors,” Lady Ceira sighed, reluctantly turning her gaze away. The other women in the circle murmured their sympathies, dropping their eyes to the floor in silent reverence. 

At that moment, a young man stumbled in, a slight form hunched by a weak leg, yet his piercing eyes were alert. “I fear the gods did not make me for hunting, my ladies.” A nervous, somewhat apologetic smile tugged at his lips as he pressed forward, using the cane at his side for support. “Might I sit with you?”

“But of course,” Alicent smiled, gesturing to an empty seat. “Please, join us. This is Larys Strong, the youngest son of our Master of Law, Lyonel.” 

Larys settled down, resting his cane against his knee. Carys looked at him from the corner of her eye. She knew little about the Strong family, only that they were one of the poorer noble houses, though their patriarch seemed to offer the king good wisdom and advice. 

“My lord husband says that no king has ever been able to tame the Stepstones for long,” Johanna sighed quietly, fanning herself faster against the oppressive warmth under the canvas.  “It’s an inhospitable place, suited only for savages.”ff

Carys forced herself not to roll her eyes. “Some might say the King’s ambitions are greater than his ability to conquer.”

Ceira turned back toward Carys, her wrinkled lips pressed into a disapproving line. “Perhaps the princesses can give us some insight?”

It was only then that Carys noticed Rhaenyra standing quietly just behind her, a small cup of wine resting in her hands, the liquid glimmering faintly in the light. She had changed into her riding jacket, though she still wore her skirts underneath. How odd. 

“I’m not sure how I could,” Rhaenyra said bashfully. “I’ve never been to the Stepstones.”

Carys nodded in agreement. “My battle skills are lacking, I’m afraid, compared to the king and his council.” 

“That much is true.” Ceira pursed her lips, her wrinkled hands clasped around the puppy in her lap. “But your dear father is the mastermind behind this war,” she mused. “Is he not?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Carys retorted. “I’ve not spoken to Daemon in years.” 

Rhaenyra hummed in agreement, resting one hand on Carys’ shoulder as a sign of support. “Neither have I. My uncle is an ambitious man, always seeking glory and greatness.” She was half-joking, but there was truth in her words. 

“Since you supplanted him as heir,” Ceira goaded her. 

Carys’ eyes narrowed. She did not like the way Lady Redwyne  delighted in adding venom to an otherwise peaceful. By the looks of it, the other ladies were clearly captivated by this exchange, their eyes bouncing back and forth between Ceira and the princesses.“‘Supplanted’ is a strong word.”

Alicent cut in, keeping her voice cool. “Daemon made his choice, Lady Ceira. The princess Rhaenyra was more suited to the role.”

“He’s made a mess and the king must put an end to it,” Johanna argued, casting a supportive look to Ceira. “Send fleets and men and clear out the Triarchy for good.”

Carys pressed her lips together, tasting the growing resentment in her mouth that rose alongside her disbelief. “A mess, yes, but a mess made by many hands.”

She turned slowly towards Johanna and Ceira, choosing her words with care. “We must be cautious. A show of force without a clear path to success would drain our coffers and our spirits. It would undermine the king’s credibility as well, and prolong the conflict.”

Johanna scoffed, her grip tightening on the stem of her glass. “ Prolong ? The conflict already drags on, draining the Crown’s coffers and putting good men at risk.” 

“That may be true,” Carys conceded, splaying her hands. “But a decisive attack without securing loyalty from the Free Cities’ merchants or strengthening our own defenses creates chaos. We must consider diplomacy.”

She paused, letting her words sink in. “I speak not against the king’s will, nor against the advice of his council, but in service of both. A careful, deliberate approach will make us stronger in the long term.”

Across the circle, several heads nodded, and even Larys Strong’s piercing gaze glimmered with faint approval. Carys bit back a smile as the ladies murmured their agreement; her counsel was beginning to matter, even if it was just among women.

The rush of power felt good, however short lived it was. Lady Redwyne cleared her throat, her beady eyes darting back and forth between Rhaenyra and Carys. “The princess is right, as unfortunate the situation may be. A solution to war has never been fair, nor simple.”

“The Crown is not at war,” Rhaenyra objected, looking rather incredulous. 

“The Crown is at war, princess,” Ceira simpered. “Though your father refuses to admit it, we’ve been dragged into it by your uncle and the Sea Snake. 

“And how do you serve the realm of late, Lady Redwyne?” Rhaenyra’s voice was considerably cooler now, her purple eyes narrowed in annoyance. “By eating cake?”

Carys hid her smile behind her fan as the older woman backed down. The flat-nosed puppy in her lap took advantage of her inattention and ate the remaining food on her plate, his slurps filling the silence. 

Without another word, Rhaenyra turned away, storming back towards the entrance of the tent. Carys watched helplessly as her cousin pushed through the open flaps, her hands curled in fists at her side. 

Across the circle, Lady Ceira pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips, trying to mask her indignation to no avail. The silence that fell in Rhaenyra’s wake was thick, heavy with Alicent’s clear disappointment at the princess’ lack of manners. Carys let it settle, choosing to instead let the awkward silence pass. She picked mindlessly at the hem of her sleeve, debating on whether to speak. 

“Whatever our quarrels, we do not aid the realm by adding kindling to the fire,” Carys finally said, keeping her voice sweet. 

Her good-mother just hummed in agreement, though Carys could sense her trepidation. Johanna, through her own upbringing, believed that a woman’s place was not within politics, but the home instead. Carys could not fault her for this thinking, but neither could she let it dictate the future of her or her children– Aelinor especially. 

Carys bid farewell to the other women before lifting her skirts and leaving the queen’s circle. Just before she could leave the king’s pavilion, Rhaenyra stormed back inside, her face beet red as she strode towards Viserys on his makeshift throne. 

“Is that what I am to you?” She hissed, ignoring the strange looks she received. “A prize to proffer about to the great houses?”

Behind the king, Lyonel Strong quickly bowed and left, not wanting to participate in whatever familial spat that was about to occur. 

Viserys clenched his jaw, his annoyance clearly displayed on his face. “You’re of age, Rhaenyra,” he shot back, glowering at his daughter. “And Tyland Lannister is an excellent match.”

“He’s arrogant and self serious,” Rhaenyra spluttered. 

“Well, I thought you might have that in common.” Viserys exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. “Since you came of age, I’ve been slowly drowning in a lake of parchment, flung from every corner of the realm. Marriage proposals, all!”

He paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath. 

“I have tried, often, to discuss it with you but you’ve refused me at every turn!” Viserys continued. “Carys… Carys has already done her duty — married and provided her husband with children. Why can’t you do the same?”

“Because I do not wish to be married!” Rhaenyra shouted, her voice cutting through the growing silence. 

“Even I do not exist above duty and tradition, Rhaenyra!” Viserys’ face was an ugly shade of purple now, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head as he towered over his daughter. 

Across the pavilion, Carys paused mid-step, equally as shocked as the courtiers around her. The chatter and movement that normally filled the space fell away, fading to a nervous hush. Carys held her breath, waiting for the moment to pass. Some courtiers turned their heads subtly, some kept their gazes averted, and others were as bold as to stare at the king openly.

Before Rhaenyra could respond with something scathing, Otto cut in, his voice considerably quieter than that of his kings. “ Excuse me , Your Grace.”

Otto’s interjection was ignored. Viserys took a slow step forward, his eyes fixed on Rhaenyra with a look that blended frustration and weariness. The silence dragged on, heavy as stone. Carys felt her chest tighten. No one moved– who would dare to?

“You must marry,” Viserys continued, dropping his voice. 

Without another word, Rhaenyra spun on her heel, promptly leaving the pavilion. The silence that followed her was so overwhelming that Carys could think of nothing else but to follow her cousin, pushing through the tent flaps and into the smoldering heat. She caught a flash of silver hair striding through the crowd; Carys pushed past servants and noblemen alike, quickening her pace to catch up. 

She caught Rhaenyra just in time as the princess slid onto the back of her grey mare, her face pale and stony. “Rhaenyra, wait!”

Her cousin paused, her hands tightening on the reins. For a moment, Rhaenyra didn’t look at Carys, until their eyes met and her lips curled into a sneer. 

“It was a mistake coming here.” Her voice shook slightly as she kept the horse from taking off. “I knew that he was going to do this.”

Carys took a step closer, unflinching. “It wasn’t a mistake. You’re the princess- your father’s heir! You need to show them a united front.”

Rhaenrya just scoffed. “A united front with her ?”

“She’s not the villain!” Carys stepped closer again and kept her voice low; people were beginning to stare. “Your father decided to remarry. That’s not her fault.”

“I won’t pretend for their comfort,” Rhaenyra snapped back. 

“You don’t have to pretend,” Carys said carefully. “But you have a duty. Running from it doesn’t help.”

There was a flicker of something in Rhaenyra’s eyes- hurt, perhaps- but it vanished quickly, replaced by something colder. 

“Listen to you,” she hissed, voice curdled with scorn. “You sound like her now.”

Carys stiffened. Never before had they had a spat like this. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Rhaenyra tilted her head. “Look at you. You used to speak your mind, and now you tiptoe around Trystane like he’s some dog that’s about to bite. I won’t become a discontented housewife, clinging to some idea of duty. 

She pulled on the reins, her mare stepping back with a snort. 

“I’d rather die alone than be silenced,” Rhaenyra muttered. Before Carys could say anything, she kicked her heels and rode off in a blur of silver and churning dust. 

Chapter Text

The morning following Rhaenyra’s disappearance was met with warm weather and clear skies. Despite the princess’ absence, the court had no qualms with pursuing their hunt. Trystane and Jason left early in the morning, along with the rest of the party, in search of the white hart the king so desperately sought. A scout had spotted the beast in the Kingswood, and with the weather being so nice, the men believed that conditions were favorable. 

With no one to entertain besides the twins, Carys allowed herself to sleep late, only rising when Aethan and Aelinor roused her. Breakfast was a simple affair, consisting only of bread, eggs and jam, and was quickly finished. 

By nightfall, Rhaenyra was still nowhere to be found. Her sworn Kingsguard had gone after her the day before, but neither had returned. The camp buzzed with gossip in her absence, though the king seemed content to ignore it, pressing on with Aegon’s nameday celebrations as if nothing were amiss.

Carys ate dinner with the twins alone, the air heavy beneath the pavilion. The chatter from neighboring tents drifted through the canvas walls, but she paid little attention to it. Afterward, she guided the children inside, brushing the hair back from Aelinor’s brow and helping Aethan climb into his pallet. For just a moment, she allowed herself to imagine that the world was simple. That all she had to do was tuck them in, kiss their foreheads, and let the day slip away into the twilight.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. The flap to the outer tent stirred, causing Carys to freeze for a moment. A shadow lingered there, silhouetted by the candlelight.

She rose quickly, making sure not to disturb the sleeping twins. Gwayne’s knife was at her belt; Carys reached down, wrapping her fingers around the hilt before diving through the tent flaps. 

Falyse Hill stood half-naked before her, wearing nothing but a thin silk robe. Beside her was Trystane, one hand latched protectively on her arm as they stared at Carys with wide eyes. 

Fury boiled in her chest. Carys forced herself not to scream nor stab either one of them, instead pulling all her rage into the ice-cold look she sent Falyse. 

“I suggest you leave before things become increasingly worse for you.” Her voice was deadly soft, to the point where Carys didn’t recognize the sound. 

Falyse wasted no time, offering a quick curtsey to her before half-sprinting from the tent. The flap fell close behind her, leaving only the two of them. Trystane only stared at her, his jaw tight, though he made no move to apologize. 

Carys’s hand still hovered near the knife at her belt, but she dropped it slowly, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “I don’t care how you feel about me,” she hissed. “But you will never, ever, bring any of your whores around my children again.”

Trystane laughed hollowly, the sound grating against her ears. “You act as though they noticed. They’re asleep, Carys.”

“They will notice. And when they do, they’ll remember their father as a man who paraded his whore around their mother.” She felt her hands shaking. Carys buried them in her skirts so Trystane wouldn’t see, instead forcing her face into a stony mask. 

Trystane only laughed hollowly, dragging his silk robe over his shoulders. “As if you’re any better.”

“Excuse me?”

He loomed over her now, green eyes glinting in the candlelight. “I’ve seen the way you act around Gwayne Hightower,” Trystane snarled. “The whining wench you turn into every time he’s around. Tell me, Carys, when was the last time you’ve heard from him?”

Carys felt her blood run cold, her heart hammering. Panic prickled beneath her skin, but she shoved it down, forcing her fury to the surface. “What have you done?” she whispered

Trystane’s lips curled, cruel and mocking. “Every letter he’s ever sent you has gone through me first. Did you think I’d allow my name to be sullied by a wife who disrespects me?”

Carys clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. “You forget who I am,” she spat,  her words trembling with barely contained rage. “A fucking Targaryen, and a dragonrider. If I wanted you dead, you would be ash before sunrise.”

His hand shot out before she could react, slapping her across the face. Pain flared, hot and sharp, but fury eclipsed it. “You are nothing but a broodmare,” he hissed. “And you will remember your place.”

Carys pressed her lips into a thin line, her cheek burning. Every instinct screamed at her to strike back, to call the guards, to set the tent on fire, but she forced herself to remain upright. Her hands shook, her body shaking with rage.

“Pray you never test me again,” she whispered.

Without another word, she stormed into the night, forcing her anger to subside. Her cheek still throbbed where Trystane struck her, but the pain was nearly nothing compared to the rage she felt. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, her skin hot with shame and anger. 

She found solitude at one of the feasting tables, the plates of food and bottles of wine long forgotten. With the children already asleep, Carys was determined to stay out of the tent for as long as she could. She didn’t care if Trystane decided to bring another one of his mistresses back; so long as the twins didn’t see, and Carys didn’t catch sight of the woman, he could do damn well what he wanted. 

There was a half-full bottle of Dornish wine on the table before her. Without thinking, Carys snatched the bottle and poured the contents into an empty chalice, drowning her sorrows as best she could. 

The music and laughter around her seemed to swirl as she drank more, to the point where Carys could not remember why she came out here. She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to hold herself upright. Her thoughts drifted; unwanted memories of Trystane striking her, looking at her, touching her. It made her sick to think of her marriage, and yet…

A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. She looked up, squinting through the haze, frowning slightly until she caught sight of that all-too familiar auburn hair. 

Gwayne stood close by, his expression hidden by shadows. Carys felt his eyes on her, surely noticing the great welt on her face by now. A flicker of relief sparked in her chest. She was relieved that someone noticed, despite her longing to be alone. 

“You’re hurt,” he said at last. Gwayne sat down beside her, so close that their legs were pressed together. 

In the years of their separation, his face was leaner, his eyes sharper. All traces of youth had melted away into the man before her. He looked more aged, too. There were soft lines around the corners of his mouth and his eyes. This new image of Gwayne sent her heart into a flutter, almost enough to dispel the fog in her mind. 

“It’s nothing,” she murmured, pushing the chalice away. “I’ll be alright, come morning.” The lie felt brittle in her mouth. 

Gwayne didn’t press her, only reached quietly to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, his thumb lingering near her temple. 

“You look different,” he said finally, his voice low.

“It has been two years,” she murmured, her voice trembling despite herself. “A great deal can change in two years.”

A shadow crossed Gwayne’s face. His tone sharpened, bitter. “And yet in all that time, not a word from you. Not one letter answered.”

His words cut into her like a knife. Carys felt her chest tighten, and she looked away, ashamed. The guilt and hurt she had spent years burying nearly boiled over, causing bile to rise in her throat. “It wasn’t me,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I swear on the gods, Gwayne. Trystane—he… he  took them all.” Her eyes burned, and she blinked hard against tears. “I promise, Gwayne. I wrote to you.”

Silence stretched between them until Carys felt she could bear it no longer. Gwayne’s hand flexed at his side, as if reaching for a sword he didn’t carry. When he spoke, his voice was rough, frayed with distraught. “Do you know I dream of you?” He whispered. “Almost every night. And every morning I wake cursing myself. I am no septon, yet I pray for strength not to love what I cannot have.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs, a wild rhythm of pain and yearning. The words she wanted to speak hovered on her lips—I love you— but they caught in her throat. Her hands curled into her skirts to keep from reaching for him.

Carys shook her head, willing her body to move, to end this torment. “I should go,” she managed, her voice barely audible. She turned, taking a step away, her shoulders trembling with restraint.

But something inside her rebelled against the parting. She stopped. Slowly, almost against her will, she turned back. Carys reached out tentatively, almost cautiously, to place a hand on his shoulder. She felt Gwayne tensed for only a moment, before softening beneath her touch. 

“I care for you,” she whispered, her voice barely discernible over the music. “I always have. I have made mistakes, and perhaps I’ve been careless, but…” Carys felt her voice falter, worried that her strength failed her. “My only hope is you never forget that.”

For a moment that felt like an eternity, he did not move. Then, slowly, he turned to face her. Moonlight carved the line of his jaw, and Carys felt her breath falter. She felt a sudden rush in her stomach; she wanted to kiss him, desperately. 

“I know,” he murmured. His hand rose, thumb brushing across her fingers in a tender stroke. “I’ve never forgotten that.”

They remained like that for a long while. Carys only wished to be in his company, even without speaking, as the revelers behind them whooped and hollered to the sound of the music. 

The night was cold, and yet being so close to Gwayne made Carys feel impossibly warm. It was a good feeling, she thought. Still, guilt gnawed at the edges of that comfort—she was a mother now. What would people say?

After a long while, he rose, tall and solemn in the pale light. “I must take my leave,” Gwayne said softly. Taking her hand, he pressed his lips to her skin, the warmth searing her in a way she knew she’d remember. “Nothing would please me more than to hear from you.”

Carys forced a smile on her face as the tears began to burn in her eyes. “I’ll write,” she promised. “Will you write back?”

She felt like a little girl again, desperately wishing for something. Her fears were dashed aside when Gwayne nodded gently, kissed her cheekbone, and walked away into the night.

Carys felt her heart begin to ache as she lost sight of him. Fighting back the tears, she buried her hands into her skirts and whirled around, desperate to get away. If only Veraxes were here—she would have taken Aethan and Aelinor onto her lap, soared above the Kingswood, and disappeared into the unknown

Instead, she drifted back towards the glow of the bonfire. Laughter and music filled the air, and Carys almost forgot about all her worries when she saw Alicent walking briskly away from a drunken Viserys. The queen’s face was pale and tight as she marched away, stopped only by Carys. 

“Is he well?” Carys asked, keeping her voice low. 

Alicent gave the briefest incline of her head. She looked back at Viserys, her eyes almost tearing up, before walking away towards the royal tent. 

Carys watched her go, pressing her mouth into a thin line before walking up to her uncle. He was swaying slightly, the contents of his chalice nearly sloshing onto the ground. “Uncle,” she said, grabbing his elbow. “Are you alright?”

Viserys blinked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, as though the king himself had been crying. “Ah… Carys,” he slurred, patting her on the arm. “My favorite niece.”

Your only niece, you fool. Carys just tightened her grip on his arm. “You need rest, your Grace.”

Viserys shook his head, looking back at the great rush of flames. “So much more gentle than your father,” he muttered. “So much kinder. I…” his voice trailed off as he took another sip of wine, his thoughts lost in the ether. 

Carys watched him for a few moments, her mind churning. Viserys was in a doting mood, it seemed, his mood elevated by the spirits in his cup. 

This is your chance, a voice in the back of her mind hissed. Carys swallowed hard, keeping a firm hand on his arm. “Uncle,” she began carefully, keeping her voice low. “I must ask you something.”

Viserys blinked away, swaying slightly, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. “Anything,” he murmured, though the word was slurred. “You are my blood.”

Her chest clenched. Carys drew in a breath, allowing the words to spill out before she could stop. “I am miserable, Uncle,” she whispered. “My marriage– Trystane– he is cruel to me. He strikes me. He–” her voice cracked, and she stopped, ashamed by the rawness of it. 

Viserys only stared at her, the firelight flickering in his wet eyes. For a heartbeat, she thought she had pierced through the haze of wine. His lips parted, as though he might say yes.

“You are the king,” she pressed, her desperation becoming more apparent “You could end it. You could free me. Annul this marriage.”

He shook his head slowly, as though it was too much for him to bear. “No, no. Marriage… marriage is sacred,” Viserys mumbled. “A vow before the gods cannot be broken.” His hand slipped from her arm, falling limp at his side. “We all must do our duty.”

“I’ve done my duty!” Carys hissed. “I’ve given him two children. I have done what you asked– any business with the Lannisters that you’ve done only happened because of me.” She briefly considered falling on her knees and begging; perhaps then he would listen. 

He only swayed slightly, purple eyes glassy in the firelight. “And so you have,” Viserys said thickly, a faint, broken smile tugging at his lips. “A mother, a wife… you have done all that was asked of you.”

“Then release me from it!” Carys’s voice cracked as the words left her. Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “If I have given everything, then let me have this. Let me have peace. For once”

The peace that you never gave Aemma. Or Alicent. Or me. 

Viserys’s expression faltered. For a fleeting moment, something flickered in his eyes — pity, perhaps, or sorrow. He lifted a shaking hand, as though to touch her cheek, but let it fall again. “You think I have peace in my marriage?” he whispered, his voice thick with wine. “No, child. None of us are free. Not you. Not I. Not anyone bound by crown or gods.”

“I'm asking to be free of this, uncle,” Carys begged, her breath catching. “I am asking to be safe. To not live in fear of him. Please, Uncle—”

“Enough.” The word came soft but final, trembling from his lips. He shook his head once more, his gaze falling to the ground. “The gods will not unmake what has been made. You must endure. We all must endure.”

Carys’s lips parted, but no words came. The weight of his dismissal crashed over her, hollowing her out. She felt rooted to the spot, as though if she tried to take a step, she would fall over. 

Viserys gave a weak chuckle, as though to soften the cruelty of his words, and stumbled back toward the fire. “You are strong, Carys. Stronger than you know. That is… the one good thing Daemon gave you, I think.”

And with that, he turned and lurched into the crowd, quickly accompanied by his grooms, leaving Carys standing in the firelight, her tears burning her cheeks.

Chapter Text

115 AC

The last days of winter had begun to melt away into spring. The trees were growing their leaves once more, standing bright and tall against the pale grey sky. Life had come back to Westeros, it seemed, bringing in a new era that was filled with peace. 

Carys stood before the grand windows in her chamber, hands folded behind her back as she looked down at the city below. She hated King’s Landing as a girl, with its constant noise, the smell of the streets, the way the humid air clung to her skin. But now, the distant sound of shouting and the cry of gulls from the harbor made her smile. No longer was she a prisoner of Casterly Rock. 

Her reflection in the glass caught her eye. Carys’ gaze flitted over the lean shape of her face, the violet eyes that seemed brighter than they were four months ago. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The sea wind was sharp and cold that morning. Winter was in its final days, yet the cold still lingered in the air, causing a deep chill to settle in Carys’ bones. She stood on the causeway leading out of Casterly Rock, her gaze focused on some distant spot on the horizon. The sun had barely risen, painting the Sunset Sea in shades of bronze. 

Behind her, she could hear the clamor of servants as they loaded the last of their luggage into the carriages. 

“My lady, everything is almost packed.” Norei’s soft voice broke through her thoughts, bringing Carys back to reality. “The dragonkeepers know to expect you and Veraxes today.” 

Carys nodded solemnly, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. “Any word from my uncle?”

“No, princess, but the queen sent word.”

“The Red Keep won’t be surprised, then?”

“I should hope not.” Norei stood beside her now, taking Carys’ hand in her own. 

The two women looked out at the sea for a long while, standing together as they always had. For a moment, everything was as it was over two years ago: two girls who dreamed of a destiny that seemed so far away. 

At last, Norei spoke. “We should go soon.”

“You’ll ride with the twins?” Carys met Norei’s gaze, her violet eyes narrowed against the wind. 

“Of course.” Norei bowed her head low. “I’ll not let them out of my sight.”

Carys’ lips pressed into a thin line. She trusted no one else with her children- certainly not the Lannister servants Johanna had appointed to accompany them. They all but cheered when Carys announced that she was leaving. Even Trystane had not seen them off, his farewell a chaste kiss to the twin’s cheeks before they went to bed the night prior. 

There were arguments over Aethan’s departure. Jason had been adamant that his grandson remain at the Rock to be raised as a proper Lannister. Carys had stood her ground, reminding them that Aethan was her son as much as theirs, and she would not have him grow up a stranger to her. Johanna, who had never hidden her distaste for Carys, surprised them all when she ceded.

“Let the boy go.” Her voice was clipped as she glared at Carys, her beady eyes narrowed in disgust. “He may live with his mother for now, until Trystane becomes Lord of the Rock. After that, he will return to us.” 

Carys refused to thank her. She only inclined her head politely, allowing her dark hair to hide the satisfactory smile that spread across her face. 

“Good.” She said now. Her voice was cool, but for the first time in years, Carys felt joy bubbling in her chest. 

Casterly Rock loomed behind her like a gravestone, a dark silhouette against the dawn sky. She did not turn back.

Veraxes was waiting at the far end of the causeway, his silver hide glowing in the dawn. His milky eyes were unfocused, but his nostrils flared as she approached, as if he could smell the anticipation rising off her like smoke.

“Gīda.” Calm. She rested her hand between his nostrils, feeling the warm scales beneath her palms. “Kesi sōvegon arlī, raqiros.”

Clearly satisfied, Veraxes exhaled a puff of air. Carys could hardly hide her excitement as she mounted him, feeling the familiar curve of the saddle beneath her. For one last time, she looked east, toward the road the wagons would take. Norei stood in the distance, the twins bundled against her skirts, watching.

“We’ll meet again in King’s Landing,” Carys called.

Then she leaned forward, gave Veraxes the word, and he leapt from the causeway with a roar that split the sky. The Sunset Sea and the Rock fell away beneath them as they climbed into the dawn, the wind cold and wild against her face.

Carys did not look back.

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In the time since they left Casterly Rock, their life settled into a new rhythm. The Red Keep, a place Carys once hated as a girl, now stood as a beacon of comfort and almost felt familiar again. She kept mostly to her own company, caring for the twins and taking solace in the few allies she had at court. 

Rhaenyra was one of those few. Their quarrel during Aegon’s nameday, as harsh as it had been, seemed like a distant memory now. All was forgiven following their spat, as Rhaenyra seemed to be much more respectful of Carys’ station. Deep down, Carys knew that it was largely due to Viserys’ insistence that Rhaenyra married. Despite all her rebellion, Rhaenyra finally ceded to her father’s wishes, and was swiftly sent to Storm’s End in search of a suitor. The marriage tour would soon come to an end, and Rhaenyra would return home. 

The return of their devotion to one another reminded Carys of her girlhood. Rhaenyra, despite her insistence in refusing to have children, adored the twins, and spent as much time with them as she could. They weren’t old enough to fly yet, but Carys agreed to let them see Veraxes and Syrax in the Dragonpit with Rhaenyra from time to time. 

When Rhaenyra’s tour took her from court again, the Keep felt strangely empty. Carys found herself wandering toward the royal nursery more often than not. She would sit in the cushioned window seat, watching as Aethan and Aelinor tumbled about the floor with Aegon, shrieking with laughter. She still would not allow them to sleep there, but she could not deny that the nursery was brighter with all three children together.

Perhaps it was that same longing for familiarity that led her to spend more time with Alicent. The Queen’s ladies were pleasant enough company, their chatter a welcome reprieve from the silence of her own chambers. And though Carys had sworn to keep her guard up where Alicent was concerned, she could not help but soften when she saw the woman’s tired eyes and weary smile. They were both young mothers, after all, and Carys suspected that Alicent found comfort in their shared bond as well. 

Viserys, however, had no such warmth for her. He had not spoken to her since the day she returned from the Rock. His silence was a punishment meant to make her repent for defying him. If that was his intent, it had failed. Carys had done her duty, borne the children he commanded of her, and she was free now. She cared little for what the men around her said anymore. 

Carys sat in the nursery with Alicent and her ladies, watching the royal children play with one another. Aegon and the twins took a liking to one another, and although Helaena was still small, Alicent brought her along. 

“My husband sent word from Storm’s End,” Hollis Conklyn– now Lady Fossoway- blabbered, supporting a toy dragon in her lap. “Rhaenyra is set to return home soon.” 

Carys raised a brow in question. “Is she?”

“She is. I expect she’s exhausted all her options.” Hollis flicked her fingers dismissively. “My husband’s brother was presented to her, of course, but she rejected him quickly. Said he was too spindly for her taste.” She gave a nervous laugh.

Carys parted her lips to reply, but the queen cut her off.

“You seem to know a great deal about the Princess’s travels, Lady Fossoway.” Alicent gave Hollis a sharp glance, her voice carrying an unmistakable edge.

Hollis nearly spilled her tea as she began to respond, caught off guard by Alicent’s tone. “Your Grace, I only repeat what my husband wrote–”

“I’m sure you do,” Alicent said coolly, rising from her seat. She wasn’t much taller than the other ladies, but stood firmly above them all now as though she were a statue. “Though one might wonder how it is that news from Storm’s End reaches you faster than it reaches the Red Keep.”

Carys hid her smile behind her hair. Hollis looked positively bewildered, looking around the room as though some invisible force was going to save her. 

Alicent had little patience for her ladies these days, though Carys could hardly blame her. Since Helaena’s birth, Alicent’s temper had grown shorter.. She seemed perpetually tired, as though she was shrinking underneath the crown and motherhood. Carys pitied her, knowing how little room there was for a woman to be anything more than a mother. 

Her thoughts were interrupted when Alicent tapped her on the shoulder, pulling her out of her reverie. 

“Princess.” Alicent jutted her chin towards the window, her brown eyes flashing. The other ladies gathered around her, tittering among themselves. 

Carys whirled around. Outside the window, she could see nothing except the vast blue of the sky, the terracotta roofs, and–

There. Just above the horizon, where the Narrow Sea met the sky, she could see a dark red shape flying towards the capital. 

Daemon. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

When news of Daemon and Caraxes’ return to the city reached the Keep, the king declared that the court would greet him in the Great Hall at once for a proper return home. 

Leaving the children to play in the nursery, Carys quickly made her way with the rest of Alicent’s ladies, smoothing her wrinkled skirts as she went. 

She and Alicent looked the complete opposite of one another; the queen wore a gown of blood red and black, while Carys wore one of sapphire blue and lilac. The hall was already alive with nerves as the lords and ladies looked around, as though they expected Daemon to appear out of thin air. 

Viserys stood before the Iron Throne, his gaze unwavering as he looked toward the doors. Neither he nor Otto looked particularly pleased with the entire situation; Daemon’s return to court was unexpected, and clearly unwanted. 

Carys could have sworn she saw silver hair in the crowd, but it disappeared quickly as the nobles packed together. An awkward silence filled the Great Hall as the doors remained open, though no one entered. Carys half-wondered if this entire thing was a farce; a prank on the king by Daemon. 

Before she doubted it completely, her father swanned through the doors. 

It had been some time since they last saw each other– her wedding, perhaps? Carys hardly cared, as her attention was quickly drawn away by the appearance of Daemon in the grand entrance. 

She couldn’t help but stare. His hair was shorter, cropped closer to his skull underneath a makeshift crown of driftwood. His swagger was still apparent, as if he were a younger man again, and in his hands was a great sword, hanging lazily at his side. 

Despite the eyes of the nobility, Daemon’s gaze was wholly focused on his brother. As he approached the dais, the Kingsguard stepped closer to Viserys, their hands on their swords. 

Carys chewed her lip nervously as she watched Ser Harrold point his sword at Daemon’s chest. He only looked down for a moment, more confused than anything, before extending the sword in his hand towards Viserys. 

“Add it to the chair.” Daemon dropped the sword, his gaze still fixed on the king as the clatter of metal echoed through the hall. 

Carys felt Alicent tense beside her, and noticed that her own hands were clenched at her sides. Ser Harold sheathed his own sword and reached down for the blade on the ground, never looking away from Daemon. 

Viserys and Daemon stared at one another for what seemed like an eternity. It was as though they were the only people in the world for that moment, and everyone else slipped away. 

“You wear a crown,” Viserys noted. “Do you also call yourself ‘king?’”

“Once we smashed the Triarchy, they named me ‘King of the Narrow Sea.’” Daemon shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. 

The crowd murmured. Carys pursed her lips as she watched her father fawn before Viserys. This act wasn’t entirely unheard of, however, it seemed unnatural for a man of his ambition and stature to preen before anyone.

“But I know that there is only one true king, your Grace,” Daemon continued. With that, he sank down to one knee, bowing his head to the floor. 

“My crown and the Stepstones are yours.” Daemon’s voice was louder now, the sound reverberating off the stone pillars. Reaching up with one hand, he removed the driftwood crown, looking back up to Viserys. 

The king began to smile, flicking his eyes towards the doors. “Well, where is Lord Corlys?”

“He sailed home to Driftmark.”

“So who holds the Stepstones?”

“The tides,” Daemon said slowly. “The crabs, and two thousand dead Triarchy corsairs. Staked to the sand to warn those who might follow.”

Without another word, Viserys stepped down from the dais, approaching his brother with his sword in hand. Carys felt her heart drop into her stomach; an image flickered in her mind, of Viserys bringing that great sword down on Daemon’s neck, as punishment for his insubordination. 

Instead, Viserys took the driftwood crown from Daemon, holding it up to look at it for a moment before passing it to a Kingsguard. 

“Rise.” His voice was low, though no less commanding.

Daemon rose unsteadily to his feet, his eyes never leaving Viserys’ face. For the first time in her life, Carys saw Daemon look completely helpless, as though he were a little boy being scolded again. It was an odd feeling, she thought. Seeing a man so great and terrible, brought to his knees by someone else. 

Viserys silently reached out, placing his hand on Daemon’s shoulder before drawing him in for an embrace. The court began to applaud as they witnessed the reunion of the king and his wayward brother, seemingly pleased that their Rogue Prince was brought to heel at last. 

Carys felt herself clapping with them, a slow smile spreading across her face. Perhaps Daemon changed for the better, his years in the Stepstones dulling that streak of ambition that ran through him. 

“The realm owes you a great debt, brother.” Viserys patted Daemon on the shoulder, his pride evident in his expression. “Come.”

The two walked out of the great hall together, heads bowed low as they spoke to one another. As the nobles began to filter out, Carys followed suit, lifting up her skirts as she stepped down from the dais. Alicent was immediately flocked by her ladies-in-waiting, their voices high as they prattled to one another. 

Before Carys could leave, she felt someone seize her sleeve. She whirled, ready to snap at whoever grabbed her, before freezing. 

Rhaenyra stood there, still in her traveling coat. Stray strands of silver hair clung to her flushed face, and a faint stench of salt and fish clung to her. 

“Seven hells, Rhaenyra, when did you get in?” Carys gaped at her cousin, eyes wide. 

“Not long ago.” Rhaenyra grabbed her elbow and pulled her towards the stairwell. For someone so short, her grip was surprisingly tight. “My father can’t know I’m here yet.”

Carys blinked, startled, glancing back at the throne as they slipped into the shadowed hall behind the Iron Throne. “Why in the gods’ names not? He’s been asking after you since Borros sent word that you left Storm’s End.”

“That’s precisely why.” Rhaenyra’s mouth curled into a sneer. “He’ll be furious at me. Not one of the suitors he put before me were suitable whatsoever.”

“No, you’re not.” Carys wrinkled her nose as she gave Rhaenyra a once-over. “You smell like fish..”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. “I do not.”

“You do. Go wash, or you’ll wake the twins up with how bad you smell.” Carys plugged her nose in mock-disgust, grinning when Rhaenyra scoffed and spun on her heel. 

By the time she reached her chambers once more, Carys noticed that the door was slightly ajar. A panicked feeling rose in her throat; she reached for her knife, fingers wrapping around the hilt as she pushed the door open. 

She was surprised to hear the sound of giggling- the twins were rolling around with laughter as a woman in the center of the room played peek-a-boo.

With a start, Carys realized who it was. “Mother?” 

Rhea Royce looked up at once, smiling as though no time had passed. “Lord Arryn and I came from Runestone to speak with the king about sheep trade,” she said, brushing a curl from Aelinor’s face. “I told him I would not leave until I saw my daughter. I’ll be gone by morning. I couldn’t resist stopping by to meet my daughter and grandchildren.”

Carys realized with a start just how much older her mother looked, though Rhea only had thirty-four years. In their time apart, the creases around Rhea’s eyes and mouth had deepened. A touch of grey threaded her dark hair, catching in the firelight, and yet it did not diminish her. If anything, it made her look sharper. Wiser, too.

“I didn’t see you come into the Great Hall,” Carys said softly, still studying her. 

Rhea just laughed lightly, scooping Aelinor into her arms and kissing her cheeks until the little girl shrieked with giggles. “If I had known Daemon would be arriving today as well, I would have waited outside. Gerold nearly turned the horses around.”

“Aye, no one would blame you.” Carys sat down on the floor, crossing her legs beneath her.

“I’d hope not.” Rhea set Aelinor down, sitting next to her on the carpet. 

For a long while, they sat in silence, watching as the twins played with the various toys spread out before them. Carys’ heart warmed at the sight of her mother and children together. After the last few years, she wanted nothing more than her family- her true family- to be reunited once again, all under the same roof. It was a distant dream, but one Carys held dear nonetheless. 

Rhea looked up at her, her bronze eyes shining. “You’ve done well,” she said softly. Her hand came up to rest on Carys’ cheek, her palm warm. “I’m proud of you.”

Carys felt her throat tighten, and tears pricked in the corners of her eyes. She wished for nothing more than Rhea to be proud of her, to see the woman she’d become in their years apart. 

“I want to come home,” she whispered. “I want Aethan and Aelinor to grow up where I did. I want them to ride in the mountains, and hawk with Gerold.” 

Rhea just sighed. Her bronze eyes flickered in the candlelight, turning gold for just a moment. “If only it could happen,” she murmured. “Viserys won’t let you go. Not now that you’ve left your husband.”

“But you did it!” Carys argued. 

“And paid for it,” Rhea interrupted gently, though her gaze was steady. “And I’d make the same choice again, every time. But you need to be careful with how you go about it.”

Carys’ mouth opened, then closed again. She felt like a child again, lashing out against the rules put in place for her. She knew it was foolish; despite her physical escape from the Rock, the Lannisters still had a hold over her children. Aethan would be taken from her one day- Carys wasn’t naive enough to ignore that. But she could give them a few good years, living in the Vale as she had, spending their days outside and being taken care of by their kin.

Was it foolish to want more for them?

Before Carys could speak, the door swung open. Rhaenyra stood in the entrance, freshly bathed. Her hair was still damp, and curled down her back, cascading over the shoulders of her yellow gown.

“Lady Royce.” Rhaenyra inclined her head politely. “It’s a pleasure to have you in the capital again.”

“Aye, a pleasure for few, I suspect.” Rhea’s distaste for the city remained firm, even after all these years. 

Carys worried that Rhaenyra would be insulted by the jab, but instead the princess smiled. “My father can keep his opinions to himself,” Rhaenyra said doggedly. “You are my favorite aunt, after all.”

“I’m your only aunt, child.” Despite her firm tone, Rhea’s expression was anything but. 

Rhaenyra laughed, the sound bright and clear. “Will you be joining us in the courtyard?”

“Nay. I’d rather stay here with my grandchildren.”

“Then I suppose I must steal their mother away.” Rhaenyra’s gaze softened as she turned to Carys. “You are expected as well.”

Carys nodded, glancing back toward the twins. She bent to kiss them each on the forehead before turning to her mother. “When do you suppose my mother will visit next?” she asked quietly.

Rhea’s lips grew into a smirk. “Whenever Viserys decides to throw another wedding.”

The remark made Carys grin. She lingered just a moment longer, taking in the sight of Rhea with the children before she turned to follow Rhaenyra out, closing the door gently behind her.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

“Daemon, he would venture off abroad, winning tournaments, and doing gods knows what,” Viserys’ booming voice echoed through the courtyard, drawing Carys back to reality. 

She stood with her father, Alicent, and Viserys underneath the weirwood tree, a cup of white wine in her hand. Viserys and Daemon were debating with one another, whether Alyssa Targaryen loved her children equally or not. 

Carys nodded absently, her gaze drifting past the red leaves overhead. Their voices grew distant, muffled, as if she were standing underwater.

“No, no, no, I will not revisit this debate. You were always mother’s favorite!” Viserys continued. “It’s no great mystery. You were.”

Carys saw Rhaenyra approach out of the corner of her eye. Viserys saw her as well, and  instead chose to ignore her presence.  “Our mother had no regard for custom, or tradition, or rules.” He spoke to both Alicent and Carys now. “And I, sadly, was no great warrior.” 

Rhaenyra cut in now, a smile plastered on her face. “Congratulations on your victory, uncle,” 

Viserys looked at Rhaenyra, his grin fading away. Carys felt the tension grow, as thick as sheep's wool, suffocating the entire scene. Both she and Alicent looked sideways at one another, both women quite possibly begging the other to jump in. 

It was Daemon who spoke first. “Thank you, princess.” Carys noticed the way his eyes lingered on Rhaenyra for a moment longer than necessary, and felt a shiver run down her spine. It’s nothing, she admonished herself. He’s just missed home. That’s all. 

“Perhaps Daemon would care for a tour of the gallery?” Alicent asked awkwardly. “He hasn’t yet seen the new tapestries gifted to you by Norvos and Qohor.”

“Oh.” Viserys pressed his lips together in a tight line. “Would you like to see the tapestries?” Both men split into peals of laughter, not noticing how stricken Alicent looked. 

Carys cringed. She almost felt bad for Alicent; the poor girl was trying to please her husband, after all, but asking Daemon to appreciate art was like asking a snake to appreciate the beauty of its next meal. 

“He has no interest in such things!” Viserys was nearly cackling now, his face beet red. 

Carys rolled her eyes at her uncle. This was a man, who was nearly forty years old and married twice, who still acted like a youth. “I’m sure someone would appreciate them, your Grace. Even if it isn’t Daemon.”

“I’d like to see them,” Rhaenyra chimed in. 

“Well, then you should not deprive yourself.” Viserys nearly sneered at his daughter, his purple eyes flashing. 

Rhaenyra shrugged in indignation. “I shall enjoy them alone.” With that, she turned on her heel and left, leaving the four of them to stare after her. 

Carys watched her cousin walk to the edge of the courtyard, sitting down at a bench as she peered at the crowd. 

She sat next to Rhaenyra, folding her hands on her lap. “They’re idiots,” she murmured, keeping her voice low so no one would hear her. 

Rhaenyra just huffed, her eyes glinting. “If only they were just that.”

Before Carys could respond, a shadow fell across them. Alicent approached, her skirts whispering over the grass as she came to sit on Rhaenyra’s other side.

“I surmise the tour did not go well.” She spoke only to Rhaenyra nos, her brown eyes focused on the princess.

Rhaenyra just shrugged, picking at the embroidery on her skirt. “I endured it for as long as I could.”

“To have every young knight and lord in the kingdoms fawning over you…” Alicent allowed a small, teasing smile to touch her lips. “What misery that must have been.”

“At least the king gave you a choice,” Carys said gently.“Tis rare for a girl in this realm to have a choice between two suitors. Much less two score of them.” She did not add that if she had been given such freedom, she would never have wed Trystane at all. 

“Those men and boys don’t fawn over me.” Rhaenyra shook her head at the both of them. “They only want my name, and my Valyrian blood for their offspring.”

“I think it’s rather romantic,” Alicent said softly, almost wistfully. 

“How romantic it must be,” Rhaenyra cut in, her voice sharper now, “to be imprisoned in a castle and made to squeeze out heirs.”

The words struck like a slap. Both Carys and Alicent went still, exchanging a glance across Rhaenyra’s bowed head. There was nothing they could say, because they both had done exactly what Rhaenyra accused: married where they were told, lived where they were ordered, borne children because duty demanded it.

The silence stretched, taut and fragile, until Alicent looked down at her hands. 

Rhaenyra exhaled, her shoulders slumping as the tension bled out of her. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, her voice quieter now. “How angry is he?” She looked at both Carys and Alicent, chewing the inside of her cheek nervously. 

Carys shook her head mournfully. “I can’t say,” she admitted. “He’s been so angry at me since I left Casterly Rock. I haven’t spoken a word to him since today.”

“The King went through a great effort to arrange your tour.” Alicent just sighed. “He is… frustrated. And rightfully so.”

“But we’re glad you’re home.” Carys reached over and grabbed Rhaenyra’s hand, smiling brightly. 

Alicent nodded in agreement, her brown eyes mournful now. “I didn’t think we’d all be together again.” She looked down at her lap, her chin quivering. “I find I have… few friends, lately. I like to believe that I’m still the Lady Alicent, but all anyone sees now when they look at me is ‘the Queen.’”

Rhaenyra squeezed Carys’s hand once before letting go, her expression softening. It was Alicent’s words that struck Carys most. Her chest tightened with guilt. She had been so focused on her own grievances—her failed marriage, her fight to leave the Rock—that she had forgotten that Alicent was just as much a girl as she and Rhaenyra once were. 

“I’m sorry,” Carys said quietly, the words slipping out. “It’s hardly fair to you.”

Alicent’s eyes widened, seemingly startled by the apology. She pressed her lips in a firm line, nodding slightly. 

“I’ve missed you too,” Rhaenyra whispered. “Both of you.”

Alicent’s head lifted, her lips parting in surprise, but before she could answer, Rhaenyra gave a small, almost relieved smile. “Then perhaps we can try again,” she said, her voice warm.

The three of them simply sat there, side by side, letting the evening breeze tug at their hair and skirts. Eventually, Alicent bid them farewell, going inside to check on Aegon and Helaena. Carys followed her not long after, giving Rhaenyra a chaste kiss on the cheek before slipping away.

As she walked out of the courtyard, she saw Daemon standing before the great Weirwood tree, his pale hair stark against the crimson leaves. For a moment, she only watched him, something cold settling in her stomach. She wondered if he would ever change, if he would ever be content with what he had. 

Carys’ thoughts fled her mind when she saw Rhaenyra gliding towards him, approaching Daemon without hesitation. Her face was alight with something that made Carys’ skin prickle. The way Daemon turned to her, the way they spoke, made Carys feel like she just intruded on a private, almost intimate moment. 

Before either of them could notice her lingering, she turned on her heel and walked away, her steps quickening to leave the scene behind her. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

That night, after Aethan and Aelinor were asleep in their nursery, Carys sat down at her desk. She had set out a piece of parchment and a quill before her, but the words she wanted to write would not come. 

Instead, she stared out of the window, watching the lights of the city flicker in the night. She could hear Helaena wailing from down the hall, most likely being soothed by Alicent. Carys felt for the young queen; that was a sound that she knew all too well.

Sighing, she pushed back from the desk and stretched her limbs above her head. A stroll would do her well, Carys decided, if she could not pick up her quill. 

Carys pulled on her robe over her dressing gown and slid her feet into slippers before quietly leaving her chambers. The halls were empty, save for a few wandering maids that were finishing their work for the night.

If she could not write, then she would sit with Rhaenyra. She doubted that her cousin was doing anything after the events of the day; Rhaenyra was most likely preparing to sleep, if she wasn’t already in bed. 

She reached Rhaenyra’s chambers and knocked softly. When there was no answer, Carys knocked again, a bit louder this time. Still nothing. 

Frowning, she eased the door open and poked her head inside. The room was dimly lit by the dying fire, the bed neatly made, the blankets untouched. The window stood wide open, allowing cool air to flow into the room. 

Carys stood frozen in the doorway, her heart sinking into her stomach. Ser Criston still stood outside the doorway. Perhaps alerting the Kingsguard to the princess’ disappearance would help, but–

Her eye caught on a sack on the table, left wide open. Carys glanced over her shoulder, to make sure Criston wasn’t too suspicious, before slipping inside and shutting the door behind her. 

Carys’ fingers trembled as she pulled the sack toward her. Inside lay a scattering of coins, a half-empty wineskin, and a folded scrap of parchment. She smoothed it open with care.

Meet me at the Street of Silk. Tonight.

It was signed with nothing but the letter D.

Carys’ mouth went dry. The Street of Silk — she had never stepped foot there, but she wasn’t naive enough to think that it was a place suitable for a princess. For anyone. 

For a long moment, she simply stood there, the note crumpling in her hand, listening to the faint hum of the city outside the open window. She could go back to bed. Pretend she had never seen this. But the thought of Rhaenyra wandering through Flea Bottom, with Daemon of all people, sent a bolt of fear through her.

Taking a deep breath, Carys forced herself to calm down before leaving, shutting the door gently behind her. A soft shriek slipped past her lips when she caught Ser Criston staring at her, his brown eyes nearly boring a hole in her skin. 

“Do you need something, princess? Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she lied, hiding her hands behind her back. “Rhaenyra’s asleep now. I forgot I… left something in her chambers earlier.”

Criston frowned. “What was it?”

“Oh, nothing,” she laughed awkwardly. “Just a hairpin.”

Criston gave her a long, cautious stare, before finally nodding. “The hour is late, princess. I bid you goodnight.”

Carys swallowed her fear, feeling her heart slow down at last. “Thank you. Goodnight as well.”

With that, she spun around, walking away as quickly as she could without raising suspicion. Carys clenched her fist tighter, feeling the note crumple even more in her palm. 

Was Rhaenyra safe? Maybe. Maybe not. With Daemon, no one knew, and Carys did not want to wait to find out. 

Her riding pants and boots were tucked into the chest at the end of her bed. Carys pulled them out quickly, tossing her night clothes to the side before tugging them on. Her hair could be braided and wrapped around her head, to stay out of her way, but there was nothing to be done about her eyes. 

Carys buckled her belt with trembling hands, sliding the knife Gwayne gave her in the sheath. The weight of the blade was familiar against her hip, drawing her down from the clouds and grounding her. 

The twins were still fast asleep when she kissed their brow, their golden hair strewn across the pillow. Carys made sure the nursemaid was still snoring, only satisfied when she poked the sleeping girl’s forehead. 

The halls were silent as she slipped out of her chamber, her boots nearly silent against the stone. She knew the back ways out of the Red Keep well enough, having had to sneak out to the Dragonpit that one night, and soon she was out of the postern gate, the night air cool against her skin.

King’s Landing at night was an entirely different world. The warm glow of the castle quickly faded behind her as she descended towards the city, the streets narrowing with every step. Carys could hear the roar of laughter and the sound of music somewhere nearby, before all the sounds around her mingled with the stench of Fleabottom. 

Carys nearly gagged. It reeked of piss and cheap ale, the smell so foul it clung to the back of her throat. She wrinkled her nose as she walked by a man urinating on a wall, mumbling incoherently to himself. The shadows seemed to move on their own, shifting and dancing across the streets. 

She had to keep moving, for every step she took brought her closer to Rhaenyra. As bold as she was, Rhaenyra still liked her creature comforts. If Daemon had led her cousin down to gawk at the city’s underbelly, fine. Carys would just drag them both back by their ears. 

A drunk stumbled into her path, leering at her before he saw the glint of steel at her hip. He muttered something she didn’t catch before lurching away, disappearing into the shadows. 

Carys swallowed hard, her fingers brushing the hilt. 

The sound of raucous laughter caught her attention; further down the street, a crowd of smallfolk gathered before a small stage, leering at whatever show he put on. 

“And now we come to the matter of the great Iron Chair!” The actor- danced before the crowd, his face painted with an array of colors. Carys found herself drifting towards the show, her attention caught by the mention of the Iron Throne. “And whose bum it might bear.”

He stood up now and walked towards the makeshift throne, flanked on either side by figures draped in linen. “Our good King, names his daughter. A girl, his heir!” 

The figure on the left spun around. Carys’ skin prickled when she saw the white wig and ratty dress the actress wore, in lieu of Rhaenyra. The crowd jeered and booed when the false Rhaenyra pranced across the stage, a smile plastered on her face.

“But then to him, a babe is born.” The lead actor flourished his arm as another figure– Alicent, Carys swiftly realized, grunted and groaned, before the false Rhaenyra ducked under her skirts and pulled out a makeshift baby. 

“A son!” The crowd laughed and whooped when the makeshift Aegon was held before them. “To which heir might the chair bear? Who will it be?”

Carys felt as though she were floating away from her own body. Did the smallfolk not like Rhaenyra as heir? She wasn’t … and she wouldn’t pretend to be, but did the people not agree with the decision their king made?

“The brother? The daughter?” The lead actor continued. “Or the little princeling of three?” The crowd erupted into laughter once more. Carys wasn’t sure what they found so hilarious.

On stage, the actor playing Daemon cried noisily as the false Rhaenyra shook her bum and sat in the chair, leering at everyone. 

“Rhaenyra, the Realm’s Delight.” The narrator flicked her chin. “A girl, so young and slight! Loved by all her people, but would she make a powerful queen?” He stood at the edge of the stage now, looking down at the people as though he were some spirit descended from the heavens. “Or would she be feeble?” 

“Feeble!” The crowd roared, booing and hissing. 

“Though Aegon the babe prince might long for a claim, he has two things Rhaenyra cannot: a conqueror’s name, and a cock!”

One of the actors produced a cock made of rope from his pants, sending the crowd into an uproar. Some next to her doubled over, laughing so hard he could barely stand. Carys bit her tongue, feeling her hand drift towards the knife once again. These people were idiots, she thought to herself, looking around at the men and women around her. It wasn’t a matter of whether Rhaenyra was capable or not, but instead on account of her being a woman. 

She looked around for the way out. Carys knew needed to leave, to find Rhaenyra before it was too late, but she seemed to be trapped on all sides by people. After resorting to pushing through the crowd, rather unladylike, she found herself back on the street. 

The air smelled of smoke, dung, and salt. Carys clutched the edge of her cloak, keeping the cold out, when she saw them. Two figures hurrying away, a tall man and someone shorter beside them. The man glanced back just as they turned a corner, and in the torchlight she caught a flash of silver hair peeking from beneath his hood.

Daemon.

She briefly considered shouting after them, but drawing attention to three Targaryens in the underbelly of the city wouldn’t do anyone good. Carys quickened her pace, her boots splashing through muck as she darted after them, but by the time she reached the end of the street, they were gone.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Carys leaned against the closest wall, trying to catch her breath. This entire pursuit seemed ridiculous now, as though she was dreaming and would wake up any minute. 

Carys cursed under her breath and spun around, trying to decide which way to go next when she collided into someone coming the opposite way. Carys nearly shrieked when two strong hands latched onto her arms, keeping her from falling. 

“Princess Carys?”

She looked up, jaw nearly dropping open when she saw the dark curls and strong jaw of Ser Harwin Strong. He just stared back at her, his expression wary in the flickering torchlight. 

“Ser Harwin,” she stammered. “I-”

“I saw her,” he said. “Rhaenyra. If that’s who you’re looking for.”

Carys cleared her throat awkwardly. “Yes. I almost caught up to them.”

Harwin let her go at last, sighing as he rubbed his jaw. “She and Daemon were heading off towards the Street of Silk.”

It was as though the ground fell out beneath her. Carys reached out for the wall once more, forcing herself back into reality. For a moment, she considered demanding that Harwin follow her there, that they storm the street and drag Rhaenyra home before this went any further. But what then? What could she truly do, short of throwing Rhaenyra over her shoulder? 

Daemon was dangerous, yes. But Rhaenyra was willful. She had gone with him because she wanted to. 

The thought twisted in Carys’ gut like a blade. Rhaenyra was a princess of the realm, the future queen, and yet here she was, sneaking through the city like some reckless child. Carys swallowed hard, disgust prickling under her skin. 

She straightened at last, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Very well,” she said quietly. “Ser Harwin, if you don’t mind escorting me back to the keep?”

He nodded swiftly, offering his arm. Carys accepted the gesture, and together they turned away from the noise of the Street of Silk, leaving Fleabottom behind as they made their way back to the Keep. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

Carys hardly slept that night, instead tossing and turning in the sheets before finally falling asleep sometime before dawn. When she woke, the sun was already high in the sky, the light spilling through her window. 

A note waited on her bedside table, left by the nursemaid: Twins are awake. We’ve gone through the gardens.

Carys breathed a sigh of relief. She dressed slowly, her body heavy from lack of rest, before sitting down to a late breakfast in her chambers. The bread was cold, the eggs congealed, but she forced herself to eat all the same.

A knock sounded at the door. “Princess Rhaenyra is here to see you, princess.” 

It was Ser Harold, most likely. “Let her in,” Carys called out, her voice horrifyingly strained. 

The doors opened, and Rhaenyra swept inside, her hair half-loose around her shoulders. Her expression was strained as she sat across from Carys, folding her hands neatly in her lap. 

“My father’s furious at me,” she griped, stealing a bit of toast. 

I can only imagine why. Carys said nothing, forcing herself to drink some tea. Rhaenyra prattled on about how Viserys, after a lengthy argument, finally declared that she would marry Lord Laenor Velaryon. 

“Where were you last night?” The question slipped out before Carys could stop. Rhaenyra stopped mid-sentence, her jaw slacked as she looked at her cousin. 

Her hesitation was long enough for Carys to accept the truth of the situation. Sighing, she set down her teacup, looking at Rhaenyra with narrowed eyes. 

“You don’t need to lie,” Carys said quietly. “I know where you went.”

Rhaenyra’s chin lifted. “Then you know I was safe. I just needed to escape reality, for one night.”

“Safe?” Carys’ voice sharpened. She rose from the table, every inch of her vibrating with frustration. “You were in Flea Bottom, Rhaenyra! With Daemon. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you? What would happen if the court learned that the Realm’s Delight was seen sneaking through the Street of Silk in the middle of the night?”

Rhaenyra’s cheeks flushed. “You sound just my father,” she spat. “Since when are you so feeble, Carys? What happened to the girl who claimed a dragon in the middle of the night? Or is that what motherhood has done to you?”

The words struck like a slap. Cary refused to back down; she had spent far too much of her life bending to other people. “I’m not having this argument with you again,” Carys hissed. “I’m not feeble. I’m realistic. And perhaps if you were married with children already, you would understand the ways of the world. What’s expected of you! You might finally settle down and stop behaving like a child.”

Her voice rose into a yell now, reverberating off the walls. Rhaenyra’s nostrils flared as if she meant to argue again, but the fire went out of her all at once. Her shoulders slumped, her lips pressed together until they turned white.

“You’re right,” she muttered, barely above a whisper. “I was reckless.”

Carys’ chest heaved as she tried to rein in her temper. “Reckless isn’t even half of it,” she said, her voice low but cutting. “You think you’re fighting the world, but you aren’t even looking at it. You will never be satisfied if you refuse to see what’s in front of you. You want freedom, but freedom comes at a price you don’t understand yet.”

Memories of Trystane rose in her mind, threatening to choke her. She latched onto the edge of the table, forcing herself back into reality. 

Rhaenyra looked away, shame written all over her face.

“And don’t you ever,” Carys added, her tone sharp enough to draw blood, “accuse me of being feeble again. You have no idea what I went through with Trystane. With his family. You think being a mother makes me weak? It’s the only reason I’ve survived this long.”

She moved to the door and held it open, her glare fixed on her cousin. “Go,” Carys said coldly. 

“The next time you want to ‘escape reality’, think of what happens to women, princesses or not, when the world finds out they’ve stepped out of line.”

Rhaenyra hesitated only a moment longer before sweeping past her. Carys shut the door behind her, leaning against it as her fury melted into exhaustion.

Chapter Text

The wind whipped across Rhea’s skin as she thundered across the plains, the sound of hooves like a drum on the ground below. 

“Good morrow, Lady Rhea.” Gerold slowed his horse to a stop, resting his hand on the pommel of his saddle

“Cousin,” she greeted him, stopping her own horse. Betsan snorted in annoyance when Gerold’s gelding sniffed her. 

“What’s today’s quarry, rabbit?” Gerold grinned at Rhea, resting his hand on his left hip. 

“Nay, deer.”

“Ah. A fine challenge.” His leathery face broke into a grin as he looked between her and the looming hills. “Care for some company?”

Rhea shook her head, looking back towards the hills. She always appreciated his company, but she preferred hunting in silence. “I’d rather ride alone.” 

Without another word, Rhea spurred her mare, sending her down the trail leading away from Runestone. Gerold called after her in farewell, though his words were snatched by the wind as soon as he spoke. 

The thunder of hooves and the shift of Betsan’s body was a familiar balm; Rhea felt more free underneath the open sky than she did anywhere else, with nothing but her horse. 

The hills soon rose up around her, shadowed by the rising sun. Rhea shivered involuntarily as they rode further down the trail, gooseflesh prickling across her skin as the air in the shadows grew colder. 

Up ahead, near the end of the trail leading back to Runestone, a dark figure stood alone. Rhea immediately slowed Betsan down, eyeing the figure pensively as he approached. Betsan picked up her hooves, whinnying slightly as the man came closer and closer to them. 

Rhea pursed her lips in annoyance when she saw the familiar shock of silver hair peaking from underneath the hood. His presence was more irritating than anything else; there was a reason why Carys was their only child. 

“Husband,” she greeted him coolly. “What brings you to the Vale?”

Daemon only looked up at her, looking more like a child in his oversized cowl than anything else. 

Rhea felt her heart begin to race. The look in his eyes was all too familiar; it was the same one she’d seen when they first married, and Daemon came to her bedchamber, pathetic and begging before eventually forcing her down. 

“Or have you at last come to be a proper husband? The Vale’s sheep might be willing, but even if I’m not.” Not that he’d let that stop him. She refused to back down, instead choosing to jeer him on. “But our sheep are prettier, after all.”

He still said nothing. A flash of annoyance coursed through her. Rhea wished he’d say something, instead of staring at her like a disobedient puppy. 

“Or perhaps your brother has at last had his fill of your company,” Rhea continued. It felt almost childish, to goad him this way, but after seventeen years of marriage, she cared little. “Cast you aside in favor of a little girl.”

Daemon still said nothing. His boots crunched against the rocky path as he stepped closer, his hand outstretched for Betsan’s nose. The mare shied back, her ears pinned and nostrils flaring, hooves scraping against the gravel.

Rhea’s grip on the reins tightened, but she did not yield an inch. “What will you do now?” she challenged, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart. “Strike the child down? Or—”

The realization dawned on her. If Daemon was exiled from court, there’d be no possible reason for him to come to the Vale. No reason- except one. Her hand slid back towards the bow on her saddle, but Daemon caught the movement, his expression hardening. Rhea’s mind leapt to Carys, and fear sank its claws into her mind. She barely had time to shout before Daemon’s hand lashed out, striking Betsan hard across the nose. 

The horse screamed and reared. Rhea had only a breath to brace herself before the world flipped. She hit the ground with bone-cracking force, pain ripping through her side as Betsan slammed into her. The horse squealed as it rolled off of her and galloped away, her hoofbeats echoing through the hills.

Rhea tried to crawl or breathe, but her ribs were shattered. She couldn’t feel her legs, either, and knew that one way or another, she would be dead soon. 

She winced in pain as Daemon approached. He pressed the toe of his boot lightly to her arm- it was casual, almost bored, as though he were weighing whether she was worth the effort to finish. A whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it, humiliation burning hotter than the pain. If only I told Gerold to come.

Then, to her shock, Daemon turned and began to walk away. No blood, no coup de grâce. He meant to leave her broken and gasping, a mockery of a death.

Fury flared hot in her chest, drowning out any thoughts of fear. “I knew you couldn’t finish!” She spat, blood streaking her teeth. “Craven!”

Daemon froze. Slowly, he turned back, his pale hair catching the last light of day like a halo.  Without a word, he stooped, picked up a rock, and strode back toward her.

Rhea’s breath hitched, but she held his gaze until the last moment.

The rock came down once, then twice, and then there was nothing.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

Carys wanted to vomit. 

The ship lurched and rolled over the waves, somehow managing to stay upright in the storm that passed overhead. 

She gripped the railing, shutting her eyes against the pounding rain and the queasy feeling in her stomach. Her capacity for sailing had severely diminished since claiming Veraxes, as flying was now her preferred mode of travel, and prayed that she would never be forced to sail again.

Somewhere across the desk, Carys saw Viserys retching overboard out of the corner of her eye. His new Hand, the even-mannered Lyonel Strong, rushed to help the king. 

Carys swallowed hard, fighting the sympathetic heave in her own throat. Anything including vomit made her want to vomit, really, but princesses were supposed to do that sort of thing in private. 

She turned her head to look out at the horizon; it was just a grey line between the sea and the sky, as though it were a wall between the heavens and earth. 

She missed her children desperately. Carys knew they were safe in the capital, under Norei’s watchful eye, She should not have come. Yet Viserys had insisted.He wanted Driftmark to see them together– the king and the two princesses– standing as one house. A living picture of Targaryen strength. He had brought Carys as proof that there were no fractures within the family, that no distance or disagreement could weaken their unity.

It was a lie. They all knew it.

The tension between the three of them had been coiled tight since they left the capital. Viserys’ simmering fury at Carys for leaving the Rock. Carys’ own resentment at Rhaenyra for her carelessness and her messes that had swallowed them all. Every conversation felt like walking across thin, cracked ice.

Daemon, to his credit, had not been seen in the capital for some time. Carys had no idea where he was, though she suspected that if she saw him again, she’d strike him as hard as she could. 

A hand on her shoulder pulled Carys out of her stupor. 

“Princess.” Ser Harrold Westerling’s palm was warm despite the chill in the air. “We’re almost to Driftmark.”

Carys looked towards the stern; the outline of the Velaryon household appeared just above the sea as a dark mark against the pale-grey sky. This would be her first visit to Driftmark, but her impression was already soured. 

“Aye, so we are.” She cleared her throat, forcing the taste of bile back down. 

Whatever Viserys hoped to prove by bringing her here, she thought grimly, the Velaryons would see the cracks whether he liked it or not.

════ ✣✤✣ ════

The carriage ride to the castle was nothing short of awkward. Carys leaned her head against the wall, closing her eyes to avoid speaking to Rhaenyra or Viserys. She shivered slightly from the cold; her cloak was wet from the waves, and her shoes were soaked. The entire carriage smelled of salt and the stink of the sea. 

It seemed to be an eternity before they stopped before the winding road towards the castle. The door swung open, and Ser Harrold extended his hand to help Viserys from the carriage before helping the princesses. 

Carys smoothed her skirts down as she looked up. She could see High Tide a bit clearer now that the clouds had parted to reveal a serene blue sky, tucked away by the low wall. The castle was protected by the sea itself, with only a thin bridge connecting it to the mainland– if the tide rose, no army could cross the waves until the sea subsided once more. 

It was another long while until their party reached the top. No guards or servants greeted them; it was Ser Harrold who pushed the gates open, allowing the party to walk through. 

Carys wrinkled her nose at the sight of the castle, her violet eyes darting over the short towers and shoddy courtyard. High Tide was not as she expected. Rather than the resplendent marine castle she imagined as a child with ivory towers and carved seahorses, it was a squat building made of grey bricks that blended into the sky above. 

The only sign of life in the great courtyard was a pair of young men dueling; Carys immediately recognized the silver locs of Ser Laenor, grinning as he brought his blade down onto the sword of his opponent. 

Carys’ heart clenched when she saw the other young man. His auburn tresses brought memories of a certain Reachman’s easy smile and steady gaze into the present, making her heart stutter painfully in her chest.

Not Gwayne. 

The young man before her moved differently. His stance was too loose, the rhythms of his strikes unfamiliar. He was a stranger. 

She forced her mind to focus somewhere else, her thoughts centered on the present once more. Laenor and his companion turned slowly to look at the king and his retinue, their faces drawn. 

Viserys looked around the courtyard, no doubt bewildered. Never before had a lord refused to greet his king, much less a lord whose house was loyal to the Targaryens like no other. Carys saw the flash of annoyance cross her uncle’s face before he schooled his emotions once more, looking only at Laenor now. 

“Where is Lord Corlys?” Ser Lyonel looked around, his expression indignant. “He should be here to receive the king!”

Before Laenor could speak, the doors to the castle boomed open. Carys watched as Laena Velaryon descended the steps towards them, her cerulean skirts swirling around her legs as she walked. 

“Welcome to High Tide, your Grace.” Her voice was as clear as water, flowing like honey. 

Lyonel stepped towards her, his hands clenched behind his back. “What is the meaning of this, Lady Laena? Is this how House Velaryon treats its king?”

“My father has but just returned from his long journey, and he has hastened to the Hall of Nines to await Your Grace’s arrival.” 

Carys cast a sideways glance towards Rhaenyra, and noticed her cousin looked at her likewise. Any lord who refused to greet his king in his home could be considered treasonous; Lord Velaryon had never been accused of such discourtesy before. Until now.

“Let’s just get on with it,” Viserys grumbled. 

Without another word, their party surged forward, walking slowly over the tiny rocks. Carys exhaled slowly as she followed the Kingsguard towards the squat, grey castle. 

To her left, Rhaenyra walked to catch up with her, her red and gold cloak flapping in the wind. “This is already going well,” she griped. 

Carys just hummed her agreement, keeping her eyes forward. The sea wind tugged at loose strands of her hair as the doors of the keep loomed closer, heavy and unwelcoming.

She knew she should let her anger subside, and it had, but there was still a part of Carys that refused to cede to anyone now. Her time with the Lannisters left her battered, and the only way to defend herself– and her children, for that matter– was to put up walls. Even if it meant keeping Rhaenyra out. 

Laena led them through the doors and into a small hallway lit only by an even smaller window and some torches. She and Rhaenyra immediately latched onto one another, their arms interlinked as they leaned their heads together. Carys felt her stomach lurch at the sight, forcing her feelings to subside as she followed Viserys and Lyonel. 

Rhaenyra and Laena began to follow them before the doors were shut in their faces. Carys hid her surprise, focusing her eyes forward at the great room around her. She looked around the hall in wonder, hardly able to contain her fascination. The Hall of Nines was High Tide's greatest architectural achievement. It boasted the many achievements of House Velaryon– even the skulls of its lordly predecessors– as well as exploits claimed by Corlys during his time as a sea captain. 

She was startled when Viserys and Lyonel stopped suddenly, their eyes focused wholly at the opposite end of the hall. 

There, on the great driftwood throne sat Corlys Velaryon, lounging like a lazy bachelor. He rose quickly when Viserys strode towards him, back straight and expression wary. 

“Your Grace.” Corlys’ voice was hard and stern. Nothing like the kind patriarch Carys remembered from her youth. 

She and Lyonel stood side by side, folding their hands behind their backs as they watched the scene play out before them. Carys respected Lyonel far more than she ever respected Otto, and his unwavering loyalty to the king in moments like these made her appreciate his presence more. 

Corlys walked slowly down the steps, his boots echoing through the hall. Only now did he bow before the king, dropping onto one knee. 

Before he could speak, Viserys’ rasping cough cut him off. Carys winced when the king began hacking, bringing his fist up to his mouth to hide the spittle that flew from his throat. 

“Rise, Lord Corlys,” he said, clearing his throat. 

Corlys extended his arms, grinning every so slightly at the king. “Be welcome. My wife and I are glad to have you in our home.”

It was at that moment that a set of doors off to the left flew open. Rhaenys stood in the doorway, a grin stretching across her face. “Cousin!”

Carys had never seen the princess look so happy before. She immediately embraced Viserys, wrapping her thin arms around the king. 

His coughing forced her to withdraw. Rhaenys looked at him, her lilac eyes wide with concern. “Are you well?”

“Yes.” It was a lie. They all knew it, but accusing the king of lying was treasonous. 

Carys looked down at her shoes, hiding the clench in her jaw before looking back up. She could sense Lyonel’s hesitation as well, however, neither one would speak on it. 

Corlys spoke now, his voice far stronger than the king’s. “Congratulations are in order, Lyonel,” he beamed, speaking to the Hand now. “I could think of no man better suited to be Hand of the King.” 

“That is very kind of you to say, Lord Corlys. His Grace has honored me with the post.”

Corlys inclined his head, looking between him and Viserys now. “Pity about Ser Otto,” he said drily. 

“It’s of no great loss,” Carys said at once. 

The words landed heavier than she’d meant them to. Silence fell across the chamber like a cloak dropped on the floor. Lyonel Strong’s brows drew together in visible surprise, his polite smile freezing where it sat. Viserys’ hands clenched at his side as he looked at Carys, his expression stricken. 

“Carys,” the king murmured. Viserys smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes.

She lifted her chin, unrepentant. There was no use in hiding the truth; there was not a single person in this room who missed Otto. Why should she pretend that everyone was not amiss?

Lyonel cleared his throat gently, ever the diplomat. “Ser Otto served the realm for many years,” he said, carefully. “His absence will be… felt.”

“Perhaps,” Carys replied, far more mildly, though she did not take the words back.

Corlys’s mouth twitched, just slightly. Whether in offense or amusement, she could not tell. His sharp eyes lingered on her for a beat too long before he returned his attention to the king. 

Viserys looked around, trying to dispel the awkwardness. “Despite spending most of my days in the grandeur of the Red Keep, the halls of High Tide never fail to impress.”

“You flatter me, Your Grace.” Corlys’ lips spread into a smile, and for a moment, Carys wondered if he was genuinely happy the king was here. “Though I do wish we could meet under happier pretenses.”

Viserys nodded slowly in agreement. “How so?”

Corlys looked around the room awkwardly, his eyes darting to Carys momentarily. “Daemon’s wife, the Lady Rhea Royce, has passed.” 

For a moment, Carys heard nothing at all. The world became hollow, like the inside of a bell that was just rung. 

Her fingers curled into her skirts. Gone was the stench of the sea, gone was the mist on her skin or the crackle of the hearth. There was only the single word that rung in her head, over and over again. 

Passed. 

Gone. 

Her mother was dead. 

She felt it before she understood it. A strange, hollow sensation in her chest, as if a hand had reached inside and grabbed her heart and scooped something vital away. The room swam, blurring away at the edges. 

Rhea was dead. Her mother was gone. 

Her lungs no longer held air. It was as though the room itself turned too small to hold enough of it. Carys pressed her hand to her chest, but her heart was no longer there. Only a frantic, hollow pounding that hurt. 

“Carys?” someone said. 

She didn’t know whose voice it was. It sounded distant and gurgled, like they were speaking through water. Her vision narrowed, the edges of the hall darkening. 

“I–” the words broke in her throat. She couldn’t draw enough breath to finish it, couldn’t draw enough breath at all.

Carys felt her knees begin to buckle. Strong hands caught her before her knees could meet the stone.

“Princess,” Ser Harrold’s voice cut through the haze, close now. Steady. “Easy.”

Another set of hands joined his. Ser Criston, perhaps, or another white cloak. They didn’t ask permission. They didn’t waste time.

Carys was dimly aware of startled faces surrounding her. Her vision began to blur with tears, her body frozen with panic. 

“She needs air!” Someone shouted. Viserys, perhaps. 

Darkness closed in, dark and total, rushing towards her before she could realize. 

════ ✣✤✣ ════

Carys had no idea how long she had slept. 

Her eyes peeled open, her vision blurry as she looked around the darkened cabin. A quick look outside the window told her that it was now nighttime, though she wasn’t smart enough to determine the exact position or timing of the moon. 

She stared at the ceiling for a long while, her entire body numb with grief. 

Passed. Gone. 

The word surfaced in her mind without her bidding. Her mind was a blur; memories of Rhea combined with her death seemed to swarm her thoughts until Carys could think of nothing at all. 

Sighing, she rolled off the bed, groaning as she stretched her limbs. Carys quickly realized she was still in her traveling clothes, stinking of seawater and sweat. She grimaced as she peeled the kirtle off, disposing it in the corner before reaching for her silk nightdress. 

Just as she flopped back onto her bed, a knock at the door startled her. “Can I come in?”

It was Rhaenyra. Her voice was soft and low, stripped of its usual curtness. 

Carys hesitated only a moment before answering, “Yes.”

The door creaked open, and Rhaenyra slipped inside, closing it carefully behind her. She looked different in the low lamplight. Less princess, more girl. Her hair was loose from its pins, pale strands brushing her shoulders, her expression uncertain.

“It smells like the sea,” Rhaenyra said quietly, attempting a thin smile. 

“You’re welcome to leave,” Carys replied, though there was no bite in it.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked briefly to the discarded dress in the corner before returning to Carys. 

She lingered near the door, as if unsure whether to cross the room at all.

“I didn’t come to fight,” she said. “If that helps.”

Carys sat up slightly in the bed, folding her arms loosely across her middle. “You don’t usually announce that.”

“I know.” Rhaenyra’s mouth twitched. “I thought… I might try something different.”

Silence stretched between them, fragile and careful.

Finally, Rhaenyra asked, “Are you very angry?” Her tone was almost childish and hopeful, as though she were a child seeking approval from her mother. 

Carys looked at her properly now. In truth, the anger was still there—hot and bright under her 

ribs—but beneath it sat something heavier. Something sadder. 

Grief. 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I think I’m tired of being angry.”

It was the truth. 

Rhaenyra seemed to breathe at that, stepping farther into the room. The storm outside battered the windows, but inside, the air felt strangely still.

“I missed you,” Rhaenyra admitted.

Carys didn’t answer at once. She only shifted slightly on the bed, making space beside her. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Rhaenyra crossed the room and sat. “I’m going to marry Laenor,” she said at last. Her voice held no bitterness nor satisfaction; only the grim approval of a woman who knew she had no other choice. Carys was all too familiar with that tone. 

“You’ve heard the rumors?” Carys asked carefully, not wishing to poke a sleeping dragon.

Rhaenyra nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes,” she admitted. “It’s the best kept secret in Driftmark, but we’ve discussed it.”

“And?”

Her cousin shrugged. “We’ll do what needs to be done, then go our separate ways. A son and a daughter wouldn’t be too bad, anyways.”

Carys nodded in approval, finally setting her book aside. “Good.” She paused and chewed her lip for a moment. “Ser Criston looked rather desperate this morning. Did you have anything to do with that?” 

Talking about normal things helped, in a strange way, though there was nothing normal about this. Her mother was dead. Her mother was dead. Her mother was dead. 

Rhaenyra groaned and flopped onto the bed, slapping her hands over her eyes. “He asked me,” she said with gritted teeth, “to marry him.”

Carys bolted upright. “You’re joking.”

“No.” Rhaenyra rolled over onto her stomach, her brows furrowed in agitation. “I… suspect it’s partially my fault,” she admitted. 

“Why’s that?”

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, avoiding Carys’ gaze. “The night… well, we don’t need to discuss that.” Carys hummed in agreement. “I may have bedded Ser Criston.” 

Carys wasn’t sure she heard correctly. She stared at Rhaenyra for a long while, trying to process the information, but her mind was blank with shock. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” her cousin scowled. “And don’t say anything, either. I know I did something wrong. He was rambling on about how I didn’t choose Laenor, and I could choose my own path instead! He asked me to sail with him to Essos!”

“Rhaenyra,” she admonished her, covering her mouth with her hands. “I can’t believe you sometimes.” 

“Please.” Rhaenyra just rolled her eyes. “I know what I’ve done.” 

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Rhaenyra slapped her hand to her forehead, groaning like a petulant child. “I just wish men weren’t so emotional sometimes. Even after you bed them, they want something more.”

Carys dropped her hands, blinking hard as if that might reorder the world into something sensible again. “Rhaenyra… Criston Cole? Truly?” She could see the appeal, however, his gruff demeanor was enough to scare even the meanest hound away. 

Rhaenyra lifted her chin, defensive as a cornered cat. “He was kind to me. Earnest. I thought—”  She broke off with a sharp huff. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

Carys stepped closer, lowering her voice. “He’s a Kingsguard. He took vows.”

“Yes, and? Men break vows all the time,” Rhaenyra muttered, though the faint quiver in her voice betrayed her confidence. 

“That does not make it better,” Carys whispered fiercely. Her heart was pounding; she could not decide if she wanted to shake Rhaenyra or embrace her. “And he asked you to run away? With him?”

“To Essos,” Rhaenyra repeated flatly, as if saying it aloud made it sound as absurd as it had felt to hear. “As though I could simply abandon everything. My duty. My birthright. My family—”

“Exactly,” Carys cut in. “What did you tell him?”

“The truth.” Rhaenyra’s mouth tightened. “That I cannot– will not– go. And he looked at me as if 

I had betrayed him.” She scoffed, anger and discomfort warring in her expression. “As if bedding a princess once entitles him to my entire life.”

Carys scrubbed a hand over her face, trying to steady herself. “Seven hells, Rhaenyra. Criston… decent. He’ll take this hard.”

“Oh, he already has.” Rhaenyra waved a dismissive hand, though her eyes darted toward the floor. “I imagine he’ll avoid me for the rest of his days. Which, honestly, may be preferable.”

Carys released a slow, disbelieving breath. “You’ve made a mess.”

“I know.” Rhaenyra groaned again, grabbing a pillow to smother her face. Her voice came out muffled: “Please tell me this won’t come back to haunt me.”

Carys sat beside her, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “It always does,” she murmured.

They sat in silence for a long while, staring at the floor simultaneously. Carys wasn’t sure if she could speak anymore; she was so tired already. Memories of her mother flooded her mind, until her limbs froze and her lungs stopped breathing. 

“You went strange on the ship,” Rhaenyra said suddenly. More gently. “You frightened me.”

Carys froze.

“They told me,” she said quietly, “that my mother is dead.”

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched. “Carys…”

“Corlys told us,” she said. “And then I couldn’t breathe.”

Rhaenyra moved closer without asking, her arm settling awkwardly around Carys’ shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

"I feel like… something was taken out of me without asking.” Carys rubbed her chest, forcing her tears to subside before they took over again. "I don't know what to do anymore. I want my mother."

They were quiet for a long while. Carys felt the tears prick in her eyes once more, forcing their way out and spilling over her cheeks. For the first time all day, she sobbed, burying her face into her arms.

Rhaenyra’s arm slid across her shoulders, squeezing her gently as Carys continued to sob. “You still have me,” she said at last. “You always will.” Rhaenyra kissed the top of her head, running her hand over Carys’ hair.

Carys leaned her head, just barely, against her cousin’s shoulder “Then help me get through this,” she murmured.

Rhaenyra nodded. “Always.”