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Chapter Text

“My father said she is mourning.”

The prince hadn’t noticed the girl approaching until she was by his side, her hands on the parapet mirroring his. She gazed out toward the beach where Vhagar, the old dragon who belonged to the late Lady Laena Velaryon, lay resting.

The girl had long, wavy silver-gold hair and fair skin, her features unmistakable. He had spotted her earlier, standing poised one step behind his uncle; he had noticed her composure and his gaze had lingered a bit too much, maybe, on her features. She had the beauty of the Targaryen women, much like his sister. 

As he studied her now, his thoughts drifted back to his foolish exchange with his ungrateful brother. Perhaps not all was lost. Maybe he could still have a chance to marry within his own blood and strengthen his own lineage, a chance that was standing right there. 

“I am sorry for your loss,” the prince said politely, trying to make a good first impression.

“Thank you, cousin. I mourn her, but the Lady Laena was not my mother,” she clarified, turning toward him with a hint of a smile. “I am the eldest daughter of Prince Daemon.”

She had pretty blue eyes. That he noticed, and he also couldn’t help but notice the practiced ease with which she spoke, as if this was not the first time she had to offer that explanation.

Suddenly it came all back to him. During the journey to Driftmark, while aboard the ship with his parents, he had overheard them speaking of his uncle’s eldest being present at the funeral. She was a bastard, born to Prince Daemon right before he married the lady Laena. His mother had wondered aloud what the girl might have looked like considering her mother was Dornish. 

And there she was now, standing next to him. At first sight, it had been easy for him to assume she was one of Laena and Daemon’s daughters… realising she was not true-born had a bittersweet taste. She definitely didn’t fit any of the many theories his mother had woven… for despite being a bastard, she bore all the features of those in whose veins the blood of Old Valyria run thick, as the mourner had nicely declared in the eulogy earlier. He smirked at the thought.

“So, you’re the Dornish bastard, aren't you?” It hadn’t been his intention, the words had reached his mouth and, before he could even realise it, he blurted them out. A fleeting moment of regret was swiftly buried under a surge of spite. After all, she was still a bastard.

“Yes,” she smiled, politely. “I am indeed.” 

She seemed utterly unbothered and this really bothered Aemond. How could she not be offended? 

“Is it Sand right? The name bastards take in Dorne?” he probed, trying to provoke her and elicit a more satisfying reaction. 

“Yes it is.”

And now, more than ever, he wanted to wipe that smile off her face, for bastards are an insult to true-borns. 

“I am the bastard daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Princess Deria of House Martell, younger sister of the Prince of Dorne,” she added, the smile gone, replaced by a stern, unyielding look in her eyes. There was no anger in her tone, but the young prince could see it; she was ready for a confrontation, if that was the path he wanted to take.

In truth, Aemond was taken aback by her answer. He hadn’t expected her to be highborn, let alone a highborn from the ruling house of Dorne. He resented his parents for failing to mention this ‘small’ detail in their conversation. 

As he was still thinking, searching for an appropriate response, he caught a shadow flicker in her eyes. He turned to follow her gaze and saw his father, the King, talking to his uncle, Prince Daemon.

“I am glad my father had a chance to see his brother. Even in these sad circumstances.”

Prince Daemon glanced towards them. A part of him was eager to meet the uncle he heard so many stories about; the bold and fierce man who was still feared and revered in King’s Landing, the one who dared defy even the King. But the cold look in the man’s eyes was too intimidating.

Daemon made a nod towards his daughter.

“If you’ll excuse me, Prince Aemond,” she said.

“How do you …” he faltered, caught off guard. “I don’t know your name.”

“Nymeria, My Prince. Nymeria Sand,” she said with a graceful curtsy, before rejoining the two men. 

A small smile tugged at his lips as he watched her curtsying his father, the King, in the same manner she did with him only moments before. But when his father raised a hand to caress her cheek, he felt the bitter sting of jealousy. He turned away, glooming at the thought that a stranger could get so easily what he and his siblings had to earn every day. Any gesture of affection, or even just attention, was scarcely bestowed to them. 

A lament from Vhagar raised low from the beach, drawing the young prince’s attention towards it. There she was, the oldest, mightiest and largest of dragons in the world, and right now she was riderless. He would not wait for one of the hatchlings on Dragonstone, as his father had suggested, promising him one if he was bold enough. No, he would show them all how bold he was, he thought, as an idea began to take shape in his mind.

That night Nymeria laid in bed, sleepless, thinking of the harsh word his father had exchanged with his brother. The King had asked him to return to King’s Landing with all of them, and she had heard the warmth in his voice, the unspoken affection, the longing for his younger brother whom he must have missed very much. But her father had dismissed the request and walked away so abruptly that she could almost feel the weight pressing down on the King’s shoulders, threatening to crush him. She couldn’t even imagine the depth of pain that came from being so rejected by someone you held so dear.

She finally fell asleep, well past the hour of the ghost, promising herself she would try to convince her father to at least visit the King in the capital. It would be the chance, both for her and her sisters, to see the court, the famed Red Keep. She whispered to herself that it was certainly not because of her cousin, whom she had just met.  He was not so very beautiful, perhaps a little annoying. Still, she couldn't help but wonder—would he really be so bothered by the fact that she was a bastard? 

The sound of muffled voices, rustling steps, and robes, roused her up from the depth of her sleep. She sat on the bed she had shared with her sisters, now empty. It took her a couple of minutes to adjust to the darkness of the room, the cold making her shiver, then she saw them. The two younger girls were standing by the window, whispering incomprehensibly. As she concentrated to understand what they were saying, she heard it; the roar of a dragon. She stood up, heedless of the cold stones under her bare feet, and she reached them.

“What is happening?” She asked, glancing outside. The sky was still pitch dark. But there, barely visible against the darkness, she spotted the looming mass of what could only be Vhagar. The beast was no longer circling the sky aimlessly, as she had done since their arrival in Driftmark. There was something intentional in the way the dragon moved.

“Someone stole Vhagar!” Rhaena told her, upset.

Of course she was. It was her mother’s dragon. 

“Rhaena …” she began, but before she could say another word, the two girls darted across the room where Princess Rhaenyra’s boys were sleeping.

She looked out the window again. The dragon roared once more but this time it was not a mournful roar. The riderless dragon had a new rider.

“Ny! Come!” She turned and saw the four children hurriedly finishing getting dressed.

“Where do you think you are going?!”

“To confront the thief!” Jace said boldly.

“There is no thief! A dragon cannot be stolen! It’s not some piece of jewellery!” She whispered, exasperated. She would have yelled but held back, not wanting to wake the whole castle. She knew trouble was coming. There were only three people on that island with enough Dragonlord blood in their veins to claim a dragon such as Vhagar, and two of them were in that very room. This left only one possibility. 

Prince Aemond. It must have been him, she thought, panicking. 

“We should wake father, and your parents!” she said addressing Jace and Luke “They’ll know what to do!”

Her words fell on deaf ears. 

“Are you coming or not?” Rhaena called as they rushed through the door. Nymeria let out a deep breath, both annoyed and worried, before hastily throwing on her clothes before hurrying outside. 

She didn’t follow them immediately; instead, she rushed to her father’s door. She didn’t bother knocking and entered unceremoniously, only to find the room empty. The bed, untouched. No sign of his clothes either. Not a single trace of him. She felt at loss and, for a moment, she considered knocking on Princess Rhaenyra’s door but she hesitated. She wasn’t even sure which one it was. 

Damn , she thought as she sprinted toward the outer yard of the castle, trying to catch up with the four avengers on a warpath. She was older and taller than them, she should have been faster too, well able to recover some of the advantage they had gained.

Silence enveloped the corridors and stairs of the castle, making her footsteps echo against the thick walls. Few torches had been left alight to cast away the shadows from the darkest corners. Nymeria couldn’t help but notice, not without surprise, that not a single guard was in sight. Neither Lord Corlys’ men nor the Kingsguard. 

She heard their screams right before she reached the outer yards. Heart pounding, she rushed through the door, just on time to see Prince Aemond pinned to the ground, her sisters and one of the boys above him raining down blows. She froze at the sheer brutality of the scene. They were just children, yet, at that moment they looked anything but. 

Nymeria yelled at them to stop at top of her lungs, but to no avail. She saw the boy, who now she recognised as Prince Jacaerys, kicked away, and her sisters shoved on the side while Aemond regained the upper hand.

She grabbed her sisters and pulled them back. Lucerys attacked the older Targaryen boy, but it was no match and Aemond blocked him easily, holding him by the neck as he raised with a rock in his free hand.

“Please stop!” She pleaded again, putting herself between her sisters and the boys still fighting.

“You will die screaming in flames like your father did!”  Aemond spat venomously, then glared towards Jacaerys. “Bastards.”

She froze again at his words, unable to move. It hit her like a wave crashing on the rocks, the despise, the hatred in his voice.   

Lucerys cried “My father’s still alive” 

Aemond lowered the hand holding the rock. “He doesn’t know, does he? Lord Strong,” he taunted Jacaerys.

The three girls held their breath, Nymeria’s eyes locked on Aemond, shocked that he had dared to speak the truth - one everyone knew but that no one was allowed to even whisper. Then a sudden cry shattered her shock. Her sister screamed Jace’s name as the boy drew a dagger and attacked Aemond.

She couldn’t make herself move or speak as the fight spiralled before her eyes. Jace was on the ground once more, the dagger lost, while Aemond loomed over him, a rock in his hand, ready to hit him. Desperation broke through her paralysis, and she screamed at the top of her lungs again, begging them to stop. 

And Aemond hesitated. 

He looked towards her, one second too long and it was fatal. She saw him, Lucerys, picking up the blade, while Jacaerys, in a desperate attempt to defend himself, threw sand in his uncle’s eyes.  The blade glinted sinisterly in the light of the torches as Lucerys slashed Aemond’s face. 

The prince wailed, clutching the left side of his face, and before she knew it, she had rushed to him, gripping his shoulder. The boy latched onto her arm as she held his head gently. 

“Get help!” she screamed at the four children, who were all staring speechless and frightened, Lucerys battered and bleeding. Then finally help arrived. Ser Harrold stormed in, intimating them to “cease at once.” 

Where were you?! She thought bitterly, but she bit her tongue as the knight shoved her aside, Aemond still clutching her arm, his right eye wild with rage.

“Gods be good,” the man whispered, shocked.

But the gods were not good that night. 

She walked behind as they brought the prince inside, her dress soaked in blood. She barely registered her sister Rhaena slipping a hand into hers or the knights of the Kingsguard herding them forward.

She could have stopped this, but she hadn’t and let it happen. For the first time in her life, she felt helpless.

Nymeria sat tall on the edge of the chair, staring stubbornly at the small table in front of her, jaws clenched.

“I do not like you taking the Hightower boy's side. We are family. It is your sisters and your cousins you should be siding with,” her father repeated once again, exasperated by her silence. 

“Are we clear?” He was barely hiding his irritation.

Daemon interrupted pacing the room to stand in front of her, his eyes, hardened, were burning like dragon fire. He wanted an answer, but she wasn’t ready to comply and give him the answer he wanted. After all, she was as stubborn as he was, or so they said.

She lifted her head to meet his gaze, her blue eyes calm like twin lakes. “I did not take his side for the sake of it. I merely answered the King’s question.” With a weary sigh, she repeated the story once more.

“When I arrived, I saw Prince Aemond on the ground, surrounded by others who were punching and kicking him. I do not know who started it. And I did take my sisters' side, I pulled them away and I pleaded with them all to stop. To no avail”

“You blamed Lucerys. This is what your sisters told me.”

“I did,” she antagonised him. “And I blame Jacaerys for bringing a blade. He is responsible for drawing it in the first place. Had he not, Aemond will still have his eye and all this would have been nothing more than a stupid kids’ quarrel! I do blame Aemond for provoking them, calling them bastards. But that does not justify what happened next!” She exclaimed angrily, unable to hide it any longer.

“He had a rock in his hand and he wanted to kill Jace,” her father smirked. It was just the two of them, and from the early hours of the morning, she had known how much he had found the whole ordeal amusing. He had smirked the same way when Princess Rhaenyra had asked Aemond to be ‘sharply’ questioned, something she had found outrageous at the time. 

There was not a person in the Seven Kingdoms who hadn’t heard rumours about the Velaryon boys, yet no one would dare say anything, not when the King himself refused to see it. She remembered her father’s hand pressing firmly over mouth, silencing her before she could say something they would both come to regret in the King’s presence. She had looked up at him, angered but he paid no attention to her; he just kept staring at the whole scene unravelling in front of them with contented amusement. 

Everyone knows … Aegon’s words echoed in her mind.

“We will never know what might have happened …”  she murmured, pensively. “All we know is what did happen and its consequences. A boy has lost one eye and was left disfigured. Another boy got a broken nose and will carry forever the memory of blinding his uncle, remember forever that he blinded his uncle, his conscience burdened. It is unfair.”

She drew in a sharp breath, her eyes locking onto his father’s with quiet defiance. “I hope Lucerys feels guilt. I hope he regrets it. And you can scold me all you want, but it won’t change how I feel.”

Her fingers clenched around the fabric of her gown, knuckles white, as she held her ground. Though she had changed into fresh clothes, she could still smell the blood that stained what she wore earlier. When she closed her eyes she could still see the deep gash on the prince’s face, the maester hunched over him. He had barely made a sound when they treated the wound and removed what remained of his blinded eye, and stitched the torn flesh closed. He had been so brave, the bravest she had ever seen. 

“Nuha tale jorraeliarza …” her father said in a much sweeter voice than she expected. He sat in the chair next to her, taking her hand. “We’ll go to your sisters and you’ll make peace with each other. I want you to set aside this anger and put this behind you. What is done cannot be undone. We shall not waste any more time on it.”

“I don’t need to make peace with them. I love them,” she answered softly.

“I am angry with myself,” she admitted, shunning his gaze. “I am also to blame… for not stepping in, and stopping them from fighting. I froze. I was afraid and I didn’t know what to do.”

“You couldn’t have done anything, except getting yourself hurt.” 

“Then teach me. Teach me how to fight so that I can block an assailant. Teach me how to defend myself and the ones I care about,” she pleaded. 

He nodded, smiling. “Once we’re in Dragonstone. Now come, your sisters are waiting for you and I want to get some sleep”

She followed him without protest, confused at the idea of traveling to Dragonstone. She couldn’t remember that being part of the plans. Ever. As far as she knew, her father and sisters were meant to remain at Driftmark for a time before returning to Essos, while she had expected to return to Sunspear for a few moons to visit her mother. It seemed her father had made completely different plans overnight.

As she walked through the corridor, trailing behind him, she heard voices, echoing from the nearby staircase. 

“Father,” she called, quickening her pace. “I would like to go and see how Prince Aemond is fairing.” She was certain it was his voice she just heard.

“No. You won’t. You have no business with the Hightower boy. You will not look for him or speak to him. He’s done enough already”

“The ‘Hightower’ boy is also half Targaryen; he is blood of your blood, he is your brother’s son! You cannot deny that.” She retorted, her voice firm, unwavering. “And he did exactly what you would have done if you were in his place. What you wish Rhaena or I would have done.” Her words hung between them, laced with defiance. 

“Watch your tongue now! I won’t tolerate your insolence,” he snapped, pushing open the door of the room she shared with her siblings. 

“Gaomagon daor jenigon issa,” Do not cross me , he warned before closing the door behind her.

She sighed at the sight of her sisters, then opened her arms with a small, weary smile. “Come here, you two troublemakers!” 

She didn’t have to repeat it twice. The girls rushed to her embrace, holding on tightly. After a long moment, Baela let go while Rhaena clung on to her a little longer. 

Turning to the boys, she softened her expression and forced a smile. “How’s your nose Lucerys?” 

Lucerys offered an hesitant smile in return, but she could see a somber look in his eyes. She felt heartbroken, knowing he would have to carry that weight for the rest of his life.

“It will heal quickly,” she said in the most reassuring tone she could muster. 

She unlatched Rhaena’s arms from her waist. “Wait here, I will be back soon.” 

The girls tried to object but she silenced them with a firm, authoritative tone to convince them not to follow her. They were already in enough trouble, herself included, but she would take the risk. She wanted to take the risk. 

She ran to the stairwell, then down to the main hall and the courtyard. She heard the dragons roar and, as she stepped in the sunlight, she saw a golden dragon take flight, followed closely by another blue one, equally magnificent. But there was no sign of Vhagar in the skies. 

Nymeria climbed up the outer bastions, her heart racing, her stomach churning.  She leaned forward on the parapet and she saw it, advancing slowly, ready to take flight, the prince steadily straddled. He turned in her direction, bandages covering half his face. He looked at her for a long moment before Vhagar jumped off the rocks and flew high into the sky.

Nymeria remained there, her eyes locked on the horizon until the dragons vanished from view. A strange, warm ache tugged at her chest, something she never felt before and couldn’t quite understand.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone was beyond anything she had ever imagined. The fortress perched on the side of the Dragonmont looked as if it had been forged in dragonfire itself. Its towering spires and blackened stone loomed against the sky. The view was breathtaking, especially from the winding road that snaked up from the small harbour. 

She remembered it as if it were yesterday—the day she first arrived. The sea spray still clung to her skin as she stepped off the boat, her sister Rhaena at her side and young Joffrey, too small to ride a dragon.

Sir Laenor had died not even a week after Laena’s funeral, slain within his father’s own house. His upper body, burnt in the fireplace, was barely recognisable. The young Princes had been shaken to the core, Jace in particular. He seemed to have felt the blow the hardest. His boldness was gone, replaced by teary eyes. It was then that they came to a truce, the boys stopped attacking Nymeria for taking Aemond’s side, and Nymeria stopped blaming them for bringing the blade with them. 

Fire had fed on yet another person he loved.

Haunted by Prince Aemond’s words, she had seized the first opportunity to confront her father. She asked the question that no one had dared to voice, and he had loudly laughed at her boldness; yes, the Princess’s three sons had been fathered by Harwin Strong, heir to Harrenhall, who had conveniently died in a fire. 

Her father was convinced the Queen and the Hand of the King had something to do with it, though, in truth, he suspected them responsible for every sinister and devious event. She had lost count of the times she overheard him and Laena talking about this.

And so, within a moon cycle, three people had died. The thought made her shiver. 

At first, she had wondered if it was a curse. But then, before Ser Laenor’s body had even grown cold, her father hastily married Princess Rhaenyra. She forced herself to push aside the whispers, the ones that accused them of orchestrating his death. Dark thoughts would have led nowhere. What some called a curse, others called fate. And so, she chose to believe it was fate indeed, mysterious and unfathomable, that had worked to bring her cousin, the Princess, and her father together.

After the wedding, they all settled on Dragonstone, while Pentos, the place where her sisters were born, became a distant memory. 

It was not easy at first. The five of them argued constantly, with Joffrey too young to take part. Their disputes always circled back to the same issues, who wronged whom and, most of all,  how despicable Aemond was for ‘stealing’ the dragon. Yet, they were at an impasse. As stubborn as Nymeria was, she would budge from her views, so, over time, they learnt to avoid the topic altogether, and you-know-who was rarely mentioned.

Still, they never quarrelled in front of her father or the Princess. It was an unspoken agreement they silently abided by. Rhaenyra, for her part, was kind both with Nymeria and Laena’s daughters, treating them as if they were her own. Nymeria often suspected that the princess would have loved to have a daughter, but had been blessed only with boys.

Within a year of their arrival on Dragonstone, Baela was taken from them, sent to ward with Princess Rhaenys while Lord Corlys waged wars in the Stepstones again. Her absence left an emptiness in Nymeria’s heart - and an even greater one in Rhaena’s. 

Fortunately, by then, the Princess was pregnant and soon gave birth to yet another healthy boy, silver-haired like his father and his sisters. Nymeria witnessed how that darkened Jacaerys' mood and saddened Lucerys. Joffrey was still too young to understand the implications.

No words of congratulations had arrived from King’s Landing. It seemed the King hadn’t welcomed the news of his daughter’s marriage to his brother. Nymeria wasn’t even sure he had been informed of the birth of the young Aegon and later, little Viserys, born a few years after. 

Still, she had no doubt that the ships docking in Dragonstone’s harbour carried news back to the capital, just as they brought tidings from King’s Landing to them. The captains of the ships were always invited to share what they knew in the presence of Rhaenyra and her father. Nymeria made a habit of attending these gatherings whenever she could, and she was not alone. Jace, in particular, was just as eager to hear the latest accounts from court and the city. It had been helpful as he was a wellspring of knowledge, he could explain who they were referring to any time she had a doubt.

 More than once, her father scolded her for asking about the King’s children and how they were fairing. She truly wanted to know how Aemond was recovering but never dared to ask the question outright. Jace seemed just as interested as she was, perhaps because he had grown up alongside them. Whatever disagreement they might have had, Nymeria was grateful that he always stood by her whenever she was reprimanded.

The day came when news arrived of Prince Aegon’s wedding to Princess Helaena. It was her own mother, Princess Deria Martell, who brought it. She was to attend the royal wedding in place of the Prince of Dorne, escorted by one of her sons, and had stopped to see her daughter while on her way to King’s Landing. 

For the first time, Nymeria felt the depth of the divide within the royal family. Princess Rhaenyra was both the groom’s and the bride’s sister, as well as the heir to the throne, her father was their uncle. Yet no official announcement had been sent to Dragonstone, nor any invitation, while lords and ladies from all corners of Westeros had been welcomed to the celebration.

In Dorne, such a slight would have been unthinkable. A member of the royal family would never be excluded from such an event, unless, of course, they had been exiled or imprisoned. For treason, most likely.

It was on that occasion, lost in her thoughts about the soon-to-be-wed couple, that Nymeria felt a sudden pang in her gut and candidly inquired whether Prince Aemond had also been betrothed. 

Even without looking, she wouldn’t dare, she could feel the weight of her father’s burning gaze upon her. Rhaenyra sighed, while her own mother cast a quizzical glance between the couple and her. Beside her, Nymeria felt Rhaena’s hand rest lightly on her arm, a quiet gesture of support. 

“I don’t see how it matters,” Princess Rhaenyra said, attempting to defuse her husband’s simmering anger.

Nymeria scrambled for words to justify herself, but Jace, ever the knight, came to her rescue. “It is always good to know if the greens are seeking alliances with Westerosi lords. With Aegon and Helaena married, they have only Aemond and Daeron left to leverage,” he remarked.

She was grateful for his intervention, though his words laid bare the ugly truth, the not-so-hidden purpose of a King’s offspring. Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne rested on her father’s decision to name her his heir; the Hightowers needed allies if they were ever to challenge her.

“I believe he isn’t. At least, not yet,” her brother said. 

She lifted her gaze to meet his, finding his hazel eyes alight with amusement, a sly, catlike smile tugging at his lips. “Rumor has it, he's more captivated by books and swords than by stealing young ladies' hearts.”

She had watched her mother and brother depart on a ship, envious that they were bound for King’s Landing while she had been left behind. Her father had made it clear that she wouldn’t be joining them. Despite her mother’s efforts to convince him, their argument escalated, as it often did. The Princess had to step in, but she sided with her husband, offering only a compassionate glance toward her.

While her mother and the Dornish delegation had brought official gifts from the southern realm, the one Nymeria had commissioned for the newlyweds remained with her, as they were deeply personal, cousin to cousins. Her father had eyed the Valyrian steel armring she had commissioned for Aegon, in the shape of Aegon the Conqueror’s crown. “It is perfect for Aegon,” he had remarked, referring to his firstborn son. And so, the armring vanished amidst the dragons and knight figurines that were her younger brother’s favorite toys.

To ease her disappointment and lift her spirits, Daemon had taken her down to the caverns where the riderless dragons lived. He told her to choose one, or a hatchling, if she preferred. He seemed to have no doubt that she’d been able to claim any of them.

“Not yet,” she had replied. Not before Rhaena got one. 

Though she didn’t want to admit it aloud, she didn’t want to claim a dragon before her sister did. “I am not ready to stop riding Caraxes with you,” she said instead. She knew it would please her father, perhaps not as much as if she had become a dragonrider, but enough to buy her and Rhaena a little more time. 

To her surprise, Daemon pulled her into a hug. “There’s time,” he murmured, lips brushing the crown of her head. The next day he gifted her a book ‘Of Water And Blood Magic And The Subduing Of Dragons’.  

“You know, you are special,” her father said softly. “Your mother’s mother is a direct descendant of the Rhoynars, the ones who worshiped the Goddess of the River Rhoyne. It is said they could harness the magic of water. And you, you’re a Targaryen.”

He gently caressed her cheek before pausing to cradle her chin between his fingers. “You’re both fire and water. That might hinder some abilities for you, like claiming a dragon… but it also strengthens others, like walking the delicate line between dreams and life. I believe you can harness both.  We just don’t know how yet.”

His gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Until we do, I cannot leave you unguarded, not with people who are a threat to our family.”

He had spoken with such a certainty in his voice that, from that moment on, she never doubted him - even though, at the time, she hadn’t been able to harness anything. There had been a few ‘accidents’, or so they had been called, moments when water’s mesmerising pull would make her drift away. In those moments, she would slip into a waking dream, wandering through places she had never seen,  encountering people she loved but could neither touch or speak to.

Only once, when she was much younger, she had walked into her father’s dream and spoken to him. She couldn't remember, but he did. Her father, deeply fascinated by this occurrence, became obsessed with it, trying, and failing, to help her experience it again.

Then came the day she flowered for the first time.

It was an unusually warm day, not long after her mother had left for King’s Landing, and she had been in a foul mood since morning. So surly was her disposition, that she avoided the company of everyone. She had asked the maids to prepare a bath, hoping it might soothe her and provide some relief. One maid added oils to the hot water, while another helped her undress. 

She slipped into the bath, allowing the soothing water to envelop her body. The moment the water reached her shoulders, she felt it. Like a pull, a voice calling from afar. She asked the maids to leave her, and as the door closed behind them, she began to drift…

Everything went dark. She had experienced it before, but that didn’t make it less frightening. The cold seeped into her flesh, advancing inch by inch until it reached her bones, as she plunged into darkness with her eyes wide open.

She was no longer in the bath. Now, she could feel the wet grass beneath her bare feet and the sun’s rays flickering through the leaves of the trees. A chilly breeze made her shiver, and she realised she was wearing only her linen chemise. She took a couple of uncertain steps before spotting the riverside. There, lying on the bank with his arms folded under his head, was someone she did not recognise at first.

She could hear muffled sounds in the distance; she tensed, straining to listen. Though she couldn’t make out the words, it seemed like a gathering of people, their voices cheerful. Turning her back to the noise, she walked towards the figure still lying on the riverbank. A happy smirk brightened her face as she recognised the familiar face. 

The young prince laid with his eyes closed, his breathing peaceful and steady. She knelt beside him and sat on her heels, leaning on her left arm to better see his face. He was beautiful, she thought, a pang of emotions tugging at her heart. 

She laid down close to him, watching as his chest rose and fell in a stray rhythm.

  Open your eyes.

He opened his eyes, instantly awake, and sat up. It took him a few seconds to adjust, and then he saw her. 

“What …?” His voice trailed off as his gaze wandered around. She raised to sit, too, hoping it would help her push back the tears threatening to form in her eyes.

As if mesmerised, the prince raised his left hand in front of his face, then, with painful slowness, he covered his left eye with his palm. She watched a solitary tear roll down his cheek as he withdrew his hand and looked at it as though seeing it for the first time.

“This is not real, is it?” he murmured. 

She shook her head, unable to find her voice. He reached for her face, his lithe fingers stopping just short of brushing her skin.

“You are not … real?” he asked hesitantly.

“I am real,” she replied softly, reaching for his hand and gently pressing it to her cheek. After a moment, she leaned forward, pulling him into an embrace. Aemond stiffened at first, surprised, but then he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, burying his face in the hollow of her neck.

“Is this a dream?” Aemond whispered, as though speaking those words aloud might wake someone up.

“Yes, sort of…”

“Strange … I dreamt of you sometimes, but it never felt like this.”

Her heart fluttered and she knew his did too. It was as if all their feelings and sensations were heightened in that moment.

“I’m sorry,” Nymeria said after a brief silence. “I’m sorry I didn’t help you.”

“You held me,” Aemond replied quietly. “I remember you holding me. And I remember you speaking up in my defence…”

He tightened his embrace before loosening his hold. She straightened and cupped his face with her hands. 

Think of a place you love.

His striking blue eyes widened at the voice they both heard, and in a blink of an eye, as if answering it, the landscape around them shifted.. The light flickering through the leaves of the trees was gone, replaced by narrow shafts of sunlight streaming through high stained-glass windows. 

The hexagonal room’s dark corners were dimly lit by flickering candlelight, and the fresh air of the forest had been replaced by the smell of wood, ink, and parchment. They both looked around in awe, their gazes lifting towards a ceiling now visible above them.

“It’s the library …” Aemond murmured, recognising the place. “But … different.”

Rows of towering wooden shelves, adorned with ladders, were packed with leather-bound tomes and volumes with gilded titles. Some of the books had weathered spines. Dust motes danced in the shards of natural light filtering through. 

“It’s beautiful,” Nymeria said, her voice barely audible, as though afraid to disturb the quiet.

A massive oak table dominated the centre of the room, its edges and legs intricately carved with dragons. The surface was pristine, except for one silver-framed mirror that was standing there, defying all natural laws. Aemond slowly approached it.

“I’m whole,” he whispered. Nymeria felt a pang in her heart. She stepped behind him and placed her hands gently on his shoulders.

Wake up

She felt a force pulling her. Aemond turned towards her and grabbed her wrists.

Wake Up

“I don’t want to,” he cried out, panicked.

“I can’t -” she managed to say, just before darkness engulfed her.

The light came as suddenly as the darkness before it. A sharp, choking sensation seized her, and she started coughing, expelling water that had filled her throat. She inhaled sharply as her body jerked forward.

“Nymeria!” She heard the frantic voice of the Princess before she even saw her. Rhaenyra was leaning over the bath, fear in her eyes, gripping her shoulder so tightly that it hurt. Their eyes locked, and Nymeria gave a shaky nod.

“I’m fine,” she finally said with a trembling voice.

“What happened?”  Rhaenyra asked, as she quickly instructed the maid to bring towels.

“I don’t know… I fainted, I think,” Nymeria lied. The truth was, she was terrified by what had happened. It had never been like that before. Not so real. 

A sudden cramp seized her, and she clutched her stomach, her face contorting in pain as the water around tinged with a faint red.

“This might explain it,” the Princess said gently, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. She smiled, her heart warm with joy. Though she couldn’t leave Dragonstone, she had found a way to meet her cousin.

Now, all she needed was to understand how, Nymeria thought as she closed her eyes, exhausted, while the Princess and the maid tended to her. 

Chapter Text

The message arrived on a cold morning while she was out with her father.

Nymeria loved their little adventures around the Dragonmont. Sometimes, they went to look for the dragons who made their lair in its depths. Her father seemed particularly fond of Vermithor, and Nymeria couldn’t help but think he secretly hoped she would one day claim the beast. Not that he had ever pushed her to try. He seemed content simply watching her approach and touch the dragon without fear. 

She had learnt to sing to Vermithor as her father did, in the language of their forefathers. Oddly enough, the great dragon seemed to enjoy it, always appearing whenever he heard their song.

That morning, though, they were not searching for dragons. They were searching for dragon eggs.  Rhaenyra was pregnant again, and the babe would soon be born. The princess was hoping at last to have a daughter of her own, and her father, following Targaryen tradition, was looking for a dragon egg to place in the newborn’s cradle when she, or he, arrived.

Nymeria kneeled to pick up a glossy shard of obsidian, or ‘frozen fire’ as her father called it. It was slightly smaller than the palm of her hand, with sharp edges. As she held it up to the light filtering through the mountainside’s cracks, she noticed veins of red running through it. Quite rare. It struck her how the colours, black and red, matched the colours of her father’s family crest.

“Ny, come. It’s here.” She heard her father call. She picked up the large leather bag and ran to him. Prince Daemon had found a clutch of eggs laid by Syrax, Princess Rhaenyra’s dragon. Three in total. He carefully extracted them and handed them to Nymeria, who placed them safely in the bag to take back to the castle. 

“It is a pity your mother didn’t allow me to offer you a dragon egg when you were born,” he said in a sweet, nearly melancholic tone. “In a few years, I will have to find eggs for your children!”

Nymeria laughed. “There’s still time for that, jorraelgon kepa.” 

He chuckled. “As much as I hate to admit it, you have come of age, nuha rizmun sīmontan.” My desert rose. He liked to call her that. ‘Desert Rose’ was the endearing name she had been given in Dorne, but he liked to add ‘my’, as she was his, first and foremost. He had made that clear in every confrontation he had ever had with her mother. 

“Your mother has received another suitor’s proposal.”

Her future had become the latest point of contention between her parents. All, of course, discussed through ravens and envoys. In truth, neither Princess Rhaenyra nor her uncle, the Prince of Dorne, would have trusted her parents to discuss the matter face to face. The risk of blood being spilled was far too great.

“And who would it be this time?” Nymeria asked, amused. From the tone of the conversation, she could tell that, whoever it was, her father was not even considering this proposal a possibility. 

As much as she missed Dorne and the beautiful sun that warmed her skin there, she was grateful to be here with her father and Rhaenyra instead. Had she been with her mother, she would likely have already been shipped off as a bride to strengthen her uncle’s alliance with Westerosi lords. Or at least, they would have tried, before she got too old, as her mother pointedly remarked in one of her recent ravens.

“Some lord of the Vale. Belmore, I think. I will have no sheep-fucking man of the Vale marry my daughter, so you have nothing to be concerned about,” he dismissed quickly. Then with an annoyed sigh, he added, “But she is becoming rather insistent.” 

“We’ll have to find a solution sooner or later …” he concluded as he pulled out the last egg and handed it to her.

He looked at Nymeria, and they exchanged a knowing smile, complicit in their unspoken understanding. 

“Do you think it will be a girl this time?” Nymeria asked her father teasingly as they walked back. The fact that the Princess was with child again, the third one in six years, was proof enough for Nymeria that her father truly loved his new wife, or at least as much as he had loved Laena. Given his otherwise volatile nature, she could easily imagine him growing bored with women.

“That’s what Rhaenyra wishes,” he smiled. 

“But you’d prefer a boy?” 

“Boys are uncomplicated,” he admitted with a chuckle. “You don’t have to worry about them as much.”

Nymeria wasn’t entirely sure this was the case, and her two brothers were still too young to offer any insight into how her father would have dealt with them as young men.  Though she had to admit, he had done a good job with Jace, Lucerys, and Joffrey, stepping in as their father figure. Their bond wasn’t strong; it couldn’t be, with the ghosts of their fathers still lingering; but she had observed him with the boys and could confidently say that he was fond of the three of them.

Whether he would be fond enough of them to protect their right to the throne was another matter, and one she was not eager to explore.

The dragon keepers were waiting at the entrance of the cave. Her father handed over the eggs for them to tend to. 

It was them who gave him the message that had arrived that very morning from Driftmark.

As her father read it, his mood changed. She could see his eyes harden and his jaw clench.  Without uttering a word, he marched back to the castle, and Nymeria struggled to keep up with him, despite having grown nearly as tall as he was. 

His silence was ominous, and once they arrived back, he entered the main hall, kicking everyone out. 

“What is happening?” Jace asked her, holding Joffrey’s hand. 

“Baela sent a message, and by the look of it, a storm is coming our way.”

They barely had time to prepare what was needed when they were told they had to travel to King’s Landing for a few days. Nymeria would have been excited to finally visit the capital if it weren't for the reason behind this trip: Lord Corlys was in mortal danger, and his brother, Vaemond Velaryon, was seeking to claim the throne of Driftmark, thus calling into question Lucerys’ legitimacy. This would, in turn, cast doubt on Jacaerys’ legitimacy, and from there, challenge the Princess' claim to the throne.

The arrival in the capital had been bizarre, to say the least. The harbour was as vast as that of Sunspear, and Nymeria felt a sense of pride as she noticed a couple of ships flying Dornish flags. For Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, however, it was unsettling, and Nymeria could see her father simmering with silent rage. No one was there to greet them at the harbour, just the wheelhouse, and there was no one to welcome them as they arrived at the Red Keep either.

Only one man came to greet them at the gate when they finally arrived, Lord Caswell, as Jace told her afterwards. He was a staunch supporter of the Princess, but if all they could rely on at court was a single lord, then the tide was surely turning against them. 

As they walked through the corridors to the rooms they had been assigned, Nymeria couldn’t shake the deep sense of cold and grimness. It was nothing like the court bustling with people and knights that her father and the Princess had sometimes described. 

“I would say that it is nice to be home, but I scarcely recognise it,” she heard the Princess say, confirming that she wasn’t the only one feeling the inhospitable atmosphere of the place. 

Their rooms were inside Maegor's Holdfast, a towering structure that was the heart of the Red Keep. That was, on all accounts, as imposing as she had been told. Nymeria was surprised to find she had been given a room of her own. It was beautifully decorated, with tapestries on the wall depicting dragons, which give way to lovers’ scenes in the area surrounding the large bed.

A young maid brought in fresh water. She couldn’t have been older than five and ten and she introduced herself as Jeyne, explaining that the Queen had arranged for her to be at Nymeria’s service. 

Jeyne helped Nymeria change into a silk gown, auburn in colour, with delicate sun symbols embroidered along the edge that framed her collarbone. Jeyne arranged her wavy hair in two braids, one on each side of her head, and used a golden clasp to tie them, letting the rest fall free on her shoulders. 

Nymeria was choosing her earrings when the two Velaryon boys came knocking at the door. 

“Mother and Daemon went to see the King, and Rhaena is with her grandmother and Baela. Do you want -” 

“Which ones?” She interrupted Jace, holding up two different earrings near her lobes. 

“The ruby ones,” Jace replied without hesitation. He had good taste, Nymeria thought.

“Do you want to come with us? We are going to the courtyard where we used to train.”

“Why not! Thanks, Jeyne,” she said to the girl. “If you could prepare the golden dress for tomorrow, I would be most grateful.” 

Jace offered her his arm as they strolled through the corridors, sharing with her stories from their childhood. Jace smiled as he reminisced, occasionally mentioning Aegon and Nymeria had the impression that, at some point, the black and the green boys had caused some mischief together. However, he was very careful never to mention Aemond’s name. 

His excitement was so infectious that even Lucerys couldn’t help but curl his lips in a shy smile, and for a few moments, the shadow that hung over him seemed to lift.

They finally arrived at the middle bailey, which overlooked a vast courtyard. It was busy, bustling with men-at-arms training and a small crowd of curious onlookers. 

“There it is!” Jace exclaimed. “Come!” He said, rushing down the stairs, followed by Lucerys. 

Nymeria laughed. “I am coming, just not running down like a savage boy. I am a lady!”

“Said the woman who can wield a war-axe!” Jace teased her as he raced down the second flight of stairs. 

Nymeria walked slowly down the stairs, pausing on the mezzanine to take in the scene. She spotted a couple of knights sparring, while Jace and Lucerys had reached the wooden weaponry stand. Jace was playfully teasing his younger brother with a sword when she noticed a few people intrusively staring at them. Her heart grew heavy at the thought of what the young Velaryons were enduring and how, on the morrow, with their legitimacy questioned, their world could shatter like fragile glass, irreparably splintering before their eyes. 

Her attention was caught by the crowd, suddenly gathering around two figures who were about to start practicing. One of the two had long silver-blonde hair that made him stand out unmistakably. It was one of the Targaryen princes. Her heart skipped a beat as he adjusted his stance after a blow from his opponent. The eyepatch gave away his identity, cutting through her heart like a blade.             

She held her breath, her eyes widening as a flood of fear, joy, and longing swept through her; her heart pounded louder and louder in her chest. She had thought about him, about the day they would meet again, but in her mind, he had always retained his childish features. Yet, as nature wants, he had changed. He had grown into a man, leaving the boy of her memories behind. She let her gaze linger on his tall, lithe figure, now clad in a black leather gambeson. His face had hardened, and the soft cheeks of youth had left their place to sharper, more aquiline features. 

He glanced up in her direction, and their eyes met for a fateful second. For a moment, she felt drawn back to the morning she had watched him leave Driftmark on Vaghar. When they had looked at each other, too far apart for her to tell him how sorry she was. Sorry for what had happened to him, sorry she had failed to stop them all from fighting. 

The opponent swung the morning star again, and Aemond was quick to pull up his shield, but the blow shattered part of it. 

With a swift motion, the silver-haired prince threw away what remained of it, now completely focused on his adversary. He ducked and swiftly turned, striking fiercely, the sharp clash of metal ringing through the air. With incredible dexterity, Prince Aemond managed to neutralise the morning star and, in a single fluid movement, pointed the sword to his opponent's throat, who finally yielded.

The onlookers clapped, and Nymeria was about to join in when she noticed Jace and Lucerys in the crowd, their posture tense with unease. Aemond had acknowledged them, his voice faint but clear. “ … have you come to train?”

Nymeria instinctively placed a hand on her stomach as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She ran down the remaining flight of stairs, the memory of the boys’ last encounter haunting her mind. Her father would have never forgiven her if something had happened and she hadn’t intervened this time. In truth, the thought of her father’s and Rhaenyra’s possible reactions terrified her far more than anything that could really happen.

As she hurried, as discreetly as possible, through the courtyard, the guards gave the order to open the gates, and a column of men bearing Velaryon banners marched in. The claimant for Driftmark’s throne had arrived. Nymeria recognised him at once: Vaemond Velaryon, the man who had delivered the eulogy for Lady Laena so many years before. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aemond’s smile, complacent, while Lucerys seemed to shrink behind his brother. One step more and she was by Jace’s side, Lucerys glanced at her and she smiled at him reassuringly. 

“We should …” she began, trying to think of an excuse to draw the boys away, but her words faltered as she felt Aemond’s presence looming. She turned towards him. He had moved closer, his one good eye fixed on her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. His opponent, whom she now recognised as Ser Criston Cole, approached as well, clearly worried too about a possible escalation.

She felt a wave of unease under his gaze, but nonetheless, she advanced further towards the prince, positioning herself between him and Jace. Her heart pounded, loud and fast in her chest, and she found herself desperately hoping no one else could hear it. 

As she focused on him, memories surfaced of all the times she had questioned the ship captains who docked in Dragonstone’s small harbor, hoping for word of the prince. 

And now, here he was, at last, standing before her. With a deep breath, she pushed back all her anxiety and put on a mask of controlled courtesy, her lips parting to form a warm smile.  

“Cousin,” she said, interrupting the uncomfortable silence, “I watched you sparring with Sir Criston. Very impressive.” 

Perhaps the prince was not accustomed to receiving compliments, or perhaps he was simply not used to seeing people smile so openly at him. Either way, Aemond stared at her, perplexed, and Nymeria’s smile widened, finding it amusing. Jace snickered, and suddenly, a flicker of anger ignited the prince’s only eye.

“Hm,” Aemond returned his attention to his nephews. 

“Uncle,” Jace found his voice, his tone firm and confident. “We are showing Nymeria the Red Keep. She has never been here before.” 

Aemond stared at his nephew for a long moment, sizing him up. His expression was a mask, unreadable, and it made Nymeria uncomfortable. Instinctively, she grabbed Jace’s arm and squeezed it. 

“Perhaps, My Lady…” Aemond’s voice dripped with barely concealed contempt as he addressed Nymeria. “It might be better for someone who actually resides here to show you around.” He smirked at the boys, a sneer playing at the corner of his lips, before turning away to approach a page who handed him a new shield. Nymeria sighed, ignoring the sting. 

“My Lady,” Ser Criston said as he took leave, oddly ignoring the Velaryon boys. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, as she felt the hostility surrounding them grow.

Had things been different, she would have loved to stay and watch a little longer, but that was their best chance to slip away.

“Show me the Godswood,” she murmured, tightening her grip on Jace’s arm. “Father said it is like a shrine of beauty and peace.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Jace exploded. “You’re impressed? Impressed ? Really?!” His voice was sharp with bitterness.

“He is an excellent swordsman. You cannot deny it. But I’ll admit, he can be insufferable,” she conceded, then shot a glance at Lucerys, who walked pensively beside Jace.

“Chin up. Stand tall. Don’t let any of these fools hold any power over you,” she whispered. The boy offered a meek smile in return, a glimmer of reassurance in his eyes.

Chapter Text

It was a rare occurrence for Aemond to be summoned to the Hand’s Tower. Not that he didn’t speak with the Hand often, with him being his grandsire. He and his siblings were always kept informed, meticulously prepared for any event of consequence, be it a matter of the realm or the royal family. But such discussions usually happened within the walls of the small council chamber or their mother’s quarters. That is why Otto’s summons took the prince by surprise.

They had already been briefed on the Driftmark dispute that was going to be settled on the morrow. It hadn’t been openly stated, but he knew that the Hand and the Queen would have favoured Vaemond Velaryon. Finally Jace and Luke would be exposed for what they truly were, bastards. This would discredit Rhaenyra and weaken her claim. The perfect storm to get rid of his father's favourite daughter. What else could be left to discuss? With him alone?

Just as he was about to knock on the Hand’s study door, it swung open, and two men walked out. He had never seen them before. They were foreigners, dressed in bright silken robes. Upon seeing him, both men bowed, recognising him as one of the princes. 

Their skin was dark and their hair darker. By their appearance, he would guess they were Dornish, yet he couldn’t help but notice how utterly different their looks were from Lady Nymeria. 

She must have stood out as a sore thumb in Dorne, Sir Criston had remarked earlier when she had walked away with his nephews. For a moment, he wondered how she had felt, as a child, growing up there. Had she been singled out? Had she suffered for it? 

The thought stirred something in him. A pang of remembrance. He knew all too well how it felt, back then, when he still hadn’t claimed Vhagar.

“Come in, Aemond,” his grandsire called. He gave the two men a last glance as they walked away before stepping into the room. Otto Hightower shut the door behind him, then returned to his desk. He tidied up some papers, before finally looking up and gesturing for Aemond to sit.

“Why am I here?” The prince asked, settling into one of the chairs in front of the desk.  

“There is an opportunity,” Otto began, leaning back into the backrest. “As you know the situation in the Stepstones is of concern, and with Lord Corlys’ life hanging by a thread, the Kingdom faces uncertainty.”

“And that is why Vaemond Velaryon is the best candidate for Driftmark’s throne.” 

Aemond’s lips curled in a tight, condescending smile. He loathed when people took too long to get to the point. 

“But…” Otto continued matching Aemond’s condescending smile, much to the prince’s displeasure. “We would be in a much safer position if we could ensure the Triarchy receives no ‘help’ from Dorne.” He paused deliberately on the last word, emphasising its weight.

“So, you are negotiating with Dornish envoys? And what do you put forth in offering?” Aemond’ irritation was growing. Patience had never been one of his strengths. 

His grandfather straightened, his elbows resting on the armrests. Aemond’s single eye widened as the realisation struck him. “A marriage?”

“In due course,” Otto replied.

“In due course? And, upon what does this rely?” The prince had long known that, in the end, this would have been his fate, a pawn for political alliances. He and Daeron were the only ones his mother and grandsire could move on the board to further their schemings.

“It depends on how things will unfold tomorrow.” 

Aemond arched an eyebrow. He failed to see how the two things were connected.

“Have you met Lady Nymeria Martell yet?” Otto inquired.

“Sand,” Aemond corrected him pedantically. “She is a bastard of Dorne.” His tone turned biting. “Are you suggesting I wed a bastard?” 

He was baffled. He could acknowledge that, at least, with her features, she was undeniably a Targaryen bastard, but to take one to wife? After all the years spent scorning his nephews, was he now expected to welcome one into his own life?

“It’s a pity you’re a bastard... for you are so very beautiful.”

The words he had once spoken to her in a dream returned now to haunt him, unbidden and unwelcome. Had that been the last of those strange, twilight dreams? He could no longer recall.

“Her uncle, the ruling Prince of Dorne, has recognised her, and thus she is now a Princess of House Martell,” Otto explained drily. “And your father, the King, in his great affection for his brother, has most graciously resolved to grant his niece a royal bill of legitimacy. She shall henceforth bear the Targaryen name.”

The prince was left speechless. Princess of House Martell…

“And you think my uncle will welcome this offering?” Aemond scoffed, “he had six years to ask Father to legitimise her, and he never did.” 

“Seventeen, you mean. I believe she is seven and ten now.” 

Aemond bit his tongue, chafing at his own foolishness. Of course, his uncle could have asked for her legitimisation from the moment she was born, not merely within the past six years. That was simply the time that had passed since he last saw her. Though he had thought of her often, in his mind it was as if her existence had only begun the day they met on the terrace of Driftmark Castle. It never occurred to him that she had existed before that moment.

He shifted uneasily under his grandsire’s questioning gaze. Composing himself, he suppressed any hint of reaction that might give away his thoughts.

“We cannot know how Prince Daemon will react. Your mother hopes that he will not refuse his brother’s dying wish.”

A plan carefully crafted, leveraging loyalty and affection. 

“And will it be my father’s dying wish that his niece marry his second son?” Aemond couldn’t help but sneer. 

Otto sighed, a sign his patience was wearing thin. 

“That would be only natural. But timing is of the essence. The outcome of the hearing tomorrow will affect Prince Daemon’s reaction. We do not need him to legitimise the girl, and that is the first step -”

“But you will need his approval for the betrothal,” Aemond taunted. His grandsire responded with a stern, icy glare before continuing.

“Prince Qoren Martell welcomes the prospect of a union with the King’s kin, but once she is legitimised, Daemon, as her father, will have the final word on it. Your mother and I will worry about presenting the King’s request to Daemon, but we need your help to make this work…” the older man paused to let his words sink in. 

“She is a good match, Aemond,” Otto continued. “She is of the ruling house of Dorne, and she is blood of the dragon. We might not like it, but Daemon’s daughter is the best match to strengthen your line.” Otto paused, well knowing how important this had been for Aemond. The Prince still remembered the sting of  bitter disappointment he had felt upon learning of the betrothal between Aegon and Helaena. Since that day, he had envied his brother for the opportunity he had been offered to strengthen his Targaryen line. Aemond had felt deprived of the same chance. His mother hadn’t even considered him, the second son, the spare. 

So this was it, their plan: an alliance, forcing upon him a marriage to a bastard, thinly veiled as an opportunity, sweetened with talk of shared blood and Targaryen traditions. 

 “She arrived this morning with her father. I haven’t met her yet, but I’ve been told she is quite comely. Find a way to spend some time with her, get to know her … ” 

“I will do what my family requires of me,” Aemond cut him short, standing up abruptly. He needed air to clear his thoughts.

“If she takes a liking to you, it will help us to strong-arm your uncle. I am told he is rather fond of her,” Otto suggested. “Try to win her over.”

The words stung. Unexpectedly. Aemond cast a final, burning glare at the Hand of the King before marching out.

 As Aemond made his way back to Maegor’s Holdfast, his grandfather’s words echoed in his mind. His pride bristled at the suggestion he had to try to win her over, as though he might fail, as though he needed to put on some false charade to earn her favour.  He was the son of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, rider of the largest dragon, not some common lord. Any woman ought to have considered herself more than fortunate to be his bride. 

Even disfigured as you are …? 

Even his own sister, his own mother struggled to meet his gaze, and so he had grown accustomed to always wearing the eyepatch. It had become his second skin, his shield against the revulsion he so often glimpsed in the eyes of others.

He tried to ignore the turmoil that was creeping up inside him, the voice of the boy he once was, who was never heard, always dismissed, now taunting him with the prospect of rejection. And rejection by a bastard would be all the more humiliating. 

His jaw tightened as he forced the voice from his mind, locking it away inside the fortress that he had so carefully built around himself.

His thoughts drifted back to their earlier encounter in the courtyard. His grandsire didn’t know just how right he had been, for she had indeed grown into a comely young woman. 

Her smile hadn’t changed; he remembered it from that day in Driftmark. It was as warm as the sun, irritatingly pleasant. Her eyes, too, he remembered, blue as crystal-clear waters, like the shimmering coastline he glimpsed from above when soaring on Vhagar. 

He had thought of her over the past years, too much for his liking. Yet each time he recalled her, the memory was inevitably clouded by the events of that day, tainted by the image of Lucerys brandishing the blade, the cold bite of metal as it sliced through his flesh, the unbearable pain that followed. And each time, his anger would surge from the depth of his being, leaving him yearning to reduce the whole world to ashes. 

The memory of her arms around him, holding him up, was the only small comfort he found, the only thing that could soothe his seething rage and drive it back to the darkest recesses of his mind.

She had lived in his dreams though, so vividly that she had come to feel almost real. He remembered each one: the words they had exchanged, the scent of roses clinging to her hair, the softness of her skin beneath his fingers as he held her hand, her laughter… and her fury, each time he dared to speak of her bastard birth with disdain.

As Aemond neared the staircase leading to the royal apartments, he glimpsed Nymeria at the far end of the corridor, slipping quietly into the library. He halted, drawing a slow, measured breath. This was as good a moment as any to begin. She seemed to be alone, which would make the task, undoubtedly, easier. 

He strode toward the oak doors, their double shutters wide.

“… thank you, I would really appreciate it,” he overheard her say, as leaned casually against the jamb.

The maester took his leave to retrieve whatever it was she had requested. With her back to him, she wandered through the room, her gaze drifting over the table and the books scattered across it, a sign that Jaehaerys had likely been there earlier.

Aemond smiled, recalling many a dream in which he had led her to this very place, the vault of knowledge that had once been his favourite refuge. In those dreams, they had sat together on the floor, speaking for what seemed hours, until the lines of the bookshelves blurred and transformed into other landscapes to explore. The memories remained so vivid he could almost recall the smallest details. 

And now, here they were, together at last. It felt more natural than it should have.

She moved around the table, leisurely picking up a book to examine. The light from the windows cast a warm glow on her skin. A stray lock of hair slipped over her shoulder, and as she tucked it back, she lifted her head and met his gaze. 

Aemond’s smile deepened, and he stepped toward her.

“It gladdens me to see you again, cousin,” he said, emboldened by the fact that they were alone. She blushed ever so slightly, and to his surprise, he found it pleased him. 

“You’ve grown.”

She smiled, replying with playful ease, “so have you. I daresay you’re nearly as tall as my father now.” 

Aemond had heard Nymeria was very close to her father, so he chose to take it as a compliment.

“Do you enjoy reading?” He asked, then immediately cursed himself as the smile faded from his face. A foolish question , he thought, irritated. She is in a library, after all.

“I do,” she replied. “I have asked the maester to find me a book on some histories from Old Valirya”

“I fear most of such volumes are in High Valyrian, and may well be kept in my father’s chambers.”

“Ziry iksos beri pār nyke gūrēntan issa kepa's udrir” 

It is a fortunate thing, then, that I learned my father's language , she replied, her pronunciation so clear it both surprised and intrigued the prince. He had not considered that she might be fluent in the language of their forebears. He doubted she had learnt it in Dorne, more likely, it was Prince Daemon’s doing. 

The thought of marriage to one who shared with him the gift of speaking High Valiryan was strangely alluring. He lingered on the notion for a moment, then swiftly dismissed it, uneasy at the course his musings threatened to follow.

“Skoros tembyr ao eptan syt?” 

What book have you asked for? He inquired, attempting to change the focus of his thoughts.

“Iā tembyr va se rhoynish vīlībāzma” 

A book on the Rhoynish Wars , she answered.

“My lady…” Neither of them had noticed the maester’s return. He held a very old tome, quite fragile in its appearance.

Nymeria took the book gently, handling it with care. “Thank you. I shall look after it and see that it is returned before we depart.”

The man suddenly looked anxious. Aemond could wager his own presence was at least partly to blame. A thrill ran down his spine, he enjoyed making people uneasy. 

“The Lady Nymeria may take it to her chambers, if she so wishes,” he interjected with a tone that left no room for argument. 

Nymeria cast him a glance but remained silent. She, too, seemed ill at ease, caught in between the two men. 

“Come,” he said to her. “Allow me to carry it for you.” 

Aemond took the book in his left hand. She hesitated for a moment, then she let go of the tome and accepted the arm he offered.

“Why the Rhoynish Wars? Are you so eager to revisit Valirya’s triumph over the Rhoynars and their exile to Dorne?” He asked, his voice laced with gentle mockery, as they walked up the staircase toward the royal quarters. 

Nymeria glanced at him and smirked. She did not seem easily provoked, which amused the prince. That, too, he recalled from the day they first met.

“Well, …” she began, “the dragonlords did indeed defeat the Rhoynars, and my namesake led the survivors into exile in Dorne. But I have always preferred the part of the story where Garin the Great, taken captive, called upon water magic and drowned all the Valyrian invaders. He is said to have cursed Valirya itself, perhaps even causing the Doom … though the accounts differ greatly. It is rather fascinating.”

It certainly was; like so many tales from Old Valirya. 

A part of him found it intriguing how Nymeria stood so perfectly poised between the heritage of the  dragonlords and that of the Rhoynars-Dornish one. Fire and Water. 

He knew the fire well, but of the other, he was totally ignorant. 

“Father believes that my Rhoynish blood somehow hinders my ability to bond with a dragon,” she said with a laugh, clearly amused by such a notion. “Or perhaps it’s simply that I was never given a dragon egg at birth!” She added playfully, looking at him, her blue eyes shining brightly.

“Are you not angered by it?” Aemond asked, his tone serious. He was astonished by her attitude. Her lack of frustration at not having a dragon yet was startling.

“Rhaena asked me the same question once. Upset? No, I am not,” she said with a light shrug. “Though I cannot say I wouldn’t like to have one… even if this means I’d no longer be welcome in Dorne,” she chuckled. 

“As a child, my mother would always remind me that dragons are slain in Dorne, not ridden. But perhaps now, when we return to Dragonstone, I shall try to claim Vermithor. He is a magnificent beast!”

“Have you seen him?!” The prince asked, his own excitement catching him off guard. A shard of the boy obsessed with dragons had reemerged from the depths of him, fierce and unbidden.

“Yes, we did. Father and I saw him. We were able to approach him … even touch him.” 

Nymeria looked radiant, and he couldn’t help but smile with her. He remembered the thrill he had felt when he claimed Vhagar. 

If Vermithor had been so easy to approach, then she truly had a chance. She would be riding the largest dragon, after Vhagar. For that, he could forgive her questionable origins.

“Just be careful. If he doesn’t accept you, you might well die in the attempt,” Aemond teased her. 

“Burned?” She replied, matching his tone. “Or devoured as a lavish meal?” 

She smiled. “I am not too worried. It would be worth the risk.”

Bold , he thought. And he liked that about her too. 

They had reached her chambers, and Nymeria gently slipped her arm from his to open the door. He handed her the book. 

“Have my nephews shown you the dragonpit?” he asked, knowing perfectly well they had not. It would have been a far better pretext to steal a moment alone with her.

A thunder rumbled in the distance. Heavy rain was coming, by the sound of it, but likely brief. It might last the night, and by morning, the skies would clear again.

“No, we haven’t been,” she  replied, distracted by thunder’s crack. “We haven’t left the Red Keep since our arrival.”

“Then perhaps I might show you tomorrow,” Aemond suggested, his voice steady, though a hint of anxiety crept into his thoughts.

“I would love that,” she replied after a pause. “Perhaps after the hearing… I would love to see Vhagar again,” she added softly, a shadow passing over her face.

He remained silent for a long moment, observing her. Her sudden pensiveness made her seem so achingly fragile that the prince had to resist the impulse to comfort her. He couldn’t. Everything was set for the demise of his nephews and his sister. 

“Vhagar is too big for the dragonpit,” he said at last. “…But we can ride out to her - ” 

“Who do we have here?” came his brother’s voice from behind, as irritating as ever.

Nymeria looked past Aemond’s shoulder just as he turned to face Aegon, who was, unsurprisingly, drunk. Aemond could tell at once from the indecent cheerfulness in his brother’s tone. 

“Is this Daemon’s bastard?” Aegon asked him bluntly. 

The word struck Aemond hard, as if it had been aimed at him. For the first time, he felt uneasy hearing it, and he didn’t like the feeling one bit.

“Nymeria… right?” Aegon went on, casually clapping him on the shoulder. His gaze lingered far too long on the girl for Aemond’s liking. 

He saw Nymeria straighten, her eyes narrowing, hardening like drawn steel.

“Brother…” Aemond warned.

“Oh, I mean no offence,” Aegon said lightly, his eyes flicking between Aemond and Nymeria, all too pleased with himself.

“None taken, cousin,” she cut in dryly. “And yes, I am Daemon’s bastard, but my uncle, the Ruling Prince of Dorne, legitimised me. It is Princess Nymeria Martell, now. To you.” 

“Is it not only our father that can legitimise bastards?” Aegon asked, somehow managing to be even more irritating.

Aemond’s jaw tightened.

“Dorne is not part of the Seven Kingdoms,” he replied icily. “Our father has no say in its affairs.” 

“Ohhh, I see,” Aegon drawled, staring at his brother, clearly grappling with a thought that was already slipping from his inebriated mind. He turned back to Nymeria, his face breaking into a lazy, amused grin.

“I see… ” he repeated, more emphatically this time. 

Aemond didn’t like where this was going. 

“Enough,” He snapped, grabbing his brother by the arm and pulling him closer. He turned, meaning to offer an apology and take his leave, but Nymeria was quicker. 

“Thank you for accompanying me back, Prince Aemond. I see you’ve more urgent matters to attend to.” 

She tilted her head slightly, a coldly composed smile replacing the gentle one she had worn before. “I hope we can continue the conversation on the morrow.”

As she closed the door to her chambers behind her, Aemond turned to face his brother, barely containing his anger. 

“Why must you always embarrass yourself? And our family?”

“She is a beauty, and with Dornish blood,” Aegon grinned mischievously. “You know what they say about Dornish women…” 

A shiver of cold anger ran down Aemond's spine. His brother was at it again, provoking him, that same endless game of taunts he had played since childhood. But this time, Aemond had no intention of rising to it. Not here. Not in front of the quarters assigned to the Blacks.

Somewhere nearby, a door creaked open.

“Come,” Aemond hissed, striding briskly toward their quarters. Aegon followed, gingerly, barely managing to keep pace.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve taken a fancy to her,” Aegon declared, his voice far too loud for Aemond’s liking.

“Oh, come on, brother! Why must you be so dreadfully serious all the time?” he called after him, voice rising as Aemond pulled further ahead. 

Aemond did not grace him with a reply. 

As soon as he reached his chambers, he shut the door and locked it behind him, blessedly muting Aegon’s endlessly tiresome commentary.

Chapter Text

Nymeria sighed and leaned her back against the door, listening to the muffled voices of Aemond and Aegon arguing. There was something deeply unsettling about Aegon. It was not just his words, though he could have easily avoided being so vexatious, it was his tone, his entire bearing.

She made her way to the settee and carefully placed the book on the low table in front of it. Still, she couldn’t shake the sense that Aegon's behaviour had been aimed less at her and more at Aemond. It baffled her. She had never witnessed anyone, neither her siblings nor the Velaryon boys, act in such a way toward one another. 

It must have been exhausting, she thought, to endure such provocation day after day. She hoped she was wrong. That such confrontations were rare, and not a constant strain for Aemond.

She closed her eyes, willing the troubling thoughts away, making space for Aemond. He was all that mattered now.

“It gladdens me to see you again…” he had said, without knowing how deeply those simple words had touched her. Whether born of courtesy or sincerity, they had warmed her heart more than he could ever imagine.

She let out a quiet laugh of delight, recalling the way he had stood leaning against the library door, the very place  he had so often brought her to in their shared dreams.

Does he remember? She wondered. She knew he would, that was part of the strange gift she possessed, the one that so fascinated her father. But she couldn’t ask Aemond. Her father had made it clear: her gift was not to be spoken of lightly, especially not with those he considered potential enemies. 

So long she had waited to see Aemond again, in flesh and blood. It felt only right that they had found themselves, alone, in the place that he had always claimed he loved the most. 

Perhaps it was a sign, a silent blessing from the Gods upon the warmth blooming in  her heart. Perhaps that was why it felt so natural, so effortless, to be near him. As though by his side was the only place she ever truly belonged. 

A soft knock on her door broke through her thoughts.

“Come in,” she said, looking towards the carved oak panels. Rhaena peeked through the opening. 

“Someone wants to see you…” she announced playfully.

The door swung open, and Baela rushed in with her most radiant smile.

“Sister!” Nymeria exclaimed, hugging the younger girl tightly. “I haven’t seen you in so long! You are more beautiful than ever!” She added, adjusting Baela’s silver locks, which were so like hers. She looked at her sister with a strange pride, almost as though Baela was her own.

“Are you going to wear this?” Rhaena asked, lifting the golden dress that had been laid out on the high-backed chaise by the bed. She held it against herself, the rich colour catching the light and complementing her features beautifully.

“Yes,” Nymeria replied with a soft smile. “I’ll wear it tomorrow.” 

Both Rhaena and Baela looked at her, then glanced at each other with a hint of embarrassment. 

“What is it? You don’t like it?” Nymeria asked, a hint of worry in her voice as she moved towards Rhaena and took the dress from her hands to examine it carefully.

“It’s not that…” Rhaena replied meekly. “It is just… it is quite …”

“… revealing?” Baela offered, with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Beautiful, but very Dornish in style,” she added with a grin.

“Oh, I know!” Nymeria exclaimed, visibly relieved that the issue lay only in the daring cut. “I was thinking of wearing it so that when we walk into the throne room, those half-dead courtiers will have something else to focus on besides Lucerys.”

Both girls bursted into laughter, instantly understanding her game.

“Half-dead…” Baela shook her head. 

“Do you really think the whole court will be staring at Jace and Luke?” She asked, her tone turning more serious.

“I am certain of it, considering what I have seen in the courtyard earlier,” Nymeria replied honestly.

“I am not sure father will allow you to wear it…” Rhaena added, her voice laced with doubt.

“You’d be surprised,” Nymeria said with a wry smile. “That man is so unpredictable. He might find it the most brilliant idea… or order me to change into something more appropriate for a Targaryen court.” 

The three of them laughed, and for a moment, it felt as if time hadn’t passed at all, as if nothing had changed, and they were all still in Essos, playing dress-up with Laena’s silks and their father’s cloaks, smuggled out of their chambers with all the stealth of a grand conspiracy children could muster.

“Speaking of him,” Baela added, still smiling, “we came to tell you he wants you to join him and Rhaenyra when you’re ready” 

“This sounds dreadfully serious,” Nymeria replied, carefully placing the silk dress back on the bed. “We can go.”

“Have you seen him yet?” Rhaena asked, her voice barely a whisper, as though someone might overhear them. 

Nymeria stiffened, biting her lower lip, tempted to lie. Aemond had long remained a difficult subject between them. Yet, Rhaena knew how deeply she had yearned to see him again. This sudden journey to King’s Landing had presented an opportunity she scarcely dared hope for.

“Yes,” she admitted at last, turning to face her sister. “Twice, actually. Earlier in the yard earlier when I was exploring the keep with Jace and Lucerys.” 

Both girls stared at her, waiting for her to continue. 

“Nothing happened,” Nymeria added quickly. “It was just … awkward.” 

Tense . Tense was the right word, but she didn’t want to rile up her sisters. There was already enough tension between the queen’s party and the princess’ party.

“Then I met him again when I was alone in the library.”

“And?” Rhaena’s enquired, worried.

“Nothing. He has been amicable with me.”

“Oh, Ny,” Baela sighed in disbelief. “I can’t believe it! You actually like him? Still?”

“He better be kind, or I’ll punch him again,” Rhaena asserted.

Nymeria chuckled and cupped her hands on her younger sister’s face. “You’ll need a stool; he’s grown a lot. ”

“No need for a stool,” Baela smirked. “I’ve got a crossbow. That should do.”  

“He’s obnoxious.” She added, shaking her head.

Nymeria took a deep breath, resisting the urge to engage in a discussion that would have only led them in circles. “Let’s go now. Father becomes quite irritable when he’s made to wait.”

Their father was in the quarters he shared with Princess Rhaenyra and their younger children. The Velaryon boys were all there as well. As they stepped inside, Nymeria's eyes swept over the group, suspiciously; there was definitely something going on. 

But her wariness softened as she caught, from the corner of her eye, little Aegon crawling across the floor with fierce determination, intent on reaching one of his toys. A smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

“We have news to share,”  Rhaenyra announced. The half-smile on her lips hinted that, for once, the news might not be so bad. Behind her, she heard her sisters giggling. She half-turned to glance at them.

“We’re betrothed!” Baela exclaimed with joy.

“What? To whom? When?” Nymeria turned sharply, staring at her father, incredulous.

“All of this in the past few hours?”

Both Jace and Luke bursted into laughter at her reaction. 

“I have proposed to Princess Rhaenys that Baela wed Jace and Rhaena, Luke. And she has agreed,” Rhaenyra announced.

Nymeria was momentarily stunned. The swiftness of it all took her off guard.The only plausible explanation was that their father and the Princess had long since discussed it in private, though none of them had been given the slightest hint. 

She managed, somehow, to close her mouth, though surprise still clung to her expression. 

“Well, congratulations are in order then,” she said, embracing her sisters first, then Jace and Luke. The smiles on their faces needed no translation, they were content with the arrangement, and she, despite her astonishment, was happy for them.

Wine was poured. Her father handed her a cup, a strangely sweet smile playing on his lips as he watched her. 

“I thought your permission was necessary for these betrothals… you are their father, after all!” she teased, her voice light but probing. 

Still, she wondered how long he had been plotting this; this couldn’t have been entirely Rhaenyra’s idea. No, this had her father’s quiet manoeuvring. She was sure he had gently nudged his wife in that direction. 

“It seems you are the only daughter whose future I can still have a say in,” he pursed his mouth in a mockingly sad smirk.

“Maybe not. Perhaps I will have a little sister,” Nymeria said, raising her glass to Rhaenyra, who smiled and raised her own in response. 

“To a girl!” They toasted together.

Baela and Rhaena left them shortly after, heading off to join their grandmother for supper.

Nymeria couldn’t help but find Lucerys’ reaction to the news rather endearing. He blushed every time the subject was brought up at the table. Jace, on the other hand, seemed genuinely pleased, and Nymeria was delighted for him and Baela. She knew her sister had nursed a small crush on him since they first met. 

Much like her own crush on Prince Aemond, she mused, though with far better prospects. Her gaze flickered to her father. 

“You’re next,” Jace declared, raising his glass to her. “We need to find you a good suitor, handsome and valiant. Not easily intimidated, and one who won’t shy away from a challenge!” 

She pretended to take offence at his words “I am not that difficult!”

“Oh but the father-in-law is!” Jace quipped, casting a teasing glance at Daemon, who laughed at it heartily.

Then, her father’s expression shifted, turning suddenly serious. “Dornish envoys were here today,” he said. “I saw them leaving the Hand's Tower. Do you have any idea what your family is up to?”

Nymeria sighed, summoning all the patience she could to keep from growing irritated by his tone. 

“No, I don’t,” she replied evenly. “The only message I have received was from my brother, announcing he was visiting us in Dragonstone. And I can only hope he received mine, advising him we would be here instead…”

Her father hummed absentmindedly, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Nymeria could tell something else was bothering him beyond what he just shared with them. Rhaenyra sat beside him, across from her and Jace. Gently, she placed a hand on his arm where it rested on the oak table, as if to encourage him to speak.

“We have also received a visit from Lord Wylde, another leech. He claims my dear brother in his infinite magnanimity…” 

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra interrupted him, frowning, but he barely acknowledged her.

“He apparently wishes to offer you a bill of legitimisation,” Daemon continued. “You would be made a daughter of House Targaryen.” 

He tilted his head slightly, lifting his eyes to meet hers, gauging her reaction.

She stared back at him, unable to process. Beside him, Lucerys and Joffrey were looking at her with amused smiles. She heard Jace offering his congratulations, the faint clink of wine being poured into a cup. Princess Rhaenyra was smiling too, Nymeria could almost say she looked happy for a moment, an expression they hadn’t seen on her beautiful face since the arrival of the fateful message a few days earlier. 

Only Daemon and Nymeria remained still, pensive, their gazes locked in silent exchange of unspoken calculation.

“It is good news Nymeria…” Rhaenyra encouraged gently. 

She turned to her, even more confused. Jace handed her the goblet, and she took it without thinking, her fingers curling around it in an unconscious movement.

She glanced at all of them again, lost. 

“Why?” she asked, not to anyone in particular.

“I don’t know, nuha rizmun sīmontan,” her father answered sternly. “But the timing seems… suspicious.”

“Daemon, does it matter? This is a good thing for her, her status will rise, being recognised by two ruling houses… and it benefits you as well.”

Daemon looked at the princess, uncertain on the full meaning behind her words. But before Rhaenyra could respond, Jace, always the perceptive one, spoke up.

“If she is recognised as your daughter, you will have a stronger claim over her future, as her true father.”

“You will be able to decide on her future, whom she’ll marry, without having to compromise with Princess Deria,” Rhaenyra added.

As the thought began to settle in Daemon’s mind, it began, too, to unsettle Nymeria. A slow panic crept over her, tight, suffocating. She didn’t need this, she didn’t want any of it.

She had always known her fate would likely be to marry a man chosen for her. But  legitimisation would change everything. It made her more valuable. It meant she could now be used as a piece in the allegiance game between the Greens and the Blacks. And if Rhaenyra had pressed her father to agree to it, it was not out of kindness.

It meant Nymeria would be given to whomever the Princess needed the most, to seal an alliance, sway a house. She was no longer just a pawn in her mother’s family. Now she was one for her father’s too.  Another piece to be moved, to serve the ambitions of his wife, the future Queen.

But was this all she was meant to be? Would she truly have no say? 

Her heart grew heavy, and a lump formed in her throat as her thoughts turned to Aemond. The idea of him marrying to strengthen the Greens’ position, marrying someone else, left a bitter taste in her mouth. 

She cast it aside, unwilling to dwell on what lay beyond her control. Her cousin’s fate wasn’t hers to shape. But her own was still in her hands. She would not endure it passively. She would find a way to have a say in whatever path laid ahead. She would not bend easily, not to her mother’s wishes, nor Rhaenyra’s. Her father… him , she would obey. But not without a fight. And he loved her. She knew that. He would listen to her, she would make him listen.

“I don’t need a bill of legitimacy to be your daughter.” She said firmly, her eyes locked on her father. “I am your daughter.” 

“I know you don’t,” he said, sustaining her accusing gaze with a glimmer of amusement. “And I don’t like it either, not because you don’t deserve it, but because I know those leeches are behind it somehow.”

“But you can use it to your advantage, my love,”  Rhaenyra suggested smoothly. “Lord Cregan Stark has been recently widowed…”

“She is not going that far north!” Daemon snarled, barely sparing her a glance as he inspected his fingernails.

“He is a young man with an orphaned babe who needs a mother. You are so good with Aegon and little Viserys,” Rhaenyra pressed on, ignoring her husband.

“I would prefer too if Nymeria remained closer to us,” Jace said hesitantly.

“Maybe you could marry Joffrey!” Lucerys mused, giggling along with Joffrey at his own jest.

“Oh, be serious now!” Nymeria couldn’t really help but laugh. “You are very handsome, Joff, but a little bit too young, I’d say!”

The rest of the evening was spent musing on potential good matches, with her father putting some serious effort in pointing out all sorts of flaws and issues for each suggestion. Nymeria found solace in her father’s relentless opposition to any suggestion the Princess put forth. All told, the day’s news had lent a welcome lightness to what might otherwise have been a sombre evening, and she silently thanked the Gods for it. 

As the hour grew late, Jace walked her back to her room. He looked rather melancholic and Nymeria couldn’t help but ask if he was worried about the hearing. The boy pondered the answer for a long moment.

“I was thinking… had we known of the legitimisation earlier, perhaps we could have been betrothed…”

The raw honesty in his words struck her, causing a sharp pang in her heart. She was very fond of Jace, and he had everything a young woman could desire in a husband: he was kind and handsome, strong-willed and brave. She could have been happy with him, had her eyes not rested on her cousin. 

A smile tugged at her lips as she clutched his arm tightly, her head leaning against his as they walked side by side.

“I would have been honoured to marry you, but it wouldn’t have been of value to you, not as your betrothal to Baela is. Even if legitimised, I was still born a bastard. She is perfect. She is beautiful, intelligent, brave and caring. And she carries true-born Velaryon and Targaryen blood. You won’t find a stronger match. She will help you dispel any rumours of your own legitimacy.”

Jace sighed in resignation, fully aware she was speaking the truth.

“Would you contemplate marrying him ?” He asked abruptly.

Nymeria drew in a deep breath. He didn’t need to speak the name, they never did. It was like a shadow that loomed over them.

“I seriously doubt that my father, or even the queen, for that matter, would consider it.” 

Yes . Yes was the answer. She would have, had she had the chance. She closed her eyes, recalling her encounter with her cousin earlier, the way she held his arm, the texture of the fabric of his sleeve, the firmness of his arm underneath. 

She opened her eyes and lifted her head tall, straightening her posture, trying to shake off the memory and the turmoil it was stirring in her.

Chapter Text

Thunders and rain haunted the night, but by morning, they had yielded to the sun and a clear blue sky.

Nymeria had struggled to fall asleep. She loved storms. She loved walking in the rain, watching lightning cleave the skies and listening to thunder so loud it drowned out all other sounds. In those moments, she felt viscerally, fiercely alive. It was as if storms had the power to wash everything away, offering a chance to start anew.

When Nymeria opened her eyes, morning light was already creeping in through the arched windows. Jeyne had entered, quiet as a shadow, bringing fresh water and linens. She helped Nymeria brush and braid her silver-blonde hair into a long plait that fell to her waist, the strands loose and soft at the crown. It was how Rhaenyra wore her hair, and for today, Nymeria chose the same, an unspoken homage to her father’s wife, a silent display of support before the court.

With practiced hands, the handmaid eased her out of her nightgown and into the ivory under-gown. Nymeria smiled as she watched the girl fumble with the laces at the back, unsure of how to fasten the unfamiliar garment. Only the waist was secured by laces; the bodice, if it could even be called that, consisted merely of two triangular panels, each adorned with tiny, colourful gemstones arranged in a floral pattern. These rose from the waist to the neck, fastening at the back with a pearls clasp and leaving her cleavage exposed down to the navel. 

Jeyne blushed as she carefully helped Nymeria slip the golden silk gown over it. It had short sleeves that began at the tips of her shoulders, and a low bodice that covered her navel just enough, leaving the top of the ivory under-gown visible beneath it and drawing the eye to her exposed cleavage. Embroidered flowers graced the waistline, while six slender silken laces cinched the dress at the back. 

Nymeria dismissed Jeyne and waited for her sister to finish tightening the laces; Rhaena knew exactly how to conceal a dagger there, with only the gold-coated hilt left visible. Her mother, Deria, had taught them both the trick during one of their visits to Sunspear. “If men were allowed to carry weapons at a gathering,” she had told them, “then women should be granted the same.” That had always been her mother’s belief. True to her word, Deria Martell had never worn a gown without a hidden blade, nor did most Dornish women. Once Rhaena was done, the dagger’s hilt lay discreetly beneath the braid, easily overlooked. 

When her sister asked if Nymeria expected trouble, she answered honestly that she did not know. In truth, she had no idea what to expect, but she was certain that they were stepping into a hostile environment. Rhaenyra had told them that the Hand and the Queen would preside over the claims to Driftmark. If that was the case, Nymeria found herself forced to agree with her father, certain that they would rule in favour of Vaemond’s claim, rendering the entire affair little more than a hollow charade. 

Her father smiled, amused, when he saw her clad in her Dornish attire. Rhaenyra pursed her lips in a half smile, though exhaustion and tension shadowed her features, just as Nymeria had expected. She suspected the princess had endured a restless, if not sleepless, night, but chose not to ask. 

They made their way through the keep and into the courtyard, with Rhaenyra and Daemon leading the way, followed by Jace and Lucerys. At the rear came Rhaena and Nymeria. Servants stepped aside as they passed; most, loyal to the Queen, cast scornful glances, though a few showed a silent sympathy. Nymeria wondered how different things might have been had they returned sooner to stand by the King’s side, as the rightful heir should. Her cousin, the heir to the throne of Dorne, had never once left her uncle's side.

The court was already half assembled in the great hall as they ascended the steps, leading to the imposing structure. The massive oak and bronze doors towered above them. Nymeria had never seen anything quite like them; it could only be compared with the Threefold Gate of Sunspear, the grand entrance along the main road to the Royal Palace, but those were city gates, not a palace’s.

They paused briefly at the threshold, giving Nymeria a moment to take in the scene. The hall stretched vast and shadowed, despite sunlight filtering through tall, narrow windows. Galleries perched atop stout columns flanked both sides, while at the far end stood the fabled Iron Throne. Though undeniably imposing, Nymeria found it rather dull and grey, its jagged iron evoking discomfort more than grandeur. Perhaps that had been the intent, not to inspire awe or command respect, but to unsettle, intimidate, and remind all who approached the cost of power and the price of defeat. 

“Jace…” she heard Rhaenyra say, her voice was soft and low, barely audible. “Would you be so kind as to offer Nymeria your arm?”

The boy glanced at her and, with a small nod, complied as they began to walk toward the throne. 

“You are … like the sun breaking through stormy clouds,” Jace said, amused. 

“Someone had to bring a touch of colour,” she replied lightly. “The Velaryon blue is still a shade too dark…” Her voice trailed off as she cast a glance around. Most of the courtiers were clad in black or somber hues, as if the very walls of the Red Keep had leached the light from them. 

She offered a polite smile as eyes turned towards her, some lords stared, others whispered. If even half of that attention was due to her dress, she would have considered herself satisfied. Then again, with Jace at her side and Lucerys trailing just behind, she couldn’t be entirely certain where the focus lay.

As they approached the throne, she saw them. 

First, Princess Rhaenys and Baela. Nymeria dipped her head in a graceful curtsy. Then, just beyond them, stood the royal family. 

The princelings were unmistakable, their Valyrian features, stark and proud, marking them as kin. Beside them stood a tall man and a woman whose beauty, though undeniable, was dulled by a gown so somber in colour and cut she resembled a grieving widow more than the Queen she was meant to be. Yet she remained striking, serene, composed, and cold as a polished stone. 

Nymeria thought it a pity the Queen’s hair was tied up; she remembered it from that fateful night, gloriously beautiful, auburn and radiant. The older man beside her could only be the Hand, the Queen’s father, whom her father despised so fiercely. 

Both their gaze were fixed in their direction. For a moment, Nymeria felt the Queen’s eyes lingering on her, scathing, before they quickly turned away. The Hand, however, observed her with a faint curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth, and that, more than anything, set her on edge. 

She finally dared to glance at the silver-haired group. She had deliberately delayed looking their way, saving it for last, as one might save a favourite sweet, so that when the moment comes, its taste would linger longest on the tongue.

Aemond now towered over his siblings. Funny, she thought, how when they first met, Aegon had been much taller than him. This must have irked Aegon, Nymeria felt sure of it. Helaena had grown into a beautiful woman, though her eyes seemed distant, unmoored, as if none of what was happening there touched her in the least. 

Aegon, by contrast, looked painfully bored already, until his eyes locked on hers. He stared intently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Aemond, too, was looking in their direction. His gaze moved over each of them, her father, the Princess, the boys, measured and unreadable, as they all came to a halt and stood to one side, leaving the aisle to the throne clear.

His eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat, it was as though the air thinned around her. He stood collected, impassive, his one eye taking her in, measuring her, the weight of his gaze like a blade drawn silently in the dark. Nymeria suddenly became acutely aware of the rise and fall of her chest with each breath, of the soft, almost silent rustle of the silk as she released Jace’s arm and stepped aside to let Lucerys stand by his brother and mother. She felt Rhaena at her side, but her gaze remained locked, as if spellbound, on Aemond. 

She didn’t notice the Hand moving to sit on the throne. She barely registered the murmur of his voice, the echo of his words lost in the vaulted hall. In that moment, all that mattered was the silence between them and the intensity of Aemond’s gaze, burning through all else. 

“… the crown will now hear the petitions. Sir Vaemond of House Velaryon”

“My Queen. My Lord Hand” Sir Vaemond intoned as he stepped forward, positioning himself in her line of sight. 

The spell was broken. Nymeria blinked, pulled back to the reality of the events unfolding in the throne room. The weight of Aemond’s gaze lifted, replaced by the tension that clung to the air.

“The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms …” Vaemond began. The history lesson again , she thought, irritated. How predictable.

A sudden anger flared within her, at these men, all of them, who had the audacity to speak of blood and legacy when none of them had ever truly borne the weight of it. The mother is always certain . That was the truth. But fathers? How could one ever be so sure? 

Her own mother could have denied, a thousand times over, ever having lain with Prince Daemon, and there would have been nothing he could have done to claim her as his daughter.

She couldn’t help but think that Ser Laenor had never once rejected the children Rhaenyra bore, never claimed they were not his. That alone should have been enough for everyone present to understand that he had always seen them as his heirs. He had had every opportunity to denounce his wife, to disown her children, but he never did. 

To question their legitimacy now, with Ser Laenor dead and Lord Corlys incapacitated, was an act of cowardice.

“ …I have spent my whole life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat”

Yet you do not respect his wishes…

“I am Lord Corlys’s closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins”

“As it does in my sons” Rhaenyra’s voice cut through Ser Vaemond’s monologue. “The offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir.”

No, no, no, don’t … Nymeria clenched her hands. Ser Vaemond had baited the court by invoking the purity of blood, and the Princess had taken it. Interrupting him like that would not be seen as righteous outrage, only as weakness, and fear.

“…no, you only speak for yourself and your own ambition,” the princess continued.

“You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his, to be heard.” 

It was a fair point the queen made, and her words struck a blow to the Princess’s stance and her reputation. Nymeria caught the smirk on Aegon’s face, while Aemond, just behind him, kept his eye fixed on them, as if waiting for blood to spill. 

Ser Vaemond resumed, but now his gaze held fast to the Princess, in such a defiant, arrogant way that Nymeria felt her fingers tingle. She raised her right hand to adjust her earring, resisting the pull toward the dagger’s hilt. 

She glanced at her father. His face was a mask, betraying nothing, but she knew that look. He was waiting. Patiently. Like a cat with a mouse.

“What do you know of the Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you and you still wouldn’t recognise it…”

Within us, blood runs. You cut, there is red. The fountain of blood, the water of life …
A voice echoed in Nymeria’s mind, and for a moment she felt as though she were drowning in dark, thick waters…

“… this is about the future of my house, not yours…” 

But your house is hers , Nymeria thought bitterly. For when a woman marries, she takes her husband’s cloak and joins his House. That was the custom, the law. 

Thankfully, Ser Vaemond was at the end of his well-rehearsed speech. Nymeria smirked, wondering if the Queen and the Hand had helped him craft it.

The princess had only just begun to speak when the crackling of the great doors at the back of the hall startled everyone. All heads turned as two Kingsguard stepped aside, flanking the now-open entrance. A voice rang out from there, loud and clear, catching the court off guard when it announced the arrival of the King.

It was a heartbreaking sight. Nymeria knew King Viserys was ill, but the six years since she had last seen him had taken a devastating toll. He looked like a ghost of the man she remembered, so frail and ailing, hunched over his cane, the right side of his face hidden beneath a golden mask. 

He made his way toward the throne slowly, painfully. As he passed near her, Nymeria felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She remembered the gentleness of his touch the first time they met, how he had cupped her cheek and told her father he should have returned to King’s landing with his girls. It had been the first time anyone, apart from her father, had spoken of the three of them as being one family.

She glanced over at the queen and her cousins. They all kept their eyes downcast, not one of them stepping forward to help their father. Nymeria thought, with a surge of spite, that had it been her father, she would have rushed to his side, sustaining him and helping him to the throne. Disgraceful , she thought, turning her gaze back to the king. 

He had reached the foot of the steps that led up to the throne, which loomed coldly above him.

The Hand stepped aside, his head inclined slightly, wearing a rather abashed expression. As the King placed his foot on the first step, he seemed to stumble. At last, one of the Kingsguard moved forward to offer support. From where she stood, Nymeria couldn’t hear, but it seemed the King had refused the help. 

She couldn’t help but admire the sense of pride, duty, and love that must have driven Viserys forward, for his daughter’s sake, sustaining her now in her time of need.

He stumbled again. This time, the crown slipped from his head, clattering loudly on the steps, the sound echoing through the hall like a warning. A bad omen. 

No one in the crowd moved. Not a sound broke the heavy stillness until Daemon stepped forward. He picked up the fallen crown and, at last, Viserys allowed his brother to help him. 

A single tear traced down Nymeria’s cheek. Her father would never admit it, not to them, at least, but she knew that seeing the King in such a state, yet still making the effort to stand for Rhaenyra, was painful for him.

As the King sank onto the throne, her father gently set the crown back on his head, then returned to stand beside his wife.

“I must … admit … my confusion,” the King said, his voice strained. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present… who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’s wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” The Princess Rhaenys replied, stepping forward.

Nymeria thought this would settle the matter swiftly, especially after the developments of the day before. She glanced over at Baela, who had remained by her grandmother the entire time, and smiled. Her sister returned the gesture, and for the first time that day, Nymeria felt her stomach beginning to ease.

The princess confirmed Lord Corlys’s wish that Driftmark pass on to Laenor’s son, and to reinforce this, she announced the betrothal of her granddaughters to the Velaryon boys. Nymeria saw Baela beaming as she glanced at Jace, and she found herself smiling, thinking what a lovely couple they were. Baela would have made a wonderful bride, and, one day, a fine queen. 

There was murmuring in the crowd, hard to tell if in approval or disapproval. But judging from the expressions on most faces, Princess Rhaenys’s words had left a favorable impression. All except, of course, for the royal family, who seemed most certainly displeased. The only exception was Aegon, who seemed more entertained than offended by how the alliance Rhaenyra and Rhaenys had struck, crushed all of Vaemond’s ambitions.

“Well, the matter is settled,” The King declared. 

From the corner of her eye, Nymeria caught Aegon smirking, while Aemond’s face remained unreadable, a perfect expressionless mask. Much like father , she thought absentmindedly, as the king went on, formally reaffirming Lucerys as heir to Driftmark. 

“You break law…and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me…who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon?” 

Vaemond’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and accusatory. Nymeria's eyes darted first to Rhaenys, then to Lucerys and Jace. That didn’t sound right. 

They had all assumed that Vaemond would have accepted the King’s words and step aside, but the relief they had felt only moments before was swiftly being wiped away. A pang of anxiety twisted in her stomach as Nymeria watched Vaemond openly challenge the King’s decision.

She glanced at her father, searching for reassurance, but the look in his eyes made her shiver. He was locked on Vaemond, a cold sneer playing on his lips. He was ready. Tarrying for the right opening, like a predator crouched in the tall grass, biding his time until his prey felt safe enough to make a fatal mistake.

“No. I will not allow it!” Vaemond declared.

“ Allow it ? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond,” the King said, his tone condescending, a palpable hint of anger beneath it. 

“That is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine!” Vaemond shouted, pointing his finger at Lucerys. 

Nymeria was taken aback, her heart racing. She instinctively moved a step closer to her sister and the boy.

“Go to your chambers!” Princess Rhaenyra ordered, but none of them dared to move. She turned to Vaemond then, and added “You have said enough,” her voice strained, as if trying to quell the unbearable tension choking the room. 

“Lucerys is my true-born grandson and you … are no more than the second son of Driftmark,” the King scorned Vaemond. 

“ You may run your house as you see fit…” Vaemond snapped, his voice seething with outrage, “but you will not decide the future of mine.” 

The fury in his words was sharp, like a blade. He had lost the battle for Driftmark’s throne, and was now careening toward a point of no return. 

Nymeria glanced at her father, who fixed Vaemond with a gaze full of violent hunger she had never seen before in him.

“My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And Gods be damned… I will not see it ended on the account of this…” Vaemond paused, and for a brief moment, Nymeria saw uncertainty flicker across his face. Using the word bastard would have sealed his fate. The king would never let it go unpunished, not this time.

“Say it…” Daemon whispered softly, his voice barely audible.

Nymeria’s eyes darted between the two men.

“Her children …” Vaemond spat, then shouted, “are bastards! And she … is … a whore!” 

A stunned gasp swept through the hall. Nymeria’s heart thundered as panic surged within her, her eyes fleetingly scanning the crowd. Shock painted the faces of all present, except for Aemond. Her gaze lingered on him, bitterly acknowledging the smirk on his face. He savoured the insult hurled at his sister and nephews. 

“I…” the King breathed heavily, “will have your tongue for that!”

It happened so quickly that no one had the time to react. Nymeria caught sight of her father out of the corner of her eye, moving swiftly behind Vaemond, unsheathing his sword, and slashing clean through Vaemond’s head. The body of the once-second son of Driftmark collapsed on the floor with a deaf thud. 

Everyone gasped in shock. Nymeria glanced across to see poor Helaena covering her ears in fear, and the Queen herself, turning her head to avoid the gruesome sight. Even Aemond had stepped back, defensively, his smug expression vanishing for a brief moment. Good , she thought, be scared. Take that smirk off your face.  

“He can keep his tongue,” her father sentenced, his hands now resting on the pommel of Dark Sister.

“Disarm him!” The Hand of the King shouted to the guards, who moved swiftly toward Daemon, drawing their swords. 

Nymeria instinctively brought her right hand to the hilt of the dagger, half-turning to check the massive gates of the hall. 

“No need,” Daemon whispered, cleaning the blade before sheathing it. At his words, the guards halted, and Nymeria reluctantly released her grip. The King’s justice had been served. 

As she turned back toward her father, her eyes caught Aemond looking at him, with a mixture of reverence and awe. Nymeria smiled with pride, silently acknowledging the power Daemon commanded in that moment.

“Call the maesters!” The Queen urged, rushing over to the King, who had collapsed onto the throne.

“Father?” Princess Rhaenyra called out, her voice laced with concern.

 “I will not cloud my mind. I must put things right,” the King murmured, barely audible except for those close enough. “The girl …” 

“Later, my love,” Alicent said softly, as she allowed one of the guards to support him. The king leaned heavily on the knight, and with the maester’s help, he slowly made his way out of the great hall. 

The queen descended the few steps that separated the throne from the floor, where they still stood. 

“Princess Nymeria.” The sound of her name startled her, and she instinctively moved towards the queen. 

Jace caught her just on time, pulling her close, before she stepped into the puddle of blood spilled from the severed head. His arms wrapped around her waist.

“You wouldn’t want to spoil your pretty dress,” he said with an impish smile.

“Thank you,” she replied, leaning into him and smiling. The tension eased, like a sky clearing after a storm. She adjusted her gown and then turned toward the queen.

“Your grace,” she curtsied.

“I believe,” the Queen said, glancing briefly at Daemon and Rhaenyra, “that Lord Wylde has informed you of the King’s wishes.”

“Indeed,” Daemon replied drily.  Her father’s animosity was barely concealed, and Nymeria wasn’t sure how much more of this tension she could endure.

“I have to tend to the King now, but I will send for you later,” the Queen added, without sparing him a glance. She strode past them, the princes trailing behind her. Aemond’s eye flickered to Nymeria for a brief moment before he followed his mother. 

Nymeria watched them leave, her gaze lingering as they moved away.

“You are going nowhere without me,” her father’s voice cut through, his eyes locked sternly on the queen and her children. Princess Rhaenyra took his arm, and together, they led the way out into the sunlight.

Chapter Text

As he stepped out of the Great Hall, Aemond spared a glance at the guards and servants rushing in to rid the floor of Vaemond Velaryon’s remains. 

They had all been blind, he thought, the hint of a smile curving his lips. He ought not find it amusing, yet he did.

They had underestimated his uncle, as if the man were anything but dangerous. None of them had foreseen it, not the Queen, not even the Hand.  This was the Rogue Prince, whose tales had haunted the halls of the Keep all Aemond’s life. Beloved by his father, despised by his mother and grandsire. 

For a fleeting instant, Aemond wondered what his uncle might have done had the Queen sat the Iron Throne and affirmed Vaemond’s claim to Driftmark. Now he understood fully why his grandsire likened him to Maegor the Cruel: fearsome, merciless, never hesitant to wield the sword when honor or kinship demanded it.

Was it truly so grievous, after all, to defend one’s family through violence?

As a boy he had longed for the day he might meet him, a second son, like himself. But when at last it came upon Driftmark, the moment soured. Daemon had not even acknowledged him. Instead, he had the humiliation of his uncle’s daughters clawing at him like feral cats, joined soon after by his own bastard nephews.

Not all his daughters, though. Nymeria had stood apart. Different from the rest, different from her sisters with whom she shared blood, and different still from Jace and Luke, with whom she shared the bastard’s stain.

There was something about her, something he could not yet name, that kindled a heat in his chest.

He remembered with piercing clarity the glint of steel, the way her slender fingers closed about the hilt the moment threat approached. Until that moment, he had believed a woman ought to be as his mother was, as Helaena was: devout, gentle, yielding. He had never imagined fierceness in a woman could stir him so.

Yet here was a new truth: there was raw beauty in a woman prepared to kill for those she loved, and it struck him with a force he had not foreseen. In her he glimpsed the perfect union of Rhaenys and Visenya: beauty and grace entwined with pride and a warrior’s fierceness. Perhaps, he thought, all he might ever need was to have her at his side. 

He tried to shrug off the feeling, blaming it on the countless times he had summoned her into his dreams. Quite literally. It made her familiar in a way he was unaccustomed to, and perhaps ought not to be, for dreams were but dreams, far removed from the hard truth of their lives. 

This marriage proposal, devised by his grandsire and the Dornish prince, was indeed a rare opportunity. If his uncle were to consent, it would bind her to him, and through her, bind not only the Dornish kingdom but also the Rogue Prince’s line to the Greens, turning his uncle’s own blood into his own ally, his possession, his to claim and keep. The prospect alone made his pulse quicken.

Lord Wylde approached as they reached the landing, and his mother halted with effortless grace. Aemond let his eye linger on her. To him, there was no one more regal than her; she embodied all the qualities a perfect queen should have. 

In his mind there was no doubt: despite her blood, his half-sister could never hope to rival his mother in grace and dignity. Rhaenyra lacked both, everyone knew that. Everyone save their father. 

Aemond’s gaze drifted toward the atrium, where Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell hovered about the Princess, no doubt offering their congratulations for not losing Driftmark, or merely for saving face. 

His lips twitched in a faint smile. She will never make a fair queen, not a true one, not the embodiment of the Targaryen line, but a pale mockery of it, draped in borrowed majesty.

Nymeria lingered a little behind, standing beside her father as he spoke with Baela and Jace. The image of Jace’s hands circling her waist earlier, in the throne room, surfaced in Aemond’s mind, more vividly than he wished. They seemed far too close. Six years together, he reminded himself, forcing the thought aside, willing away the irritation the mere notion stirred within him.

“Our uncle certainly knows how to entertain a crowd,” Aegon drawled as he came to stand beside him. “You should stop staring, little brother. Or people might start to think you have taken an interest.”

“I am not staring,” Aemond retorted, staring down at him.

“Hmm,” Aegon smirked, glancing at him sidelong, “no, you’re not…”

No he wasn’t; not this time, at least. Aegon’s words hung in the air, teasing him as they always did. He would have snapped had they been alone, but this was hardly the place for such indulgence.

“I like her dress. The embroidery on her bodice is exquisite,” Helaena said suddenly. Aemond wasn’t certain whether she spoke to them or merely to herself, as she often did.

“The Dornish bastard’s dress? We all liked it, Helaena,” Aegon replied, his tone mocking, though it softened when he spoke her name. If Aemond hadn’t known better, he might have thought there was a trace of genuine tenderness there.

“Do you think she will let me have a closer look?” Helaena asked, her eyes bright with the eagerness of a child spotting a new toy.

Aegon chuckled, amused. “I’m sure she will. Or perhaps Aemond can persuade her. He seems to get along with her rather well…”

Aemond shot a murderous glare at his brother, but before he could retort, Helaena asked him if he would, her tone so sweet and innocent that he found he lacked the heart to be sharp in her presence.

“Of course,” he whispered.

“Your Grace?” came a soft voice.

Lady Deirdre, the younger sister of the Lord Confessor, had approached them. Of all his mother’s ladies-in-waiting, she was by far Aemond’s favourite, despite being born a Strong. 

His eye flicked , as it always did, to her left hand, where a stump replaced her fourth finger. She had lost it years before he was born, and though no one knew precisely how, the Keep’s corridors buzzed with whispers, stories of punishment and treachery, or darker things left unspoken. 

He had never cared for such talk, for Lady Deirdre had always shown him kindness when others sneered or recoiled; she had taken turns with his mother tending to him after Lucerys took his eye and comforted his mother in her grief and rage. For that, she will always have his gratitude, and his unwavering respect.

“Yes my dear?”

“The goldsmith is here, Your Grace. He awaits you in your solar.”

“Oh my, I had completely forgotten.” Alicent pressed a graceful hand to her cheek, then extended it to clasp Deirdre’s.

“I need to tend to the King. Perhaps you might receive him with Helaena in my stead?” she suggested, her tone composed but touched with weariness.

“I will have the legitimisation bill prepared forthwith,” Otto said. 

“Legit-timisation?” Aegon echoed, stumbling over the word. “We were just about to name Rhaenyra’s children as bastards, and now we are legitimising a bastard?”

Aemond sneered, relishing the moment. His mother’s weary eyes roll and his grandsire’s long suffering sigh: it was difficult to tell which pleased him more. Few things delighted him as much as witnessing Aegon’s stupidity paraded before them all.

Otto Hightower chose not to dignify Aegon’s question with a reply, and continued, his tone clipped. “You should all be present. We will send for you if your father is well enough to grant his Princess Nymeria an audience.”

“Why should we be present?” Aegon complained. “We’re already bound to have supper with them, can’t this wait? And why are we even calling her Princess?” 

He had waited until their grandsire stepped away before speaking his mind, as he so often did, cravenly, when there was no risk of incurring Otto’s ire. 

“If it is the King’s wish that we are present,” their mother replied sharply. “Then we shall abide by it and do our duty.”

Aemond’s gaze followed the three women as they departed, their skirts sweeping softly across the floor. Aegon lingered at his side like lichen clinging to a tree, impossible to shake off, and increasingly irksome.

“So…” Aegon cleared his throat, “why are we calling her Princess?”

“Again?” Aemond snapped, exasperated. “All members of House Martell bear the title Prince or Princess, regardless of their place in the line of succession.”

“How convenient,” Aegon said drily, then, abruptly, drifted away.

“Aegon!” Aemond called under his breath, his voice low and edged with warning. “Where are you going?”

His brother halted, turning lazily to face him. “We’re all supposed to be present,” Aemond pressed, his patience fraying.

“You do it,” Aegon replied drily. “I have no intention of witnessing this farce.”

The brothers exchanged one last glance, Aegon’s filled with mockery, Aemond’s with disdain, before parting ways. 

Aemond turned toward his mother’s solar, his steps measured, thoughts already elsewhere. An idea began to take shape in his mind. He should offer Nymeria a gift, a jewel, for their betrothal, once it would be made official. Something unique, crafted only for her, an homage to her Dornish heritage and her Targaryen blood. The goldsmith’s visit presented the perfect opportunity to have it commissioned and ready before the announcement.

When the Queen sent for her, Nymeria was in her father’s chambers, singing to young Aegon. The boy was especially fond of a jolly song about a drunken sailor she had learnt from her brothers, and each time she finished, he begged her to sing it again. Before long, she was struggling to make up new verses, much to her father’s amusement. 

They left her young brothers in the care of the maids and followed the knight of the Kingsguard to the sovereign’s chambers. Ser Arryk was his name, and Nymeria thought him rather handsome, with a kind smile. As they walked in his wake, her father mentioned that Ser Arryk had a twin brother who also served in the Kingsguard, identical though, unlike Baela and Rhaena, so much so that people often mistook one for the other.

Ser Arryk chuckled when she asked how her father had known he was Arryk, and Daemon replied that he hadn’t, he simply had one chance in two of being right. Since the knight hadn’t corrected him, his guess must have been correct.

When they reached the King’s chambers, the knight opened the doors and stepped aside to let them in. Nymeria was not prepared for what awaited her inside. 

The room was vast. In the antechamber to the right stood a striking sculpture,, a miniature walled city. It reminded her of the model the builders had once made for her mother’s palace by the sea, before construction had begun. But unlike that one, this lay shrouded in dust and cobwebs, forgotten, as if no one had cared for it in many years. 

The sight stirred a quiet ache in her chest. It felt like a mirror of its maker, something once grand and full of vision, now dulled and frail under the weight of neglect and time.

The King lay upon a large chaise near the fire, looking exhausted, not yet recovered from the strain of the morning’s effort. The crown rested upon the table beside him rather than his head, and for a moment Nymeria thought how heavy it must have grown for him to bear. The Queen stood by his side, composed, and behind her, the Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, lingered like a still shadow, as though there only to bear witness. 

She glanced briefly at the father, whose clenched jaw betrayed his loathing. The mere sight of Ser Otto seemed enough to set his thoughts bristling with distrust. To Daemon, every gesture, every word from the Hand concealed some devious intent, and this legitimisation affair was no different. Nymeria could not see what the Hightowers stood to gain from it, but there was no point in questioning him. His hatred for the Greens was a constant in his life, as unyielding as the Valyrian steel of Dark Sister, as certain as the blue of the summer sky.

To her surprise, Aemond and Helaena were also present, just the two of them. Aegon was nowhere to be seen. Prince Aemond stood rigid beside his grandsire, hands clasped behind his back, while the princess lingered close to her mother’s side. Other witnesses, Nymeria thought. One that made her uneasy when her gaze met his silent scrutiny.

“Daemon …” the King wheezed.

“Brother,” Prince Daemon replied, saluting. He looked uneasy at the sight of Viserys, and Nymeria could sense his irritation at the presence of the others.

“You asked for my daughter’s presence,” the Prince continued.

“Yes …” the king turned toward her, raising a trembling hand, to beckon her forward. “The desert rose…” 

Nymeria smiled almost involuntarily. She had not realized her Dornish moniker was known beyond her mother’s land. 

The King wheezed again. “You have flowered into a comely young lady.”

“She has indeed, my love,” the Queen said. The warmth in her voice unsettled Nymeria more than it soothed. She had heard the warnings, that the Greens were treacherous, their courtesy laced with venom, and despite her best efforts she could not shake the unease that gnawed at her.

“Your Grace,” she said, addressing the King as she stepped forward and bowed. “I am glad to meet you again.”

“So am I, niece,” his voice was weak, yet a flicker of warmth shone in his eyes. “My brother and I have had our differences, but I must set things right… and that begins with you, my girl…”

The King’s eyes fluttered closed, his face tightening as if clouded by pain. 

“Viserys…?” the queen called softly, alarm threading in her voice as she laid a hand upon his shoulder. At her touch, he seemed to steady, pulled back from the haze that threatened to overtake him.

A wave of sorrow rose in Nymeria’s chest, though not for the King. It was for Alicent. How heavy the burden must be, to remain so steadfast and dignified beside a husband who was slowly unraveling before the eyes of all. Death seemed to walk at the King’s side, poised to claim him at the slightest misstep. Perhaps this was the reason for his children’s distant demeanor.

“Brother… there is no need for this,” Daemon said, resting a hand upon Viserys’s arm. There was a tenderness in his voice that made Nymeria’s eyes sting.

“There is… there is,” Viserys murmured, placing what remained of his right hand over Daemon’s. “This should have been done years ago.”

His eyes then shifted to the Queen, who regained her composure and turned towards her father. At once, Ser Otto stepped forward, offering a sealed scroll into her hands.

“Lady Nymeria of House Martell,” the Queen intoned, her voice carrying an unexpected warmth and authority, “by the command of His Grace, the King, I present to you this bill of legitimisation. From this day until your last, you shall be known and honored as Nymeria Targaryen, daughter of Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, the ruling House of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Nymeria accepted the scroll with reverent hands, falling into a deep, respectful bow.

“I am thankful, Sire, … uncle” she corrected herself, allowing a familiarity to linger for a heartbeat, strangely sweet upon her lips. “And I am deeply grateful for your generosity. It fills me with pride and joy to bear my father’s name,” she added, her tone settling into measured formality as she inclined her head respectfully to both the King and the Queen.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Aemond smirking, much to her annoyance. She couldn’t fathom what he could possibly find so amusing. Perhaps it was the irony: only hours before, they had all witnessed the legitimacy of his nephews called into question, and now here she stood, undeniably a bastard, receiving a parchment that placed her on equal footing as a trueborn. Yes, she could see the cruel humor in that. 

Helaena suddenly stepped forward, drawing Nymeria into an embrace that startled her, as it had everyone present, yet it was unmistakably heartfelt. She yielded to it, allowing herself to soften into her cousin’s arms. 

The Princess was a little shorter, and Nymeria’s cheek came to rest upon the crown of her hair. It carried the scent of honeysuckle and sun-warmed hay, stirring memories of long summer days in Pentos, of Laena’s hair and all the countless times she had flung her arms around her late stepmother’s neck, burying her face in those familiar curls. Carefree days, unshadowed by death’s hand. 

“Blood runs like water… ” Helaena murmured. 

Nymeria stiffened at her words, unsure what to make of them. Was it meant as a welcome? She had heard from the boys of her cousin’s peculiar ways, yet she brushed the thought aside, deciding instead to take it as Helaena’s way of saying they were family now. 

“Thank you…” she replied, tentative, before easing herself from the embrace.

Helaena’s hands drifted to her waist, fingertips tracing the embroidered flowers. She seemed entranced by the threads and patterns. “It is beautiful,” she murmured, as though speaking to herself. “The Mother listens,” she added, lifting her eyes to meet Nymeria’s, though her voice remained distant, thoughtful.

“The King and I would have wished to announce this before the court and mark it with due celebration…” the Queen interjected, as though wary of what her daughter might say next. Helaena quietly composed herself at once. 

Nymeria could not see her father’s face, but she was certain he was rolling his eyes, no doubt, restraining himself only out of respect for his brother’s weakened state. 

“…but this must now be delayed.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace. But there is no need,” Nymeria replied with a coy smile.

“In truth, it might be wiser to delay the celebration,” her father interjected. 

She turned to him, surprised, nearly shocked. She had not expected him to entertain the notion of a feast at all.

“Your brother should be sailing towards King’s Landing by now. If a celebration is held in a few days, he will be able to attend. And I am sure he will want to report back to your mother in full on this,” Daemon added plainly, gesturing towards the scroll. 

There was a provocative edge to his tone, as there so often was whenever her mother was brought into the discourse. Or perhaps, this time, it was meant for the Queen. Something was clearly stirring in her father’s mind. Nymeria could not tell what it was, but she was certain he would share it once they were alone.

“That is settled, then … ” the King wheezed.

“You need some rest now, before supper,” Alicent said gently, gesturing for her family to take their leave. 

“I’ll send the maesters,” added the Lord Hand, already turning to go. 

As Daemon and Nymeria began to follow the others, the King called after his brother. Daemon paused, then tilted his head towards his daughter.

“I won’t be long,” he whispered.  

Nymeria stepped into the corridor, lost in her thoughts. Did her father truly wish to celebrate her legitimisation before the court? He had never cared for such displays. Part of her felt thrilled at the King and Queen’s desire to mark the occasion, yet another part suspected a hidden motive, a subtle ploy to undermine the Velaryon boys. If that were so, why was her father so eager? 

At the same time, a creeping unease settled over her. Whatever was expected of her now felt daunting. This would not be a simple family gathering, nor one of the intimate banquets her uncle Qoren had hosted when she had flowered, or on her sixteenth name day. 

She knew the Dornish court well, she knew its courtiers. There, she felt protected; that was home, much as Dragonstone was now. But this court was foreign to her. For all she had heard, it seemed like a viper's nest. Or perhaps it was only her father’s voice echoing in her mind, warning her to tread carefully.

“You haven’t opened it yet” Helaena said, startling her. 

The princess stood with her brother by the open colonnade overlooking the internal courtyard, just in front of the King’s chamber door.

“Helaena… I was so lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice you were here,” she replied, offering a needless explanation that drew a smile from both siblings.

Her gaze fell to the scroll in her hands, the royal seal still intact. She traced its edge with a finger until she reached the red wax, then hesitated for a heartbeat before cracking it open.

She had spoken to the King with courtesy, claiming pride in bearing her father’s name. She had believed she did not truly want it, that it did not matter. Yet now, as the carefully crafted words materialised in black ink before her eyes, the truth became suddenly impossibly real. 

Her lips moved as she read, her voice soft and low, barely audible, like a spell being cast and with it came an unexpected lightness in her heart. Nothing had truly changed, and yet the simple fact that she no longer needed to explain herself as the bastard daughter filled her with a warm, radiant sense of joy. 

She could now claim her place openly: the daughter, the eldest daughter, of Prince Daemon Targaryen, niece to King Viserys I, First of His Name, cousin to the Princess of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, the first woman destined to sit it by her own right.

She caught herself smiling at the vanity of the thought, yet did not push it aside. Instead, she embraced it, letting that fierce, burning pride rise within her, unashamed.

“A reason more to celebrate later. We shall toast to you tonight at supper,” Helaena said gleefully, glancing up at her brother as if seeking his approval.

“Hmm… likely the only cause worth toasting tonight,” Aemond added, his tone edged with scorn.

“Prince Aemond…” Nymeria lifted her gaze to meet his one eye. He was goading her again. Normally, she might have ignored the provocation, but not this time. “We have no shortage of reasons to celebrate,” she continued evenly. “My sisters’ betrothals, for one… the recognition …” 

She faltered. She had been about to mention Lucerys’ claim as heir to Driftmark, but her mouth went dry as she caught the flicker of rage kindling in Aemond’s gaze.

“We might also toast,” he interjected, before she could continue, “to the finer matches now within your reach.” 

His voice carried the sharpness of a blade’s edge, yet he paused; something flickered behind his eye, softening his tone, tempering the bite. “Bearing the name Targaryen will open many doors to marriage pacts with highborn lordlings.”

“What’s in a name?” she replied with a teasing smile. “That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet.” 

The prince’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement ghosting across them. “As a bastard remains a bastard…”

“Trueborns, dear cousin, are children of duty,” Nymeria replied smoothly. “Bastards are children of love and passion... mostly.” She let the words linger, sweet as honey yet edged with thorns. “In Dorne, I have many brothers and sisters who share my lot, and not one of us bears shame for it, unlike so many in the Seven Kingdoms, it seems.” 

To her delight, Aemond’s jaw tightened, the smallest betrayal of irritation.

“And fear not, I already have suitors enough for my parents to quarrel over,” Nymeria said lightly, bluffing to steer the conversation away from contentious ground.

In truth, she had no idea how many had sought her hand. Such matters were most often spoken of between her parents alone. Of the few she knew, it was only because her father’s curt reply had been, ‘over my dead body.’

The prince gave a short, derisive snort at her words, yet his eye lingered on her, steady and inquisitive, for a moment longer than courtesy required.

The sound of footsteps on the stone floor drew their attention. A small group of men approached, clad in white robes. Maesters and their apprentices, Nymeria guessed, noting the chains that gleamed upon the two figures leading the way. They dipped their heads in passing,  then vanished into the King’s chambers. 

Moments later, the double doors swung open once more and her father emerged, the Queen beside him.  

“Come,” her father commanded unceremoniously, already striding down the corridor. 

Nymeria curtsied to the Queen before hurrying after him. When she looked up at his face, she found it set like stone, a mask of anger and determination. 

They marched in silence through corridors slowly surrendering to the evening’s shadows,  servants passing ahead of them to set torches alight in preparation for the night. 

At last, when they reached the quarters allotted to them, he broke the silence.

“Can you find a green gown among the dozens of trunks you insisted on bringing?” 

Startled by the sudden sound of his voice, she turned to him. A grin played upon his lips, mischievous and sharp, made all the more striking by the flickering torchlight dancing across his face.

“It is not a dozen, only a couple!” she answered back, caught off guard by her father’s amused provocation. “And yes, I think I might find something greenish ... but why?” She caught his arm, halting his stride. His eyes locked onto hers, firm and steady, and for a moment she lost herself in them, as she had so often when she was a child. He had always made her feel safe when he looked at her that way, with calm and fierce determination. 

“Do you not prefer me in red and black, to honor the King and the family? Or gold, perhaps?” she asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice at the strangeness of his request.

He cupped her chin gently, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “I want them to believe you bear no enmity toward them.” 

But I truly don't, she thought, though she could not bring herself to contradict him aloud.

“They are scheming,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “and one of them seemed to have taken an interest in you that I do not like.”

Nymeria’s eyes widened. “Who?” She asked,  certain he referred to the Queen, or perhaps her father. She could scarcely believe her uncle capable of scheming, certainly not in his present conditions. “What did the King say to you?” 

“My brother is too weak, he has always been, and now he is even more trapped. It’s the green bitch we need to watch.”

Daemon studied her for a long moment, his gaze piercing, sharp and calculating, as if measuring the limits of her obedience. “Wear green, in her honor. Let her think you are an easy pawn. Let her believe she can manipulate you, and she will reveal herself.”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers, and to that tender gesture, she let go, surrendering any resistance she might have nurtured to his will. She knew she was stepping into a game whose rules were set by him alone, but she would serve him, she would serve his cause, whether she believed in it or not. For she was his.

“I will ... do as you ask,” she whispered. 

He pressed a brief kiss to her brow, tender yet weighted with intent, a mingling of love and design she could not yet untangle. Then, without another word, he released her and led her silently toward her chamber.

Chapter Text

Nymeria and her sisters entered the dining room last. The solar was softly lit by candelabras and braziers, their warm glow dancing across the stone walls, while candles, arranged with decorative precision, lit the long table. The three girls paused for a moment at the top of the short steps leading into the room, their attention caught by a mural directly opposite: a striking reproduction of King’s Landing. Unlike the tapestries adorning most of their chambers, this one appeared to be painted on the wall itself, its brushstrokes so fine the city seemed to shimmer in the candlelight.

The queen and her family were already gathered in the dining hall, yet the scene bore little resemblance to any true welcome. Their cousins and their grandsire, gathered at the far left side of the long table, did not even acknowledge their arrival. Not one turned to greet them, nor offered even the courtesy of a nod. Had she been in their place, whether in Sunspear or Dragonstone, such behaviour would have earned her a sharp reprimand. 

The Queen alone came forward to greet them. She had let her auburn hair fall loose and changed into a gown perhaps more festive, though still beyond reproach in style. Likely more out of religious zeal than modesty’, Nymeria thought, then bit her tongue, realising she was beginning to think like her father. She stepped forward, drawing the Queen’s attention. Alicent’s eyes settled on her, sifting over her figure, uncertain at first, but then her gaze seemed to soften.

“Princess Nymeria, your gown is most becoming,” the Queen said at last. Nymeria beamed with delight, a mixture of pride and vanity. The only green dress she had brought was indeed exquisite and suited her beautifully; so much so that even her father had to admit it when he first saw her.

It was a dark, forest-green brocade, threaded with gold floral patterns. The neckline, revealing her collarbone, was edged with gold in a repeating sun motif, mirrored along the rims of the wide, flaring sleeves. 

Her mother had commissioned the gown for her when there had been talks of a potential betrothal to a vassal lord of House Tyrell. One of the many matches her father had successfully sabotaged. Baela had lent her a necklace bearing an emerald pendant, with matching earrings, a gift from her grandmother. Their father had always disliked Nymeria wearing emeralds, and thus she had never been allowed to keep any of her own.

Perhaps the gown  was more suited to an official banquet than a family dinner, yet it was precisely what her father had wanted: something green to honour House Hightower, a subtle gesture to earn the Queen’s favour and trust. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head. 

“And you look beautiful in it,” the Queen added with a smile. Nymeria caught the faint smirk on her father's face.

Alicent then, rather than leaving the task to the servants, directed them to their seats. A gracious gesture, in this at least showing her desire to see that supper proceeded smoothly, without any further conflict. 

Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon were to sit to the King’s left, while the Queen and the Lord Hand would be at his right. Jace, as the Princess’s firstborn, would sit opposite the King together with Aegon and their respective betrothed and wife. Lucerys and Rhaena were assigned at the far end of the table on what was clearly shaping up to be the ‘Black’s side’.

Just as Nymeria began to wonder where she might be seated, the Queen turned to her and gestured towards the opposite side of the table, where her cousins still lingered. 

“You will sit beside Aemond, and my father.”

Nymeria’s heart skipped a beat. She was surprised, of course, as was her father, judging by the look in his eyes, yet beneath the mask of surprise, a flutter of excitement stirred in her chest, tangled with the churn of anxiety in her stomach. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Baela glancing at her in disbelief, while Rhaena, offered a complicit smile. Most surprising of all, however, was that her father made no objection. She caught the Queen casting a quick glance at him, likely just as astonished as she was by his silence.

The arrangement made sense, in a way. At that table, she held the lowest status in relation to the King, so naturally, she had to be placed at one of the far ends, where the second sons were relegated. It would have made little sense to squeeze her, Lucerys and Rhaena onto the shorter side of the long table, just to keep allegiances neatly in check.

She drew a measured breath, schooling her features even as a nervous stir quickened within her. If her father wished her to win their trust, then this was the perfect moment to begin. It was her duty as a daughter. And yet, beneath all reason, she was burning for the chance to converse with Aemond again.

She let the Queen guide her toward her seat. Aemond looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. There was surprise in his blue eye, and something else, but the intensity of his gaze made her so uneasy that she fought the urge to step back. She swallowed, forcing down the hesitancy that threatened to creep into her voice. 

“Cousins…” she greeted, just as the Queen turned away to take her place beside her father.

“No need to be shy, Princess Nymeria. We do not bite. Well… I do, should you desire it,” Aegon quipped, his grin turning wicked as he caught his lower lip between his teeth. 

Nymeria’s eyes widened. “What…? No!” She exclaimed, barely containing the outrage in her voice.  

She could scarcely believe he had dared speak to her in such manner, in front of his wife, his family. In front of her family. How could he think such talk was in any way appropriate? She could have had her father claim his head for this, easily, a thought that lingered in her mind far longer than it should have.

She cast a glance to the other side of the table, wary that her raised voice might have drawn attention. Only Jace was looking in their direction, apprehension etched across his face. She reassured him with a small nod. She was not there to sow war, after all. She would fend for herself and deal with Aegon as she had always dealt with her brothers and their indecent jests.

“Aegon. Enough.” Aemond’s voice was low and edged with warning, sending an unexpected shiver down Nymeria’s spine. She was grateful for his intervention, yet Aegon showed no hint of intimidation. If anything, he looked quite amused. 

“I was just jesting, brother,” he sneered, then added, “I … never imagined anyone could wear …” He flicked his hand gesturing towards her bodice, “green? So compellingly? Am I allowed to say that?” 

Aegon’s mocking tone was utterly irritating. She could see now the resemblance between the two brothers, recalling Aemond’s tone and provocative words from earlier in the day.

“She wears it splendidly!” Aemond snapped before she could speak.

Nymeria blushed involuntarily, heat rising in her cheeks while Aegon choked back a laugh at his brother’s outburst.

She did not dare look at Aemond, her fingers twisting around the rings upon her hand. A palpable tension hung between the brothers; she could sense Aemond’s glare fixed on Aegon, mirrored by the amused grin of the latter. She slowly opened her mouth to speak, no words came. She could summon nothing witty that would not only fail but likely worsen the situation.

Her eyes fell on Helaena, who was fidgeting with something in her hands, then suddenly leaned forward in a decidedly unladylike manner to show it to her grandsire, whatever it was. Like a child. Nymeria could not help but smile faintly, though her mind fought to ignore the pressing question on how this girl and the scoundrel at her side could possibly find happiness in their marriage.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. In a single swift motion, Aemond had drained his cup and had a maid serve him another.

“Where are your manners?” Aegon shot, pouring a glass of wine for Nymeria before refilling his own cup. Though still annoyed by his remarks, she was grateful for the gesture; her throat was dry and she longed for a cup to hide behind. 

“It’s the first time I see you so eager to drink. That is your third, and we haven’t sat for supper yet!” Aegon taunted his younger brother. 

“Does it surprise you?” Aemond's voice was cold as ice. 

“You do not drink enough,” Aegon objected.

Aemond scoffed. “You drink more than a Braavosi sea lord.” 

His words made Nymeria chuckle in earnest, and for the first time, she felt the tension ease. 

“I drink just the right amount,” Prince Aegon retorted with a grin.

Then Aemond’s gaze shifted toward the other end of the table. “Even when the noose is tight, they expect us to break bread …”  he commented bitterly.

“I am standing right here, cousin,” Nymeria said dryly, glaring at him. She could scarcely believe his audacity. 

Aemond hummed softly, meeting her gaze. 

“… You are nothing like them,” he murmured, his voice low, just loud enough for Nymeria and Aegon to hear. It almost sounded like a compliment, albeit a clumsy one.

Aegon let out a snicker and tipped back his cup, draining the wine. 

Nymeria took a sip from her own. The red wine tasted smooth and fruity, with a faintly spiced aftertaste that lingered on the palate. Dornish. It tasted like home, and for a fleeting moment it brought her comfort. 

I am no different from them, she thought, though the words she spoke were gentler,
“I was raised beside them…”

A sudden creak split the air, interrupting her, as the doors opened, announcing the arrival of the King.  At once, each of them moved into place, standing by their chairs and waiting for the sovereign to take his place at the table. 

It was a sorrowful sight. King Viserys was carried in upon his chair, unable to walk unaided. Nymeria cast a glance toward her father, who kept his head bowed, refusing to look directly at his brother, as if his wretched state was too much to bear.

As the guards settled the King between the Princess and the Queen, Nymeria realised with a flicker of astonishment, that she had been placed squarely in Aemond’s blind spot. She could scarcely believe his own mother had not thought better of it… unless, of course, the Queen meant for her to spend the evening in conversation with Otto Hightower. To what end, she could not guess, but the prospect was grim. And it meant Aemond would be forced to turn to address her, making his impairment all the more burdensome.

 Seizing the moment, Nymeria swept forward and, as every one sat, slipped deftly onto the chair beside Helaena, leaving a dumbfounded Aemond to claim the place at her left, nearer to his grandsire.

She bestowed upon her cousin a sly, complicit smile; his countenance remained carved of stone.

Otto met her gaze and answered with a courteous, approving curl of the lips. “Very considerate,” he whispered, sounding altogether too pleased with her choice. 

Nymeria might have dwelled on the remark, had she not been distracted by the faintly affronted look darkening Aemond’s face at his grandsire’s comment.

As she smoothed the folds of her skirt, Aemond leaned in, his voice brushing her ear. “You forgot your dagger, dear cousin,” he murmured. “or did you mean to meet your enemies unarmed tonight?”

“There is no need, my prince,” she replied without looking at him, though a smirk tugged at her lips, secretly pleased he had noticed. “Her Grace the Queen has been kind enough to provide cutlery.” 

Aemond let out a soft huff of amusement, half a scoff, half a laugh, then straightened in his chair as his father began to speak.

“How good it is … to see you all tonight… together,” Viserys said with a weary voice.

“Prayer before we begin?” The queen asked. The King’s reply was so feeble it was barely audible from where Nymeria sat. As the Queen began, everyone fell silent, eyes lowered and hands joined. 

Nymeria had never been particularly devout, and the years spent with her father had only deepened her skepticism in the Faith of the Seven. If she felt any kinship with any of the seven faces, it was with the Mother, and to her only she prayed, on rare occasions. 

“… and to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest,” the Queen concluded. Nymeria saw her father sneer and roll his eyes at the mention of the late Vaemond and she fought to stifle a smirk herself. 

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems,” Viserys declared, his voice steadier than Nymeria had expected. “My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young princes… and their betrothed.”

“Hear, hear!” her father cheered, raising his glass. He cast a gloating glance at Otto and the Queen as the others joined in the toast. 

Nymeria raised her glass too, and took a sip. She noticed Aegon leaning toward Jace, who stiffened, his eyes flashing with anger and she wondered whether it had been wise to seat them so close to each other. 

“Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys… the future Lord of the Tides,” Viserys continued.

“Hear, hear” Nymeria echoed, raising her glass once more with the others. Lucerys sat directly across from her, and as she lifted her cup, she noticed a shadow cross his face. The prospect of becoming the Lord of the Tides seemed to weigh heavily on his young shoulders. 

Nymeria set her empty glass back on the table, just as her attention was drawn once again to Aegon and Jace, who now looked visibly flustered. Baela had also turned toward them, clearly drawn into whatever was unfolding. 

“Will you rush to the rescue?” Aemond’s amused voice startled her. 

He filled her glass again, and then his sister’s, with a casual grace that belied the sharpness of his words.

“Jace doesn’t need rescuing; he can fend for himself,” she replied, sustaining his gaze. It pierced her, as if testing if her words matched her true thoughts, and left her feeling raw and exposed.

“I wouldn’t have said so, judging from the way you rushed to him yesterday, in the tiltyard,” he added.

Nymeria was about to reply when Viserys gripped the head of his cane for support and stumbled to his feet. As all eyes turned to him, Nymeria glanced at her father. She could not tell what was more heartbreaking: the King's visible struggle through his pain, or her father’s silent battle to accept his brother’s condition and the inevitability of what lay ahead.

“It both gladdens my heart…” the King began, breathing heavily, “… and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other… in the years past.” 

He lifted a hand to the mask covering the right side of his face and slowly removed it. 

The sight was harrowing. The socket of his eye was hollow; not even the eyelid remained, and the flesh on his cheek had decayed so much that only meaty sinew remained, the white of teeth and bone gleaming  beneath.

Nymeria inhaled sharply as her body jerked backwards, searching for the support of the chair’s backrest. Her right hand tightened into a fist, while her left instinctively grasped Aemond’s forearm. The rot and decay repealed her on a level so visceral, that she struggled to contain the disgust it made her feel, unable to avert her eyes.

“My own face… is no longer a handsome one… if indeed it ever was.” Viserys paused, his breathing ragged. “But tonight… I wish you to see me… as I am. Not just a king… but your father,” he continued looking at Aegon first, then Rhaenyra.

“Your brother,” he pressed, letting his eye linger on Daemon before glancing at his wife, “your husband… and your grandsire.Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you.”

The mask clanged against the table as he let it fall, the sound echoing through the room now thick with silence. A silence fed by guilt and grief.

“Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances.” 

Viserys slammed his cane on the floor, making Nymeria wince and avert her eyes from the King. As if awoken from a dream, she became abruptly aware of where her hand still lay and hastily removed it from Aemond’s forearm, ashamed of her own reaction. He did not flinch. But his hand found hers, fingers grazing the back of her knuckles before settling over them in a steady, reassuring clasp that sent her heartbeat quickening.

“If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.” 

The King’s final words carried the weight of anger, the anger of a man watching his family fall apart before his eyes. Nymeria caught her father cast a brief look toward his brother before swiftly turning his gaze aside. Around the table, the Queen, Aegon, Jace and Lucerys, and her sisters all lowered their eyes, each avoiding the sight of the others. 

Viserys reached for the mask on the table, then sank back into his chair with a weary exhale. Alicent leaned forward at once, her hands steady and careful as she helped him fasten it once more over his ravaged face.

Princess Rhaenyra, who had kept her gaze fixed upon the table, was the first to break the silence. In a gesture that seemed to Nymeria the most generous peace offering the greens could hope to receive, she rose to her feet and lifted her cup.

“I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen,” she began. “I love my father but I must admit that no one has stood… more loyally by his side than his good wife.” She turned slightly, letting her eyes wander on the faces of all present. “She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love and honour. And for that she has my gratitude… and my apology.” 

She pronounced the final word while meeting Alicent’s eyes, then seated herself once more. No one dared to speak or cheer. It felt though time itself had halted, awaiting the queen’s reply.

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess,” the Queen said at last. “We are both mothers,  and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” 

Despite the lingering tension, she appeared sincerely moved by Rhaenyra’s words. Then, rising to her feet with her cup lifted, she added, “I raise my cup to you, and to your house. You will make a fine queen.”

Nymeria raised her cup, like the others, toward the Princess, relieved by the exchange of toasts that seemed to have raised the spirits at the table. Even Aemond and Aegon lifted their glasses, if only out of courtesy. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a disgruntled look on Otto’s face and allowed herself a faint, private smirk. 

Yet whatever peace had been brokered was shattered only moments later by the sharp clatter of cutlery. Jace had slammed his fists upon the table, and lurched to his feet, while Aegon, who had been standing between him and Baela, a wine carafe in hand, slipped back into his seat unbothered. 

The oldest Velaryon prince stared at his uncle, jaw clenched, a silent fury befalling his handsome face.

“Jace!” Baela’s voice was low but firm, attempting to restrain the young man’s anger before it breached decorum and caused irreparable damage. 

All eyes were fixed on the young prince and Aegon when Nymeria felt Aemond rise beside her like a shadow. She turned to look at him. He had stood, commanding his share of attention without a word, his one eye locked on Jace, menacing. His entire frame was taut, coiled like a bowstring, ready to spring at the first sign of a move. 

“To Prince Aegon and …Prince Aemond.” Jace finally said, his clear voice cutting through the heavy silence. Nymeria shifted slightly, eyes flicking between him and Aemond. 

Jace raised his cup. “We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.”

The genuine warmth in his voice, paired with the smile that accompanied it, drew a smirk of pride from Rhaenyra as Jace sank back into his seat. 

“To you as well,” Aegon muttered, while Aemond was left standing, frozen, disappointment and defeat etched across his features. He stared at Jace and Aegon for a long moment before yielding and lowering himself back into his chair.

Nymeria glared at him, anger in her eyes. “That wasn’t necessary,” she hissed. 

He turned to her, his blue eye piercing through her, and a slow, deliberate sneer spread across his lips, sharp and unyielding.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena whispered suddenly, drawing their attention. Nymeria was about to ask her to repeat when the princess suddenly rose, swaying slightly on her feet.

“I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena,” she said. “They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he is drunk.” 

Daemon chuckled, and a few others followed with uneasy laughter, but Nymeria could not bring herself to smile. Her heart sank at those words. She could scarcely imagine how lonely the princess must have felt, even there, with her husband beside her, yet paying her no mind at all. 

She involuntarily glanced at Aegon. Any other husband might have felt at least embarrassed or indignant, but there he stood, drunk and slightly irritated. Not enough, however, to grant his wife a shred of attention or a single disapproving glare.

“Good,” Otto whispered lovingly, and Helaena beamed, smiling at her grandsire. “…And to Nymeria! Who has taken her rightful place in our family,” she added brightly. Then her gaze seemed to drift. “You are fortunate,” she continued. “Aemond doesn’t drink much. He is mostly sober.” 

She sank back into her seat, satisfied, as the room fell into a brief, stunned silence.

Nymeria, taken aback, glanced from Helaena to Aemond, who seemed just as bewildered as she was. He stared at his sister, confusion etched on his face, too distracted to notice Daemon’s glare. Her father’s eyes, sharp and piercing, seemed to cut through the room. Aegon snorted, struggling to contain his laughter.

“Helaena…?” Alicent whispered gently, concern tightening her voice. 

“Is there another betrothal we should be toasting to?” Aegon asked gleefully, relishing the opportunity. 

“No… no!” The Queen replied, her voice faltering at first before regaining firmness. “There has been no conversation of any sort,” she added swiftly, as though striving to reassure her elder son and the others, all while casting a glance toward her younger. 

“Why not? My brother would make a fine match,” Aegon pressed on, clearly revelling in testing the patience of many at the table. “Surely better than some lesser lord…” 

Nymeria’s heart clenched in her chest, as though her most secret desires had been laid bare for all to scorn. Don’t blush, she bade herself, as if she had any power over it. Her gaze flickered about the table, careful to not stray near Aemond. Rhaena watched her intently, a pleading look, urging her to keep silent. It was needless. She had no intention of uttering a word on the matter, not at that table.

“He can join the line,” Daemon growled, glowering at Aegon with murderous intent.

“Daemon…” Princess Rhaenyra murmured, her voice low, striving to temper the rising tension.

Jace cleared his throat. “It could be a good union … a bridge to mend bonds and unite …” He could not finish. His voice faltered as Daemon’s glare bore into him, darker and more menacing than any he had ever directed at the boy. Jace shifted uneasily in his seat.

“That is enough,” Rhaenyra interjected firmly. “If … my brother… so wills it, I am sure he shall make himself heard, and we shall give his suit the due consideration.” She raised her cup. “For now, we shall toast to Princess Nymeria Targaryen.”

“Hear, hear,” Alicent echoed, lifting her glass, and the others followed suit.

“Princess,” Aemond said, raising his cup to her. To her surprise, he was smiling, a real smile, and in his blue eye there was a softness that she had not seen there before.

Musicians were called in to play as dinner began, and servants brought out sumptuous dishes to the table. Spirits lifted, and laughter and chatter drifted through the room like wind rustling through the leaves. Even the Lord Hand, who had mostly worn a stern and complacent expression, now allowed his features to warm. 

Otto turned to Nymeria, asking after her brother, having heard during her audience with the King that he would soon join her in King’s Landing. Both Otto and Aemond seemed to take particular interest in learning that her brother had spent time in Oldtown and studied at the Citadel. 

“Did he seek to don the chain of a Maester?” Aemond asked. He sounded genuinely surprised by the notion, though it was hardly unheard of.

“That is what he claimed,” Nymeria replied. “But I believe he simply hungered for knowledge, and for escape. He longed to leave mother, and Dorne. He is… rather restless, and as a second son he has less duties” she admitted.

“Your mother must have been quite heartsore, with him gone so long and you kept at Dragonstone,” Otto observed, the remark sounding more intrusive than kindly meant. “I have ever been surprised that Prince Qoren allowed Prince Daemon to keep you. It must have been hard for her to endure,” he pressed on, plainly prying.

“Not particularly…” Nymeria hesitated, searching for the right words. She could not tell what the Lord Hand was angling for, and she dared not yield overmuch. Yet it was no simple thing to explain that her mother, fiercely independent and wholly self-reliant, had always urged her children to forge their own path in the world. Not out of unkindness, but because such was her nature. And still, however gently she tried to shape it, it ever sounded as though their mother had been eager to be rid of them.

“My mother loves us very much… in her own particular way. It was she who first proposed that I spend six moons with my father and Lady Laena, and six moons in Dorne.”

Nymeria paused. Since Lady Laena’s death, and her father’s remarriage, she had passed nearly all her time upon Dragonstone, though something warned her not to reveal as much.

“And my eldest brother, Oberyn,” she continued lightly, “her firstborn, spends much time with her at court in Sunspear,  whilst my younger brother, Lysander, has but turned ten.”

“Oberyn? Is he not Lord of Yronwood?” Aemond asked, surprising her once more. Of course, it was only fitting that a prince of the realm should know the names of great houses and their seated lords, especially those who bordered the Stormlands and held the eastern pass into Dorne, yet it still caught her unprepared.

“He is…” 

Her voice trailed off as she noticed Aemond’s posture shift. He went still, shoulders tightening, his gaze fixed on something beyond her. Whatever warmth had softened his features a moment before drained away, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity.

 Jace had invited Helaena to dance. Nymeria watched her cousin smile, genuinely happy as she swayed, and thought they would have made a beautiful couple, had circumstances been different.  

Aegon’s bitter scowl drew a quiet chuckle from her. He deserved a touch of humiliation after an evening spent ignoring his wife and being thoroughly disagreeable.

She turned to Aemond, who remained steadfastly focused on his sister, like a watchful hound eyeing an intruder. Her eyes lingered on the sharp lines of his face, handsome, despite the eyepatch, despite the scar and that cold expression that seemed a permanent fixture. 

She remembered dancing with him in one of the dreams they had shared. He had taken her by the hands and led her to the centre of the library, his cherished library, after conjuring musicians with a mere thought. He had grown remarkably adept at shaping the fabric of their waking dreams. Yet it was the boy who danced with her then, all bright eyes and unguarded joy.

Would he remember?

Would the man seated beside her dance with her now?

As if drawn by her thoughts, he finally averted his gaze from the dancers and fixed his eye on her. “Don’t,” he murmured, harsh and cold, his voice carrying the weight of a threat barely restrained. 

Nymeria froze, her pride stinging and her heart hammering. She could scarcely breathe, yet no one seemed to have heard him reject her silent invitation to dance. Except for Aegon.

He was watching her with a smirk, and just as she felt certain her embarrassment was dyeing her cheeks crimson, he rose and offered her his hand. She hesitated, Aemond’s icy warning still burning, suffocating and inescapable, then accepted Aegon’s hand and followed him. 

They reached Jace and Helaena, but Aegon paid them no heed, guiding her instead into a gentle sway. He was a good dancer, better than she had expected, though not so skilled as her father or her brothers, and for the moment, he seemed resolved to conduct himself as a prince should, leaving all inappropriate behaviour aside. 

“Would you marry my brother?” He asked suddenly, smiling like a cat toying with a mouse, yet there was a serious note beneath the jest. Nymeria laughed, twirling around.

“Would he dare ask my father?” she mused, striving to mask the turmoil his question had stirred within her.

“I think Aemond the Fierce can summon the courage to face the Old Dragon,” Aegon japed, earning another laugh from her. “Would you?” he pressed, his gaze unexpectedly serious. 

“Why do you ask?” She inquired, her voice now matching the intensity in his eyes. For someone so flippant, Aegon’s question carried a weight that surprised her.

He took her hand again, though both paused, standing in reverence as the King was carried out.  When the music resumed, he made her sway once more. 

“Many women would be repulsed by his …” Aegon’s words were abruptly cut off by a forceful thud echoing through the hall, the distinct sound of a fist striking the table with frustration and anger. The musicians faltered, and once more the room was enveloped in a suffocating stillness.

Aemond had risen and was glaring at Lucerys. Slowly, his clenched fist relaxed as he reached for his cup and raised it. She felt Aegon tense beside her. 

“Final tribute,” he began. Nymeria cast a glance around; every eye was fixed on Aemond, waiting. Only her father betrayed a glint of amusement in his gaze.

“To the health of my nephews, Jace, Luke … and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise …” Aemond paused, and Nymeria’s heart sank. “… Strong.”

The room froze, the strained, fragile truce shattering like glass. At this point, he might as well have named them bastards outright. Convenient, though, how his words had been spoken far from the King’s ears. Though it wasn’t the King he should have feared; it was her father’s sharp blade he ought to have been wary of, Nymeria thought, as a knot of anger and panic clenched her stomach.

“Aemond!” the Queen hissed, too late to stop her son. Aegon chuckled and stepped toward the table to retrieve his cup, a deliberate show of support of  his brother’s stunt.

“Come! Let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys” 

“I dare you say that again!” Jace snapped fiercely.

“Why?” Aemond drawled, stepping forward. “It was only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?” he taunted. 

Jace didn’t hesitate; he surged forward and struck Aemond with a punch, only to be effortlessly shoved to the floor.

“Jace!” Rhaenyra commanded, trying to rein in her son.

Despite the wine he had downed, Aegon moved with surprising speed. He intercepted Lucerys before the boy could reach his brother, slamming him onto the table with a loud clatter and pinning him there with unexpected strength.

A derisive sneer curled Aemond’s lips. 

“That is enough!” the Queen shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos as she addressed both her sons. 

Guards rushed in, seizing Jace and Lucerys, while Aegon turned a menacing glare towards Rhaena and Baela. That was enough to jolt Nymeria’s instincts, she stepped sharply between him and her sisters. 

“Don’t…” she growled. Everything had happened so quickly, she had barely the time to think, but by the gods, she would never have let him lay a hand on them.

Aegon lifted his hands in surrender and backed away toward his brother, who had already been seized by the Queen.

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother,” Aemond said, loudly enough for all to hear. “Though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.” He looked defiantly at his nephews, his voice dripping with provocation.

“Wait, wait!” her father cut in,  just as Jace, blinded by fury, tore free from the guard’s grip.

Daemon stepped between Aemond and Jace, staring down his stepson, a finger lift, a silent warning blazing in his eyes. Nymeria knew well what it meant: no further escalation would be tolerated. Jace faltered, hesitation flickering across his face before he finally yielded and stepped back.

A thrill coursed through her at the sight of her father commanding the room, his fearsome presence alone enough to silence a quarrel the others had clumsily failed to contain.

“Go to your quarters, all of you, now!” Rhaenyra ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument. 

Nymeria did not move. She cast a glance at the Princess, a silent challenge, for she was not her mother, not yet queen, and the only authority that mattered was her father’s.

Rhaenyra did not press her, and both women returned their attention to Daemon, who had shifted to face Aemond, sighing in exasperation at his nephew’s childish demeanour. 

She couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her lips as Aemond stared at her father with a mixture of fear and admiration. Daemon’s presence alone had rendered him unable to move or speak. Had Aemond offered the slightest opportunity, her father would have struck him far harder than Jace, and he knew it. At last, the young prince relented and left the room. 

Only then did Nymeria curtsy to the queen before following her sisters and the Velaryon boys back toward their quarters.