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It is her baby brother’s nameday.

No, not that one.

Her little brother. A dark-skinned babe with a tuft of silver-white hair that shimmered in the candlelight whenever mother brought him close. Rhaenys remembers holding him in her arms, a squawking, squirming thing wrapped in ochre silk embroidered with snapping vipers and snarling dragons. Her plump fingers tickled the fat under his chin, just like her Uncle Oberyn did whenever he visited, and he’d giggled. Loud and clear and bouncing off the walls of Dragonstone, it took root inside Rhaenys’ chest and bloomed. She did it again. 

The sound rattled the back of her mind, slipping from baby pink lips set into a pair of chubby cheeks. The first time he opened his eyes they were a radiant violet. Just like their father’s. Just like the silks their mother wore. 

Rhaenys was all dark hair and dark eyes, no trace of Valyrian features wrought within her. It drew looks from the court and sneers from her kekepa. 

A true Dornish girl, he’d laughed at dinner one night, a curl to his lip and a wrinkle to his nose Rhaenys had never seen before. Elia pressed her hands to her ears and her father’s eyes darkened, scraping his knife against the fine Yi-Ti porcelain. 

She would not understand until later that night why they’d reacted in such a way. 

Why her grandfather spoke of her mother’s homeland with such venom, why he refused to look at Rhaenys even when she asked for stories of Old Valyria and the Conquerors. Why he would whisper to his councilors that he was waiting for the prince to give him a true grandchild. 

Each word turned into a dagger, flaying her skin until there was nothing left. 

Death by a thousand cuts, the Boltons called it, a brutal and barbaric style of execution once used by the Kings of Winter in the North. 

Her half-brother is from the north. 

He looks nothing like her brother. 

Like Rhaenys, Jon took after his muna, a long-faced woman with thick brown hair and round grey eyes. Many of the court called her beautiful, a winter rose thriving in the south.

Rhaenys thought she was plain.

She certainly could not compare to her amma, whose likeness was enshrined in a portrait hanging from her neck. Rhaenys unclasped the golden locket; wetness gathered in the corners of her eyes. 

Elia Martell was the most beautiful woman in the world, she thought. With almond-shaped black eyes and black curls that hung to her waist, she was the picture of Dornish beauty, the sun to her brother’s spear, a guiding light in the dark of the capitol. 

Now she was gone and Lyanna Stark remained. 

A pale northern flower wilting in the beating sun of summer, her iron crown of snarling wolves and dragon wings sitting atop her dull brown hair and stolid face. 

Rhaenys called her horse-faced once and received a good foot whipping for it. Her father held her to his chest with a furrowed brow and a disappointed sigh as the Septa attacked her toes until they were red and bloodied, dripping sanguine rivulets onto the stone floors. 

“It’s okay, vezos,” Father whispered a kiss into the dark of her hair, “It’ll be over soon.”

Tears stained his red tunic and pressed deep into her cheeks, mixing with the snot and mucus running from her nose. “I’m sorry, kepa,” Rhaenys sobbed, “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.”

He pressed another kiss into the crown of her head. Smoke and leather engulfed her senses, head spinning as Father rubbed his hand up and down the sleeve of her dress. Through the gap of his arm, she spied a familiar shadow just outside her door. 

Pain tickled through her spine, blackening into a low buzzing deep in her gut as teeth clenched and fingers curled into fists. 

He’d brought him to watch. 

Ordered him to stand by like one of his soldiers as he handed the switch over to the Septa. At ten years old, she wasn’t old enough to understand the blackening in her soul, nor the hissing deep in her abdomen that wished to spur her to action; attacking her half-brother with slaps and punches and insults she couldn’t take back. 

But she did not do any of those things. 

Instead, she curled up into her father’s arms when the Septa left, feet stinging like a thousand needles pressed into flesh, letting him sing her to sleep. 

“Your father loves you,” Her amma whispered to her one night. Waves raged against the black obsidian of Dragonstone, shrieking and screaming with each crash. 

“Then why did he send us away?” Rhaenys asked with a sucked thumb and a soft blanket tucked into her arms. 

Amma smiled and brushed her hair out of her face. She was sad. All of her smiles were sad. “Because he is keeping you safe. Because he loves you. Because you are the heir to the throne and your place is here on Dragonstone. Just like your brother.” 

Kepa is keeping me safe. 

Kepa loves me. 

The mantra repeated itself over and over in her head, eyes growing heavy. Rhaenys collapsed against the solid muscle of her father’s chest, the slow lift of his chest and gentle beating of his heart lulling her to sleep. 

It was the bastard and his mother who were behind the foot whipping. She was sure of it. Father wouldn’t have come up with that terrible punishment on his own. The horse-faced queen and the mutt must have put him up to it. Yes, that was the only thing that made sense. He wasn’t like this when amma was alive. 

It wasn’t until she grew into a woman she realized how heavy the lie sat in her chest, weighing her down. Her uncle Oberyn told her the truth on her sixteenth name day, when she’d fallen too much into her cups after the joust and recalled the incident with a bitter malice, venom dripping from her lips like the vipers of her amma’s homeland. 

“I remember that day,” Oberyn mused, jaw clenched and knuckles white against the goblet in his hands. The Hand’s pin against his chest glittered like one of the stars poking through the night sky. “Prince Rhaegar questioned all of us, demanding to know where you’d heard such an insult.” Her uncle took another sip of wine, grimacing at the memory.

Rhaenys’ heart collapsed into her stomach.

Fear ate away at it like maggots, a sour taste filling her mouth. 

That day, Rhaenys stopped referring to her kepa as ‘father’ and started calling him ‘Rhaegar’. 

The wooden taper shook in her hand as she moved it from candle to candle, lighting one under the miniature relief of the Mother and another under the relief of the Maiden. Her Uncle Doran gifted her a set for her fourteenth nameday. They were sculpted in the Dornish style, brightly painted and gilded by artisans of the Water Gardens.

Flames danced and flickered, casting shadows of the Seven on the painted portrait behind them, the maiden’s gentle gaze tilting upward towards the skies in an inverse of the mother’s downward bow. 

Rhaenys knelt before the altar, shoulders slumped as a deep sign shook her bones and seeped into the ground beneath her. Polished marble cut through her sheer skirts and into the dry skin of her knees, sweat dripping down her back as the fireplace roared. 

She didn’t pray these days.

Not out of spite, like her father, or because of a lack of interest, like her stepmother, but simply because she did not know what to pray for. She remembers amma lighting candles in the Great Sept when Rhaegar went off to war, letting Rhaenys hold the tapers from her hip as her belly swelled. One for the Mother. One for the Warrior. 

These days, Rhaenys prayed to the Maiden. 

To protect the innocent. The children and women languishing in the bowels of Flea Bottom, sick from their bowls of brown and struck by Gold Cloaks and little lordlings with wicked smiles. She wonders if Gregor Clegane bore the same smile when he raped her mother. If it was the last thing her amma saw before he ripped her in half, crushing her head under bulbous, corpulent fingers stained in her baby brother’s blood, grey matter dripping into the sockets of her mother’s eyes. Each rivulet a drop of who he could have been. His sweet giggle. His babbling words. The clap of his hands. All of it shoved into her mother’s mouth as Gregor Clegane gagged her with his fist, choking the air from her lungs.

All while Ser Amory Lorch cackled and played with her baby’s brother’s corpse like a doll. She still heard it in her nightmares. The nights when she returned to her hiding spot behind her father’s bed, staring through the hole of the secret passage as the scene unfolded. Some nights she was a dragon, chained and forced to watch as their shadows loomed large against the wall. Blood and brain matter staining the stick figured family portrait she’d painted against the red brick.

The chain around her neck tightened whenever she tried to move, strangling her as she reached for her mother and brother, black dots dancing in her vision while smoke choked her from the inside out. 

Some nights she hid under the bed, Amory Lorch pulling her out by her ankle as she called for her kepa. Pain, sharp and burning, raged through her abdomen, followed by the flash of steel. It felt like nothing, then it felt like everything. Cold and hot, and then pain again. Each stab of the knife accompanied by cruel, callous laughter.

The Commander of the City Watch laughed the same way. 

Those nights, Rhaenys always woke in a puddle of her own blood, her monthly courses staining the dark skin of her thighs; the muscles of her abdomen throbbing as though they were stitching themselves back together from the wounds of her nightmare. 

 A knock at the door pulled her out of her trance. She didn’t need to move to know who it was. 

“Come in.” She spoke, sinking further into the floor. Sometimes, she imagines a hole opening up beneath her, growing wide enough to swallow her into its depths, where she would never return.

Heavy bronze doors gave way to a figure dressed in yellow and orange silks, shadowed lithe and lean against the golden glow of the setting sun. 

“I wondered if you started without me.” Her Uncle Oberyn’s smile was soft, cutting through her melancholy like the knives his daughters wielded. A noise left her mouth. It was too bitter to be called a chuckle, yet too mirthful to be called a scoff. 

“You take too long,” Rhaenys answered, lips twitching upward into a sly smirk matching his. 

Oberyn’s chuckle rumbled in her chest, “Yes, well, the realm does not rest simply because it is a prince’s nameday.”

“Try telling that to my father.” 

Silence, swollen and distended like the bloated bodies of the Blackwater, hung between them. 

Rhaenys can feel her uncle’s glare on her back, but knows he only does it when he thinks someone may be watching them. 

The walls have ears, people often said of the Red Keep. And rats scurry about the keep, hungry for bread and coin and secrets. Lord Varys made for an excellent spymaster after all. 

“Your father loves you.” 

It is the only thing her uncle can say that doesn’t sound like treason. 

Rhaenys scoffs derisively. Anger curls deep in her gut, planting roots in darkened soil. 

“My father loves his northern wife,” she snarled, venom dripping from her mouth like the fangs of the vipers her uncle adored so much, “And her son of snow, whose nameday planning takes precedence of his trueborn son’s nameday.”

“Hush!” Oberyn barks, pressing his lips into a thin line while he sauntered over towards her, joining her on the cold marble, “Your half-brother is the heir to the throne–” 

“He is a bastard–”

“A legitimized one!” His raised voice is a slap to her face, sharp and cutting. “Do you know what happened the last time a Targaryen King did such a thing?”
Of course she does. 

The whole kingdom is still scarred from the last rebellion before the Baratheons. Daemon Blackfyre, whose legitimization tore at the flesh of Westeros until there was almost nothing left. Her half-brother may not wield the fabled sword the house was named for, but he was still a Black Dragon. A bastard Targaryen legitimized in the eyes of the gods. But not in the eyes of the kingdom. 

Jon Blackfyre sounded much more suitable than Jon Targaryen. 

“It is dangerous to go against the will of a king,” Oberyn reminded her, “Especially your own father.” 

Rhaenys darkens her gaze as it falls upon the embers of the fire. Her uncle is right. Like he always is. She hates it. 

“So what? I’m not allowed to be bitter? To be angry–”

“Of course you are, sunspot,” He mutters against her skin, pressing a kiss to her brow. His hand smoothed down the curled mane of black hair, just like his own. His eyes hardened into onyx. “But you must be careful. Enemies surround us here, many disguised as friends. Even your own walls are not safe.” His gaze drifted towards the bronze doors he’d come through, as though expecting one of Varys’ little birds to appear, with their too wide-eyes and silent mouths. A clang rattled the air, and Oberyn drew his dagger, rising to his feet to meet the foe.

“Who goes there?!” He bellowed, candles flickering from the force of the gale as a shadow loomed large across the stone floor. 

It stretched, like the wings of the Black Dread, until it encompassed everything in its wake, the pitter-patter of feet echoing off the empty walls of her chambers. 

Rhaenys tensed, hands reaching into the folds of her skirt to palm the dagger she kept strapped to her thigh. She wasn’t much of a fighter, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know how to handle herself. One could hardly grow up with Oberyn Martell as an uncle and not learn a few things. 

Especially with her cousins being who they were. 

The dagger was Lady Nym’s own make, finely crafted and bearing the inscription of House Martell. 

Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. 

She refused to be anything but what her mother’s house demanded of her. 

Rhaenys pulled herself to her feet, black skirts falling to the floor in a cascade of ebony. It matches the ichor the Dragonlords supposedly used to twist the flesh of wyrms and men into creatures and chimeras they would bind to their blood. 

She waits, fire licking the burning edge of her dagger, ready to throw herself at her attacker. 

Instead, the shadow emerges with an arched back and a hiss, a black cat stretching its paws as it bounded down the stairs from her bedchamber. 

Oberyn muttered a curse under his breath. 

Balerion flicked his tail with a haughty hiss and dropped another dead raven at Rhaenys’ feet. 

She smiled and scratched him behind his ear. 

The cat falls into her arms easily, purring a sweet melody as she scratches his head and he curls into her chest. 

For a moment, she lets herself coo and cuddle the grumpy animal until he jumps from her arms, scurrying into the shadows once more. The raven he caught lies still in front of the fireplace, neck cracked from the pressure of Balerion’s fangs. 

Her own Black Dread, she’d called him. 

Her grandfather thought she was ridiculous. Her father thought she was adorable. 

Rhaenys’ lips dropped into a frown at the memory. 

Of all the dragons, Balerion had been her favorite. A massive beast worthy of the name with bright red eyes and black fire. Many believed that like her namesake, she would take to Meraxes, but it was Daenys the Dreamer’s mount she found herself drawn to, tracing the beast’s ridership back to the woman who saved her house from ruin with the power of dreams. 

Rhaenys would never claim a dragon, but the black kitten her father gave her on her second nameday was enough for her to dream of one. 

Although, with black fur and green eyes, it better resembled the Cannibal more than the dragon it was named for.

“You are doing it again.” 

Her uncle’s voice pulled her back down to earth. 

“Hmm?”

Oberyn smirked and crossed his arm over the deep neckline of his tunic. “Your brow, a small crease forms in the middle of it when you think of your father.”

Rhaenys was rather put out by how easy she was to read. “Lots of people crease their brows,” she defended weakly. 

Oberyn chuckled and shook his head, “You will have to do better than that if you wish to play the game, sunspot.” Rhaenys fought against the pout forming on her lips. “You are too much like your mother. Although the hot blood of Dorne runs strong in you the way it did not in her.” 

Pride surged in her chest. Her father may discourage her fiery temper and impulsive tendencies, but her uncle nourished them, encouraged them to soak and fester until they grew inflamed. 

“You say that like I should be ashamed of it.” 

Oberyn furrowed his brow, “then I have taught you poorly.” He settled down on the chaise next to her, his hip gentle against her thigh. “My brother would tell you it was hot-blood that got our Uncle and father killed in these wars of kings and pretenders, but that was not the case. It was restraint.” 

Rhaenys shifted her gaze to meet his. 

Oberyn’s jaw clenched. 

“We did not speak out when we should have. Instead, we waited, like vipers in the grass with our fangs plucked and sacs drained.” His black eyes glazed over, as though recalling a memory only he could see. “Perhaps if we’d been a bit more hot-blooded, Elia and your bhai would still be alive.”

The words speared her right between her eyes, sharp and venomous and dripping with a slow acting poison. It dripped into the cavity of her chest, twisting and writhing and corkscrewing so deep inside she thought she would throw up. 

Oberyn never talked of her mother as quick-tempered or easily agitated, she was always gentle and kind with a calming nature. She walked among vipers and none would hurt her. As a child, Rhaenys often wondered why she ran so hot when her mother did not. 

Now that she was older, she knew exactly where it originated. 

It made her gorge rise. 

Sometimes she could still feel the phantom pain of her foot whipping, even years later. That was not the nature of someone prone to gentleness. After all, the sun blazed bright and warm, but it raged and scorched, burning itself from the inside out with its own fire. 

And she was not only sun. 

She was dragon. 

Scaled beast and monstrous creature, lifted straight from the storybooks and myths of Old Valyria, with a fire that would destroy anything in its path. Perhaps once, she would have tamed one, and thus calmed the growing storm inside her. 

But the dragons were all dead. 

And she remained. 

A Dornish wisp of a girl struggling to burn bright in the endless shadows of King’s Landing. Dragons did not grow in captivity, the dragonkeepers always said. And she would break free of her chains soon enough. 

She had to. 

Rhaenys wrapped her arm around the crook of his elbow and pressed her chin against her uncle’s shoulder. An old habit, and one not like to break anytime soon. 

In this position she almost felt like a girl again. 

In this position she almost felt like a princess. 

Not an heir whose throne had been usurped, nor a woman forced to consider which man she would chain herself to; here she was simply a girl leaning on the arm of her uncle, who’d cared for her since she could walk. 

Silence surrounded them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the flickering of the candlelight. 

After a moment, Oberyn pressed a kiss to her forehead and bid her goodnight. Tomorrow was a big day after all. Her Aunt Daenerys would be returning to King’s Landing for the first time in over a moon’s turn. 

Not for her nameday, nor Aegon’s, but for Jon’s. 

The bastard wolf who’d usurped her throne and stolen the title of brother. He was turning sixteen, a man grown, and somehow the Seven Kingdoms had nothing better to do than celebrate his nameday.

Rhaegar was throwing a tourney. It was rumored to last a week, with each day dedicated to the Seven to thank them for bringing him his precious heir. 

Rhaenys hated him. 

She used to pinch him when they were younger and he was still in his cradle, watching with wide eyes and a curious brow as his skin turned purple under her touch. Her father had her whipped for that too. 

It didn’t stop her from calling him names, though. Bastard was her favorite, although ‘wolfie’ and ‘lord snow’ had also made their way into her vernacular over the years. She always made sure it was out of sight and earshot of her father and his mother, lest she be forced to deal with another beating from the Septa. 

“We must love our brothers,” The odious old woman would have her repeat over and over with each strike before forcing her to write lines of parchment until her wrist felt as though it was going to fall off. 

He is no brother of mine, she would snarl venomously. 

Flesh cracking against flesh forced her to swallow the words back down her throat, blood bubbling from the mark the Septa’s ring left on her cheek. 

Rhaenys bit her tongue. 

More blood. 

Blood of the dragon, spilled as carelessly as a goblet of wine in the hands of a drunk. But she knew they did not see that when they looked at her. They saw the blood of a mutt, the blood of a dog to tame and break until she docile and domesticated at their feet. 

But she was no dog. 

Not like those who claimed to be wolves. 

She was a dragon. She was fire and blood, and one day she would make the Septa pay for striking her. 

Perhaps the gods of Old Valyria had heard her plea, for the Septa dropped dead the next day, seemingly of a summer fever. 

The new one was much nicer. Prettier too. 

Rhaenys had gone through nearly a hundred Septas by the time she became a woman grown, none of which lasted more than a year. 

Eventually Rhaegar gave up and gave in to her willful tendencies, out of fondness or frustration she did not know, but she preferred to believe it was the former. 

Another knock on the door drew her out of her trance with a furrowed brow. 

Black silk kissed the floor as she crossed over to the bronze double doors, immediately shutting them when she saw who it was. 

“Rhae, please–”

“I told you not to call me that–”

“My mother bid me to come by and tell you–”

“Do you think I care what that whore wants–”

“Watch it, or I shall tell father–”

“Oh, of course, always running off to father!”

Jon pushed his way through and Rhaenys huffed as she strode further into the room. He looked awful, skin paler than usual and dark curls plastered against his forehead. He was dressed in the simple wools of his house, grey tunic threaded with silver.

“I come bearing peace,” Jon huffed. His grey eyes caught sight of the altar and he froze, his previous statement dying in his throat. Good. “It’s your brother's birthday.”

“Yes, it is,” Rhaenys crossed her arms over her chest, “So say what you came here to say and leave me to my grief.”

“Rhaenys, I wouldn’t have come if I–”

“For Seven’s sake, spit it out already!”

Jon’s face screwed itself into an expression as cold as the land he hailed from. Lips pressing themselves into a frown, his eyes darkened and the lump in his throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. 

“Father is entering the lists.” 

Rhaenys squinted. Was that truly all he had to tell her? She’d known a fortnight ago he would be entering the tourney, and unless he truly thought her that dense and dull, there was no reason for Jon to be telling her the night before. 

She shot him an unamused look. “Is that all?”

Jon furrowed his brow. “You don’t seem shocked.”

“No, he told me weeks ago,” Rhaenys shrugged and tilted her chin up. It was always fun lording her relationship with her father over Jon. He always squirmed and writhed whenever she did, his jaw clenching and hand flexing at his side. He was terrible at hiding his emotions. It was why he would make a lousy king. Unless of course, their father could find him a worthy queen. Rumors of a betrothal were already running rampant in the keep. Margaery Tyrell was the name being thrown out most often, and Rhaenys thought she was a perfect match for her sullen, surly bastard of a brother. 

A blooming, beautiful rose who cared only for songs, sewing, and the seven. Yes, she would make him quite miserable indeed. 

Something sharp pinched her chest, and she grew annoyed once more, the thrill of teasing Jon wearing off faster than she could grasp it. 

“Then I suppose you know he intends to name my mother his Queen of Love and Beauty.”

That wiped the smile right off her face. 

Jon’s lips twitched upward in victory.

She wanted to punch it right off his face. Instead, she tilted her head and smiled sweetly, teeth practically rotting from the effort. She’d been playing these games with her half-brother for the last six and ten years, and she knew the only way to win was to deny him the victory of seeing how he’d affected her.

 “Of course he did.”

Now it was Jon’s turn. His smile died instantly. 

“And why shouldn’t he? After all, she is his queen.” Rhaenys laced the words with as much sickly sweet venom as she could muster, dripping saccharine honey from her lips. Jon’s nostrils flared. It was the only time he looked like a dragon. 

She stifled a giggle. 

Jon’s face flared. He hated being laughed at. She loved to laugh at him.

It was like picking at a particularly bulbous boil before the Maester lanced it. Red and angry and pustulous, Jon glared at her with his eyes of stone, hands clenched in a fist at his side. 

“Why do you always have to make a sport of everything?” He whined, “My mother has done nothing but extend a kind hand and you bat it away at every turn.”

“Do you think she does it out of the kindness of her heart?” Rhaenys whirled on him with rage in her eyes, bubbling up to her chest and ready to boil. Jon blinked in confusion. Rhaenys snarled, “She does it for the same reasons everyone else does. For the court, to gain favor. To earn the King’s trust.” 

“You’re wrong.” 

“Am I?”

“She’s not like that.”

“Everyone is like that.” Rhaenys snapped, gnashing her teeth together like a feral animal. Her blood ran hot, and so did Jon’s. They were a pair of monsters as the Septas and Maesters often referred to them. Rhaenys would trip him in the training yard; Jon would pull her hair in lessons. Rhaenys would spike his food with dreamwine; Jon would hide sheep dung in her sheets. Rhaenys would blunt his swords and steal his armor; Jon would cut her dresses and replace her perfumes with something so foul she dare not name it. 

An endless push and pull; escalating and raising the stakes until Lyanna and Rhaegar had to physically separate them by placing their chambers on opposite sides of the Holdfast. Rhaenys’ overlooked the Blackwater, while Jon was stuck staring out at the inner bailey and dry moat. 

Hers was also bigger. 

Not that it mattered to anyone but her. 

“What does it matter?” Jon asked in disbelief, “She is trying to be mother to us both when she does not have to be.”

Rhaenys’ eyes darkened and a hole opened in the pit of her stomach, stretching and distending until she was sure she would burst. Blood pulsed in her temples and a wave of rage coursed through her veins. “I do not need a mother!” Her words shook the very foundation of the Red Keep. Hot rivers rushed down her cheek. “I had a mother! And a brother! And you and the queen took them away from me!”

She shoved his shoulders and Jon stumbled on the heels of his feet, pupils dilated. 

More tears marched down her face. She hated it. Hated the swell of anger in her chest mixing with the stinging fog of grief, how it seemed to choke her with fingers of bone threatening to drown her in its waters. 

She latched onto fury–blazing a familiar path through her lungs–and shoved him again. 

“Do you hear me, bastard?” The word rattled him, and Jon’s gaze hardened, “You took my brother from me! You took my mother from me! You cannot have my father too!”

She moved to shove him again and he caught her wrists, his easy strength keeping her locked in place as she squirmed in his iron grip. 

“Rhaenys–”

“Let go of me,” She snarled. 

Jon’s face grew solemn, his voice urgent, “Rhaenys–”

“I said, let go!”

The bronze doors of her room flew open once more, armored boots shattering the ground as blinding white cut through the shadows. The pointed end of unsheathed steel shoved itself underneath Jon’s chin. 

A head of shimmering golden hair stood on the other side of it.

“The Princess gave you an order.” Jaime Lannister was calm, almost apathetic, but Rhaenys could see the etchings of anger carved into his chin and under his bloodshot eyes. “I suggest you follow it, bastard.” 

Jon’s grip tightened, his jaw ticking as he stared down the edge of the sharpened blade. It was the very sword used to kill her grandfather. The very sword he used to cut down Amory Lorch before shoving Rhaenys into the secret passageways. The very sword he pledged to Rhaegar to atone for his sins. 

It was enough for Jon to release her.

The force of it almost sent Rhaenys tumbling to the ground. She grabbed the angered and inflamed skin of her wrist, red marks purpling into deep bruises as she pulled them close to her chest. 

Hatred, dark and ugly, swelled in her chest. 

“Get out.” 

Her words were guttural, low and snarled from the very depths of her. 

Jon stayed put. 

“Rhaenys I–”

“I said, GET OUT!”

Silence stung the turgid tension stretching between them, the echo of her words still ringing in her ears. Jaime did not sheath his sword. 

Jon’s eyes moved to meet the Kingsguard’s. Jaime tilted his head with a smirk, the blase gesture hiding a dangerous gleam behind it. “Do you struggle to follow orders, bastard? Perhaps I should have Ser Aron teach you a lesson so as to better understand when the Princess is giving you one.” 

Jon’s armor cracked, lip quivering in barely restrained rage as he moved his gaze back to meet hers. They were cold and dark, the color of storm clouds before lightning struck, with no light able to break through. “I only meant to apologize.” He muttered, turning on his heel towards the door. Jaime stopped him with a grip on his bicep.

“If I catch you putting hands on the princess again–”

“I would be careful how you speak, Ser,” Jon snarled, “Bastard or not, I am still the King’s only heir, Kingslayer.”

Jaime’s jaw ticked. Jon pulled his arm free and shut the door behind him. 

Relief flooded Rhaenys’ veins and she collapsed to the floor, leaning on the arm of the chaise as she did. Tears sprung down her cheeks, silent as the grave. 

She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, staring up at the painted ceiling above her. A monument to her namesake stared down at her, the pale silver of Meraxes glittering in the orange candlelight.

“Princess?” Jaime Lannister’s voice sounded far away. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?” 

He is always hurting me, she wanted to say. He was born with a knife in his hand and he has not stopped cutting. Each breath of air he breathes reopens the wound, bleeding the same crimson as the dragon of their sigil, unable to be sewn shut. 

A hole the size of her brother stands in his place, but he does not fill it. He is too lean, too lithe, too pale. Sometimes she imagines Aegon standing there instead, with a mess of curly silver hair and shoulders too broad for his frame. 

“The hour is late, Ser Jaime,” Rhaenys muttered flatly, a persistent numbness expanding through her body and up into her skull. “I thank you for your service, but I wish to be alone.”

Jaime almost looked as though he was going to say something against it, but thought better of it and bowed, his white cloak swishing behind him as he shut the door. 

Rhaenys turned her gaze toward the fire, where the two candles remained lit. 

It would have been his sixteenth nameday. 

A pang echoed in her chest. 

“Happy birthday, Egg,” She muttered, and blew out the candles. 

Chapter Text

When Rhaenys was little she would play hide and seek with Ser Barristan until the sun went down. It was her favorite pastime, the old knight hunting around every nook and cranny until he found her huddled in Maegor’s passageways, popping out in the Tower of the Hand or the Great Hall to scare him with her best imitation of a dragon’s roar. 

Ser Barristan, to his credit, always acted as though she were Vhagar herself, drawing his sword and white shield with a mighty hunch of his shoulders. 

“Oh no, a terrible dragon has besieged King’s Landing, I must protect the princess at all costs! Back you beast!”

Rhaenys would giggle and tilt her head, “It’s just me Ser Barristan!”

“Princess!” Ser Barristan’s pale blue eyes would grow wide, exaggerated relief on his face as he scooped her up in his arms, “Thank the gods!” Rhaenys shrieked in laughter, bouncing in time with the clank of his armor, “We must hurry! A great and terrible dragon is after you!”

“It’s just me, Ser!” Rhaenys giggled, squirming in the knight’s arms, “There is no dragon! I was just pretending!”

“What?!” The Lord Commander’s mouth would drop open in affect shock, as though he wasn’t present for all of it. His hand flew to her brow like a mother checking for a fever, “Oh, mother’s mercy, the dragon has already gotten to you. We must find your father before it is too late!” He would then drop her on the ground and pat his back, shoving the white cloak over his shoulders and squatting to her height, “Come on! Your loyal steed awaits!”

Rhaenys leapt onto the Lord Commander’s back, yelping in glee as Ser Barristan took off down the hallway, holding tight to her ankles as her stubby arms wrapped around his neck. 

“Weeeeeeee!” 

They came to an abrupt stop just outside the council chambers, where her father was exiting, a deep frown on his face. Rhaenys didn’t like when her father frowned. It made her feel like he was angry, and she didn’t like him when he was angry. As soon as she rounded the corner, however, the sour expression melted away into a bright smile, sunlight spewing from his teeth. 

“Well, what have we here?”

“Papa look!” Rhaenys giggled, steering Ser Barristan around with her pudgy hands, “I’m riding a dragon!”

Rhaegar’s eyes brightened, chuckling softly. They twinkled as Ser Barristan shrugged in defeat, “Is that what he is?” 

“Naejot! Naejot!” Rhaenys shouted, hands reaching out for the Lord Commander even as her father pulled her free from his back and into his arms. “Papaaaaa.”

“Come here,” He shook his head with a chuckle, hiking her on his hip, “I think Ser Barristan has had quite enough for the day.” 

“I don’t mind, Your Grace, truly.” 

Rhaegar shot a look at the older knight, “I thank you for your kindness Ser Barristan, but if you are not careful she will run you ragged until you can run no more.” 

Rhaenys beamed. 

Her fingers tugged on her father’s silvery hair, so different than her own, long and smooth as silk while her own tangled itself in knots unless she wove oil through the thick strands and braided it back. His circlet shimmered beaten gold, inlaid with blood-red rubies. Sunlight bounced off his crown and danced diamond patterns across the silver curtain and black of his tunic. 

Her father always wore black. 

She liked to believe it was because he was still mourning her mother. 

“Very well, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan shot her a wink and stood as straight as an arrow, white armor gleaming like diamonds in the afternoon sun. Rhaegar dismissed him with a nod of his head and gestured for his own sworn sword to follow. 

Ser Arys Oakheart was the newest member of the Kingsguard, and Rhaenys decided she liked him better than his sworn brother Mandon Moore. Ser Mandon glared at her with beady eyes and a leathered face, whereas Ser Arys always had a smile in his kind eyes for the young princess. 

Her father escorted her down the winding steps towards the garden, fingers clinging to summer silks as she gently laid her head on his shoulder. The wind stopped and the birds went quiet. She never felt such comfort as when she was in her father’s arms. Sometimes, Rhaenys truly believed there was no safer place. 

“You certainly gave Ser Barristan the run around,” Rhaegar smiled, plucking a moonbloom from its bush and nestling it in one of her braids. The white flower hung limply in the thick rope of hair, contrasting against the ebony strands. 

Pride swelled in her chest, “He wanted to play with me!” 

“And so he did,” Rhaegar chuckled, sitting down on the bench with her on his lap, a solemn look crossing his face and darkening his eyes, “Did you order him?”

Her face fell in shame and she nodded. 

Rhaegar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He splayed out his palm in a peace offering. Her own hand looked tiny in comparison, golden and brown against silver-white. Moonlight spilled forth from the seams of father’s body, enmeshing with the dulled sun of her own. 

Warmth enveloped her fingers. 

Pale lilac met deep amethyst, “You know once you are queen, you cannot be so free with your orders,” Rhaegar lifted his brows, a soft warning. Rhaenys pouted, a sickness curling deep inside of her. She wouldn’t realize it was shame until years later. “Ser Barristan will have more important duties than playing knight and dragon with princesses.”
Rhaenys furrowed her brow.

“What about Ser Jaime?”

Rhaegar shifted uncomfortably, “Ser Jaime?”

“Will he still have time for tea parties with me?”

Bright laughter streaked father’s eyes, the color of dawn peeking over the clouds, sparkling in the summer sun. Rhaenys didn’t understand what was so funny. 

“I am afraid–” Rhaegar choked out, tightening his hold around his daughter’s waist, “--Ser Jaime will be unable to attend tea parties once you are queen.”

Rhaenys deflated. 

“But,” His finger gently booped her nose and she giggled, “You shall find other playmates to host tea parties with. Like your cousin Arianne or aunt Daenerys or Lord Tyrell’s daughter.” 

Rhaenys didn’t like when her father called Dany her aunt. 

Aunt was a word for old ladies. Serious people who didn’t laugh or play and certainly didn’t attend tea parties held by princesses. Dany did all of those things, and more. She crawled into Rhaenys’ bed while she screamed, muffling the sounds with her blanket as Dany crawled in next to her, arms tight around her midsection and peppering kisses to her cheeks.

The Kingsguard always found them intertwined the next morning, Dany’s silver head pressed against Rhaenys’ dark one. 

Would she have to share Dany with Lord Tyrell’s daughter too?

Rhaenys peered up at her father through her long lashes and a pouting lip, “You promise?”

Father pressed a kiss to her hair and pulled her close, “Promise.”

She returned the favor with a kiss to his cheek.

Rhaenys now sat on the same bench, in the same gardens, twelve years later, twisting the stem of a moonbloom between her fingers. The riad fountain bubbled and babbled behind her, Dornish stone and marble tiled in the shape of the seven pointed star. Colorful tessellations crafted a mosaic of the sun and spear, installed by Queen Myriah Martell when her husband finally ascended the throne. 

She was the one who tended to the gardens, alongside her lady in waiting Dyanna Dayne, curating the careful organization of jasmine and orange blossoms, mixing with the marigolds and orchids in a vibrant array of color. Her own mother had carried on the tradition, planting saffron and hibiscus around the perimeter. Now, the gardens carried roses of blue and white and red, buried alongside coldsnaps and frostfires. They swallowed Myriah Martell’s Dornish blooms whole, choking them until they withered and died. The fountain was all that remained. 

When her father used to take her here, Rhaenys used to dream of introducing jacarandas and lilies into the garden, putting her own mark on it like the queens before her.

But she would never be a queen. 

She would remain, always and forever, an eternal princess. One that had been dethroned and defanged in favor of a plain-faced, grey-eyed boy from the north. 

It was Jon who would bear their father’s gold and ruby crown when he ascended. 

It was Jon who would sit atop the Iron Throne where their father once sat.

And it was Jon who was privy to the meetings of the small council as the king’s cupbearer. Their father’s cupbearer. 

Orange silk skirts gathered in her fists. 

It wasn’t fair. 

She was the firstborn.

She was the eldest.

If it were Dorne she would be named princess and heir like her cousin, who did not have to fight for what was hers by birthright. Doran respected tradition, but he did not dare usurp his own daughter in favor of his sons. Quentyn was sent to swear his oath to the Kingsguard, Trystane was sent to ward with House Yronwood.  It was Arianne who served her father’s cups, practiced Sunspear’s politics, acted as an envoy in her father’s stead. 

Just as Nymeria and Myriah and Aliandra had before her. 

Rhaenys should have been granted the same privilege. 

It was her birthright. 

Not Jon’s. 

She should be the one serving at her father’s table, hearing the qualms and worries of the realm, and chiming in to fix it. Instead a wolf with sharpened teeth and speared claws stood in her place, dressed in the flayed skins of the house of the dragon. 

It was Rhaenys who bore the true blood of the dragon. 

She who bore the name of a conqueror, just as her brother had. 

Aemon was no conqueror’s name, nor the name of a king. It was the name of knights and stewards and uncrowned princes who died unknown and unmarked. 

Jon was worse.

For who in their right mind would follow a King Jon Targaryen? No one of any sense, that much was certain. 

Rhaegar once admitted if Jon had been born a girl he would have named her Visenya. “A fitting name for a warrior queen of the north.”

Rhaenys’ body ached and jealousy reared its ugly head once more. Balerion purred in her lap. “I’m glad he wasn’t born a girl.” A half-truth. A part of her enjoyed being the only daughter of the realm. Being the only daughter in her father’s life. It meant all she needed to do was smile and bat her eyelashes and the Kingsguard would fall at her feet, bending over backwards to please the princess. And up until Jon was named Prince of Dragonstone, she wouldn’t have traded her sex in for anything else in the world. 

Rhaenys imagined her handsome half-brother replaced with a mirror image of her stepmother, half-wildling with a crown of winter roses upon her head and bearing the name Visenya. 

It made her want to pull her intestines out through her mouth. 

For all the woes Jon’s existence as a son had brought her, it meant she was the only daughter that captured her father’s attention. 

Your father loves you. 

Kepa loves me. 

Kepa is keeping me safe. 

Then why did she feel as though the rug could be pulled out from under her at any moment? 

She gently laid the moonbloom down in the water, watching it float away like one of her uncle’s paper boats down the Greenblood. Her eyes drifted upward towards the small council chambers. The doors were closed, Ser Arys and Quentyn standing guard as Ser Barristan took part in the proceedings. Ser Jaime was nowhere to be found. He hadn’t been seen since last night, and Rhaenys had a fairly good idea as to why. 

Jon must have tattled. 

That or Varys’ little birds brought the news to the eunuch, allowing him to maneuver his cyvasse pieces into place for victory. Guilt stung her chest. Ser Jaime’s dedication to her safety was one of many reasons as to why her father pardoned him for his crimes against the former King, but the mercy of a Targaryen could only go so far. 

Jaime had raised steel against her half-brother and called him a bastard. 

Men had been killed for less. 

His status as Tywin Lannister’s eldest son and Rhaenys’ sworn sword protected him, but only just. Rhaenys could get away with such impudence. It was one of the only privileges she was granted in her grief. But Ser Jaime was not granted the same mercy. 

She remembered a time when she was barely five years old, the white knight kneeling down and asking her to sneak through the passages of the Red Keep to spy on her own father as they discussed the fate of Tywin Lannister and his pride of lions. 

“It’ll be simple,” Ser Jaime convinced her, “The passageway will take you right behind the screen, where you’ll be able to hear everything.”

She didn’t ask him how he knew. 

Instead, she followed his instructions, hid behind the bamboo designs in the Myrish style, and listened. Balerion followed her and sat at her feet, quieter than usual. 

“And what are we to do with House Lannister?” Rhaenys recognized her uncle’s voice. Prince Oberyn’s words shook with restrained rage, his accent slurring his words closer together.

“Nothing,” Another voice, hoarse and husky, spoke gruffly. It reminded Rhaenys of the salt on the sea, scrubbing her tongue whenever she accidentally swallowed the water. “Tywin Lannister is the richest man in Westeros and he has bent the knee, to kill him now–”

“Tywin Lannister murdered my sister!” 

Rhaenys flinched. The room fell quiet. 

“Your queen! Your prince!” A pause. No one dared interrupt the Red Viper, “I will not rest until I see justice.”

“Justice or vengeance?” 

Father. 

Uncle Oberyn said nothing in response. 

“Lord Connington is right we cannot execute an entire house, not while the realm is still healing.”

“He gave the order!”

The gruff man from before scoffed, “Lord Tywin asserts Ser Gregor and Ser Amory went rogue, betraying his orders to retreat from King’s Landing. Now, unless you have evidence to the contrary my prince–”

Steel sang as it was unsheathed, “I would be very careful with how you proceed next, Lord Connington.”

“Enough!” Father huffed, followed by the sound of boots hitting the floor. His long shadow stretched across the screen. “Ser Gregor and Ser Amory have paid the price for their crimes, their heads rot on a pike outside the keep, the crows feasting on their corpses, what more would you have me do, Oberyn?” 

Rhaenys leaned in, something sharp twisting inside of her as she waited for her uncle to respond. 

She could see the length of his slender shadow underneath the folded screen. Rhaenys sucked in a breath, hoping he couldn’t hear her. 

Her uncle took a step closer to her father, “I would have you think of your daughter. I would have you think of your wife and son. Elia and her children.”

Her father straightened to his full height, it still wasn’t enough to match her uncle’s, “I am. Do you think you are the only one who mourns them? Do you think it is easy to look at my daughter and see her mother staring back at me? To see my own mistakes reflected in the sheen of her irises?” 

Oberyn went quiet. 

“I am doing this, so that she does not have to inherit a world of violence and vengeance. So that she and her brother may start their reign with peace instead of war.” 

A tense silence falls over the room. 

Rhaenys almost thinks one can cut it with a Valyrian steel sword. 

“So that is it then?” Her uncle spits out bitterly, malice dripping from his teeth, “The Lannisters kill your wife and child. My sister and nephew, the queen and the crown prince, and nothing is to be done? Tell me, my prince, how is that justice?”

Rhaegar sighed. 

Through a small gap in the folding screen, Rhaenys caught sight of him. He was ragged, silver hair pulled back and away from his face as he collapsed back into his seat with a pinch of his nose. 

“I assure you, the Lannisters have paid for their role in this war. Ser Jaime will remain on as a Kingsguard and his brother will be sent to the Wall. Therefore robbing Lord Tywin of any possible legitimate heirs.” He shot a look over towards the gruff man from earlier, broad-shouldered with a mane of red flame. It clashed against the bright crimson and white of his surcoat, armor bent and dirtied. “His daughter, meanwhile, will be married to Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm’s End. And any sons they have will be dealt with accordingly.”

“If they have any,” The gruff man from earlier muttered under his breath. 

The rest of the small council held in a laugh.

“I fear Lady Cersei has drawn the poorest hand of them all,” the master of coin chimed in with a mischievous smile, grey-green eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “Married to Stannis Baratheon? I’d rather face the executioner’s block.” 

“Or the noose,” Lord Connington chuckled. 

Father sent them both a chastising look, the laughter ceasing. Lord Varys remained silent and unperturbed. Rhaenys sometimes wondered if he was missing his tongue as well. 

A bitter laugh rose up from her uncle’s lips. 

“Ser Jaime murders a King and is granted a white cloak. Lord Lannister murders a Queen and is rewarded with a marriage for his daughter.” A pregnant pause hung over the small council. Rhaenys watched her father purse his lips. Her uncle sheathed his gleaming dagger. “I see I will find no justice for Elia and her babe here. Thank you my lords, for reminding me that even in death, the Dornish are not granted the privilege of peace.”

Something sharp and metal went clanging across the table. Rhaenys flinched again. 

That was the first time she snuck in to hear the small council meetings, but it wasn’t the last. 

Whenever she could, she would give her Septa or sworn sword the slip, Ser Jaime more than happy to let her out of his sight if it meant she would tell him if they mentioned his sister, father, or brother. 

Rhaenys always made sure to tell him what she heard. 

He would always reward her by sneaking lemon cakes and orange rolls from the kitchen, as well as letting her know where and when the queen and her son would be at all times of the day. 

Everyone called him Kingslayer or a man without honor, but to Rhaenys, he was the only one who truly seemed to care for her outside of Ser Barristan and her uncle. The only one who treated her as though she was a princess and not a burden placed upon the sagging shoulders of the King. 

Her father loved her, yes, but she didn’t think he cared for her. 

She was learning there was a difference between the two. 

Shooting a small smile at Ser Arys and her cousin, Rhaenys wandered through the gardens until she reached a familiar alcove hidden by willow vines. It was plain and unremarkable, decorated with a small stool and a burning torch in the shape of a dragon. Her father used to come here to read to her, oftentimes she would use it in order to disappear from the world for a moment. Today, however, she had different plans. 

Twisting the wrought iron sideways, a small door opened up in the rust-colored brick, revealing a dimly lit and narrowed passageway that closed behind her. 

Rhaenys pulled one of the wooden torches from the wall and used it to illuminate the path forward. She knew it by heart, but that didn’t mean she wanted to encounter the rats in the walls or the spiders that would like nothing more than to crawl on top of her. The passage was narrow, barely wide enough for her shoulders and hips. As a girl she used to follow the servants through them, bored without anything else to do. She was smaller then. Now she was a woman grown, with a slender figure like her mother’s, although puberty had graced her with curves in areas her mother did not possess. She was not as buxom or well-endowed as Arianne, but Rhaenys had learned her cousin was supremely gifted on that front. 

Her new growth made it difficult to maneuver through the winding walls and tight spaces, pressed into a position that strained her neck and shoulders as she ducked through the passage until she reached the coveted hole that allowed her access to the small council room. 

Raised voices spilled into the passage, indistinguishable from one another.

Rhaenys stepped forward into the sun, warming her bare arms and scattering light in delicate patterns on her face through the familiar folding screen.

Her father sat in his usual position, head pressed into his palm, an exasperated look on his face. Jon stood beside him, glass carafe balancing delicately in his pale hands, grey eyes scrutinizing the council as they continued to fight amongst one another. 

They had the same chin, Rhaenys realized. Jon may bear the dark hair and grey eyes of House Stark, but it was as if he and father shared the same face. The same hollowed cheeks, the same slope of their nose. There, standing beside her father, she could finally see the resemblance between him and her half-brother. 

A shot of irritation buzzed in her skull. 

It wasn’t fair, her mind shouted again. 

Black eyes jolted towards the screen, a knowing look dancing in her uncle’s eyes as Oberyn caught sight of her. He lifted a hand where no one could see, tracing a pattern in the air to let her know to stay put and listen. It was an old joke between the two, crafting their own secret language only they understood. 

As a child, it made Rhaenys feel special. As an adult, it was invaluable. 

“This is an insult of the highest order!” Lord Connington slammed his fist against the table, rage alight in his face. “We cannot let this stand!”

“To react to such a declaration invites challenge,” Lord Varys spoke calmly, his face unmoving as the small council erupted into chaos. “Your Grace, send a letter to your brother congratulating him on his son and put the issue to rest.” Rhaegar sent a sharp look towards the eunuch, “Doing otherwise gives legitimacy to Prince Viserys’ claim.” 

“Viserys has styled himself and his son as Princes of the Narrow Sea,” Oberyn narrowed his eyes at the eunuch, fingers playing with the marbled marker sitting before him, “That itself is a challenge.”

“A weak one,” Varys countered. 

“It is no mere coincidence he’s chosen the name Daemon either, " Lord Baelish spoke up from his seat opposite the hand, “A reminder of the last man to bear the title and a clear insult to both His Grace and Prince Aemon.” 

Jon stiffened beside their father. 

Rhaenys’ chest panged. As much as she hated her half-brother, she hated her uncle more. She’d only met Viserys Targaryen once, when her father presented Jon to the High Septon in a grand ceremony naming him his son and heir. 

Even at three she knew her uncle to be the miserable sort, with a perpetually curled lip and cruel eyes that matched her father’s. He always looked as though he’d swallowed sour milk, and wrinkled his nose in disgust whenever she appeared at his side.

“Father was right, Dany,” He sneered, cooing at his baby sister sitting obediently beside him, “She smells like a dog.” Tears had sprung to her face, “A dirty, Dornish dog.” 

Not even Daenerys could save him. 

Rhaenys lunged, tackling him to the ground with a shriek as she clawed at his face. It had been Ser Jaime who pulled her off, kicking and screaming as he carried her back to her father, tears and snot staining her face. 

Not even a month later, Viserys was sent off to Lys to ward with Ser Mandon Moore as his escort. 

He had not been seen in King’s Landing since, and the capitol was better for it. 

“Perhaps we offer a betrothal,” Lord Tyrell finally spoke up, the foolish man smiling as though he’d said something profound. “Consolidate the family lines.”

“And who do you propose we offer to a newborn babe across the seas?” Varys piped up, “The Princess?”

Her blood ran cold. 

Rhaegar went rigid. 

Jon looked apoplectic.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Lord Tyrell stuttered out, his face turning redder than the crimson dragon of their sigil, “I only meant to suggest–”

“My daughter is not a pawn you can buy and sell, Lord Tyrell,” Her father’s voice dropped deep and low in his chest. The room went silent. “When she marries, it will be for her benefit as well as her husband’s.”

Relief coursed through her veins. 

Oberyn’s gaze flickered toward the screen. 

“But enough talk of such things,” Rhaegar lifted his hand to signal the discussion was over, “I will do as Lord Varys says and offer my sincerest congratulations to my brother, as well as a chance to take his child to ward, should he wish it.” He charged forward before any of the council members could protest, “And I will remind him of Aemon’s position at this council and in the realm.” A sting of jealousy pierced her heart as Rhaegar’s eyes filled with pride, lifting them up towards Jon. “Lord Varys is right. The more we engage with this ridiculous claim, the more weight we give it. And we have more pressing matters at hand.” 

“Lord Tywin Lannister will be attending the Prince’s nameday tourney,” Lord Varys spoke up. The council members shifted in their seats, while Oberyn remained still as a statue, his beady eyes trained on the eunuch. “With his new wife, the Lady Alysanne Hightower.” 

Swollen silence extended over the small council. 

Rhaenys could almost hear a pin drop. 

Who else but her uncle would dare to break it?

“When was this?”

“We received the raven this morning, my prince. But as to when Lord Tywin and Lady Alysanne swore their vows, I could not say.”

“That is impossible,” Mace Tyrell huffed, “She is married, with a son.”

“Both of whom died in a bout of sickness last year,” Lord Connington mused, a frown tugging on his homely features, the severity of the situation washing over him. 

“How lucky for Lord Lannister,” Oberyn’s eyes glittered black onyx, tone unmistakable; his unsaid accusation hanging high above them like a sword dangling from the edge of a thread. 

Rhaegar glared at his Hand.

A chill rushed down Rhaenys’ spine. Blood pounded in her ears, swallowing up the rest of the small council meeting. Lord Lannister. The man who murdered her mother. The man her father refused to punish. He had taken a new wife. He would father more children; sons, who would follow in his cruel footsteps. 

“He was your father’s lord Hand for many years,” Baelish reminded Rhaegar. 

“And he is also the man responsible for the death of Queen Elia and Prince Aegon,” Lord Varys argued.

“There is no evidence–”

“It does not matter,” Varys continued, looking more disagreeable than she’d ever seen him, “In the eyes of the realm, Tywin Lannister is a traitor and a dishonorable fool. Your wife’s house especially will take offense to his presence.” 

At the mention of Lyanna, Rhaegar softened and Jon fidgeted beside him.

“Ser Barristan?” Her father sounded exhausted. The Lord Commander stood at attention, “Please alert the city watch to Lord Tywin’s arrival. And ensure all gate houses are well staffed and guarded.” 

“At once, Your Grace.” 

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, the rubies of his crown glittering in the waning light, “No Lannister will step foot in the Red Keep. Not so long as I am King.” That seemed to be enough to placate Oberyn, who nodded his thanks before the eyes of the small council. But Rhaenys could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped against the viper pommel of his dagger, itching to draw it. He was placated, but not satisfied. 

“As for Ser Jaime, he will be made one of Queen Lyanna’s champions,” Rhaegar continued, "to remind his father who he truly serves.”

“Excellent idea, Your Grace,” Mace Tyrell piped up. 

“Lord Stannis has made his disdain for tourneys clear, so thank the gods we only have two Lannisters to contend with instead of three,” Lord Baelish jested, hoping to puncture the tension until it deflated. 

His efforts were in vain. It remained, stilted and delicate until her father broke it again. 

“Speaking of the tourney,” Rhaegar stood up and clasped his hands around Jon’s shoulders, “Aemon will be leading the first bout of jousting. It is his right as the Crown Prince and the guest of honor.” 

“I’ve no doubt you’ll give them a good showing!” Lord Tyrell’s praises made Rhaenys roll her eyes and gag. He was always sucking up to her father and half-brother, determined to get into their good graces. She couldn’t believe a woman like the Queen of Thorns could beget a child as stupid as him. 

At least his daughter Margaery didn’t share his foolishness. It had taken Rhaenys some time to come around to her, but the sixteen year old girl was sweet and kind, and held the same cutting wit as her grandmother. Sometimes she and Rhaenys would gather at court to listen to petitions and make fun of the men and women dressed in their gaudy skirts and nauseating headwear. 

Including Margaery’s own father. 

Today he was dressed in a shirt of overbearing yellow silk lined with spring green trim that assaulted her eyesight. He’d managed to make his house colors look positively ghastly, and the paisley patterned beret worn to hide his receding hairline only made it worse. 

“As part of the honor, I’ve given Aemon the opportunity to name his Queen of Love and Beauty,” Rhaegar continued, a smile tugging on the edges of his lips, “He is keeping it secret as of now, but I have no doubt he will choose an excellent candidate.”

Jon’s face turned bright red.

Rhaenys curled her hand into a fist. She could only hope he chose to lay the crown of red roses in the lap of anyone but her. 

“Does this mean he will be declaring his intentions?” Lord Tyrell tried and failed miserably to be discreet, eyes darting around at the other members of the council. Lord Connington leaned eagerly forward. 

Rhaegar turned toward Jon with an expectant look. 

Jon cleared his throat and gingerly placed the carafe on the edge of the table, hands folded in front of his black and red quartered doublet as he raised his chin and straightened his shoulders.

“I will be a man grown soon, and as the Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the throne, I know I must marry for the good of the realm.” He shifted on his feet and Rhaenys resisted the urge to giggle at how uncomfortable he looked. His blush deepened to a dark crimson, finger twirling a silver ring on his forefinger. Father did the same thing with his signet. “Tomorrow at the joust, when I name my Queen of Love and Beauty, I will also be naming my intended.” 

Gods be good, please be Margaery Tyrell. 

Jon hated her. 

He declared her vapid and insipid one day, capable of nothing else but singing pretty songs and weaving delicate embroidery.

As empty-headed as the rest of them, were his exact words.

Let him be chained to her forever, Rhaenys prayed to the Maiden, doomed to listen to ‘Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy’ and ‘Autumn of my Day’ for the rest of his miserable life. 

That would be enough, she declared in her mind. 

To see him suffer and chafe on the throne next to his delicate Tyrell wife, forced to wear her embroidered dragons and roses, from this day until his last day. 

“And the Princess?” Her uncle’s voice once again brought sweeping silence. “She is the eldest. Surely you have picked out her match as well?”

Rhaenys inhaled sharply, holding her breath as she waited for a response. 

Rhaegar sat back down with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, flexing his hand against the fine wood of the table, “We are exploring many options for Princess Rhaenys. Just as Jon will have a choice of his betrothed, Rhaenys will have a say in hers. Unless you are proposing a match?”

Oberyn’s eyes darted over to the screen, ankle crossed over his knee, “I am,” He turned back to the small council with a raised chin and a sly smile. The small council leaned forward in anticipation. Jon and Rhaegar traded an uncertain look. 

Betrayal stung Rhaenys’ deep in her chest. 

It disappeared when she heard the next words fly out of his mouth. “Renly Baratheon.”

Lord Connington scoffed.

Lord Tyrell looked thoughtful. 

“The realm is still scarred from the rebellion,” Oberyn continued, rattling off arguments as though he were coming up with them on the spot, jaw tight with tension, “What better way to heal than with a wedding? And it isn’t as though Baratheons haven’t married Targaryens before.”

Renly. 

Her friend. Her confidante.

She supposed she could see herself married to him.

Rhaenys was smart enough for the both of them, and he dripped with so much charm he was practically drenched in it. And Renly's...situation would ensure they would never have children. Besides, it would also mean Quentyn would never have to leave her. The three of them, together, always and forever. 

A smile burst across her lips.

Renly wasn’t bad looking either, with his shorn dark hair, bright blue eyes, and well-built frame. They would make a rather handsome couple, she thought. 

“The usurper’s brother married to the king’s daughter,” Baelish mused with a half-smile, “Prince Oberyn does make a good point.”

“It would be a reason to celebrate,” Lord Connington chimed in rather reluctantly, “And it could placate Stannis to know his blood will be seated so close to the throne.” 

“Renly himself is believed to possess Targaryen blood,” Lord Tyrell spoke up, and Rhaenys found herself grateful for the oaf’s support, “If we are discussing the merits of consolidating bloodlines…it could be a valuable alliance when it comes to a possible rival claim.” 

Lord Varys remained markedly silent.

As did Ser Barristan. 

Her father tapped his signet ring against the table, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed as he absorbed the arguments brought before him. Jon was looking anywhere but the head of the table. He poured more wine into Oberyn’s cup.

“Very well,” Rhaegar finally spoke, voice tight and constricted, “I will send a raven to Lord Stannis to discuss it. Until then, you are dismissed.” 

The counselors adjourned with whispers and mumbles, halfway out the door. 

Rhaenys was almost back inside the passageway when she heard a deep voice call out, “Not you, Rhaenys!” 

The council turned.

Jon’s eyes widened. 

Rhaenys cursed under her breath. She crept out from behind the screen, embarrassment staining her darkened cheeks as she folded her hands behind her back and swayed on her feet as though she were six again instead of a woman of eight and ten. 

Her father’s eyes swept over her. He let out a sigh of disappointment. 

“Sit.” He ordered. 

She obeyed without question.

Ser Barristan shut the door behind him. 

Chapter Text

ONE DAY EARLIER

Jon stormed through the halls, the black of his cloak streaming behind him like an endless shadow. Courtiers and knights moved out of his way, wide-eyed and tight lipped as the crown prince marched past them. 

He’s in one of his moods again, they’d likely whisper. It made his cheeks flush and his chest twist. 

The words were always accompanied by giggles and laughter. He hated it. It rang dimly in his head, clanging and crankling like a smith’s hammer until it got so loud he wanted to tear his ears off. 

Bastard.

The name followed him like a curse. A plague written in pox scars across his face and unable to be healed. Even the king’s own word wasn’t enough to wash away the stain after six and ten years. The people of King’s Landing held long memories, and for many of them, the wounds of the War of the Ninepenny Kings and the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion still festered. The very act of naming a bastard legitimate left a bad taste in their mouths. As did the quick wedding in Dorne to his lady mother. It called to mind the actions of Aegon the Unworthy; Maegor the Cruel. Neither of which Jon would use to describe his father. 

Rhaegar was just. 

Rhaegar was kind.

Rhaegar had married his mother and named him heir, giving him a place in the world where previously he had none. Honor bade him so, as did duty. It was an example Jon himself hoped to follow when he was King. Aegon the Unworthy never gifted the honor to his mistresses, even after the death of his lady wife. That alone made his father a better man than half the Targaryen kings, didn’t it?

“Aemon!” 

Jon turned. There was only one person who called him by his legitimate name and not his bastard one. His father stood in the midst of the small council room, a fond smile stretching across his face as he caught sight of him. “Come, I wish to speak to you.” 

His heart jumped into his throat. 

Hearing the Targaryen name from his father’s lips still sounded strange, especially when everyone else around him called him Jon at his mother’s behest. 

“Your father and I disagreed on the name,” She said one night when he asked why he had been given two names. “He wished to name you after his great-uncle, a Maester up at the wall who encouraged him to hone his mind as well as his sword.” Her fingers, soft and spindled, carved a path through his hair, a small smile tugging on her mouth, “But I wanted to give you a strong northern name. Jon for Jonnel Stark, the man who united the North after the Dance.” Her face fell slightly, smile turning sad, “I won of course, but when he decided to legitimize you, he felt a more…traditional name was in order. But you were Jon for a moon before he named you Aemon, and that was the only name you would answer to.”

It still is, he mused as he marched into the small council room, head bowed in anticipation for a scolding on his behavior towards Rhaenys. 

Anger flared in his chest at the thought of his half-sister, blazing towards him with hatred alight in her dark eyes and a strength he didn’t know she possessed. She looked half-mad; a wild feral thing ready to cut him open with her teeth and feast on his remains. 

It wasn’t fair. 

He wasn’t the one who’d killed her mother and brother and yet he bore the brunt of the blame. If anything she should be turning that anger upon the sworn sword at her side, the Lannister Lion who pranced around as though he were the heir to the throne and not Jon. 

The arrogant smirk on the Kingsguard’s face fanned the flames in his chest into a small blaze, burning hot and wild under his skin. Jon controlled it with a deep breath. 

He did not know why his father still kept Ser Jaime at his side, especially with the Kingsguard having sullied his honor by killing his King. 

“It is politics, Aemon,” Rhaegar told him one day when he asked, “Lord Tywin still rules the west, and the white cloak robs him of his heir while ensuring I can keep a close eye on him. Besides, it is hardly a good look to outwardly execute the firstborn son of a great house now isn’t it?” 

“But he has no honor!” Jon protested. 

Rhaegar simply lifted a brow and smiled, “No man has no honor. And every man is deserving of a second chance.” His eyes shone, twinkling stars in the marble of his face, “You will find when you are King that mercy goes further than cruelty.” 

Jon hung his head then, leaving the small council chamber in a similar manner as he entered it now. 

“You look as though someone ate all the lemon cakes,” Rhaegar jested, a small smirk working its way across his face. “Was it your mother? I keep telling her to let the cooks rest but you know how she is.”

Jon chuckled and shook his head, trying to resist the smile tugging on his lips, “You know she would eat us out of our stores if she could.”

Rhaegar’s eyes brightened, “Oh I’m well-aware. Those northern appetites of yours are voracious.”

Jon made a face at the implication, his father laughing at the sight. It was hearty and loud, bouncing off stone walls and echoing in Jon’s chest.

“It’s alright, Aemon, you can laugh,” Rhaegar tilted his head with a smile, it almost looked cat-like. “You are too solemn these days.”

Jon shifted on his feet, “Forgive me, father, it seems a lot weighs on my mind.” 

Rhaegar closely examined his only son, frowning as he did so. Jon felt his gaze on him as though it were a hunter seeking its prey. “You carry too much.” He affirmed, “As King you must learn when and how to let things go.”

“I do not have the experience you do, father,” Jon tugged on his fingers, playing with the direwolf ring his mother gave him for his tenth nameday. Rhaegar sighed and patted the spot on the table next to him, taking a seat at the head of the table.

Jon reluctantly joined him.

Rhaegar leaned forward, sympathy wrought in his face, “Then let me offer you some fatherly advice.” 

Jon finally brought his eyes up from the floor.

Father’s expression was earnest, compassion etched into his features as he reached a hand out to grasp Jon’s.

“Unburden yourself. A king need not shoulder his problems alone.” 

Shame coiled like a snake in his gut, squeezing his intestines in their tight grip. 

He couldn’t tell him about Rhaenys. 

Not only would it draw his half-sister’s ire again, but he was sure it would only lead to another one of his father’s lectures on how family needed to stick together. It didn’t change the fact that Rhaenys hated him, and she always would. 

“I am no king, father,” Jon said instead, eyes falling to his lap, “And I won’t be if I keep running to you for every solution.”

Rhaegar’s eyes softened and pride filled his gaze. Warmth bloomed in Jon’s chest. “Very well,” Father smiled, pulling his hand away from Jon’s, “I will not pry where I am not wanted. But there was another reason why I called you in here, as I am sure you are aware.”

Jon schooled his face into something serious and solemn. Anxiety pricked his stomach.

“Yes, father,” He swallowed, mouth dry as the King stood up, the golden band of his crown dulled in the shadows of the small council chamber. Jon had seen mother and him whispering in their chambers as of late, ceasing their conversations when he drew too near. He was not a fool. 

He knew with his nameday around the corner, his father was discussing his marriage prospects, especially as a prince of the realm. Many fathers were already petitioning Rhaegar for his hand, shoving their comely daughters in his face every chance they got. 

Most of them were insipid wisps, their minds empty save for dancing and embroidery. 

His half-sister’s ladies, thank the gods, at least had a brain to complement their comeliness. Arianne was his favorite, her constant witticisms and sardonic humor a balm to his soul when he was forced to dance with yet another shallow-headed girl.

Margaery Tyrell was nice to look at, but she was just like every other girl, even if she held the same wit as her grandmother. 

Jon supposed if he were to marry any of them, the least offensive would be Allyria Dayne, a quiet girl with haunting eyes and a pretty smile. 

He remembered his Aunt Daenerys telling him how important it was for someone’s betrothed to have a nice smile. 

“It will make it easier to look at them on your wedding day,” She said with a wry smirk. Her own betrothal had been set in stone since she was a child, and when she dreamt of him, she always said she imagined he had a kind smile. 

Her own wedding day had taken place six months prior following her fifteenth name day, a grand celebration held in the Sept of Baelor as the Sealord of Braavos–fresh-faced and sporting a head of shining golden hair–arrived in his pleasure barge of laughing faces and the First Sword at his side. 

His aunt had looked resplendent in a gown of ivory samite, sapphires dripping from her hair and ears and encrusting a slim bodice of whalebone. Myrish lace stretched down her pale arms, an imitation of the thick fish nets sailors used to catch their keep. 

Father had walked her down the aisle to meet her betrothed, a man of one and twenty with mismatched eyes. 

Since then, talk of marriage had strangled the keep, lords and ladies pushing their daughters at him with renewed interest. 

Jon did think it odd Rhaenys was not yet betrothed. She was as beautiful as her ladies, with a slender figure and a heart-shaped face. She took after her mother Elia in every way but one, the deep violet of her large eyes almost black to anyone else but her family. 

In the sunlight, they shone as bright as amethysts, a hint of Old Valyria poking through her Rhoynar blood. 

“A delicate sort of beauty,” Renly admitted in the training yard one day, “Like the kind you would see in a painting.”

“And brimming with enough spite to fill the Summer Sea,” Quentyn chimed in with a laugh, the Martell boy elbowing Jon with a knowing look. 

And yet she was not the one being forced into a marriage for the good of the kingdom. 

Nor were lords shoving their sons into her arms the way fathers and mothers were shoving their daughters into his. 

Perhaps father was waiting until Jon was settled before tackling Rhaenys. 

Many of the realm believed she would wed Renly Baratheon to help heal the scars left by the Rebellion. The two were close friends, after all, and it would do well to make an alliance with the Baratheons when Stannis was still holed up in his brother’s keep, his Lannister wife sharpening her claws in the shadows. 

Jon didn’t know why his chest tightened at the thought. 

“Aemon? Did you hear me?” 

His father’s voice was never sharp, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting when it was pointed in his direction. Jon blinked, heat rushing to his face as he stammered out an apology. 

Rhaegar’s chastising look made shame swell up in his chest once more and Jon lowered his head, forcing himself to listen to his father’s words. 

“The day after tomorrow is the opening day of the tourney,” His father reminded him, “In addition to myself, I have also entered you in the lists. You will be the defending champion for your mother, alongside your uncle, Benjen and your cousin, Robb.”

Jon’s face brightened, “Robb is coming?”

Rhaegar smiled and pulled a scroll from his pocket, cracked grey wax bearing the sigil of a direwolf. “They sent a raven this morning, Robb and his mother and sisters are a day’s ride from the capitol, he will be arriving on the morrow, alongside your aunt Daenerys from Braavos.”

Jon examined the words with a rare smile, any sense of unease disappearing from him completely as he studied his uncle’s fine hand. It looked a little bit like his own, which pleased him. The last time he’d seen Lord Eddard Stark he’d been three years old and still clung to his mother’s skirts, afraid to wander out from behind them after Rhaenys had told him his uncle was a half-man, half-wolf creature who would snatch him up and feed him to the grumpkins and snarks beyond the wall. 

Instead, Lord Stark had kneeled before him with a solemn nod, his leather armor worn and weathered, the shine of his greatsword distracting Jon from his narrow grey eyes. Eyes that looked exactly like his. “Your grace,” He’d muttered, almost in jest, drawing Jon’s hand to his mouth and kissing it, like he would the ring of the monarch. 

He’d then left for Winterfell, where the cold reigned and snow fell in the summer, never to be seen this far down south again. 

Now his son was bringing his daughters and wife in his stead, cousins and an aunt Jon did not have the luck to know, although he’d been exchanging letters with Robb since he’d learned his letters. 

Now, he would finally be able to put a face to the name. 

“Your mother has already made arrangements for them in the Holdfast,” Rhaegar continued, “The Hand has called an emergency council meeting on the morrow, so you must greet them in my stead.” 

Jon furrowed his brow. Lord Stark won’t like that. “What does Prince Oberyn want now?” 

Rhaegar shot him another warning look. Jon lowered his gaze in shame. His father sighed, “Murmurs from Lys.” Viserys, Jon realized, “My brother’s wife has given birth to a boy.” Rhaegar’s eyes shone, a bitter sorrow swirling in the streaks of pale purple, “Daemon.” Jon’s heart dropped into his stomach. The same name as the Blackfyre bastard. And yet he is the one others accuse of trying to steal his sister’s birthright. “Prince Oberyn is worried he means to make a play for the throne.” 

“But he is second in line.”

“Precisely,” Rhaegar nodded, “But his child is said to bear the silver hair and violet eyes of Old Valyria. Something my children lack.” 

Jon’s gaze fell, shoulders hunched in guilt as his stomach knotted itself so tightly he thought his dinner would come crawling back out. Rhaegar’s gaze softened. “Forgive me, I was thinking aloud. It is not fair to place the burden of kingship on your shoulders before you are ready.”

“But I am ready,” Jon urged, stepping forward from his seat. 

Father tilted his head, examining his son as though through a Myrish eye, gaze narrowed. Jon fidgeted under his father’s stare, a frenetic energy rushing through his veins at the thought of battle. True battle like his father in his rubied armor or his uncle with his greatsword. 

Let Jon show Viserys what a true Targaryen looked like, silver hair or no. 

“You should get some rest,” Rhaegar patted his shoulder with an affirming smile, “We will talk more on the morrow.” 

His father nudged him out the door, and suddenly Jon was left with only his thoughts for company. 

And he hated his thoughts. They were sour, bitter things that tugged at his heart and knotted his stomach. Tomorrow would mark the start of his nameday. The start of a tournament dedicated entirely to him as the prince of the realm.

He used to dream of such things. 

Of course, he did not dream of the weight of expectation that accompanied it. Every move was carefully calculated, each opponent chosen so as to make the crown look fair and just and formidable. Jon’s first opponent would be Renly Baratheon, a political move as well as a strategic one, to show the power of House Targaryen was not cowed by yet another failed Baratheon rebellion. 

Jon was grateful Renly understood such things, otherwise it would have made it more difficult for the two boys to go against one another. 

“Doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you,” The boy japed, slapping his shoulders with a boisterous laugh, “You may be a prince, but you’ll always be Ser Scrawny to me.” 

Jon had laughed then, but he couldn’t help but feel slightly intimidated at the boy’s words. Many often claimed Renly was the spitting image of his brother Robert, and fought just as fiercely. Although the younger Baratheon preferred the song of steel instead of the drumming of warhammers. 

Next to Quentyn, he was Jon’s fiercest opponent, although both of them were reluctant to hit the crown prince out of fear of ‘waking the dragon’ as they called it. Jon has only seen glimpses of his father’s anger, born out of moments so honorless it could not be denied. He’s only seen it turned upon him once, in a moment of weakness in the godswood when he’d been playing with Rhaenys. 

His face reddened in shame whenever he thought of it, and every night he made sure to whisper prayers of forgiveness to the Old Gods for defiling their sanctuary so. Rhaenys never went near the godswood anyway, choosing the comforting quiet and burning incense of the Great Sept, accompanied by her ladies every sennight. 

Jon disliked the Seven and their faces of stone, disguised by sweet smells and finery. The Old Gods listened and listened well, according to his mother, for she prayed to them every night in the depths of Dorne, and in the end she was given a hale and healthy babe who latched onto his mother’s breasts without so much as a whine. 

“How many other mothers could boast such success?” Lyanna whispered into his hair one day. 

Jon furrowed his brow, “Aunt Catelyn follows the Seven, and Robb says they gave her five healthy babes, one right after the other.” 

His mother always went rigid at the mention of his aunt. He didn’t know why. Her hand froze in the mop of brown curls, trembling slightly. “I suppose you are right.” She spoke tightly, as though with great difficulty, “But your aunt is also married to a northerner. The trees watch over her and her children. Not many women south of the neck have such luck with their fragile gods. Look at her sister.”

Jon frowned, but supposed his mother was right. Lady Lysa had been married for near eight years at that point, and still had only managed to give her husband one babe in all that time. A son, with black hair and grey-green eyes. Jon couldn’t remember what his name was. 

But he remembered the sickness that took the boy when he was born, constant wailing and moaning echoing through the Red Keep as Jon pulled the pillows over his ears, swearing that one night he would approach the baby’s room and smother him with it if he had to hear its piercing cry one more time. 

The Maesters said it was colic, and it often took root in healthy babies who suffered from inflammation of the stomach. True to form, it took the new babe nearly a month to fill his diapers and the Red Keep suffered for it. 

Jon fell at the feet of the Heart Tree when Lady Lysa finally returned to her grey keep in the Stormlands, taking her noisy baby with her. 

Jon didn’t like babies much either. 

But still, his mother's point stood. His grandmother suffered many miscarriages and stillbirths before she died on Dragonstone giving birth to his aunt, and Queen Elia’s troubles were well-known throughout the realm. 

They were the reason he was here after all. 

Shame shot through him again. 

He wondered if Rhaenys thought of such things or if her mind was taken up with other matters. 

Jon squinched his nose and shook his head. 

Enough about babies and marriage, he scolded himself, gripping tight to the steel at his side. He was a warrior. Or would be soon enough. 

His father placed a sword in his hand as soon as he could walk, claiming he would be as fierce as Queen Visenya herself, and as strong as Aegon the Conqueror. 

Sometimes, Jon wonders if Rhaegar looks at him and sees the daughter he could have had instead of the son. If his mother’s stint as the Knight of the Laughing tree put it in his head that he would beget a child worthy to wield Dark Sister once more. 

A daughter, as fierce and wild as her mother, to compete with the rising sun of his eldest, beautiful and graceful and named for a conqueror. 

“The dragon must have three heads,” he heard his father whisper to himself in the library one day, hunched over a tome as ancient as the Isle of Faces. Jon still has no idea what he meant. And no scroll nor book carried the answers.

Jon thinks of his mother and the dark circles and hollow cheeks from the long nights and failed pregnancies over the last six and ten years.

Perhaps the gods didn’t reach this far south. 

An uncomfortable feeling stirred in Jon’s chest. 

He reminded himself of his mission. No more babies. No more weddings. No more thoughts of mothers and sisters and fathers. 

Jon gripped the longsword in hand, grinding his teeth together. 

He whacked steel against the figure of straw until his arms gave out. 

At age eight, Rhaenys discovered just how terrifying her father could be. 

She’d been playing tag with Quentyn, Jon, and Renly in the godswood, hopping from bush to bush and tree to tree as the three boys trailed after her, panting and giggling.

She was faster than them at that age, spry and long-legged and able to cover more ground than the chubby knights to be behind her. 

“That’s not fair!” Renly called up the trunk of the massive oak tree, red-faced and puffy-cheeked while Rhaenys giggled. “You know I can’t climb!”

“Then learn to!” She yelled down with a giggle, pressing her hands between two boughs to steady her. 

Quentyn snickered in the branches beside her.

“It’s not worth it,” Jon nudged the Baratheon boy’s shoulder with a smirk, “Give her enough time she’ll be begging for us to catch her.”

“You wish, half-wit!”

“I know it, hag!”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why not? You’re a hag!”

“And you’re a fool!”

“Witch!”

“Stupid-head!”

“Pig-face!”

“Clodpole!”

“Shrew!”

“Wildling!”

“Dornish Dog!”

Rhaenys jumped, spider-like and shrieking, directly onto the back of her half-brother, grasping tight to his neck and holding tight as he bucked like a horse desperate to be rid of his rider. “Take it back!” She yelled, half-anger and half-amusement.

“No!” Jon yelled, trying to shove her off. 

“Take it back, half-wit!”

“I won’t, hag!”

Rhaenys screamed and shrieked while Jon writhed and wriggled, struggling under her grasp while Renly ran off to grab the nearest Kingsguard. Ser Alliser and Ser Benjen came running, pulling the two heirs apart as Rhaenys snarled and Jon heaved. 

“Calm yourselves!” Ser Benjen scolded, looking between the two, holding back his nephew while Rhaenys clung to the white coat of Ser Alliser, ugly, fat tears streaming down her cheeks. Ser Benjen’s grey eyes examined the situation alongside Ser Alliser, the two men exchanging unsaid words with a look, “Now, does someone want to tell me what happened?”

“She started it!” Jon yelled with a point of his finger.

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not–”

“I do not care who started it!” Ser Alliser’s harsh voice cut through the fighting with a pinched brow and a thin lip, a look of gratitude crossing Ser Benjen’s face. Rhaenys stuck her tongue out and Jon crossed his arms with a pout. “But you two will tell us what happened and you will tell us now.”

Rhaenys and Jon both became serious, refusing to look at one another. Neither wished to speak. Especially when they were certain it would go straight to their father. Ser Benjen gently placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder. 

“Jon?” His voice was soft, and the dark-haired boy trembled under his grasp, “Would you like to tell me what happened?” 

Rhaenys huddled closer against Ser Alliser’s golden armor. 

Jon’s lip quivered. “We were playing tag and Rhaenys climbed up the heart tree. I asked her to come down and then she jumped on me.”

“Liar!” Rhaenys lunged, held back by the strong grip of Ser Alliser. “He called me names!”

“So did you! You called me wildling!”

“You called me dog!” 

The godswood went quiet. Ser Benjen and Ser Alliser traded a knowing look. Rhaenys didn’t know what it meant at the time, but she knew it wasn’t good. Especially when it came to that word. She’d heard it lobbied about the court carelessly. Usually in reference to her mother. But it wasn’t the first time she’d heard it leveraged at her. It was the first time someone in her own family had used it, however, and it hurt. Like the sting of a wasp, tingling and throbbing even after the barb was removed. 

Ser Benjen turned toward his nephew with a stern frown, “Apologize to your sister.”

Jon blinked in surprise, “But Uncle Benjen–”

“I won’t hear it!” The boy flinched at his uncle’s sharp tone. Rhaenys cowed. The knight was usually so well-composed. Nothing rattled him, nor angered him. So why did this? “You will apologize to Princess Rhaenys for using such a foul word in her presence and then you will tell me where you heard it, so we may go to your father and tell him where you learned such filth.” 

Rhaenys’ eyes widened and Jon’s lowered to his feet, studying the dark toes of his boots as he kicked dirt under his soles. 

He mumbled something she couldn’t quite hear.

“Louder.” Ser Benjen commanded. 

“I’m sorry!” Jon spat out the words as if they were a curse, but they did nothing to soothe the stinging redness inside her chest. 

Ser Benjen sighed and pinched his nose. “Now, tell me where you learned it.” 

Jon shot a look over at Renly and Quentyn, who were huddled together by the base of the Heart Tree, eyes wide as saucers. He kicked the ground again and mumbled. 

“What?”

“Lord Connington!” Jon stammered out, face red and puffy and close to tears, “I heard him and his wife talking about mother and Queen Elia and I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, honest, but they were sitting there in the middle of the Great Hall and I–”

“It’s alright, Jon,” Benjen smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They moved to meet Ser Alliser’s, which were dark and cold. “Come, Ser Alliser, let us take the prince and princess to their father, where he can better judge what is to be done next.” 

What was to be done next, Rhaenys found out, was summoning Lord Connington and his lady wife to her father’s chambers. Jon and Rhaenys sat on a bench against the wall, feet dangling over the edge as their father raged and raged and raged.

His voice spilled through the red stone and shook the ground beneath them, low and deep as thunder, striking the ground with every thump of his boots. 

When he emerged, King Rhaegar Targaryen was stone, lips pressed in a thin line that disappeared into his face, eyes darkening to deep indigo, the color of cornflowers in the spring. 

“Aemon, Rhaenys, Lord and Lady Connington have something they wish to say to you.” 

Jon padded after father and Rhaenys like a puppy, his mop of dark hair falling in his face. Rhaenys held her head high, like the princess she was, even as something wriggled and writhed in her stomach, feeling like she was going to throw up. 

Lord Connington was a man she always gave a wide berth to, disliking the way his stormy eyes seemed to follow her with a twitch of his nose. It reminded her of kekepa and Uncle Viserys, always sniffing and wincing whenever she entered a room. His wife was worse. A pinch-faced thinning wisp of a woman with ruddy hair, she looked as though she always had to use the chamberpot, squinching her nose and mouth in disgust whenever Rhaenys or Jon entered the room. 

Her tight updo pulled back the skin of her pale face, stretching it until it was almost transparent, the milky-white color offering a glimpse of the high cheekbones beneath muscle and sinew. Perhaps once she’d been beautiful, like her sister up north, but not anymore. 

Still, Rhaenys did not cower.

She stood tall and proud, like her amma and papa, and refused to back down. 

Her father stood cross-armed and furious behind her, glaring at his friend as he apologized to his children, almost as though his looks alone could turn him to stone. 

He was wearing that same expression now in the small council chamber, while Rhaenys sat meekly. She lifted her chin, the way her uncle and father taught her too, but her eyes were widened in quiet fear, awaiting the judgement of the executioner’s blade. 

Rhaegar’s gaze softened as it met hers. He sighed through hunched shoulders. 

“Am I correct in assuming you’ve been using the passageway to spy for the last twelve years?” 

Her eyes fell to her lap, tugging on knuckles and fidgeting with her fingers in silent answer to his question. 

Rhaegar leaned back with a huff. He resembled the marbled statues of kings past, stern and unmoving and implacable.

Jon shifted at his side, refusing to look at her. 

They felt eight and six again, sat outside their father’s chambers awaiting their punishment for their offenses. Rhaenys swung her legs against the fine mahogany of the chair. 

“You know I will have to have the stonemasons wall it up.”

“Father, please–”

“If you found it, then someone else could just as easily.” His eyes wandered to the walls of the council chamber, “I do not wish to have rats in my keep.” 

“I was only using it because you wouldn’t let me attend!” Rhaenys whined, hating how young and childish she sounded. “I am the eldest! I have just as much a right as Jon to be here!” 

Jon flinched. 

Rhaegar’s eyes darkened. A lump formed in the back of her throat. 

“Aemon is my son and heir. He must learn at the feet of those he will rule with–”

“And I am your daughter!” Her voice bounced off the open pillars of the chamber, rattling inside her own head. She didn’t have the patience to feel ashamed of it. In fact, she refused to. Rhaenys rose to her feet, breath scraping against her lungs “I was here long before he was!” She spat at Jon, who didn’t even have the decency to spare a glance her way. 

Too busy basking in the light of their father’s pride and glory. 

“Rhaenys…” her father warned. 

She ignored it.

“Why do you insist on treating me differently! I am just as smart, just as capable!” She groaned, throwing her hands up in frustration, “If this were Dorne–”

“But it is not Dorne.” Her father spoke sharply, dancing along the edge of a knife, “It is Westeros. And you are not my heir, Aemon is. I will not have this discussion again.” 

“Why?!” Her voice cracked, jagged and broken like the peaks of the Red Mountains, “Why must you cast me aside in favor of a younger son? Why do you insist on shutting me out? Why–”

“Enough!” 

Rhaenys swallowed her words, a strangled sound dying in her throat as her father towered over her. She collapsed back into her seat, pressure bursting behind her eyes. Something warm and wet trailed her cheek. 

Rhaegar shut his eyes in regretful frustration. 

“Father…” Jon broached carefully, voice barely above a whisper, “I think Rhaenys is just trying–”

“Aemon, go find your mother.” Rhaegar’s command hung delicately in the air, “I need to talk to your sister. Alone.” 

Jon’s throat bobbed up and down. He almost looked as though he was going to say something else. His eyes moved to meet Rhaenys’, dark grey against bright amethyst. “Father–”

Rhaegar cut him off with a glare, “I will not ask you again.” 

His tone was final and held a warning Rhaenys knew well. 

Do not disobey. 

Jon gulped and nodded, setting down the carafe and shooting a sympathetic look her way. Rhaenys refused to meet it. 

His hand found her shoulder, pale fingers brushing against the bare olive of her skin. It sent a shiver down her spine and warmth pooling in her chest. A small comfort, one she would take reluctantly, but one she was grateful for. 

The door shut behind him. 

Trepidation swirled tightly in her chest, nausea building up in her gut as her intestines knotted themselves together. She could barely breathe. 

She’d never been afraid of her father before, but that was back when she was still a child, before her feet carried thin white scars left from a switch of witch hazel and her stomach didn’t ache whenever she was alone with him.

Kepa loves you. 

Kepa is keeping you safe. 

Rhaegar’s eyes softened. The gap between them was cavernous, a crevasse so large not even a bridge could cross it. “I do not want to yell at you vezos, but sometimes you leave me no choice.” 

A shiver erupted down her back at the pet name. 

Rhaenys said nothing.

“You are irritatingly stubborn, unwilling to listen even when it is asked of you.” Her stomach growled in protest. A dull ache began to spread in her chest. Rhaegar sighed and pinched his nose, “I wish I could say your mother was the same, but the blame lies squarely with me, I’m afraid.” A small smile tugged on his lips, “I was the exact same way at your age, always thinking I knew best and refusing to listen to other’s wisdom, especially my father’s.”

Rhaenys froze and lifted her eyes from her hands. 

“You never talk about kekepa,” She choked out, a fist wrapped tightly around her throat.

Something dark flashed over his face, hand flexing into a fist and then back out again. “Your grandsire was…a complicated man. He suffered many tragedies, and it made him paranoid and angry and well…”

“Mad?”

The word tasted like ash in her mouth. 

What was it King Jaehaerys said? Every time a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin?

Rhaenys swallowed.

The Mad King’s blood was in her veins. Just as it was in her father’s. 

Rhaegar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Many will disagree, but what Ser Jaime did was a mercy. Not just for the realm, but for my father too.” His gaze clouded over, shiny with memories she could not see. “He was only eight and thirty at the end of his life, yet he was tortured and haunted in a way only my mother could understand.” Her father sucked on his bottom lip, exactly like how Rhaenys did in times of stress, “It is strange, to know you have outgrown the age of your father. I am older than he will ever be and yet I still feel as young and sprightly as the boy I was back then.”

Color filled his face and he seemed to come back down to earth then, Rhaenys watching her father warily as he stood up and drew her gaze to his. His eyes almost appeared blue in the waxing sunlight, encircling his silvery hair like a halo. 

It hung to his waist, braided in a manner not dissimilar to Queen Visenya’s, a red ribbon tying it off near the center of his back, the rest flowing free. It reminded her of the silken webs spiders would weave, a sheet woven of moonlight. Rhaenys used to stare at it in wonder when she was little, wondering if hers would ever grow to such lengths. 

Now it hung past his, in thick, barely behaving ringlets, brushed and oiled every day until it shone and shimmered. Not the pale silver of stars, but the velvet of midnight. She refused to braid it the way she did when she was younger. 

It is yet another reminder of how different they truly are.

She will never be a Targaryen the way her father is. 

The way her aunt and uncle are. 

Her father’s pale finger tilts her chin up until the hints of honey gold hiding within the amethyst shine in the yellow sun. “You look so much like your mother sometimes. I see her in you every day. Even at your worst.”

Rhaenys crumbles.

Rhaegar engulfs her in his arms, warm and comforting, and she feels half a girl again, tears staining his black doublet, his hands gently brushing the back of her head with a shush. 

“I miss her.” Rhaenys sobbed, choking on her own tears.

“I know. I miss her too.” Rhaegar pulled away, a loving smile dancing on his face as he cups her face in his hands. They are small and slender, better suited to the pen than the sword, and a shot of warmth spreads through her stomach when he presses a kiss to her forehead, just as he would when she was little. 

She wishes she could be that girl again. The princess who believed in wishes and dreams and dragons, but she knows that has been beaten out of her, fragile clay hammered and fired into polished marble. 

She is as much a statue as her father and yet neither of them can find their way to one another. 

“You are the last living reminder of Elia Martell,” Her father’s words settled heavy on her shoulders, “The last memory I have of the first woman I loved. Do you truly expect me to sacrifice that to give you a crown?”

Shame curled deep in her gut. His words stung, a sharpened dagger launched beneath the chinks of her armor, directly into the thick skin of her beating heart. 

It lodged itself there, causing a slow bleed.

Your father loves you. 

Her father loved her mother. Her father loved her brother. He was honoring their memory any way he could, and he was honoring them by keeping her safe. 

Of course he was. 

He was her father after all. Weren’t they meant to protect their children any way they could?

“But, I suppose I have been unfair,” Rhaegar continued, twisting one of her curls around his spindled fingers, “You are right.” Rhaenys blinked in open surprise, “Aemon has been granted a privilege you have not.”  His eyes raked over the small council table, setting his jaw as though deep in thought, “You deserve a place at this table. You are a princess of the realm, and you should have a say in its troubles.” His hand drifted against her cheek, gaze softening as a smile graced his lips, “I am sorry to have denied you what is yours by birthright. I suppose I still see you as that little girl in the garden, chasing butterflies and climbing trees. My little girl in the garden.”

She blinked and the dam burst, fat drops leaking down her curved cheeks as Rhaenys buried her face in her father’s shoulder. He nuzzled his sharp nose into the fluff of her hair, arms tightening around her waist. 

Neither of them let go. 

Chapter Text

In the spirit of reforging broken family bonds, father had ordered both Jon and Rhaenys to gather in the King’s solar to break their fast. 

Jon picked at his sausage with a scowl.

Mother sat on the other end of the table, hand gently pressed against her stomach while her eyes glazed over. It was an expression she bore often these days, fingers tracing small patterns on her grey velvet dress embroidered with dancing direwolves. She wasn’t eating anything. 

Jon creased his brow in worry. 

Rhaegar looked unperturbed. In fact, he almost looked joyful. 

His conversation with Rhaenys must have gone well. 

Jon’s gaze flickered to the girl sitting across from him, an unsettling feeling curling in his lower abdomen as he did.

She was swallowing her breakfast in small bites, dainty table manners disguising the monster she kept concealed within. Jon knew better. He’d grown up with her, seen the blood of the dragon boiling and bubbling until it finally ran over the edge of her cup, unable to be held back. 

This morning though, she almost looked like the delicate princess many believed her to be.

Golden and slender, with a curtain of midnight curling down her back. 

A portrait of Elia Martell and Prince Aegon hung behind her, and it was almost uncanny how much she resembled both of them. 

It was yet another reminder of how little he belonged. 

With his pale skin and long northern face, he didn’t even have the Valyrian indigo gaze to claim as his own, the way his father and half-sister did. 

He was ordinary. 

Dull. 

Average. 

He thought of his aunt and uncle and the children they bore or would bear. His father was right. People would flock to Viserys and his son simply because they looked Valyrian.

More Targaryen. 

At least Daemon Blackfyre had the luxury of resembling his dragonlord ancestors. 

Jon was all Stark.

He shifted in his seat, trying to readjust. Rhaenys’ own frown deepened whenever he looked at her. He didn’t know what possessed him to stand up for her earlier at the small council meeting, but it was clear that action hadn’t changed whatever enmity existed between them. 

She still glared at him as though he’d personally killed her mother and brother, and the look she shot at his mother was worse. 

“So, Jon,” Rhaegar began, breaking the fragile silence with a soft smile. It was strange hearing his bastard name come from his father’s mouth. He usually only spoke his Targaryen name within earshot of the public, to better cement it in history when he would ascend the throne.

When they were among family, father used his given name, although it sounded strange to Jon’s own ears, “Ser Aron tells me your forms are greatly improving.”

Jon swallowed the cold eggs with a gulp of lemonade. 

One of the few Dornish drinks brought over from Sunspear that Jon actually preferred, it cooled his raw throat and soothed the lump growing in the back of it. 

“I suppose they are.” 

Modesty was a virtue of a great king, he remembers his father telling him. “Men will not follow someone who believes themselves their better. In the battlefield you are not a prince, you are simply a man, like the soldiers you command.” 

He wasn’t much of a prince outside the battlefield either, he thought miserably. 

Mother grasped his hand with a proud smile, “He is doing a wonderful job,” She sang his praises as easily as Margaery sang the hymns of the seven, “He very nearly knocked Ser Barristan out of his armor the other morning.”

Rhaenys snorted behind her glass. 

Rhaegar’s brows jumped up in astonishment, “Really? That’s wonderful news. You must get your prowess from your mother. I’m afraid Ser Barristan was still beating me into a pulp when I was your age.” 

Mother’s face turned redder than a pomegranate as she chuckled. The brush of her thumb soothed the angry wound festering in his soul and somehow Jon mustered the energy to smile.

“Your father exaggerates,” She said proudly, love gleaming in the diamonds of her eyes, “After all, he himself unseated Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur at Harrenhal with little effort.”

“After you unseated three Rivermen with nothing but your wits.”

“And my expert riding skills of course.”

“Of course.” 

For the first time in moons, life entered his mother’s eyes. She looked half a girl again, with wild untamed curls and a sword in her hand, instead of a woman worn and weary. Jon’s smile widened. 

Rhaegar held out his hand over the expansive table, Lyanna grasping it with a half-smile. “You know that was when I first fell in love with you?”

“Is it?” Mother teased, mirth gleaming in her gaze as she leaned her elbow against the table, chin placed gently in her palm, “I wouldn’t have guessed based on the dozens of times you’ve told the tale.” 

Rhaegar rolled his eyes, a playful smile tugging at his lips. The quiet melancholy that usually settled over his parents dissolved into merriment, and warmth swirled in Jon’s chest. 

This was what a family should look like, he thought.

Not what it had been, all of them separate and disconnected, only greeting each other in the halls or feasts.

His eyes found Rhaenys’.

The slow burning fire in his chest turned to ice, dropping into his stomach like a stone in still water. It rippled, forcing the lump back up his throat.

Rhaenys’ eyes hardened into sharp tourmaline, muscles tight and coiled while her fingers clenched tightly around the silverware. Her knife shrieked against the porcelain with each scrape, tension snapping back into place.

She stared at the cold eggs and sausage on her plate with a snarl of her lips. “I think I’ve lost my appetite.” 

Mother and Father snapped their heads towards her, as though suddenly remembering where they were. It reminded Jon of the first years of their marriage, when all they could do was stare into each other’s eyes until someone pulled them from their trance.

As a child Jon had stuck his tongue out and gagged, the very idea of romance sickening him. It still did in some ways, although now he knew better. 

If he were half as lucky as his mother and father were then he would be a happy man. 

“Of course,” Mother spoke kindly, snatching her hand from Rhaegar’s with a tight smile, “Forgive us, we got lost in thought.”

Rhaenys didn’t say anything in response. Silver clattered against porcelain. 

Lyanna and Rhaegar shared a look. 

Jon lowered his head, bracing for the ugliness that was about to follow. But it never came. 

Instead, Rhaenys turned toward Rhaegar, eyes wide and doe-like as the flames illuminated the amethyst color burning within them. “May I be excused, kepa? I am feeling rather ill.” 

Father creased his brow with a sympathetic smile and squeezed her hand, “Of course, vezos. Shall I have the Grand Maester come check on you?”

Lyanna stiffened. 

Jon furrowed his brow, fork pausing halfway between his mouth and his plate.

Rhaenys shook her head, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “No, thank you. I think I simply need to lie down before the festivities tonight.”

Jon wasn’t buying her act for a second. She could have almost been a mummer, it was so convincing. The sweet smile, the honeysuckle voice; it was sickening. 

His father however, seemed blinded by her sudden turn. Understanding creased his father’s face as he nodded toward Quentyn, who’d been diligently standing guard all morning.

He rather excelled at that. 

Quentyn shifted the weight from one leg to the other and a pang of sympathy stirred in Jon’s chest. It sounded terrible, standing watch over one place for so long. Jon was certain he would have gone numb from sheer boredom. 

“I’ll have Ser Quentyn escort you back to your rooms.” The clank of golden armor echoed through the keep, “I’ll knock when your aunt’s ship is close.”

Rhaenys pressed a grateful kiss to her father’s cheek and swept out of the room, ignoring Jon and Lyanna completely. 

Anger simmered in his chest and his hand wrapped itself into a fist in his lap. Jon was used to it. Rhaenys had been ignoring and disrespecting him since he was born. Insulting his honor, pinching his skin, taunting him by reaching places he never could. 

He remembered one night in the godswood when she tricked him into thinking she was going to share a secret. 

She’d left a note under his door and was waiting under the Heart Tree when he arrived, giggling. He should have realized it was a cruel jape right then and there, but he’d been nine, and desperate for a relationship of any kind with his half-sister. 

“Mother and father tell us we are to be wed,” She said with a twinkle in her violet eyes. They looked exactly like father’s. Jon had blushed furiously at her words.

“But we are brother and sister,” he mumbled, disliking the sudden warmth swirling in his chest. 

He’d known it was a possibility, but he also knew his mother was thoroughly against it. 

But his father was king.

Whatever he said the queen agreed with. At least in public. 

Jon had seen his mother and father go at each other several times since they’d moved into the Red Keep, and it was always ugly. 

He imagined himself his father’s age and Rhaenys his mother’s, yelling and screaming and raging at one another until they couldn’t stand one another. 

They already couldn’t stand each other. 

Rhaenys rolled her eyes with another giggle, “We’re Targaryens silly. Brothers and sisters get married all the time. Remember Baelon and Alyssa? Or Aemon and Naerys?” 

Jon’s stomach fluttered at the mention of the Dragonknight, one of his heroes in Targaryen history. He hoped to live up to the name he’d been given one day. 

“Aemon and Naerys weren’t married.”

“But they were in love with each other weren’t they?” 

He supposed they were. So much so Daemon Blackfyre went to war because of it. 

Jon made a face at what Rhaenys was implying, “You don’t love me, you don’t even like me!”

“I could!” She huffed, and he was too young to notice the sudden switch up. Rhaenys wasn’t coy, she was direct. “I mean, how am I supposed to love you if I don’t even know what kind of kisser you are?” 

Jon’s blush deepened. He was sure he was the color of a mulberry by now. Rhaenys smiled and tilted her head. She looked like that damned cat she loved so much. 

“Won’t you find out on our wedding night?” 

Rhaenys crossed her arms over her chest, “You really want to wait that long?”

He didn’t. 

He wanted to know now whether or not she was a good kisser. He didn’t know what exactly married couples got up to on their wedding night, but he knew it involved kissing. If he was bad at it, Rhaenys might find another reason to hate him.

Or worse, make fun of it. 

“What if I’m not good at it?” He spoke barely above a whisper, half-hoping she couldn’t hear him.

Rhaenys shrugged, “I mean, there’s only one way to find out, right?” 

She pressed her lips to his. 

It was quick and messy, and not at all like how he’d seen his mother kiss his father. He blinked and suddenly she was back exactly where she’d been before, grinning shyly as she tucked a piece of dark hair behind her ear. 

Jon gulped and went in for another one. 

His teeth gnashed against hers. She tasted of pomegranate and oranges, and his heart fluttered. Her hair tickled his nose, jasmine lingering in his nostrils as he massaged his lips fruitlessly against her. 

A giggle escaped her lips. 

Jon froze and pulled away.

She was laughing. No, cackling. Like a witch who’d cast a spell so foul and cursed not even the gods themselves could undo it. 

Rhaenys doubled over, clutching her stomach as she leaned against the oak tree. “You should see your face!” She guffawed, the sound a shriek of a harpy that screeched in Jon’s ears and echoed in his chest. It clanged and clanged and clanged, loud and abrasive and cutting. He felt as though he’d been stabbed, then released, then stabbed again. “I can't believe you fell for that!”

The words speared him right between his eyes, brain splattering out on the grounds of the godswood. 

He could not think, he could not breathe, he could do nothing but stare and stew. His lips quivered and tears gathered near the edge of his eyes. 

Rhaenys had laughed about that too. 

His cheeks burned whenever he thought of the memory, spilling shame into his stomach where it curdled. 

He remembered how sweet she sounded, how genuine. How easy he’d fallen for her lies. It was nauseating. And yet it was exactly who she was.

She teased, she taunted, but he’d never thought her cruel until that moment. 

“You actually believe her?” His words came out more like a snarl than a sentence.

“Jon…” His mother chastised.

Rhaegar sighed, “When your sister gets temperamental, it’s better to let her be than to try and change her mind.” He shot Jon a disapproving look, but all the Stark boy could do was scoff. 

Temperamental. 

That was one way to put it. 

Blood pulsed behind his eyes and in his temples, the beat of his heart snapping and flaring as it pounded out a terrible drumbeat. The rock inside it sank through his thin stomach lining until it reached his coccyx, anchoring him to his chair like a galley in the Blackwater.

The wind blew, but he was stuck out at sea, unable to be reeled in. 

The anchor weighed him down, but somehow Jon found the strength to stand, tossing his kerchief aside and shoving the chair aside, “I’m not hungry either,” He sulked, the scrape of the wooden chair echoing through the solar.

“Jon, please–”

His mother’s pleas fell on deaf ears.

“Let him go, my love–”

“Rhaegar, you know how he gets–”

Jon refused to listen to another word.

He slammed the door behind him.

A rare smile broke across Rhaenys’ face as her Aunt’s ship docked in the harbor. 

The small cog was finely crafted and bore the well-beaten black and red sail of House Targaryen, ripped and sewn back together a thousand times in order to withstand the high winds and summer storms raging against Dragonstone. 

Her aunt was a small wisp leaning over the bow, her silver hair a pale pennant whipping in the winds and marking her arrival as it moved up the Blackwater Rush. She was dressed in bright blues the color of dripping sapphires, a golden sash tied around her waist. It was the color of the sea on a clear summer day, when the waters stilled and carried the scent of rotting flesh high into the air. 

The gangway slammed against the wood of the docks, alerting a group of gulls to the presence of another ship pushing its way through. 

Daenerys floated down with a wide smile, pale cheeks freckled in the southern sun. It was the only flaw one could find in her unmarked complexion, violet eyes scanning the dock for any threats before rushing down the gangplank. 

Rhaenys beamed as she walked up to greet her,  almost instantly, Daenerys wrapped the older girl in her arms. “Oh, I missed you!” She squealed. Normally calm and composed, it was only in Rhaenys’ company she allowed herself to give in to her more childish aspects, many of which she’d had to leave behind after her marriage six moons ago. 

Rhaenys sank into her aunt’s warm embrace before pulling away, tears threatening to push their way forward. “I have missed you too, although it seems as though you have been keeping secrets from me.” Rhaenys poked her aunt’s shoulder with a sly smile, eyes falling to her stomach, swollen with pregnancy. Something sharp twisted in Rhaenys’ gut. 

Daenerys smiled and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She was glowing. “Ferrego was worried about my travel here, but I managed to convince him the summer air would be good for me and the baby.” 

Her hand gently cupped her protruding stomach, smiling fondly at the life growing inside of her. Rhaenys’ didn’t reach her eyes. She wanted to be happy for her aunt, but it was hard when something festered and rotted inside her, unable to enjoy anything except the quiet of her own dreams. 

She didn’t know much about pregnancy, except that she never wanted to experience it. 

The horrors she’d seen from her stepmother’s endless attempts cemented it, with her bulging belly and needless cravings. Babies chose the weirdest things to make their mothers crave, she realized. One pregnancy, Lady Stark refused to touch any sort of meat, claiming it made her sick. The next, all she ate was meat, red and near bloodied against the maester’s wishes. 

Rhaenys recalled being disgusted both times. 

And then there was the birth itself.

Her stepmother had been blessed with mostly miscarriages, for the few times she did carry a babe to term, it came out twisted and leathery and malformed, umbilical cord wrapped around its throat, having choked the life out of it in the womb. Rhaenys remembers peering at the body of one of her half-sisters with a tilted head and a curious eye. 

Light glinted off bloodied scales and crude wings sewn into the shoulder blades, eyes pressed shut and head facing the opposite way as the silent sisters bowed their heads and prepared the body for cremation. 

Rhaenys could only stare. 

Did her brother look like that when he emerged? Did she? Perhaps their dragon wings shrunk and melted into their skin, scales hardening into armor.

She’d heard terrible stories of the experiments of Old Valyria, how the sorcerers stole slaves from the streets and subjected them to blood magic and firewyrms and all things unholy and desecrated. 

She recalled the story of Aerea Targaryen, who fled on Balerion and disappeared before returning from her journey wan and skeletal, writhing with a fever not even the maesters could cure. 

Ser Lucamore Strong believed she’d been to Old Valyria, where the blood mages worked their dark arts upon her soul until there was nothing left but skin and bones. 

Rhaenys shivered when she thought of what it meant for her aunt’s pregnancy as well as her own one day. 

She did not want to birth half-dragon babies that died before they reached the swell of her breasts or the curve of her arms.

She did not want to birth babies at all. 

But still, she plastered a wide smile to her face and turned toward her aunt with a twinkle in her violet eyes. 

Her aunt bore a similar color, accentuated by the pale beauty of her silver hair, which had been shortened in her absence, hanging just below her chin in delicate waves. 

Her retinue moved her trunks off the ship and onto the back of the wheelhouse, Braavosi sailors muttering to themselves in bastard Valyrian as they moved through the docks and shot wary looks at the Kingsguard standing near.

“Oh not that one!” Daenerys intervened, stopping two young boys carrying an aged chest made of rotting wood, “That one goes inside and please do be careful with it.”

Rhaenys locked her arm around Dany’s elbow and tilted her chin up high with a wry smirk, “Well, I for one, am quite happy I will finally have a cousin to play with.”

Daenerys sniggered, “What? Your half-brother not plaything enough?” 

Rhaenys rolled her eyes in annoyance and irritation shot through her skull, rattling and buzzing like a disturbed hornet’s nest. It floated down to her stomach. “He is being his aggravating, brooding self,” She replied with a shake of her head, “I’m sure he believes if his nameday tourney goes well father will practically gift wrap him the crown on a silver platter.” 

Daenerys chuckled and leaned in further as they headed towards the wheelhouse, “And I am sure you exaggerate. Besides, from what I know of Jon, he does not seem like the type to preen and prune and fall at the feet of others in the hopes of glory.” 

Rhaenys snorted. “Then you do not know him very well.” She led Daenerys up the wheelhouse with a pout and a creased brow, “And must you always take his side? You know I have no one to take mine.”

Her aunt’s eyes glittered in the pale morning sun, “I do not take sides. I simply observe and offer my advice either way.”

Rhaenys rolled her eyes. 

Daenerys turned to the guards on either side of her, perched atop their destriers and gleaming in the sun, “Ser Barristan,” She smiled and bowed. 

Rhaenys swore she almost saw the older knight blush. Something odd curdled in her throat. “Your Grace.” He bowed his head.

Daenerys’ smile died when she caught sight of Rhaenys’ golden-haired sworn shield, “Ser Jaime.” She spoke flatly. 

Ser Jaime tilted his head, “Princess.” 

Silence, stilted and strained, stretched between them. Rhaenys bounced anxiously on the balls of her feet before wrapping her arm in Dany’s once more. “Come, we must hurry if we wish to avoid he-who-must-not-be-named.” 

Dany rolled her eyes and ducked into the wheelhouse, “He is not a plague, he is your brother–”

“Half-brother,” Rhaenys corrected.

“Does it matter?” 

“Yes, it does.” Her words were as thin and cutting as Valyrian steel, gaze darkening at her aunt’s words, “My true brother is dead.” Daenerys sucked in a breath, “Skull crushed against the wall while the Mountain fed his brains to my mother before raping her on the bed of my father’s chambers.” Tension twisted into swollen silence, leaving her aunt speechless. Rhaenys scoffed derisively and leaned against the window of the wheelhouse, staring out at the dozens of smallfolk passing by with bushels of wheat and barrels of fish, preparing for a tourney no one asked for and no one needed. 

It was a distraction. 

Daenerys twisted her lips into a frown, shifting uncomfortably in the velvet seat, “I am sorry, I did not mean–.”

“It is not your fault,” Rhaenys cut her off flatly, the life draining from her with each turn of the wheel, “I shouldn’t have mentioned it, I–”

Dany’s hand covered hers, gaze glistening. “Not a day goes by where I do not miss my mother.”

The confession unlocked one of the floodgates carefully guarding her heart and Rhaenys stilled at Daenerys’ touch. Her hands weren’t the soft, delicate skin of the Westerosi nobles. They were rough hewn pads that massaged her fingers with the careful touch of a Maester. 

Pressure built behind her eyes. 

She blinked it away. 

“I have something that may cheer you up,” Daenerys smiled, hand moving to the large wooden chest sat at her feet, “I was waiting until we got to the keep to reveal it, but I think you need the comfort more than I do.” 

Rhaenys furrowed her brow. 

Her aunt’s eyes glittered and gleamed. 

“Do you remember the letter I sent right after my wedding night?” 

She did. Dany had written endlessly of the gifts her husband bestowed on her, including one that she deemed ‘more precious than any jewel’. Rhaenys had begged and begged for more information, but Daenerys refused to yield, saying only that it was something she would not part with for all the gold in the world. 

Her eyes flickered to the plain chest made of worn ship planks. There was no way something that drab hid a treasure so priceless a Targaryen refused to let it out of her sight. 

“Dany…” She began, heart jumping into her throat, “What is in that chest?” 

“You must promise not to tell anyone,” Daenerys urged, lowering her voice and grasping Rhaenys’ hand. Nearly all her circulation was cut off in the tight grip. “Do you understand?” 

She nodded and swallowed her nerves until they thudded like a rock in her stomach. 

Whatever she thought would comfort her it was doing the opposite.

Daenerys reached into the bosom of her dress and pulled out a key attached to a golden chain around her neck. Rhaenys watched wide-eyed as the lock clicked and slowly, the lid opened to reveal a sight she thought she would never see again. 

Her mouth fell open in shock. 

Dragon eggs. 

Three dragon eggs. 

One black. One Green. One white. 

Their shells shimmered like ice capping the mountains, an array of onyx, jade, and pearl sat against crimson velvet. Something tugged on the back of her navel, hooking her forward until her hands hovered over the oval gemstones. She looked at Daenerys in silent permission. 

The girl was enraptured by her own prize. 

Rhaenys didn’t blame her.

Daenerys nodded. 

Slowly, her hands wrapped around the precious egg, gripping tight to the serrated scales as though one wrong move would send it cracking against the ground below. 

The wheelhouse jolted.

Daenerys shrieked and moved to catch the egg. 

“Careful!” Rhaenys barked, hating how much like her father she sounded. The wheelhouse slowed at her command.

Her eyes moved back to the onyx in her hand, rippled with a river of crimson. The egg was warm against her skin, like the dying embers of a fire, and she wondered if the petrified dragon embryo could feel her touch. 

“Are these real?”

Daenerys picked up the cream one, scales tipped with gold that shone like the gilded armor of the Kingsguard. “Ferrego said they’ve been in his family for centuries. Do you remember Rhaena Targaryen?”

“You think Prince Daemon meant these for her?”

“Not that Rhaena. Maegor’s Rhaena,” Daenerys clarified. Rhaenys’ blood went cold at the mention of the Black Bride. “She had a paramour, Elissa Farman. According to Ferrego, his ancestor bought these off of her when she arrived in Braavos. She traded them for ships, gold, and the promise of their silence.” 

Rhaenys scoffed, “A rather cheap price to pay when it comes to dragon eggs.” 

Daenerys giggled in agreement. 

Rhaenys cradled the black egg against the silks of her dress. “What are you going to do with them?”

Her aunt shot her a knowing look and gently cupped her hand around her swelling belly, “I am going to place them in my child’s cradle, just as our ancestors did. So that they will know despite being the son or daughter of a sealord, they are also of House Targaryen.” 

Rhaenys’ stomach twisted and her chest panged. 

She stared at the egg in her lap forlornly, hoping her hair obscured the sour expression making its way across her face. “I think they would like that,” She commends herself on being able to say, even though all she wants to do is steal away with them before anyone notices they are gone. Just as Elissa Farman was accused of doing. 

Her eyes moved to her aunt. 

Her throat welled up. She couldn’t do that to Dany. 

Not when she looked so dreamy and content at the thought of her child being cradled with an egg. 

Rhaenys turned her gaze back towards her lap. “Father admitted if any eggs were left he would have placed one in me and Aegon’s cradle. But they were all destroyed at Summerhall.” 

Sympathy swirled in her aunt’s lilac eyes.

A pale hand covered hers. 

“I think that one likes you,” Dany smiled as she cupped Rhaenys’ hand against the black dragon. 

“Reminds me of Balerion. He was always my favorite, you know.”

“I preferred Dreamfyre,” Daenerys said with a smile, “The mother of all dragons.”

“Does that make Vhagar the grandmother of dragons?” 

Daenerys snickered and Rhaenys giggled. 

Oh it felt good to laugh again. 

Rhaenys still couldn’t take her eyes off the egg in front of her, “Do you really think these were Dreamfyres?”

Daenerys furrowed her brow and twisted her lips to the side, as though concentrating on all three of the eggs at once. Dany once said that she dreamed, much like Rhaegar dreamed. Perhaps she saw Dreamfyre lay this particular clutch. 

Or perhaps she knew deep in her bones, it could not be any other dragon. 

“I do not know.” Daenerys moved her gaze to meet Rhaenys’, “But, I am glad I got to share my secret with you. It was exhausting having to keep it to myself for so long.”

Rhaenys reached out and intertwined her fingers with Dany’s. 

“I am glad to be the one you share it with.”

The two girls pressed their foreheads against one another, knocking the gold and black eggs together as the wheelhouse jostled once more. 

Daenerys wrapped her arms around her neck.

Rhaenys smiled. 

Warmth danced in her chest.

She was glad Daenerys was back. 

Jon rode out to meet the Starks on horseback.

It was his mother’s idea, as she’d planned to go herself. That was until she woke up and discovered she could not move without fear of vomiting up her breakfast and lunch. Jon refused to leave his mother’s side, even after Maester Pycelle arrived to take a better look at her, but Lyanna was adamant he ride out to meet his cousins.

“It would do you some good to see them,” She spoke softly, a distant look in her eyes, “Show them there is more to the Crownlands than King’s Landing and the Red Keep.”

“Father won’t like it,” Jon muttered. 

“Your father can, respectfully, fuck off.” 

Jon’s eyes widened. He’d never heard his mother curse before, a giggle escaping him at the blatant disrespect. It was the kind only a Queen could show a King. The kind only a wife could show her husband.

He hoped whoever his wife was would challenge him the way his mother did his father. 

A cool summer breeze rushed in from the Blackwater, rare on a hot day like this. His namedays always took place under clear skies and blistering sun. Unlike Rhaenys, he was a summer child, born as the white raven arrived from Oldtown, signaling the change. 

According to Lord Connington, Aerys ordered the raven shot and killed before it could reach King’s Landing, believing it to be a greenseer spy from the North. 

As such, it wasn’t until Rhaegar arrived from the Trident that the people of King’s Landing learned summer had come. For many it seemed endless, and if not for his mother, Jon would have believed in such fairytales as well. 

“Winter is coming,” She spoke solemnly one day, face set in a grim frown as she turned her gaze to the North. 

It sounded less a muttering of her own house words and more like a curse, a prophecy from the mouth of a woman who confessed her dreams were terrible, bloody things she could make no sense of. 

Jon had the same dreams. 

More often than not, he dreamt he was a wolf, the rank of man stuck in his nose and the taste of raw flesh on his tongue. 

The morning after he always spent extra time in the training yard, a certain wildness rising within him as he hacked at the Kingsguard with the ferocity of the animal, baring his teeth of steel as it shredded their armored skin before pinning them to the ground with his foot. 

Ser Aron always complimented him on his instincts after those sessions.

Ser Barristan always reminded him of the price of playing dirty tricks on one's opponents. 

“It does not matter how precarious the battlefield is,” He spoke firmly, “Honor must be at the forefront of your mind, always. Otherwise we are no better than the Dothraki across the seas, raping and pillaging as we see fit.” 

The Dothraki were savage animals, he recalls Grand Maester Pycelle saying during one his lessons. It is the law that separates us from them. A civilized people, with rules and religion to guide us.

Some nights, Jon dreamt he was the Khal of a great horde, long dark hair braided down his back from the many victories he’d won, face smeared in blood and war paint as he danced around the fire and declared his strength for all to see. 

His Khaleesi would ride beside him, dressed in horse hair skirts and painted leather vests over a bare olive chest. Her arms and face would be a reflection of his, eyes lined in black kajal with patterns of crimson swirling along her golden skin. 

Their dark heads would chime in unison, both bearing the braids and bells of victory as their horses rallied through the great grass sea.

His bride was beautiful in his dreams, slender and lively with a laugh that coaxed his own out of him. Hair black as the shadows of Asshai, slick with jasmine oil and the shine of battle. 

She hid her face behind a veil, but sometimes he swore he caught a flicker of violet in her eyes. 

He would wake in a cold sweat, although he couldn’t name why, before falling back asleep and inhabiting the wolf’s body once more. 

He’d seen the animal's reflection but once, with stark white fur and blood red eyes, like the weirwoods of old his mother showed him once. He’d never seen one in real life, although he prayed before the aged oak in the godswood as though a face was carved within it, his mother often joining him after her rides. 

Jon knew the price of dragon dreams. He knew House Targaryen was built on them, stretching back to Daenys the Dreamer and Old Valyria, but he’d never heard of wolf dreams. 

Perhaps it was these dreams that drove his great-uncle Daeron mad enough to drink himself to an early grave. Or Aerion Brightflame to believe he could become a dragon. 

It would make sense, if they dreamt of becoming a dragon as much as he dreamt of being a wolf. 

But when his father discussed his dreams they didn’t sound like Jon’s at all. His were filled with dragon eggs and pyres and winter snow, a silver dragon lying among the flames as a smaller, golden one flew into the skies above, a black one emerging from the kindling beside it. 

“We’re missing the third,” His father muttered one day after telling Jon of his dream, “The dragon must have three heads, yet we only have two.” 

Lyanna dismissed his mutterings as that of a sleep-deprived man run ragged by the wishes and whims of the kingdom. 

A shiver erupted down Jon’s spine at the words.

Three heads. 

We only have two. 

He clearly meant Rhaenys and Jon, but who was the third?

A thunder of hooves interrupted his thoughts, and Jon turned on his steed to see a grey and white banner snapping in the wind. 

His heart fluttered. 

The Starks. 

A crop of red hair appeared on the horizon and Jon spurred his charger forward.

He stopped on a small hill a few lengths from the wheelhouse. 

Let them come to you. Rhaegar’s voice echoed in his head. A king waits for his subjects to greet him, not the other way around. 

Jon wasn’t sure if he agreed with his father, but then again he surmised there was probably a reason for it. Just like there was a reason for everything his father did. 

His cousin’s retinue grew close and Jon smiled. 

He could barely contain his excitement and his horse seemed to sense it. He fidgeted and the animal pawed the ground, shaking its head with a sneeze as the distance closed between them. 

Now that they were growing closer, he was finally going to get his first look at the boy he’d been exchanging letters with since he was six. 

Jon thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest. 

Robb crested the hill first. A lump formed in the back of his throat. He looked nothing like his father. A mess of auburn waves cut close to his head, he fell back in his saddle with a relaxed smile. Jon couldn’t help but compare the stiff way he sat atop his own horse.

Robb was broad-shouldered and open, smiling and laughing with his men as they approached the keep. 

Jon was lean and shut off, resisting the urge to frown and preferring to be alone than with his Kingsguard. He was grateful Uncle Benjen gave him leave to escort the retinue from Winterfell himself, rather than watch over him like a hawk. He stood a few leagues back on his own destrier near the gatehouse, the golden sheen of his armor visible even from this distance.

The wheelhouse came to a stop, the heir to Winterfell along with it. 

Jon cleared his throat and forced his voice to sound commanding. “My lords, on behalf of my father, King Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his name, it is my honor to welcome you to King’s Landing.” 

He’d studied up on northern tradition in order to save himself from looking like a fool, and so removed his riding gloves to offer his hand to Robb in greeting. The heir glanced over at his guard, and Jon’s face suddenly grew hot. 

The storm in his stomach calmed when Robb returned the favor.

“Thank you, my prince,” Robb’s grip was firm and Jon could feel his strength from the handshake alone. “The honor is ours. But please, you must call me Robb. We are kin, and I do not like being so formal with family.” 

Jon’s stomach fluttered and his smile returned. He was right. They were both beginning to sound a bit too much like their fathers. “Thank the gods,” He breathed out with a laugh, the heir following suit, “But only if you call me Jon in return.”

“I thought your name was Aemon,” The dark-haired man in northern leathers narrowed his grey eyes in confusion.

“It is, but only my father calls me that,” Jon swallowed the lump in his throat, “Everyone else in the keep calls me Jon. Or at least, close family does.”

He hoped the implication didn’t go unnoticed. Based on the bright look in Robb’s cerulean gaze, it didn’t. The boy raked his eyes over Jon, as though sizing him up in a similar way.

“Very well, Jon it is then.” 

Jon led the large northern retinue up towards the keep, Uncle Benjen joining them as they passed through the gatehouse. Despite knowing Lord Stark was not going to attend, Jon couldn’t help himself, and kept looking over the tall and burly men in hopes of catching sight of his other uncle. 

“Is Lord Stark well?” He finally worked up the courage to ask, “I know my mother was disappointed when news arrived that he would not be attending the tourney.” 

Robb wrinkled his nose, “Father hates tourneys.” A dull pang echoed in Jon’s stomach. “Thinks they’re frivolous and unnecessary. Besides, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” 

His father had said something similar to the effect once.

“There must always be a Targaryen seated atop the Iron Throne, Aemon. No matter what name you bear before, it must be Targaryen when you take your place”

An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach whenever he thought about it. 

He was Jon. That was the name his mother gave him. And yet he would be known in the history books as Aemon Targaryen, first of his name. 

Voices, decidedly female, danced on the wind, talking over each other at a speed Jon was used to, having grown up with a sister of his own, as well as Daenerys and Arianne. 

The wheelhouse came to a stop in the inner bailey and Robb shot Jon an apologetic look.

“My apologies in advance,” His cousin spoke sheepishly, his face almost as red as his hair, “My sisters can be a handful.”

Jon chuckled and shook his head, “Believe me, I know all about the toil of having sisters. You’re lucky that yours are younger instead of older.” 

Robb’s laugh was infectious, and the weight sitting on Jon’s shoulders flew away. Now that they were inside the keep, he could finally hear the babble of conversation coming from the wheelhouse. 

“Stop it! You’re getting dirt all over my dress!”

“It’s a stupid dress!”

“It was a gift from the queen!”

“Which makes it stupid!”

“You’re stupid!”

“Girls, please–”

“Mother, tell Arya to keep her paws off my dress!”

“She can’t help herself! Besides, her pawprints make it look better!”

“It does not!”

“Does too!”

“Why can’t she behave like Lady?” 

“Because she’s not Lady! She’s Nymeria!”

“She’s an absolute demon is what she is.”

“You take that back!”

“You stop her from ruining my dress!”

“Girls, enough!” The woman whose voice cut through the noise was sharp and cold, a blade meant to slice through the frivolous nature of their conversations and pull them back to where they were. “Arya, keep your beast in line, and Sansa, please be kind to your sister. This is not the day for fighting, do you understand me?”

Jon imagined both girls looking thoroughly chastised.

He swung off his horse the same time Robb did, the two boys sharing a look in the secret language only brothers knew how to speak. 

The doors to the wheelhouse opened and a beautiful woman his mother’s age stepped out. Long auburn hair hung to her waist, twisted back and out of her face to reveal a porcelain face with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. Her eyes were the same color blue as her son’s. 

Catelyn Stark was dressed in the fine colors of house Tully, with deep blue skirts lined in a red that matched her fiery crown. 

Her daughters stepped out beside her. 

The oldest was a perfect copy, although her hair was brighter and shimmered like copper in the sun. Her wide blue eyes took in the Red Keep in awe, before screwing her face into one of practiced politeness. 

It reminded Jon of Margaery. 

The youngest looked nothing like her. Dark wild curls and a long face, she reminded Jon of his mother, although she was skinnier and shorter. Dirtied hands better suited to a sword than a sewing needle. What surprised Jon more were the pups who came tumbling out behind her.

Wolf pups. 

And they were growing fast. 

One immediately paddled over to Robb, sinking its snout against his leg. Jon’s eyes widened. A living, breathing reminder of their house at their side. Was this what it was like when Targaryens rode dragons?  

“Nymeria, heel!” the younger girl called out. Her pup refused to listen, instead rushing over to Jon and licking his boots. “Nymeria!” The wolf wagged its tail and panted happily, weaving between his legs with a whine. On instinct, he reached down to scratch the pup behind her ears. 

“That’s weird, she likes you.” 

“Arya!” Lady Catelyn scolded, “I am so sorry, Your Grace, my youngest daughter has a habit of saying whatever comes into her mind without thought.” 

Jon laughed. “It’s alright, my sister is the same way. You two will get along well.” 

The younger girl lit up at the mention of Rhaenys, “Is it true the princess trains with the Red Viper?”

“Arya!” The older sister–Sansa he remembered–scolded in an almost identical tone as her mother. She smacked Arya’s shoulder and the younger girl stuck out her tongue. Sansa looked positively scandalized. Jon chuckled again. It reminded him of how Rhaenys used to emulate Prince Oberyn when she was younger, right down to asking him to train her in Braavosi water dancing. 

He of course, gave right in, even when Rhaegar disapproved. 

Prince Oberyn was always doing things at the disapproval of the king. 

“Yes, she does,” Jon spoke with a quiet smile, ignoring the writhing in his chest at the mention of his sister. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t expecting questions, he just hoped they’d be as interested in him as he was in them. “Not as much anymore, however.” 

“But you train with him too right?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I train with Ser Benjen and Ser Barristan.” 

Robb chortled, “You call our uncle Ser?”

Jon’s face flushed. 

Lady Catelyn shot her son a look. It was remarkable how quickly Robb’s chuckling stopped. 

“The prince shows your uncle a great deal of respect,” She responded with an approving nod. Still, he couldn’t help but be a bit offended by the fact that she refused to look at him, choosing instead to only focus on her daughters or her son. Sometimes it seemed like she was looking right through him. “Ser Benjen is a knight of the Kingsguard, and he deserves to be addressed as such.”

Lady Catelyn finally turned to look at him, and a slight wince pulled at her features. She schooled her face well, with a smile that did not reach her eyes, but it was too late. Jon had seen what he needed to see. 

“Forgive us, my prince, the journey from Winterfell was long, and my children seem to have forgotten their manners along the way.” 

“It is alright, Lady Stark,” Jon spoke in the formal tones of his father, knowing how much the Tullys and Starks valued tradition. 

The woman’s face relaxed and she turned to each of her children with a smile. “You’ve already met my eldest, Robb, and these are my daughters. Sansa and Arya. My two youngest are at Winterfell with their father.” 

Sansa curtsied at the mention of her name, demure and graceful as any lady as her pale blue skirts swept the floor. Jon could see small pawprints littering the delicately embroidered hem, and her own wolf dipped its head with a whine. “It is an honor to meet you, my prince,” She spoke soft and delicately, like a flower budding in the spring, and when she raised her eyes to meet his, a lump formed in the back of his throat. 

They were the color of a robin’s egg, bright and lovely and set into an equally dainty face. She batted her long lashes and stared at him as though he were Aegon the Conqueror come again. 

He swallowed. “It is an honor to meet you as well, Lady Sansa,” A pause hung between them. She was waiting for something. Fuck, what did he say to young ladies again? Renly was always the one who knew what to say. But Renly wasn’t here. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembers hearing that kissing their hand was always a good way to appease them. 

He did just that. 

Pink tinged the younger girl’s cheeks as his lips brushed against her hand, her sister rolling her eyes beside her. Sansa stepped back into line with a large smile on her face. 

Arya gave a rather clumsy curtsy in comparison. 

Jon decided he rather liked her. 

“Arya,” Robb called from his charger’s side, “Why don’t you give Jon his gift?” 

Gift?

The younger girl raced back into the wheelhouse with an excited gasp. 

“Oh, Robb, please can it not wait until we get settled first?” Lady Catelyn bemoaned.

“Mother, you know it can’t.”

Lady Catelyn sighed. “I want it known that I did not approve of this.” 

“You said as much on the ride down,” Robb jested. 

Jon was completely out of his depth. 

Arya emerged with both her arms behind her back. “Close your eyes!” 

“Arya, do not tell the prince what to do.”

“It’s alright, Lady Stark,” Jon chuckled, “As long as it’s not an assassin meant to kill me, I think I shall be safe.”

The woman shot him an apologetic look. It was unlike her sister’s. “You are much more gracious than I expected. I am not quite certain we deserve it, but I thank you for it.” 

Jon’s chest fluttered at the words. 

He wasn’t sure why. 

A small smile tugged on his lips and he nodded. 

Jon closed his eyes. 

“Hold out your hands.” 

He did. 

Something soft and weighty was pushed into them. His hands grasped for any sort of guess as to what the gift could be, but his mind was racing so much he couldn’t understand what he was now holding. It felt like fur, perhaps a cloak of some kind? He knew it was customary for northerners to provide gifts to other northerners when invited to their keep, but Jon wasn’t a northerner. At least not in the way his cousins were. 

“Alright, open!”

Jon blinked at the bundle in his hand. It wasn’t a fur coat.

White fur and red eyes stared back.

“We found him with the others in the Wolfswood,” Robb explained, pushing right past Jon’s shock with a bolt of excitement, “Father almost forced us to abandon him, but I convinced him otherwise.”

“It was my idea to give him to you!” Arya grinned. “And Sansa even made the little bow around his neck see?” 

Jon did see. A sash of grey silk, embroidered with tiny white paw prints, painstakingly wrapped around the pup’s neck. It didn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, it didn’t seem bothered by anything at all. Unlike the others it made no noise, and it was smaller than any of them. 

They’d brought him the runt of the litter. 

They’d brought him a direwolf.