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Chapter Text

Rhaenyra runs as fast as her legs would carry her; she runs up the stairs and across the yard until she is right in front of double doors leading to the King's chambers.

"Princess Rhaenyra," the Kingsguard announces her as she steps in.

Lord Hand is already in the room, but he and her father had yet to start the conversation she dreads they were about to have.

Who was it who reported Otto about her and Daemon's misadventures she knows not, but luckily a familiar face whispered to her a word about being watched.

Luckily, she is just as cunning as the Hand seems to be. And, following this extremely hectic morning, has already salvaged the havoc and gathered her allies.

Or at least she hopes she did, the response to her letter is yet to be received.

"Father," she exclaims with feign excitement. "Lord Hand."

"Princess," Ser Otto nods back.

Rhaenyra is practically bubbles with the idea she has, the genialness of it; it is the salvation to all of her troubles. And, additionally, it will piss Daemon off immensely.

It will serve him well for leaving her alone, all exhilarated and ready to be his.

It will surely teach him a lesson.

"Rhaenyra," her father nods, not hiding his surprise. "You're early today. Is there something of the matter?"

"Yes," she looks back from Lord Hightower to her father. "I think I chose the one I want to marry," she fakes a feat of bashfulness.

"Though I am not sure he will accept my offer, since he wasn't in the line of the suitors approaching me of late. But I've already sent him a raven and am hopeful for the answer."

"There is yet born a lord who would be a fool to deny the King's daughter," Viserys smiles genuinely.

"Indeed," the Hand agrees, though his joy is more of the restrained kind. "May the king know the name of the lucky fellow, Princess?"

She smiles, sly and sharp.

"Why, of course, my Lord Hand," she looks down as if overwhelmed by uncalled shyness. "It would please you, I hope, to find what my chosen one is your very own firstborn," she makes a dramatic pause and salvages the reaction of the men. "Ser Gwayne Hightower."

She drinks the stunned silence up.

The men exchange confused looks and it only joys her more.

"Are you not pleased?" She asks tentatively. "I have heard he is yet to find himself a wife, and as the firstborn son of the Lord Hand, I believe he is more than suited. After all," she smirks. "The Hand's own daughter is our queen. It would only make sense to unite the family even more, would it not?"

She stares Otto Hightower down.

You know I am no maiden, she thinks. And I know you guessed, if wrong, what Daemon stole my maidenhood. No matter, I know what you know. And I just voiced the desire to marry your eldest. Will you dare to refuse the will of your princess, Lord Hand?

The man stares back, unblinking.

"Excellent choice, Princess." He finally speaks and Rhaenyra smiles in return with all the sweetness she does not mean. "It pleases me greatly you found my son worthy of your hand in marriage."

"But," Viserys speaks. "Rhaenyra, are you sure? Ser Gwayne is, no question, an honorable knight, but his looks," he sends apologetic gaze Otto's way. "I fear he lost his beauty in the day of the tournament of the heir."

"It doesn't matter," she brushes away. "I feel like Ser Gwayne is the perfect match I was looking for."

The king still looks unsure, but he nods.

"Very well," he starts. "If you're certain-"

"I am certain."

"When we will await for the lord's response. I am sure," Viserys gives his Hand a subtle nod. " Ser Gwayne is no fool to deny your offer."

"He is not, Your Grace," lord Hand agrees. "My son will be rejoiced to know he was proven worthy by Princess Rhaenyra herself."

"I hope so," she smiles to the Hand. "I would hate anything to draw our two houses apart. After all, with the king's children being Hightower by blood, it would only make sense for his heir to follow on his footsteps."

"Princess," Ser Gwayne speaks. "I must admit your letter has left me in a turmoil."

"What's in it to be so troubled about?" she holds her hand for a kiss and in a moment soft, warm lips brush the skin of it, if barely.

Gwayne Hightower used to be a truly handsome man until the tourney where Daemon Targaryen had thrown him off his horse.

Now there is an ugly red scarring covering most of his face, and while the injury is not life threatening, the beauty Gwayne once had is gone.

"A lot of things," young lord chuckles. "Most of all notorious rumors about your uncle's unusual interest in you."

"Is it so unusual?" She raises an eyebrow. "We are Targaryens."

"Indeed," her betrothed agrees. "You Targaryens have queer customs."

This is a jab if Rhaenyra heard one, so she really doesn't know why it brings a smile to her lips.

Gwayne Hightower is not what Rhaenyra remembers him to be and, by the way young knight sends her stealthy curios looks, neither is she.

"Are you scared, perhaps, my lord?" She taints with the sweetest of smiles.

"Scared? What of?"

"My uncle," she caresses her own cheek on the same place the worst of Gwayne's scar is and sees him smile.

Huh.

She rather expected him to get angry, the frail men's ego and all of that.

"You must take me for a fool, Princess," his smile only gets wider. "We grew up together, if you could be so kind to remember. I know all of your tricks."

"Well, hopefully not all of them," she smiles slyly. "I propose an alliance, my lord. Between two people wronged by my rogue mongrel of an uncle. He defiled your face and robbed you of your grace; and as for me..." she trails off and sees Gwayne frown.

"He wouldn't," he denies. "You're the daughter of the king, he would not-"

"He didn't," Rhaenyra stamps down forcefully. "And that is the problem."

She sees understanding spread over once-handsome face of her future husband.

"Oh," he says. "He denied you. No one else in the Kingdom would, even if only for your crown alone, and yet he did. This is why you're so cross with him. This is how he wronged you."

Rhaenyra feels a treacherous blush creep up her neck; she doesn't like the way Gwayne is looking at her now, his soft gaze being too close to...pity.

She is Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne. She will not be pitied.

"This is...an acceptable alliance, my lady," he whispers and Rhaenyra almost corrects him, reminding lord Hightower what she is the princess, if only not for a feeling he doesn't mean it like that.

What Gwayne Hightower means calling her his lady is 'my lady-wife.'

"It is more than acceptable," she smiles forcefully, trying to push the tears back. Damn it, it shouldn't hurt so much. "It is a great honor to be wed to me."

"Indeed it is," Gwayne offers her his hand. "Princess Rhaenyra."

"Ser Gwayne," Rhaenyra echoes as she grasps his hand with a force she known not of.

Neither of them is aware of a shadow watching them from afar, her red dress bustling in the air.

Alicent Hightower sees her brother getting engaged to her childhood friend and feels sobs gathering in her throat, choking her.

Leave it to Rhaenyra to put her behind even when she chooses Hightower.

"My boy," Ser Otto's hand comes to rest on his firstborn's shoulder. "Are you sure of what you're doing?"

"Why?" his son raises an eyebrow. "Are you?"

"You know what I mean," Lord Hand scoffs. "Gwayne, she was defiled by her uncle-"

"And was I not?" the young knight interrupts. "Look at my face, father, look at that happened to it because of the animosity between Daemon and you. Somehow I am the one to reap what you sow, always." He seethes. "Do you not hear of your son being a laughing stock? Are you not aware of what my life had become after the tournament? No lord would wed his daughter to someone like me, a public enemy, no, a punching bag of the Rogue Prince."

"And is this your way to get back at him?" Otto questions. "By marrying the girl he lusts after?"

"This is my way to ensure our blood rules over the Seven Kingdoms," the knight scoffs. "Seriously, were you so engrossed in your plan of making Alicent the queen you forgot I exist?"

"The position of the queen is one of the safest ones, we both know that-"

"Oh please," Gwayne rolls his eyes.

"We both know that's not it. Uncle Hobert has been pushing for a Hightower on the throne for as long as he has been alive, and it honestly never occurred to you what the princess is just...right here? She had to be the one to approach me with the proposition. Do you really believe Viserys will ever make Aegon the heir?" his scoff deepens. "Alicent is no Aemma, her children with the king are simple spares in case something is to happen with Rhaenyra. The king will never choose them over his precious daughter."

"You don't know that."

"I know that and you know that and the entire fucking Kingdom knows that!" Gwayne fumes. "Ever since the day Aegon was born crowds and crowds of lords approached the king over the change of the heir, and you know what did he do? Refused every single time. And no matter how hard you'll push and how hard you'll try, he will still refuse it every time. He will never replace Rhaenyra as his heir, no matter how much lords of the Realm desire a man on the throne."

"And it will bring the Seven Kingdoms into war." Otto argues. "The moment Rhaenyra ascends the throne the Realm will tear itself apart."

"Not if you help her," Gwayne's hand comes to rest on his father's shoulder. "Not if you help us. It is your grandchild what will sit on the throne, does it really matter if it's Alicent's child or mine?"

Chapter Text

"You're about to get married," Ser Criston Cole breathes out as he and his princess stay alone for the first time since forever.

The betrothal was just announced and set in motion.

Cole has hard time remembering Gwayne Hightower; the only son of Lord Otto Hightower is not famous by anything but his ill-remembered attendance at the tournament of the heir.

There is an ugly scar covering most of the man's face from the 'incident' what took place back then, the Rogue Prince being the cause of it.

Criston hasn't heard much of the young lord, but what little he heard painted the man in rather sad light.

The firstborn and only son of Lord Hand of the King, Gwayne Hightower is not remarkable in any way or form beyond the scar Daemon Targaryen gifted him with.

This is in not the man worthy of the princess' hand and yet this is someone Princess Rhaenyra personally chose. Whatever the reason for that is beyond his understanding.

"I am, yes," she hums in agreement, her thoughts clearly somewhere far away. Princess is often far away these days and Criston can't help but think it's because of their shared night, can't force the thoughts of his dishonor away.

He deflowered the princess of the Realm, the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Very few could fall that low.

And now the young woman he defiled is betrothed to another man, the thought of which makes a bile taste raise in Cole's mouth.

He tells himself it is but rightful shame and worry for her, and not hurt and jealousy.

Whatever the reasons of the princess taking him into these chambers that night, he is in no right to expect her to marry him; her station and the duty to realm is too above the simple likes of Cole.

This, however, doesn't mean the pathetic excuse of the knight Gwayne Hightower is worthy of the princess.

Gwayne Hightower would not be worthy of Princess Rhaenyra even if he was the last man in Westeros.

And no, this is not jealousy.

"If I may advise, princess," he speaks noneless. "I feel like he is below your station."

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow at that.

"The son of the Hand and the brother of the Queen - and below my station?" Rhaenyra frowns. "You put me too high above; if there is any lord young and old fit enough for my station, it's Gwayne."

Criston can't fail to notice he is 'Gwayne' already.

"Am I correct in assuming it is a purely political alliance?" he asks, begging for the answer to be 'yes.' Gods be good, but with all his sins and failings, Ser Cole doesn't think he could manage to live with the idea of his princess actually loving this lord.

It's bad enough she is marrying him, but doing that out of love would be...horrendous.

She smirks.

"I'm afraid you're right, my dear white knight," her hand lingers on his forearm for a moment and suddenly Criston can't breathe.

Then the assaulting limb disappears and he mourns the loss of its warmth immediately.

"I was taught by my uncle," a grim smile crosses her lips. "What marriage is only a political arrangement."

This is a sad thought, Ser Cole thinks.

"Have you never wanted to marry for love?" He asks, hopeful beyond reason.

He knows it is fruitful, and yet...

And yet his silly heart desires that it does.

Princess Rhaenyra scoffs.

"I have never intended to marry," she winces. "How romantic must it be locked away in a castle and made to squeeze out heirs," she sighs. "But my father convinced me I have a duty before the realm, what I simply ought to produce heirs. If I'm lucky enough, it's the boy from the first try and I will even survive the labor."

These words bring unwanted and terrifying images up Criston's mind.

"Don't say that," he asks. "Nothing bad will ever happen to you."

She smiles at him then the way she did in bed; feather soft and fleeting.

"Oh, Criston," she says. "You're sweet. But I doubt the world works that way."

Every time Criston sees Ser Gwayne Hightower, he wants to run him through with the sword.

It's bad enough the man is to marry Criston's beloved; but the arrogant fool can't seem to stop touching the princess.

He thinks no one notices, but Ser Cole sees every time Gwayne Hightower brushes his hand over Rhaenyra's back, every time he inconspicuously takes her hand in his, every gods damn moment the man's touch lingers just a tag too long or he stands a little bit too close.

The moment Gwayne puts his chin on the princess' shoulder is the moment Criston almost becomes the murderer.

There's a ravenous creature growing inside him and there's very little he can do about it.

He pushes in and immediately realizes something is amiss.

Gwayne has never taken any maidenhood before, but he grew up around Citadel and maesters, he read and heard enough to know how it is supposed to be.

Not like this.

The resistance is there, but it’s not sufficient enough, and, most importantly, there is no blood.

Gwayne stops his movement to stare at his wife. Rhaenyra looks back, a defiant glint of her violet eyes; and even though Gwayne is bigger than her and is impending over her in a rather threatening manner, he can’t help but feel at her mercy suddenly.

Rhaenyra lock her legs behind his back in a strong hold, shins intertwining, and suddenly Gwayne understands it for what it is.

A trap.

A cage.

Princess stares at him unyielding, silent and solemn, not even her obvious glorious nakedness being able to break up the somber mood in the room.

Oh course, Gwayne thinks. I am a fool. She implied Daemon didn’t touch her, not that she wasn’t touched at all.

Suddenly a lot of things make sense.

For example the way her sworn guard has been trying to murder Gwayne with his gaze; the young lord wrote it off for the protectiveness of his princess and funny thing is - he wasn’t that wrong.

It is a protectiveness of a kind; a jealous, possessive protectiveness of a man who tasted forbidden fruit and can no longer live without it.

Of course Ser Cole always looked so grim; Gwayne just married the girl the said knight is obsessed with.

Rhaenyra should have given him a warning.

Rhaenyra, if her stoic looks are of anything, would give him no warning and no explanation and definitely no apology.

Rhaenyra, in her treacherous plot, made it so he was aware of her...impurity only after the vows were taken; from that moment every sin she committed, any indecency she was accused of belonged to him as well.

Her shame became his shame; the clever and cruel thing she is.

Gwayne’s father would say he has gotten spoiled goods.

Sometimes young lord Hightower truly hates his sire.

He reaches out and brushes a single strand from Rhaenyra’s pale face.

When he gets a dagger from the bedside table – because Rhaenyra is the kind of a woman who keeps valyrian steel on her bedside table, apparently –  and more feels than sees his young wife tense.

She follows his every move with her keen eyes, gaze never leaving the dagger.

Gwayne guesses he can’t really blame her for that; raised in the viper’s nest, she expects him to behave like the rest of them.

But instead of bringing the blade anywhere near her the young lord moves it to his own left hand and digs the blade into the softness of his palm.

His breath hitches at the same time as Rhaenyra’s, the shift of her body sending a pleasant tremble though his cock.

He is still buried deep in her, unmoving; unable to before all the precautions are kept.

Gwayne pulls the dagger out and sends it clanking over the tiled floor.

Then he moves his injured hand lower, until it is flush against the place where their bodies meet and merge.

Rhaenyra’s eyes grow really big as she stares, as if in a trance, at the spot where Gwayne is smearing blood all over her lower body.

She gives him a questioning took and he smiles, dazzling and satisfied, for being able to one-up her just once, catch her unguarded.

Gwayne moves out of her for an inch and Rhaenyra frowns and tries to pull him back; a notion which sends a bubble of delighted laughter through his body; leave it to Rhaenyra to try and pry every ounce of power he manages to grab for himself.

The young lord fights for the glimpse of control he almost saw, moving just a little far away again and smearing his red hot blood all over her lower lips, dipping a tip of his fingers into the warmth of her.

Gwayne hears Rhaenyra exhale sharply and then there is fire in her eyes as she practically drags him back inside her, her hips meeting his with a smack.

“You have bound yourself to me by the ways of my homeland,” she laughs, delighted. “This is valyrian steel, you fool.”

“I just tried to cover up to your-” he hesitates to name it. Rhaenyra watches as he fights for the right words.

“My lack of maidenhood, you mean,” She supplies evenly and then another dazzling smile breaks over her face. “You’re covering up for me indeed,” she laughs and her entire body trembles with it.

Gwayne wonders how long this glorious woman will torture him and when will he be able to finally bed his own wife without either of them laughing and interrupting each other every twenty seconds or so.

“Warn me next time,” he asks and Rhaenyra cocks an eyebrow.

“Next time?” she asks.

“When you plan something that concerns me,” he follows. “Do not make me your puppet, your highness, following Lord Hand’s path is below you.”

Her face is immediately a dark cloud before the storm.

“Must you bring this awful man into the conversation?” she demands. “It is enough Otto already successfully poisoned my father’s mind with the need of me being wed, it is enough what he stole my very own friend into his cruel scheme beforehand. Your father will have no place in your bed.”

“I sure fucking hope not,” Gwayne snorts. “That would quickly sour the mood.”

“Indeed,” she smiles dimly, but smiles none less.

Her lord husband considers it as a win.

“Shall we?” he gestures between their bodies where she made him bore into her deep, and settled there.

“Eager, are we?” Rhaenyra has the audacity to laugh at that, tremors sending the painfully pleasurable tremble through his groin once again.

“Stop torturing me, you terrible creature,” he begs. “Either let us bed as we should or let’s fall apart and be done with that.”

“No,” Rhaenyra frowns as she suddenly saddles his hips, their positions reversed. “We have not even started yet.”

Gwayne resists the urge to tell her how he feels.

He believes it will ruin the moment somehow.

Probably in every possible way.

So he settles for raising her a little from his cock before forcefully lowering back down; Rhaenyra bites down the moan and Gwayne smiles.

Two can play this game.

“Sing for me, love,” he speaks and desperately hopes she does not take these words for what they truly are.

Luckily, she is too preoccupied to even hear them.

The next morning the bloodstained sheet is presented for the eyes of the masses and the King's Landing cheers.

"A morbid tradition," Rhaenyra murmurs as Gwayne bandages his injured hand before hiding it under the glove. 

"I am your accomplice now," he responds just as quietly. 

Chapter Text

The first thing his lord father Otto Hightower does as they stay alone is removing Gwayne's gloves.

"I knew it," he whispers as the rough touch makes the fresh wound bleed through the bandage. "I knew she was spoiled goods."

Gwayne closes his eyes and breathes deeply, all the way hoping for his fury to dim.

Maybe there is something in the Targaryen saying "Fire and Blood," even if it's just the simple fact what merely being near them pushes men to the extremes of violence.

"She is not spoiled goods," he seethes from his clenched teeth. "And you will think twice before speaking of my wife that way again."

The young lord tears his hand from his father's grasp.

"Gwayne," Lord Hand speaks. "She is using you, you know that."

"Just as you're using everyone else, I presume," Gwayne huffs. "You scheme and play and plant Alicent on the throne and are so damn insistent about my wife's purity - an alarming amount, actually," Gwayne stops as if a thought stuck him suddenly.

"You know people will talk if you keep pushing. Not of Rhaenyra, I fear, no - of the Hand of the King who was so fixated on young princess' virtue he almost destroyed his own son's marriage. That would be awful," Gwayne looks him in the eyes. "Wouldn't it?"

"Don't be a fool," Otto tries. "I am twice princess' age, I would never-"

"Oh, I know that," his son nods with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "And you know that, and maybe even Alicent does. But who else? Would the king believe you, against his own firstborn's words? It would not be that hard to see; you, who lost your wife years ago and refused to remarry; her, a beautiful Targaryen princess coming out of age...People would eat it up, they would sink their teeth into this vile lie and drink it up like the finest wine. There are plenty of people who soiled their life, honor, their house; oh how they would love to drag you down to their level."

Gwayne is smiling now, a sharp and cruel thing Otto has never seen before on the face of his son.

His awful scar shadowed by the play of light; he looks like a madman now, with his wicked smile and dangerous glint in the eyes.

"What would be left to salvage then, I wonder?" he asks softly.

"The king would never believe it," Lord Hightower argues, well aware of the futility of such attempts. "Rhaenyra is just a child-"

"He would believe his own brother to do that," Gwayne replies, dangerously quiet. "Why not you?"

The silence what covers the place feels oppressive.

"You married Alicent to the king," Gwayne then hisses lowly. "A girl of mere ten and five. She was younger than Rhaenyra is now. I wonder why you denied your own daughter a courtesy Princess Rhaenyra is entitled to now. Was your ambition so great you looked away from your own child as you stepped over her? Do you want your blood to sit on the throne so bad you're willing to destroy my sister over it?"

"No one is destroying Alicent, her position is a very favorable one."

"Oh, is it?" Gwayne exclaims. "Or is she trapped in a fucking castle, forced to lie under the man who is rotting from the inside?!"

"Do not speak of the king that way," Otto warns him.

"I will speak of that man as I desire," his son retorts back. "Even if only in the privacy of the locked doors."

"Gwayne, this is treason."

"At least I'm genuine in my intentions, unlike you. The king will die, whenever it will happen in months or in years. And when it will happen, Rhaenyra will be the one to ascend the throne. Fight all you must, but you will never make Aegon more than he was meant to be from the very beginning. A spare," Gwayne looks away. "You made my sister spurn out babies knowing very well they will be nothing but your pawns in the great game," and then he looks up, his eyes are glistening. "Viserys doesn't care about them and I fear, neither do you."

He walks away and the door rattles on its hinges behind him.

"Brother," Alicent speaks as the silence becomes unbearable.

"Sister," he echoes back. "You wanted to see me."

"Yes," she sighs deeply, hands fretting. She still hasn't dealt with her habit, he notices, her fingernails blood red and irritated.

"I fear we're growing apart," she confesses. Helaena wakes up from her fleeting child slumber and begins to wail.

Gwayne sighs deeply before the stands and comes to his sister.

"Give her to me," he asks and Alicent puts Helaena into his arms with a barely veiled relief.

The young lord rocks the little girl back and forth, murmuring some words too soft for adults to hear.

"She reminds me of you," he comments gently. "You too was inconsolable once you started crying. Only mother could calm you down."

He sees a pang of pain to cross his sister's face and almost apologizes before he remembers what he lost a mother too.

Her grief is no more important than his is.

"Does she?" Alicent asks. "Viserys says she looks like a proper Targaryen."

"A proper Targaryen," Gwayne winces. "There is something very elitist in that."

"It is the way of that family," Alicent hums. "You too need to get used to it and pray your children come out with the plain Targaryen features. If they would even be your children."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Alicent is lucky Gwayne's hands are preoccupied now.

"You know what I mean," Alicent shakes her head in disbelief.

"I assure you I don't."

"Her maidenhood, Gwayne!" Alicent exclaims. "The blood was a farce. She is no innocent and we both know that."

"She sure isn't," Gwayne smirks. "After many nights we have spent together."

In truth there were only three of four of nights like that, if Gwayne is counting - who is he lying to, he is counting and there were four nights like their wedding one, including their wedding one. Gwayne treasures every single one of these occasions, gods know Rhaenyra might not love him now, but she seemingly has no issue with giving yourself to Gwayne once in a while.

Many would call her a whore for that.

Gwayne calls her beloved.

"You know it's not what I'm talking about," Alicent huffs. "She has lost her maidenhood long before her wedding night and begged me to believe otherwise."

"She is not perfect," Gwayne admits. "But neither are you."

Alicent scoffs.

"Why are you taking her side?" she demands.

"There are no sides, Alicent. There are no enemies to fight; the House Hightower is one of the eldest and the most wealthy houses of Westeros, who would ever hurt us? And yet it was never enough for father, was it? First he moved us to the Capital as he became the Hand, when he married you off to the king when Queen Aemma's body was still warm-"

"He did it to protect us!"

"He did it for his own ego!" Gwayne hisses back, careful to not wake up his little niece. "What have he done for me? Sent me away years before queen Aemma died? I was a child; I had friends in the capital. I had you...and Rhaenyra," he admits quieter and sees his sister's eyes widen.

"It's always Rhaenyra," she whispers. "Rhaenyra this, Rhaenyra that, why does she have to take everything? Why do you let her?!"

"I know why I let her," Gwayne admits. "But I wonder if you know why you hate it so much; why the notion of her with a man sends you into a jealous fit. You betrayed her first."

"I didn't-" there are tears in his little sister's eyes.

"You let father to plot so you would marry the king," Gwayne continues, much softer. He loves his sister, even if she makes it difficult at times.

"You were her closest friend and you chose that over your... friendship. Did you really think it would survive your marriage to the king? Did it?" He tilts his head to the side. "Don't fault me for choosing my own life over groveling at our father's feet like an obedient hound."

"You're a man," she sobs. "Of course you have a choice. What choice do I have?"

"Stop listening to father," he demands. "And don't hate me for having what you never could."

He moves and sees Alicent flinch at his touch.

Gwayne frowns.

"Please, take Helaena from my hands," he asks and the queen complies. "I have to go."

"Gwayne!" Alicent calls after him but he does not reply.

Neither does he look back.

He comes back to his chambers onto to see Rhaenyra retch into a bucket. Ser Criston is holding up her hair as his other hand moves in smooth circles on the princess's back.

The momentary feat of anger overclouds his worry.

"I'll take it from here, Ser Cole," he informs the knight in a voice that is dangerously close to the freezing level. "You're dismissed."

Cole has the audacity to glance back at the princess.

"Go, Criston," she croaks into the bucket and only then he moves.

Gwayne follows him with his eyes before the door closes behind the man.

"You're letting him too close," he informs his wife taking the position the knight was in just a moment before. "People will whisper."

"They already do," she murmurs. "They think I took him and half of the kingsguard to my bed as you just stood there idly and noticed nothing."

"Well, have you?" He asks. "Took half of the kingsguard to your bed."

It's the moment another spasm overcomes her.

"Don't be a fool," Rhaenyra speaks as she wipes her mouth with the cloth he gives to her. "They're awful bores, these ones. I tapped into these waters once and still deal with the consequences."

"I believe the consequences just left."

Rhaenyra swats at his arm.

"Don't be like that," she demands. "Criston is a good and a kind man. It's not his fault I seduced him."

"It is his fault he decided you're his property however," Gwayne scoffs. "He is notoriously easy to read and keeps staring down any man who he deems to be standing too close to you. Send him away."

"No."

"Rhaenyra, send him away!"

She turns around swiftly, staring him down.

"Do not forget yourself, ser," she hisses at him. "I am the future queen and you're merely the prince-consort. Do not even for a second think you have any right to command me. Cole is a good man and he is loyal to me. I don't have many people like that by my side; there are not many I can trust. He stays there he is now."

"I can't trust him," Gwayne admits. "I feel like I will be jumped at every time I walk to my own rooms. He stares me down with hatred unknown to me before."

"And how is it my concern?" Rhaenyra scoffs. "You knew what you were getting into when you married me, don't start complaining now."

She freezes and Gwayne moves the bucket closer.

He caresses her back as she retches, awful heaving sounds tearing themselves out of her throat.

"I think it's over," she whispers, exhausted, as Gwayne moves to bring her some water.

"Don't know what took over me."

"Have you consulted maester?" Gwayne asks. "It can be serious. A poison or...something else. An illness perhaps."

"I will," she brushes off. "Don't look at me like that. I said I will do that."

Chapter Text

The next morrow maester Mellos informs the princess of the delicate position she is in.

Seven months later a beautiful brown-haired boy is born.

They name him Jacaerys.

"Jacaerys?" the king asks in wonder. "This is the Velaryon name."

"We are Velaryon by blood, father," Rhaenyra responds, her hand resting heavy on her husband's forearm.

The labor his wife just went through was the most terrifying thing Gwayne has ever experienced.

"Aegon the Conqueror's own mother was Valaena Velaryon, whose blood has been running through our veins for the last one hundred years."

She gives a subtle look at Corlys Vaemond and his wife and suddenly Gwayne understands why the princess rushed in. She has a plan brewing in her mind.

Very well then, let her speak.

"It is a notion what many has forgotten," she continues. "But our Houses have always been very close. We are the blood of Old Valyria, no one can understand us like we could each other."

"It is the truth, princess," Corlys admits. "And you honor us with the choice of name," he exchanges looks with Princess Rhaenys. "For the future heir."

"A fine choice, cousin," Laenor smirks and Rhaenyra smiles back.

"This is not all I wanted to discuss," she admits. "Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys, cousin," she gives the last one a slight nod and the young lord nods in return.

"It came to my attention what while many ignored our close resemblance and unity, my uncle did not."

Gwayne sees the king tense at that.

"I was informed what my uncle, Prince Daemon Targaryen, has wed your own daughter, Lady Laena Velaryon, and has moved with her to live in Pentos."

"Is is the truth, Princess," Rhaenys admits. "Prince Daemon formally asked for our permission to court our daughter, and Corlys and I gave it."

"It seems the Prince, unlike his brother, remembers who his true allies are," Corlys adds bluntly.

So he is still pissed at Viserys choosing Alicent Hightower over Laena Velaryon as his wife.

Rhaenyra smiles sweetly and Gwayne prepares for the worst.

"This is actually the reason I wanted to speak to you," she says, successfully slapping her own husband's hand, which he moved in the attempt to take the baby out of her arms. Gwayne sees Rhaenys smile dimly.

"Not now," Rhaenyra murmurs from the corner of her mouth.

"You can barely stand," Gwayne argues back, aware of the piercing looks his father and sister are sending their way; Alicent herself is in position Rhaenyra was just several days ago.

"If you refuse to rest, then at least let me take some burden of your-"

"Our son is not a burden!"

"Our son weights like he just ate another one. Let me-"

"Rhaenyra," the king calls out and both of them turn his way. Viserys is smiling in the way nether of them saw for a long time, probably since late Queen Aemma's death. "I believe you had something to say."

"Yes, father," Rhaenyra sighs deeply as she finally yields to her husband's relentless attempts.

Gwayne gathers his sweet firstborn son in his arms and immediately breathing is easier.

There, was it that hard to give him his own son?

Gwayne ignores his sister's pointed stare.

"As I have already mentioned," Rhaenyra says, standing straighter. "Our have always been tied closely. We are natural allies, a notion my uncle saw clearly and the notion I, myself, am well aware of. I propose a union of our houses. I am aware Lady Laena is in the state I was previously in; that she is with a child. I propose to you," her own hand comes resting to her now bare stomach.

"A union between Laena and Daemon's unborn child and the second child what comes of me," she looks back and Gwayne nods. "Of us. Let us unite our houses by blood."

"You're intent to have another child then?" Rhaenys asks. "You have already produced an heir to the throne, your work here is done."

"Is it?" Rhaenyra raises her head up in a sigh of defiance. "It was my father who has informed me that the Realm is weak with just one heir. If anything to happen to Jace, we would need someone to take over his duties," and as she speaks, Rhaenyra stares Lord Hand down, the intent of her words clear.

'Even if anything to happen to my sweet boy, Aegon will never ascend the throne.'

By the grim look of Lord Hand's face, the man understands her expression for what it is.

Gwayne fights a sudden pang of pain over his own father seemingly not caring for his grandson. Jacaerys is Hightower, if only by blood, and yet Otto seems to ignore his presence altogether.

"And," Rhaenyra adds much softer. "I am aware of a loneliness being the only child brings," she seems to realize the mistake of her words, quickly correcting them, as Alicent moves her gaze from Gwayne on her. "When my mother died...I had no one but my father to mourn her with. I wish I had a sibling, someone I could lean on and someone who could lean on me," she looks up and meets Alicent's burning gaze. "Like our kind queen had."

It shakes Alicent out of her anger.

"What?" She mumbles.

"Your mother," Rhaenyra speaks. "When she died, you and Gwayne," her husband squeezes her hand softly for everyone to see the gesture. "Had each other. Through many things good and bad, you always had each other."

Gwayne resists his habit of laying his chin on Rhaenyra's shoulder. But when he looks around, at all the people who are supposed to be on their side, their family, and does it none less.

He ignores the tension what seems to visibly ooze from Ser Criston Cole at that.

"This is true," Gwayne admits. "And I, too, would want that for our children."

Rhaenyra gives him a small grateful smile.

That, combined with Jace cooing quietly in his bundle, is the sole reason of his ignorant, unbashful happiness.

"This is why Gwayne and I plan on having at least one more child," Rhaenyra finishes.

"The child you're all too eager to marry off to my House," Rhaenys tilts an eyebrow.

"I want unity," Rhaenyra insists. "I want peace. I know we had our...differences in the past, but I truly want our houses to be allies and not enemies. This is the way I can ensure that."

"It is a generous offer," Lord Corlys comments. "But unfortunately, it is not enough."

"Is it not?" Gwayne asks as he sends his wife a wondering look. Rhaenyra shakes her head back. "And what would be enough?"

"I propose the following," Corlys speaks as he gives the king a frowning look.

"Let us betroth the child of Princess Rhaenyra and Lord Hightower to the child my daughter and Prince Daemon are expecting. But," he adds and silence spreads the Great Hall. "Let us also take your unborn child as the Ward of the House Velaryon," Corlys hears the gasps and continues. "Not from the day the child is born, tenth nameday will be sufficient. But if he or her is to be the Lord of Lady of House Velaryon, the child ought to learn our ways."

Corlys exchanges looks with Rhaenys and she nods.

"These are our conditions. You can either accept them or not, but only by these conditions will we betroth the children of our houses together. Do you take them?"

Rhaenyra and Gwayne look at each other; Geayne gives her a slight nod.

"We take them," the princess announces.

"How could you let that happen?" Alicent asks later as Gwayne walks into her chamber. "How could you sell your yet unborn child to Velaryons?"

"The same way father already started looking into prospective husbands for your daughter," Gwayne scoffs. "I, at least, actually care for the child I'm doing that to."

"Do you?" Alicent scoffs. "The child is yet to be born. And what if it is a girl and Laena has a girl too; or it is a boy to Laena's boy? Have you thought of that?"

"When it will be the first case of same sex marriage," Gwayne jokes and sees his sweet sister frown even more. "Relax, I'm sure things will work out. This is not why I came here and you know it," he nods pointedly at Jacaerys in his hands.

"Jacaerys," Alicent sighs. "Father hates this name."

"Father has no power over my children," Gwayne replies. "As he should have none over yours."

"You know it's not that simple," Alicent scoffs but still moves to take little Jacaerys in her arms. "Jace, is it?"

"Yes," Gwayne nods. "To friends and family. Prince Jacaerys Targaryen to others."

"Father hates it too," Alicent hums as she rocks Jacaerys back and forth.

She has gotten better at that, which is good, because the first time Alicent had held Aegon Gwayne feared could be Aegon's last time as well.

She hadn't been ready to be a mother back then, but it wasn't the baby's fault.

"What your children wear the name Targaryen. It's different with me, but with you..."

"What does it matter?" Gwayne huffs. "The king has said the moment the eldest child ascends the throne is the moment he wears Targaryen name anyway. What does it matter if he is Targaryen now? The line of succession goes through my wife, not me."

"And this is what father hates so much," Alicent whispers. "She takes and takes, this girl. Will there be anything left of you at the end?"

"Of me?" Gwayne scoffs. "Alicent, look at my son. Does he look very Targaryen to you?"

"No," Alicent admits. "But is he truly yours? I've heard the rumors..."

Gwayne hits the table with such force Jacaerys wakes up and starts crying.

He immediately comes to him, whispering soft apologies.

It takes a while for them to calm down, both father and the son.

"He is my son," Gwayne hisses once Jace has fallen back to sleep. "I don't care about the rumors, he is mine. I can feel that, and Alicent, just look at him," the young lord brings his child closer to his sister. "He has our freckles," Gwayne whispers. "The ones we got from our mother. And his nose...I'm afraid it's our father's nose. And his eyes, they are..."

"Mother's," Alicent whispers, her own eyes wide. "You're right, he looks very inch of Hightower he is. But why," she looks away. "Why do my children look like Viserys' copies and your son...?"

Gwayne scoffs.

"They do not look like Viserys' copies," he argues. "They have a lot from you too. It's just the hair and the eyes are Targaryen, and this is what everyone ever looks at."

"And your boy," Alicent hesitates. "He looks...plain."

"Do not call my son plain," Gwayne warns her. "He is perfect and I will not stand anything but."

"People will speak," Alicent sighs. "They will argue what the sight of your son is the proof of Rhaenyra's weak blood. What she is not worthy."

"Her blood is not weak," Gwayne argues. "Maybe mine is just too strong. If anything, this should have encouraged father."

"He has hard time accepting it," Alicent admits, reaching to take the babe into her arms once again. Once he is settled there, the queen sighs contently. "You being the most loyal supporter of her. Rhaenyra and you deciding to betroth the unborn child to Daemon's very own. He feels like he has no control over you."

"It's because he has no control over me," Gwayne grins and when he sobers. "But you do, as well as you have my trust. The truth is, sister, I came here for a favor."

"A favor?" Alicent tits her head to the side. "What is it I can do what Rhaenyra can't?" She looks at her brother's gloom face and the realization comes to it. "You asked her," the queen voices out. "But she denied you."

"I hate to ask you of that," Gwayne admits. "But it can't keep going as it is. Rhaenyra is completely oblivious to this man's open animosity towards me and it would not matter if I didn't fear for my child's life too. "

"What are you talking about?" Alicent asks, worried. "Who would harm your child? Who would dare?"

"Ser Criston Cole," Gwayne seethes. "Is madly in love with my wife and takes anyone who is even remotely close to her for his personal enemy. That boy was looking daggers at me since the night of the wedding and Rhaenyra refuses to listen to the voice of reason and to dispatch him."

"And so you came for me," his sister pales. "Rhaenyra denied you your wish and you came to me so I could overrule her decision."

She looks away.

"This is cruel, Gwayne," Alicent whispers. "Rhaenyra will never forgive me for that."

"No," Gwayne admits. "I doubt she will. But this must be done, Alicent, I cannot trust this man around my son," he moves to grab her softly but firmly by her shoulders. "If not for Jace, I would never ask that of you. But look at him; look at your little nephew. Tell me, does he deserve to be guarded by the very same man who hates the single fact of his existence? Does he, sister?"

A lone tear travels down her cheek.

"He does not," the queen murmurs. "Consider it done."

Chapter Text

"You could pretend to care," Gwayne speaks, trying not to let his pain bleed into his voice. "He is your grandchild the same way Aegon and Helaena are."

"I do care," Otto replies, the same undecipherable expression on his face as before. Gwayne dreads to know what it means. "He simply looks..."

"What?" Gwayne scoffs. "Plain? Like no Targaryen before him?"

"...Like us," Otto finishes down. "Like a normal person and not a crazed fanatic with dragon in a tow."

Gwayne raises his eyebrows at that.

"Is what you really think of them?" He asks. "Gods, you really fooled everyone, didn't you? They all take you for such a great royal supporter and yet here you are, hating their very guts. How do you manage, I wonder? How can you live in the service of the ruling family and despise them at the same time? It must be exhausting."

"It is," his father admits rather quietly. "And I don't hate them; this is what you have gotten wrong. But I don't trust them either; a Targaryen itself is a rather terrible thing in the world. All this power combined with rather unstable mind...Look what came from Maegor; and the worst part is he isn't even exemption, he is the rule. Sooner or later something inside a Targaryen snaps and the Realm have to quench the fire what is left on their wake."

"Is this why you married Alicent into this family?" Gwayne scoffs. "So she could quench the fires when needed."

"That and power," Otto has the audacity to nod. "Even I have to admit, the mastery over dragons is an impressive feat."

"There is no mastery," Gwayne sighs. "My wife tells me the notion we have what Targaryens can control the dragons is an illusion and I rather agree with her on that matter."

"And yet they fly them every time," Otto mentions.

"And every time can be the last time," Gwayne frowns. "And now there's a dragon egg put into the crib of my very own firstborn."

"Are you worried the egg will not hatch or worried it will?" his father asks, a perceptive cunt he is.

"Both, I suppose," Gwayne looks down at Jacaerys in his arms and then at his father. "You can hold him, if you want to."

Ser Otto nods absentmindedly.

"Don't suppose you'll share what is going on in the head of that wife of yours," he speaks and Gwayne grins.

"Absolutely not."

"Thought so," his father agrees as he reaches to hold Jacaerys and Gwayne lets him. "It was worth the try."

"Whatever you're worried she is scheming, you can be rest assured she does if for the Realm," the young lord comments as he gazes at the sight what is his father and his firstborn. "Gods, he really has your nose. This is horrible; no one will marry a lad with such a nose."

"With him being the heir to the Iron Throne?" Otto smirks. "I find the nose a weak obstacle on his way. And if you're so concerned of his love life," his father raises his shrewd gaze at him. "Ask Alicent to betroth her girl to him."

"Helaena?"

"Does my daughter have some other daughter of her own I'm not aware of?" Otto raises an eyebrow. "Yes, Helaena, your niece."

"I thought you were not in favor of interfamilial marriages."

"I might not be, but this particular family both you and your sister married into is. They're obsessed with the purity of their blood, betrothing an aunt to a nephew will make sense. Besides, they're only a year apart."

"And what's in it for you?" Gwayne frowns. "What do you gain from this alliance?"

"Besides two of my grandchildren being married to each other, securing the line of succession?" Lord Hand shrugs. "A sense of permanency, I guess. A knowledge what your hotheaded wife won't marry him off to the first upset over Viserys' doings lord."

"Velaryons are more than just some upset lords and you know it," Gwayne huffs. "By the Seven, with Princess Rhaenys by their side and Daemon married to lord Corlys' daughter, they easily have the majority of dragons. What is Rhaenyra's Syrax against Meleys or even Caraxes? Rhaenyra was smart at playing on their pride and securing an alliance."

"She was," Otto agrees begrudgingly. "And yet I find it hard to accept another stunt like that. We need to stay strong, united, not spread wide all over the Kingdom."

"I hate to admit when you're right," Gwayne scoffs. "But you are, naturally, right. Now give me my son back, I see he is grown tired of your endless lectures."

"You're a man on contradictions, my boy," Otto notices but surrenders the child. "One day it will be a death of you."

"And not Rhaenyra? I was pretty sure she will be the death of me, you mentioned it on many occasions so often I can hardly remember you not saying that."

"Perhaps I was wrong," Otto admits and the mere sight of that is enough to send Gwayne into shock.

"Really?" He wonders. "What changed?"

"You look," his father stops abruptly. "Happy, I suppose. If this insolent girl makes you feel that way, when who am I to oppose it?"

Gwayne tries to force down the gulp in his throat.

"Who are you," he jokes. "And what did you do to my father? Because this soft old man is definitely not him."

"Gwayne," his father says in that specific tone that promises nothing good; and the magic is broken off immediately.

"Oh, here he is," the young lord grins. "And here I though you've left me someone halfway decent in your stead."

"Jest all you like," Lord Hand lets him. "But make sure to keep the head on your shoulders at all times."

"Yes, father."

He isn't that sure about the safety of his head the moment he comes back to his own chambers.

There is a new guard standing by the door - Ser Cargyll, which one Gwayne can't tell.

This is the first sign.

The second sign is his wife pacing around the room in the absolute fury.

"What have you done?" She demands him the first thing Gwayne is through the door.

"I don't...know what you're talking about?" He tries and Rhaenyra scoffs so hard it ought to hurt.

"Don't try that with me, Gwayne, you're not subtle. You made Criston to be removed from my personal guard! I told you, over and over again, what it will not happen, and yet you acted out and arranged it behind my back. Who does that?”

“A father who is deeply worried for his son’s safety,” Gwayne retorts. “And I did not remove Cole – Alicent did.”

“And who asked her of that?” Rhaenyra demands. “Gwayne, it’s...cruel. I don’t have many people around I can trust and robbing me of one of them...This is below you. And to think I thought you actually respect my wishes...”

“I respect your wishes,” her husband argues.

“But not this one. Rhae, this man has tasted something he never should have and it drives him mad. He would love to have you, all of you, for himself and is denied it. He has to watch you, day after day, smiling at me, kissing me, bear my children. And then Jacaerys is born, my literal copy made anew.

Even the sanest of the men would lose his head at this; I will not give him such an opportunity. I will not let him succumb to madness and do something we all will regret. I do not doubt he is a good man, and neither have I denied he is loyal to you. But there’s more than loyalty in people, and one of these things are the causes and consequences and being able to predict how one thing, through the chain of events, would lead to another.

From what I see it, from what I was taught to see, allowed to stay by your side, Ser Cole would snap and do something,” he shrugs.

“Drastic. Bloody. Bad. And considering these are the rooms where our son is residing, I couldn’t simply risk it. Please don’t be cross with me, I genuinely asked you first.”

“And I denied you,” she frowns.

“Yes,” Gwayne admits. “And I went and did the awful thing by acting behind your back. But it was for your own – for Jacaerys’ – safety. You ought to trust me to protect you and our children in the ways I know how.”

“By scheming?” she scoffs, but Gwayne sees she is almost moved. Almost.

“By scheming,” he nods. “By threatening, by blackmailing, by lying and by politicking. By any means necessary. Rhae, love, you and our son are the most important things in my small, whimsical life. The moment you decided to marry me to piss of your cunt of an uncle was the best day of my life; and not because I, for once, one-upped Daemon Targaryen, but because I could marry you. Look at me now,” he brings her hands to his scarred, damaged face.

“See me for who I am. If the look you see disgusts you, so be it; I will not bother you beyond our common duties and the need of the heir we promised to Velaryons. But if there’s something you find...let’s say, attractive-“

“I can’t believe I came into actually liking you,” Rhaenyra murmurs angrily and Gwayne rejoices.

‘Like’ is a very positive word, very promising.

“You’re insufferable creature, the very schemer your lord father is, the same practical asshole I always knew Otto to be. And you claim to love me,” she sighs deeply. “I suppose there could be worse things than being loved by your very own lord-husband, would there?”

“I’d reckon there would,” Gwayne smiles in the insufferable way he knows drives both his sister and his wife crazy. “Am I forgiven yet?”

“Don’t dream of that,” Rhaenyra huffs. “I am still terribly cross with you.”

“But?”

“But I think I can be convinced otherwise.”

And Gwayne has always been very convincing.

It takes them less than two years to produce a promised ward of the House Velaryon. It is a boy, which is a true relief, since Prince Daemon and Lady Laena ended up having the twin girls.

Rhaenyra, the insufferable people-pleaser she is, called him just another Velaryon name.

Lucerys.

Gwayne remembers how many dragons Velaryons have against how many dragons they have and lets it be.

"Show the child to the king the first opportunity you have," Otto suggests when he is being introduced to Lucerys.

"Why?" his son replies warily, rocking his little newborn boy in his arms.

"He looks Queen Aemma born again," Lord Hand replies. "Same face, different hair color."

"Yes," Gwayne grins. "The coloring is mine."

There’s absurd amount of pride in him from this simple fact.

These children may wear Velaryon name and Targaryen legacy in their bones, but their looks, the thing everyone notices the first thing they see them, scream “Hightower.”

It screams of Gwayne’s legacy and of the children with his mother’s doe eyes and his father’s awful nose centuries after they have perished under the relentless force of time.

It makes them immortal in the only way what truly matters.

In the blood.

Chapter Text

“The pig,” Gwayne scoffs. His soft gentle sister stares back at him with the sorrow of the entire world in her eyes. “The fucking pig.”

“The Pink Dread they called it,” Alicent confirms.

Gwayne positively fumes.

“And these brats – two of which are mine – played this cruel prank at Aemond, the boy who dreamt of nothing but a dragon of his own as long as he was alive. Are you fucking kidding me right now?!”

Alicent flinches and Gwayne feels momentary guilt other that.

Then tear-stained face of his little nephew comes to his mind and he sees red.

“I will kill them,” he promises.

“Gwayne, they’re your very own children and a nephew.”

“When I will first kill them and when mourn them. Alicent, how fucking dare they? I thought I raised my boys better than that.”

She looks away.

“I am afraid it’s mostly Aegon’s doing,” she admits. “It smells of his plots. The boys probably just followed his lead.”

“So?” Gwayne scoffs. “They ought to learn to think for themselves. Especially Jace, he is eight years now. He ought to learn something by then.”

“Apparently what he learned is Aegon is a god and can do no wrong,” Alicent sighs. “I will talk to him.”

“And will he listen?” Gwayne sighs. “He is at his age when no authority exists. Eleven years old – the worst age any child can have, truly. He is less a boy and more a little horrid gremlin now.”

Alicent’s next sigh is as deep as the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean.

“There is supposed to be something deep inside him what will listen,” she hopes. “Conscience, if I’m lucky.”

“If we all are lucky,” Gwayne huffs. “I will talk to my brats, you have my word. A fucking pig...”

“Now,” Gwayne speaks as he looks at his two sons, both of whom are stoically avoiding his gaze. “Whose dumb idea was it?”

Luke is blinking away tears rapidly and Gwayne’s heart aches for him. But he can’t let his affections control him: the boys need to learn and never repeat something like that again.

“Boy are just being boys,” Viserys brushed the ordeal off and Gwayne for a moment imagined himself a kingslayer. Oh, it would feel so good to finally end the torture this man brings on Alicent without even noticing; how gratifying it would be. But when, again, both Rhaenyra and Alicent will be harmed by these actions.

Father says the king is slowly dying. Gwayne can’t fucking wait.

“Who thought of it?” he asks again, piercing his firstborn with a stern look.

“It was me,” Jace mumbles and Gwayne wants to scream. He knows very fucking well it was not Jacaerys; his son might be gullible and easy to influence, but he is not cruel.

“Oh, was it?” he asks in a tone what implies he trusts not a word. “Was it really your idea? To ruin a perfectly fine day you uncle had? Is that your idea of fun, Jacaerys?!”

Luke is full on sobs now, thick tears streaming down his face. But even now he manages to step for his older brother's defence.

“It was Aegon,” he gulps between sobs. “He said it would be funny.”

“And was it?” the young lord turns to his second son. “Was it funny, Luke? Did Aemond laugh?”

“No,” and Lucerys is crying so hard heavy sobs shake his entire frame.

Gwayne hates himself for that, but he also hates the utter look of pain and betrayal on Aemond’s face and how he cried into the hem of his mother’s skirts.

They gave me a pig.

“And did you think it would? You humiliated your uncle, your kin in front of dragonkeepers. You made him feel less than what he is. His dragon didn’t hatch, that is true, but you know what is?”

Both boys stare at him wide-eyed.

“What it doesn’t matter,” he barely skips the ‘fucking’ part of that sentence, gods know Rhaenyra would kill him if he swore in front of their boys. “He is still young and there are plenty of dragons around! Sooner or later he will claim one, but even if he doesn’t,” Gwayne kneels in front of his sons, looking both of them in their deep brown eyes resembling his own so much. The boys blink at him and even Jace has tears on his face now.

“Even if Aemond never claims a dragon of his own, it still means absolutely nothing. The fact what he has no dragon doesn’t make him less in any way. It doesn’t, do you hear me?! Or you think I’m less than your mother because I have no dragon?” he sees boys flinch at that and shake their heads frantically. “Do you think the king is less important than you?!”

He stops, catching a breath. His sons stare at him with an expression of overbearing guilt on their young faces. Good.

“With a dragon or not,” Gwayne continues. “Aemond is still your family, he is still your blood and you will love and cherish him like you should! Is that clear?”

“Yes, father,” two boys murmur.

“Now go clean yourselves and then apologize to your uncle,” he commands and sees them quickly scurry away.

Raising children should not be so hard.

“Aemond,” he finds his nephew where he usually hides, in the courtyard under the Weirwood tree. There is a heavy tome in his hands and an air of serenity around him.

Aemond looks up.

“Uncle,” he greets him as Gwayne sits next to the boy.

“I take it your nephews apologized,” he asks gently and Aemond frowns.

“They looked upset,” he admits. “I think Luke has been crying.”

Luke has been crying, but it’s not something Gwayne will burden Aemond with.

“They felt guilty, I hope,” he comments and is relieved to see his nephew nod.

“I think so,” the boy agrees. “If was probably Aegon’s idea to begin with.”

“It doesn’t make it any better,” Gwayne hugs the child a little and Aemond practically melts into the touch. “It was cruel and unseemly of the princes of the Realm. It hurt you.”

“It did,” Aemond looks away in a shame. “I didn’t expect...Aegon and Jace I can deal with, but Luke...”

“What about Luke?”

“He was into this too,” Aemond frowns and there is a clear expression of hurt on his face. “I thought we were best friends. I thought he actually...liked me.”

“He likes you,” Gwayne hurries to say. “He was upset he hurt you so.”

“And still he did it,” the young prince frowns. “Because Aegon told him to. He might like me, but it’s clear he likes Aegon more.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“I would,” Aemond stares at him defiantly. “Luke follows him everywhere like a puppy; you’d think it would be annoying, but Aegon revels in it,” he huffs and looks away. Wait, is that...jealousy?

“You really like my youngest son, do you not?” Gwayne smirks and sees Aemond’s face darken with a shade of pink.

“Don’t tease me,” Aemond asks. “He is...someone I care about. Deeply.”

Gwayne can’t keep a smug smile pulling on his face and Aemond scoffs.

“Do not smile like that!” he demands.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t,” the boy huffs and it makes Gwayne laugh.

Aemond tenses at the sound of it before he realizes his uncle is not laughing at him. Then he gives Gwayne a tentative smile.

“Do you think I’ll ever have a dragon of my own?” he asks quietly then, vulnerably. Gwayne’s heart aches for this boy, made insecure by his very own kin’s cruel jests. He oaths to fix it.

“Of course you will,” he hugs Aemond closer. “Laena Velaryon hadn’t claimed Vhagar till she was five and ten and now she is the rider of the biggest dragon alive. You have time.”

Aemond hums in response. “Do you think I’ll have a big dragon?”

“I don’t know,” Gwayne mules. “Do you want a big dragon?”

Aemond’s eyes shine at that.

“Yes!” he exclaims. “Bigger than Meleys!”

“Like Vhagar?”

“Like Vhagar,” the boy nods eagerly.

“Very well,” his uncle nods, “Then one day you will claim a dragon as big as Vhagar.”

“Really?” Aemond asks, eyes full of desperate hope and longing to belong, to fit in, to be enough.

Gwayne hugs him tighter. “Really,” he promises.

“There is some event taking place at Harrenhal,” Gwayne hums. “Lord Lyonel is moving back home for the time being for it. Some kind of...tournament of festival of sort.”

“Sounds fun,” Rhaenyra nods. “But pretty far away. I would come if not my condition,” she gestures at her enormous stomach. “You’d think by the third time I would get used to it already.”

“You look positively ravishing, my love,” her husband is practically shines with all the love he feels for her.

It occurs to Rhaenyra after the third time she gets pregnant what she actually loves him, this complete fool of a man. This perfect ally she never expected to find. She decides to inform you.

“I’m afraid I’ve fallen,” she comments plainly and sees Gwayne frown. “In love. With you. How dreadful.”

She sees the moment her words register in her husband’s mind, sees the way his face splits with the blinding grin.

“Hear hear,” he exclaims. “Princess Rhaenyra has finally succumbed to my charms! My sly plan has worked!”

She almost chokes on the lemon cake she was eating.

“You’re an awful man,” Rhaenyra informs her husband. “I almost died because of you.”

“What a terrible cause of death it would be,” Gwayne mulls. “Chocked on her favorite cake. Tragic.”

The princess throws a piece at him, the one he barely avoids.

“How disrespectful,” he feigns a frown. “Is this something you will be teaching our little boy – or a girl?”

Rhaenyra giggles like she is five-and-ten again.

“I will teach them much worse,” she promises. “How to disobey authority, how to sneak in the cakes after the dark. How to seduce handsome people,” the princess winks at him. “All the important things.”

“Color me terrified,” he hums. “And aroused for some reason.”

She only laughs louder.

“Creep,” Rhaenyra manages between her half-sobs half-laughs. Gwayne gives her a fond look and moves to plant a kiss on her forehead.

“Ew,” two voices sound from the doorframe almost in unison. “Gross.”

Gwayne turns around, giving two boys standing at the threshold a stern look.

“No ‘ew’,” he commands. “One day you will be kissing someone too. How would you like for me to jump right out of the nearest bushes to ‘ew’ at you?”

“I would be very surprised, considering we will be eloping in the privacy of a building,” Jacaerys, always the smartass, replies.

His little brother giggles at that, a sound resembling Rhaenyra’s own laugh so much it makes something inside Gwayne’s body twist with adoration.

“Little monsters,” he complains to his wife and Rhaenyra grins back proudly. “You spurn them out only for me to be tortured, confess to it.”

“Of course,” the princess nods wisely. “Everyone knows children are the bane of one’s existence and the end of the joy. Are you two not, my boys?”

Both of the boys giggle louder, used to their parent’s weird antics. Someone could be alarmed by the way these two interact, if only this someone was blind and didn’t see how hopelessly in love Princess Rhaenyra and her Lord Hightower are.

“How is the baby?” Luke comes to his mother and reaches for her stomach. She lets him, her son’s little hands caressing the bundle gently. “Is he coming out soon?”

“He?” Gwayne perks up. “How do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

“He doesn’t,” Jace smirks. “He just wants to have a little brother.”

“Well, you have one,” Lucerys argues. “It’s only fair I get one too.”

“It might be a little sister,” Jacaerys tries and immediately is met with his brother’s scoff.

“It’s a boy!” the little boy exclaims. “The little brother I will play with and teach everything too.”

Rhaenyra and Gwayne exchange found looks as Luke keeps trotting around the room, excited. Jace laughs at his brother, but both of his parents find it to be a good kind of laugh, a kind one.

Rhaenyra has never wanted to have children.

But now, in Gwayne’s embrace, with her little boys running around, imitating the fights between Aegon the Conqueror and his many enemies, she feels content.

She feels...happy.

“What is it you wanted so ask me?” she asks later as they lay together in bed, both of their sons climbed atop of the covers and fell asleep there. Gwayne looks away from putting some hides over his relentless sons to gaze at her with a question.

“Ask you?” he repeats.

“Yes, earlier that day when you mentioned Harrenhal,” Rhaenyra reminds him. “It almost felt like you haven’t finished before the boys came running in.”

“Oh,” his face lights up with recognition. “Yes! Lord Lyonel is going back there to prepare the event taking place, but Harwin can’t go, he is too preoccupied with his duties as the Lord Commander of the City Watch. So I thought,” he looks sheepishly at her. “I might have offered my help. Is it terrible? Would you be awfully cross with me if I went?”

He is fretting more the longer Rhaenyra is quiet.

“I can stay if you want to,” he adds quietly, sadly and something in his tone breaks her heart a little. Let it be known she is no jailer of her husband.

“Are you mad?” she huffs. “Go if you want to. Who am I to deny you some joy?”

“Really?” Gwayne tries his best to hide his obvious joy, but all his attempts are futile at best. “You truly don’t mind? You know I hate to leave you in the state you’re in.”

“And what the state would that be?” she scoffs but quickly smoothers her face into a smile. “I am pregnant, Gwayne, not ill. I went through it twice already and I’m sure I could live two weeks without your constant fretting.

“I do not fret,” he denies and Rhaenyra has to laugh at that.

“You do when it comes to me or the children.”

“Well,” he pouts, actually pouts, the grown ass man he is. “You can’t fault me for that. I love you.”

“And we love you,” she replies earnestly, easily. “Now go to your damn tourney and enjoy every moment of it. And let me sleep, gods damn it, I am tired.”

He laughs at that softly, tugging the hides so his sons would not get cold through the night. Rhaenyra is yet to see father more caring than her lord husband.

“Your order is my command, your highness,” Gwayne smiles as he moves to kiss her forehead. “Rest well, my dear.”

And so she does and her sleep is a heavy, dreamless thing.

Chapter Text

The news reaches them in the eve, at the worst moment possible.

Alicent is treating her husband’s awful injuries, the unknown illness spreading fast and claiming more and more skin. She just managed to burn some of the worst of the wound down, trying to ignore Viserys’ painful groans, when someone knocks and there is Ser Criston by the door.

“Your Grace,” he nods to Alicent. “Your Grace,” this one to the king. “I am terribly sorry to interrupt, but I feel its better you hear it from me.”

And there is something in his stance, something deep in the frown of his brows what tells Alicent all she is so scared to hear.

The words ring in her ears louder than any bell could, Viserys calls to her, Cole too, but all she can think of is her brother’s smile, his last words.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

Liar.

The news reach the princess as the walks to the godswood; later stages of the pregnancy became barely bearable and Rhaenyra often remembers her mother in times like these; a huge bulging stomach and a sweat covering her from head to toe; queen Aemma in a huge bathtub filled with lukewarm water.

Mother’s body on a funeral pyre.

“Did you hear?” she registers a whisper. “Harrenhal is on fire. Hundreds are dead.”

This is the moment the floor goes away from her feet.

Literally.

“Princess!” she hears a shout and immediately someone is holding her up. She looks sideways and recognizes her very own good father, as he crouches next to her, hands steady on her shaking frame.

“Rhaenyra,” he asks quietly. “Are you alright?”

In this moment, as she looks into the face of the father of the man she loves, the man she killed, all Rhaenyra can feel is overwhelming guilt.

And then something red drops into the floor beneath her.

And again.

And again.

A small red river travels down her thighs and Rhaenyra feels more than sees horror dawning at Lord Hand’s face.

“We need a maester!” he shouts. “Now! Princess Rhaenyra needs a master!”

But the hour is late and they’re at the furthest part of the castle. Everyone who was there just a moment ago is long gone, run to their errands or simply to bed.

Rhaenyra would laugh at the expression of absolute helplessness at Lord Hightower’s face, if not for the fact what with every drop of blood her child’s life washes away too.

It is more than a moon too early.

Gwayne is dead and now she is killing their child.

Rhaenyra can’t help the sob what tears itself from her mouth as Lord Hand gently lowers her to the ground.

“There, there,” he whispers and it’s painfully clear now bad he is at comforting people. He reminds her of Daemon in that moment, of his painfully awkward condolences at her mother’s funeral. Strangely, only his messy and clumsy attempts made her feel even a little better.

But now nothing can.

She is destined to bleed out just like her mother did, carrying her unborn child with her to the grave.

There is a sound of steps and two figures appear.

“What happened?” she hears a familiar voice and raises her head to look at her cousin Laenor.

“She went into labor,” Otto explains. “But it’s too early; I fear the child might not survive.”

“How early?” another voice asks, the unknown one this time. He sounds confident and it gives Rhaenyra some dim glimpse of a hope.

“A month,” she hears Lord Hand reply.

“That’s not too bad, she can pull it,” the same voice comments. “Laenor, run for the maester, I’ll handle it there.”

“Are you sure?” her cousin asks. “It looks...grim.”

“Of course it looks grim,” another man scoffs. “Childbirth usually is. Now which one of us have trained with maesters, you or me?”

“Right,” Laenor replies. “I will be swift.”

“Be that,” the man agrees.

Then there are more sounds of steps and something soft is being pushed under Rhaenyra’s head. She can see a little bit forward now and notices a young handsome face with rye colored hair adorning it. The face looks back at her, concerned.

“Hello, your highness,” the unknown man speaks. “I hate for us to meet in such way, but we work with what we can. I am Joffrey, Joffrey Lonmouth.”

“Rhaenyra Targaryen,” she manages, just above the whisper.

“Right,” the man nods. “I knew that. I think everyone knows that. Now, what I need you to know is what you’re giving birth. Right now, not in a month, but right in that very second. I know it’s too early and I know it’s scary, but I promise I will be there with you along the way.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Otto scoffs. “The lives of my grandchild and its mother are not toys to be played with.”

“I know that,” Ser Joffrey replies darkly. “I could be hung if the princess dies and I named responsible. Or, in our situation, elbow deep in her blood. But I did train with maesters for several years and I truly know what I'm doing.”

“Have you helped to give birth before?” Lord Hand asks, still suspicious.

“Only watched.” Joffrey shrugs. “But I’ve sewn up arms and legs, faces and stomachs. I helped to identify the poison and the cause of death. I successfully cut the man open and saved his life by that. I know what I’m doing. Now, princess,” all the way the man kept feeling her stomach. “I think the baby decided to be difficult today. Nothing too serious, we’ll just need to move him around a little. There will be...slight discomfort at your lower parts. Ready?”

Slight discomfort? It feels like someone is ripping her open.

“Ready,” she croaks. “Do something, I beg of you.”

“I am trying,” he admits and with these words Joffrey presses on Rhaenyra’s body as hard as he can.

Or so it feels so.

Slight discomfort?!  It feels like there are literal stones moving inside her.

“There, there,” Ser Lonmouth whispers and sounds much more convincing than Otto was before. “All good, the babe is an easily convincible one. Now all you need is to push. Count with me: one, two, three – and then start pushing. You’ve done that before, I believe?”

“Twice.”

“When you know what to do. Go on, princess, let this baby see the light of day.”

“It’s almost night,” Otto argues and young knight scoffs.

“It is a manner of speaking! Alright, princess, again. One, two, three, push!”

The maester gets to them when the baby is already out and bawling his lung out.

“Well done, princess,” Joffrey comforts her as he moves to wrap the child in the Hand’s cloak. It’s another boy and, despite being under-carried, he looks quite healthy and clearly displeased with the world around him.

Joffrey can share that sentiment.

“Have you chosen a name yet?” he asks cheerfully when, truth be told, all he wants to do is to get drunk and bury his hands into Laenor’s hair. Maybe cry a little. Gods, it was stressful.

“Joffrey,” Rhaenyra whispers softly and for a moment the knight doesn’t get it. “Meet Joffrey, the namesake who helped to bring you into this world.”

“Are you...sure?” Joffrey – the older one, obviously – asks hesitantly. It’s the first time someone names a child after him. “Shouldn’t you consult with your husband?”

The princess’ face contorts, all joy evaporating, and there are heavy dreadful sobs coming out of her chest now, full of so much despair Joffrey – again, the big one – flinches away.

“Have I said something wrong?” he asks quietly the Lord Hand.

“We just received the news,” Otto Hightower replies grimly. “My son is dead.”

“I have killed him,” Rhaenyra whisper as she rocks Joffrey back and forth. “I told him to go.”

“You encouraged his own desire,” Otto argues. “And you know what would happen if you didn’t? If you put your heel down and demanded him to stay?”

Rhaenyra looks up, her gaze unfocused, her skin pale and sickly. Lord Hand isn’t completely sure she won’t drop dead at any second.

“What?” she asks plainly, the question more a mere word than anything else.

“He would stay,” Lord Hightower begins. “And when the fire would happen. And he would blame himself for not being there. And he would blame you for not letting him go. Guilt would eat him alive and he would not be the man you’ve married, he would become spiteful and morbid and would avoid you and the children like the plague. He would drink too much and get into random fights, and one night, when he would be too drunk to pick up his battles, he would meet his demise. A sad, pitiful, unworthy of his status death somewhere at the Flea Bottom.”

Rhaenyra winces.

As much as Otto’s words sound completely awful, they also ring some truth. It does sound like something Gwayne would do, he is – was – an honorable fool set on helping his fellow knights everywhere he could.

He would grieve over the fall of the House Strong and blame himself for not being there with them.

This image, as horrid as it is, brings her a small spark of comfort.

“What does it matter?” she still replies bitterly. “He is still dead.”

Lord Hand comes closer to her and cups her face, gentler than he knew he could be.

“What matters, my dear girl,” he speaks softly. “What you’re alive and so are your children. You need to raise them so Gwayne could be proud. You need to be both a mother and a father for them now. This is what matters, Rhaenyra.”

And with that he lets go.

Chapter Text

They receive the body back in the casket; what is left of it, at least.

There is a slight, futile hope it's not Gwayne, but all wishful thinking is cut off by the sad shake or maester Orwyle's head.

"I recognize the body," he informs them. "A lot of muscle mass was burned off to the point of not being identifiable, but the teeth are the ones I personally treated on several occasions," he looks at the family with sympathy what could not and would not help. "My apologies."

"Thank you," Rhaenyra whispers, her hand in a death grip around Alicent's. Rhaenyra is distinctly aware she might be hurting the queen, but there is no power in the world that could make her unclench her hand.

Jacaerys is crying silently into her skirts.

He mastered the art of it in the last several days; the tears themselves being the only proof the crying itself is taking place.

Luke, in contrast to his brother, wails loudly, the sounds of his cries so heartbreaking what even the stoic of kingsguard avert the eyes and brush away something what in different circumstances could be called tears.

"Your Highness," Ser Harwin Strong calls.

Rhaenyra looks from the ground.

There are dark shadows under her beautiful eyes and the corners of her mouth are tragically downcast.

She looks less a dragon and more a bird with its wings broken, crushed under the unbearable weird of circumstances.

But when Jacaerys tugs on her hand and a glimpse of a woman she truly is comes forward, all thinly pressed lips and burning anger in the depths of her eyes.

"Ser Harwin," she greets him. "How good it is for you to join us."

She doesn't mention what Gwayne died in Harwin's home, not what he went there because of the young Lord Strong.

Some part of Harwin thinks it should have been him.

Larys did not attend the funeral, too exhausted by grieving their father; Harwin worries about him. His brother has always been more fragile than most, with his born imperfection affecting his every step.

Harwin fears father looked over Larys because of that and wrongly; there are few people as clever and perceptive in the kingdom as his younger brother.

Harwin has an awful creeping suspicion the fire what devoured their home was no accident and rather a decisive action, and he hopes Larys will help him to uncover the plot behind it.

Whoever is responsible for the deaths of Gwayne Hightower and Lyonel Strong will pay for that.

The worst part is, the cruel jest of the fate, is what Harwin could go with them.

He could accompany his father on his journey home but simply decided against it.

There was an argument between them before, for father never understood or accepted the majority of Harwin's life choices.

Namely, he had no understanding of Harwin's 'clear disregard of honor' - siring children with a woman he loved but, unfortunately, wasn't married to.

His love was a wife of another lord, miserable in her marriage. Their love was like a breath of fresh air for the both of them.

Lord Lyonel didn't see it like that.

"You have your honor," were the last words he has thrown at his father. "I have mine."

And the next time Harwin saw his father, he was just a burnt down corpse and Harwin has the Head of his House.

The responsibility what came to him way too early.

People from all over the Realm come to attend the funeral.

Some even come from as far as Pentos.

"Lady Laena," Rhaenyra smiles. "It's so good of you to come."

She finds no anger in her for her cousin, no resentment. Daemon was the one to leave her behind, Laena is hardly at fault here.

"Rhaenyra," the lady smiles.

She is in a peculiar state Rhaenyra was just some time ago, a small bundle of stomach already showing itself.

"I am terribly sorry for your loss."

The princess reaches to take her cousin's hands in hers.

"Thank you," she replies earnestly. "I still can't fully believe it happened. One day Gwayne was here, we were laughing...And then the news came," she suppresses the sob. "There is hardly anything left of him."

Laena moves closer without any words, she hugs her cousin gently as Rhaenyra gulps for air.

"It is a true tragedy," she finally speaks as Rhaenyra recovers. "I haven't talked to Lord Hightower much, but I've heard him to be a truly honorable man. I heard he made you happy."

"He did," Rhaenyra nods. "He might not have been my fist choice, but I've grown to love him, truly. And he," she looks down at her hands, fretting with her rings restlessly. Laena moves her hand atop of hers, stopping the motion. "He was so good with our boys," Rhaenyra finally lets out. "I wish he got to meet Joffrey."

"Joffrey," Laena smiles. "I've heard of the occurrence of his birth. Laenor brags about it so much you'd think he was the one to help you give birth.”

Rhaenyra smiles despite herself.

"It is something I'd expect from Laenor," she agrees. "Still, it is a great luck he and Lord Lonmouth happened to be passing by then they could. I struggle to think of how things would have ended if not for Ser Joffrey."

"Joffrey is a good man," Laena nods. "He fought with my father and brother at the Stepstones. He is loyal to Laenor to a fault."

"It is a good thing, isn't it?" Rhaenyra smiles. "To have someone you can trust by your side."

"Yes," Laena agrees. "But I fear father doesn't agree with it. He tried to marry Laenor off more times than you can count, and all for naught. My brother refuses to be tied down by the vows of marriage."

"He is within his right, I believe," Rhaenyra hums, relating all too well. She used to think of a marriage like of a prison or a death sentence before Gwayne. "And with the succession of Driftmark already being settled, I think he is actually allowed to stay unwed."

"That's true," her cousin nods. "But it doesn't mean my father likes it. Speaking of the succession," she smiles. "Rhaena would love to meet her betrothed."

Rhaenyra smiles back. It is good Lady Laena and Prince Daemon did not oppose her proposition; Daemon, she knew better than many, could bring a whole storm over his daugher marrying a Hightower. Only gods know what Laena said to calm him down.

"Lucerys is here somewhere," she replies. "He is terribly distraught over his father's death and is mostly by his uncle's side these days." Laena raises an eyebrow at that. "Aemond. They're thick as thieves; I think my little brother is Luke's favorite person in the world."

"It's good they're getting along," Laena smiles. "There were some...rumors about the possible animosity between you and the queen. Glad to know they're fruitless."

"Animosity," Rhaenyra repeats. "Why would the queen and I dislike each other?"

Laena looks uncomfortable at that.

"These are just rumors," she tries.

"Rumors that apparently reached Pentos," Rhaenyra argues. "Please tell me what people are talking about."

Her cousin sighs. "They speak of the struggle over succession," she admits. "Some lords would rather see Aegon on the throne; they insist he is the rightful heir as the firstborn son of the king."

"And they expect Alicent and me to fight over it?" Rhaenyra asks, indignant. "I heard of these rumors, people have warned me more than once...But Alicent is my friend. I admit we are not as close as we once were; but I've married her brother, my children are her nephews. Surely you don't expect her to deny her own blood their birthright?"

"I don't know," Laena frowns. "I've also heard many are not pleased with the way you navigate the court. They dislike how you favor Velaryons, naming two of your sons our names and even going as far as betrothing your second son to my daughter before he was even born."

"And what would they like me to do?" Rhaenyra frowns. "The entire Targaryen dynasty has Velaryon blood in it, we have always been allies. Do they expect me to ignore it?"

"I think Lords of the Realms afraid of some kind of..."Laena hesitates. "Valyrian elitism. Both of our Houses are valyrian and we have certain...tendencies to keep our blood pure. Many dislike that."

"Many do not have dragons by their side," Rhaenyra cuts off.

"This is what Daemon said too," Laena hums. "He thinks you're being wise in tying our houses as close together as possible. Even without our dragons, my father's naval influence is possibly the strongest force dominating this side of the Narrow Sea."

"And my father made a mistake by displeasing yours in the past," Rhaenyra agrees. "The mistake I'm trying to mend."

"I rather prefer it the way it is now,"  Laena admits. "I fear Viserys is nowhere near Daemon when it comes to being a husband," she looks keenly at the princess. "Would you prefer me to be the one to marry your father?"

"I don't know," Rhaenyra admits. "No. Yes. I didn't...Too many things would have been different then."

"Alicent Hightower would still be by your side," Laena notices thoughtfully. "And Daemon Targaryen would be unwed."

Rharnyra feels her face burn.

"I do not know," she begins. "What you're implying, but-"

"Easy, cousin," Laena calls. "I am well aware I am not Daemon's first choice. He wanted to wed you, you know. And not only did your father deny him, but as he rushed back from the Vale, his previous marriage...extinguished," Laena carefully works around this fact. "You were already wed to the son of Otto Hightower. I heard he had thrown a fit over it; flew directly to the Stepstones and burned as many Triarchy's ships as he could.

Rhaenyra stares at her, wide-eyed.

"I didn't know that," she admits. "I thought...I thought he left me."

Laena smiles at her sadly.

"He would never leave you," she confesses. "Not willingly. Why do you think he is not here to mourn with the others?"

"Because he doesn't mourn Gwayne's death," Rhaenyra realizes.

"No," Laena shakes her head. "I fear he celebrates it. I'd hate you to see him in the state he is in now, so I did not allow him to come."

"Thank you," Rhaenyea replies earnestly. "I don't think I could suffer that. Gwayne is...He was-" she has to force a lump in her throat down. "The loss of him is too fresh. I fear I would hurt uncle if he had tried to mock my late husband in any way."

"I know," Laena acknowledges. "That's why I denied him. I am in no rush to become a widow."

Chapter Text

Afterwards the memory of that happened is blurred.

Their words contradict each other; who said what, who has thrown the first punch, who has grabbed the stone; whose knife it was to begin with.

It is a small harmless looking thing, that blade; and yet the edge of it cut Aemond's face open like the ripe fruit.

Luke is blinking rapidly, blood dripping from his nose into the fabric of his deep green tonic.

It's the last time he wears green.

Rhaena's hand is wrapped firmly around his and it makes him feel almost calm.

Almost.

Because the scream of his uncle is still ringing in his ears, the weight of the dagger is forever weighing his hand down.

Luke wonders how is it one can do the right and the wrong thing at the same time, for he has protected his betrothed.

But it cost Aemond the eye.

It is an occurrence what will haunt him in his sleep for years to come; how the girls came to Jace and him in distress; Vhagar, their late mother's dragon, has been stolen.

It will take Luke years to understand the ignorance of that thought. You can't steal a dragon.

"Viserys," he hears his aunt beg. "He is your son, your blood."

But grandfather Viserys had always been weak; he has always tried to appease both sides.

And under the heavy gaze of princess Rhaenys, whose granddaughter Aemond harmed - almost killed, Rhaenys insists - he relents.

"Aemond is not completely innocent there," he speaks and even Luke knows these are the wrong words to say.

He dreads to look at Aemond, avoids to since the moment his blade sliced the fresh; but in a mere second steals a glimpse and sees the understanding settle.

Grim, awful realization of being nothing but a political pawn for your own father; nothing but a spare.

Viserys will not protect Aemond against the wrath of the Queen Who Wasn't, and it means - Luke knows – what Queen Alicent must.

'Is is my mother's dragon!' rungs in his ears a voice of a girl he hadn't truly known till his father’s funeral, a girl he was betrothed before he was even born.

'If you wanted to claim her, you should have done it earlier,' Aemond's voice retorts. 'Maybe you can have a pig instead.'

This is what escalates it, to the point where they're exchanging kicks and punches; four on one.

It registers in Lucerys' mind much later how unfair it truly was.

But Aemond doesn't show what he is scared, he doesn't hesitate; he lashes out over and over again, until Jace and Luke are pushed away, until he is holding Rhaena down and raises a stone in the air.

In that moment, in the dim light of the pale moon, Lucerys sees him for who he is.

A cornered wild beast.

The one who would do anything to fight off the attack.

Even draw blood.

And Luke doesn't think, he sees Jace's dagger discharged in the sand and rushes for it.

He once asked his father what being a husband means.

"Being a protector" Gwayne Hightower said then. "Defending your wife at every step."

And so he does it.

Lucerys grabs the dagger and strikes.

It's the aftermath and Aemond's eye is no more; a long, red scar crossing his eyelids.

Luke feels sick, he feels feverish and his breathing is hard and uneven, the broken nose preventing the easy flow of the air in and out.

But there are heavy hands of Lord Corlys Velaryon on his shoulders and Rhaena's clammy palm in his.

She is trembling and Luke gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

He is too preoccupied by looking anywhere but Aemond to notice his burning stare at their intertwining hands.

If Gwayne Hightower was there, he would notice it.

He would try to mend things up, bring the family back together.

But Gwayne Hightower is dead and his family is too grief-stricken to keep their heads cool.

Alicent grows more desperate with every word falling from the mouth of her husband.

'What would you like me to do, Alicent, cut the girl's eye off?'

'Aemond provoked them; the girls just lost their mother.'

'It is unfortunate the boy lost the eye, but Luke did well by protecting his future wife; Lord Gwayne raised him well.’

Every word, every sound of it is another proof of his indifference, neglect, abuse.

His son was maimed because of that girl and all he cares about is keeping appearances!

"This is insufficient," she calls back as Viserys moves to leave the room. "Aemond has been damaged permanently, my king. Good will cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent,” the king replies. “But I cannot restore the eye.”

“No,” she agrees. “Because it has been taken. There is a debt to be paid.”

There is a deep, dark, twisted fire burning down her insides.

“I shall have one of their granddaughter’s eyes in return,” Alicent turns to Velaryons.

The Old, the True, the Brave.

There is nothing brave in hiding behind six years old boy who has misplaced his loyalty due to his mother’s poor judgment.

Viserys sends Corlys a quick glance and shakes his head.

"My dear wife,” he begins. “Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment. I will not punish a child for an accident," he declares.

Something inside Alicent snaps; it breaks and it burns, turning into dark smoldering ashes like her dear brother's body before.

The queen seeks Rhaenyra’s eyes, but the princess looks away, not being able to hold up her gaze, not willing to.

She stands close to Daemon, too close for it to be polite or decent; and the man's hand is resting on the princess' small back in a mundane gesture of comfort.

Gwayne's body is still warm in its grave.

The Rogue Prince meets her eyes, unflinching, unbothered. His gaze seems to challenge Alicent: 'go on, try to do something, try to move against me and mine.'

Under the mocking sight of two violet eyes - the number what is foreign for her son now - she feels the last stance of her resolve crumble.

It is a swift, unplanned, uncontrollable movement after Viserys' dagger and she grabs it before anyone in the room has a chance to react.

"If the king will not see justice," the Mother in her speaks. "The queen will.”

She barely sees both Corlys and Rhaenys move, hiding their granddaughter behind the backs; she doesn't hear the terrified scream of a girl or sees the shock come into her husband's face and her father pinch his lips in disapproval.

All she sees is a flash of red and silver, and here she stands, her childhood companion, the woman who keeps betraying Alicent's trust - Rhaenyra Targaryen, who clutches the queen's wrists in hers, trying to push her away.

She is protecting the girl; she is protecting Velaryons.

Over and over, ever since the very day Jacaerys was born, Rhaenyra kept kneeling in front of Lord Corlys and his wife, giving them more and more pieces to quench their anger and to sate their hunger.

But Velaryons are the unsatable bunch, too prideful, too obsessed with their valyrian lineage.

Just like Targaryens are.

And here she is now, defending the House she sold her second son into, protecting the girl who was the cause of Aemond's awful injury.

Just another betrayal on the top of all the previous ones.

"You would sell yourself over," Alicent whispers. "If it meant you'd get what you want. Your greed rivals only your hypocrisy."

"They are just children," Rhaenyra tries to push back; blade coming dangerously close to her face. There are the drops of sweat running down her face. "You can't punish them for my son's actions!"

"How many more will you turn to your side?" Alicent demands to know, struggling to keep a hold, both on the dagger and on herself. "Gwayne you bewitched, who is next? Your very own uncle perhaps?"

Alicent sees a glimpse of hurt flash across Rhaenyra's face, but determination fights it off and she presses back harder.

Distantly Alicent can hear the voices of people in the room, screaming for her to stop.

There were they when her son was mutilated, why haven't they screamed then?

"Try all you must," she hisses. "Pretend all you care, but I see you as you are."

And with that balance shifts and suddenly the pressure on Alicent's wrists slips and she lurches forward.

She quickly recoils and moves to look in front of her.

Rhaenyra stares at the queen with the expression of naked hurt and disbelief.

There is a thick red stream of blood running down her hand.

Blood meets the floor with the sickening drip drip drip sound.

Alicent’s hand twitches, the blade falling to the floor with a loud pang.

She looks around in horror, sees firmly set expression on Rhaenys' face and grim determination on Corlys’, sees Lucerys, wide-eyed, trying to cower Rhaena with his small body, Daemon bringing them both closer.

She raises her gaze at her father and sees something unfathomable swimming down his eyes, too complicated for her to understand.

She doesn't look back at Viserys, too terrified of what his look might show.

Aemond shifts in place awkwardly before moving to her. She reaches out and he outs his little, injured head on her shoulder; seeking and giving comfort even in times like these.

"Do not mourn me, mother," he speaks and everyone's attention snaps to him. "I may have lost an eye, but I've gained a dragon."

Alicent closes her eyes and wishes to wake up from this fever dream.

But it's not a dream.

The real life is worse than any nightmare could ever be.

Chapter Text

"This is entirely unfair," Luke huffs and Laenor nods patiently, gesturing for him to continue.

"Rhaena should be the Lady of the Tides," his sweet named son scoffs and Laenor nods once again.

"I agree with you wholeheartedly," he lets little Luke Velaryon know; they started calling him Velaryon on the second year of his stay. The boy was to marry into the family anyway; he was to become Velaryon one day. "But the world is a cruel and unfair thing, little one. My own mother was denied the throne twice just because of the sex she was born in. And between the two of us, I believe she would make a much better ruler than your old grandsire. But shh, it's a secret."

Luke giggles and Laenor feels content at that.

Joffrey, the fool he is, keeps watching them across the room, soft smile playing on his lips.

Laenor knows what he is thinking; he has caught himself on that thought more than once already.

It's feels almost like Luke is their son.

Laenor knows he will never voice it aloud, nor what these thoughts would ever be accepted or encouraged.

He feels what his preferences and adamant refusal to marry set a barrier between his father and him, the barrier he has yet to find a way around.

The last strand was when Laenor put his foot down and downright denied the union between him and that Baratheon girl.

Not only she was too young for him, but she was a girl, and that was the problem

She lacked...certain bodily parts Laenor favored.

He remembers screaming into his father's face what he rather flies Seasmoke into the heat of the battle and dies like the knight and a fighter he is than sit in some fortress made prison to fatten and make unsuccessful attempts to bed someone 'with no cock between their legs'. That was the expression he used and the look on his father's face is the one forever embedded into his mind.

Incomprehension and disgust.

Laenor doesn't claim he knows everything about the world, but he knows for sure what was not the look the lord gives to his heir.

He almost expected to be disinherited and then the proposition of the princess came.

A ward, a little boy raised in the traditions of the House Velaryon to marry Laenor's eldest niece - Rhaena is her name, Laenor found out.

It seemed almost too good to be true, a male heir both him and Laena failed to provide for different reasons, someone Corlys could shift his expectations on and let Laenor breathe finally.

And then the boy arrived, your years earlier than he should, Laenor found him to be everything he hoped for.

He silently asked late Lord Gwayne Hightower for forgiveness for claiming his son as his own little heir.

Something told him Gwayne wouldn't really mind.

He loved his children to a fault, from what Laenor gathered, and loved Rhaenyra like a goddess became mortal.

He died, horribly, unexpectedly, in a wild fire what overtook Harrenhal over the night.

The worst part - Laenor knows - he wasn't even supposed be there, but lord Lyonel's own son Harwin couldn't travel with his father to their ancestral home, so Gwayne, the good man he was, offered his entourage.

Laenor heard the good lord asked his lady-wife's permission, and Rhaenyra, being as smitten with him as he was with her, let him.

At the darkest nights, when Joffrey is deep asleep and the sleep seems to evade him, Laenor stares into the selling and wonders how much his sweet cousin has to blame herself for that.

If only she said no, her husband would be alive.

If only she denied him, Gwayne would see little Joffrey - named after Laenor's very own Joffrey after young lord helped the little boy to be born into this world, the knight in shining armor he is - grow up into the man his father would be proud of.

If only Rhaenyra said no, then entire incident with the eye could have been avoided - Gwayne always had this calming effect on his nephews and sons and sister alike.

But Gwayne was dead and the eye was lost, and with that - the trust the queen and the princess had for each other. The alliance between the House Velaryon and the House of Targaryen was unstable once again and Rhaena have been waking screaming, dreaming of the queen demanding her eye, ever since that night.

Nothing would be the same after that night.

Because one evening, when Lord Gwayne Hightower asked if he is free to travel to Harrenhal, his lady-wife said yes.

And it changed everything.

Laenor hears him sometimes, a lonely boy sent to live in a stranger's home with the girl whom he protected against his own uncle and thus created a rift between the families.

Lucerys has nightmares too, not less horrifying than their sweet Rhaena’s are.

The sounds of them are absolutely heartbreaking and...And now they're coming across the hall from where Laenor's - and unofficially Joffrey's - room is located.

Laenor sighs deeply as he rises to go check on the boy.

Honestly, sometimes it feels like no one but him cares about Lucerys. The boy has Velaryon name, he is to become the Velaryon lord, and yet...

Even Joffrey sleeps without the care for the world, and Joffrey likes Luke.

He calls him 'our little heir' when they are alone.

Secretly Laenor thinks Joffrey enjoys the situation, revels in having the heir they would not have otherwise.

Laenor knows he does.

So he stands up and moves swiftly to another room, giving a curt nod to a knight standing in front of it.

Ser Erryk - Laenor had learned - the knight personally loyal to Princess Rhaenyra, sent off with her son to protect him, if the need arises.

"Another nightmare, my lord," he reports. "Started around ten minutes ago. I didn't take liberty of waking the prince up."

"Thank you, Ser Erryk," Laenor replies. "You did the right thing. I will handle it."

"Of course," the knight moves away from the door but hesitates for a moment. "Tis very kind of you, my lord," he finally speaks. "To take a personal interest in the boy's wellbeing."

"He is my heir," Laenor scoffs. "Of course I care about his well being."

"I'm just saying," the knight adds. "Not many on your place would. He is not your blood; he is no one to you."

"He is my cousin's little son," Laenor retorts, anger rising in him. "And my little niece's future husband. He is not no one."

"Of course," the knight nods. "My apologies."

"None needed," the man brushes it away. "Now can I enter?"

To be just, the man in the shining armor does look guilty at that.

"Of course," he finally clears the entrance. "Come in."

"Thank you," Laenor nods lightly.

He enters the room and immediately moves for the bundle on the bed, the small silhouette entangled in sheets.

The little boy Rhaenyra entrusted to him; Laenor doesn't know where this trust came from and if he ever lives up to that, but he tries, gods, he tries.

"Luke," he whispers softly, shaking the boy away. "Luke, it's just a dream. Wake up."

The boy keeps mumbling about eyes and debts and blood, he calls for his mother and father - the last one sends painful tug at Laenor's heart. He needs to make a peace with his own before Stepstones steal Lord Corlys from them for good. But it is so...difficult; his father is not an easy man to deal with, especially if denied something.

Leanor brushes this thought away for the further consideration and shakes Lucerys once more.

The boy comes away with a halt; eyes open wide and filled with unshed tears.

Laenor's heart aches for him, this child of not even eight years, haunted by his own actions, by his own attempt to defend his betrothed.

Ones who say family never fights haven't seen the fights the royal family has.

A nephew cut his uncle's eye out and when a stepmother slashed her stepdaughter in a failed attempt to reclaim the eye - these are some stories from the horror books, the only difference is what Lucerys lived through them.

"Father," the boy mumbles and Laenor has to restrain himself from crying there and then.

He will make peace with Corlys, whatever it takes.

It's not like his father has any other trueborn children to deal with; he will have to forgive Laenor...eventually.

"I'm afraid not, sweet boy," he whispers. "Just me."

Lucerys blinks before recognition takes its place.

"Lord Laenor," he mumbles. "Did I wake you up again? I am sorry."

"Now, none of that," Laenor scoffs. "And I told you to call me by my name."

"But-"

"No 'buts', little one. You're to become Lord of the Tides one day; you need to learn to see us as your family."

Luke's little face crumbles at that and Laenor immediately regrets his words. What is it he said what upset the boy; about the family, about the title?"

"I don't want it," Lucerys confesses as he would never in the light of day. "I don't want to be the Lord of Tides."

"Why?" Laenor asks. "Is is your right, you know."

"If I'm the Lord of the Driftmark," the boy admits quietly. "It means everyone is dead. Lord Corlys, you...I don't want," sobs overcome him. "I don't want this to happen."

Laenor silently brings him close and hugs the poor child as he bawls his eyes out.

Laenor was entrusted to raise the boy in love and care, and gods curse him if he fails to do that.

Gods curse them all.

Chapter Text

"Dear Aemond,

First of all, I am sorry.

Second of all, no I'm not.

To elaborate: I'm sorry I hurt you greatly but I'm not sorry I protected Rhaena. She is my betrothed, we will be married once we both come of age.

Father always told Jace and me we need to treat our future wives with care and respect. Does Jace treat aunt Helaena with care and respect? I'm sure he does.

Do you miss father? I'm sorry, that sounded confusing; do you miss your uncle Gwayne, my father? I sometimes miss him so much it's hard to breathe.

Sometimes I miss you so much it's hard to breathe.

Lord Laenor says it's because I loved him truly, but the past sense irks me.

I don't think I've stopped loving father just because he died; I think this is why it hurts so much.

I've already settled at the Driftmark castle; it looks abandoned, with the saltwater marks on the walls and lower floors drowned.

But Rhaena says we couldn't live at the Tide because Lord Laenor and Lord Corlys are currently not on speaking terms.

I wonder what was the reason of their argument.

Ser Joffrey is here too, he is the one who helped the little Joffrey to be born. He is very nice and helped to pick up the room I'll be staying in.

He and Lord Laenor are very close, though when I asked if they're like brothers, both laughed for some reason.

"Only in your Targaryen ways," Ser Joffrey replied and Lord Laenor swatted at his arm.

I didn't understand what he meant but he wasn't mean about it.

I miss everyone so much I miss you the most, but mother said it would be better for me to stay over there earlier than intended.

She thinks time and distance will heal things between the two of us, but I'd rather be close to you to heal things. I know I can't give you the eye back, aunt Alicent was right about that, but I still wish I would be able to tell you these things in person. Things moved so quickly after that night I barely saw you.

I hope you're faring well. How is your eye? The lost one, I mean. Ser Joffrey told me about phantom pains; it's when something is missing, but still hurts, like it is still there. Does your eye hurt like this?

Ser Joffrey told me about men missing limbs like that; he said the injuries are often weather sensitive. Is your (lost) eye weather sensitive? Does it provide an issue when you're flying Vhagar?

Congratulations on claiming her, by the way. I thought you stole her at first, but Lord Laenor says you can't steal a dragon and if Vhagar let you fly her, it means she chose you. I trust his judgment, he was Lady Laena's brother, so he should know.

I'm enclosing a small bottle of the healing balm in; Lord Corlys brough it from Yi Ti; Lord Laenor said it is very far away. Do you know where it is? I've tried to look it on the maps but couldn’t find it. How far exactly is 'very far?' I'll need to ask Lord Laenor about that.

I hope the balm will help with the eye and the scar and everything.

Love, Luke.

I hope we can still be friends."

"Dear Aemond,

I heard Syrax brought another clutch of eggs. This is quick; she sure likes Caraxes a lot! Mother says Syrax is a very temperamental dragon, she is a little spoiled and acts like a princess.

I hope Caraxes treats her well, she deserves the very best.

I asked mother if she can send one egg for Rhaena and mother said what she will consider it. Rhaena wants to have a dragon of her own so much; she reminds me of you.

How are you? Is having a dragon everything you've ever dreamt of? I know you always wanted a big dragon and how you're flying the biggest dragon alive. This is good, right? Even though Rhaena and Lord Laenor are still very sad over Lady Laena's death.

I don't think she would mind you claiming her dragon.

How is everyone? I tried to write to Aegon, but he did not reply.

You are not replying either, but I'll keep writing anyway until you personally tell me to stop. I know it will annoy you, but you can also not read my letters as they arrive; I wouldn't be able to tell either way.

Lord Corlys came to visit today and he and Lord Laenor argued. Lord Laenor looked sad afterwards, I wish there was something I could do to help. Ser Joffrey knows how to help though; he always manages to cheer Lord Laenor up.

I tried to cheer Rhaena up and she gave me a stinky eye. I don't think she wants to talk to me much; she is grieving her mother and missing her sister. How is Baela, does she miss Rhaena too? I heard twins do not take separation lightly. I hope they both will feel better soon.

How is your eye (the lost one)? I hope the balm helped. Lord Laenor was surprised I said I've sent it to you, he said I must like you very much.

I do like you very much even if you don't like me anymore.

You're still my favorite person in the world and I miss you.

Love, Luke."

"Dear Aemond,

I almost drowned today.

Laenor (he forbade me from calling him 'lord') was teaching me how to swim, but I've slipped on the slick bottom and when I emerged I could not reach it again and panicked.

I swallowed a lot of sea water before Lor Laenor dragged me to the shore.

Mother (she was visiting) shouted at him so much her voice gave up. I think she is terribly afraid of losing any of us after our father has died.

She looked sad and a little lost and cried a little. Laenor and her talked for a while and parted on good terms, Laenor advised her to not let the queen break her heart the second time. I wonder what does it mean.

Do you know? Can you ask aunt Alicent? She has sent me a knit blanket in our (I mean Hightower) colors and put a note advising me to 'not forget my roots'. Is she terribly cross with me for cutting your eye? Can you ask her?

I'm afraid to write to her myself, she is The Queen, and what if she hates me?

Mother brought the egg she promised to Rhaena; we put it in a hearth and keep it company.

It’s a gentle magenta color, almost the color of mother’s eyes.

Mother told me my egg was snow white and it’s skin was so thin you could see a baby dragon in it if you looked at the egg in front of the light. She said everyone was worried the egg won’t hatch because of how fragile it looked. I knew they needn’t to worry, Arrax was made for me the same way I was for Arrax, so as long as my heart beats, so will his.

Laenor told me the bond between dragon and his human is a sacred thing and is to be treasured. I treasure it! Do you treasure your bond with Vhagar too? I know you haven’t had her for long, but she chose you, so it means she likes you.

Jace sent me a sketch of a new spider he caught for Helaena, I'm glad they're getting along! The spider looks very big though, I don't think I could have held it even if Helaena asked.

Have you held it? It must be scary, scarier than learning how to swim.

I hope your eye (the lost one) does not bother you much.

Love, Luke."

"Dear Aemond,

Ser Joffrey (he told me to call him 'just Joffrey' but I can't yet. Laenor is family but Ser Joffrey is a complete stranger) is teaching me how to fight dirty. This is the word he used - 'dirty'. He says not all battles go as they should and in the life and death situation it's good to have some tricks in your sleeve.

I don't like fighting, but I trust him; he and Laenor fought in the War for the Stepstones.

Daemon fought in this War too, have you asked him about it? Both Laenor and Ser Joffrey say he was 'an absolute menace' back there, but I don't know how much of that is true.

Rhaena's egg still hasn't hatched, but we're hoping. She checks on it three times a day; it's a little sad. I'm glad Arrax hatched when he did, I don't know what I would do without him.

Have you ever thought how different it must feel to fly a dragon you claimed against the dragon who shared a cradle with you? I'm sure it's different, maybe you and Aegon can discuss it. Ask Helaena too, since she claimed a full grown dragon too, and Jace. Compare your answers; I think it could be fun.

Neither mother nor Laenor could answer me this question, since both of their dragons hatched in their cradles, but Princess Rhaenys is visiting us soon; I'll ask her.

It's nice to have another dragonrider near; Leanor teaches me all sort of things I'm sure even dragonkeepers don't know.

Do mother and Daemon teach you too? I've heard Daemon is a master dragonrider and mother first flew Syrax when she was just seven. Seven, can you imagine it? But of course you can, you claimed your own dragon at the age of eight. You're almost the youngest dragonrider alive. I'm proud of you!

I hope your eye doesn’t trouble you.

Love, Luke."

"Dear Aemond,

Princess Rhaenys visited us today and she is awesome!

I wish she was my grandmother, I love grandsire Otto and grandsire Viserys both, but neither of them are as cool as the princess.

Speaking of grandsires; grandsire Otto sent me a letter where he wrote some of the elaborate riddles for me to solve. It's a game we have been playing lately, I must admit I like it quite a lot. Does he play the same game with you too?

I asked Jace, but he said grandsire doesn't give him any riddles like that. Does it mean I'm grandsire Otto's favorite?

Mother visited today with Prince Daemon, she looked more happy than before. She and Daemon are great friends, I could tell.

Rhaena cheered up when the prince came, she immediately showed him her egg.

It still hasn't hatched, but Daemon said it sometimes takes months for the egg to hatch and she has nothing to worry about. He suggested putting an egg into a bigger hearth and make Seasmoke breathe fire into it. Both Laenor and mother liked the idea, so we did that.

Rhaena was very happy; she said the egg changed color, though I couldn't see it. But I trust her; it is her egg, after all.

Daemon brought us some sweets from the King's Landing and letters from Jace and Baela.

Baela flew on Moondancer?! This is awesome! Do you fly on Vhagar often? I can't wait for Arrax to become big enough so we could fly. Mother takes me on flights with Syrax, but it's just not the same.

Remember this one time she brought you on a flight? I thought aunt Alicent would faint, so pale she looked. I'm afraid you two gave her a huge scare, though father joked a lot about the whole ordeal.

I miss him a lot.

I dreamed of the Harrenhal today. It was on fire and smelled like cooked meat.

I don't think dreams are supposed to smell.

Do you miss my fath  your uncle too? Mother says he loved us all more than a heart could bear. I used to not understand what it means, but I think I do now.

Love, Luke."

"Dear Aemond,

The egg hatched!!! The dragon is of the most beautiful pink color, but her crest and horns are pitch black. Rhaena called it Morning and we spent the entire day caring for her.

Rhaena hardly goes anywhere without Morning now.

Remember that one time Aegon sneaked Sunfyre into the keep? I don't even know how you sneak in a dragon of the size of small horse, but he managed it somehow. Aunt Alicent was so mad, but mother looked oddly proud. Aegon was grounded for a week, but he said it was worth it.

Joffrey (I can address him without a 'ser' now) told me Laenor once sneaked Seasmoke on his father's ship. When some sailors spotted him, the dragon freaked out and burned down the masts.

Princess Rhaenys visited today and confirmed it; she said Lord Corlys had to rebuilt the masts from a scratch. Did you know Lord Corlys personally designed and built his ship, The Sea Snake? This is why they call him that name.

I think it's very cool, I finally found where Yi Ti is and it is very far. Twice as far as Old Valyria. I want to travel that far one day too. Would you travel with me?

If you still want to hang out with me. So far you haven’t answered to my single letter.

Love, Luke.

"Dear Aemond,

Mother flew in with Joffrey today! He is so big, mother says children grow up quickly.

She said she blinked twice and I was already the age I am now. I doubt it's the truth, Joffrey (the big one) told me people need to blink to mostur- to wet their eyes. He said the proper long word for it, but I forgot it.

Do you still need to blink a lot to keep your hurt (Joffrey told me to stop calling it lost. He said I repeat I so much sounds like someone misplaced it) eye? Does it hurt when you do it?

I hope it doesn't hurt. I hope there is still some of the balm I've sent, if not, it'll send another. Laenor gifted me several different ones to deal with the bruises I have after the trainings to fight dirty. Mother still doesn't know about them and Laenor advised me to keep it secret for now. I think I will.

I dreamed again, this time of father. He asked aunt Alicent for some favor and she cried. I didn't like to see her cry.

I hope she and mother are getting along again.

I've solved all the riddles grandsire Otto has sent me and sent them back. I hope he has more riddles, they're very fun to solve. Laenor muttered once that grandsire is trying to make a mastermind out of me, but I don't know what it means.

Is it a good or a bad thing? By the look of Laenor's face, it's a bad thing, but why would grandsire teach me anything bad?

Rhaena showed mother Morning. Mother tried to hold her, but Morning bit her and hid under the bed.

I thought mother would be angry, but she only laughed. I'm glad she laughs again, I haven't heard her laugh since father's death. Father always made everyone laugh. I miss him.

Rhaena tells me she misses her mother too, most of all her singing. I tried to sing for her, but she said it's just not the same.

Joffrey said I have a nice voice though and that I can become a minstrel. Laenor got angry then, he told him to not encourage me, what my fate is already set in stone and there is no changing of it. He sounded so sad when he said it, so I went and hugged him.

It surprised him; but Laenor always hugs me when I have nightmares and it helps. I hope my hug helped him, he thanked me, so I think it did.

Mother tells me you fly Vhagar regularly now. This is so awesome!

Love, Luke."

"Dear Aemond,

Jace and Baela came! They flew to the Driftmark on their dragons and Daemon was accompanying them. Jace argued they’re big enough to fly alone, but mother didn't agree with him and sent her uncle with them. He is pretty cool, but I don’t think Jace likes him very much.

Rhaena was ecstatic they came and so was I. Rhaena kept showing Morning to everyone and Jace said it's a beautifully looking dragon, though he mentioned Dreamfyre is still more beautiful.

I think he has a crush on aunt Helaena, which is good, he is about to marry her in the future.

I don't think I have a crush on Rhaena; she is pretty but so is Laenor. Should I have a crush on Laenor? I think not, he is like my second father now.

Please don't tell mother I said that, I know she will be terribly upset.

Do you think of Ser Cole as your second father? He always favored you in the training sparings we had, but I don't know if you have noticed it.

He has not been very nice to me and Jace, but father told me it's because he is just bitter and jealous. What of, I wonder? But don't ask him, I don't want him to be cross with you too.

Lord Corlys came today and he and Laenor argued again.

This time it ended up quicker than usual and Joffrey was present. Usually he goes away when Lord Corlys visits. In the end Laenor and his father hugged each other and Lord Corlys even patted Joffrey on the shoulder, thought it looked more awkward than anything else.

Still, at the evening meal Laenor was cheerful and laughed a lot. I think they finally made peace.

Rhaena fed Morning a plum and she (Morning, not Rhaena) was retching the entire night afterwards. We were terribly distraught.

Laenor says some dragons have a surprisingly tender stomach and we shouldn't feed them as we please. I think Rhaena understood the lesson clearly, I'm glad I have never tried to feed Arrax anything but roasted meat.

What does Vhagar eat? She is so big, surely a single plum won't hurt her. But please don't try to feed one to her, I worry she might get ill too. And then her vomit will cover the entire Keep. Ew, I made myself sick just thinking of that.

I hope I didn't make you sick.

Love, Luke."

Chapter Text

Letters from Prince Jacaerys Targaryen to his brother, Prince Lucerys Targaryen.

"Brother,

Helaena says if Aemond refuses to write you back, then I should at least inform you on what's going on at the Keep.

She thanks you for your kind words about the spider.

Rest assured, Aemond is reading every single letter; he once bit Aegon when he tried to take one of the letters away.

The bite was so deep Maester Orwyle had to put a bandage on it. Aegon called Aemond a rabid beast and they almost fought again, but the Queen's arrival stopped them.

This is how aunt Alicent found out you write to Aemond. I think she was more sad than upset, I can tell she misses you even though she is angry at you still.

Baela says you saved her sister's life and that Aemond got what he deserved, but I'm not so sure. Father always told us we need to get along and what we're a family.

Prince Daemon is with us at the Keep, he and mother talk a lot. They often argue, but I don't know what about.

Daemon looks frustrated and Baela says it's because Daemon likes mother but disliked our father. Baela said Daemon was the one to leave the scars on our father's face. If this is true, Daemon needs to stay as far away from mother as possible; if he doesn't do it on his own volition, I'll make him.

I'm glad to know Ser Laenor treats you well; mother says he is a good and honorable man. How is Driftmark? Do you swim a lot?

I miss you more than I thought I would, but it is to be expected; we never separated since the day of your birth.

I wonder if you miss me too.

Best Regards, Jacaerys."

"Brother,

I was following grandsire Otto around because I know it annoys Daemon and someone commented what we have the same nose. The Queen overheard it and started crying; it took us a while to calm her down.

I do not know why she got so upset; it's not such a bad nose to have. Grandsire Otto said it's because father used to say that too.

He looked sad; I think grandsire is missing father as well.

He and Daemon argued again today; they argue a lot, the Queen says it gives the King a headache.

This time the reason of the argument was me; Daemon claims grandsire is using me for his own gain. What gain? I asked mother and she grew really quiet.

Helaena and I went on a flight together today; Dreamfyre is such a beautiful she-dragon. Her name suits her very much.

Helaena has been having nightmares lately; she speaks of spikes in the water. It sounds ominous.

I asked grandsire Viserys if he has any books on Dragon Dreams (aunt Alicent once mentioned he used to saw visions before we were born) and he was terribly surprised to find out Helaena sees the dreams too. I left them to talk in private. I heard Helaena to begin talking in that way she sometimes does, when it's hard to understand anything, but grandsire seemed to get what she was trying to say. He nodded wisely and told her to sit.

Aunt Alicent was very distraught when she found out about it; she called Dragon Dreams the delusions of lost minds and had an argument with grandsire about it.

But when Helaena said (she told me about it later) what the torn page burns through the Queen's shield and aunt Alicent grew very pale and quiet. I asked Helaena what she meant by that, but she doesn't know. She told me it hurts and that the page is torn from my mother's heart.

Whatever does it mean, Luke, do you have any idea?

I need to finish the letter, but I'll write more. I miss you a lot and I'm sure others do too.

Best Regards, Jacaerys."

"Brother,

I saw the Queen crying again.

She was alone in the Godswood and looked terribly sad. I came closer and saw tears in her eyes.

I asked if she wanted me to leave her alone, but she said I can come closer.

We sat under the Weirwood tree for a while and when she started to talk.

The Queen told me she and mother used to be friends but grew apart after the Queen married the king.

She told me about the times they used to sit under the same Weirwood tree and study.

I tried to imagine mother as the young girl and failed. Later I asked Aegon if he can imagine the Queen as the young girl and he laughed at me. He told me his mother was born a repressed woman.

Why is she repressed? Who repressed her?

I told mother about the page what was torn from her heart and she became sad too. She told me the same thing; what the Queen and her once used to be friends but grew apart. I asked mother what was she like as a girl and she said restless and chaotic.

Sounds like Aegon.

I told mother that and she laughed.

Daemon is teaching Baela how to fight; he doesn’t trust Ser Cole with it and I think I understand it a little. It is clear Ser Cole doesn't like me, but he is keeping his anger at bay, with grandsire Otto overseeing almost all of our trainings.

I think grandsire wants me to become a great fighter like father was.

It's unfair father is only remembered by the scar he got, he is much more than that. He was strong and honorable and kind and he played chess better than mother. It always made her angry, do you remember? I think she would prefer to lose a play of chess to him now, if only he was still around.

She is still terribly sad, but stopped arguing with Daemon all the time.

Mother is learning how to braid Baela's hair and Baela says it's nice. Baela likes mother but she doesn't like the Queen, I think you can guess why.

Aemond (I know you wanted to hear about him) is mostly keeping to himself, but he is training a lot. He is getting used to being half-blind, but I don't think he blames me for his injury. Aemond and Baela hate each other, but he is actually almost friendly with me. We always spar against each other and I think it makes us both better.

Aegon started skipping training sessions and mother and the Queen are growing worried. They think he got into some bad company.

Joffrey says hello. Well, actually, he doesn't, since he doesn't talk yet, but he smiled when I mentioned you.

I miss you. I know Aemond is your best friend, but I'm your brother so I love you more.

Best Regards, Jacaerys."

"Brother,

Prince Daemon dragged Aegon off from the Flea Bottom today.

He overheard mother worry about him disappearing into the city and went to haunt him down.

Daemon was the Lord Commander of the City Watch in the past, so people know him. I also think people fear him, he is a very intimidating presence around the keep. I think the only ones who are not afraid of him are the king, grandsire Otto, Baela and mother.

Even Ser Cole looks wary when the Rogue Prince (I heard people call him that) enters the room.

Mother smiles at him more often these days and I admit I don't like it one bit. There are rumors around the keep of them being...close in the past. I don't want them to be close. I don't want her to forget father for this...man.

Baela says her father is not as bad as everyone paint him to be, but I'm not sure I believe her.

Grandsire Otto shares my concerns, he says Daemon can't be allowed anywhere near power or he will be the Second Maegor. I don't want Daemon to be the Second Maegor, the first one was bad enough.

I saw mother and aunt Alicent walking in the gardens hand in hand. They didn't look very friendly, but they looked...peaceful, I think. Peaceful is good, we all need a little bit of peace.

Grandfather Otto says we need to be ready for when the king dies. He says many lords would oppose mother's claim to the throne only because she is a woman, and would try to put Aegon in her stead.

Aegon overheard it and had thrown a fit. He said he doesn't want to rule and will throw the crown away if anyone will try to put it on his head.

Grandsire Otto said no one is crowning him, he is immature and uncontrollable. Aegon said: "Good" and stormed off.

I was worried about Grandsire's words and asked how we can secure mother's claim. He said the easiest way would be to kill aunt Alicent’s children. I must have looked horrified at that because he quickly consoled me what no one will be killing them anytime soon. Or ever, he added since I didn't look very convinced.

Good, because if anyone tries to hurt Helaena...I don't know what I will do, probably cut someone's eye out too. You do understand that feeling, right?

How you and Rhaena are, are you two in love? Mother says you don't need to be in love to marry, but it helps.

She and father were in love and were happy, however aunt Alicent clearly doesn't love the king and it makes her sad. So I think it's better if you fall in love with Rhaena and do it soon.

You still have time till you grow up, but it would help if you deal with that first.

I made a mistake of mentioning your and Rhaena’s betrothal to Aemond and he grew very angry and stormed off.

I don't think he forgave either of you yet. I can't blame you, you were protecting your betrothed, but I think it hurt Aemond a lot (even more than the eye) what you chose her over him.

He will never admit to it, but I just know. He also misses you a lot; there was a delay of your letter and he was absolutely insufferable for the entire day.

You could tell the letter came in the eve, because at the eve meal he was a picture perfect child. Or at least he was before Aegon asked him if he finally got another love letter of his.

Aegon and Aemond had a fight after that and Aemond, even though he is smaller and still adjusting to his half-sight, won.

Queen Alicent grew very distraught at that and demanded to know what was the cause of the fight: I don't think she heard Aegon's comment.

Mother did though and exchanged looks with Daemon.

I don't like the looks they exchanged, but I think they know something we don't.

Write to me often.

Best Regards, Jacaerys."

Chapter Text

“Lucerys,

I decided to respond to your letters. You have no idea how much grief everyone gave me over them and not responding to you; especially Helaena and Jacaerys. They’re quickly growing to be inseparable and insufferable.

I wonder if King Jaehaerys and Good Queen Alysanne were so nagging. If so, I pity their numerous children.

Aegon is, luckily, not my concern anymore; Prince Daemon decided to oversee his education from now on. Grandsire wanted to oppose it first, but when Aegon crashed a family meal while being dead drunk and he quickly changed his mind. Now my impossible brother is training with Baela; he tried to argue he won’t fight a girl at first, but when Baela beat him in a fight and he suddenly decided that not only he will fight a girl, but he will also beat a girl. So far he hasn’t managed to even scratch her.

It is impressive how good with a sword Baela is; I didn’t expect Daemon to train his daughters. One day Baela and I will spar and may the best of us win. I do hope I will be the best I know I will be the best

My mother and sister are on friendly terms again, they’re walking around together and looking happy at that. This is strange, but the only time I’ve ever seen mother happy was when she was with uncle Gwayne or my sister, Rhaenyra. It says a lot about her marriage to the King.

I know your brother asked you if you fell in love with Rhaena already. Lucerys, contrary to popular belief you don’t have to fall in love with her. You don’t have to fall in love with any girl, actually. Nor marry anyone. The betrothal to Rhaena Targaryen was your mother’s idea and I am sure it can be disrupted.

Just something to think about.

Yours truly, Prince Aemond.”

“Aemond,

This is Rhaena writing. Please finish reading the letter before you decide to burn it down.

Luke asked me to write to you because he can’t do it himself.

He broke his arms. Yes, both of them. Trust me, we all are still in shock how he managed to do that.

I think he'll want to tell you yourself what a dumbass he is how it happened, so I won't dwell into details much.

The point is his hands are broken and thus he can't write and so he became completely insufferable because gods forbid he misses a single letter he is supposed to send you. I think he has a schedule now. Do you?

I want you to know that Luke had never wanted to hurt you and is still having nightmares over the proceeded events. Uncle Laenor always comforts him afterwards, so I’m glad he is with us. Uncle Leanor is a great influence on Luke; I think he sees a lot of himself in him.

What is this about

I heard you suggested

I want you to know that I did not choose this betrothal more than Lucerys chose it. It was something decided preliminary of our birth. I do not oppose it, but it doesn’t mean I would choose it for myself, if I’ve had a choice.

I know you and I were never friends and I doubt we ever will, not with everything what passed between us, but I assure you I too have Luke’s best interest at heart.

Aemond, Luke calls for you in his sleep, constantly. It's heartbreaking, if I'm being honest, how much he earns for you.

So hate me all you like, but don't you dare hate on him, he is a sweet boy and only wants what's the best for everyone.

Including you for some reason. Especially you.

We don't have to like each other to act civil for Luke's sake, especially now, since I'm the only source of communication between the two of you.

Rhaena."

"Rhaena,

You will not believe this!!!

Joff said his first words today.

Guess what he said, just guess.

He called our father, Daemon Targaryen, I quote, "dada".

You should have seen everyone's faces at that.

Lord Hand looked like he aged ten years in a single moment and Rhaenyra blushed so hard it reached her shoulders (she was wearing this one dark red dress with open shoulders I like so much. I wonder if she can give it to me once she's grown bored of it; of course the dress is too big for me now, but I'll grow and the seamstress can always change it for my size).

The king looked surprisingly content with that, but I'm not sure he even understood what was happening, and Queen Alicent simply rolled her eyes.

I think she is used to our father's antics by now, even if she's not pleased by them. I think father taking Aegon under his wing made her treat him a little bit differently; after all, it's not a secret the king pays his younger children almost no attention. He recently took in having conversations with Helaena, but so far his sons are completely overlooked.

Aegon was getting in all kinds of trouble before father dragged him back by the ear (literally and metaphorically).

Father looked absurdly proud of himself, like Joffrey was his child and not a son of a man who married the woman he loved. I think it's safe to say father loves Rhaenyra, he has always been bad at pretending and hiding his true feelings and intentions (I'm surprised he survived at court, everyone is so mean here) and his longing looks are not subtle.

I find I don't truly mind it; Rhaenyra is a fair woman and she treats me like her own. She talks to me like I'm an adult and I love her for that. And she gave me her necklace with golden dragons on it. The dragons look like little Meleys, I'll ask Jace to draw it for you later.

Too many people try to treat me like a little brainless girl. Their mistake, as father often says, will come haunting them later, just you wait.

Jace finally stopped treating father like the devil incarnate; it started to bore me after a while, though I admit at the beginning it was kind of funny to see Jace antagonize him at every step. I don't think father expected to be met with such a resistance.

You'd think no one can oppose Daemon Targaryen but when you meet nine years old angry at the world boy who hates his guts. Oh well, it was fun to watch while it lasted.

But back to Joffrey's first words.

Aegon laughed so hard when I told him he almost fell from the saddle. Yes, we were flying together again. No, do not look into that, dragonriders just sometimes fly together for fun. I do not like Aegon in any way and form, honestly, Rhae, he is immature and has a dumb sense of humor. Though I have to admit he is pretty, but again, all Targaryens are.

Tell Luke I said hello! I hope his poor limbs will heal soon.

Love, Baela."

It is a fine and bright day at the isle of the Driftmark, the sky is clear and the water, for once, is calm. This fragile serenity is being broken the moment a huge dark silhouette covers half of the sky, however.

Laenor Velaryon, who was just returning from his own flight, looks up to be met with the familiar shape of the dragon his sister used to fly.

"What the hell?" He murmurs and moves to approach the dragon carefully.

There is a small figure seated on the back of the enormous beast, a figure Laenor comes to recognize as Prince Aemond Targaryen, second son of king Viserys and queen Alicent.

The boy descends from the dragonback with surprising mastery for his young age. He commands his dragon - and Vhagar is his dragon now, of that Laenor has no doubt - to wait, before he approaches Laenor.

"Lord Velaryon," he greets calmly like it's a normal occurrence for him to fly his enormous dragon across the bay to the island of Driftmark.

"Prince Aemond," Laenor replies a little bit dumbfounded. "We were not expecting you today."

Or ever, but this Laenor does not voice out.

Young prince nods like he waited for that.

"Does anyone know you're here?"

"No," the prince responds calmly.

Laenor shakes his head.

"My prince," he tries. "You can't-"

"I heard Prince Lucerys got hurt," Aemond interrupts him. "I'd like to visit him."

The man sighs deeply.

There is very little he can do with prince's reckless visit now, and since the boy is here already...

"Follow me," Laenor gestures.

He can already imagine the storm what prince's reckless actions will bring.

Chapter Text

"Dearest Rhaenyra,

I admit I got used to your presence at court; not having you there, if even for a while, is a tragically unpleasant feeling.

I fear Daemon shares my sentiment, he has been walking around the Red Keep with the expression he usually saves for my father.

Baela and Aegon are up to some mischief again as they often are these days, and Jacaerys moved his studies to whenever Helaena is at the moment. They can often be found under the Weirwood tree as we once were. I admit the sight of it warms my heart, I was concerned about their betrothal, but it seems both of them will take this step not only for the duty but for something else in their hearts.

Jacaerys put a spider on Daemon's plate at the fast. Daemon was not impressed, but my nephew shrugged innocently and said he just wanted to introduce Daemon to Betty.

Betty is four inches long pitch black arachnid from Far East lands and you could see Betty didn't like Daemon more than Daemon liked Betty. Luckily Helaena came into the room next and took Betty away.

I think the only reason Aegon hadn't howled with laugher was Baela's hand firmly set on his, but I noticed the corners of her mouth twitching as well.

Daemon is faring surprisingly well; he walks around with Joffrey tied to his chest by the harness you may remember he requested to be made. The stark difference between Daemon's attitude towards the child what's not even his own and my husband's neglect of his youngest children is striking.

The Rogue Prince has met the unexpected obstacle however, for it is very hard to fill the hearts of men with dread when you have the one year old child strapped to your chest. Half of the people Daemon tries to scold fail to listen, for everyone at court decided Joffrey is a delightful child.

But enough of our daily struggles, how are you? How is Driftmark, how are my nephew's hands healing?

How is my son who mounted the dragon in the middle of the night and flew away without informing anyone about his whereabouts?

Is he even planning to come back? Aegon tells me his brother is afraid to come home because he thinks I'll ground him forever. He is right, I will ground him forever.

Rhaenyra, I beg of you, do collect my son and bring him back once you'll be returning to the King's Landing.

I fear Aemond would live next Lucerys' bed if allowed.

Though I'm glad

your son's stabbing

Aemond's mutilation

the fact that my son is forever altered  

the incident with the eye did not break them apart. I am not forgiving it so easily, but I find in myself no hate for Gwayne's little boy. I believe Aemond feels the same.

Do not let Driftmark keep you long and come back home.

You could bring my nephew with you so he could heal under the attentive gaze of the best maesters of the realm and not in some damp forgotten castle better suited for fish than men  in the distant isle with no family member around.

I know you trust Leanor a great deal and we will never be able to repay Ser Joffrey for his kind deed, but good as they are, they're not family, and I believe family is what little Luke needs the most right now.

Love, your dear friend Alicent."

"Rhaenyra,

I urge you to return to the capital as soon as possible.

Your uncle is growing more unbearable with every passing day and both the king and I are dead tired of that.

The king is planning to introduce some rearrangements at the next Small Council as well and I feel it would be wise for you to be present.

Daemon took a hold on Gwayne and yours' third born and is carrying him around like a toy. I petitioned the king to stop this madness, but Viserys seems to be humored by the sight of his mad brother parading someone else's child around the Keep.

Prince Jacaerys is yet to fully outgrow his resentment of the rogue prince, but he's growing smart at it. It is an impressive feat of character and I would be proud, if only his jests did not interfere with his studies.

I'm enclosing new riddles for prince Lucerys to solve, some extra amount since he is mostly bedridden now and has very little worthy activities to pass the time with. I am aware of his hands and simply suggest someone to read the riddles to him and write the answers down. Let the boy solve them on his own however, he's getting rather good at it.

My daughter keenly reminds me to ask you to collect Aemond the moment you leave for King's Landing. She is growing weary with worry over him.

See you at the next Small Council,

Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King."

"Rhaenyra,

First of all, your brat (Jace, not Joffrey, Joffrey is a delight) put a fucking spider into my plate this morning.

Now, I am not complaining, but I feel like something needs to be done with that.

I well aware I'm not Gwayne Hightower (as your brat informs me on a daily basis). I am, however, the brother of the king and some literal child acting out like that might make a precedent.

Baela tells me he will outgrow it, but I am not that sure. The brat is to be the king one day and thus this is behavior below his level.

It seems Jace is also missing his usual sparring partner; I took him from under Ser Crispin's care and put against Aegon as Baela and I practiced her new moves.

Not surprising, but Jacaerys has beaten Aegon without even breaking a sweat and Aegon is upset with me for that. Apparently if I hadn't brought Jacaerys into the fight, Aegon wouldn't lose, so somehow it's my fault.

I think he is just embarrassed Baela saw him lose, though it's not like he has ever won against Baela before.

I find a strange glee in myself for having no sons of my own; gods, these boys are handful. I’m sure I was nothing like that when I was their age.

I mentioned that to Viserys the other day and he laughed so hard he dropped the crown.

My brother has no respect for the symbols of power whatsoever.

I moved to collect the crown and put it back and Otto fucking Hightower looked at me like I was trying to overthrow my own brother. Cunt.

Anyway, do drag your feet back to the Keep anytime soon; I feel like a single father whose wife abandoned him for the foreign lands. It doesn't help that apparently I'm the only one Aegon ever listens to, so the burden of his studies falls on my shoulders now. I usually make the twat come with me and do whatever Baela and I are doing at the moment.

Alicent is fretting Baela is not getting an education suited for the young lady of her age; sewing, etiquette and other bullshit like that. She told me no high lord will want to marry a girl raised like a man. I told her any high lord will be lucky to even look at my daughter.

Laena and I did not bring the twins into this world for them to be married off like some broodmares. Some lords are starting to ask who Baela is betrothed to and the only reason I haven't murdered them is Viserys giving me The Look every time I have an urge. Do come back soon, these vultures are usually much quieter with you around.

And I think Baela is missing you; she was trying your old yellow dress, the one you wore before Aemma died. Remember it? The dress looks great on her, but Baela panicked when I came into the room. She begged me to not tell you of this (now, I promised not a thing) and swore she'll put everything back on its place.

I think she is missing Laena greatly too and I regret not bringing any of her gowns from Pentos, but the grief of losing her was too strong for me to act rationally. I fear I've abandoned all we have managed to gather together where and never looked back.

Baela has only your things to play with now, so don't be cross with her for that.

How are Luke's hands? How the fuck did he manage to break both of them?

Tell Laenor and Joffrey I said hello. We might meet at the Stepstones soon if Triarchy does not calm the fuck down.

Love, Daemon."

Chapter Text

Eight years later.

Baela grabs the hem of Aegon's sleeve before forcefully pulling him back to her.

The prince stumbles, but quickly recovers.

"What was that?" He asks.

"What was what?!" Baela retorts, indignant. "I am the one who should be asking this question. Aegon, why in seven hells did you do that?"

"Did what?"

She swats at his hand, irritated.

"Stop playing dumb," the young lady demands. "Why did you send lord Thornby spiraling down the stairs? Aegon, he could have died! Just wait till people report of that to the Hand and you'll never hear the end of it."

"Daemon will pat me on the back though," Aegon murmurs.

"What did you say?" Baela's stares him down, suspicious. "Why? What did the lord do?"

"It doesn't matter," Aegon tries his best to look at the nearest tapestry, at the stone floor, at the way the tourches on the walls bring up the shadows into the corners; anywhere but at his best friend.

He can't look at her after the revelation he had just another day; if he does when Baela will immediately know what he was thinking about and their friendship will be over.

And Aegon can't lose her.

"Egg," she nudges him with the shoulder. "What did he do to make you so upset? It can't be nothing with how much it clearly bothers you."

Aegon is still stoically looking away, but he manages to murmur:

"He insulted you."

"What?" Baela stirs. "How?"

"He called you a rare breed of- Ugh," Aegon covers his face with both hands. "I will not repeat it. I should have killed him."

"You almost did," she moves closer, leaning her head to rest on Aegon’s shoulder, completely missing the way her friend freezes in the place at the gesture. "He is a fool, you know that. Most of the lords at court are."

"Still," the young prince frowns. "He shouldn't be allowed to say such things about you; no one should."

"You're sweet," she comments gently and Aegon's breath hitches. "But dumb. Let them talk all they like, I don't care."

"I do," Aegon murmurs, pointedly not looking at Baela. She is wearing a beautifully made dark red dress with open shoulders, encrusted with little aquamarine gems here and there.

Baela received four marriage propositions just last week and every time Aegon heard of another lord trying to win her hand and her heart, he went deeper and deeper into his drunken slumber.

At some point even Daemon stopped dragging him back, informing Aegon what he 'needs to deal with his shit before it consumes him'. Little does dear uncle know, 'this shit' is no less than Baela Targaryen herself; the bane of his existence, his sweetest desire.

It was the matron of one of his favorite brothels who pointed it out.

"I had thought you'd go and bed the real thing by then," she mentioned and her words confused the prince.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What do I-" old woman cut herself  off in the middle of the sentence. "Don't tell me you don't know. Aegon, my boy, every girl you've bedded for the last two years is a watered down version of our fair lady."

"Our fair lady?" Aegon repeated, dread gathering into the depths of his stomach.

"Yes," the woman nodded, gazing at him with pity. Pity, for fucks sake! "Prince Daemon's youngest daughter, Lady Baela."

It clicked then, the picture was put together and was clear; everything started to make sense.

But what is he to do now?

Because no way Lady "I will participate on tourneys myself, thank you very much" Baela will ever even look at him with anything but sisterly affection.

Ever.

And Aegon is doomed.

"As I've already stated," Baela speaks practically into his neck, her breath hot. Aegon wants to die.

He also pretty sure Daemon will grant him that wish the moment his uncle finds out Aegon craves nothing more than sweet, sweet Baela in his bed. "You're sweet. But you needn't worry, I can stand up for myself."

"I know that," Aegon grumbles. "I sometimes wonder what you need me for then; you're a better fighter than I am and you're," searches looks for the right word. "Savvy. And I am...me."

"And being you is just enough," she kisses him on the cheek gently. Oh, if only she knew. "I need to go; Rhaena and Luke arrive today and I want to be the first one to meet them."

Aegon grins at that.

At least he is not the only one utterly lost, and his flame has not, at least, been betrothed since before her birth to someone else.

"I'd wager Aemond will outrace you in that," he smirks.

"Fine," Baela rolls her eyes. "When I want to be the second one to greet them. Aemond, this twat," she scoffs. "I can bet he will ruin the celebration one way or another."

"But why?" Aegon frowns "It's not even the one wedding he wants to avert."

"No, but Luke will be there. With his betrothed. Don't you think it will make Aemond scale up the walls of the Keep?" Baela sighs. "It does not need to be that complicated, all Aemond needs is to talk to Luke honestly."

Aegon looks at Baela, at the girl he just needs to talk honestly too.

"He won't do that," he concludes because many differences aside, him and Aemond are brothers and they share the same tragic imperfections. "He would rather ruin the entire wedding of his sweet sister and Prince Jacaerys than admit to himself and Lucerys of the feelings he has."

Honestly, it was an old whore who opened Aegon's own eyes, so he really doubts his twat of a brother will come to the realization by himself.

Aegon could help him; push Aemond into the right direction.

But Aegon has enough problems of his own.

Baela sighs so loud Aegon could swear it can be heard all the way to the bay.

"His loss," she stamps down. And then she runs off.

His loss indeed, Aegon thinks as he stares after the best girl he could ever meet.

Aegon is utterly, terribly lost.

Alicent is fretting with the hem of her sleeves; her nail beds, thank the gods, are intact, the skin is not raw and bleeding, nor have it been for the last several years.

Rhaenyra intends to keep it that way.

"You do not need to worry," she tries and immediate Alicent is her her.

"How can I not worry?!" She demands. "My little girl is getting married!"

"To the man she loves," Rhaenyra reminds her gently. "To the boy she has known for her entire life. Jace has scaled walls for her, you truly need not worry."

That one time prince Jacaerys climbed the wall of the Keep to reach for Princess Helaena's room when he was grounded is still on the tongues of everyone at the Keep.

Some call him lovesick fool, some - the bravest man they ever knew, but everyone at the keep agrees the marriage Princess Helaena and Prince Jacaerys are about to enter is out of love.

Even Daemon, the one who called the boy the lovesick fool, acknowledges that. He actually helped the boy climb, later insisting it was out of the great care for him.

Daemon and Jacaerys get along better and better the older the boy grows.

Gone are the days of bitter glances and spiders on the plates; Daemon is the one and only man Jacaerys comes for advice these days, claiming both of his grandsires are “too old to know anything” and his mother with the aunt “are women, they won’t get it.”

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes at that, but generally doesn’t mind.

Rhaenyra and Daemon are still unwed, to the raised eyebrows of many; but after the death of Gwayne the princess didn’t want to rush in and when one year passed, when another...

She and Daemon are regularly bedding each other however, having no qualms about the ‘unwed marriage’ or other bullshit relating sex out of wedlock. They are meant to burn together and it was only the matter of time before they end up in the same bed.

Jacaerys once even walked on them, making Rhaenyra blush so hard she almost fainted. She was afraid of the worst to come, but all her then ten and five years old son did was to raise an eyebrow and say:

“Ew,” nonchalantly. Daemon laughed at that, but Rhaenyra...

Rhaenyra started crying.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” immediately panicked her so grown up boy. “Did he hurt you? Did you hurt her?”

“Calm the fuck down, I didn’t hurt her,” Daemon argued back. “I think. Rhaenyra, love, what’s wrong?”

She even missed the fact what Daemon called her love in front of her son, for all Rhaenyra could think about was:

“You did that in the past,” she cried louder, grabbing her son and bringing him into a hug, a sheet barely covering her body. Jace immediately tried to squirm out of her embrace. “When your father was alive. You used to say “ew” when we kissed and he...”

“He told me to stop ewing at you or one day he’ll jump out of the bushes as I and my flame are busying ourselves,” Jace smiled. “I remember that.”

Rhaenyra grinned wide through tears.

“He would be so damn proud of you,” she whispered and Jacaerys looked away, tears in his eyes.

“Yes,” Jace agreed. “No bushes now though, unless he is suddenly crawling out of his grave. EW.”

“Now,” Daemon commented grimly. “I can still jump out of the bushes to ew at you if you don’t leave this room right now.”

“You would not dare!” Jace exclaimed, all sorrow immediately gone from his face.

“Oh, would I not?”

“No!”

“No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And would I not dare to interrupt your wedding night to crawl from under the bed to ew at you, sweet boy?”

“You would not!”

“Are you sure, my boy?”

“Absolutely sure, father dearest!” Jace’s face looked so indignant Rhaenyra almost laughed.

But when she registered what he just said.

She looked at the man next to her and sure enough, Daemon’s expression too came to a halt.

“What?” Jace asked, worried. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Jacaerys,” Daemon said in this full of himself voice what promised nothing good to come. “Do you, perhaps...see me as the father figure?”

Jacaerys all but came aflame at that.

“I do not,” he denied so fervently Rhaenyra knew it was a lie.

“Really now?” her uncle had the audacity to look as smug as the cat that just ate a pigeon. “Because I recall you calling me father just now.”

“I did none of that you’re accusing me of,” his persistent apparently son now argued. Only Jacaerys would react like that was an accusation.

Rhaenyra stiffened a laugh.

“Oh, did you not?” Daemon gave her a laughing look. “Rhaenyra, love, did you hear something just now?”

She smiled back, sly and wicked.

“I might have heard something just now,” she replied.

“No, you didn’t!” Jace argued. “Because I said nothing and you heard nothing!”

He run out of the room accompanied with the twin laughter of his parents.

Daemon fell back into the bed.

“Now I simply have to marry you,” he smirked. “Since the brat is calling me father now.”

But neither his smirk nor his smart words could hide how truly touched he was.

The down point of their relationship was this one time Rhaenyra thought she was pregnant.

She didn’t take the time to explain to Daemon what no children will come out of her womb, and maybe it was a mistake, for he found her in an absolute distress, sobbing her eyes out one day when she was mistakenly convinced she was with a child.

“I can’t,” she kept repeating into the hem of his tunic as he rocked her back and forth like a child. “I can’t, I can’t-“

“Shh,” Daemon whispered into her hair. “Shhh.”

Later, as the visit of the master proved her worries to be fruitless, they finally talked.

“I would not ask that of you,” Daemon confessed. “The last time...It was bad. You gave birth to three healthy boys, but how am I to know the fourth time will also not be the last? My mother,” he looked away and Rhaenyra grabbed his hand.

“And my mother,” she reminded him. She needn’t to say anything more, and yet she did.

“The last time I gave birth...Gwayne died,” she put her head on Daemon’s shoulder. “I think something inside me convinced itself then what the birth of the child will only bring the death of someone else. The...life for a death kind of situation. I know it’s silly-“

“It is not silly,” Daemon murmured into her temple. “It is human. For all our might and all our dragons, we are still made of flesh. And flesh scars. This is a scar, Rhaenyra, do not expect it to not hurt.”

“It is a scar,” she agreed then, more relieved than she could explain, ecstatic Daemon understood. “And it will always hurt. The birth of my youngest will always be linked to the death of his father.”

“And Laena’s death will always be because of the child I put in her,” her uncle confessed. “It is a scar. Let’s not chafe it needlessly.”

“Right,” Rhaenyra smiled despite herself. “Our children are intermarrying each other anyway.”

“Well, not all our children.”

“Daemon, Aegon and Baela are so obviously smitten-“

“This is not happening, and this will not happen, and honestly, did you just imply Aegon is your child? Did you steal him from your own father? Raised with Alicent perhaps?”

“You are the one raising Aegon!”

“I’m simply trying to prevent the boy from creating some kind of disaster we all will have to deal with!”

“Oh, is that’s why you have been personally training him for the last seven years? Is this why you school him like he is your firstborn son and not father's?”

“I do no such thing-“

“Yes, you do-“

“No, I fucking don’t- Rhaenyra, stop laughing!”

The moment Rhaenyra truly decides she will marry her uncle she goes for advice to Otto.

Daemon would laugh her out if he heard of that, but he won’t, so she is content in her decision.

He meets the princess in his study, the room full of scrolls and books of all kinds and shapes.

It is the place Jace loved to play in the most when he was little and the place where Aemond and Luke loved to hide prior the Driftmark.

Joffrey is here right now, sitting on the hide next to the heath, the book in his arms bigger than his head. One thing Otto Hightower excels at is his love of the knowledge, the thing what seemed to pass to all of Rhaenyra’s children.

“Joff,” she calls to him gently. “Your grandsire and I need to talk privately. Won’t you go see what your brother is at?”

“Kissing Helaena,” Joffrey exclaims and Rhaenyra has to stifle a laugh.

“My grandson will not be kissing his betrothed before the wedding,” the other voice comes from the window. “But I suppose you’re right in what they are probably in the company of each other.”

Joffrey wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want to bother them. Can I go bother father?”

Rhaenyra holds Lord Hightower’s pensive gaze as she tells her youngest what yes, he can go bother father.

“There is no stopping him from calling Daemon that, is there?” the Hand sighs the moment the heavy door closes behind the boy.

“No,” Rhaenyra smiles. “I suppose not. This is actually something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“You’re pregnant,” Lord Hightower comments.

“What?” the princess exclaims. “No!”

“No?” Otto frowns. “But Mellos said-“

Rhaenyra scoffs. Is it physically impossible for anything at the Keep to stay secret?

“It was a false call,” she admits. “We thought I might, but I wasn’t.”

“Good,” the Hand nods thoughtfully.

“Good?”

“I don’t think I need to tell you,” Otto walks around the table and sits on the sofa. He pats the place next to him and Rhaenyra reluctantly joins him. Her good father busies himself with filling up the cups with some exotic tea.

“What Daemon cannot be allowed anywhere near power. Having his blood mixed with your, inevitably bringing his child close to the line of succession, would be just that. There is no knowing what he would do then. Or how he would harm your sons. I hope you understand that.”

Rhaenyra wants to scoff, to argue, to exclaim Daemon would never harm her boys, he loves them.

But she knows there is no convincing Otto of that, what animosity her lover and her good father share is older than every single one of Otto’s grandchildren, older than Rhaenyra herself maybe.

“There will be no children between Daemon and I,” she admits then and feels Otto’s eyes on her.

“Why?” he asks simply. “The legitimacy aside, which can be simply fixed, I see no reason why he wouldn’t want to put a child in you.”

She really tried.

“You seem to forget Daemon lost his wife to childbirth,” Rhaenyra hisses, her true opinion flaring like the fire. “And unlike some people,” father, “He did not kill her for a child. Laena,” Rhaenyra looks away. “My cousin chose her own death, and it was both the tragedy and the great privilege. Daemon was left with no wife and two daughters to raise, and I believe he did it with grace,” she stares her good father down.

“He and you are not so different, Otto. You both lost your wives, you both grieve still,” Lord Hightower scoffs and Rhaenyra rushes to continue. “Just because he is bedding me doesn’t mean he doesn’t grieve her. Lady Laena was a great woman and her loss is the loss of the entire Kingdom. Daemon doesn’t wish for me to befall the same fate Laena fell from.”

The Hand doesn’t argue and Rhaenyra counts it as a win.

“And you?” he asks then. “Why don’t you want any more children?”

She snorts.

“Do you remember the last time I gave birth?”

He blinks at her.

Of course he remembers.

How could he ever forget the news of his only son dying and the sight of his good daughter, laying on the cold floor, screaming as the blood kept pouring from her body, her hand so firm on his it had to hurt, her screams echoing down the halls to haunt the inhabitants for years to come.

Otto had to physically hold her down when Joffrey was moving the babe inside her.

The experience like this ought to change a man.

“I do,” he finally responds. “But I would rather I didn’t.”

“Me neither,” she agrees. “But this is not what I came to discuss with you.”

“And what did you come to discuss?”

“I have decided to marry my uncle.”

Otto blinks at her again. At the distance she is sitting away from him he reminds her of an owl.

“I see,” he replies. “And what do you need me for?”

“A blessing. I need your blessing.”

He huffs.

“You’re not mistaking me for your father, are you?” the man asks. “I am in no position to give or not give my blessing to you, princess.”

“You’re in power to withdraw your support if you deem my decisions not to your liking,” she mentions plainly. “And I need your support.”

“Do you, now?”

“Yes,” she nods. “When I become the queen everyone will try to tear me apart. I need a steady Hand by my side.”

“And you deem me being that Hand?” he raises an eyebrow. “I recall you mistrusting my guts. What changed?”

“Gwayne,” she shrugs. “And when everything. We are tied up in more ways than we can count and I’d rather have you on my side than anywhere else.”

“The devil you know,” he nods in understanding. “Very well. There is one condition under what I will give you my...blessing.”

“What is it?”

“Make an edict. A degree what restrains Daemon from any power you have by marrying you. Make sure there will be no Prince-Consort. Stripe him from every possible gain he can get by marrying you,” the lord studies her closely. “Prepare it and offer to him on a plate. If he is still willing to marry you after that, then...” he sighs. “When you have my blessing.”

“He will,” she nods firmly. “I know you think Daemon wants me only for my crown, but you’re wrong. I will prove it to you.”

“Do it,” he allows. “But Rhaenyra, I advise you to move with it after...”

Your father dies ends up hanging in the air.

Because the king is dying and there is no denying of that. His remaining days are short in number.

The princess gulps but nods firmly.

“Make them accept the first Ruling Queen,” Otto continues. “Make sure they’re loyal to you, not the man you bring into your bed. Rule alone as the true monarch the Seven Kingdoms needs. And only after that bring Daemon into the equation. On the terms I described to you. Do it and my Hand and my counsel are yours.”

“Very well, good father,” she smiles keenly. “I will do just that.”

Chapter Text

Luke dreams and in his dreams the walls are closing in on him.

Or so it feels, so narrow the passage is.

He watches as the man with a cane walks: slowly, his right foot behaving strangely, to a place Luke can only describe as cells.

These are the cells, with dirty and weary people huddled inside.

The man stops and sits next to one of the cells, the hit of his cane echoing in the small space around.

"What a collection of heroes I have before me," he says as he moves his gaze from one man to the other. "A murderer, a deviant, a traitor to the crown. For your crimes you’ve been sentenced to death by hanging."

One of the sentenced shifts, opening a mouth full of broken and darkening teeth. Luke shudders and feels the movements go like a wave through the dream.

Strange.

"What do you want, m'lord?" the murderer - the man named him that - speaks.

The man looks back at him, visibly calm, but for something hungry, cruel in his eyes.

"I am prepared to offer you mercy," he offers. "If you’re prepared to pay a little price."

What happens next Luke would not be able to describe even if asked.

He wakes up: cold sweat on his back, the vile taste in the mouth.

The boy jumps from the bed in his cabin and rushes out.

He empties the contents of his stomach into the sea and slides down to the floor.

"Got greensick?" a familiar voice asks and Luke raises a tired gaze to look up.

"Joffrey," he croaks.

"That's me," the man agrees easily. "Feeling alright?" He moves the back of his palm to Luke's forehead. "Heavens, you're burning."

"I had another dream," the prince confesses. From all the people around, Joffrey is the only one he tells about his dreams. Him and Aemond, though Luke often skips details in his letters.

He sees the knight frown.

"Fire again?"

The young prince shakes his head.

"No," he hesitates. "This time...someone was cutting people's tongues off."

"By the Seven," Joffrey looks at him with worry. "Tongues?"

"Yes," Luke hugs his knees, trying to fold on himself.

He feels Joffrey's hand coming to rest on his back, moving in the smooth circular motion.

"He said...he said they are convicted to death because they're criminals. But if they do something for him, when they can live. I don't like it," he shakes his head and the motion almost makes him sick again. "I don't like what I'm plagued by the same dreams over and over again. What do they want?"

"The dreams?" Joffrey chuckles dryly. "Laenor says they are meant to tell you something, but so far they only serve as a torment for you. Still," he frowns. "Is there anything special about the man you saw?"

"Yes," Luke nods eagerly. "His right foot was wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"It moved strangely," the young prince tries to explain. "He had to use a cane."

"A cane," Joffrey hums. "Anything else?"

"I don't know," Luke sighs. "For some reason I keep thinking of fireflies. It's silly..."

"Not at all," Joffrey gives him a side hug. "A cane and the fireflies. I'll look into it."

"Thank you," the boy forces himself to smile. "I'm sure it's just some nonsense thought."

"Can't hurt to pry into this nonsense a little," his god father smiles and Luke can't help but smile back.

It was Laenor's idea actually, to make himself and Joffrey Luke's god fathers. There was an ancient tradition like that in Old Valyria, to claim a child you have no relation to as your own by performing a simple blood ritual and bonding you together.

"Now we're your fathers," he chuckled and ruffled Luke's hair. "The gods themselves made so."

Lucerys smiled at that.

It was good to have a father again, not to mention two. His real father was dead and he barely knew Daemon, though he knew little Joffrey called him that. Jace didn't, but Luke knew his brother well enough to know he felt like Daemon was his father too.

Luke, in turn, had Laenor and Joffrey.

Mother was furious when she found about the ritual, but he has begged her to not be cross with his god fathers, insisting he asked for the ritual to be performed, lamenting what Jace and Joff had a father now and he didn't.

He knew it was a cruel thing to do, for mother grew all quiet and sad, but it have gotten him the result he wanted: Laenor and Joffrey stayed unscratched and weren't even glared at angrily too much.

Lord Corlys found the entire ordeal hilarious and prompted the young prince to call him grandfather from now on. Luke did, but only when they were alone or in company of the family.

It warmed his heart how with time the visible rift between Lord Corlys - grandsire Corlys - and Laenor mended. They even moved to the Tide two years ago and the new castle felt like a heaven made on earth after the dampness of Driftmark.

Luke nods to Joffrey as he drifts back to sleep, the man chuckling and urging the young prince up.

"No sleeping on the deck, little lord," he urges him. "Let's get you back to your cabin."

They arrive to the King's Landing in the morrow.

"Stop pouting," Laenor advices as the ship boards the port.

"I am not pouting," Rhaena argues as she indeed is pouting.

"Morning is too little to fly on her back," Laenor tries again as he silently wishes for the countless of times for his sister to be here to parent her daughter herself.

Or at least for Daemon to be here, but Daemon is too busy preparing the celebratory tournament for Prince Jacaerys and Princess Helaena's incoming wedding.

"I am not pouting," the girl insists and Laenor fights the urge to roll his eyes.

Lucerys, in contrast with his betrothed, has been suspiciously quiet and placid since they boarded the Sea Snake: Laenor's father decided he will get his family to the Royal Wedding himself.

The boy - who is quickly growing into a beautiful young man - stands near the board, watching the city with unspoken melancholy unusual for the boys his age.

Lucerys has been growing a gentle and kind child with occasional rebel streaks, but in the past several days it was suddenly dimmed; the unknown sadness falling over him.

"Leave him alone," Rhaena advised her uncle when Laenor tried to ask her what's wrong. "He has the dreams again."

The dreams have been a topic of the Velaryon-Targaryen household for the last nine years at least.

It seems the boy, as his aunt and grandsire before him, is prone to the rare case of Dragon Dreams; the dreams what had the capability to be prophetic, if the circumstances are right.

The trouble, Laenor knows, what you can never know if the current dream the boy has is prophetic or is it just an echo of some distance occurrence.

Laenor has silently cursed that ability his little god son possesses more times than he could count, for Lucerys has often dreamed of the things going wrong; his father dying, Laena's death, the battle with crabfeeder, which boy was able to recall to the every minor detail.

Never once he dreamed of anything good, so the new streak of dragon dreams, Laenor knows, can only mean one thing.

Trouble.

And, by glimpsing up the figures waiting for them in the docks, he instantly knows this trouble will be doubled.

Prince Aemond stands two steps away from Baela, hands clasped behind his back, a frown already on his face like he was forced to be present.

Which, Laenor knows, is very much not the case: he would wager the boy sprinted here the first sight of the ship approaching, only to stand here now, grumpy like Balerion itself. The god, not the dragon, though the dragon too.

Luke perks up as he sees his favorite person ever, raising his hand to wave eagerly. Even from that distance Laenor can see Aemond raise an eyebrow in a very Daemon way, before waving back with much less excitement.

If this is how he looks when he is where he wants to be, Laenor dreads the sight of the boy when he is forced to attend something.

"Aemond," Lucerys shouts the moment they board, being the first to fly off the ship. Corlys smirks at that.

"Ah, young love," he mulls and Laenor gives him a tentative smile. It's been years since their last argument and things are looking good.

They watch as Lucerys practically falls into the older prince's embrace, Aemond is clearly shaken by such an open expression of affection, moving to steady his nephew.

Baela grins at them as she gives her sister a long hug.

"Took you long enough," she smirks. "Almost missed all the fun."

"You know we would never miss the fun," Corlys chuckles, bringing her closer. "Now, is your grandmother here?"

Baela nods.

"Flew in a day ago," she confirms. "Aegon is walking around Meleys in circles and keeps asking to pet her. Grandmother said 'if you want to lose a limb or two', but it hardly discouraged him."

"Laenor denied me my wish to fly on Morning," Rhaena immediately rattles out and Aemond rolls his eye.

"Quit being a crybaby," he scoffs. "Luke didn't fly on Arrax either, but he is not complaining."

"I fear I would fall from Arrax if I did," the said prince laughs and it immediately makes Aemond frown.

The one eyed prince studies him closely, noticing the sickly pale skin, the dark shadows under his eyes, the weariness with which he is holding himself.

"Dreams again?"

Luke nods at that.

"This night worse than usual," he admits. "Joffrey found me on the deck vomiting my insides out because of it."

"Was it that serious?" Laenor can't help to worry. "Why didn't you wake me?" that is addresses to Joffrey.

"He calmed down and fell back asleep soon," the man shrugs. "I didn't see the point."

"But if Luke was suffering-"

"I'm sure Joffrey did everything in his power to ease the suffering," Corlys intersects. "I'd rather we did not fight on that fine day. The sun is shining, Jacaerys is to marry Helaena, and all is well. Right?" He looks pointedly at his son.

"Right," Laenor begrudgingly agrees.

"To the castle then," Joffrey exclaims, as Aemond keeps looking Lucerys over as if trying to find some visible cause of his struggles.

Young love indeed.

Luke hears him before he sees him.

First comes the sound of the cane.

Tap, tap, tap.

When the man himself appears: he looks less  imposing than he did in the dream, less threatening. His right foot is turned inward, making his step uneven and difficult without the cane.

Luke catches Joffrey's inquisitive look and nods slightly.

It's him.

"Laenor," he asks, trying to stay calm. "Who is this man near grandfather? The one with the cane."

"Oh, him?" Laenor shrugs. "It's Larys Strong, the Lord Confessor of the king. His father died with yours in the fire at Harrenhal."

The young prince nods, feeling the needles pierce his temples.

For some reason this name hurts.

Larys Strong, he tries and feels the heat of the fire.

Larys Strong.

It smells of the smoke.

Larys Strong.

His father is screaming; a deafening sound full of anguish.

Something is dripping to the floor. It takes Luke long enough for people to start screaming time to understand it's his own blood.

A nosebleed.

How bizarre, he has never gotten nosebleeds before.

"Luke?" He hears Laenor call, muffled, as if from underwater. "Luke!"

His vision blurs, but he still manages to catch the distortion on his mother's face and the way aunt Alicent pales. He sees the frown finding a way into Grandsire Otto's face and hears the king call for maester.

The last thing he remembers is a piercing stare of the man with the cane.

Larys...

The firefly, Lucerys realizes with a stark clarity.  It's on the cane.

And then the world turns dark.

Chapter Text

"What do you mean 'nothing is wrong'"? Rhaenyra hisses. "My son just randomly started to bleed and fainted. Don't tell me nothing is wrong, find the issue and fix it!"

Grand Maester Orwyle sighs.

"Your Highness," he tries for the fifth time. "Nothing physical is amiss in the young prince's state. Perhaps the nosebleed and the fainting was caused by the exhaustion, or the stress..."

"Are you saying we're mistreating the boy?" Corlys frowns. "Because this is what I'm hearing."

The maester's dark completion pales a little.

"In no way, my lord," he assures the Lord of the Tides. "I'm simply trying to guess possible cause for his distress."

The queen frowns, worrying the hem of her sleeve.

"My nephew bled all over the Great Hall, maester," she reminds him. "He lost consciousness and has not woken up for an entire day, not to mention the second one what is starting. We don't need guesses, we need answers."

Orwyle looks defeated.

"I'm afraid I've reached the limits of my art, Your Grace," he admits. "The illness what overtook the young prince is of a mental kind, there is very little we can do."

"Very little you can do," Daemon scoffs. "I can call for my contacts in Pentos, fly them in."

"Laenor," Joffrey's voice is tight, so tight it must be painful to speak. "Before Luke has fainted, what were you talking about?"

"How is that relevant?" The man frowns.

"Answer the damn question."

Laenor gives his lover a confused look.

"He asked for Larys Strong's name," and at that he sees Joffrey pale as well. "What? Joffrey, what?"

"Last night at the ship," the knight begins. "The nightmare Luke was having. He saw a man limping to the prisoner cells, a cane in his right hand. He spoke of fireflies."

"What?" Rhaenyra frowns. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Joffrey admits. "But the moment Luke saw Larys Strong - he paled, so much he looked like a ghost. And when he fainted. And these dreams of his," the knight frowns. "We don't think they're the normal ones."

"You think the boy is the Dragon Dreamer," Daemon hums.

"He could describe our last fight against crabfeeder to the smallest detail," Corlys frowns. "The boy is Dragon Dreamer. But what it means..."

"Why is it the first time I'm hearing of this?" Rhaenyra demands. "Luke is my son; I should have been informed of that occurrence the moment it happened the first time."

"He didn't want to worry you," previously silent the Queen Who Wasn't replies. "His first dreams...We feared they would be too taunting for you."

"Why?" Alicent's voice is hoarse in her throat, the hands coming to her mouth in the nervous gesture. There is some blood on her finders, the tender skin near the nails peeled off. "What did he see?"

Laenor sighs and prepares for the worst.

"Harrenhal," he admits. "He dreamt of his father dying."

The hell breaks loose.

Luke dreams of Harrenhal, a huge ruins by the lake called the God's Eye; of the charred corridors and abandoned towers. He dreams of his father saying to the fat kind looking man: "The preparations are almost over, Lord Lyonel. I think we're ready."

The man with Larys Strong's deep brown hair nods.

"I wish Harwin was there," he admits. "We have our quarrels, but something as grandiose as this? A tournament should be celebrated together as a family."

"Will your younger son come?" Luke's father asks and the man shakes his head.

"Larys claims there are too many criminals for him to rest," he chuckles. "Always the overachiever, this one."

"You sound proud of him," Luke's father mentions.

"I am," the man nods. "Many frown upon his craft, but I believe different men are needed for the Realm's wellbeing. Someone guards the law one way, someone - the other. There always should be a man to punish the wrong. My younger son has chosen to become such a man. I only wish Harwin was so dutiful."

"Harwin is a great Commander, my lord."

"He is," Lord Strong nods. "Though I fear he is less great a man."

Luke blinks and the room spins around him, the light to bright for him to not wince.

"He woke up!" he hears a familiar voice and smiles. "Luke."

Aemond's worries face comes into the view and the young prince simply can't not revel at the sight of it.

He missed his uncle more than is socially acceptable, he missed him like something was cut off his chest and fed to the sharks. Or, well, the dragons.

"Hi," he manages and sees Aemond smile back.

"Hello," his favorite person in the world replies. "You scared me."

"I love you," Luke blurts out and wants to faint back right away. Why did he have to say that?!

Aemond's stunned expression rivals only his deep blush.

"Did you hit your head?" He asks, reaching for Lucerys' forehead. "Do you have a fever?"

The young prince immediately grabs the hand and brings it to his chest.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "It came out wrong. Not what I don't love you, I do, but just...yeah."

"Now you have embarrassed the both of us," Aemond mentions, though his voice is found and he looks entirely too pleased with himself. "I guess I...care about you too. A little."

"A little?!" Luke gawks at him. "You take that back!"

"Very well," his uncle smiles. "Then I don't care for you at all."

The young prince scoffs.

"A liar," he calls Aemond. "And a fiend. I guess I don't love you anymore too."

Someone coughs loudly, making Lucerys to look that way.

Rhaena sits on a chair by the bed, her hands crossed.

"I am still," she says pointedly in Aemond's way. "In the room."

"Rhaena," Luke smiles. "Hello."

"Hello to you too," her expression softens. "You have no idea how unbearable this one," she points at the older prince. "Was while you were unconscious. We thought maester would need to knock him out."

"You thought maester would need to knock me out," Aemond points out with a scoff. "Others did not."

"Can't blame me for being precarious," the girl shrugs. "Now," she turns to Luke. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"The blood," Rhaena gestures wildly. "The fainting. Are you dying?"

"He is not dying."

"You can't know that!"

"Maester Orwyle said there is no physical issue."

"Great, so he is dying from some unknown mental illness-"

"He is not dying-"

Lucerys coughs loudly to draw attention in. The moment three eyes land on him; he opens his mouth, thinks a little and closes it back in.

"Luke?" Rhaena asks. "Is everything alright?"

"I don't know," he confesses and looks at Aemond for support. His uncle squeezes his palm, Luke's hold on his hand is not broken off yet. That notion makes the younger prince blush. "It might sound weird...Insane even," he draws a sharp breath and closes his eyes.

"I think Larys Strong killed my father."

"What do you mean 'you think he killed your father?'" Rhaena asks.

"It means exactly what he just said, Rhaena," Aemond scoffs. "Get a hold on yourself."

"Listen here," the young lady hisses. "I've had enough of this attitude of yours and now, of all times, is the wrong fucking one."

"Um," Luke tries. "Can you not fight? For me. Please."

Both his uncle and his betrothed give him an exasperated look.

"We can try," Rhaena sighs. "If someone behaves."

"I am behaving-"

"No, you're not," the girl cuts out. "You're throwing a jealous fit because you're not the one Luke will eventually marry."

"What does it-" Aemond stutters. "It has nothing to do with this."

"It has everything to do with this and it would do you good to acknowledge your own feelings."

"And who are you to tell me about feelings, you little-"

"Shut," Luke commands harshly. "The fuck. Up."

The room grows quiet and stills.

"Good," he concludes.

"Now, back to the topic. Larys Strong. The fire at Harrenhal. The fact that Lord Commander Harwin Strong was going to attend the tournament before he changed his mind at the last moment possible and my father took his place. The fact that the death of his father and older brother would make Larys Strong the head of his house. The fucking dream in which he cuts some convicts' tongue out and promises them life in exchange of some favor. Coincidence?" He raises an eyebrow.

Rhaena scoffs.

"I think fucking not," she agrees.

She and Aemond exchange nods.

"Now the question is," the one eyed prince begins. "What do we do about it?"

"Easy," Lucerys smiles, a wicked thing feeling unnatural on his soft lips. "We show this miscreant what it means to mess with Hightowers."

"Oh joy," he hears Rhaena mumble. "This again."

But Aemond, his beloved Aemond, his uncle as well as cousin, grins back just as ferocious.

"We will," he promises. "We will show the Realm no one can harm one of ours and leave unpunished. Well," he glances at Rhaena briefly. "Almost no one."

"For the thousandth of times," Rhaena scoffs. "I did not cut your eye out. Luke did."

"And I'm sorry," the young prince hurries to add.

"What for?" Rhaena rolls her eyes. "Saving my life?"

"I wasn't going to kill you," Aemond argues.

"A likely story," Rhaena snorts.

"I'm sorry for hurting you," Luke reaches out, grabbing the other of his uncle's hands. "I mean it. I do love you."

He sees Aemond blush and look away and Rhaena roll her eyes, but the crisis is averted.

Chapter Text

It's a game of cat and mouse.

A riddle of a wolf, a goat and a cabbage.

A slow, clever weaving of web.

If Luke thinks of that in any other way, he will start crying.

"So what are you suggesting, sweet boy?" Daemon Targaryen stares the prince down: the ten-and-five years old boy he is.

Lucerys is clad in Velaryon blue, there's a small shell on a chain around his neck, but the look he gives the man is unmistakably Hightower.

The boy tilts his head to the side.

"I believe you have contacts in the city. I need a spy."

The corners of Daemon's lips climb up.

"And I believe you can't just ask for one of the Lord Whisperer's."

"No," Luke feels his own body tensing involuntarily. Even mentioning this man brings a wave, a hot and scorching wave of hatred and disgust. "Because I they will be spying on him."

Daemon gives him another hard look.

"Don't suppose it has anything to do with you fainting the other day?" he asks. "Or the dreams you have been having?"

Luke feels himself pale.

"Joffrey told you?"

"Joffrey?" Daemon raises an eyebrow. "Not Laenor?"

"I tell Joffrey more than Laenor," Luke admits begrudgingly.

It's somewhat of a secret, but Joffrey is truly the better one of the two to go for the advice.

Maybe due his creative way of thinking or maybe because the man doesn't fully feel the weight of raising someone else's son as Laenor feels it, but Joffrey always finds a way to at least make things slightly better, if solving them is not possible.

"He is a good listener," Luke tries to explain and wonders why he even feels like he needs to explain to Daemon anything at all. "And knows how to keep a secret."

There's a humorous glint in the man's eyes at that; Luke pretends to not see it.

"Yes," the Rogue Prince agrees. "I believe he does."

Her name, if she ever had one, is unknown to the other girls and customers alike.

She is a thin looking pale skinned whore from one of the cheapest, dirtiest whorehouse at the Street of Silk and, most importantly, she is mute and deaf.

For all intents and purposes, she is a perfect spy to send Larys' way.

Daemon promises to hold back Rhaenyra and aunt Alicent; after all, they have no real proof, only feeling, only a strong suspicion based on a dream.

No hearing will find it sufficient.

Luckily, Luke needs no hearings.

He looks from tightly clutched on his lap hands and meets an attentive gaze of his grandsire, the Hand.

Otto's face is impassive, but something in the glint of his eyes gives away a glimpse of the true feeling.

Fury.

"I believe you have a plan," the Hand mentions casually.

"I do, grandfather," Lucerys echoes calmly.

This is how said plan comes into action; by the hands of just three men.

Judge, Jury, Executioner.

In a day the nameless little whore enters Larys Strong's private chambers.

Luke smiles

It's a game of cat and mouse.

And the trap just closed.

"Are you seriously going to hold a tournament?" Laenor demands

"Yes," Rhaenyra tilts her head to the side slightly, a dark expression in her lilac eyes

"Like nothing happened?"

"Nothing did happen," she presses her lips even more tightly together. "My son suffered a fatigue and a nosebleed from the journey to the King's Landing. Nothing else happened."

"But Rhaenyra-"

"Let me get this straight," she lowers her voice. "We have no proof and no way to bring this man to justice yet. You might want to deal with it as you men always do; with the steel in your hand and murder in the heart. But I," she sighs. "I'm the future queen and my father's health is wavering." She sighs, a deep and mournful sound escaping her lips.

"I fear he doesn't have much time left, and the moment he dies...The Storm will break loose. I need to keep up the appearances, no matter how much I want to strangle this man with my bare hands," her voice drops to a vicious hiss.

"But I cannot. And you will not. We will do it the smart way. We," she points at Laenor. "Will put down a trap and walk Larys right into it. And when it will close, everyone will know what he has done. Everyone will see. And only when," she presses a finder down Laenor's breastbone.

"We will strike. And make my late husband proud."

Laenor gives the princess q contemplating look.

"You're a scheming thing, cousin," he notices. "A clever and wicked and a scheming thing."

"I am your future queen," she replies. "And I long have stopped believing the promises of men. It is a vicious game we are playing, cousin." She gives him a dim smile. "And I intend to win."

"So we're just waiting?" Aemond scoffs. "That man killed uncle Gwayne and all we're doing is sitting still and doing nothing?"

"Aemond-" Luke tries, but the older prince brushes it off.

"Don't 'Aemond' me! Why can't we just cut this man in a half? He is no one-"

"And how will you explain to Lord Commander Strong the sudden death of his brother?" Luke sighs. "I understand your frustration," his hands come to rest atop of Aemond's and the one-eyed prince immediately turns his palms up and captures them in his hold. "I truly do. But we're not the only ones who lost someone. Ser Harwin lost his father too, he deserves to know the truth."

"This truth gave us nothing," the older prince pulls Luke close and the boy moves easily, putting his face into the crook of his uncle's neck and inhaling deeply. Aemond shudders.

 "It gave us closure, or will give once the man is dealt with. But for now," Luke brushes his lips along the older prince's neck and Aemond forgets the meaning of words. "We need to be clever. And patient."

"Fine," the older prince grumbles. "But only because I trust you."

They stay there for a while, intertwined, neither being willing to break the embrace, neither having a strength to do that.

"Don't marry her," Aemond suddenly asks and immediately regrets his words.

Only he doesn't, only he knows they would crawl out of his throat one way or another.

It was always supposed to be like this; it was always supposed to be just the two of them.

No Velaryons and certainly no girls.

Luke sighs, a deep and sad sound.

"I have to," he nuzzles his uncle's neck. "But it doesn't have to be... real. Only for the appearances, only to produce the heir what will unite our houses."

"The heir," Aemond scoffs. "You're aware how the children are being made, are you not?"

Luke cups his face, gazing lovingly into his single eye.

"One night," he promises. "Just one single night and, hopefully, it will be enough."

"Children can be hardly conceived after just one night," his uncle grumbles.

"There are means to help the seed take," Lucerys brushes his hair away from Aemond's face and plants a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Herbs and brews. Rhaena and I talked about it; she knows where my heart lays," Luke brings his lips lower. "Or with whom."

"The single thought of you in bed with that girl-"

"I will probably think of you the entire time it goes," his dear nephew chuckles. "You and your hands on me, you and your lips on me...I don't think I could make it work otherwise."

"Careful," Aemond grumbles. "We saw each other only in glimpses in these past years, you have no idea how starved for you I have grown to be."

"Well, can I?" Luke brings their foreheads together. "Can I have some idea? Will you show me?"

"You insolent creature," Aemond's breath catches in his throat as his breeches tighten. By the sly smirk Lucerys gives his way, the younger prince notices. "Must you torment me so? Must you lure me with your looks, with your words, with your touch? Do you not know I can barely resist you?"

"And why," the boy brushes his lips slightly. "Are you resisting? Give in. Give in, uncle, and let us be as we were always supposed to. Show me the depth of your devotion. Consume m-"

Aemond eats the last words away, kissing his way into his nephew's mouth, raising him to his lap to press his growing hardness into Lucerys' own groin.

The boy groans into the kiss.

"You always know how to make it better," he moans, thrusting forward and making Aemond's head spin. "Even after I cut your eye out," Luke moves to drag the eyepatch off and caress the scar gently. Aemond lets him. "Even after I betrayed your trust, the moment I got hurt you flew to me," he exposes the neck and his uncle immediately sucks a mark into it.

Luke will have to wear collars for the weeks to come, but it is more than worth it.

"I remember your kiss. You thought I was asleep and landed your lips on my forehead and it felt," he pants. "It felt like heaven."

"Of course you only pretended to be asleep," Aemond growls as he moves to slide his hand into the front of Luke's breeches. The sound coming from the boy's mouth at that is such a lustful, wanton thing Aemond almost finishes right away.

"I wanted you to be kind to me," his nephew confesses. "It seemed you only did that when I was unconscious."

"You sly little-"

Luke bits into Aemond's lip hard and this time it's the older prince who tries to conceal the moan.

His lover of a nephew does not let him.

"No," Lucerys hisses into his uncle's lips. "Don't fight it. I want to hear it; I want to know I'm the one doing it to you."

"Who else?" Aemond pants as he thrusts his palm up and down in Luke's breeches. The boy's breath catches. "Who else has my body, who else has my soul? There have only ever been you."

"Good," Luke moans and moves to reciprocate the gesture, but Aemond catches his hands in his, pressing them down Luke's chest.

"No," he shakes his head. "I am undoing you now."

"But I want to make you feel good too-"

"Oh, my sweet," Aemond croons. "My delightful fool of a nephew. If you make me feel any better, I'll burst."

He sees a dark red blush splash across Luke's beautiful face.

"But I'm doing nothing," the younger prince murmurs.

"You're doing everything to me," Aemond whispers into his ear and feels Lucerys tremble. "You bewitched me, body and soul. I will simply die without your touch."

A small, chocked sound escapes Luke's lips, his hips thrusting violently into Aemond's touch.

"Me too," he confesses. "I will seize to exist if you stop, uncle, Aemond, love, please don't stop!"

It's the last word that makes Aemond come into his own breeches.

Love.

Lucerys Targaryen's heart belongs to him.

He tightens his grip on Luke's cock, moving his hand harsher and faster. It's not too long till the boy's body goes rigid, his back tenses and when a hot seed splashes all over Aemond's fingers.

Luke pants into his neck, weary and spent, smelling of salt and skin and home.

Aemond moves his hand to his mouth, tasting the seed, before slowly licking it off his palm; a single eye never leaving Luke's both.

"Oh gods," his beloved groans. "Aemond..."

His uncle moves to join their lips together, making Luke taste himself on his lips.

"You're mine," he speaks, wrapping hands around the younger prince's frame. "You're mine now and forever."

"Yes," Lucerys nods wearily. "I am yours. And you're mine."

No one will be able to tear them apart.

No one will dare to.

In a room down below, close to the prison cells, so close one could hear the condemned scream, a man lets the young whore in.

"What a delicate thing you are," he says as he moves across the room, the cane hitting the stone with the loud thump.

Luckily, the little whore hears nothing, for she is deaf.

"They didn't give me your name," Larys mentions. "Do you even have a name?"

The girl gives him an empty look.

"Right," he chuckles. "I forgot you can't hear me. Rather lucky of you, I suppose. Do come closer," he makes a becoming gesture and she shifts forward.

Larys brushes a hair from her face, an impassive gaze meeting his own.

"Such a pretty thing you are," he comments. "And such quiet one. Your matron told me you're mute from your birth. Is that so?"

The girl gives him another blank stare. Larys laughs quietly.

"That's fair," he admits. "How would you know what I'm talking about anyway?" He cups her cheek. "You, my dear, are just perfect. A beautiful doll for me to play with, unable to hear or say a thing. How will I call you?" He tilts his head to the side.

"Alys. You, my dear, will be Alys. Not what you will know of that, but," he cups her cheek with a feign pity. "I will."

It is late in the night when the lord is deep asleep, uncaring by the screams of the prisoners being tormented nearby, what the woman smiles.

Luke finds the first note in the boot he left by his bedside.

The mouse is whispering of the girl named Alys. Find her.

Lucerys smiles, his lips pulling into something wide and cruel.

There are two minor things separating the little whore from the others of her kind.

The first thing - she can write.

And the second.

The girl can read lips.

Chapter Text

The tournament is about to begin.

Luke shifts in his place between his older brother and betrothed.

"I didn't expect Aemond to participate," he admits.

Jace grins.

"He was training in secret," his brother rattles out. "Probably to impress you."

"He doesn't need to impress me," Luke scoffs. "I'm already impressed."

"I'm sure you are," Aegon replies, looking around. "Has anyone seen Baela? She was supposed to join me in the morrow, but her maid said she had some urgent thing to do. What urgent thing it might be she would leave me behind for I know not," he scoffs.

Helaena raises her hand and puts it lightly on her brother's shoulder.

"She is doing it for you," the girl consoles her brother.

"What?"

"The urgent thing," she insists. "It is for you."

"How?" Aegon scoffs. "She didn't even tell me. She tells me everything."

"Not everything," the Rogue Prince's voice comes booming from behind. "Now, if you would just shut your mouth for a moment-"

"Why are you not participating?" Aegon demands.

"I haven't played this pretend game since before you lot were born," Daemon shrugs. "One can only stroke his ego that much before this child's play becomes boring."

"He lost," Rhaenys informs them helpfully. "At the tourney of the heir more than twenty years ago. Daemon lost to some unknown dornish knight who when had the princess' favor."

Jace stares at his stepfather.

"Ser Cole beat you up?"

Aegon snorts.

"I love how you hear 'a dornish knight who won Rhaenyra's favor' and immediately think of Cole."

Jacaerys frowns.

"Father told us about that tourney," he admits. "He also said it ended up badly."

"The queen died," Laenor nods. "And prince Baelon too."

"A life for an heir," Helaena frowns and grabs Jace's hand. "You will not cut me open for an heir, right?"

Neither of them notices it's the moment the king arrives. He halts on his unsteady feet, face paling beyond comparison, eyes staying at his youngest daughter.

Jace gives her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Nothing will be done to you that you won't consent to," he promises and she breathes out, relieved, and puts her head in her betrothed's shoulder.

Aegon gives the couple an envious look.

"No, really," he complains again. "Where is Baela?"

There is a sound of the steps approaching and Aegon turns around, hopeful, only to see his mother and sister joining them in.

Their hands are intervened and there is a nicely weaved ivy bracelet with blood red flowers they put into the plate of favors for the contestants. Aegon wonders whose favor it is.

The Hand of the King and the Sea Snake are the last to join, exchanging nods and moving to their seats.

The trumpets call, the drums roll and Daemon rises to announce the tournament begin.

"Mother," Aegon whispers as Daemon speaks of the freshly build road of unity the marriage of the King's eldest grandson and his younger daughter will bring, of the love these two 'bleeding hearts' grew into and of the peace and prosperity their union will bring. For someone previously known only for bloodshed and debauchery, he can be surprisingly eloquent when he wants to. "Have you seen Baela?"

Rhaenyra, overhearing his whispering, smiles to him slyly.

"You will see her soon enough," she promises.

The first contestants come in.

There's a knight under the Lannister banner, probably one of the Jason Lannister's sons.

The other man is sitting on a pitch black horse and there's a three-headed dragon seal on his armor. He takes his helmet off and Luke's breath catches.

Aemond.

"Do you think he'll ask for your favor?" Aegon snickers as he leans to Luke a behind their siblings.

Jace gives Aegon a warning look.

"What?" he exclaims. "It's not like it's the secret these two are involved-"

"My brother is betrothed to Rhaena," Jace seethes through greeted teeth. "Aemond knows doing something like that would be an offence to her."

Aegon laughs.

"And you think it will stop him?"

"He won't do that," Luke argues, desperately wishing Aemond would do that, declare his love to him for the entire court to see, consequences be damned.

Rhaena catches his pained expression and squeezes his hand.

Aemond beats his opponent easily and asks for his mother's favor. Luke is both relieved and disappointed by that.

Alicent brushes his back gently as he moves to her place, seemingly knowing what storm is raging within him.

"Mommy's boy," Aegon murmurs as he rolls his eyes.

Two more contestants come to the arena and everything comes to a halt.

The first contestant is of no importance to any of them, but the second one...

First of all, it's the woman.

Second of all, it's the woman they all know.

The first clue is a horse; mouse grey and feign calm, this creature bit Aegon more times than he can count, to the rocking laugh of its beautiful rider.

The one who is mounted on her horse right now.

She is dressed in lean black distinctly familiar armor, and Aegon now realizes where Daemon's own disappeared to.

There's a three-headed dragon pressed into the metal on its chest, less a painting of the seal and more a carving of it.

There's a valyrian steel dragon helmet on her head, the treasure the Rogue Prince would never give to anyone but his own blood.

And the face underneath the helmet is no one else's but:

"Baela," he hears princess Rhaenys breathe out. "Daemon, what is a meaning of this?"

"Bold of you to assume I orchestrated this," he smirks, obviously pleased. "My daughter fights better than any man the King's Landing has. If she wants to join the tournament, I say she can."

"She's wearing your helmet," Laenor notices curiously. "And your armor."

The Rogue Prince shrugs.

"It's her helmet and her armor now."

Aegon can't believe his eyes.

Or rather he can't tear his eyes off the figure clad in black, a lance in her hand.

"Careful, cousin," Rhaena smirks. "It seems you will be the one giving out favors today."

Luke snorts at that.

Aegon stares, his eyes never straying away, as Baela dismounts the arrogant lord with ease. The man fumes and demands the fight on feet, and oh, does she deliver.

Aegon has never seen Baela being more beautiful than she is now, beating the man into the dirt with the grace unknown to them before.

The lord yields, his voice loud for everyone to hear, and Baela beams.

She climbs up her horse and moves to the stand where the royal family is seated.

Her dark violet eyes meet Aegon's own.

"I would ask of a favor," the girl calls out, loud enough for the men furthest from the stand to hear. "Sweet cousin," she gives Aegon a cheeky smile and in that moment Aegon would rip off his heart from the ribcage if she asked for it. "Will you honor me?"

"I," he stutters. "But I have no-"

Rhaenyra reaches out, putting a familiar ivy bracelet into his hands.

"It is your favor," she whispers into her brother's ear. "Your mother and I made it for you."

Aegon feels himself, absurdly, blush, his cheeks no doubt as crimson as the flowers on the bracelet themselves.

He clears his throat.

"It would be my pleasure," and did Aegon imagine it, or had his voice really squeaked out at the end?

Baela grins and reaches out with her lance.

It takes Aegon an absurdly long time to realize he needs to put his favor on it.

"Right," he coughs, standing out awkwardly. "Here we go."

And the public actually whistles at the sight of the prince of the realm giving his favor to a girl playing a knight in her father's armor.

They whistle and clap and shout obscene things.

"Forget about your horse, lady, mount him instead!"

"When is the wedding?"

"Look at the Rogue Princess winning her cousin's hand!"

"The Rogue Princess?" Aegon asks, his cheeks aflame. Baela, in the contrast to him, looks surprisingly put together; her dark complexion successfully hiding her blush.

"It appears I have a moniker now," she smiles and brings the bracelet to her lips.

Aegon feels the earth opening beneath his feet and hopes for it to swallow him.

He desperately hopes he will not grow hard from the mere sight of it and feels his body betraying him regardless.

Baela's wicked smile widens as she puts the favor on her wrist.

"This and any other victory I devote to you," she declares and the crowd roars.

Aegon feels Daemon's peering gaze on him and tries to make himself to be as small as possible.

The Rogue Prince is not smiling anymore.

Baela wins.

It should have come to no one's surprise what she beats every single contestant with an ease.

The only struggle she has is while battling her own cousin, Aemond being firmly dedicated to not let her get an upper hand, but even he begrudgingly admits defeat after a heated feat of the fighting match on feet.

"Well done," he nods at her slightly. "You thought well. And," a glimpse of a smile sneaks into his face. "You managed to embarrass my brother. That is no easy feat."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she grins back and, turning to the stand where Aegon is watching her like a hawk, brings his favor to her lips once again.

The prince almost falls from the stand and Aemond laughs.

"The crown of love and beauty," one of the men her father hired to organize the tourney presents to her. "Who will you grant it to, my lady? If, of course," he gives the girl, battled and bruised, with a blood on her face and hair - a wild cloud - an accessive look. "You do not wish to keep it herself."

Baela laughs aloud at that.

"No," she shakes her head.

"Very well," the man responds. "Do you wish to give the crown to your chosen?" he gestures to where Aegon is trying to pretend he doesn't care.

Baela smiles; a wide, hungry and wicked expression finding way into her face.

She looks very much her father's daughter like that, with the possessive glint in her deep violet eyes.

"I'll do it myself," she declares. "Give me the crown."

They watch; everyone, the spectators, the contestants, the workers and their family: they follow the lady as she walks across the clearing, climbs the stand and comes standing right in front of her cousin.

Aegon's mouth is wide agape and there's a wondering look in his eyes, a question, a plea.

Baela drops the crown into his silver halo of hair and hears the queen gasp.

When she puts two fingers to Aegon's chin and tilts it up slightly.

And when, under the gazes of men and gods, under the disbelieving stare of her own father, she kisses Aegon right in the lips.

The crowd erupts in cheers, but Baela hears none of it.

All she hears is her own heartbeat in her ears, all she feels is the dread at the pit of her stomach growing deeper and deeper with every second Aegon just stares at her, eyes wide, as her lips are pressed tightly to his.

Impassive.

Unwilling.

He doesn't want it, she thinks. I misunderstood and made a fool of us both. I've embarrassed him in front of the entire court and all for nothing. He doesn't want me-

And then something snaps in her cousin, his hands coming to grab the girl and drag her closer, his lips taking charge, covering hers, and licking into the depth of her mouth.

Baela melts under his touch; her mind fuzzy, her body growing weak.

She feels Aegons fingers tangle into her hair and moans into his mouth.

This sound breaks off the bliss they found themselves in.

In the moment Daemon Targaryen, father of lady Baela Targaryen, hears this sound - he drags his daughter right off her cousin.

She turns to the Rogue Prince; her face flushed, her eyes full of question.

"Why-" she begins and it cut off with the ice cold stare of her father, with his chilly voice.

"Go back to the Keep," he commands. "Now."

"But father," she looks back at Aegon, at Rhaena, at Rhaenyra. The last one reaches for her, but Daemon stops the princess on her tracks.

"Go straight to your room," Daemon Targaryen orders. "And don't leave it until I allow you."

From the corner of her eye she sees Aegon trying to stand and both Jace and Luke keeping him in place.

Tears are pickling in the corners of her eyes, but Baela can't let them fall.

Not now.

"I hate you," she seethes and sees something shift in her father's face, a slight slip of his stoic persona.

She has hurt him.

Good.

Baela storms away, down the stairs; mounts her horse and rides her as fast as she can, scaring and scattering people on her way.

She throws the reigns to the confused stable boy and runs across the yards, climbing the stairs and pushing the people out of her way.

Only once the door to her room rattles shut and she locks the door, only when she lets herself to fall apart.

She strips of her - her father's - armor, throwing it into the corner, climbs under the covers of her bed and weeps.

Chapter Text

There is a soft knock on her door which Baela stoically ignores.

The knock repeats.

And again.

And again.

"Go away," she croaks.

"Baela," she hears her sister's voice. "It's us."

"Who are 'us'?"

"Rhaena and I," her practically-stepmother's voice comes calling.

Baela doesn't understand why Rhaenyra and her father are not married yet, with the way they're clearly head over heels for each other.

"Let us in," Rhaena calls out.

Her sister sighs, before crawling out of bed and moving to turn the key.

The moment the door is unlocked Rhaena comes flying in and immediately brings her into embrace. Rhaenyra follows soon after, softly closing and locking the door behind.

"I hate him," Baela sobs into her sister's neck. She doesn't need to specify whom she means. "Why can he can be happy and in love and have both Jace and Joffrey call him father, but I can't have the only thing I've ever wanted?"

"My love," Rhaenyra moves closer, joining the hug. Rhaena grunts at that, but lets her. "He is just scared for you."

"Of what? It's just Aegon, he is-"

"Your father is a difficult man," Rhaenyra interrupts gently. "Who was not at his best when he was young. He was a menace in his earlier years," she smiles softly. "There was a rumor he took my dignity, you know."

"What?!" Rhaena gapes at her. "Father would never-"

"He didn't," Rhaenyra agrees. "He took me to the brothel, kissed me, riled me up and then run off," she chuckles. "I was furious he 'spared' me. Half of the reason I married Gwayne was to piss him off."

"And another half?" Baela tilt her head.

"To quench down the rumors," Rhaenyra sighs and sits down the bed, gesturing for the girls to join.

They do; Rhaena with hesitancy while Baela flings herself at the princess and buries the face into her skirts.

"The rumors of Daemon defiling me reached the Lord Hand," Rhaenyra explains as she softly brushes Baela's hair, Rhaena's eyes are thoughtful and questioning as she watches the view in front of her. "So I had to act and had to do it quickly. I wrote to Gwayne and suggested we join forces and that's how we ended up married."

"Did you not love him?" Rhaena asks carefully. "Luke spoke of you two with such fondness, I thought..."

"I loved him very much," the princess replies gently, offering Rhaena her hand. The young lady stares at the palm in front of her before making a decision and putting her hand over it.

Rhaenyra immediately gives it a gentle squeeze.

"Not from the beginning," she admits. "I've entered this marriage out of duty and convenience, but have quickly grown to love Gwayne."

"Is that what you expect with happen with Luke and I?" Rhaena frowns and sees Rhaenyra mirror it with a frown of her own.

"Oh, my love," she sighs. "I'm sorry I've trapped you into this union. Luke's heart...I'm afraid it has been already taken."

"I know," Rhaena nods. "By Aemond. I don't really mind."

"You don't?" The princess looks puzzled at that. "Why?"

The girl shrugs.

"I don't really love Luke. I mean, I love him like a brother perhaps, but I'm not in love with him. Does it make sense?"

Rhaenyra smiles.

"It does. But," she sighs. "Don't you want a love of your own?"

"Oh, that," Rhaena laughs. "I would never found it in marriage. I...how to explain. I prefer the roasted duck to the goose."

"Oh," Rhaenyra blinks at that, a slow understanding dawning at her feature. "I...understand. I must admit I favor both."

"You do?" Baela exclaims from the cover of her skirts. "Since then?"

Rhaenyra laughs loudly at that.

"Since forever, my heart," she pats Baela on the shoulder. "I didn't expect you to be so surprised."

"But you," she gapes. "And Lord Gwayne...And father-"

"And the queen," Rhaena finishes up, eyes wide. “The Queen!”

She sees Rhaenyra's cheeks tint a slight shade of pink.

"Let's not talk about it now," she brushes it off swiftly, hurriedly. The girls allow her that.

"The point is; Baela, your father is scared for you because he knows how men can be. He himself was a man mothers warn maidens about."

"But it's Aegon," Baela argues. "We grew up together, we trained together! And," she hesitates. "I did that. I asked for his favor and gave him the crown and kissed him. Aegon is innocent."

Rhaena snorts at that.

"You didn't see how he kissed you back.  Sister, he was like a man starved; no wonder father snapped, a moment longer and our dear cousin would start undressing you there and then."

"I," Baela blushes. "We-"

"It was a very dumb and reckless thing to do in front of the entire court to see," Rhaenyra concludes. "Dramatic and sure to leave an impression, but dumb and reckless none less."

"Yes," Rhaena sighs. "Father will be practically forced to wed you to someone after that. And I doubt many lords would want a wife who can beat them in a fight."

"Or," Baela speaks. "He can wed me to Aegon."

"Yes," Aegon's voice calls out from the window and they move to stare at him, wide-eyed. "He can just wed Baela to me."

Baela looks at her beloved and then to the open balcony.

When turns to stare at the closed door and returns her look to the balcony again.

When she gazes at the disheveled state Aegon seems to be, the crumpled crown of love and beauty in his hands.

"Don't fucking tell me," she seethes. "What you climbed the wall."

"Why?" The prince scoffs. "Jace can do it, why can't I?"

"Jace did it once and it was incredibly stupid of him and we all are lucky he didn't die. We are lucky you didn't die!" She jumps from the bed, advancing at him with nothing but menace in her gaze.

Aegon takes a step back, stumbles on a piece of armor Baela discarded earlier and falls down.

"You bloody fool," Baela curses at him as she rushes to help her idiot of a cousin to sit.

Rhaenyra and Rhaena exchange a look and move to the door, quietly unlocking it and seeping outside.

"Are you hurt?" Baela asks as she moves her hands around Aegon's body, checking for the injuries. He stops her hands with a grip of his own.

"It's dangerous to touch a man like this, especially when you’re alone with him," the prince mentions casually.

A quick glance behind her proves his words to speak the truth, for they are alone now.

Baela feels herself blush at the thought.

"You're not just any man," she argues weakly and feels his hold on her tighten.

"No," he agrees quietly. "For I was dreaming of no one but you for the last couple of years. I'm the last man in the Realm you should stay alone with."

"But what if I want to?" She asks, brushing his hands with her thumbs. "What if I seek what can happen when we're alone? What then?"

Aegon exhales shakily, his face tormented.

"Don't say that," he asks. "Don't test my resolve, Baela, I don't have much of it and the sight of you alone-"

"I kissed you," she reminds her fool of beloved softly. "I asked for your favor and when I crowned you and when, in front of all men and god alike, I kissed you. How more blind do you have to be to not see this for what it truly is?"

"And what is it?" he asks, his violet eyes never leaving hers.

Baela bursts.

"A fucking exclamation of love! Aegon, really, are you playing dumb just to jest with me?"

The young lady tears her hands from his grip and stands to walk to the door before opening it wide.

"You have a choice," she declares. "If you don't feel the same way, if you only see me as your sister... When leave and we'll never speak of this day ever again. But," she gives him a meaningful look. "If you feel the same way. If you burn for me like I burn for you, when stay. And claim what is yours to claim."

Aegon stands slowly before walking to her. He stops in front of the open door and looks outside into the darkness of the hall.

When he looks at Baela.

When he moves and closes the door, locking them both inside with a swift motion of the key.

"I would have you," he whispers, his eyes two blazing fires; Baela would love nothing more than to burn in them. "If you'll have me."

"I will have you," she echoes. "In every way you are, in every form you'll let me. I will have you to your dying breath, for gods know, Aegon, you're the only one I've ever wanted."

Aegon puts a crown of love and beauty on her head, his hands trembling so much Baela has to steady them.

He cups her cheek, gently, oh so gently.

When slowly, step by step, the prince of her dreams walks Baela Targaryen back into her bed.

She falls into the softness of the mattress with the satisfying thump and brings him closer.

"Are you sure?" Aegon tries to move away, but her grip is strong on him, making the prince fall into her embrace, making him breathe in the air she breathes out.

"Make me yours," she demands.

"Daemon will kill me," he chuckles. "But by the Seven, it will be worth it."

And when, finally, Aegon kisses her.

“Wed him to me,” Baela demands her father, who has his face hidden in his hands.

There are dark circles under his eyes and the clothes he is dressed in are the same he wore the day before.

“When was growing up, you taught me what anything I desire, anything I put my mind to, will belong to me. You promised me I will win tournaments and marry whoever I want to. Now I've won a tournament. And I want Aegon. I'll take him as he is, and wed him in the tradition of our house."

"It's not-" Daemon stumbles. "It's not that easy."

"Oh?" Baela raises an eyebrow. "Is it not? Have you not taught me to get what I want? This is what I want, father. Aegon already defiled me the way you almost did Rhaenyra once," she sees her father wince at that.

"Yes, she told me and good thing she did. What a raging hypocrite you must be do deny me my wish when you never stopped to get what you want. Wed me to him," Baela promises. "The entire Realm knows we're involved, I made sure of it. And rush and dumb as it was, it served its purpose. Marry me to the man I love, father. I will have no man, no husband but Aegon Targaryen."

She stares him down, firm and unyielding, his little girl who grew up too fast.

Laena would be so proud of her.

Daemon groans and rubs his eyes.

"Gods must have cursed me," he grunts. "It must be payment for the sins of my youth."

A corner of Baela's lips twitches.

"Perhaps," she agrees.

"Fine," Daemon growls. "You can marry your fool of a cousin. Gods know you'll never let me live in peace otherwise."

"I won't," she confirms all too brightly.

When she moves to leave a feathery light kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you, father."

He grunts again.

"Begone with you," he waves her away. "I feel a headache is already on its way."

Baela grins widely and all but sprints away.

I’m the morning with the first bells the betrothal of Lady Baela Targaryen and Prince Aegon Targaryen is announced.

Luke finds the second note under his plate as he breaks the fast.

The Targaryen wedding is known to be a bloody thing.

Beware the cunning second son.

Make sure the first son is watched at all times.

It seems Larys Strong is planning to make a move.

Lucerys folds a piece of paper into a ball and throws it into the fire.

It's time to visit grandfather.

Chapter Text

Luke’s hands tremble so much it is ridiculous.

It’s a small task, an easy one.

Follow Larys Strong, engage in a simple conversation.

Do not let him take Harwin Strong by surprise and claim his life.

Survive.

The last part Luke added by himself, since he knows Aemond and Rhaena both would have killed him if they knew what he is about to pull.

Is trying to pull.

His father’s endless scream echoes in his ears and Luke is shaking so hard it feels like the earthquake.

But no, it’s only his own body; his own trembling hands, his own wildly beating hands.

Grandsire Otto would be devastated if he knew what Luke added to their perfect little plan, and grandsire Otto is not an easy man to devastate.

What aunt Alicent would think Luke is too scared to guess.

Or mother.

Gods, mother...

If it does not work, when-

When it was all for naught.

When he will perish like his father did; screaming in a fire.

But...

Fire cannot kill a dragon.

His father was not a dragon, but he is.

He will be fine.

If only Luke could truly believe it.

It’s a game of catch and chase, as Rhaenyra describes it as she stays late in her good father’s study once again.

Daemon is by her side, frowning at the letters Otto Hightower provided, eyebrows scrunched so close they almost look like the single one.

“The sneaky sniveling kinslayer,” he comments with something what could be an awe if he was not looking at the loosely connected thread of events what lead to the – gods, too many things. Fire at Harrenhal, the fall of the House Cuy – just how many houses has Larys destroyed? – the merchant crisis in the middle city, the way Flea Bottom suddenly becoming better and simultaneously – worse.

“Does he even kill any of the condemned?” the rogue finally asks. “Or he just uses them for his dirty little plans?”

“I would not call his plans little,” Otto voices out. “It is...admittedly, a great shame and a lapse on my part to not see the man for who he truly is, nor to see his schemes,” it’s a rare occasion when Lord Hand’s face clearly expresses what he feels and thinks of, but in this occasion it is as plain as day.

Disgust, sorrow, guilt; pure, unadulterated hate.

“He killed Gwayne,” Rhaenyra speaks. “He didn’t mean to, probably aiming for his own brother, but Gwayne took his place in the last moment possible and...”

“It led to what it led to,” Daemon hums, deep in thought. “Do we know how many of people in my watch his greasy little fingers reached to?”

“Your watch?” Otto raises an eyebrow. “Harwin Strong has been the Lord Commander for the last decade at least.”

Daemon brushes it off.

“They’re my people and they’re loyal to me,” he chuckles. “It’s nice to know very little changed through the years; the men serving as the city watch are still the same, if with more grey hairs. Some new faces here and there, but generally,” he hums. “They’re all the same old fellows who followed me in my night clearings.”

“Bloodthirsty rampages you mean,” Otto parries. “And if these are the same people who followed you to Dragonstone with Prince Baelon’s egg, when there is no doubt they would fall into Larys’ clutches as well.”

Rhaenyra massages her temples.

“Can you not fight?” she asks. “I rather understand why father dims so quickly; dealing with you two at the same time is rather exhausting.”

“I believe, Princess, you do more than just deal with your uncle,” Otto quirks an eyebrow.

“Do you have something to say, Otto?” Daemon asks. “Anything you want to discuss? How you advised my niece to not marry me before she’s the queen, for example?”

“It is a reasonable thing, she needs the lords to follow her, not some bloodthirsty fool with a big sword-“

“I said stop fighting,” Rhaenyra demands. “We just found out one of the men serving my father, close to my father the king, murdered his own lord father and my husband in addition. And what said man is planning to take out his brother next, likely during the wedding celebration of my son, whose father he burned alive. The last thing I need now is you two quarreling like children. Laenor already wants to unleash Seasmoke at Larys and I’m barely holding him back.”

“Lord Velaryon has no place to meddle in our affairs.”

“Lord Velaryon is raising my son, has been for the last decade as well,” the princess sighs. “Men. You cannot be allowed anywhere near power.”

“We cannot be allowed anywhere near power?” Daemon scoffs. “What about Larys? What about Tyland fucking Lannister? Whose great idea it was to make him the Master of Ships?”

“And whom else do you suggest?”

“Corlys!”

“Corlys already walked out of the council at the mere sight of slight offence-“

“Slight offence? You dragged your own daughter into the king’s bed behind our backs, you-“

“Father?” Joffrey’s voice comes calling out from the door.

Daemons’ demeanor immediately shifts.

“Yes, sweet boy?”

“Luke told me to come find you when the time comes,” he frowns. “I think it came.”

“Joff,” Rhaenyra frowns. “What do you mean by ‘when the time comes’?”

“Helaena told me to not worry,” he replies instead. “For fire cannot kill a dragon.”

“What fire?” she surges and turns to the men. “Where did you send my son to?”

“Nowhere,” Daemon replies at the same time as Otto says:

“For a simple inspection around the keep. It is perfectly safe.”

“An inspection?” her frown deepens. “What is he supposed to inspect?”

She notices her lover looking away as her good father busies himself with papers.

“Otto. What did you get my son into?”

“You must remember he is also my grandson.”

“Otto.”

“No harm should come his way,” the man replies, but he sounds less uncertain than just a moment before.

“What did you make Luke do?1”

“Why did you kill them?” he asks, making sure he is standing just in the right place.

From the position he is situated at his voice and Larys’ response should carry into the pipe tubes and when – into the Great Hall. Luke made sure the sound what came out was loud enough, testing it beforehand with Aemond and Rhaena.

“What are you planning to do?” Aemond asked. “Does grandsire know of that?”

“He does,” Luke said; a half-lie, not really a lie. And when added: “Trust me.”

And Aemond, like a fool, did.

The thing is, grandsire gave Luke a task.

Keep Larys Strong occupied, talk to him; look interested in whatever he is saying. You’re a boy raised in a foreign castle; of course you’re curious about the infamous Lord Confessor at the Red Keep. Ask simple questions, follow him around.

Make him pay attention to you.

Well, Luke is not doing anything his grandsire didn’t ask him to do.

He simply...modified the plan.

Larys Strong blinks at him.

“Killed who, boy?’

“My father,” Luke speaks, acutely aware what by this time the Great Hall is starting to fill up with people, no doubt curious of the strange conversation ringing in the chamber all of sudden. “Your father.”

Larys smiles softly.

If Luke had not seen his true face, he would believe him.

But he saw.

“Are you feeling alright?” the lord Confessor asks. “I heard you fainted upon your arrival. What did maester say?”

“What it’s not physical,” Luke shrugs. “Not like your leg, for example.”

He sees Larys frown; trying to figure out what game the young wayward son of Princess Rhaenyra plays at.

If people in the hall do not recognize the voice - they will hardly do, for Lord Confessor listens more than he talks – this detail will drag their attention in.

“My leg is rather a nuance,” Larys agrees. “But it’s also a means to can get where I would have no other chance to get without it. People underestimate you if they think you’re broken.”

You’re right, Luke thinks, remembering the little nameless whore who helped.

Larys will hardly find her in his chambers this night; the girl’s job is done and she – gone.

A clever little thing, sly like a fox.

She led them to Alys, after all.

Alys, the bastard daughter of Lyonel Strong of whom Harwin knew nothing about.

Alys, who saw the darker side of Larys Strong.

Alys, who hates her half-brother as much as Luke does.

Alys, who will help him get justice; and if not that, when revenge.

Alys Rivers, the witch.

“You’re right,” he voices out loud. “Even the name they gave you, Clubfoot, is diminishing. And yet you seemed to turn it around,” he makes a show to look at his cane appreciatively.

“It’s what gave you away, you know. The cane you use; or rather the firefly on it. It was a smart thing to cut the tongues of the men you sent. And yet,” he sighs in a feign understanding. “You needed to show yourself in some way, did you not? We all want to. We all want to be seen.”

Larys tilts his head to the side, moving slightly so the door is fully behind his back.

Good.

If he does not mean to let Luke leave, when he will speak honestly; from his dark, twisted heart.

“I’m sure we all do,” he agrees lightly. “How was your father remembered, I wonder? By being beaten by Daemon at the tournament long before you were born, I believe. Have you heard of it?”

Luke wants to kill that man; to strangle him with his bare hands, to see life seep out of his eyes and his breathing stop.

He wants to tear him apart and hear him scream.

He wants to set him on fire the same way Larys did to Luke’s father, to hear him scream like his father did.

Lucerys wants this man to suffer.

“Oh yes, I heard of that,” he agrees, frowning a little. “Prince Daemon had thrown him off his horse, did he not? Father had scars from that; he always said scars are the proof you lived.”

“That’s rather...a poetic way to look at things,” Larys hums. “And if there’s nothing left on the flesh but the scars? What then? Had the person still lived if there was nothing left? Nothing to recognize them by but the teeth?” he sighs with feign sympathy.

“Losing a father...I understand you pain, my boy. Oh, trust me, I do. But sometimes...An awful thing happens and you can do nothing but accept it as the truth. Your father, as well as mine, is dead, Lucerys, burned to the ground.”

‘Why firefly?” Luke asks. “Not a bee or a dragonfly. Why fire?”

“Oh,” Larys chuckles. “Fire again? You Targaryens are rather fascinated by it. I chose firefly because of the origin of why they produce the light. The masters at the Citadel believe it to have been originated as an honest warning signal that fireflies were distasteful; to warn away the predators.”

“I see,” Luke hums. “Do you see yourself in firefly? Who do you warn away?”

“Everyone,” the man smiles, something dark creeping into his face. “And no one. People rarely pay attention to such small details. I’m surprised you did.”

“The mute men who started the fire at Harrenhal had fireflies on their coats,” Luke simply speaks. “And yes, I do notice details. My grandfather taught me to pay attention to them. My grandfather, Otto Hightower; the man whose son you have murdered.”

Larys’ mask slips off at the same time as his hand locks the door and turns the key in a keyhole.

“For all what’s worth,” he speaks, voice devoid of any sympathy. “I did not intend to kill Gwayne; he simply took my brother’s place. But do not worry,” Lord Confessor smiles, his expression lighting up with some grim glee. “I intend to fix my mistake.”

And when he raises his cane.

The smoke reaches to the upper chambers before the screams do.

“Fire!” servants scream. “There is a fire in the dungeons!”

Rhaenyra runs down the stairs, lower and lower; the smoke becomes thicker until she can hardly breathe. She crouches to the ground but keeps crawling forward, determined to reach her target.

“Rhaenyra,” Daemon yanks her back. “Don’t be foolish, you’ll suffocate on the smoke-“

“Baela said,” she sobs uncontrollably, whole body shaking under the weight of her sorrow. “She said they heard Luke’s voice first, in the Great Hall. They heard him talking to someone...Discussing his father’s death. And when-,” she cries louder. “When-“

“He set fire on the room,” Alicent whispers, paler than a living person could be. “By the time we realized what we were hearing, Larys Strong has practically confessed, and Luke-“

“I will kill him,” Aemond declares, trying to rush out.

Daemon grabs him by the collar, dragging back.

“You will sit in this room and do nothing as my men- Harwin’s men - clear up the dungeons. Do you understand?” Aemond moves to rise again but is pushed by the older prince back down again. “Aemond. Do. You. Understand?”

The one-eyed prince grumbles.

“There is nothing you can do for Luke now,” Daemon speaks, hands coming to rest on the boy’s shoulders. “If he survived, he did it without your help. And if he...” his voice trails off.

Laenor curses loudly as Rhaenyra’s sobs grow into full blown howls.

She rocks back and forth on the chair, Alicent’s hands wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

Jace and Helaena, newlywed; are standing in the corner, Helaena whispering something comforting into her husband’s ear and Jacaerys nodding from time to time and sometimes – shaking his head.

Baela’s head is hidden in Aegon’ neck, both of them unusually quiet from the shock; Aegon’s hands are trembling.

Rhaena’s screams just seized, maester giving her milk of the poppy to put her to sleep – Joffrey and Rhaenys stayed with her as Corlys joined the men trying to clear the destruction in the dungeons, the Hand of the King joining in rather unexpectedly.

Rhaenyra saw the look of horror on the man’s face as he heard the news.

Luke is his favorite; his little protégé.

Luke was following his grandsire’s task.

Luke might very well be dead by this time.

The door launches open, the unfamiliar girl standing on threshold; she has a rich brown eyes and the most vivid green eyes any of them has ever seen.

“What are you all crying over?” she asks, perplexed. “Fire cannot kill a dragon.”

Behind her, wrapped in a golden cloak, stands Lucerys Targaryen.

Alive.

Chapter Text

People always tell us the battle determines who is strong, who is right, who is the winner, Joffrey's voice rings in his ears, a distant echo of the first lesson Luke ever took with the man.

It is a blatant lie, a huge misconception. The battle does none of those things.

All it does is determine who is left.

The moment Larys raises his cane Luke kicks the man in the groin.

It's not about the honor, it's not about the strength and it is less about the skill than people would like you to think. Don't get me wrong, these things matter and often help you to tilt the scales.

But what truly helps you to be the one left standing is this, Joffrey points at his temple. Your mind. The eyes with which you see the weakness of the man in front of you, because everyone has a weak spot.

Especially, he gestures at his groin. Us men. It is unclear if the nature played a cruel joke with our kind, putting such essential organ outside the protection of the muscles and bones, or if it is a simple evolutionary slip.

Regardless of that, the man's groin - if we do not speak of the eunuchs and in this particular case we do not - is the easiest, weakest target you can find. These soft appendixes are often hidden behind the protection of steel in a battle, but if you meet an enemy out of it - do not hesitate to use it to your advantage.

Larys' face contorts as he bends in a half, the hit of the cane missing Luke by the inches.

"You little-" the man groans as he tries to recover, but it takes time; the pain has to be immense, for Lucerys has landed the hit with all the strength he could muster.

The young prince does not wait for the Lord Confessor to recover, he does what he has planned next.

He crashes over Larys, dragging him to the ground with himself.

It already starts to smell like smoke, Alys seemingly fulfilling her part of the ploy.

All Luke needs to do now is to not let Larys Strong escape the room, to have them put long enough for the fire to close all the ways out.

I am a dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon, he repeats like a litany.

And when the hit meets the side of his head.

Second of all, Joffrey says. Learn to separate the actual weak spot from the feign one.

Imagine a man, let's say, with one eye, as your uncle. If you were to meet in a battle, how would you attack?

Luke remembers arguing, close to tears, what he would not attack Aemond, he already did it once and look where it lead them.

Joffrey tsked and shook his head.

It's the hypothetical situation. Alright, let's imagine a man with... say, prosthetic arm. Where would you land your hit?

Luke thought of the lost hand and saw Joffrey smile.

Wrong. Fake weakness.

This man was not injured yesterday, he lived with no arm for some time, and if he's half-decent fighter, he has also learned to compensate for his loss. He will expect you to try and attack him from his weak side, making it, paradoxically, not the weak side anymore.

No, you do not hit where the wound already landed, unless it's not open and bleeding tight now. If your enemy survived with it long enough, he has learned to use his flaws to his own advantage. But nature is a clever mistress; a clever and a cruel one. If you overcompensate one part of your body, the other is left neglected.

We are no gods, we cannot see through every single possibility and the place we expect the attack the least is the easiest one to land the hit.

Luke kicks at Larys' healthy head, making him loose barely recovered balance. Blood is seeping from a deep gush on the side of his head and he feels like the little golden firefly has left an imprint on his skull.

And yet he keeps persisting.

"Stop...fighting," Larys demands as another powerful kick lands on his side. "You will achieve nothing with that."

"I will achieve everything," Luke snarls and gets another painful bracing with the cane come his way. "Did you think I really came here to talk? You killed my father."

"Your father was a fool," Larys hisses back, quickly loosing the remains of his composure. He must have smelt the smoke too. "And he died as one."

"And you," Luke struggles to get a hold on the man who hit him with the cane over and over again. The young prince covers his head from the worst of the hits and avoids the others.

"Are a murderer. And you will perish as one."

"You're mad," Larys declares as Luke manages to throw him off the balance once again. "You will get us both killed."

"Don't pretend you were planning to keep me alive," Luke scoffs and receives a sudden kick on the stomach, the man putting a surprisingly much force to his chest, making the air come in the small, chocked gasps.

When a hand closes over his throat.

The first reaction is a blind, overwhelming panic.

Luke tries to fight Larys off; but the man is older and much more cunning than many; he replaces the hand with the cane, pressing the length of it to the prince's throat and keeping the pressure on with the help of his left - healthy - foot.

Luke feels his head grow light, vision blurring.

The smoke is clouding the chamber in a thick grey blanket, making it hard to see far, yet Lucerys still grasps the silhouette holding him down and reaches out - blindly, wildly - until his hands manage to reach the face, fingers finding the eyes and digging in.

Larys screams, pushing Luke - or himself? - away, his own hands coming to hide the man's face in their palms.

The young prince doubts he managed to cause much damage, but the distraction his actions granted him helps.

He gulps on air hungrily, surprised by the way the smoke seems to go in and out of his lungs without causing any visible damage.

Is it working? he thinks, a fragile hope fluttering in his chest.

Larys starts to cough; a dry, scratching sounds escaping his throat as he gasps for the air and finds none.

"What did you do?" he manages from the wheezes. "What the did you do, I can't fucking breathe-" and when another coughing fit overcomes him.

It grows warmer in the room, Luke notices distractedly. Or is it becoming hotter?

The first licks of the flame sneak into the crevice of the closed door, pouncing on the wood hungrily.

Larys coughs and coughs, his breath becomes more labored the thicker the smoke becomes, darkening as the fire comes closer. He can hardly let out a single word now, so hard are the convulsions.

Luke watches with some kind of weak, detached curiosity as the small licks of the flame grow bigger, feeding on the rich wood, as the fire spreads.

There is no way out of the room, the keys still successfully hidden somewhere on Larys' belt, and even if the young prince manages to latch them off, he will hardly reach the door or get through the flame what now rises up as tall the wall.

Fire cannot kill a dragon, he thinks as his father's screams ring in his ears, agony in every syllable. Fire cannot kill a dragon, the fire cannot-

And when he faints.

"By the Father," Luke hears first and when opens his eyes.

His eyelids feel crusty, parting with some difficulty.

His mouth feels as dry as the Red Waste and his head feels simultaneously heavy and way too light.

Everything around the boy is tinted in a shade of grey and black, from the darkest parts in the embers with the flailing now fire to the white ashes on the floor.

In front of him, upside down, stands a man.

It lakes Lucerys absurdly long to realize the man is standing as the man should - with both of his feet on the solid ground - only Luke is looking at him from the position on the floor, head tilted backwards.

He groans as he tries to sit, body itching and covered in soot.

The second thing the young prince realizes as he finally looks at the man straight is what he knows him.

Standing in front of him, mouth agape, is Ser Criston Cole.

"Ser Criston," he hears a familiar voice of the man whose brother Luke just burned alive. "Have you found anything?"

"Come and look," the knight shouts back, eyes never leaving the prince's dirty frame.

Harwin Strong comes barging into the room; his face - a fury of emotions: anger, pain, frenzy, confusion.

He sees Lucerys and stills.

"Prince Lucerys," the man whispers as he blindly reaches to take his golden cloak off, reaching to wrap Luke into it; only when the boy realizes he is wearing nothing but the remains of the dying fire. "Prince Lucerys, you're alive."

Luke stares back at the man whose life he just broke into 'before' and 'after', at the man whose father died alongside with Lucerys' very own.

At the fair and kind guard who always left a pat on his soft curls back when he lived in the Red Keep.

He looks at the man whose brother he just executed with nothing but vicious fire.

And promptly bursts into tears.

Several different emotions pass across the man's face when; surprise, concern, worry. And the worst of them all - sympathy.

"Oh, my prince," he whispers, kneeling in front of the covered in soot and ashes boy, hands hovering over his forearms. "My poor dear boy. I am so, so sorry."

And when Harwin hugs the boy, letting him hide the face into his hair, sobbing uncontrollably as emotions overtake him.

Luke hears the sound of the harsh hastened steps leaving, but pays no mind to them.

He cries and cries and cries, till there are no tears left, no water in his body and no salt.

When the Commander or the City Watch rises, closing his cloak tighter over the prince's shoulders.

"Let's find your family," the man suggests. "I'm sure they're dreadfully worried for you."

The moment Rhaenyra sees her son in the threshold, dark from the soot, wrapped in the Lord Commander's gold cloak; her howl dies in her throat with a chocked sound.

She stands shakily, legs unsteady, and makes several uneven steps before all but collapsing into her son's embrace.

There are no words in her mind to tell him, no reprimanding and no anger left.

All she feels in that moment is a pure, overwhelming relief.

"My boy," finally comes out chocked. "My sweet boy. My dear love," her tears trail down Luke's hair, seeping into his neck and leaving light trailers of water salt on the wake of smoke what wrapped the prince in its shroud.

The girl - Alys - takes a step back, hiding in a shadow her big, imposing brother casts. Harwin's hand comes to rest on her shoulder gently and Alys clutches onto it for dear life.

She nudges the man to the side and he follows, leaving the royal family in the privacy of their relieved encounter with the prince unburnt.

Harwin can already hear the servants whisper about it, and soon the news of the Prince Lucerys' miraculous survival will be on the lips of every denizen of the King's Landing.

"Little dragon," he hears a maid whisper.

Little dragon indeed.

"I'm sorry I have failed you," Harwin tells his sister, the girl of whose existence he was not aware just a week ago.

"You didn't," the girl shrugs. "Father did."

Harwin reaches to give Alys a hug and the girl, surprisingly, hugs him back so strongly he can practically hear his bones crack.

What a Strong blood flows in her veins, in the veins of the sister he has known nothing about.

"Let's go home," Harwin suggests and the girl nods.

"Let's."

The first thing Rhaena does as she wakes up and sees her betrothed sitting next to the bed, washed up and dressed, miraculously unburnt - is to land a loud slap over his face.

The prince's head snaps back from the force of the slap,  soft, sensitive skin already reddening, a clear silhouette of a palm emerging on his cheek.

"Are you happy now?" Rhaena asks as she fights the sob threatening to tear itself from her throat. "Are you satisfied?!"

"No," Luke shakes his head slightly, sadly. "But it had to be done."

"It was no justice," Rhaena argues.

"He deserved no justice," the prince shrugs. "I only wanted people to know what it is he did."

"You wanted it so much you were ready to perish in flames for it?!"

Luke does not speak of Alys' words, of her promise what he will not burn, what dragons cannot.

He simply nods.

The silence hanging between them is a cruel, suffocating thing.

"Don't be cross with me," Lucerys asks in a voice devoid of any strength left. "I cannot bear you to be."

His uncle does not respond.

"Aemond-"

"I hate you," drops out like a death sentence. "There is no peace with you. Every time I give you my trust, every time I bare my heart, you return it back stomped on and broken."

"It needed to be done-"

"You made me help you," Aemond seethes, teeth barely parting, jaw set so tight it has to hurt. "You lied to me and made me your accomplice. You almost died and made me be responsible for it. Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?!"

Luke launches into him, face damp and lips trembling.

"I love you," he begs, sorrowful. "Aemond, qȳbor, please, I love you, don't hate me now, oh please don't hate me-"

The older prince's rigid body relaxes ever so slightly, hands coming to loosely rest around the boy's waist.

"You do something like that again - and I will kill you myself."

Silence in the study of the Hand of the King feels like solace.

Daemon gulps another cup of something much stronger than wine.

"I hate fucking fire," he informs the other man.

Otto twiddles a cup in his palms.

"You're Targaryen."

"My late wife commanded her dragon to burn her alive."

"My grandson flies the same dragon now."

"Your other grandson locked himself in a room with a murderer and set it on fire."

The Lord Hand takes a sip from his cup.

"I thank you kindly for reminding me of that. It's not like this fact has been haunting me for the last day alone." He winces. "What is this?"

"The brandy Corlys brought from Asshai."

"It tastes like-"

"It's not about the taste, but the effect it gives."

The Lord Hand contemplates the drink in his cup.

"Will it make me forget the way my daughter shook when she heard her nephew's voice as he confronted the murderer of his father?"

"Hardly."

"Will I stop dreaming of my good daughter bleeding all over the tile floor and Joffrey coming out stillborn?"

"You dream of Rhaenyra bleeding on the floor?"

"I was with her when the labor started."

Daemon pours himself more brandy.

"Ghastly."

"There is a red spot near the back entrance to the inner halls still, servants couldn't get rid of it no matter how much they scrubbed."

"Oh, so this is where from it came from."

Otto looks into his cup.

"So?"

"So what?"

"Will it help me forget that?"

Daemon shrugs.

"I still see Laena burning," he admits. "So I highly doubt it."

The Lord Hand takes another sip.

"Still tastes like shit," he comments blandly.

"And how would you know how shit tastes?"

It goes like that for some time.

The king dies in the morrow. His loyal wife and daughter stay by his side till the last breath, clasping thin, spotted hands in theirs.

Whatever is it the king talks to them about forever stays between the two woman, once again, joined in grief.

In the eve the funeral pyre burns.

Caraxes climbs down the small hill to the clearing where the King's body lays, wrapped in a shroud, more a caterpillar than a man.

The last part was Helaena's addition, but Daemon has to begrudgingly admit his good step - gods, their relations are complicated ones - daughter more right than many give her credit for.

There is an old Valyrian legend of the man who turned dragon as he died; maybe this is where the tradition to burn their dead came from.

I wonder, comes to his mind unbidden, uncalled and painful. A memory from another times altogether. "If during those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness."

"Fire to fire," he murmurs, feeling Rhaenyra's steely fingers close over his forearm. "Ashes to ashes."

And when:

"Dracarys."

The fire lights up immediately, carrying Viserys the Peaceful away, to the land where his wife, his mother and father await all await.

One day Daemon will join them too.

Rhaenyra's fingers dig deeper, no doubt leaving bruises on their wake.

One day. But not today.

He reaches out blindly and wraps her in a hug; people are watching, but he hardly cares.

They are the blood of the dragon. They take what is theirs.

He doesn't see a side glance Otto Hightower gives his way, nor he sees the way the lord's hand comes gripping Jacaerys' shoulder. The young prince stands here paler than he ever was; his aunt-wife close by his side.

His eyes are dry and cold.

The King is dead; long live the...

"-Queen," Otto speaks and observes the reaction it causes.

"The Queen?" Tyland Lannister immediately argues. "Are you really planning to put a woman on the Iron Throne? That woman specifically; everyone at the Red Keep and beyond knows she is sleeping with her own uncle."

"I would ask you to keep your vile accusations for yourself when you're talking about the mother of my grandchildren," Otto starts at the same time as Lyman Beesbury scoffs:

"Put a woman? You forget yourself, Tyland, Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne, as she has been for the last two decades. Viserys named her the Princess of Dragonstone and his decision never changed."

"Aegon would be a much better-"

"In what account? Having a pickle between his legs? Is this what determines a good ruler for you?"

"The women lack-"

"Tell it to Good Queen Alysanne and all the great things she made come to life, directly and not."

"I refuse to see that girl-"

"Do you?" A new voice comes calling from the corner where it was successfully hidden in the shadows. Daemon Targaryen takes a step forward. "Do you really, Tyland? Because that," he observes the way light plays on Dark Sister's edge appreciatively. "Is a treason. Speaking Aegon is the one to succeed Viserys instead of my niece is a crime, penalty for which is death."

"I see you brought up reinforcements," Jasper Wylde comments, turning to the Lord Hand. "Never thought I'd live long to see you two work together."

"We are not working together," Daemon argues. "I despise that man with every fiber of my soul. But, unfortunately, he is also Rhaenyra's confidant and family and that," he groans, displeased. "Makes us share the same goal."

He points a sword at the Lord of Ships.

"Any last words?"

"Wait-" Tyland tries. "I didn't-"

"Wait," Daemon mocks. "I didn't. Sounds pathetic enough for me."

And then Dark Sister lands.

"It was unnecessary," Grand Maester Orwyle comments with disapproval as all the man look away from where the blood creeps into the floor. "He was ready to bend a knee."

Daemon wipes his sword of his cloak.

"A man who spoke treason once will speak it again," he smirks. "I would not give him that chance."

"Sounds like you know what you're talking about, Prince Daemon." Lyman frowns. "Considering you once stole a dragon egg meant for your nephew and seized Dragonstone with goldcloaks at your heels."

"It was nothing but a little misunderstanding in the family," the Rogue Prince carelessly brushes off. "Now, back to the matter of coronation."

Chapter Text

They gather together in the throne room, looking forward seeing each other for the first time in at least a year.

All of them grow busy as the times comes; Jacaerys and Helaena are getting education suited for the next king and the queen as the current Ruling Queen gently guides the Realm into the age of peace and prosperity.

It took several heads falling and a small rebellion of the minor unimportant lords for the Realm to truly accept their new ruler.

Their Queen.

The next occurrence which surprised no one was the grand wedding ceremony the newly crowned queen and her uncle created, bonding to each other in the ways of Old Valyria. Some were angry the queen stripped her husband of any rights traditionally held by the spouse of the ruler, some said it was only for the best, what Daemon Targaryen cannot be allowed to rule.

Regardless, many were surprised the man accepted the offer, taking Rhaenyra Targaryen as his wife for her only, not her titles of the lands she holds.

Some minstrels started to create songs regarding it; of the Rogue Prince who fell for Realm's Delight, and his affection was so strong he abandoned everything else, forever staying by the Queen's side.

Some snorted what it's just the illusion, what Prince Daemon still rules the kingdom behind his wife's back and only Lord Hightower holds him down from the horrors the man would bring otherwise.

The vacant place of the Master of Ships was quickly taken by Corlys Velaryon, who didn't even pretend to think twice, having seen his grandchildren marrying Queen's own son and brother and two houses joining together in more ways than one.

Much more ado came from the appointment of the new Mistress of Whispers, a young lady named Alys Strong, formerly Rivers, whom the queen legitimized the first thing after ascending the throne.

Many have whispered Alys to be a witch, the one who burned her own father alive and later - her brother. Anyone who as much as implied her being responsible for Lyonel Strong's death in the presence of her brother soon learned to keep their mouths shut, if after several bones being broken, for Lord Commander of the City Watch Harwin Strong defended his sister's honor with the vigor unknown to mortal men.

He soon wed a young lady of the house Cuy, whose openly abusive husband died under some mysterious circumstances, and took her children as his own. 

Some noticed what the boys of the late Lord Cuy suspiciously resembled Lord Strong himself, but no one dared to speak of that aloud.

The new Lady of Harrenhal decided to reside in the capital with her husband and her good sister, raising children in love and peace they did not know before.

One way or another, but the new age of the kingdom came; filled with changes the new ruler brought, with new laws regarding women and their rights, letting them inherit lands and properties as the men could.

Many complained, of course, and another roll of small rebellions followed, but was quickly quenched by hands of no one but Queen's brothers, the princes, who had shown nothing but loyalty to her since the day she ascended the throne.

Prince Aegon, married to Lady Baela in the fifth month of the same year his sister got crowned, was often away; him and his spouse taking a habit of visiting Essos at every opportunity presented, often staying in Pentos in the house Lady Baela was born.

Prince Aemond decided to serve the crown by joining the Velaryon house's guard, quickly raising to the Commander of the Guard of High Tide and Driftmark. He was rumored to be the lover of his nephew Lucerys, whom he helped to get ready to one day become the new Lord of the Tides.

Lady Rhaena, the young prince's wife, was always very amicable of her husband's 'friendship' with his uncle, defending Prince Aemond on several occasions when his presence at the Driftmark court was questioned.

She grew pregnant soon after her and Prince Lucerys were wed and the couple were excited to greet their child into this world, the first child of any of the Queen Rhaenyra's sons, making it, inevitably, the center of everyone's attention.

Lady Rhaena gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, dark skinned and with the dark brown hair of his lord father.

They named the child-

“He is beautiful,” Rhaenyra whispers as she holds her firstborn grandson in her arms, tears in her eyes. “Have you chosen a name for him yet?”

“Yes,” Luke gulps and then nods. “Gwayne. Gwayne Velaryon.”

“I can’t believe you had a child before Helaena and Jace,” Baela shakes her head. “They’re yet to produce an heir.”

“Not for the lack of trying,” Aegon smirks and Baela swats at his arm.

“Ignore him, he is just jealous. Where is baby Gwayne?”

“Oh, him?” Rhaena huffs. “Aemond stole him.”

“What?”

“Aemond stole my son. He likes to grab him and be off,” she laughs. “I bet he pretends I don’t exist and it’s his son. I exist, Aemond,” she shouts somewhere into the distance. “And I’m married to your sweet Luke! Get over it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” comes a response from a room away. “I’m trying to feed him.”

Aegon chokes on his drink.

“Luke?”

“Gwayne, you twat!”

“What a fine family you have,” Aegon snorts and Rhaena rolls her eyes.

“Well, yes. Sometimes it feels like I have two husbands and sometimes – none at all. Luke is planning to run away into the sea with grandfather and uncle Leanor soon. I bet Aemond will tag along too, he is rarely seen more than an arm’s reach away from my husband these days.”

“I fucking heard you, Rhaena,” a call comes from another room.

“Good,” she calls back. “And stop swearing in front of my child, you heathen!”

“I’ll stop swearing in front of the child when Corlys stops swearing in front of the child!”

Baela laughs.

“And all was well in the Targaryen-Velaryon household.”

And indeed, all was well.