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Chapter Text

Alicent watched the lords of the council settle into their seats, placing their markers in the proper place. Lord Tyland Lannister took his seat at the opposite end of the magnificent table, Lord Lyman Beesbury to his right. Maester Mellos and then Lord Larys at her own left hand. Jasper Wylde sat beside her father’s usual place at the right hand. The power of the realm all concentrated right in this room. They prayed to the Crone for guidance and wisdom at the beginning of every meeting, a practice that had thankfully not reached the ears of the king, as he’d been cloistered in his rooms since his illness had taken more of his body. It was one thing to allow her Faith to grace their dinner table. It was a whole other to have the Faith find its place at the Small Council.

While his signature still graced the decrees, and his decisions still paramount for he was the King, Viserys had left the dealings of the realm to them. It was for the best - Viserys’ mind was giving way to his illness and the less seen, the better. Alicent didn’t know what she preferred: her husband demeaning her and neglecting her children, or him calling her Aemma when she came to care for him at night.

She grazed her fingers over the polished black marble ball in front of her as Maester Mellos began rattling off the never ending fighting between the Brackens and Blackwoods that not even the Father bearing down from the heavens himself could stop. They continued to tear themselves apart as if they would win all the gold in Casterly Rock for the longest, most ridiculous spat that the Tullys were no longer capable of handling. Sometimes she wished she could just drag charcoal lines along the map, piece off the floodplains to the north and the west and the mountains, let the other kingdoms take their pieces.

“Begs the question if perhaps it isn’t time to elect a new Lord Paramount to bring them to heel,” Lord Wylde harrumphed in his self-important way. The man was well and agreeable enough, Alicent thought, but every time he spoke, she missed Lyonel Strong. None of his proposals contained this ‘begging the question’ sort of nonsense, and none of Wylde’s attempts had any of the late Lord Strong’s well thought out solutions and easy friendliness.

“Unless grievous injustice is done, we cannot normally strip the title of Lord Paramount, but their inability to bring either house to heel since given the title is threatening the stability of the realm. Blackwoods own more land than the Tullys, and now we have reports they’ve gone undermining one another’s orchards, and putting others at risk.” Jasper turned his gaze to Larys, who had not spoken since the prayer. “Strong, your holding is Harrenhal. What do you have to say about this matter?”

Larys’ manner did not fool Alicent, but it worked wonders, as always, on Jasper. “This quarrel of theirs has lasted as long as the dynasty and longer still. King Jaehaerys brokered peace, and we cannot ascertain what sparked it again.” From the nervous licking of his lips to the fidgeting of his hands, he was a master at seeming far less dangerous than he truly was. “You might seek instead the opinion of my dearest uncle Simon. He is the castellan and knows both it and the Riverlands far better than I do, as I’ve been here during most of this recent infighting. ”

Wylde humphed, twitching his nose in such a way that his bushy mustache reminded Alicent of a walrus she’d seen at Driftmark. She dug her nails into her palm to hold back her laugh. “Should we offer the Tullys more incentive?” Wylde blustered, reaching for a solution that he could take credit for.

“Incentive for not letting their bannerman destroy harvests?” Tyland Lannister snorted, reclined in his chair as if he were the one running the meeting. “That’s their duty. If they can’t do it, then there’s a bigger issue to deal with.”

“Perhaps a betrothal,” Lord Beesbury spoke up, his eyes darting from Larys’ to hers. Alicent straightened, watching the man try to figure out how to present his own suggestion. “The Tullys are proud, and the Riverlands command a great host when they come together. Lord Tully’s great-grandson is around Princess Helaena’s age. It would be a show of friendship and goodwill.”

“A show of a dragon is what you mean, isn’t it?” Her father’s voice cut in smoothly, but she could see the annoyance in his eyes at the prospect of Helaena being sent to the Riverlands. She did not want her sweet girl sent so far away either, but his words hurt in their easy protectiveness of her daughter, when they had never done for herself.

“Dragons are a statement, my Lord Hand. If not the princess, perhaps… Lord Strong, your youngest sister is not yet married,” Beesbury continued, flush with ideas. Was Rhaenyra feeding them to him?

“If Grover Tully, or whomever is handling their seat, cannot bring them to heel, we should have the Lords Bracken and Blackwood come and explain themselves to the crown,” she cut in before Beesbury could really get his momentum going. Heads turned to look at her, and Alicent looked to the Grand Maester. “Send ravens today. By the moon’s turn, I want them before the Iron Throne explaining themselves.” There was a curl of satisfaction on her lips as the aging Mellos gestured to his assistant. “We should also have Lord Tully, or his son, also come to answer. I know Lord Grover has been recently ill,” she continued. Authority and compassion were the balance she must always strike, so that her decisions could not be questioned, her judgment nothing but sound. She was the Mother of the Realm after all.

“Well said, your Grace,” Larys said softly, that shadow blink of a smile on his face. Lord Beesbury’s suggestions were easily dismissed.

Tension knotted between her shoulder blades, and she shifted in her chair to relieve the pain. She drummed her fingers on the armrest of the chair as her father’s warning spun dizzily through her thoughts.

Either you prepare Aegon to rule, or you cleave to Rhaenyra and pray for her mercy.

That morning, Ser Criston found the boy who might be king passed out in the stables with his cock in hand; at least her father hadn’t found out. Alicent felt nauseated at the idea of sacrificing a girl barely younger than she’d been in an attempt to corral her son into leadership.

The doors of the chamber opened. Ser Harrold Westerling entered the room with the head dragonkeeper, Arryx, following behind. Her father rose not in a show of respect for the Kingsguard Commander, but some show of power - the unyielding stone and height of the tower that would not bow to neither wind nor storm.

“Forgive my tardiness, your Grace, my lords.”

Her father waved a hand and sat back down. “We were told that you were attending to an urgent matter, Lord Commander.”

Ser Harrold clasped his arm across his chest and bowed to her. “This morning, I was alerted to events that transpired last night inside of the dragonpit. Keeper Arryx wanted to speak of the matter to you personally.” Ser Harrold stepped back to allow the aging keeper to take the floor. Alicent gave her own nod to the man as he rose from his prostration.

“Dreamfyre has laid another clutch of eggs. Only three, your Grace, and she will let no one near them. Vhagar has been circling,” Arryx said.

Alicent frowned. Dreamfyre had not laid a clutch in several years now, and Vhagar rarely came to the pit. She was too old, too large, with little desire to be kept with her smaller brethren. The horrific beast preferred a rocky outcropping far out into the bay.

Aemond had given her a quizzical look when she’d brought it up once, when he was still bedridden and recovering from his mutilation. Her sweet boy was now strung through with a confidence that she’d never seen ignite within him when he had both eyes. The dangerous glint that confidence took as he’d grown older was also new.

She’s protecting what is hers, mother. We both are, he’d said.

“I have spoken with the Commander of the City Watch, your Grace, to ensure that those in the areas closest to the pit keep their distance unless absolutely necessary. It has allowed us to take stock of the current state of those neighborhoods.” Ser Harrold turned to look at Ser Otto. “A full report will be on your desk.”

Her father nodded, and Ser Harrold looked once more to the keeper.

Arryx shifted on his feet, and Alicent watched his eyes flick to the Grand Maester with an expression that she could not discern. The Citadel and the Hightowers have always stood side by side for the betterment of the realm, Alicent, and you’ll continue to foster that friendship, won’t you?

“Five of the kitlings have also died, your Grace. They were unbonded, brought from Dragonstone before…”

Before Daemon had come back.

“How many dragons does this put us at?” Her father’s deceptively mild tone was the opposite of his glee when Aemond had claimed Vhagar. The numbers requested were ones he’d calculated in his head, monthly, since he’d come back.

“Claimed, my lord?” Arryx asked, pausing momentarily. “Eleven, throughout the family. Lady Rhaena’s dragon hatched, but it was born twisted and sickly and did not last. I have not received word otherwise of any intention for Lady Rhaena to come and try to claim another dragon.”

Half of the dragons were claimed. Alicent watched her father drum his fingers along the table. Identifying the pattern took only a moment. He was counting.

Specifically, the dragons that were on their side.

“I want reports of the necropsies upon their completion,” her father said with a narrowed and assessing look, disturbed by the news. “The last thing we need is some strange illness to rip through all of them.”

Alicent chewed on the inside of her lip and watched the shining outline of the seven-pointed star beaming down on the table.

“Syrax is almost big enough for two riders now. Will you come touch the clouds with me, Alicent? Please?” Rhaenyra had always begged, mouth close to her ear, hands stroking her arms, her wounded and bloody fingers.

The joyful look that Aegon once gave her now reserved for a beast: “I’ve never known love until Sunfyre, mother. It’s like the world has color now that we’re together.”

“Dreamfyre keeps me tethered to the ground even as I fly in my dreams. She’s the only anchor I have,” said Helaena, who would withdraw from her touch as if it were a sting from a bee.

Little Daeron and his dragon clutched in his arms: “I can’t leave Tessarion behind, mother! I won’t know how to be happy without her!”

Dragons had robbed Alicent of everything.

“Thank you, Arryx. I will speak to the children and see what Prince Aemond might do about Vhagar.” The idea of her sweet, once immaculate and tender-hearted child being near that twisted, hoary thing still terrified her, no matter how gently reassuring Aemond could be.

Arryx did not move to leave just yet. “Forgive me, your Grace, but Vhagar is no Vermithor or Sunfyre: she is old and willful, and although she is bonded with our prince, I would suggest caution. He is… young, and Vhagar was forged in the fires of battle.”

He bowed once more before taking his leave.

Even in indescribable pain, in the face of his own father’s disregard and disdain, Aemond sought to soothe her. “Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

What else would her father do to get more dragons on their side?

Nervous tension pulsed in the silence left when the doors closed behind the dragonkeeper, filled only by the soft creak of the Kingsguard’s mail and the gentle clink of the chain around Grand Maester Mellos’ neck as he shifted in his chair, barely audible. The enduring mystery and curiosity of dragons was a specter of The Stranger above them all. Alicent had heard her kingly husband remind Rhaenyra repeatedly: Dragons were not pets. The bond with them should not blind their riders to the power that thrummed ancient and thick in their veins.

She breathed slowly, letting the quiet ease, refusing to meet anyone else’s eyes as the tumult of feelings inside of her crashed upon the jagged edges of her broken ribs. This was the right choice. Her babies were only half-Targaryen, and Rhaenyra’s bastards were the same, whether she’d ever admit to it or not.

Everyone in the room had grown up with the stories that the Conquerors spread when they forged the throne: The Valyrian blood magic that had made them dragonriders was only to be found in their Targaryen blood. That bloodline needed to remain pure. Yet, Rhaena’s pure Valyrian blood did not save her first dragon from being born sickly and dying quickly, while Aemond - Targaryen only by half - bonded with Vhagar, the most powerful beast in the world.

There were no further reasons to believe the Targaryens were gods after all, and above the realm they had conquered.

The great chair of the King creaked as she slowly rose, taking in the council before her. There were no Targaryens in this room, even if she had birthed her own clutch of half-dragons. Alicent bore this task without joy or fanfare. It was a duty to be endured for the good of her family, for the good of her realm.

She stood with her hands folded in front of her, the image of the Mother of the Realm. Alicent had done this once before, when she had declared that she was standing in an official capacity for her husband.

“My lords of the council,” She hedged a glance at her father before moving her gaze to each man at the table. Ladies of the realm should be on the council. “It is with great joy and love that the King and myself, with Lord Larys Strong, announce to the small council that we have arranged the betrothal of our son, Prince Aegon Targaryen, and Lady Abrogail Strong.”

Each of the lords straightened in their chairs. Lord Beesbury frowned and glanced away from her. The uncertain and uncomfortable shifting in his chair belied the embarrassment he was attempting to hide. Alicent felt no need to point it out. It was a fine idea that he’d presented and not his fault he did not know what had already been decided. Even if he was Rhaenyra’s lapdog, Alicent would be the better person, and not rub his face in it.

The congratulations buzzed in her ears as she sat back down in her chair, and beneath the table, she tore at the skin along her left thumbnail. The pain was as dull as the congratulations in her ears. Her father’s voice was distant, jovial even.

They hadn’t even told Aegon and Abrogail yet. She remembered standing in the same position, knowing what was coming, knowing what it would destroy and desperately hoping that it might not.

I have decided to take a new wife. I intend to marry Lady Alicent Hightower before Spring’s end.

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Rhaenyra forgive me forgivemeforgiveme.

“A feast is in order to announce Prince Aegon and Lady Abrogail’s betrothal,” Tyland’s jovial tone broke the silence. His suggestion—or statement, depending on how Alicent took it—was not one that she’d expected when she sat down in Viserys’ chair, but welcomed the confirmation of his support.

Meanwhile, Larys’s expression gave nothing away. He simply inclined his head in agreement.

Her son — her trueborn son — for all his faults, deserved to be celebrated. She was happy she didn’t have to fight for this. It was Mellos who spoke next: “Given the last wedding that was celebrated within these halls, it would be a reassuring gesture to the Lords of the Realm if they were given the opportunity, and for us to show unity within House Targaryen. With the Prince’s nameday in a few moons, perhaps we can celebrate with a tournament.”

Alicent’s eyes cut to her father, who smiled lightly, nodding in agreement but careful not to say a word, allowing the Maester to be responsible for the idea.

“Even better,” Tyland raised his goblet in agreement. “We haven’t had a proper celebration in years. What better occasion? Lord Rickard Reyne will be overjoyed to hear the honor bestowed on his granddaughter.” He looked over at her father. “I take it you’ll be writing to him, Lord Hand?”

The last time Alicent had seen her uncle Lord Rickard had been at her mother’s funeral: now no longer the worst day of her life, but the memory that was still seared into her mind. She recalled Lord Reyne as a stoic man, but he’d been kind to her in her grief. Alicent hoped the years had not taken that away from him, but they likely had.

Time always stole away kindness.

Lord Beesbury looked pensive. Alicent could practically hear the man pushing house markers along the map in his head as the conversation continued. “Was Princess Rhaenyra involved in such a discussion?”

“The Princess Rhaenyra has continued to seclude herself and,” he paused, his gaze heavy and considering as he took in those around the table. “Her second husband, Daemon Targaryen, at Dragonstone. Neither has she come to the small council as her status allows, nor has she engaged with matters of the realm that her being heir gives her right to,” her father said smoothly, and he was right. “The king still grieves his daughter’s choices, and she has yet to amend with him. I agree with Lord Lannister and our Grand Maester. This would show the strength and unity and willingness of House Targaryen to bond and celebrate with the realm.”

Beesbury gave a humorless chuckle. “And nothing to do with presenting Prince Aegon formally.” As a contender. As a choice - that was left unsaid.

Alicent felt a surge of anger inside of her, instinct compelling her to protect her children and pull the wool Viserys and Rhaenyra spun from Beesbury’s eyes so he could see the truths they refused to acknowledge.

Not long after Aemond had been born, Lord Lyonel had enlisted her in trying to get Viserys to hold another declaration to follow Rhaenyra, if she was truly his desired heir even with two healthy boys of his blood. The King had originally chosen Rhaenyra because of the loss of Baelon and Aemma. Everyone wanted to keep Daemon off the throne, lest he became another Maegor the Cruel… and now, he was to be Rhaenyra’s consort, and Viserys still would do nothing. Alicent refused to believe that Rhaenyra would kill her half-siblings, that she would kill Alicent’s children for whatever love had been there. Every dark, curly haired little boy caused her to fear not what Rhaenyra would decide, but what others would encourage her to do. Her father had not been wrong - her sons would be beacons of rebellion, damned by the man who had so desperately craved a son, yet now ignored. How bitter a pill.

Daemon terrified her. They should all be terrified of him. Daemon now had Rhaenyra’s ear and her heart and her body. Daemon was not one to hesitate if something stood in his way.

Did you fuck Daemon Targaryen in a pleasure house? Targaryens have such queer customs.

“Prince Aegon is eight and ten, an accomplished dragonrider, ah…” Mellos trailed off, and the uncertainty on his face clawed at Alicent’s insides. Failure was acid in her throat.

Either you prepare Aegon…

That boy who would be king had groped six serving girls at the last feast before drinking and whoring his way through the Street of Silk.

“My sister and heir is of unimpeachable character,” Larys’ quiet voice carried within the room. “As a child, Abrogail was a playmate of Prince Aegon and his siblings, and she has become a beloved ward of Queen Alicent, who has done a remarkable job of raising her after the deaths of our parents. I would consider her to be a prime example of all our realm offers to a family that has, if I may be candid, gone to great lengths to keep to their own since the conquest. Wouldn’t you agree, Grand Maester?”

That poor girl she’d now chained to him was a picture of the Maiden. It had taken everything to ensure that her father waited for it. She would not have another bride offered to the throne before she was of age, while her father wanted nothing more than for Aegon to grow up.

Tension crept back into the room at Larys’ words. Nobody would think to utter these thoughts had Viserys been sitting there. Mellos cleared his throat and avoided her father’s gaze to adjust the heavy chain around his neck. The title of Grand Maester had been his even before Viserys’ reign, and he was possibly the closest representative that was not her to speak to Viserys’ mind.

“I would agree, Lord Strong. Perhaps even exploring the eventuality of wedding Prince Aegon’s children to Prince Jacaerys’ would… reassure Princess Rhaenyra. She once suggested a betrothal between Princess Helaena and-”

“We already have other candidates in mind for my daughter,” Alicent cut in immediately. She wouldn’t say anything about Jace’s children and future grandchildren. She refused to entertain the idea that Helaena would marry Rhaneyra’s son to cover her indignity and insult to everything that she had been given and born into. “We have time before the wedding,” she said with a gentler tone. “A year should be more than enough to introduce them to the realm and start introducing Prince Aegon to newer responsibilities befitting his station.”

That was time enough to beat her son into someone who could be King.

Morning light streamed through the gauzy, sage curtains of the princess’ room. Abrogail licked the honey clinging to her fingers as she moved towards the washbasin, abandoning half-eaten bread and cold cuts of meat at the table. Helaena also ignored their meal as she lingered at the only window that could give her a good view of the Dragonpit. Vhagar had been on the prowl that morning, unusually territorial, and the change in the dragon’s temperament had entranced the friend whom she called sister. She jumped when Abby ventured near her, eyes wide and body tense as a startled cat, so the redhead pivoted in the opposite direction in order to retrieve Helaena’s bodice. Normally, she did not wear one unless the Queen noticed, but on days when her mind drifted, the structure of the garment seemed to keep Helaena focused on the moment instead of her dreams. The princess was somewhere else in her thoughts, mechanically holding up her arms to have the bodice slipped over her shift.

“I’m going to tighten the laces now, alright, Helaena?” Abrogail told the princess as she always did, walking through the process so she wasn’t surprised by anything.

Helaena gave no verbal indication that she was listening, but Abby noticed her pale blonde head bob in acceptance. Slowly, she began straightening the garment, mindful of keeping her touch on the lacing and the chemise from pulling and pinching uncomfortably and defeating the purpose.

“Pink and red, he might be dead. Blue and black, no coming back,” Helaena murmured. Her gaze drifted to Myrella Penrose, who approached with a yellow, diamond patterned dress for inspection. “I don’t want my scales to be so bright.” Helaena’s voice did not rise from her quiet tone, and her gaze flitted away.

“How about the new one from Sevenmas?” Abby offered brightly before Myrella’s face could twist into the uncertain and disturbed look it took whenever Helaena drifted. “The ocean blue one with the beading. That’ll be nice to feel, right, Helaena?”

The princess tilted her head about, humming. “Yes, that would be.” She threaded her fingers together, pressing in so the knuckles would crack. Myrella visibly winced at the sound, but Abby just shook her head and carefully tucked the laces into the bodice. “The perfect hug,” came the breathless statement, before Helaena’s bright lavender eyes finally focused away from whatever she was tracking to turn around and look towards her. Abby took the dress from Myrella and offered her cousin a smile as she held it up. She was used to Helaena’s inquisitive gazes, as if she was a bug under the pretty Maester’s glass Aemond had gifted his sister. “Do you need them, too?”

“A hug?” Abby frowned.

“Scales - armor to protect you,” she clarified. Helaena held her arms up to slide the dress over her head, and Abby left her to do the little buttons down the front herself. “Or would you prefer a pretty carapace? Silver and reds, greens and blue. Pinks and black and gold.”

Abby laughed at the idea of being covered in so many colors, and Helaena even returned the smile as she finished her buttons. It was a good sign, and the tingle of worry that had been crawling up and down along her spine immediately eased. “To be decorated in so many colors? That would make for lovely armor.”

Helaena’s mood was improving, which meant that when the Queen finally came in, she wouldn’t immediately launch into fretting and worrying about the princess being in ‘one of her episodes.’ Abby knew the Queen did not mean it badly, but it still made her uncomfortable. Were her mother still there, she would say something if Abby expressed her concern. She was alone here now, and things were as different as the day and night.

The door creaked open, but it wasn’t Alicent who entered. Helaena’s little smile turned bright and beaming: “Aemond!”

At four and ten, the boy was steadily growing with each passing turn of the moon. While bypassing Abrogail in height was no difficult feat, he now stood as tall as his sister and mother. Prince Aegon was the next family member he was bound to outgrow, and the Queen had already tasked her with ordering clothes to be made ready for when Aemond shot up again. Lord Otto towered over most, and he japed that Aemond might make it where Aegon had failed to surpass him.

Hearing Helaena’s joyous declaration, Abby caught a spray of pink blooming on his pale cheeks, and Aemond reached up to adjust the soft leather strap of his eyepatch. The scar no longer looked angry, but it was prominent; a ridge of thick skin that was only just smoothing out with time. The prince held a jar carefully in his hands. He took several steps before Abby clucked her tongue at him the way she would at her own cat, though Theraxis had not joined her that morning in Helaena’s room. Earlier, a maid brought along with their meals news that the cat was gallivanting in the discarded feathers while the scullery maids plucked chickens.

“Your mother will be up any minute. She said she doesn’t want to catch you in here anymore,” Abby warned with an arched brow. There was no censure in her teasing tone. Aemond was nearly her own little brother, although much was changing as they left their childhoods behind.

“She won’t be here for him,” Helaena said in a voice far more present than it had been before, Aemond’s very presence pulling her back down to earth and away from the clouds. “What did you bring me?” Even though her buttons were only half-done, Helaena rushed across the room to Aemond with her arms outstretched and fingers wiggling. “Oh! It’s beautiful! Abby! Look!” She held up the jar filled with little sticks and leaves – a fat blue and yellow cocoon precariously hanging from one forked stick inside. “I wonder if it belongs to the ones I released last year.”

“You’ll be the mother of all the moths and butterflies in the Red Keep,” Aemond said softly, so softly that Abby could hardly hear him despite standing close by.

Abrogail moved away from the siblings, smiling at Myrella and leading the woman to the opened door. “Thank you for your help this morning. I believe the Queen will need you more today. Let her know we’ll be going to the gardens later, if you please.” Lately, the Queen had been sending the Penrose woman to help Abby tend to the princess’ needs. It had made her nervous. When she asked the Queen if she was being replaced, the words stuck to her throat. Her Grace had been adamant that it was not the case at all, that it was only so Abrogail could learn from her in preparation for her own running of a household, and give Helaena time to get used to someone else helping her.

Another part of Abby wondered if the Queen knew Aemond was still coming to visit in the morning. Or worse, that Uncle Otto was spying. Abby was protective of her friends, her kin. They were siblings bonded through the years of fights in the mud and pranks and stories in the nursery. Bonds such as theirs were not so easily broken; they only changed as time passed, as things happened, like Aemond losing an eye.

Myrella Penrose gave her a tight smile and left down the hall. Abby watched her go, lingering in the door as Aemond and Helaena whispered in the room. Her friend’s quiet giggles were a rare sound, and Abby would do anything to protect those moments for her, for them both. She tugged at the embroidered cuffs of her dark blue-gray dress, thumbs brushing the little weirwood leaves sewn in delicate scarlet thread. Little golden dragons danced through them as a symbol of her ties with the family. Aegon had picked the golden thread, predictable as ever, when she’d asked his opinion.

She thought of the embroidered knot Helaena had been making – silver and green, tangling with red and black and gold. There were so many twists, but Helaena assured her that there was a rhyme to it, a dance with complicated steps. Aemond’s soft laugh cracked a bit, and Abby bit her lower lip to hide her giggle at the sound. She turned her head, and while she couldn’t quite make them out, she could see their shadows along the stone floor. They stood close together, heads bowed over something - maybe the jar, she couldn’t tell.

Heavy and purposeful footsteps echoed down the hall. Abby’s head snapped up from where she stood within the doorway, not immediately visible. She strained to identify the cadence, and her stomach twisted when she did.

“It’s him,” she hissed, glancing wide-eyed over her shoulder. Aemond’s head was close to Helaena’s with her hands resting on his shoulders. At Abby’s raised alarm, her fingers twisted in his dark green doublet and yanked him towards the partition, shoving him behind it. Abby snatched the jar with the precious cocoon inside and tucked it on the bookshelf behind the embroidered manticore Helaena had just finished. Otto Hightower’s footsteps were not alone, although the Hightower guards did not enter the Princess’ room when he swept in. Abby immediately dropped into a curtsy, a murmur of, “Lord Uncle.” Helaena bobbed slightly, twisting back and forth a bit. “Good morning, grandfather,” she said, bounding up to press a kiss on his cheek. If Otto had any weakness, it would be his unparalleled love and favoritism of his granddaughter. It was hard to tell how much Helaena enjoyed her grandfather’s attention and how much was one of her games, but whatever it was, it worked.

“Good morning, sweet girl. You look lovely today.” Otto’s voice was fond, his smile more gentle than he seemed capable of. He was an intimidating man. Abby had received nothing but kindness and vague disinterest, but he still made her nervous. “I hope you don’t mind, but I need to borrow your cousin.” She felt her cheeks color as Otto’s gaze moved to her. Her mouth dried as her nerves returned to where they’d been when standing before the Queen, wondering if she was being replaced. Perhaps Larys was sending her back to Harrenhal or her sister was demanding she go to her in Casterly Rock.

Helaena smiled at her, though, with her hands folded across her stomach. “I’ll help you with your carapace later,” she reassured her. “You won’t be without armor.”

Closing the door behind them, the Hightower guards followed a few paces behind as Abby fell in step with him.

“Is everything alright?” she asked as they went left instead of right, towards the Hand’s tower. It had been years since she’d walked this path that had been as familiar to her as the gardens of the Red Keep. Her eyes glanced for the loose stone at the corner of the step, where she’d stow secret messages in the little hollow behind it. Had she left a note there? Was there perhaps a mystery one waiting for her?

“It is. And I hope you have been well yourself.” Lord Otto looked down at her gently, and she nodded. “The Queen says you pray often in the Sept?”

A prompt. A strange one, but a prompt all the same. She swallowed past her dry mouth and put a smile on her face. “Yes, I enjoy the quiet, and it helps me feel closer to my parents.” And brother, but she was careful not to mention Harwin around anyone but a handful. “It’s especially nice when her Grace joins me. It’s almost like I have my mother back.” No one could replace her mother, but the Queen had been there for as long as she could remember, and sometimes, when she tilted her head a certain way and the light caught in Queen Alicent’s auburn curls, she could pretend her mother was there once more.

“Her Grace speaks highly of you – how good you are with Princess Helaena, well behaved and polite. She said that you and the princess have made things for the poor children of the city. A very kind and admirable pursuit for you both. Your father would be very proud.”

“Thank you.” Abby wasn’t sure what else to say or what he was getting at as they began climbing the winding staircase. The familiarity of it hit her like a scent memory - one sudden and revealing of long-forgotten feelings. “I do my best to follow the Queen’s guidance and reflect well on my position within the family and her example.”

“Good. Very good.” She wasn’t sure if it was something she was supposed to reply to, so she hedged her bets and remained quiet. Her palms were sweating, and she discreetly wiped them on her skirt as she held the fabric. “I’ve noticed that you and Prince Aegon do not spend as much time together as you used to.”

Aegon? Why was she being asked about Aegon? Her stomach twisted, and she felt a prickle of heat along the back of her neck. It was true: they didn’t spend as much time together, but they hadn’t for years now, not since she spent more of her time with Helaena and… Aegon? Well, Aegon had been withdrawing slowly but surely for so long, like fraying threads at the seams. She’d be lying if she claimed to not miss him, because she did. She missed the happier boy he’d been, who did not constantly ply himself with drink and was more mercurial than a wild dragon.

Abrogail would also be lying if she claimed they saw little of one another, or spent no time at all because that was untrue as well. Until the past few moons, she’d gather lunch for the two of them when he finally rose well past noon, and he’d take her flying wherever he and Sunfyre desired to go. It had been something quiet and cherished, simply the three of them away from everything. Until Aegon had gotten in the tavern brawl all that time ago. Until Aegon started avoiding her. Until he barely acknowledged her at meals that he decided to join, even when he sat beside her. There was no way that Otto Hightower would not be aware of that, and she would not hedge around it. It wasn’t like anything untoward was happening.

“Not as much, but that is a natural casualty of leaving behind childhood. He found me earlier this week because it seemed there was a lack of honey cakes in the kitchen and I was the first to be interrogated.” There was a note of amusement in her voice, and Abby smiled in memory of his indignation and how silly he looked when she shoved honey cake into his mouth to stop his ranting. “He occasionally accompanies me in the Sept to pray. It’s incredibly kind of him to do so.”

She mounted a few more steps before realizing that Lord Hightower had paused. She turned to look at him. Morning light streaked through the narrow, delicate paned windows, casting shadow and illuminating dust in the air. He stared up at her, and with a few steps between them, she stood at his height. It was the first time she’d ever met her uncle’s eyes. Unlike her own unreadable brother, Otto’s face was not so impassive. He looked intrigued by her admission. Abby’s hands wound into her skirt so as not to fidget.

“He was not inappropriate, if that is your concern, my lord. Prince Aegon behaved with due respect.” To defend Aegon was second nature to her, and she would do so towards arguably the most powerful man in the realm if it meant to spare Aegon more shame and ire when, for once, he’d done nothing wrong. Which was true. Aegon hadn’t said a single thing. He knelt beside her, lighting candles, and simply stayed with her while she prayed for her family. He hadn’t even put a hand of comfort on her shoulder. She felt that was worth mentioning, given his current proclivities. She would not deny his vices, but she would not break confidence, and she would let no one, especially Lord Otto, think any worse of him if she could help it.

“Very good.” It took everything in her to keep the bewilderment off her face as she tried to understand what exactly he was trying to figure out. Otto resumed their progress, although now he rested a heavy hand between her shoulder blades like a father guiding a child. “So, you have no current complications with him?”

Complications? Did he think she’d lifted her skirts for Aegon? It wasn’t like she’d never thought of kissing him on those lazy afternoons when they’d lay in the grass and stare at the sky somewhere in the Kingswood with Sunfyre sunning himself like a cat. Of course she’d thought about kissing him, especially when he was at his most melancholy, with tears pooling in his eyes, making them pinker than normal. A kiss beyond the games children play, a kiss to comfort an angry prince in the firelight’s glow, his tears coursing down his cheeks with each snip of her embroidery scissors that sent locks of moonlight hair to the ground.

He’d never touched her more than a handhold, and far less than she touched him in her casual affections.

“No. No complications,” she confirmed.

They reached the landing, and Abby ran her hand over the stone dragon curled up in eternal sleep at the top of the stairs. Her fingers scratched along the smooth curve of its head the way she’d done every morning when she visited her father. She felt her uncle’s gaze on her, and she drew her hand away, hurrying to follow him into his office with her cheeks burning beneath her freckles, relieved only just by his vaguely amused expression.

The room was darker than it had been before. Gone were the stacks of books with various slips of paper sticking out haphazardly, or Theraxis lounging lazily along the cool stone floor by the door with his fluffy tail, sending motes of dust into the air. She instinctively clutched her skirt on the right to pull them away, so used to a giant paw the size of her hand grabbing at the fluttering fabric. But Theraxis was not there. The crumbling tome about the Andal invasion was absent from where it once rested on the side table. Instead, Larys stood by the fire with his back to her, as did the Queen, her lovely green dress covering her from neck to wrist with a golden pattern woven in the fabric that caught the firelight. Her face pinched in the way it did when she was uncertain and trying not to pick at her nails.

Abby noticed, of course. It usually meant that someone was about to get yelled at or she would send them away with the other ladies.

The figure in the chair slouched so far down that his silver head nearly vanished behind the back of it. At the clearing of Lord Otto’s throat, Aegon jerked up. His whole body held so much tension that it made Abby’s own hurt just by looking at him. He peered over his shoulder at them with glossy, red-rimmed eyes that give him a strange, ethereal sort of gaze, skin pale enough to prominently display the flushed pink mottling of a strike against his right cheek. He looked stuffy and uncomfortable in his dark green doublet, his fingers absently tugging at the buttons and collar. As his gaze focused, his eyes widened and darted from the uncertainty she knew was on her own face to his grandfather behind her.

The thud as Otto shut the door reverberated through her, and she and Aegon both flinched at the sound. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby could see the Queen flinch as well. Larys, as always, looked unphased. The heavy hand on her back pushed her towards the empty chair closer to the fire, and she had no time to bob a curtsy; courtesies stuck like toffee in her mouth.

The chairs once held the delicately embroidered pillows her mother made. She would curl up with them and read aloud from the books scattered around while her papa worked. He would-

“Queen Alicent and Lord Larys have received several letters expressing interest in you, Abrogail,” Otto said, walking behind his desk. She dug her thumbnail into the pad of her middle finger, and she saw Aegon’s booted foot twitch on the flagstone – a rocking motion from the ball of his foot to his heel before slapping it back down beneath the desk. Wood crackled in the fireplace. “Lord Farman is looking for a wife for his eldest, and Faircastle would be close to your sister.”

He plucked a scroll from the basket as he spoke, and Abby felt her stomach churn with nerves as a red heat clawed along her throat. She did not venture a look at Aegon, save for the foot he kept rocking back, the heel he repeatedly ground into the floor. He’d not gone back to slouching. He could be indolent and rude when he wanted, but not even Aegon dared to in his grandfather’s presence. Abby didn’t understand what this was about, or why Aegon was here.

“Edmund Vance, the heir to House Vance, recently lost his wife. A good man, and part of the Riverlands although a small seat. Or, if you married Jesper Celtigar, the heir of Crackclaw, you’d be able to remain in King’s Landing.”

Otto Hightower produced scroll after scroll and Abrogail felt the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks, confusion keeping her words locked away. How was she supposed to react to all of this? What was he trying to say? Were all these marriage proposals meant to make her feel better about herself? No, that was too odd to contemplate.

Why was Aegon here?

“Lord Grover has also written of his interest in you for his grandson. A Paramount seat would let you be close to your home at Harrenhal, and he already has an heir. He would take good care of you, and your children would have every opportunity.” Another scroll plucked from the basket. “It would bring Harrenhal into their holdings. Is that not correct, Lord Larys?”

Right. Harrenhal.

A woman’s lot is to only be worth what she could bring to the table.

Her brother was a man of few words, and he inclined his head with a shadow of a smile flickering across his face. Abby looked at the queen to find that her face was pinching harder. In the interim, Queen Alicent stepped away from the fire and moved instead to the desk with the gentle swoosh of her skirts gliding across the stone. She cleared her throat, a smile fighting its way on her face.

“All the offers were wonderful for you, my sweet girl, but none seemed right.” The Queen reached out to tuck a copper curl behind her ear, and Abby could not tell if this was supposed to be comforting to her or if the Queen sought comfort in the action for herself. Her lungs felt constricted, and it finally dawned on her.

Oh.

The sole of Aegon’s boot continued to drag across the stone in both a nervous fidget and to keep himself from slouching down even further into the chair. The only reason she could hear it was because of how focused she’d been on it, but now blood rushed into her head and Abby broke eye contact with her cousin to look down in her lap.

“What does seem right is for you and Aegon to be married, after your nameday. You’ll be eight and ten, and the pair of you will go to live at Harrenhal, and make your home there.”

Oh.

“Are you fucking serious?” Aegon’s voice was a hoarse, disused rasp from a night with endless drink. When she looked at him again, she noticed that his hair was still damp, and that beads of water from the wet ends had soaked little spots into the collar of his shirt. He wasn’t looking at her, but up at his mother, and then, incredulously, across the desk at his grandfather.

Otto’s face remained impassive following his grandson’s outburst. Abby wanted to grab Aegon and drag him out of the way of whatever was about to come out of the Hand’s mouth, as if the words would physically harm him.

The silence lengthened. Another log popped in the fireplace.

“He speaks.” The amusement in Otto’s voice caused Aegon to draw back further into his chair before he finally turned to look at her. His eyes were so red-rimmed, and his sullen face was so terribly pale that the pink-lilac of his eyes stood out ethereally, inhumanly like the drawing of a fae folk from a book she had as a child - wild and cornered. He’d bitten his pouty, chapped lips bloody.

Aegon searched her face for an answer to a question that she did not know. The only thing Abrogail could do was give him the gentle, reassuring smile she’d given him countless times before. It was what she did in this world: comfort her loved ones in any way possible, even as she needed to bury her own feelings on the matter. Feelings that, in this particular case, she couldn’t even begin untangling in the moment.

“Well, that makes us luckier than most, doesn’t it?” Abby cleared her throat and turned the smile onto the others in the room. She reached up to grasp the Queen’s hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze before she burst into a million pieces. Whether it was her, or the Queen, that might burst, she could not say. “We are fortunate to know one another so well and to be of an age. I thank you Lord Hightower, your Grace.” She looked at Larys, who remained silent in his observations, as always – an owl in a tree, eyes taking in everything. “Thank you, brother, for looking out for me.”

She felt Aegon’s eyes continue to pin on her. She looked back at him.

The wild and anxious expression was still on his face, and instinct compelled her, as it often did, to reach out her hand to take his - but he surprised her by beating her to it. His skin felt like fire engulfing her frigid hand and his fingers tangled with hers with easy familiarity. Before she could register what was happening, Aegon’s chair was already scraping across the floor and he pulled her from her chair with the momentum of jumping from his own. There was no pause in his movement as he dragged her to the door.

“How very fortunate we are.” A laugh bubbled from Aegon’s chest. It was a joyless sound when he laughed in the presence of his mother and grandsire. It was edged with the familiar mania; Aegon laughed when he was afraid, when he was anxious, when he was trying not to scream as his world was coming apart, or the laughter and joy on the back of Sunfyre. He tilted his head to stare up at the ceiling before throwing a look over his shoulder at the three across the room. “How very lucky we are.”

Aegon’s hand was clammy around hers, his grip bordering on painful. He yanked the door open with a protesting whine of the latch. Abby heard the Queen calling after him, but Aegon’s strides were purposeful as they ate up the ground to get away. Only the grip of their hands kept her from being left behind in the claustrophobic room where their future was being decided for them.

It might have been the second bravest thing she’d ever witnessed from him.

Chapter Text

The cloisters were some of the oldest parts of the Red Keep. They spanned the distance between the high towers of the Hand and Maester, then down along the edge of the main courtyard. Most ignored the courtyard in favor of the Godswood, or the great gardens further down near the cliff edge. This was an overgrown place, where Helaena delighted, once upon a time, in digging up fat pill bugs from the dirt, or where Aemond cried after being stung by a bee from the hive towards the eastern wall; a hidden place, ignored and forgotten by the wisteria and roses that crept along the arches, unkempt and wild and hidden even in the middle of what made the Keep - and the kingdom - turn.

Aegon’s heartbeat was thundering in his ears, and their footsteps echoed off the stone walls of the staircase as he focused on putting as much distance between him and everything in that room as possible. A headache pulsed in time with his frantic heart behind his eyes, and he could taste the acrid, burning bile in the back of his throat.

Betrothed.

The cold, dainty fingers in his damp, feverish hand gripped harder as they burst through the dripping, fragrant purple wisteria draped over the many arches, and out the bright morning sun that streamed into the garden.

“Aegon?” Abby’s voice was normally a sweetly soft or excitedly curious tone. Now, it cut through the pounding rush of blood in his ears with the way it shook with uncertainty and concern.

He abruptly let go of her hand and crashed through the flower beds instead of following the stone path that the moss had all but consumed. Buzzing filled his ears, and he fell to his knees beside a red berry bush and promptly heaved out the contents of his stomach. His world narrowed down to the raw tearing inside his throat, the painful clench of his insides, his whole body jerking with the motion as the mess spattered and soaked into the soft soil.

The ravens that called the great, weeping cherry tree home burst into the air with a litany of shrieks, clearly disgusted by the display before them.

Aren’t we all? he thought, fingers plunging into the sun warmed soil while his body decided it needed a break. Aegon gasped, dizzy and unable to catch his breath as panic fought to settle in his chest. The clamminess had not started yet. A good sign. He did not think he could withstand the onslaught of nerves that burst beneath his hangover.

“Aegon? Are you alright?” she asked, still in that gentle, worried tone. His mother sounded that way once upon a time, and with his eyes closed, Aegon could almost imagine it was his mother’s voice full of concern. It was not the voice of Alicent Hightower, however, but Abby and the worry that she hid behind her constant, ever present smile.

Except for years back, when her ocean blue eyes had gone dark and her little mouth went flat. Back then when her world burst into flames, he tried to save her. The girl he’d wrenched from the depths of grief had come back too bright, too smiling, too worried for everyone else but herself. Too prepared to burn herself out for everyone else while she froze.

He could only give her a resounding groan in response, because, well, it was exactly how he felt. He tensed, waiting to hear her footsteps through the garden to him, for it was something she would do: make sure he was alright, run a cool hand over his burning skin as she’d done for as long as he could remember. Shame burned his cheeks. He did not want her to see him like this. He hated it, and yet, here they were.

She’d have to get used to it, won’t she? Miserable, disgusting lech that you are.

Aegon chanced a glance over through damp tendrils of hair in his eyes, and saw her slippered feet and the swish of her blue skirt move away towards the willow and fountain that anchored the west end of the garden. He exhaled slowly, relief easing the knot in his chest while he watched the blue fabric finally vanish behind a bush with fat, pink and blue flowers. Perhaps she’d go drown herself in the fountain like a girl from a song to avoid this.

This, the thing he’d wanted since he was a boy and now could not run from faster.

Betrothal.

Marriage.

Aegon carefully lay down beside the bush, arm flung out and hair sticking to the dampness of his forehead. He was never awake this early, when the sun had barely crested over the walls. His throat burned and his stomach ached, chest too tight, and if he stood, he’d have to face her and it was the last thing he wanted to do.

He wanted to face her with a straight spine, sword at his side, a hand extended. My lady, he’d say, and her cherubic cheeks with her freckles would blush as red as her beautiful curls. Will you take me as your husband? He’d ask and show her how much he wanted her, instead of being ordered to. Her heart shaped mouth would part in surprise, her doll-like features bright with joy. Her fingers would slip into his, cold to his hot and he’d wrap her up and keep her warm. Warm and smiling and happy until they were old and gray and crumbling into dust.

Gods, he’d be so good to her.

Instead, she was alone over there and he was alone over here, dizzy and smelling of wine and vomit with a bite mark from one of the women he’d fucked either last night or mayhaps it had been in the early hours of this morning, right on his thigh from a less than stellar servicing.

The names of the others his mother and grandfather had listed off floated through his mind. Every single suitor was surely more worthy to be whatever it was they wanted him to be; every single one another reminder that they were forcing this. They weren’t even giving her to him, not to love like he wanted. No, they were taking his Maiden and turning her into a pawn just like him, placing her on the board beside him to move them both as his mother and grandfather pleased.

It felt like something sacrificial; dark and maybe sacred in whatever deals had been made, whatever machinations brewed behind the curtains that he could not see.

Everything worth having was meant to be claimed as he had Sunfyre, not shoved into his arms behind deceptively passive smiles.

A butterfly with green and blue wings edged in black floated across his vision and he wondered if Helaena had come out here recently. A fat bumblebee came afterwards, and he remained still and unblinking as it came near his nose, So close he could feel the brief brush of air from its buzzing wings, before it wandered away towards something that was far prettier and smelled better.

As Aegon’s ears adjusted to the sounds of the garden, he could finally make out the trickle of water from the fountain, and amidst it, the quiet murmur of Abby’s voice as she must be talking or humming to herself. He focused on the sound, as loathsome as he felt, and it helped ease the knots that had wound their way between his ribs. It always had. Long ago, when they were small, he’d crawl under tables to hide and press his heated skin against the cold floor. Her fingers would stroke his hair, and he’d plead for extras out of the treats she’d pilfer from the kitchens.

He hummed softly, soothing himself as he tried and gathered up the courage to rise shakily to his feet. His head spun, and he wobbled a bit before turning to focus on where she had gone. The humming caught in his throat as he finally focused on the sight before him, air leaving his lungs.

The fountain deep within the overgrowth still ran. Cool, crystal clear water poured from the cupped palms of the kneeling dragon queen. Queen Rhaenys tilted her lovely face up, a joyful expression forever etched in stone as the head and neck of her dragon, Meraxes, curled around her protectively.

They said that the Conqueror had never recovered the body of his love, for Rhaenys had died in Dorne and they’d only brought back the dragon’s head. Meraxes was ensconced below in Balerion’s Hall, for his sire was allegedly a romantic, although it was the Black Dread that was worshiped. He privately thought - since none cared for his voiced opinions - that his namesake would rather it be Meraxes they worshiped, or the two together. Aegon wondered if they interred part of the lost Queen within the garden, for the Conqueror’s tower loomed above the cloisters, and the King would look down upon the garden, where he sought solace after her passing.

Joy, his maester once said, had left the world when Rhaenys died, and that loss of joy gave rise to Maegor. As a child, he thought he’d marry his Maiden out of desire just as his namesake did Queen Rhaenys. As a child in their games, he was the Conqueror, and she his joyful queen, who he’d rescue from a terrible fate in Dorne, or from dastardly lords who’d want to claim her. Jaceaerys’ had played Harren the Black once, with Abby taking part of the hostage Queen (even though it never really happened, it didn’t matter). How fierce and bright his joy had been to hear her call out for him while he climbed the rocky outcropping of ‘Harren’s Tower’. How hard he fought to rescue her from Jacaerys’ clutches, where she’d cling to him and he’d protect her as they made their escape. For he could do what the Conqueror could not - save the one who held his heart.

How much he enjoyed being the hero to the rest of them. How he lived for her reliance on him as her protector in their mock battles.

The weeping cherry tree towered over this part of the garden. Its branches spread out and dappled the morning light that streamed in. Moss ran over the stone path of the garden and along the edges of the fountain where Rhaenys’ statue reached out to him. His red-rimmed eyes moved from the stone face to where Abby sat. She focused on something in the water, one hand reaching up to brace on the snout of the stone dragon as she leaned over. The long ends of her curls dragged through the water with the motion as she pushed something, murmuring words he couldn’t hear. A laugh escaped her as her mouth broke into an amused smile, so unlike the frightened one she gave him in the tower. The smile she wore to comfort others when she was afraid.

I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair.

The wind shook petals from the tree, sending the pink cascading down to blanket the surrounding area, and caught in her delicate curls. She did not notice him, and he approached quietly as the moss muffled his footsteps.

“Oh dear, not there, you little sailor. This way with the current,” she said, her laughing tone was bright, but he could hear the tremulous edge beneath it. Her hand reached out to a floating leaf, a tiny frog perched happily upon it.

Aegon moved slowly so as not to startle her. Perhaps he was buying himself time, knowing that everything careful in the moment was on the precipice of shattering. He stepped towards her, so close he could nearly feel the gentle warmth of her form. The scent of bergamot and rose clung softly to her hair, and as he leaned down to sit beside her, he instinctively raised his arm to catch around her waist lest she tumble into the cold water.

He froze. Her eyes met his in the reflection.

The back of his throat burned.

“Careful.” His voice was hoarse and raw, and even in the ripples of the water he could see how pale and sallow he looked. How pitiful compared to the delicate look of hers. “You don’t want to fall and hit your head.”

He pulled his arm back. He could not initiate. She was welcome to do so, but Aegon? Aegon was a greedy thing. It gnawed like a dragon in his chest. He did not trust himself to ever touch first, to not pull her into his ribs and cage her inside of him, to not make her his to hold and hoard.

He felt dizzy and the burning in the back of his throat grew. His vision spun and Aegon dropped to his knees on the ledge and plunged his head beneath the water before he could vomit all over her. The world was pleasantly muffled beneath the water, and he shut his eyes, exhaling bubbles in the water. Time slowed, the heat of his skin cooled, and Aegon felt like he was floating. Even his headache had eased.

Hands gripped and tugged at his shoulders, pulling him from the floating world he had hidden himself in. Abby left him gasping and sputtering, her little fists shaking him, and he finally focused on her tirade. “Careful not to hit my head? Aegon! What are you doing?” she cried.

Water streamed down his face, plastering his hair to his head and obscuring his eyes. Sputtering and coughing for air, Aegon felt the bubbling of giggles falling from him like a madman. His shoulders shook, delighting in her reaction and the way her usually calm demeanor gave way to worry and annoyance.

It should not have brought him great joy to see her reaction, and yet…

Aegon’s giggles continued, although he had the great decency to try to soften them at the angry flash in her lovely blue eyes. The fabric of her blue dress had darkened in spots from the water he’d sent everywhere; it soaked her sleeves up to the elbows and his eyes caught a few beads of water tracing down her throat into the square neckline of her dress, along the soft sprinkle of freckles and… he should not be looking, but she was his betrothed now. That meant it was okay, right?

He tore his gaze from the blush that spread along her throat. He should not look. He could not look. He could not be trusted.

“At least we like one another,” she offered with her usual hopefulness and tried to get him to meet her eyes. “That counts for something, doesn’t it, Aegon?”

Stop saying my name, he thought. Then, never stop saying it, Seven, never stop.

Aegon snorted, his laughter bursting forth before he could even stop and think of it. The water that still trickled over his face spewed out from his nose and he could feel his face heat from his dance at the edge of hysterics. Amusement and abject panic, always. “Like one another?” he gasped out amid his fit. He fell back onto the grass. “What a grand marriage liking one another will make.” His own parents had liked one another once, and he dealt with the fallout of that every moment he drew breath.

Tears welled up in his eyes from his exertions and as the laughter settled, he realized he was alone in it. Confusion overtook the panic, and he finally focused on her.

Abby still sat on the edge of the fountain, her head turned away. Her curls hung down and spilled once more into the water, but he could see how red her face was. One arm had wrapped itself around her waist with fingers hooked into her belt; the other gripped the edge of the worn stone with white knuckles. There were no twitching, bloody fingers, but the cut of her shoulders tensed all too familiarly, too familially.

Her chin was trembling and her teeth had bitten into the plump pink of her lower lip. A bead of blood welled and rolled down her chin. Red streaked across her flushed skin when she hurriedly wiped it away.

Aegon’s laughter eased, his mouth dry, mirth still clear from the tear streaks on his cheeks, and something painful and heated ignited in the pit of his stomach.

Good, he thought. It was good that he’d upset her. It was good for her to expect less.

“You know, I didn’t ask for this either, Aegon.” Her tone was even, but instead of gentle, it was sharp. A sudden swipe of claws because his ankle had gotten too close to the cat who had been napping there. “I never asked for you.”

I never wanted you, he heard lurking beneath, and that ugly, heated thing burned inside of him. She couldn’t even look at him and Aegon’s heated cheeks darkened and he could feel it spreading down his neck, past his soaking collar, until it felt like his very heart might burst out of his chest at the humiliation that was settling in.

“I never asked for you either.” He was pushing up to his feet just as she was, and she still would not look at him. “Aren’t you getting the better deal out of this, anyway? I’m making you a fucking princess. Abrogail-” He reached out to jerk at her arm that still wrapped around her waist, fingers harsh and angry and Aegon could not help himself.

A chirp escaped her, The same sort she made when she touched a bowl that was too hot, or stabbed herself with her embroidery needles.

She finally looked up at him, and the humiliation he felt deepened as the shame threatened to manifest and noose around his neck. Her mouth pinched white around the edges except for the blood that welled along where she’d bitten her lip, her large blue eyes glossy and shining in that way he hated and had promised once upon a time, childishly, to protect her from.

The urge to drag his tongue along the streak of crimson across her mouth was growing, anything but childish and he forced his focus to anything else. His eyes darted to the hand that held her upper arm and the way his fingers pressed in hard enough to push in the fabric of her pretty, now wet, dress. So distracted by his hand on her arm, Aegon did not notice her other hand rise until she clawed at the exposed skin of his wrist and he howled in pain, immediately releasing her and looking at the four streaks of red across the back of his wrist and the blood that welled up.

Good, he thought again, as instead of that helpless look she had, it morphed into something flushed and angry at him. Better this than that biddable sweetness she used to placate herself and others. Better her rage than delusion.

I’m sorry, his lips moved to try form the words but her delicate hands came up and shoved him with a grunt. There wasn’t a lot of strength behind it, but with how unsteady he was already, it took little to send him sprawling back on his ass on the ground.

“I’ve never asked for anything from you, Aegon,” she croaked out. Her skirts gathered in her hands, she all but ran from him and the garden, disappearing behind the dripping wisteria and into the Keep.

Good.

Aegon scowled at his reflection in the fountain, and scattered it in his frustration.

“You were missed at council today, Viserys,” Alicent said as the doors to the King’s chambers were shut behind her, her voice as clipped as her footsteps along the stone floor.

A slight cough shook the King’s shoulders. He had been unwell the past few weeks, but was getting around again now, finally out of bed and reclined in his chair with furs piled around him. Maester Mellos had expressed concern about him losing the rest of the arm, but they’d saved it. Viserys hummed, turning the pages of the book before him, and Alicent was truly taken aback by how similar Aemond and Viserys were. The boy had spent little time around his disinterested father, so she could not attribute the similarity - the tone of the hum, the focus on the book of histories rather than to whatever she might be saying - to anything other than inheritance.

At least the disinterest was not among the traits passed down. Aemond paid attention to her. Aemond listened to her. Aemond, her baby boy, her brightest star, cared for her, and heard her.

A fondness built in her chest - rare the past handful of years. She had not always felt resentment towards her husband. Once, she even enjoyed his company, sitting and listening to him speak of matters that were close to him, being a valuable voice of reason. It was Viserys who had opened the seat on the Small Council to her, as his queen, gifting her something not even Aemma Arryn had.

Perhaps that was why it all hurt so much.

“We have summoned the Lords Blackwood and Bracken, along with Lord Tully - I’m assuming the grandson - to answer for the continued violence that has not ceased.” Alicent’s report fell from her like a page bringing a missive to their master and the familiarity of the charade grated on her nerves but she kept her tone neutral. A simple recounting of events to keep the king apprised of the council that she ran now.

That received a response. Viserys tilted his head with a curious furrow of his brow. “Why ever for? It is a Riverlands matter, Not something to concern ourselves with.”

“It is not simply a Riverlands matter when they are burning each other’s lands and whomever gets caught in the crossfire. Lord Tully will not bring them to heel,” Alicent normally did not snip so quickly in their conversations, but her concerns and worry overshadowed her careful control. Of course, Aegon frayed her nerves more than they already were. She was on edge, as time with her eldest always pushes her to. “The council thought it best that we summon the three houses together for mediation, so they may see that their actions have far-reaching implications.” She paused, reaching to pick up the dragon figurine atop one of the dusty buildings. The stone mason had done a remarkable job fixing it all those years ago. The cracks were barely visible, but still there. “Should the Riverlands show weakness, the Ironborn may decide that may prove better ground for raiding once more.”

“Mmm, sounds like Tyland would rather have the Riverlands bicker and peck at one another then. I believe Lord Farman wrote of a raid a few moons ago? Best to give them somewhere else to look. I fear the Ironborn will always be trouble no matter what.” Viserys chuckled at his own black humor and Alicent nodded, a tight smile creasing her features. Tyland knew ships, knew the sea, but he was no Corlys Velaryon, who had no plans to return to shore soon, judging by the last updates he’d sent from the Stepstones. “A slow meeting, then?”

The pumice stone scraped softly as she put the dragon back. “We announced the engagement of Aegon to Abrogail Strong.” Viserys looked confused once more before recollection dawned on him and he made a quiet ‘ah’. “The Grand Maester and Lord Tyland thought that, with Aegon’s name day approaching, we might combine the celebration and throw a tournament, and maybe a hunt.”

The fire crackled in the quiet and Alicent finally allowed herself to relax and pour herself a cup of wine from the side table before taking a seat on the chair normally reserved for the stonemason. She did not mind a bit of dust. “Aegon will be eight and ten. A man grown, A man who will now marry and start a family of his own. That is worthy of celebration, is it not?” A sad smile crossed her face as she met her husband’s eyes and found a mirror of her own expression there.

“Aye, it is. I remember how much he laughed when we took him on that hunt. Do you remember?” Wistful, Viserys tilted his head and picked up a half carved dragon. “Waving his wooden dragon around, his joyful laughter.” A lump formed in Alicent’s throat, and she occupied herself with her wine glass. “He was always laughing, I remember that, before the others came along. Didn’t enjoy sharing the spotlight, did he?” Another chuckle. “But I think we’ve raised a fine boy, haven’t we?”

It was Alicent’s turn to be struck dumb. The recollection of Grandmaester Mellos struggling to find anything to say about her son came back to mind and the stab of pain between her ribs had her turning her head with a nod and a hum. Unbidden, she thought of Rhaenyra, crying softly beside her in the sept for the loss of her mother, and the confusion at feeling as if her own father did not understand her. Alicent took a gulp of wine. Quiet for a moment before she allowed herself to speak. “Yes, my love, we have raised a fine boy.”

“My father would find it strange, you know, that Aegon does not marry Helaena. Your father thought we should wed Rhaenyra to Aegon, but Laenor, rest his soul, was such a good man.” The comment had Alicent’s eyes widening, and she nearly choked as she took another sip of wine.

“He suggested what?” Whatever expression she had earned laughter from the king as she dabbed at her wine soaked chin.

“That was my reaction,” he chuckled. “Ridiculous. Things have a way of working themselves out, though, do they not? Why, I jested with Lyonel that very night if he was going to offer his son to marry Rhaenyra after Jason Lannister thought he could offer my daughter compensation.”

Funny that, Alicent thought, keeping her features still as the stone that lay between them. Guilt twisted in her belly at the memory of Lyonel Strong. How grateful in her grief and solitude she had been for the warm companionship of her cousin, Celeste, his wife. How grateful for the kindness she and Lyonel had shown her - the closest she had to family that were not her own children. How guilty she still felt to know that Lyonel’s death was through her own desperation.

“Lord Lyonel would approve the match. I recall we had discussed it once, not long before…” She swallowed, her mouth gone dry, and Alicent flexed her fingers against her goblet, stretching them out like a cat flexing its claws. The tension that ran through them ached.

Viserys hummed again, losing his longtime friend visible on his features and he drummed his fingers upon the book before him. “Did he? He never mentioned it to me, but…” A shift of his countenance as he visibly recoiled against the sadness and grief. “Aegon will find a fine wife in the Strong girl, if she’s anything like her father. Lyonel did well to temper some of my admittedly more foolish ideas. I may have been more inclined to listen without issue had they come from a comely maiden.”

Another pang, this time as she recognized the smirk on Viserys’ face as the same she’d seen across Aegon’s as he teased his siblings with some ribald comment.

That had come from observation, she was certain. As had the drinking.

Alicent took another sip of her wine.

“Lord Larys has suggested that after they’re married, Aegon and Abrogail would go to Harrenhal. She is his heir. Aegon could do well to have some responsibility. We will have to decide what to do with Sunfyre.”

“You cannot separate a boy from his dragon. Rhaena housed Dreamfyre at Harrenhal when she resided there. We’ll ensure they’re up to snuff before they go.” A glimmer crossed his features, curiosity and excitement. “My grandfather gave Harrenhal to the Strongs. It seems fitting that we have come full circle. You know, it was a Strong who was the longest serving Hand of the Conqueror. They are the most loyal of friends. Advisors. Defenders.”

It was her turn to hum, biting back the urge to invoke how Ser Lucamore Strong had sired nigh a dozen bastard children before being sent to the Wall. At least in Ser Harwin’s case, he had not been a Kingsguard - not that vows had stopped Rhaenyra before. Alicent took a breath, willing the vindictiveness to bleed out of her. Those were unkind things to think, for Harwin was not the one at fault. The princess’ whims drove Harwin, as poor, loyal Criston before him, into her clutches.

Rhaenyra had never been offered up on a platter - not in the way she’d been, not in the way she was doing to Abrogail. Mother above, please forgive me, Celeste.

Alicent did not seek to fill the silence. She watched her husband look at his book, but knew he was not truly reading it. No, he was planning something, tapping down his temper, or both. Viserys always had a temper, even if it rarely burned as hotly as Rhaenyra’s did. She had gotten better at withstanding the heat, as she’d gotten better at withstanding many things over the years.

“Why aren’t we marrying Aegon and Helaena?” he finally asked. It was only a question, no lure and trap beneath his words. “You were so against the match with Rhaenyra’s boy, so why not them? Had I a living sister, I would have married her. It’s the Targaryen way.”

The Targaryen Way is not always the right way, she thought. Aegon’s claim would need to challenge Rhaenyra’s without question, but her solution would not be to yoke her sweet daughter to her own brother simply because they were half dragons.

She remembered Aemond, maimed and covered in bandages to protect the wound from infection, standing in the doorway of the solar at breakfast. It had left her speechless in the moment, but now the memory left a slight smile gracing her face.

“Because Aemond bonded with Vhagar, and declared that should Helaena marry anyone but him, he would burn the realm down and us with it.”

The sentence hung in the air until Viserys roared with laughter and Alicent joined him. It had been so long since she had laughed that tears pricked the corners of her eyes. It felt good to laugh with the man she called husband, than to feel so terribly lonely.

“Spirited! Boy knows what he wants.” He slapped his hand on the open book before him with another laugh. “Well, how about a two-fold celebration? We could-”

“I thought, perhaps, a Baratheon marriage might suit Aemond. He is of an age with Lord Borros’ eldest. With Abrogail leaving, she may also make a fine companion for Helaena, and maybe another sister for the Harrenhal court. I was going to write to him, invite her to the Keep so they may get to know one another.” Helaena would need time to adapt to a new companion, and she was not looking forward to the fallout of the changes should her daughter not go along with it. Viserys’ laughter ebbed and Alicent swirled the wine in her goblet. The garnet liquid caught the firelight. Fire and blood. She tapped her fingers along the sides of it, knowing that she had to be careful. “The gods blessed us with three sons and a single daughter. We should take advantage of that to help spread some stability in the realm.”

Sons you so desperately wanted and then summarily denied.

“Is the realm truly so unstable, wife?” Sharp, pink-lilac eyes turned to her. Another expression, this one similar to the gaze that Helaena took when she was trying to convey something of import. The color was different: Aegon’s eyes were his father’s, Helaena’s closer to lavender, Aemond’s a periwinkle, and Daeron’s a reflection of her own warm brown that pressed in the soft bruise between her ribs.

“No, but we have four children, husband, who will need to have their futures ensured and cared for,” she pointed out reasonably and nothing she said was wrong. Their futures needed to be assured. Viserys gave little response, but she could see he knew she was right. Quiet reigned once more. She noticed cobwebs had formed along the primary thoroughfare of the stone city.

“The blood of the dragon must remain pure, Alicent,” Viserys said with a strength absent from before. Alicent looked over at her husband, who did not look at her. Instead, he’d risen and stepped closer into the inlet of his miniature Valyria. “We are above mortal men. We are dragonriders, and dreamers of great things. Aegon the Conqueror dreamed of great things, of this realm that has, in fact, become great.”

Where was Viserys going with this? “I remember you telling me. Aegon’s second name day, in front of the bonfire.” He’d been mad with grief and drink, had scared her with his dream of Aegon wearing the crown in front of an adoring crowd - how Aemma had paid the price for chasing it, with his doubt and confusion as their son slept soundly in his little bed. She opened her mouth to press the matter, but the king continued.

“You are not a Targaryen, my dear wife, but that does not mean that no matter how you dress them in green, your children will be anything but.” Alicent drew back in her chair and the grip on her cup tightened. Her children, not his. Not his no matter what happened. “Pursue this Baratheon marriage if you’d like, and should Aemond want it, then it’s fine with me. If his mind is not changed, then they have my blessing.”

Abrogail felt like she was fraying at the edges, unmoored from her usual sense of self: calm, collected, able to focus regardless of what was on her mind. None of that mattered in the wake of what happened in the tower or what followed between her and Aegon. She’d barely allowed herself any time to collect herself before joining Helaena and Aemond in the gardens, letting Aemond fill the silence as Helaena’s focus ebbed and flowed.

So distracted she’d been, thoughts lingering on the morning’s events, that she hadn’t heard Helaena’s persistent calling until she’d snapped a frustrated “What?” to be met with Helaena’s surprised gasp and wide eyes… which in turn had Aemond turning an angry eye to her viciously. He hadn’t said anything particularly harsh, but with her own guilt at snapping and Aegon’s behavior, and then Aemond’s anger, she’d left the gardens in tears, ignoring Helaena’s calls for her to come back. The princess hadn’t ordered her return. Perhaps for the best.

Perhaps she’d be pulled from her service sooner than anticipated, and replaced with Penrose. Punished for her insolence. Marrying Aegon, did that mean she was on the same level as Helaena? That once married, Helaena couldn’t order her about, or that Abby was meant to serve her?

More often than not, Abrogail was Helaena’s bedmate, the two girls sharing pillows since she’d become the princess’ proper companion. It meant that her rooms outside the holdfast had all but been abandoned. She was a visitor more often than a tenant, so much so that it had taken Allana Tyrell and Josana Lannister a moment to recognize her when they passed in the halls - the elder girls arrived at court after a season away - and exchanged pleasantries. Abrogail all but ran the last few yards to her destination, and nearly slammed the heavy door shut behind her.

The apartments that belonged to Larys were modest, housing only a sitting room and two bedrooms: Larys’ to the left and hers to the right. So unlike the warm, multiple levels of the Hand’s tower that she’d spent years exploring and playing in. The room was empty when she burst in and she was grateful that her quiet, piercing elder brother could not witness her state as she sought solace in the cold and empty chamber. There was no warm fire crackling merrily in the hearth to welcome her, and she had to go back to the sitting room to fetch the pitcher of water there to clean her face from the tears and calm the burning of her cheeks. Not even Theraxis was there to comfort her as he often did, rolled onto his back, fluffy belly offered to bury her face in and have her hair licked by his sandpaper tongue.

A sob tore at her chest and she gulped the rest down and went to the bed and collapsed upon the cold sheets. Fingers curling in the comforter, she tried her best to hold back her tears. Even alone, she could not let the despair overcome her.

It had not been long after her mama died that Corynna, her elder half sister and Larys’ sister, had sent word that she would take her sweet little sister as she needed a strong, motherly presence in her life. Abrogail had been distraught and trying to hide it as they had fallen into a game of hide and seek that bright day.

I’ll marry you, Aegon had whispered into her hair, the pair of them hiding beneath the heavy boughs of a flowering bush as Jacaerys played seeker in their game of hide-and-seek. I’ll marry you and they won’t send you away because you’ll be mine. They’d been little more than babes in leading strings then, where Aegon’s smile had not faded into bitterness and her life had still been warm and safe. Crumbled sweets shared as the pair did their best to hide from the persistent Jace, and it had been Harwin who found them hours later. Asleep surrounded by the scent of rhododendrons and petals caught in red and silver heads both.

She did not know how long she lay atop her bed, only that the shaft of sunlight through the narrow window inched across the bed and across her skirts until the familiar drag-thump drew her notice towards the door. Larys was generally quiet and she’d only heard it for it was a sound she knew her whole life.

Her brother was taller than he generally appeared, and in the half light of the early evening, for a moment Abrogail thought he looked very much like their father. The same widow’s peak, the similar set of the jaw even though Lyonel had been a larger man than his second son. She sat up, swiping her sleeve across her face as Larys watched her with his inscrutable look.

“I needed to be alone,” she said softly. “I apologize for bothering you.” She wasn’t sure if she truly needed to apologize for being in her own room, but it was often difficult to discern her brother’s reaction to her. They weren’t close, and their relationship was not a warm one. Abrogail felt that when it came to her, Larys Strong was not quite sure what to make of her or even what to do with her.

“It is your room,” he finally said with a tilt of his head and an ambivalent shrug. She watched him as he perused the area, lingering on the empty grate and then to her. Years of practice kept her from instinctively shifting beneath his gaze but it was still an uncomfortable feeling being sized up. “Although it is not very comforting for what troubles you. I’m sure today has been more than a shock to you, sister.” Abrogail opened her mouth, then closed it with a click and merely nodded. He let out a hum and tapped his cane on the floor before opening the door further. “Well, it all works out in the end. I meant to speak with you this evening anyway. Come - Father would insist you have a belly full of warm food to dry your tears.”

As if on cue, her stomach growled and the scent of fresh bread and meat finally registered. She was starving, having only eaten that morning and so she followed her brother into the sitting room. It was warmer, the fire blazing, and the table was set with plates of food and fresh Malvales flowers in a vase. Abrogail frowned slightly at the sight of them. The only other place she’d seen them other than the Godswood was in the Queen’s chambers. She knew her brother counseled Queen Alicent and they shared meals from time to time, but the flowers still seemed strange. The servant who’d brought the food ladled fresh, steaming boar stew onto plates and Abrogail reached for a warm roll when her eyes caught on the basket of cakes to the side. They glistened with syrup, and the fresh scent of oranges assaulted her when she drew close until her brother’s sharp tsk stopped her. “For after you’ve finished your plate.” A slight twitch of a smile when he sat himself down, dismissing the servant and for a moment she simply stared at him.

“You sounded so much like Papa,” she said as she sat across from him.

“Mmm, I do hear that sometimes. I suppose one tends to pick up manners from their elders. How often I’ve heard those very words come from him, hm?” She scrunched her face up with a half smile playing on her own features and quietly dug in.

Neither Strong attempted to fill the silence as they tucked into their meal. Only the scrape of cutlery and the quiet sounds of eating filled the space. It didn’t feel like a standoff between them, even more so than when it was Larys who finally broke the silence.

“Cory will be mollified by the fact that you’re marrying a prince instead of one of the Lannister bannermen,” he said nonchalantly as he spoke of his sister. “She’s been hounding me to send you to her, but I know how much this place is home to you. Harrenhal is a far closer ride on your husband’s dragon than in a wheelhouse or on a ship from Lannisport.”

“Has she?” Abrogail wasn’t sure what else to say as the thoughts that swirled through her continued to distract her. Her and her sister were not at all close. Clever and sharply delicate, Corynna Strong could have gone to the Citadel had she been born a man. Instead, she had begrudgingly married the third Lannister son as the eldest was unavailable and Abrogail privately thought that their father had sent Cory away to be kept under the hawkish, watchful eye of Johanna Lannister instead of getting underfoot there in King’s Landing.

Abrogail did not complain. The few times she’d been with her, Cory was a sharp, judgemental woman who always had a criticism for how to improve herself, and more often than not had taken to pinching her arms and waist and assessing with that inscrutable countenance she shared with Larys. “Uncle Otto mentioned several,” she paused to tear at a piece of bread to keep from fidgeting. “Several, um, suitors? You never mentioned them.”

“Well the Queen didn’t either and although I am your brother, and head of our house, you are her ward, and because she is Queen, she too has a say in who, ah, takes you.” Larys looked apologetic and uncertain of how to word it and she nodded in understanding to put him at ease. “Her Grace is quite fond of you, you know. She only wants what is best for you, as if you were her own daughter. It is sweet. Your mother would be pleased.”

Abrogail bit her lip and looked down at her plate. Tines of the fork scraped along the edge pushing meat through sauce. Targaryens have queer customs, marrying their siblings or their uncles, she thought. Would her and Aegon’s children have to wed one another, as was tradition? Her head pounded with all the questions and she struggled to find a place to begin.

“Yes, I think she would,” she said finally and met her brother’s concerned gaze. It was the softest she’d ever seen him, which was saying a lot given his nature. For the first time, Abrogail felt like her brother might actually feel like her brother. “I don’t know where to start with all my questions, Larys,” she found herself admitting, reaching to him across this distance. “From being your heir, to how this all came to happen. I’m so overwhelmed and…” she trailed off with a slump of her shoulders and another lump in her throat.

She reached for her goblet of red wine, trying to push the feeling away. A wince crossed her features as the sharpness of it hit her tongue. She tended to favor the sweetness of ciders and meads.

The scent of the arbor red reminded her of Aegon.

Abrogail put the goblet down and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, brother.”

“No need, dear sister. Being overwhelmed is only natural in this case, but your willingness to be open with your questions reassures me that you and I can start forging our own road. You are my heir, and although we are not close, I do care for you, Abrogail.”

“Do you?” she asked. She raised her eyebrows. “Larys, you’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t even like me.”

He matched her expression with his own. “I do. Besides, you are a woman grown now and far easier to talk to than a rambunctious child of eight.” Abrogail felt her cheeks heat and she couldn’t find fault in his argument there. A soft chuckle escaped him and she watched him resume tearing apart a roll. He did it so oddly and always had. Fingers carefully working along the circumference of the warm bread and slowly spreading it apart, so the soft interior gently pulled as if he savored the very act.

To be fair, it was good bread.

“There are none that attract my gaze, and I doubt there ever shall be. Given that I have little penchant for things like mistresses or whoring, there will be no progeny. Corynna’s rights are forfeit, as she’s married a Lannister.” He paused, gazing at her for a long moment until she realized he expected an answer from her.

Abrogail frowned as she thought. Corynna had married a third son, but the children of that union may very well wed Lord Jason’s son, Or marry into banner houses should they not have more children. Or even become heirs of the Rock. “As long as Rhaenyra is heir, Aegon is fourth in line. If he marries me, he gains a title and lands,” she said slowly. Jacaerys would take the throne one day, and Lucerys would have Driftmark. Little Joffrey may very well marry into another great house, but there were no more titles and lands to pass off, and that was before Queen Alicent’s children were considered, and the Queen wanted Aegon to be King.

To say it out loud would be treason, and when Abrogail’s eyes found Larys’, he gave an encouraging nod. “Harrenhal would provide income independent of what is owed the crown?” Uncertainty laced her voice. She did not know much about her family’s seat. She’d only been there a handful of times, half of them having been full of grief and misery, but she did know that outside of hushed whispers of curses and ghosts, that Harrenhal’s lands were the richest in Westeros when they were handled properly. “Harrenhal is why those other families wanted me, isn’t it?”

“Some,” Larys said matter of factly. “Tully and Vance in particular given their proximity and would benefit the most. Others claimed to be enchanted by the young beauty they’d heard of growing in the Queen’s garden.” The words sounded too poetic for the man her brother seemed and the incredulous look on her face must have been all he needed, for Larys actually laughed. A strange, unused sound and a shake of his head. “Those were the words of the Vance heir, I believe. Should they have been romantic enough, you could still say no to this current arrangement.”

No, Abrogail thought. No, she couldn’t.

She wanted to ask Larys why he would be alright with her saying no. If it had been her father, she would have. Her papa had never turned her curiosity and questions away. No matter how silly or simple they may have been, he was always happy to teach her. This was probably the longest conversation they’d had since the funeral, but Abrogail did not feel comfortable asking. Not yet. Maybe… maybe someday.

“Thank you,” she said instead with a small smile and Larys seemed pleased with that. “I would like to learn more about Harrenhal. Before the wedding and everything. I want to make you proud. I want to make Papa proud.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat and was grateful that Larys did not look up at her and instead focused on buttering another bread roll.

“As my heir, I will begin to discuss these things with you, and you should begin speaking with our uncle. He will be here for the engagement tournament.” The butter knife scraped against the wooden dish as he went for more. She watched his dark hair fall into his eyes, the way Harwin’s curls would and the tightening sensation in her chest came back. Another mouthful of wine, which only reminded her of Aegon again.

Aegon’s fingers in her hair, thumb brushing her tears in the quiet of the Sept. “I’m so sorry you lost them. I’m so sorry they’re gone.”

“Abrogail?”

She blinked and found him watching her with a gentle expression. He smiled that small smile of his. “I said, perhaps we can start having our own dinners. Get to know one another better.”

“You mean like how you have dinners with the Queen?” Once a week, the pair of them met privately in her solar. She’d seen them once through the window, the pair discussing things or the queen’s voice raised about whatever terrible thing had happened that week. A friendship. A council.

Larys’ smile broadened. “Yes, dear sister. Exactly like that.”

Chapter Text

Traipsing through the narrow, winding alleyways of the Street of Silk was not how Aemond Targaryen wanted to spend this evening. Nay, this was not how he wanted to spend any evening. He mourned the cloak he wore, for he was certain that amidst the cloying scents of perfume and incense, and of the sour of human stink beneath, he’d never get the evidence out.

He wished for the quiet comforts of mother’s solar with a thick tome upon his lap as he read aloud to Mother and Helaena as they sewed. Better yet were the times when he could retreat to Helaena’s room and read only to her. She would card her fingers through his hair, brush and braid the long strands back as she always had. Other times, she’d lean into his side, soft and warm and smelling of the peppermint tea she always drank before bed. Her long curls would tickle against his neck where her head tucked perfectly, like it belonged there, on his shoulder. Aemond would adjust the warm blanket over their laps to ensure she was cozy. The book would span across them both and he would wrap an arm about her, fingers playing with her beautiful hair.

He’d read stories of the lands beyond. The tales of djinn promising wishes and sphinx spinning riddles from the furthest parts of the Essosi continent. The monstrous woman with half a snake body, and hair made of living vipers from the Basilisk Isles, would always draw gasps when he’d describe the garden of stone heroes the monster made. Helaena would gasp at all the appropriate places, look at him with wide eyes and would ask, “Do they make it out alive?” He’d brush a soft, reassuring kiss to the crown of her head and with a grin, tell her to listen.

They’d read into the night, and then when it was time for bed, Aemond would relish the sleepy kiss he’d receive, chaste and innocent, and still able to make him flush. “Goodnight, dear brother,” Helaena would murmur and he’d eagerly press a kiss to the warmth of her palm, over the lifeline, the blood they shared thrumming beneath.

Dear brother, she always said with such love and reassurance; such care and surety that he was her dearest brother, her favorite brother.

“Goodnight, my sweet Helaena,” he would tell her before floating his way back to his own bed.

Instead of all those pleasant options, he was left grimacing as a patron from the tavern they were passing expelled the contents of his stomach all over the cobblestones. His brother called his name with obvious exasperation.

“Uncivilized,” Aemond muttered, and narrowly avoided pitching forward into the mess when Aegon’s hand grabbed his shoulder and hauled him up between him and Alyn Hull, who clapped him on the back with a hearty laugh.

The smile that Aegon gave was not a jovial one, although the drinks he had at the previous tavern made him less sullen and more focused, more intent on forgetting; running as far as he could in another direction. Though not so unusual for Aegon, the lone man in his brown robe and bare feet on the corner beseeching men to return home to the loving embrace of their wives had turned Aegon’s frantic need to flee into something darker when his gaze turned inward.

Aemond saw nothing wrong with what the man said. After all, he wanted nothing more than to return to the warm fire and loving embrace of his wife.

“Gellys!” Aegon called and Aemond immediately tried to hide behind the elder boys at the woman in the doorway. “A room for us! Best Arbor you’ve got. Some Dornish as well.”

“Milord,” Gellys drawled with that familiar smile - the one burnt on the backs of his eyelids - knowing better than to address the one before her as Prince. “We’re happy to serve.” Eyes swept over the trio and Aemond tilted his head down enough that his hood made it more difficult to see, yet it did little. “And you’ve brought this sweet one again! How lovely. Bess, the usual for his Lordship.”

The brothel had changed little since Aegon had dragged him here for his nameday nearly two years ago. The tapestries which draped the sandstone walls were not so dissimilar to the ones his mother had moved into the gallery back in the Red Keep. It portrayed men and women in acts of carnality and some kind of sexual acrobatics. The acts portrayed were ones that Aemond is not so certain of, but he’d rather study the ones back at the castle and not amidst the ribald laughter that clashes with the music. Aemond was sure that beneath the flicker and shadow of the torchlight, they were littered with worn spots and moth-eaten edges.

Heleana would know the kind that dwelled amid the fabrics and he wondered if he might find a dead one to bring back to her. Something good could at least come from this ridiculous adventure.

Laughter and gentle music permeated the first floor, and Aemond was grateful to be here and not in the boisterous racket of the last tavern they’d been kicked out of.

A sandy-haired bard, pug nosed and red-faced, strummed his lute with a flourish. Along with his three minstrels behind him, also clad in various clashing frocks, the four held court along the far end of the room while women flitted between light and shadow to entertain the men. Aemond thought he also spied a few feminine patrons as well, among the settees and tables, surrounded by a variable spread of fruits, wines, meats, and cheeses.

Another yank on his shoulder by Aegon’s hand hauled him towards the staircase, and his stomach lurched with the unpleasant memories of the last time he was in this place.

It’s different this time, Aemond reminded himself while being jostled up the stairs, following his brother’s silver head, Hull bringing up the rear. He did not need to ‘wet his wick’ on this particular sojourn into The Pearl and Oyster; instead he was here to make sure that Aegon did not end up going too far off the drunken path. And as little as he paid Alyn any mind, Aemond knew that the elder boy would also ensure that Aegon did not end up dead in the river or with a knife between his ribs.

Why was this a concern now? Aegon had frolicked about Flea Bottom for years. Not even three moons ago, his brother was dragged back to the Holdfast with a split lip and double black eyes from his broken nose by two broad Gold Cloaks who’d pulled him spitting and scratching from a tavern brawl.

He gave his brother credit where it was due. Though Ser Criston taught him how to wield a blade, Aegon taught him how to throw a proper punch.

‘Blades are good for when you have them, but in a pinch, use everything you have’, Aegon had said as he whipped the apple he’d been eating with surprising accuracy straight at his forehead.

It had hit hard enough to momentarily daze him, but luckily no one was around to see.

Wariness kept Aemond from immediately divesting himself of the cloak when they entered the room on the third floor. A roaring hearth was set along the outside wall and the primary source of light for what Aemond assumed was some attempt at ambience. Swaths of dusty, crimson fabric wound through the rafters and draped down to give the illusion of some Dornish pleasure tent and not a private room of a brothel in King’s Landing. A thick rug, far too fine for an establishment like this, muffled their footsteps as they crossed the room. Woven strands of scarlet and cream, embellishments in gold etched a design that would not be too out of place in his sire’s room.

Past further drapes of fabric, Aemond could see an enormous bed in the corner. His stomach twisted uncomfortably with nerves that barely eased at the reassuring sight of his companions taking to the table by the hearth and no women bursting from behind the fabric like shrieking ghosts in the night.

When Aegon and Alyn weren’t looking, Aemond tugged aside a drape to confirm that there were none silent and hiding - assassins or whores or some secret, third option that was just as unwelcome, if undefined.

It wasn't long before a stream of women and girls arrived, bearing plates of simple fare to go with the bottles of wine bearing the marks of familiar orchards of the Arbor and the Dornish sun, and a bottle of what he was certain to be a golden vintage from the Jade Sea - the kind his sire ordered to be served only in the company of the most important foreign dignitaries.

There were young girls with downcast eyes and soft blonde curls, women with bold gazes and plump red lips, ones with Lyseni features and hair that glowed in the firelight - though nowhere as fair or pure as his Helaena. Brunettes with messy curls and giggles batted their eyes at him. A pair of raven haired twins with lilac eyes and hair shorn to their bared shoulders brought up the rear.

Alyn already claimed the twins before they even finished setting their plates of meats and fruits on the scarred wood, giggling as he pulled them in. Aegon’s half-sullen, half-hungry expression gave way to heavy-lidded eyes as a buxom brunette carded her fingers through his hair.

Aemond wondered if this was the best the brothel had to offer, for they were perhaps pretty at most, but none truly stood out. He skirted away from the curious hand of the Lyseni and narrowly avoided bumping into a little redhead swerving around him with a quiet, “Excuse me, m’lord.” Young, and pale, with straight hair, she cut a path between the other whores and set a platter of figs and dates before his brother.

The scrape of the platter against the wood drew Aegon’s eyes from watching the woman who was crooning to him up to the new arrival. His eyes opened slowly, a frown pinching at his face, and Aemond watched his brother’s hands flex against the edge of the trestle. In a fascinating display, Aegon lifted a hand to reach for a lock of that red hair, eyes glazed and face flushed deeper.

“Aye, this is one of our new girls. We thought she might be to your liking, m’lord.” A laugh shook from her, breasts jiggling close to Aegon’s head but his brother didn’t even turn to look. Instead, whatever spell overtook his brother shattered and the hand that was reaching out for the girl’s red hair smacked on the table.

“Out!” he roared at the assembled women. The redhead gave a yelp of fright and stumbled back, toppling over a chair as the brunette crooner came to get her up off the floor. It was difficult to tell what fed Aegon’s angry outburst more: the mess she left in her wake, or the mere presence of her. “Get the fuck out!”

Alyn looked stunned. The whores about them looked stunned. Aemond was stunned.

Aegon’s jaw clenched as he rose to his feet. His brother was not a large man, not like their grandfather who looked above all, but the fury on his brother’s face ignited a flame of unease in his gut. Out of the pair of them, Aegon was, strangely enough, not the one most prone to outburst especially without an obvious reason for it. “If I have to tell you again, there won’t be any money for you to share tonight. Get out!”

The room fell quiet as the door slammed shut behind the girls. Aemond slowly took off his cloak and looked at Alyn, who met his gaze with confusion and then something like dawning realization. Aegon ignored them both, pulling over one of the Dornish bottles to fill his goblet.

“For fuck’s sake, Aeg-”

“Don’t you start with me, Hull.” A pause and then Aegon reached to his right side, grabbing the chair and sliding it out. “Aemond, sit your pissy ass down and eat something. Mother’ll have me locked up should I bring you home in a cart faint from hunger.” He took a large swallow of his third cup of wine that night, garnet liquid dripping along his chin like blood and staining the old linen tunic and along his pale chest, revealed from where the laces were undone.

Alyn shifted in his chair, striking with the way his freckles stood out along his darker skin with the silver twists of his hair leaving his expression clear. Aemond met his gaze as he took the chair his brother offered. Alyn did not have purple eyes - his were a vivid jade color, but he looked far more Velaryon than his own nephews. Aemond reached a hand up to adjust his new eyepatch. He ran his thumb along the strap, where he could feel the embroidery in the leather that Helaena had worked so hard on for her dearest, favorite brother.

Aemond tried not to sigh. He would not get his goodnight kisses tonight.

A sharp kick hit his shin and Aemond gave a startled, “ow!” Indignant and annoyed, he focused back on Alyn who raised his brows with the clear look of what in the name of the Seven is going on with your brother?

What wasn’t going on with Aegon?

They both looked back at the man in question, who was tearing into a fig with his glowering expression and greedy fingers. Aemond’s stomach growled, and he grabbed one for himself before his brother could devour them all. He sniffed it first, unsure about trusting brothel food, but it smelled of warm honey. Biting into it, the taste of apple and strawberry burst on his tongue. Alyn was helping himself to one of the dried meats on another platter. It was a higher fare than Aemond had expected, but the relative cleanliness of the room belied the money that lined the pockets of the one who owned the place. At least Aegon hadn’t dragged them to something filthy and (obviously) flea ridden.

He recalled the first and only time his brother had brought him to a brothel. This very one. It was a different room, him alone with that Gellys woman who kept pestering him about the type of girls he liked, or if he’d ever touched himself. She’d brought in a Lyseni girl, young but still older than him. She had a sweet face, and for a moment he wondered if he could just pretend to get through the night.

Instead, she listened rather sweetly while he spoke of saving his sister from the unwanted betrothal with Aegon. His brother had not relished in the duty, but Aemond did. He had a dragon now, Vhagar, the largest and oldest of all of them. It was with his dragon, he explained to the Lyseni girl, that he had enough power to storm in and break up this farce of a betrothal, And they listened to him. Helaena was ever so grateful about it, charmed, and touched, and gave him a kiss on the cheek and called him her gallant knight. She didn’t even protest when he told her they would be married instead. Helaena had only hummed in her little agreeable way while mother tried to protest that they shouldn’t be too hasty. Aemond did not share that marrying Helaena, riding Vhagar, and having his mother acquiesce to his demands, might even mean that he would be who they wanted to make heir. Of course their father wouldn’t put Aegon on the throne over their eldest sister. But Aemond? Aemond rode his grandsire Baelon’s dragon, and he’d marry his sister, and he had started to outpaced Aegon in the training yard.

Aemond had proven them all wrong. They had laughed and gave him a pig, and he’d gotten Vhagar.

He was grateful Aegon was disinterested in throwing women at him this time, let alone in taking any for himself. He could at least sit here and eat decent finger foods and wait for his brother to either pass out from drinking or give up and head home.

“Did you get called into the tower as well today?” Aemond ventured in ill-disguised casualness, reaching for a piece of cheese this time. He didn’t meet Alyn’s curious gaze, for both of them were watching Aegon refill his goblet already.

A grunt was all the answer he supplied.

“What got you pulled into that old fucker’s room?”

Another grunt and a roll of his eyes. “Not blamed for once,” he muttered. “Just bullshit.”

How taciturn. Aemond shifted in his chair, and carefully offered, “You know, Abrogail got pulled into his office as well. He came to Helaena’s room himself to retrieve her.” Aegon’s flushed face reddened more, pink eyes narrowing over his goblet he held to his mouth but did not drink from.

Aemond pursed his lips and thought of the scene in the gardens earlier. Abrogail came back from their grandfather’s office far quieter than usual before so harshly snapping at his sweet Helaena and squashing one of her bugs. At the moment, Aemond had been rageful at the behavior, for his Helaena didn’t deserve that. But hours later, he had realized that, mayhaps, he’d been a little harsher than he ought to have been. He would not apologize, of course, but Helaena was always getting on him about his temper. It had been rather unusual for his cousin. He could not recall the last time she spoke so angrily that wasn’t caused by someone doing something reckless in the training yard - however that was far more mother hen than annoyed and snappy.

“Abrogail?” Alyn rolled her name around his mouth and drew it out in a tease. “And here I thought it was simply wine not getting your cock up. But Abrogail, hm? All of that yelling over some red hair?” A lazy shrug, dagger stabbing into a piece of meat before him. “Makes sense now.”

“I told you not to start,” Aegon warned once more before taking another mouthful of the Arbor red. His eyes were dark, a smirk slashing across his soft face. “Came to Helaena’s room himself, you say? Spend the night, little brother? Has our sweet sister finally let you beneath her skirts or did you creep in again even though Mother forbade it?”

Aemond felt his cheeks color, and he slapped his hand on the table. “Don’t talk about her like that.” A deep breath, the way his book from Bravos recommended. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Center. Stay within the moment. Aegon’s eyes were slicing through him, as if he could peel back the layers of skin and see what lay beneath. A gaze even more dangerous, given his brother’s dance into the land of inebriation, but Aemond simply continued. “Abby got upset with us. Her eyes were red. It looked like she’d been crying.”

His brother made a sound and took another swallow. Alyn caught his gaze again and pinned him there until Aemond gave a slight nod, confirming that this was what in seven hells was going on. Whatever had happened in their grandfather’s office, whatever had his cousin crying and Aegon ready to bite everyone’s head off like Helaena’s pet mantis.

“Both of you pulled into the old Tower’s office this morning? Maybe it’s less about those two-” Alyn waved a negligent hand towards Aemond. “And more about, say, you finally getting under your little Maiden Marchpane’s skirts?” A laugh and the bastard Velaryon snagged up the Arbor red and pulled the cork with his teeth and spat it out towards the fire. “Then you what? Left her before sunrise covered in-”

“Don’t you fucking talk about her like that!” Aegon lifted the plate of figs and flung it across the table, sending the fruit scattering and the plate clipping off of Alyn’s surprised shoulder to shatter against the hearthstones. Aemond’s single eye widened, and he pressed back in his chair even though the trajectory was nowhere near him. “I didn’t fucking touch her.” The hand that flung the plate still hung in the air, trembling as his brother loomed over the table. He lacked any sort of threatening implement but Alyn raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “I didn’t lay a hand on her. I wouldn’t. I never do.” Defensive, as was Aegon’s nature. Defensive in the face of accusations that were true. Except for once, Aemond thought, phantom pain lancing through his face. Except for maybe now.

“Well, you mope about her enough. Fuck me, no wonder you got so worked up over the redhead. So what happened, hm? Did she accuse you of something? Did they say no more rides on the back of that dragon of yours?” A smirk at the double entendre, but he raised his hands in surrender before Aegon could throw something else.

Silvery hair, limp with sweat, fell into Aegon’s eyes as he shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” He raised his goblet for another drink and collapsed back in the chair, slouched and melancholy in the worst of ways. Aemond tried not to roll his eye again at the display of dramatics. “Worse.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed. “Worse?” he asked, confused. Dramatic, yes, but he also wanted to know what had happened.

A log in the grate popped and cracked from the heat as conversation fell silent. The brothel outside the door continued to bustle. There was the distant shriek and laughter of someone down the hall, but no sounds of violence. Aegon was staring into his drink as if it held all the answers he could ever need. Aemond supposed that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. His brother had gone to drink before anything else for years now. This wouldn’t be any different.

“They brought us up to go over all the missives asking for her hand,” he finally said. Aemond strained to hear him and Alyn leaned forward in his curiosity. “Had an entire basket of scrolls wanting the heir of Harrenhal. Mother was there, and her dog, who said nothing regarding his sister.” Aegon made a face and shook his head. “I’m marrying Abrogail.”

That wasn’t what Aemond expected. “Is that why she looked like she was crying when she came back to the gardens-”

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly fucking why,” Aegon hissed through his teeth and pelted him with one of the figs scattered on the scarred tabletop. It bounced off Aemond’s chest and rolled across the table where Alyn snatched it up. “Told her to be fucking grateful, stop lying about - it doesn’t matter. Made her cry, and she best get used to it.”

“Then why the hell are you complaining about it?” Alyn asked with a shake of his head. “Aeg, you’ve panted after her for years, now here she is. You don’t have to marry your weird sister, you get to bed someone you actually like. Sounds as if for once, Tower’s done right by you. What are you so fucking upset about? That you weren’t the only choice? You’re a jealous prick, you know-”

“Done right by me?” Aegon raged, his hand holding the cup gesturing out and splashing arbor red up his wrist and across the floor. He hissed and shoved at his sleeve, where deep red scratches stood out against his pale wrist.

Alyn looked at him with an almost bored expression. “They’ve given you a cherry ripe wife-”

“No, you fucking cunt, they gave me the fucking Maiden!” Clay and wine smashed against the wall as he flung it at his friend’s head and missed this time. “The last uncorrupted, perfect thing left in my life.” A stabbing finger punctuated each point, and the resemblance to the angry, spitting rage their father rarely showed was never more pronounced. “The last one who doesn’t look at me like they wish I were someone, anyone else. They give her in all that innocent glory on a fucking gold platter-”

Alyn bit into a date. “And you made her cry.”

“And I made her fucking cry!” Aegon’s sharp bark of laughter held the familiar, manic edge and it rang in Aemond’s ears. Tears spilled down Aegon’s face amidst it. Sad. Pathetic. The self-loathing in his brother’s face made him feel sick and uncomfortable, and Aemond said nothing, couldn’t find anything to say and left it for Alyn to navigate for the time being. “I’ve never fucking touched her ‘cause I… I can’t ruin her. I won’t. Get her sick with whatever the fuck is wrong with me. No. No, and you know what’s worse?”

“The others-” Alyn began patiently, prising open the fig.

“The fucking others! Bastard had a whole bloody basket filled with little more than filth not worth to look upon her, wanting to shove their cocks in her till she breaks giving them their muddy fucking brats.”

“But you wouldn’t break her.”

“I wouldn’t! Not unless she asked me to, and I’d make it so good for her. But no, she’d burn me as soon as I touched her. Too unclean to fuck her, get her belly full of me.” Aegon groaned and collapsed into his chair, palm on his chest. “She’d burn me and I’d sing her praises. Burn my filthy damned soul just to touch her, Alyn.”

Aemond did his best not to sigh, warring feelings of relief and annoyance that Aegon’s focus was on the baseborn Velaryon across the table.

On the one hand, he didn’t mind that his brother was mostly leaving him alone. Aegon knew he was only here because of their mother’s insistence on Aemond being his brother’s keeper. While he’d rather be anywhere but here, Aegon wasn’t poking at him or trying to get much of a rise.

On the other, every time Alyn Hull opened his mouth, every time the two silver-haired miscreants shared a laugh over some inside joke, Aemond wanted to scream. They spoke with easy familiarity to annoyed tavern keepers, and every time Alyn showed how close he was to Aegon, it burned something in the pit of his stomach.

He was used to jealousy since the day he could understand his place among his siblings. He was used to the jealous feeling that he would not be Aegon, had grown used to the jealousy that Helaena had been born for Aegon and not him. It was only with the breaking of the betrothal that Aemond felt a cooling of his blood towards his brother. However, now in the face of his so-called friendship with the bastard, it reignited. Aemond still felt awkward speaking up or inserting himself into the conversation, and both of them included him to a minimal degree.

Yet, Alyn was waving a hand at Aegon’s dramatics, and while Aemond also felt annoyed at it, he knew there was more. Aegon was snappish, perpetually amused, arrogant in the way of dragonriders, and thus closer to being a god.

His brother was moody and glassy eyed, flinching whenever their mother raised her voice or moved too quickly with wild gesturing. He became wide eyed like a little child whenever Ser Criston praised him in the yard, preening beneath the encouragement. Whenever Abrogail laughed in that bright and honest way of hers at one of Aegon’s dumb jokes, Aegon looked like he’d sprouted his own pair of wings to hover above the ground. She always laughed at his jokes. Every stupid one. She always had an encouraging word for him, for all of them, but he saw the way Aegon’s shoulders would straighten, the pink on his cheeks ill disguised.

It had been like that for as long as he could remember. For as long as there was the jealousy that he was not the eldest, that Helaena was not born for him, that Aegon had a bond with a dragon so innate that no matter how much of a disappointment he was, it seemed to be the only thing truly good about him.

Aemond had thrown him into their father’s jaws, and though surprised, Aegon didn’t even flinch. Aegon had stood stoic in front of the fire and without hesitation, had spoken the truth to their father’s face, to everyone’s face.

Alyn Hull would never have Aegon stand before their gathered family and protect him, them, and their mother. Aegon would for Aemond, and so Aemond would do his best to help.

He had the most relationship experience out of everyone here. Him and Helaena were practically married already, regardless of mother’s insistence on finding him a Baratheon marriage. Confident in his unique qualification for such a moment, Aemond would rise to the task the way their grandsire did. A true Hand, when his brother needed one most.

“Did you mean to make her cry?” Aemond broke the silence that had descended with his carefully worded question, and Aegon’s pink eyes, glossy and red from drink and the tears that threatened, gazed incredulously back through the strands of his silver hair. “You can be an idiot and careless, but you’ve never been cruel to her.”

Aegon had been plenty cruel to him and Helaena, the trio of them rolling in the dirt or knocking over side tables with the bites they took out of one another. Abrogail was different; she may have grown up with them and shared blood, but she wasn’t their sibling, rather, an innocent bystander to the theatrics of his family.

Alyn looked as if he might try to catch his eye but Aemond did not grace him with a return look. Hull needed to learn his place, and be reminded that he was Aegon’s brother, and knew him best.

“Skoros mōris aōhys issa, valonqus?” Aegon’s tone was flat and sullen and did a poor job of masking his wariness. His shoulders shifted quickly straight to the way he held them when Mother would broach the subject of Aegon’s doing better and Aegon’s acting more princely and Aegon’s doing anything but being Aegon.

What is your point, little brother?

What is your end, little brother?

Fuck, Aemond thought, fingers tapping on the edge of the table. Aegon never used their mother tongue, and only did so in the most dire, dangerous moments. He’d have to tread lightly.

“Have you bothered to ask her?” Aemond tried a different approach. Surely, his brother couldn’t know her inner thoughts without asking and the obviousness of such a thing shouldn’t stoke his brother’s ire. He was never certain of Helaena’s mind until he asked, and they were twin flames who rode the eldest dragons. Two halves of a heart like those songs that she so enjoyed.

It was foolish of Aegon to think he knew Abrogail’s mind, but luckily, he was here to offer guidance.

Aegon pointedly ignored him, turning his glare to Alyn. The older boy chuckled, “What? He’s right.” Alyn muttered something but he couldn’t hear. It did not truly matter.

Aemond continued, emboldened by the agreement, “Only, when Helaena and I argue -”

Aegon let out a laugh, his usual nervous idiocy replaced with a cackle and still with that mad sounding edge. “When you and Helaena argue? You, Mother’s Holy Voice of Reason? Dreamy little Helaena and her kingdom of bugs? Arguing?”

Dreamy little Helaena had left a scar on Aegon’s forearm from when she’d bitten him so hard she drew blood when they were young, but Aegon’s memory had been dodgy of late. Even in his growing annoyance and the heated flush creeping over him, Aemond could forgive.

He could try to forgive. Later. When his patience wasn’t running out and he wasn’t grinding his teeth so hard they might break.

“That’s not -”

“Which riveting topics ignite such quarrels between you babes? Whether you obsess over your blade and books too often? If Helaena’s upset about her stupid bugs being in the wrong place? Whether she actually likes you over the attention she’s been giving that squire lately and how she giggles for him instead of you? Do not presume to know my dealings with my Maiden, valonqus. You wouldn’t know passion if it were riding your cock.” Aegon was rarely cruel, but he was good at it, and the smirk that twisted his features was just that. Cruel. “Seven knows our dreamy sister has no interest in riding you, or she probably would’ve done it already..”

It felt foolish that the first thing Aemond thought of was that no simple squire could ever be a better option than he, for he was a Targaryen and above the laws and expectations of the simple, common man. They were as close to gods as any could hope.

The second foolish thing burst from him as Vhagar burned inside, his fury and embarrassment pulled him to his feet to lean across the table and get into his pathetic brother’s face. Aegon no longer loomed over him, and was no longer as intimidating as he once was.

Aegon may have the perfect bond with his dragon, but Aemond had Vhagar.

There was nothing left to be jealous of his brother for.

“At least I know what love feels like,” Aemond snarled, his single eye locked on Aegon’s face and his teeth bared, every inch of him vibrating with the insult, the desire to curl his hands around his brother’s flushed neck barely suppressed. “At least I’m not too stupid to recognize it.”

The air in the room vanished in the wake of his outburst. The world held its breath and not even the logs popped. Not even baseborn Alyn with his japes and his commentary made a sound.

Aegon was still before him, eyes bright and sharp with a focus he’d never seen before except in the eyes of a dragon. The instinct to pull away was screaming at him but Aemond remained pinned in place. His jaw shut with a click, his eye widening when he finally registered what he’d said.

Oh yes, he’d fucked it up.

Aemond could feel Alyn’s gaze fixated on him but he didn’t move. He felt like if he moved, Aegon’s teeth would sink into his throat and rip it out. He couldn’t move as the fear and horror trickled ice through his veins, quenching that jealous, angry fire.

Aegon’s face had gone ashen; the horrid, blank look he got when Mother or Grandfather screamed at him came over him. His wisteria eyes continued to pin him. Aemond’s mouth grew dry as his brother’s ashen pallor turned pink, and then slowly red.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, and it was like Aegon was releasing him from a spell.

“Aegon,” Aemond rasped. “I didn’t-” He could speak but the abject regret and humiliation strangled him from being able to form any words.

Aegon’s face had turned a shade of purple and with a feral yell and the distant sound of a dragon’s scream coming from the open window, Aegon lunged across the table at him.

They went crashing ass over chair, food and goblets scattering and Aemond hitting the floor hard enough to knock the breath from him. A startled shout sounded somewhere, distantly, but it took everything in Aemond to focus before his brother’s fist connected squarely, solidly with his jaw. His face erupted in a million bursts of pain with a crack in his ear, yet Aemond’s fists reached up to push Aegon off, wordless yelling doing nothing to prevent his brother landing another blow.

Instinct drove Aemond now, Ser Criston’s training discarded in favor of the overwhelming voice that compelled him: get up or he’ll kill you. Get up or he’ll pummel you like Harwin Strong pummeled Ser Criston in the training yard until he was beyond bloody.

Even with his incandescent fury, Aegon was still closer to drunk than sober, and after spitting in his face, Aemond got his leg up and kneed his brother in the stomach, pushing him off and scrambling away so he was no longer pinned like one of Helaena’s favorite bugs to the display board.

Viscous blood spat from his mouth. “I take it back!” he yelled, shoving the chair in Aegon’s way while he scrambled to his feet.

With a roar, Aegon threw the chair and Aemond darted out of the way, the wood crashing against the stone wall. Alyn shouted Aegon’s name, another dragon call sounded over the city, and then Aemond felt Vhagar’s bond vibrate in his own chest, concern that was not his own clouding his mind.

Oh fuck.

“Aegon! Stop!” Aemond darted around the table to get it between them.

Alyn, the useless bastard, backpedaled out of the line of fire.

Aegon was on his heels and yanked him back by his long hair, landing another hit square on his nose. A sickening, dizzy feeling swept through Aemond at the stab of pain through his face, blood pouring from his nostrils.

Aegon reared back again.

Sunfyre was screaming across the city.

Aemond could not reach for the platter on the table to smack his brother with, and so he did the only other thing he could do: as Aegon went to throw his next punch, Aemond grabbed him by the shoulders and kneed him in the balls.

Just like how Helaena taught him.

Chapter Text

Myrella Penrose’s shriek had Helaena shutting her eyes and taking a long breath before going to gather up the thick slithering Essosi centipede that had crawled over the lady’s shoe.

“There you are,” she crooned softly, and put the little eyeless thing back into the enclosure it had escaped from the night before. “Thank you for not kicking it across the room, Lady Penrose. I would have been most upset if that happened,” Helaena said, half-distracted. “Lady Abrogail accidentally squashed one of my creatures yesterday, and as you can see,” she drifted off and gazed at the reddened, pinched face of Myrella over her shoulder, “She is not here.”

That wasn’t the actual reason Abrogail was nowhere to be found, but Helaena liked to let the threat hang there, just to be unpredictable. The young princess waved a hand. “You may leave.”

Her mother’s lady did not even protest, hurrying from the room. The heavy door shut harder than expected and the loud bang of it sent her flinching. Her hands flew up, curling into fists, as if unsure whether to clap to her ears against more loud sounds, or to fight the sound itself.

As if that were even possible.

The quiet of her bedroom surrounded Helaena. The curtains with embroidered dragonflies fluttered in the morning breeze and sparkled in the sunlight. Her fingers reached to stroke at the curtains as she stood, watching the city spread out before her, tiny and huge all at once.

In the distance, Vhagar’s lowing echoed across the city and a slight smile broke across the princess’ face. Her brother’s dragon was far too big to be confined to the Dragon Pit, and in the window's arch, Helaena watched the bulk of her roam lazily above the bay. It never ceased to amaze her how big she looked even so far and so high as Helaena was in the tower.

Aemond would sneak past Ser Lorrent before dawn and visit Vhagar at the cliffs after recovering from losing his eye. He would greet the dawn on dragonback, and he would smile so brightly when she and Aegon would join him. The three of them could finally fly together, to share in the joy of freedom from the keep. Freedom from the expectation. Freedom.

Three heads of a dragon.

Visenya. Aegon. Rhaenys.

Not that she’d ever tell Aegon to his face that he was the Rhaenys of them.

The smile on her face faltered, and she looked down at the fabric she clasped in her hands. Aemond had always been so serious. It was the one thing about him that hadn’t changed since claiming Vhagar. So serious. So focused. A narrow-eyed stare of a dragon in his violet eyes had now morphed into the curl of the lip and a baring of his teeth. Intensity was a part of Aemond, but lately it felt as if he’d been sharpened upon the whetstone instead of his sword.

Helaena found herself growing nervous to reach for him sometimes, as if simply resting her hands upon him would shred them and she’d come away bloody. She worried she wouldn’t be able to stop the flow, and she would find herself crumpled in a pool of her own blood that he didn’t mean to shed. Her pair of Dornish scorpions came to mind. Like many creatures, they needed to be handled with care, and as gentle as she might be, there would be an inevitable sting, for it was in their nature. Aemond had been gentler once, even when the anger inside of him always simmered. Now he was morphing into something that would hurt her without care, and she didn’t know if she wanted to treat him as a blade, or like one of her scorpions.

“We’ll be married soon,” Aemond had sworn the day before, in his all knowing way. The way he got when he was most certain; the knowing way when he’d pace across her chamber, ranting about how “if only Mother would see that he could be the new cupbearer and attend council meetings with her.” “If only Grandfather would understand that he had ideas to implement. Didn’t any of them understand?”

As she always did, Helaena hummed noncommittally and let Aemond stroke her hair. She did not mind it, for there was something soothing in the way Aemond stroked her hair. But that soothing feeling was ebbing, and she didn’t like it. It was a confusing feeling. She enjoyed how his eye strayed down along the front of her gowns more often these days, and how he blushed so prettily when she caught him looking. Helaena enjoyed that sort of unwavering attention; it made her feel warm and fluttery. She had the same feeling when Warren Fossoway welcomed her in the training yard with his shiny black hair and jade-like green eyes..

Of course, Aemond had noticed, and had challenged him in the training ring. Helaena did like to see the boys fight for her attention that way. Warren had even been doing well against Aemond’s intensity until her brother kicked the squire’s knee out, forcing him to yield. Poor Warren.

She hoped that the kiss she’d snuck Warren later had made him feel better about the loss.

Her gaze drifted towards her shelf of delicate cases where her specimens lived. Pinned to the shelf was the sketch Abby had made the week prior. Careful charcoal lines against the parchment of the butterflies that had flocked to the fat, blue flowers of the rhododendron bush in the garden. She cherished many of those sketches, keeping them tucked away with her own more informational drawings she’d done herself. Helaena was fond of the differences in how they captured beauty. Abby with the abstract and scenery and motion, Helaena with the inner workings and pieces and parts that came together.

Helaena frowned as the bells chimed throughout the city, signaling the top of the hour, and looked at the door. Abby still hadn’t arrived and her concern was growing. No matter. She would simply look for her. Drifting away from the window, Helaena assessed the green silk gown that had been laid out on the bed. It was a simple thing with no fiddly buttons that she could see. Carefully, she slipped it over her head. Some of her dresses were growing tighter around her chest, and the last one she’d put on herself, the seams split in her impatience. Mother spoke of ordering new gowns the evening before, which meant lots of trying on the old ones to see what they would pass along to Abby, or adjusted to fit her now. It had been easier when they were younger, but Helaena’s hips had grown a little wider, her breasts heavier, and thus the gowns needed more work to hand down to Abby.

Helaena was taller now, and Maester said that neither girl would grow much more now that they had flowered. That, at least, gave Helaena the sense of pride that she had ‘won’ in that.

Her fingers tugged at the loose braid, curls and frizz coming out of it like the frills along Dreamfyre’s neck. Now that her dragon was settled with her clutch, Helaena's restlessness over the previous week had eased. She felt more in the present than pulled elsewhere, as it always was when these things happened; it was as if a haze went over everything, and Helaena felt wrapped in cotton wool, her senses focused on the smell of brimstone and the low glow of the dark nests inside the dragon pit. Of the need to protect, of the need to be in herself, but not herself. Helaena could only describe it as if she leant Dreamfyre her strength during these times. Like she could lend her senses to her soulmate to ensure she felt safe when giving birth.

She’d never spoken a word of it to Aegon in their years together, for Sunfyre did not lay eggs or roost with any other dragon in such a way, and Vhagar didn’t seem to lay eggs either. Helaena supposed she could ask Aemond about it, for he had read far more about dragons than she, but Helaena didn’t. There were some things that could not be learned from books. There were things one instinctively knew and Helaena knew, somewhere, that her dragon’s strength was her own, and her own was her dragon’s.

Mayhaps they could go to the pit and she could visit with Dreamfyre while Abby looked at the kitlings in the nursery beneath the watchful eye of Keeper Arryx and Keeper Vera, who did not mind answering the questions they all had about the baby dragons.

After all, cradle eggs were only meant for the heirs. Their bonds had to be claimed, as all things worth having were.

Another tug on the green silk and Helaena shook her head and decided there was no need to do her hair. It didn’t matter, as there wasn’t really anyone around worth impressing or putting on a show and if, for whatever reason, there was, well then she could deal with it then.

There was a lull in the bustle of Maegor’s Holdfast in the morning. The servants had stoked fires and brought trays of food already, and had taken away linens and things to come back later. Without Lady Penrose trailing after her, Helaena skipped down the hallway, landing on only the decorative tiles and not the bleak gray flagstones for luck. The right side of the corridor opened up to the square courtyard below where servants and ladies passed by, a marble cistern in the middle to catch the water that spilled through the center of the roof a story above.

Helaena peered over the stone railing, her eyes searching for the familiar shock of red hair, but none caught her eye.

Her sister had still not appeared.

Abby was never absent. Worry twisted in her gut as she resumed her trek towards the entry hall on both feet, now with her skirts clutched in her hands. One of the few people Helaena allowed to be close, she could hardly count the times when she wasn’t there, and most of that had been relegated to visits to Harrenhal on those rare occasions to see her family. They’d learned to walk together, had played every day, and since Abby had become her lady, they’d shared a bed, staying up late into the night whispering about the dreams she had, or the gossip they overheard from the ladies. Helaena had grown used to her smiling, cheerful face waking her up, helping her, being there, laughing over their morning meal.

Helaena paused as she came to the end of the hallway towards the intersection. To the left, the corridor opened to the great expanse of the entry hall. To the right were Mother's rooms and the family solar, and further past there, her father’s apartments. Another staircase before her led up to the next floor, where Aemond and Aegon’s apartments were in one of the seven towers. The window of Aegon’s room always drew a queer sense of vertigo from her, which was strange, as she did not mind heights and his room had some of the best views in the Holdfast. Aegon had teased her for her fear, Aemond biting at him for it. Abby only cast a disapproving look as she settled on the window edge while they bickered. Helaena was quite content to sit on the cushions pulled from Aegon’s bed on the floor at her feet.

Abby laughed and said, "This is the closest I can get to flying on my own." She explained that the towers in Harrenhal could be dangerous and that she had never been permitted to enter them alone. Bats the size of a grown man were said to live in the ruins left behind by the Conqueror and Balerion, she’d said, which had only sparked Helaena’s interest rather than any sense of fear.

She bit her lip. Abby had been acting oddly since returning from Grandfather’s office - distracted and distant and withdrawn. It was so unlike Abby that it had distressed her, which distressed Aemond. He’d reacted harshly when Abby had snapped. Helaena hadn’t minded, but she’d been surprised; unable to remember ever hearing her sister have such a harsh tone - and Abrogail was her sister. She was just as close to her as she was to her own brothers.

Aemond had minded her tone. Aemond always minded if he felt she was disrespected, and she’d berated him - a rare thing - for his manner, for he didn't see how distressed Abby had been.

Mayhaps Abby was in the apartments she had with her brother? It would be unusual, but were she in the Holdfast, surely she would have been in her room that morning. Another sigh. Aegon wouldn’t even be awake by now, would he? Had he absconded with Abby at the crack of dawn to go riding? Not that he ever seemed to rise before mid-morning at the earliest, but her elder brother could be unpredictable and he’d been in a mood the prior evening before dragging poor Aemond out into Flea Bottom. Sometimes when Aegon was in a mood, he’d hoard Abby to himself and they’d go riding for hours, although that had stopped since they had dragged him home from the terrible fight in a tavern a few moons ago. Not even Aemond knew what had happened.

The family solar was down the opposite hall where she was, and Helaena fidgeted, skirting against the wall as a troop of maids passed with bobbed curtsies that barely slowed their walk. She was aware, although no one dared say anything, that her hair was still sleep mussed and unkempt. While Helaena herself was not concerned with it, she realized with an uneasy feeling that someone might mention something to Mother about it. In general, Helaena's mother was kind about what she called quirks, but Helaena noticed an unmistakable sense of relief in her mother's eyes when she was well put together without dirt beneath her nails or a creature ready to show off.

Mother worried about so much. So tightly wound that Helaena felt guilty at contributing to the myriad of things she fretted about. Yet she could not deny the sense of control it gave her to leave her rooms like this, or to go in the gardens without worrying about her dresses.

She could have done her hair before leaving, Helaena supposed, but Abby was so much better at making sure she looked presentable, and did not shriek (loudly) when her creatures escaped. Helaena lifted a hand to her sleep mussed braid, half undone with her tossing and turning during the night, and frowned. Her green dress looked alright, and Helaena tugged a bit at her shoulders, shimmying a bit to try straightening it herself. It was there she found little buttons - why did she have buttons on her shoulders? - that she couldn’t do up herself.

“There you are!” came a relieved, breathless call from behind her.

Helaena turned to look at the staircase leading down to the Holdfast’s entrance. Morning light spilled through the open doors, illuminating the carvings of Daenys the Dreamer and her family arriving at Dragonstone in bright relief. Abrogail was flushed and panting as she mounted the last few steps, her blue skirts gathered in her hands and her strawberry curls falling from a hastily made braid.

“Good morning!” Helaena chirped. “I was worried you’d vanished into the wall, or Mother had taken you. You didn’t come back last night, nor were you at dinner.” She watched Abby’s cheeks flush deeper and Helaena reached out to tug on one of the strawberry curls clouding around the shorter girl’s shoulders. “Lady Penrose found my centipede and nearly kicked it across the room, so then I came to find you. Have you eaten?” Her stomach growled in emphasis and she patted it gratefully for its timing.

Abrogail blinked and went to address the bothersome buttons. “She left you before she finished helping you this morning?” she asked with an intent frown. “Just because she doesn’t like your collection doesn’t mean that she should be remiss in her duties. I’m sorry for not coming back last night. I had dinner with my brother and fell asleep. I thought he sent a message to your mother.” Her voice was apologetic and soft, without fumbling over herself to make an excuse. Things were mercifully simple between her and Abrogail, and Helaena was desperately grateful for it when the subtle meanings of others often went over her head.

The redhead brushed a kiss on her cheek and her cool fingers began fiddling with Helaena’s messy braid, ignoring her own uncharacteristically messy attire. Helaena was used to it. Mother said it was Abby’s duty as her lady to tend to her needs and help her look her best, but she’d always been gentle and fussing for as long as Helaena could remember. One of the few she didn’t mind touching her, and on the days she didn’t like it, Abby was careful to mind her.

“Are you feeling better today?” Helaena asked, not unkindly, but not one to avoid or mince words. It was something that mother and their Septa scolded her often about. “You were so upset yesterday, and you don’t look like yourself.” She watched her friend’s eyes widen and Helaena found relief in assessing things correctly. It felt good to know she’d picked up on things properly. “I don’t mind, of course, but that’s the same dress you wore yesterday, and your hair isn’t even done. That’s not like you at all.”

“I…” Abby stuttered and her fingers paused in undoing Helaena’s braid. The princess frowned when the other stepped back. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything, your Grace,” she continued in a hurried voice, her formality standing out amidst the easy intimacy between them.

Helaena’s frown returned, suspicion drawing her brows together. “I’m not mad at you about yesterday, or about the wooly bear. Aemond was being stupid about it, and I told him off for his harshness, so why didn’t you come back?” She worked to keep her voice steady because Abby was there and safe, but now her concern from before was morphing into a wriggling sort of sensation in her chest like her centipede lived there between her ribs. Helaena tugged at the cuff of her sleeve, rubbing her fingers over the bump of her wrist bone.

She was not prone to a temper the way Aemond or mother was, or to biting melancholy like Aegon. Instead, Helaena was one to withdraw, which served her better than the biting tendencies she still held. Abby fell into her courtesies, which Helaena assumed was because she was not one of them, even with a certain amount of blood shared and foundations forged. Polite smiles, proper address, the proper little girl that Helaena had no genuine care about. Helaena thought it was adorable, but not when Abrogail started using it on her.

“A lot happened, and I just needed time and then I had a talk with Larys and…” Abrogail’s voice didn’t waver, but she was avoiding eye contact, which was what Helaena did more often than not. Frustration grew amidst the hurt she was feeling.

“And?” Helaena’s voice turned high. She didn’t like this new Abrogail, who was keeping things from her. They never had secrets. “But you don’t even like your brother. Why were you speaking with him? Is this about your sister again? I told you she can’t take you back to Lannisport now that you’re Mother’s ward and my lady.” The words were a flurry, and she ended them on a small sound, pressing her lips together and looking over her shoulder, down the hall to the entrance of the solar where she could hear her mother’s voice echoing, although the words weren’t clear.

Cold hands clasped hers, and Helaena’s attention was back on Abrogail, who had both of her hands grabbed. Her fingers twitched in the hold, and she felt her wrist ache. “It’s alright,” Abby murmured, rubbing her thumbs into the soft center of Helaena’s palms. Her shoulders still ached with tension, but it was easier to take a deep breath. The other girl looked up and met her gaze. “Your mother and grandfather, with Larys’ blessing, are betrothing Aegon and I,” she continued in the same hushed voice. “We’ll be married come my nameday, and then we’ll be off to Harrenhal - to rule in my brother’s stead.”

Helaena pulled her hands from Abrogail’s grasp, clasping them tightly against her waist, and took a step back. “You lied to me.”

“What?” Abby asked, but Helaena was shaking her head.

“You lied to me when I asked you if everything was alright. You lied to me by saying it was nothing, when it was something!” Tears gathered hot in Helaena’s eyes. Everything felt like too much, suddenly. “I tell you about Aemond, about the kisses we steal, and you couldn’t even tell me that you were betrothed to my brother?” Helaena could hear Abrogail’s voice, no doubt trying to apologize, but the sick feeling of being lied to, of betrayal, boiled the blood in her ears, blocking the younger girl’s words. “You yelled at me instead of telling me, and now on top of that, you’re leaving me! And I’ll be left here alone with stupid Lady Penrose, who will no doubt kill my specimens while you and Aegon are busy making babies together!”

The younger girl was still from where she’d stepped back, eyes wide and face flushed. Helaena wanted to shake her, to have her say something to make sense of it all, like how mother sometimes shook Aegon, though Helaena hated it.

“Helaena,” came mother’s voice, as if she knew what Helaena was thinking, but the princess realized that her voice had carried more than she realized. She turned slowly to see her approach. Every inch the beautiful queen, in a dress of deep blue with an ornate golden pattern embroidered along her bodice that made Helaena think of hummingbirds. Her auburn hair was free about her shoulders, which meant that mother had begun the day in a relaxed manner. But the white around her tight mouth, the volume of her voice, meant that was no longer the case.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Abby curtsy, but Helaena rocked on her heels, twisting her fingers together as she sniffled. She could rarely look at Mother directly and it was more difficult right now. Her mother’s sigh was long and heavy, but her voice was not loud, which was a relief. “What on earth is going on out here? Hm?”

It was not like Aemond’s soft hum, but not as frightening as her angry hum.

“Abby told me she and Aegon are getting married,” Helaena finally answered, looking at the carved frieze above her mother’s head. Then, “I made her tell me, do not be angry with her if she wasn’t meant to say.”

“The Princess was upset, Your Grace, and I did not wish to be dishonest with her,” came Abby’s soft agreement.

In the morning light, with them both in blue and with their red hair, Helaena thought they looked quite similar. Abby’s hair was a brighter fiery red to Mother’s auburn, but their rounded faces and the curves of their mouths were near identical. Mother must look like grandmother then, Helaena thought, for Abby’s mother was Mother’s cousin.

Mother looked between the two of them, hands on her hips. Helaena kept rocking back and forth on her heels until Mother sighed once more. “Come, the both of you. Break your fasts and we’ll discuss how things shall move forward.”

Soft morning light filled the solar through the ornate, colored, and clear glass of the bay window overlooking the grounds of the Keep. Abrogail’s large black and gray cat, Theraxis, was stretched out in all his great length in a patch of orange light. His yellow eyes blinked as he turned towards them, paws flexing and belly on display to be petted. Over the years, Theraxis had become the rat catcher, siring dozens of litters of kittens. He was found everywhere from the library, lurking in the stacks to attack Aemond’s legs, or even beneath her father’s great Valyrian table, listening to the king with all the patience of a content cat.

Abrogail skirted around her and went straight to the great cat, hoisting him up into her arms and bringing him over. Helaena’s arms opened to receive the purring beast, and she smiled tearfully when he bumped his face against hers, rubbing his whiskered cheek against her own. Helaena did not look to Abby, and instead kept her attention on Theraxis’ warm, soft purring body to let her anxieties seep from her.

“Will you take him away with you too?” Helaena asked, and her mother made a disapproving sound from her chair at the table. “But, Mother-”

Mother did not tell her to release the cat and behave herself as a princess should. For that, Helaena was grateful. Sometimes, Mother was anxious about her behavior, but didn’t scold her the way their Septa did. Mother's voice interjected sharply, but she didn't scold Helaena. She didn't tell her to release the cat and behave like a princess should, for which Helaena was grateful.

Helaena fell silent and pressed her face into the soft cat fur while Theraxis purred and lay across her arms like some damsel to be adored. The clinking of cutlery echoed in the solar as everyone buttered their bread and filled their goblets. Releasing the cat to the ground, Helaena sunk into the chair to her mother’s left at the circular table. She met neither of the other’s gazes and instead focused on ripping the piece of ham she’d snagged from the platter of meats and cheeses. Where was Aemond? If he had gone to her room and not found her, then he would have come to the solar. If Aemond was there, it would be better. She would not feel so unmoored and confused and upset.

“Helaena does not wish for us to be parted,” Abby said, breaking the silence with her soft lilt. “Neither do I… But Harrenhal is not so far away on dragonback, so we could visit, surely?”

Helaena lifted her gaze to watch the other girl beneath her lashes, the way the sunlight through the colored glass threw a scatter of blues and greens and purples along where Abby sat. A carapace, Heleana mouthed to herself. A pretty carapace to protect their little not-a-dragon who cannot breathe fire or fly like the rest of the clutch.

But they weren’t a clutch anymore, were they? They were no longer children, not when they bled and kissed, not when Aegon would do what he’s always done when they were children: wrap Abrogail up in his claws and drag her away. It had been so hard to drag her away from her brother - to claim the attention as Mother’s drifted to Daeron, to Rhaenyra and her children, and the way Mother grew sadder and angrier. Abby, who, like Aemond, corrected the Septa when Helaena could not bear the room or the feel of the dress on her skin. Abby, who listened raptly in the middle of the night once they had their own rooms, and she could no longer curl up in Aemond’s bed in the nursery. Aemond would always listen to her dreams at night, but Abby had become that person as well. The one who kept the other maids from giving her scratchy dresses or touching and fussing too much. The one who taught her how to braid, and dutifully sat at her side as she collected her pets and her specimens, taking careful notes so that when Aemond joined her, the scientific endeavor remained uninterrupted.

Helaena looked at her fingers tearing at the bits of meat on her plate. In her mind, one hand was firmly locked in Aemond’s grip. A hand that had once led her through the halls when she was found sleepwalking. The hand that she did not mind being touched by when she did not fear the sting. Her other hand gripped Abby’s; sisters giggling and reaching for one another to not fall off the bed or into the pond, holding onto each other as they ran to hide from the boys during one of their games.

While Aemond held her with both hands, Abrogail held her with one, Aegon gripping her other hand increasingly stronger with each passing year, claws and teeth and every muscle inside him straining for the soft words and the laughter. With every slap from their mother, every casually harsh comment from their grandfather, every moment that Father ignored them, or worse, called Aegon Baelon, Aegon pulled harder and harder…

Helaena did not want to let go, even as her grip was slipping. She despised change, and she despised how Lady Penrose’s lip curled at the assortment of boxes and containers she was still allowed to have, or how she huffed frustrated breaths when Helaena tried to express her discomfort and displeasure. She was a princess of the realm, and she knew that Lady Penrose must mind her, but she still struggled with it.

Aemond helped. Aemond reminded her she was a dragonrider - that Dreamfyre was even older than Melys, and that all was hers to command. He sometimes forgot his own words, Helaena thought, when he sought to command her, but she could not figure out what to do about that.

It was far easier, and far more reassuring, when Abrogail handled Lady Penrose. And when Septa Lyserra clucked her tongue and told Helaena that a lady does not whimper or shake so when they don’t want to do something, her chosen sister, who could be as quiet as a mouse, always spoke up for her to calm the tension, readily taking the switch across her palms, for the princess could not be struck.

Mother looked between the pair of them: Helaena sullen and only half looking at them now, and Abrogail, whose large blue eyes kept flitting back and forth while she clutched the roll in her hands. “I think that’s certainly something allowed, once you and Aegon have settled after the wedding,” Mother said carefully over her food. Gently indulgent, but treated neither of them as anything but young ladies. “Not too often, of course. You’ll be setting up your own household and making progress with your household and the townsfolk who rely on you. Helaena will also have her responsibilities here.”

A heavy sensation grew in the pit of Helaena’s stomach at the idea of what responsibilities her mother spoke of. She shoved some pieces of ham into her mouth to keep from speaking her concerns, for sometimes when Mother grew agitated, she was not so lenient.

“But no one is leaving today, nor next week. The wedding will not happen until your nameday, Abrogail, which means you both will still have plenty of time together, and,” Mother fixed her large brown eyes upon Helaena, a hopeful smile creasing her cheeks, “Abrogail will ensure that your new ladies will take proper care of you, and understand your needs the way she does.” Rarely did Mother smile, and to have it happen now was a relief and Helaena couldn’t help but smile back, raising her eyes to look at her mother properly.

“No one can understand the way Abby does,” Helaena blurted out, and while Mother’s smile did not so much as falter, she tilted her head in that way she had when she wanted to reach out to hug her. “So Abby and Aegon should just stay here.”

“Well, perhaps Abrogail has a lady who might also work,” Mother suggested mildly.

Abrogail made a soft sound. “I don’t have any ladies, your Grace.”

“You don’t?” Helaena asked, bewildered, at the same moment that Mother set her cup down with a rather unladylike clatter into the saucer, and asked, “Whatever do you mean, Abrogail?”

Bits of bread tore beneath her fingers while Abby bit her lip, and then immediately released it. “I just have the maid assist me before I tend to Helaena.” The bits of bread fell onto the plate like falling leaves, and from beneath Abby’s elbow, a great, furry paw tried to reach up and capture some of them. An indignant mreow punctuated the end of Abby’s sentence, and the girl shooed him away. “It works out better, since Helaena prefers our solitude, and I don’t need to ensure that they have duties and are occupied.”

“Not even Lord Beesbury’s granddaughters?” Mother asked with a thoughtful frown, followed by a sigh. Abby shook her head with a “No, your Grace,” and stopped picking so aggressively at her bread. Mother muttered something beneath her breath. “Very well. I’ve already written to Lord Baratheon about sending two of his daughters to see who might serve as your new lady. In this case, one shall be with you, Helaena, and the other will join Abrogail. Many of the houses will bring their eligible girls to the tournament, so you both can pick attendants from them.” Mother nodded to herself, thumbing through some papers that sat on a smaller table beside her chair. “I shall look, and perhaps also write to my uncle in Oldtown…”

Mother continued to murmur beneath her breath. Helaena caught words like nieces and sisters. She knew Mother had many siblings, that they’d served as ladies when she was small, but they’d all gone and gotten married. Some had lingered, like Lady Fossoway, who was now Mother’s Mistress of Keys. Her son was Ser Westerling’s squire, dear Warren with his jade eyes and wounded pride.

There was a commotion at the doorway, and Helaena turned as her mother cried out, “Aemond!”

Ser Criston stood with a hand on both Aemond’s and Aegon’s shoulders and Helaena gasped, hearing Abby let out a soft squeak behind her. Bruises in shades of red, purple, and blue colored Aemond's face. His left eye and cheek were swollen, and Ser Criston stood with a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Aemond reassured as Mother rushed to him and carefully cupped his unharmed cheek. Helaena pushed half out of her chair and gripped the back of it as she watched her brothers. Aegon had a scrape along his right cheek, and glancing at his hands revealed the bruised knuckles. His pink gaze lingered on the floor, anywhere but towards anyone else.

Ser Criston fixed his gaze on Mother, and Helaena had often thought that his expression resembled that of a disappointed and frustrated father. She could hear a tone in his voice that came up frequently when he talked about Aegon, which didn't always seem fair.

However, she saw the way grandfather treated Mother, and realized it wasn’t so different. The harsh words, the anger and the fear - grandfather full of anger and cunning, Mother full of so much fear it only left her in bouts of her own type of flame to wound and sear and protect herself.

“The Gold Cloaks were called in to break up a brawl in a brothel early this morning,” Ser Criston said, his hands clasped on both of their shoulders and gave them a slight shake. “Lord Commander Westerling and I will be speaking with Ser Arryk about his negligence, your Grace.”

Alicent glared at Aegon, and in the face of her anger, her elder brother was already flinching back against Ser Criston’s plated chest as if it would save him, or he could sink into the space between the breastplate and Ser Criston’s body beneath, like the way her specimens scurried beneath her sleeves. Helaena braced herself for the echoing sound of a slap, but miraculously, Mother did not touch him, her hands resting on Aemond’s upper arms.

“What did you do to him?” she snapped, and each word caused Aegon to stiffen more.

Helaena glanced over her shoulder to where Abby sat still in her seat, mouth pinched tight and white around the edges like Mother’s, but she couldn’t tell what the other was upset about.

“It was me,” Aemond said, voice even; quiet. “I said something cruel that I shouldn’t have.”

Aegon’s exhale was loud in the quiet after Aemond’s statement, his gaze flicking over to Aemond, who remained fixated on Mother. What cruel thing would Aemond have said that had pushed Aegon so, Helaena wondered, knowing that she would hear the details once they were alone.

Mother looked between the boys, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she assessed them both. “Please refrain from settling your grievances with fists like the small folk. In a brothel, no less,” she hissed and yet, her voice carried. Helaena looked over at Abrogail, whose cheeks had flushed beneath her freckles, and she wondered if Abrogail was upset that Aegon had gone to a brothel right after they were told of their betrothal. But Aegon had been furious enough to attack Aemond. The boys often got into trouble with each other, but the princess couldn't remember them ever throwing punches.

Another moment, and then Mother was pulling the boys into the room, and over her shoulder to Ser Criston, she said: “Come, eat, there’s plenty.” It was not unusual that Ser Criston - for they needed to address their mother’s sworn shield properly, especially after the time that Daeron had called him father once, when he was still very little and their Sire-Father had turned his attention to things Helaena supposed were more important - join them in breaking their fast.

With interest, Helaena watched Aemond perch on the chair between her and Abrogail, while Ser Criston sat between Mother and Abrogail. Normally, Aemond would sit between her and Mother instead, not that she minded, but she saw Aegon hesitate before taking the last seat.

Aemond was reaching for the pieces of shredded ham off her plate, and the ruined roll from Abrogail’s as if nothing were amiss, and Helaena watched Aegon’s sullen expression deepen while he tugged the tray closer to pull meat and bread to his plate. Aemond leaned over and said something quiet to Abrogail, the other girl perking up in her soft response to him.

“It’s so nice that we can all break our fast together, isn’t it?” Helaena asked the table brightly, because it was nice, even if everyone was cross. Abrogail’s red curls bounced as she nodded enthusiastically, her own gaze fixated on her plate.

“Yes, it rather is,” Aemond agreed, pressing a kiss to her cheek that made her belly flutter and Mother’s eyes narrow even more with her unspoken displeasure at Aemond’s act. Helaena’s smile grew at the sight of it and she reached for a fresh slice of bread. Little acts of rebellion were always her favorite to get through the monotony of the day.

Chapter Text

The maester's hands were cold and uncomfortable as they examined him, searching for sores and whatever the fuck else he rattled on about as he came entirely too close to his person. Aegon's fists clenched at his sides, his head tilted back so he had no chance of catching sight of the grizzled head below him, bobbing around his cock. It would certainly ruin any pleasure that he would ever experience again.

It was too damn early for this. The sun was still creeping over the walls of the Keep, not even past the early morning. Dreadful.

"No unsightly marks, your Grace," the man affirmed. "Ensure that any pleasure house you visit keeps clean quarters, and you should be safe from giving illness to your Lady wife."

His Lady wife. He saw the smile that graced her features, the spray of freckles along her nose and cheeks. Her bright eyes were blue as the sky he found escape in, and her cascade of sunset curls were his. Every bit of her would belong to him in a few moons. Cool hands that tempered his fevered skin would touch him without a barrier. The soft pout of her heart-shaped mouth pressed open by his thumb-

"I don’t need guidance on spreading illness to my wife when I visit her bed. I’m more concerned about avoiding having my cock fall off," he snapped defensively, yanking his trousers up as soon as the maester pulled away, not wanting the stirring from where his thoughts had been wandering to manifest in front of his current company. Ser Criston was on the other side of the low partition and Aegon did not need to meet his gaze to know that he was being examined and judged and found wanting.

Aegon could barely resist mouthing the words that followed, for they were as familiar as his mother's prayers. "Every woman is an image of the Mother and should be treated with respect," Cole reminded him with a level voice. Aegon knew it, as intimately as his mother's judgment, that the man was disappointed; disappointed in his inability to be better in the training yard, and his inability to keep his cock in check.

For as long as Aegon could remember, Ser Criston Cole had been by his mother’s side and by extension, that of him and his siblings. While Viserys (he could never think of the rotting king as his father, only Sire, for all that the word entailed) had noticed him in Aegon’s earliest memories, telling him how he would tame a dragon one day, and regaling his young self with stories of the Black Dread, it was Criston who came to his mind when one asked or spoke about father. Just as he desired to keep and then win back his mother’s affection, lost to time as it had been, he felt the same with the man who was currently judging him like the Father and Warrior themselves. Once, Cole had seemed heartened by Aegon’s natural talent with a blade and his hunger to prove himself in the training yard, especially in the face of Rhaenyra’s growing brood of dark haired brats. It hadn’t hurt as much then, the lessons. The weight had not come upon him all at once. It was a slow build. Stone by stone, they pressed down on his shoulders, with each turn of the moon until he struggled beneath the weight of the expectation.

His mother’s growing paranoia and panic with each new son born to his sister, and what Aegon suspected was pressure from outside sources, left his cheeks mottled pink and red from her hands and the bite of her nails on his shoulders. It left him sensitive to raised voices and sudden movements. It left him pretending to be more in his cups than he was, if only to keep watch of what went on around him, what people said, what someone might do to him. Then came the times when he was beyond caring of his fate and hoping some percent oblivion might be found beyond the next bottle.

Cole’s growing shift in praise to Aemond and his increasing barbs for Aegon to pay attention and how a warrior and a prince did not prowl after the ladies and the serving maids poured salt on the growing wounds his mother gouged.

“A man saves himself to perform his husbandly duties,” he’d said when catching him in the hall with his tongue down Lady Melia’s throat when he was three and ten. The older girl had been dismissed from his mother’s service within days of the event.

Ser Harrold had told him that he should not force himself on a lady, that a good and honorable man does not use his power as an advantage over young lasses. A good and honorable man treats them with respect. “A man denies the temptation to sully himself for one night for a simple promise or a hope of a dream,” he’d said when Aegon had been dragged back from the Street of Silk, soaked to the bone from the rainstorm, and bruised and beaten from the paramour of the woman who’d lured him in. He’d been five and ten. She had been the daughter of a merchant, sharp and lovely with brown ringlets that frizzed in the heat. Aegon thought she loved him, or at the very least, desired him enough that maybe he could run away from everything that hurt. Maybe, with this other woman and her dark curling hair, he could forget how beautiful Abby looked laughing beneath the dappled sunlight of the weirwood tree, for surely he would never be allowed to have her. She would be sent away, meant for someone else because he was a growing disappointment and do you not see how Aemond applies himself? Why is it so difficult for you?

Ser Harwin had sat him, Aemond, and Jace down one afternoon after coming upon them doing something ridiculous in the garden. He couldn’t remember if it was because he had pulled Abby’s hair, or the fact that Aemond and Jace had been fighting over something - a toy or some such nonsense. He’d said that when you found the perfect someone, you would make a deal with the seven devils if you had to, to be with them. And that it was always worth it.

“Women and young ladies are not here for such earthly pleasures. They are all that is pure and good in the world, and are ruined beyond measure when they fall into the depths of pleasures of the flesh. Every woman is the image of the Mother, and every young girl the Maiden herself. Protected and unsullied,” Criston said when Aegon had come bounding to him, barely ten years of age, flushed and with bubbling nerves and excitement in his belly. He’d asked if Abby kissing his cheek meant that she loved him. “Do you think Mother would let me marry her if I asked?’” For she was his Rhaenys, and Cole knew his mother better than anyone in the world.

‘Always with the Mother,’ Aegon thought, feeling as if the cascading shadow of the Seven-Pointed Star shone on him now. ‘Always with the Mother, and every girl an image of the Maiden, so thank you so much for that.’

The smile Aegon turned on the Kingsguard was deceptively innocent, dimpled cheeks and all. "Funny, pretty sure the two I fucked the other night would have my queenly mother scream in terror and bar herself in the sept."

Now Ser Criston wasn't even trying to hide the look of judgment on his oh so perfect face. Aegon snatched his tunic off the partition and shoved his arms through. "Is she going to keep me under house arrest until the tourney? The wedding? Lock me in a tower like a maiden in a song?"

"Your mother could have married you to the princess."

Aegon felt a curl of nausea in his stomach at the thought of bedding his sweet sister, regardless of the custom of his forefathers. "And make dear little Aemond a kinslayer? I would not survive long enough to make it to the sept."

"Or she could decide to marry Lady Abrogail to your brother."

“And we’re back to Aemond kinslaying, or worse, to get himself out of a marriage he never asked for. Not with our sweet sister right there and ripe for the taking.” It mattered little to Aemond that it was becoming increasingly obvious to anyone who cared to look that Helaena’s affections had withered, that, in truth, they had really never been what their little brother thought they were. Aegon scoffed. “It puts us all back in the same boat." His gaze flitted to meet the knight's through the mess of hair hanging in his eyes. "Me miserable and alone, or dead. Such love you hold for me. Not to mention, how cruel of you to flaunt my betrothed’s narrowly avoided demise to prove a point." His waspish tone didn’t feel like enough to banish the pressure of unease that settled inside Aegon’s chest at the thought of harm befalling Abby, poor point or not.

Such love and regard his family held for him, while screaming that he was to be king. Expecting one thing from him, and something he didn't want.

At least we like one another. That counts for something, doesn't it, Aegon?

But it didn’t count, did it? Liking had nothing to do with what he wanted. He didn’t want the neglect and cruelty within his parents’ marriage. He didn’t want Abby to simply like him.

Aegon lifted his wrist to adjust the cuff of his sleeve and hissed softly when the fabric dragged over the healing scratches Abby had left. He instinctively pressed his mouth against the injury to soothe it before doing the clasp. So rarely did Abby’s teeth bite at him, and there was something satisfying and pleasing at the reminder of it.

Unlike Cole, who continued to speak to him as if he were a child, as if he were some squire or recruit. Sometimes Aegon felt as if the knight treated him no better than a troublesome hound. As if the man were his true father, thinking it his right to speak to him in the same tone he already heard from his mother. This man was Kingsguard, his mother’s sworn shield, and if they were so hellbent on making him king one day, Cole would answer to him. Perhaps he should remind Cole of that more often.

"You didn't answer my question, Ser Criston." Still waspish, his tone grew firmer. He might not be king yet, but Aegon was a Prince of House Targaryen, one of his father’s heirs, and a dragonrider - no mere mortal man, not a backwater soldier from who knows where.

Cole watched him steadily, the muscle in his jaw ticking before averting his eyes "Not so much locked in a tower, but confined to the Keep, my prince.” Cole spoke as if the proper etiquette physically pained him and Aegon smirked, humming softly. “You may go to the Dragonpit, escorted, but should you try anything, your mother has ordered that we bar you from it."

Something ugly curled in his chest and he barked out a laugh as he pushed open the door and headed out. "Cruel woman." It almost impressed him. Only once had they ever barred him from Sunfyre, and it was when he thought, after several cups, that going riding was the best idea ever. He still thought it was. His mother? Not so much.

He still had the scars from her nails along his elbow. A half crescent around the joint like a bite mark.

Cole was not far behind, and he glanced sidelong at the man. "Is there a schedule now? Classes with Aemond and his favorite maester? How lovely to be shown up by him in another arena."

"Well, that's why you're going to the yard. Your… everything could use some work. And it'll be a good release for you, since you're under confinement."

They had confined Mother for three moons before she had Daeron. Seven hells, he and Abby were going to have to have children. He was supposed to sire heirs and be a father, and his father was utter shit. But making heirs wouldn't be so bad?

A clap on his shoulder jogged him back to attention. "Physical exertion helps."

Aegon sneered. "Says a man who doesn't fuck. You can't trust a man who doesn't fuck, with only his own hand for company." He made a lewd stroking gesture before miming a spray of victory.

"Says a man who was once seven and ten," Ser Criston corrected, and Aegon rolled his eyes. His point still stood. Fucker never gave into the bait that he laid for him. Aegon still felt annoyed, although he acknowledged it deserved some respect.

As they reached the training yard, his eyes still bleary with sleep and the lingering headache, the coil of tension in his chest eased. Aemond was not alone, making the impending humiliation more bearable. Helaena may cheer for every time he'd get whipped in the yard, but there was no malice in his sweet sister.

"Good morning!" Helaena sang, her voice like a bell bouncing off the worn red brick of the yard, and she waved excitedly at him and Ser Criston. "It's been so long since I've seen you with a sword."

Sweet, supportive sister.

Aegon peered into the basket she was holding, snatching a piece of gingerbread. "Wine?" he asked with a hopeful look.

"Mother says you're to dry out so that you stop sweating wine." Aemond's tone was neutral, but his sly little smirk - what Mother would call sweet innocence - was all that he needed to provide.

"Does she not care to witness her son's humiliation that she ordered by her own queenly command?" His voice was light as he pulled on his padded coat over his tunic. At least Ser Criston was letting him ease back into things. No need to cut him and have him grow leprous the way their father had. He felt a vague dread at his siblings' pitying glances. He yanked at the strap on his tunic as Aemond moved towards the ring, twirling his wooden sword in hand.

His brother had long moved to live steel and Aegon's bitterness was acrid in the back of his throat. Or maybe it was just the lingering effects of the wine. He grimaced at the weight of the practice sword in hand and reached for a second one. It had been months since he'd dragged himself to the training yard. When Aemond lost his eye, he threw himself into the blade, and Aegon felt overshadowed as his brother earned admiration and love for something he was supposed to excel at. The presence of Daeron would worsen the situation, but it might shame Aemond with him before the shining little star.

"Alright, let's warm up. Aemond, what we did yesterday. You," Ser Criston pressed the tip of his own wooden sword - a toy in the hand of a Kingsguard and the Queen's sworn protector - into Aegon's chest, “You surely remember how this goes, right? It's been some time. Mayhaps you'd like to start off with only one, my prince?"

The taste of bile continued in the back of Aegon's throat. This man might be the closest thing he had to a father, no matter how he rejected it. Ser Criston Cole was there, without his gleaming Kingsguard armor, and he spoke to him in the same holier than thou tone he would to Ser Harwin Strong.

“Breakbones.” Ser Criston's voice would drip in sharp venom. Breakbones to the man who he'd witnessed act with kindness to his little sister, who had inquired to his well being when Aegon had been hacking away at the practice dummy until splinters of his sword had embedded into his palms. Who'd pressed a cup of cold water in his hands and simply sat with him as he desperately tried to catch his breath.

Aegon felt the muscle in his jaw tense and jump, his ears burning with a feeling that he would not acknowledge. It was the wine. The hangover. Nothing more. Aegon used his left sword to knock Ser Criston's away and the man let him with a smirk.

He should apologize.

He should ask Abby how she truly felt. He should ask her why she had gotten so upset when he laughed. He should… do a lot of things. Aemond was probably right, insufferable as always, despite his lack of understanding when it came to their sister.

Riding. He would take her riding, Aegon decided, while his man set out fresh clothes and his riding leathers. He scrubbed the sweat off the back of his neck and concocted his plan. Yes, he'd pack a basket of wine - no, cider, Abrogail preferred cider, but he preferred wine. So, a sweet wine. Yes. Perfect. There certainly would be cakes in the kitchens, and they would picnic beneath the afternoon sun in the Kingswood. By the lake, he thought, tugging the loose, bleached linen shirt over his head and shoving his legs into his trousers. Black wool for warmth and leather along the inside of the thighs for strength. The lake where they'd played as children would be perfect.

The last time, they'd played capture-the-treasure, during Rhaenyra's nameday before she'd left for Dragonstone. Helaena refused to be the princess, so Abrogail took her place and had been quite the quarry. She'd called Jace and Luke for help and he had to fight them off until Aemond and Helaena showed up.

Aegon paused as he pulled his hair back from his face. Maybe he should get her something. Girls liked trinkets and pretty things. It always excited Helaena when Aemond brought her bugs and flowers. A frustrated sigh and he grabbed his jacket. "Where's my sister and her ladies?" he asked his man, who'd been tossing the used water out the window.

"With her Grace, your mother, my prince," he said with a bow.

He winced. With his mother. Aegon wondered if he should ask if Lady Abrogail was there, but Abby was always with Helaena.

The path to his mother's room was an achingly familiar one, and the knots in his stomach were frustrating and unpleasant. Why did she have to be with his mother? She'd been angry about the fight, and Aegon had been doing his best to avoid her while Aemond sported the worst of the bruises. Laughter echoed down the hall when he made the turn towards her chambers, and he flexed his hand, wiping it along his thigh. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

"You are close enough to my size, but I do not think this suits you for a wedding," came Mother's voice, through the half-open door. Thoughtful, critical, but not bad-critical. "Turn? I don't think this shade of red goes well with you."

"The curse of red hair," was Abby's reply, light and agreeable as always. "It's a beautiful dress, your Grace, but should this not be for Helaena?"

"I don't like it," came her sister's complaint. "It feels like it wants to hook into my arms. Oh! Hello Aegon!" she called, and he realized they caught him before he could even announce his entrance.

He wondered if Helaena knew he was coming.

Mother's room was full of afternoon light streaming through the southern facing windows. Helaena sat on the couch facing towards him, running her fingers through an assortment of brightly colored ribbons in her lap. Mother stood by the window, speaking to the woman who knelt at her feet, adjusting the hem of the dress that Abby wore. She stood on the stool in front of the mirror, and from where he stood in the doorway, he had the perfect view of her reflection.

The red of her curls glowed almost as gold as Sunfyre's scales where the sun caught them unbound down her back. Abby smiled uncertainly as she gazed at her reflection, her hands on the golden dragon decorations on her shoulders. She wore a cream dress with deep Targaryen red slashes in the back of the skirt and long tapered sleeves lined in the same blood crimson.

Aegon's mouth went dry at the sight of her, and the way her eyes widened when she looked towards him over her shoulder. As his mother turned to look at him also, he tried to school his appreciating expression to one that wouldn’t get him scolded and thrown out. Abby’s face was one of surprise, his mother's expression one of exasperation.

"I…" He couldn't speak. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and he wiped his hand on his thigh again. The twisting sensation in his gut moved lower, familiarly, and he shifted his jacket in front of him.

"Ser Criston tells me you performed well in the training yard this morning," his mother said, and the exasperation turned… into a smile. Not a large one, but a genuine smile all the same.

"Did he?" Abby asked, looking at his mother, then she positively beamed at him, which wasn’t what he expected after the way things ended in the garden a fortnight ago. "Well done! Did you use both swords today, or just the one?"

Aegon swallowed and felt the blood rush to his cock and to his cheeks. "Just the one. The one sword." Not quite a lie, as his dual swords did not last very long. Why did he sound like that? High pitched and voice cracking as if he were a kitling like Aemond. "I don't think Ser Criston wanted to face me with both, no matter how rusty I am." He cleared his throat, rocked on his feet. "Need to lull him into a false sense of security. Underestimate. Your opponent, I mean."

Helaena giggled.

Aegon's cheeks flamed hotter.

"Well," his mother stared at him, and it really did nothing to dissuade the discomfort in his trousers. "I'm very glad to hear that. Was there something you needed?"

‘Her. I need her.’ Aegon didn’t know how to voice the prayer.

"I… I was just letting… I'm going riding. On Sunfyre. I'll be back by supper." His voice didn't crack again, and he got all the words out. Huzzah.

"Oh! Abby's outgrown my old riding clothes," Helaena said with such excessive delight that Aegon wanted to throttle her. "We should also have new ones made for her. Perhaps they could match Aegon's!" His sister's bright eyes met his, and he could sense the mischief radiating off her. "You could leave your jacket, wear your spare today."

Aegon took everything back. He hated his sister.

"That's a good idea, but Aegon doesn't need to leave anything," Mother mercifully cut in. "Enjoy your riding, Aegon."

"Have a wonderful ride, Aegon," Abby echoed, averting her eyes and turning back to the mirror.

"Are the rooms prepared for Lord Tully and his retinue?" the Queen asked Lady Fossoway, who sat across the table with parchment scattered across the blue and green tablecloth. Abrogail took her seat on the other end of the Queen's settee, the elder woman sparing her a glance and a small smile of greeting.

"Yes, your Grace. Lord Tully and the Lords Bracken and Blackwood will have rooms within the South Tower," Lady Fossoway confirmed. "Lord Vance will join them, and Ser Simon Strong will meet with their party when they reach Harrentown."

"Uncle Simon's coming?" Abrogail broke in. Lady Fossoway's green eyes flicked up to her and Abrogail felt as if she should apologize for speaking out of turn. The words caught in her throat and she broke the lady's gaze to look at the Queen, who was watching the exchange with an unreadable expression in her dark eyes. Something in it felt like a test, and so Abrogail continued. "Larys said that Uncle Simon would relay to Aegon and I about the current state of Harrenhal and where we might start."

She almost said where Aegon might start, but Abrogail understood that in running a lord's holding, both husband and wife had their duties. Queen Alicent sat on the Small Council, and she knew from stories that her own lady mother had run Harrenhal before they joined her father in the capital.

"Yes, he'll be staying with us through the tourney, so that the pair of you may be better acquainted," the Queen confirmed and Lady Fossoway's eyes averted back to the parchments. "Abrogail, I'd like you to join me in the small council as our cupbearer."

Lady Fossoway's gaze rose again, only just.

"Shouldn't…" Confusion overtook her previous uncertainty. "Shouldn't that be for Aegon, or Helaena, or even Aemond?" Or Jacaerys, she thought, but did not say.

"Aemond will also serve. The two of you will take turns, but I want you to have the experience before you leave for the Riverlands. Della, Lord Grover's maester, has requested a meeting with Grandmaester Mellos to see about the ailments he's having. Make sure he tends to him. Can't have him dying beneath our roof." Clipped tones, matter of fact, one item after another.

They passed a parchment to her, and Abrogail took it. A list of ladies and houses filled the page. Alerie Blackbar, Wylla Karstark, even Allana Tyrell and Josana Lannister. She even saw the names of the Blackwood girls as she scanned down the page. "You and Helaena will each take a Baratheon into your circles, and then between you both, you can find which of these ladies will be appropriate for your needs." The Queen continued to speak to another of her ladies who had just come in and Abrogail took a deep breath, fingers wrinkling the edges of the page.

"Aegon should do it," she said in a rush, and the gazes of the three women now gathered around her turned to look. Abby took a deep breath and licked her lips.

Marrying Aegon makes me a princess, she thought. And she wants to make him King, and I'll be his Queen.

"With respect, I am grateful for the opportunity, but Aegon should be cupbearer before we leave. It would be prudent for him to understand the workings of the council, especially since he shall be in the position of vassal in the future." Vassal to his elder sister. To speak otherwise would be treason, even among this circle.

The Queen’s large, brown eyes watched her for a long moment and Abrogail did all she could not to shrink away from it. There was something deeply unsettling about it, as if she saw something weak inside her that she wanted to sink her teeth into at worst, or at best, bat around like a lazy cat to see what Abrogail might do. The watchful gaze felt like it lasted for eternity before the Queen finally lifted a hand towards her ladies in dismissal. The women quickly moved and Lady Fossoway shut the door, leaving Abrogail with Alicent Hightower and the anxiety at speaking up threatening to suffocate her.

"You are a good girl, aren't you?" she said after a long exhale that did not quite ease the tension riddled line of her shoulders. The Queen reached out and her cool fingers tucked Abrogail's hair behind her ear. Her curls hung free down her back, a simple twist on either side of her head keeping them from getting in the way.

The Queen was beautiful, as she always was, with her auburn curls pulled back with tendrils loose around her face, untouched by gray. Beautiful, and ever melancholy. Even when she smiled, it did not wipe away the shadow that lingered along her regal features.

Abrogail would never speak it aloud, but the Queen and Aegon looked more alike every day, and it broke her heart.

She did not answer, and one did not appear to be expected of her. The knuckles of the Queen's hand traced along the curve of Abby's cheek and instinct compelled her to reach up and take the woman's hand in her own to hold. No different from what she might do with the others, even if it was stepping over a boundary that she wasn’t supposed to cross. There was pain in the woman's eyes that hurt to see, for the Queen, for Alicent Hightower, was the closest thing that Abrogail had left to a mother anymore.

An almost child she might be, but Abrogail was under no illusion that she was as important to the Queen and the Hand as if she were a true child of the crown. There was no one left for that, and so, she would do all that she could to be valuable.

"I am merely a reflection of the lessons and values you've instilled in me, your Grace," Abrogail said, fingers squeezing the Queen's hand. "I want to make you proud, and to not dishonor you, especially now that I am to be your good-daughter."

"A daughter," came the swift correction that had Abrogail looking up with surprise. "You are like one of my own children. I have watched you grow the same as them. The only difference is I don't have to worry about you the way I do them, now do I?" The Queen extracted her hand and Abrogail folded hers in her lap. "You are a wonderful influence, and I am ever grateful."

“Always smiling, it warms my heart in these trying times, a stór,” her papa would tell her when Mama was sick. Never stop.

So she didn't.

"Forgive a mother for her inclinations," the Queen continued. "I understand that the decision made has changed everything for you and it's not a simple thing. This is one of those events in our lives that we as women must endure, and we must make do." The Queen paused, looking away, and Abrogail watched the Queen's fingers twist, fingers picking at her thumbnail. “Aegon is certainly not whom you imagined. I never thought I would marry the King. I was young and thought I might marry a Tyrell, or perhaps a Tarth. Knights of flowers and charm."

Something cold settled in Abrogail's stomach. It was an unsettling and familiar sensation, one that ran through her veins when they stood as witness to Aegon's tongue lashings, the sharp crack of a hand. Sometimes there would be the thunderous threat of warning when the Lord Hand was giving it, for he would raise a hand to Aegon and Aemond both.

She'd noticed the Queen flinching during those moments, a pale look of dread on the woman's face in the presence of her father.

"My apologies, your Grace," Abrogail spoke softly, mouth turned into an uncertain, her brow furrowing. "I don't quite understand what you mean."

She wanted to hear Aegon's mother say it.

The Queen reached out to take both of her hands and held them tightly, thumbs rubbing soothing strokes along the back of Abrogail's palms. Brown eyes glistened with unshed tears, a softness to the Queen's features that reminded Abrogail of Aegon and a faint memory of her own mother.

"Aegon refuses to listen to me. He’s out of control. He is determined to flaunt every privilege granted to him, every opportunity we set before him." When the Queen took a shuddering inhale, it felt as if she was drawing the air from Abrogail's lungs to sustain herself. "He's like Rhaenyra in that way, but she was eager to serve the King on his council. Aegon, sadly, lacks the same ambition she has. Fortunately, you and I, my dearest, are very much alike. Therefore, I've asked you to serve, not him."

Abrogail's gaze followed the Queen's fingers as they held hers, unable to face the hurtful expression in her eyes. She thought of Aegon vomiting in the bushes after he dragged her from the Hand's tower. He clutched at her like demons from the hells would reach up and tear them apart. Even when he’d hurt her the way he had, unintentional as she was sure it was, Abrogail couldn’t hate him.

Slowly, she extracted her hands from the queen and leaned back to put some distance between them. Teeth caught at her lower lip as she tried to find her words.

‘I am to be his wife, and that is a sacred thing,’ she thought. It didn't matter if they were Lord and Lady, or King and Queen. They would be Aegon and Abrogail, married beneath the eyes of the Old Gods and the New, and like the example shown by the Queen, Abrogail would stand by Aegon through whatever trials awaited.

The promise was made years ago in the cold room at Driftmark, while she cut his long curls with embroidery scissors and he wept for his brother and cursed his father.

"You've watched us our whole lives. You’ve borne witness to the games we've played, the companionship and trust that we've built, and yet you feel you must apologize to me?" Her voice wavered, but her posture was strong, and she held the Queen's gaze. "I know Aegon. I've known him my whole life and while maybe we aren't as close as we once were, I know these good things are still there."

Abrogail remained steadfast and silent, hoping the Queen would understand Aegon was not a punishment. Despite everything, she knew that the kind boy she had known was still there, and she was confident that she could help him find his way back. She wouldn't have to spend her nights wondering if news of Aegon's death in Flea Bottom would reach her by morning.

"Abrogail, your heart is gentle, but your fond memories do not erase the egregious things he does now. Not his drinking, his lechery, his bad habits. But, if we work together - you, me, and your Uncle Otto? We can shape him into the king that he needs to be. That takes trust, my dear child." With each word out of the Queen's mouth, Abrogail's heart fell, and a mournful understanding took root inside her chest. "We do not leave you to handle Aegon on your own. You tell me everything, and we'll handle it. Do you understand, my sweet Abrogail?"

Did she understand everything, sweet girl that she was?

Sweet girl. Darling girl. Dearest Abrogail. Sweet Abrogail. Little Maiden Marchpane, sweet as honey, and so easily devoured.

Mo stór beag, Papa would call her, the River tongue rolling off him as easily as common. My little treasure.

The loud sound of the door opening broke the silence, boots scraping across the stone floor, and both of them jumped at the suddenness of it. Aegon entered silently, his jaw tight, lips pursed, and hair disheveled.

"Aegon," she said, her voice lilting, immediately drawing back from the Queen, feeling an easing sensation in her chest that chased away the cold. Abby smiled while the queen frowned at the intrusion.

She watched him move, glancing between them, and Abby stood up, fingers smoothing the pale blue and gold silk of her gown. She wondered if she still had to curtsey to him now that they were engaged; Aegon was apathetic about such things, while the Queen was not.

At the moment, Queen Alicent's thoughts were irrelevant to her. Despite still feeling heartsore from the morning in the gardens, Abby smiled at Aegon. It was not a bright one, but it was there all the same, and focused on him.

Aegon seemed confused, then his face softened as he searched her face for something she didn't understand. He then turned his gaze to his mother. "Abby's coming with me this afternoon," he said with no sort of greeting except the clearing of his throat. "We're going riding. We'll be back before nightfall."

The command of it all brought a flush to Abby’s cheeks, and she cast her eyes to the ground to avoid the piercing look the Queen was giving them both. It was a complicated feeling that tumbled inside of her chest; she was still hurt, though the bruise on her arm from where he’d grabbed her had faded. In truth, Abby was still sour about it all, but in the wake of the conversation and the Queen’s request, in the aftermath of her frustration and distaste for her son, and her own insistence of Aegon being given a place to serve and not her, she felt protective of him - gentled towards Aegon. And it was a feeling that was most certainly helped by the way he simply walked into his mother’s room to state "Abby’s coming with me." There was no asking for permission, nor even a greeting to his mother. She wondered if it was nerves, she wondered if he had seen something in her expression that spurred it.

Abby knew though that she didn’t have to wonder at her answer to it.

"Abrogail is assisting me with the arrangements for the tournament, Aegon. Perhaps you should find Aemond. I believe he's still training in the yard with Ser Criston," the Queen said, indulgent but firm in her tone.

Abby's mind was racing as she swallowed nervously. "Your Grace, I apologize, but Aegon and I had already planned to ride." She looked at the Queen with her eyes demure, a curtsy dropped, the lie flowing from her so easily she could not believe herself. "I’ll take the time to pry his mind for things he'd like at the feast."

As Abby moved, Aegon's gaze shifted from his mother to her, making her stomach tighten. It reminded her of the look on his face in the fountain beneath the weeping cherry tree. Her hand reached out for him and she bobbed another graceful curtsy to the Queen. "Your Grace," she murmured. It was her turn to pull him out of the suffocating room and Aegon’s huff of surprised laughter made her grin.

Chapter Text

The late morning sun was shining warm and bright, and the gravel courtyard outside the Dragonpit felt as if it was baking as Abby followed Aegon out of the carriage, taking his offered hand to help her down before he quickly dropped it. She fingered the golden buttons on the leather riding jacket the Queen had given her, the pad of her thumb dragging along the imprint of the high tower embossed on each one. The lining of the frock was a deep, verdant brocade, similar to the elegant pattern the Queen often wore at feasts and at court. Soft fleece lined the cuffs and the neck to keep the chill of the air at bay. It was an awkward fit, but not uncomfortable given that it was not made for her.

Helaena had brought up her lack of actual riding gear that was meant for her, and not modified hand me downs. “She’ll be the wife of a dragonrider and a princess. Abby should dress the part,” Helaena had said idly and the truth in the statement had rung clear in the room. The Queen had been reluctant to speak about why she had such a garment. The leathers had been neatly folded and wrapped in protective cloth at the bottom of a trunk and the melancholy look in her brown eyes had kept Abby from inquiring further as she accepted the gift.

The carriage left, Sers Arryk and Lorent remaining behind on their horses, who whickered and pawed uncomfortably on the ground when the dragon emerged from the pit.

Sunfyre was a breathtaking sight.

All dragons were, truthfully. Even growing up among the clutch, even having ridden them, they still astounded her. Sunfyre arched his neck, calling out a warbling greeting and shaking out his wings. She giggled as the beast almost trotted in the way Theraxis did when she called her cat sweet baby. Sunfyre’s purrs and chortles of glee were only matched by Aegon’s sullen quiet melting away as he rushed to close the distance with a loud whoop of greeting.

The dragon’s head bent down to knock into his rider and Aegon’s arms embraced his snout, rare Valyrian words flowing from him. Abby kept her distance until it was safe to come closer, her hands having finished buttoning up her coat and now folded in front of her. A surge of affection coursed through her at the bright sound of Aegon’s laughter, and when he looked at her over his shoulder, arm out to beckon her closer, she did not hesitate.

“Rytsas, Sunfyre,” Abby sang out in greeting and Aegon guided her hand to Sunfyre’s warm snout. It had been months since she’d been there, and her already awkward Valryian felt even more hesitant. “Olvie gevie iksā,” she said in crooning tones pulled sort of purring sound from Sunfyre that sent her giggling. She gently scratched at his scales the way Aegon showed her, right around the curve of his nostril. “I’ve missed you very much,” she said, and pressed a kiss against his nose, the scent of dragon musk filling her senses and the heat of him almost too much. “Thank you for letting me ride you today.” Aegon made a sound beside her, and she scoffed. “He doesn’t have to let me ride him, so of course I should thank him.”

“Do you thank everything that you ride?” he asked, innocence lacing his tone, and Abby glanced over at him in confusion.

“You mean like the horses? Of course I do! It’s called being polite,” she said primly. “You could stand to use your manners more.” Aegon’s lilac eyes flashed with amusement, mouth half curled up as if he was enjoying a joke she wasn’t in on. Abby pressed her lips together as the meaning dawned on her, which turned Aegon’s half curl into an impish grin. “You are utterly ridiculous.”

He tilted his head towards her and his hands moved closer to hers along Sunfyre’s snout, scratching and stroking. “I’m not the one calling Sunfyre a good and beautiful boy and speaking to him like a kitling.”

Abby rolled her eyes, unable to help the smile on her face. “But he is a good boy. And don’t think that just because I don’t speak much Valyrian that I don’t know that you are telling him the same thing. Jealous?” She cocked her head and reached up to stroke her fingers along Aegon’s jaw with a laugh. “Aegon, you’re such a good and beautiful boy. Thank you for taking me riding.” Not that he had given her much choice in the matter, but she didn’t really mind that much.

Aegon’s cheeks flushed a shade of pink to match his eyes and he made a noise in his throat. It was amusing to hear Sunfyre make another purring sound at the same time, a pleased kind of growling noise that Abby could feel vibrating through her. She quite enjoyed making Aegon blush, even if she wasn’t sure what caused it. Aegon’s hand snapped up to catch hers, thumb caressing her palm through her kidskin gloves and pressed her hand firmly back to Sunfyre’s snout.

“Umbagon,” he commanded, and Abby wracked her brain to remember what that meant while Aegon moved back towards Sunfyre’s gleaming saddle and went to work fiddling with the saddlebags.

Abby huffed and leaned in to Sunfyre, murmuring, “He was telling you to stay, not me, right? You know, he was very mean to me the other day.” She pressed closer, resting her cheek against the dragon’s scales as if it were Helaena she was whispering her woes and injustices to. “I know he was scared and upset and it wasn’t really about me, but it still hurt my feelings.” Sunfyre rumbled softly, as if he could truly understand her, and he turned his head to bump into her. She stumbled back but leaned in all the same to keep her balance, for it wasn’t the first time he had done this, and she pressed another kiss to his snout. “It’s okay, I forgive him.”

“Forgive who?” Aegon called as he climbed back down from the saddle. She startled at the fact that he might have heard her. “Māzigon,” he commanded her again, tugging at her hand as soon as she was within reach. “Up you get!” He gripped her waist to help her climb up onto the joint of Sunfyre’s wing. From there, it was a relatively simple feat to grab onto the side handles to boost herself into the saddle and situate herself. It really wasn’t unlike getting on a horse in that sense.

Sunfyre shifted beneath her and Abby grabbed the hand grips in front, her belly sloshing with nerves. Her thighs tensed along the saddle to keep her balance and the sound of buckles drew her gaze down to where Aegon was doing up the leg straps. He’d explained, once, that the reason he did not need them was because he didn’t have to worry about Sunfyre bucking him off. There were a set of leather straps with sturdy iron clasps on the ends to hook along one’s belt to keep from accidentally falling from the saddle.

A new rider would have to be quick, and Aegon and Sunfyre were of one soul it seemed. When Aegon rode Sunfyre it was like an extension of himself. Abby remembered his quiet practice on a spare dragon saddle set up in the stables to see how fast he could get those leg buckles done before his first flight. Like Aegon, Sunfyre was incandescent with joy and had shot off in eager excitement at the prospect of dancing with his rider. Aegon hadn’t even had time to fasten the belt hooks and had his grip not been so tight, he might have fallen. Now Sunfyre was patient enough to stay still (outside of rocking back and forth on his feet like an excited pup) while Aegon tethered Abby in.

‘You,’ he’d told her, with all the confidence of a boy five and ten as he did the straps up the first time. ‘Need to stay on at all costs. You could fall off at any moment.’

‘I’m not the one who tried to ride drunk yesterday,’ she’d countered and he’d nearly yanked her off the saddle and sent her on her way.

Now, Abby busied her hands with hooking herself onto the saddle while Aegon climbed swiftly up beside her. It was as if he simply floated up compared to her awkwardly hoisting and wriggling her way into the saddle. She instinctively shifted forward to make room, and as Aegon slid in behind her, Abby became distinctly aware of how little room there actually was for them both. A soft exhale escaped her. Aegon’s hands rested on her hips to pull her in closer - as if she wasn’t close enough already. Heat suffused her cheeks and she wished that she did not blush so easily. With her hair braided tightly back, there was no hiding behind her curls. In the saddle as they were there was no way to put any proper distance between them.

A part of her did not actually mind it. That part of her was a sleepy thing she was growing aware of, something that had been with her before but now stretched awake inside of her.

Sunfyre made a chirruping kind of sound like he was talking and the vibrations of it thrummed through her. Every shift of movement from the dragon made her aware of how close they were pressed against one another, from the way their legs were pressed together all the way up to how his cheek brushed against hers when he leaned over to tug at her waist straps.

“Good job,” he told her, his breath brushing against her ear. Abby swore her flush deepend and a sense of pride combined with that warm feeling from the closeness. “Ready?” Aegon leaned over, pressing her forward as he wrapped his black gloved fingers right over her own, still covered in verdant leather and resting on the handles.

Her belly swooped, from Sunfyre’s shifting or the way Aegon blanketed her was yet another mystery. “Can you ask him to go fast?” She asked softly as the dragon keepers backed away, Sunfyre’s wings spreading and flexing, his head turning to and fro to test the wind along his face. Aegon chuckled and his nose briefly nuzzled against her ear.

Abby was now certain of how crimson her face had gone.

“Ask him nicely,” he said, mouth close to her ear and she shivered instinctively. Amusement filled his voice and the dragon made his own warbling sound, as if he too knew what was going on.

Abby huffed, searching her mind for all the Valyrian she knew, and then decided it didn’t really matter. “Dear Sunfyre, would you pretty please fly fast the way I like? It would make me very happy if you did, because Aegon was mean to me the other day for no reason.”

Aegon made an indignant sound, and Sunfyre lifted his head, arching his golden, gleaming neck to let out a call toward the sky, wings extending before he started forward and took off.

Aegon whooped with glee and Abby screamed in fearful delight as Sunfyre left the ground, wings beating and steeply vertical. Her stomach could not make up its mind if it wanted to remain on the ground or up in the sky with her. Held steady by Aegon’s grip, Abby released the tension in her arms, letting his weight press into her and not fighting it. the pair leaning forward as one did a horse going uphill; the fastest, deadliest horse imaginable.

Aegon’s hollering and shouts of joy caught on the wind, and as the cold tore tears from her eyes, she grinned at the way his head was thrown back, joyously calling in time with Sunfyre. It was so different from the anger and fear that had coalesced inside him for the past fortnight. Never did Aegon look happier and freer than he did on dragonback.

“What?” he asked her after Sunfyre evened out, higher than the tallest towers of the Red Keep they lazily circled around, and Abby realized she was still watching him. Her face was warm, eyes red from the tears, but she could feel her smile breaking across her face and Aegon laughed. “What is it?” he asked, reaching up a gloved hand to brush her tears away, his own forgotten about.

She crinkled her nose, feeling shy with her encouragement and the feeling of being pressed so close to him. Aegon's eyes were bright, a half smile tugging on the corner of his mouth and dimpling his cheek.

“It’s just good to see you happy. You’ve been… very much not lately,” she said, and shifted against him, hips wiggling to find a different position.

Aegon shifted in turn, his hand falling from her cheek to grip her hip to still her. “Are you going to tattle about that too?” He didn’t sound angry or put out, his voice more an amused resignation.

“No,” she promised, sincere and mischievous all at once. “Just to the one who truly matters.” Abby leaned forward to scratch at Sunfyre’s neck just past the saddle horn.

“I’m going to wake up one morning to find you his new rider, and I’ll be the one needing to be buckled in.” His mock annoyance made her giggle. Aegon’s hand moved drag around her waist and haul her back and she settled with a soft sound. Not that she would complain much - even bundled up, it was chilly up here, and Aegon’s warmth could be felt through the layers between them.

“Stay,” he commanded again and she huffed. Sunfyre chittered and Valyrian flowed past Aegon’s lips, against her ear, and she couldn’t quite catch all that he said with how quickly it came. Sunfyre gave another chitter and she was given the distinct feeling that the pair were talking about her, no matter how foolish the idea might sound.

“I’m staying, I’m staying.” She almost teased him about needing a cuddle, but physical affection was never something she joked about amidst the clutch. Not when it was already so rarely given by their mother, and never from their father, or Uncle Otto. Abby would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it, being tucked up against him. She could smell the scent of lavender and mint on his skin, the leather of his jacket and the smell of rain that clung to them both from the clouds. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying being cuddled into his arms, for she no longer received that kind of affection either. Always giving. Never receiving.

Except now, as Aegon held her to him like she might slip from the saddle if he didn’t.

It was comforting and familiar; even with being leagues in the sky, the warmth and scent of Aegon around her, and Sunfyre beneath her, made her feel safer than with both feet on the ground. Nothing could harm her up here. Nothing could steal her away from the people she loved and cared for. Aegon wouldn’t let anything happen to her, not when he took such care to make sure she stayed in the saddle. His arm tightened around her waist, head resting against hers while Sunfyre lazed about the sky like a seagull or a hawk, letting the currents carry them southeast and away from the city.

Time lost all meaning up in the sky with just the three of them. Abby leaned further back into Aegon, her head tilted back on his shoulder, and closed her eyes to let the sun kiss her cheeks, now growing chilled from the height.

Up here, Alicent Hightower did not seek to use her to control her son. Up here, Aegon did falter beneath the fate of his family’s choices. Up here, they could simply be; Aegon, Abby, and Sunfyre amongst the clouds, where nothing could ever hurt them.

“Where are we going?” she asked, feeling dreamy and so vibrantly awake all at the same time. She lifted her arms out as Sunfyre dipped, laughter bursting from her when her stomach swooped up to her throat at the sudden descent. Aegon’s laughter joined her, and he grasped her hands to get them back on the saddle horn. It was a lazy, gentle descent all things considered, but Sunfyre was playful in how he rose and fell in an ever tightening circle.

The Kingswood lay before them and eventually the dragon settled on the ground. It was a gentle landing, but it still rocked the pair of them. Aegon slid down first to release her leg straps and Abby took the time to unhook herself and let the nauseous feeling settle lest she vomit all over the poor dragon. It was always like that when coming back down for a ride. Once the nerves settled and the ground became a truth once more, everything wanted to come barrelling up. Abby carefully swung her leg over and made her way back down the same way she’d climbed up. Aegon’s arms enveloped her when she jumped from Sunfyre’s wing joint and she pressed her face against his shoulder as he gently swung her around and down.

“How’re your legs?” he asked, tugging at the tie that held his hair back from his face. Moonlit curls fell into his eyes, obscuring them somewhat and she nodded, reaching up to push his hair from his face.

“Good, just a little queasy is all.” Aegon nodded and lifted his fingers to his mouth, tugging his gloves off with his teeth and headed back to the saddle to retrieve whatever he’d stored in the bags. Abby licked at her lower lip, tilting her head to watch how his arms flexed when he climbed up. His jacket was a little too tight for him in the shoulders, and she could practically hear the creak of leather as he dug around the saddle bag to pull another satchel out.

They were betrothed.

He was going to drape her in the cloak of his house and kiss her in the sept.

Abby inhaled and pressed her gloved hands to her cheeks, as if that alone could stop the blushing. It wasn’t like she’d never kissed Aegon before. She’d kissed him on the cheek plenty of times. He’d even kissed her on the mouth, once, as children in the godswood, until they were caught by Septa Lyserra, who’d yanked her away and slapped her soundly for being wanton, for playing games they had no understanding of; how shameful it was when she was the princess’ companion.

She thought about the Queen’s disapproval, the look that she was leveled with, and the guilt when she slapped Aegon and then grabbed her and shook her until her teeth rattled in her head.

Aegon tossed his hair back from his eyes, the silver glinting gold in the afternoon light and hopped down in a smooth, practiced motion that had Abby’s eyes flitting down to the way his thighs flexed to absorb the impact.

“What is it?” He asked with a confused laugh when he caught sight of her, and she shook her head, wisps of hair that the flight had pulled from her braid catching about her cheeks.

“Nothing! Just worried when you jump down, that’s all.” She cleared her throat and gave him a smile, bringing her hands down from her face. “What do you have?”

“Lunch,” he said with a self-satisfied look. “I wanted to… ah.” He jostled the bag in his hands as he approached, a flash of uncertainty on his features while he tried to find whatever words currently escaped him. Sunfyre made a soft, purring sound behind them, moving further into the sunlit glen they’d landed in and contenting himself like a cat in the sun and flowers.

There was an urge to cut in, to smooth away the awkwardness that enveloped Aegon in the moment, but despite admiring the way his throat arched when he turned his head to avoid eye contact, she was still sore about the garden. It was frustratingly easy to forgive Aegon for all that he did, because there was no one else to do it. Truthfully, she did not mind it, for someone needed to be on his side; someone in Aegon’s life that did not feel the need to judge him, or condemn him, or hurt him.

Yet, Aegon had hurt her. Even if he hadn’t meant it. And though if he never really apologized for the hurtful things he did, he wasn’t the only one. Aemond and Helaena didn’t apologize either. Abby supposed it was something about being royal, and being a Targaryen.

The words tore at her throat, begging to be released. “It’s alright, Aegon, there’s nothing be sorry for.”

Abby pressed her mouth shut.

Aegon swiped another hand through his hair, then reached out for her gloved hand. But didn’t take it, not yet. She looked at it while her own fingers were folded demurely in front of her. His fingers twitched and she didn’t know if by not meeting his eyes, she was making it easier for him, or protecting herself.

Both, perhaps.

His fingers flexed in the air as if he could grasp her fingers by intent alone and he curled them into a fist, drawing back and letting out a long sigh.

“I didn’t think you were upset anymore,” he said with only a slightly sullen tone.

“Well, sometimes you don’t always think,” she replied and finally raised her eyes to peer at him and his taken aback expression. Aegon’s mouth opened and closed like a fish and she was tempted to laugh at the expression had the moment not been what it was.

“You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?” Sullen tones were replaced with a peevishness that was more suited to Aemond than Aegon, and that got a soft snort of amusement from her. She found she rather liked this change of not immediately comforting him and reassuring him that all was well and good between them. The Queen’s words still clung about her like a sticky film, and there was the lingering adrenaline from daring to speak her mind - carefully as she could - that made Abby think that maybe she enjoyed feeling this way. She tilted her head, chin up, and met Aegon’s gaze with her own calm and expectant expression.

Aegon arched a brow at her in return, curiosity lit in his lilac gaze, and Abby did everything she could to ignore the way her belly did the swooping thing it did while they rode Sunfyre. There was a streak of pink across his nose and the tops of his cheeks and it made his pale dusting of freckles stand out, as well as along his hairline from the bright sun. He didn’t burn as easily as Helaena or herself did.

“I wasn’t looking to hurt you that morning,” he finally said with a sigh and he shifted the picnic bag in front of him. “You were doing that thing with your smile that drives me mad and I needed to get you out of there.”

“What?” Confusion overtook the distraction of his freckles and she felt herself at a loss for words. “What on earth did I do? Does my smile upset you so much that you seek to deride me for it?”

“No! That’s not what I meant.” He took a step forward, his hand lifting and it hung there between them. “You do this thing where you’re upset and you just keep smiling and acting like everything is alright.”

Abby had no words, and it was her turn for her mouth to open and close like a guppy. Flustered and confused and not at all sure how she was even meant to respond to it. “But isn’t it alright?” she asked. Her voice had gone high pitched with her confusion. “We know each other! We do like each other, Aegon! There are worse situations for us to be in!”

“I know that! I just-”

“You could be married to Helaena! Then Aemond would have to become a kinslayer because he’d lose his mind!” She continued, ignoring him. She didn’t know why, and really, she was supposed to be giving Aegon room to apologize, but the idea that her smile upset him so much? It confused her. It irritated her. “I don’t want to go to Faircastle only to be attacked by a Greyjoy fleet and made into some thrall or salt wife, let alone be any closer to my sister! She despises me!” Of that, she was most certain of. “Or be married to Lord Tully’s grandson who's old enough to be my father!”

Aegon took a step forward and hooked his fingers in the black belt of her jacket. The smell of his soap, that soothing lavender and mint, and the scent of dragon filled her and she found herself momentarily helpless to deny him and bat his hand away.

“You wouldn’t be a salt wife,” he said in a still, quiet tone that she hadn’t heard before and it threw her, leaving her softly stuttering. His eyes were downcast, focused on the way his fingers held onto her. “Sunfyre and I would come and rescue you.”

Even at her indignation, even as his tone dipped in that low way, Abby couldn’t help the way her mouth twitched, amusement threatening, and something she tried to force away. The desire to ease the dragon claws that had descended, to soothe the sullen expression, was as instinctive to her as breathing.

“Four days at least to get a raven to King’s Landing. I’d be on a rocky outcrop in the Iron Islands by then,” she said in a gentler tone.

There was a soft creak of leather when Aegon’s fingers tightened around her belt and he sharply tugged her closer. Abby stiffened immediately, her heart kicking up and something knotting tight and low in her belly. They were close now, not as close as they were before, but this felt different and she tilted her head back to look at him. He watched her, eyes searching her face.

“You keep doing that,” she whispered.

“Doing what?” The low tone hadn’t changed and she felt the flush of her skin deepen as if she were pressed against Sunfyre’s scales.

“Looking at me for some answer. I don’t know what you’re asking of me, Aegon.” She swallowed, tongue darting out to wet her lips. Her mouth felt dry, and the forest around them felt muffled, and it seemed like the only thing she could hear was Aegon’s breathing.

He didn’t answer immediately, but she could see how his eyes were darting over every inch of her face - every freckle, every flushed bloom across her cheeks, the way the wind had chapped at the tip of her nose.

“Do you hate this?” he finally asked. “Do you really want to be- ,” Aegon stopped then, his own tongue licking along his mouth, and she could see how his lower lip trembled, and Abby’s heart was pulsing in her throat, blood rushing through her ears. “You don’t hate me for this? For upsetting you?”

There was a painful ache in her chest. He sounded so lost, so confused. She felt a nagging feeling that he was trying to manipulate her, but she couldn’t ignore the genuine pain in his voice, for she knew it as well as she knew her own.

“Just because you upset me doesn’t mean that erases everything between us. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, Aegon.”

She swore that she heard him purr like Sunfyre when she said his name.

“You were terrified in there, and your smile was so convincing.” The quiet stillness remained, and he looked away from her eyes despite being the one to close the distance between them.

Abby blinked as the air left her lungs to join the observation that hung in the little space left between them. She couldn’t discern if it was because she hadn’t realized that was what she had been doing, or that he’d noticed at all.

Slowly, she reached into the minimal space between them to tug off her own gloves, and rested her hand along the back of his that held her belt hostage. The warmth of his fingers felt like a balm against the coolness of her own, but she focused on stroking his hand in reassurance, allowing the movement to soothe the confusion inside of her.

“So were you. That was a brave thing you did, standing up to Lord Otto and leaving… bringing me with you. I couldn’t have done it.” Even if it had ended in dismissive laughter and harsh words. She reached for his hand to deflect the attention from him. Maybe it was more than Aegon deserved, but that was who she was. Aegon’s gaze snapped to hers, then caught on her mouth. Abby was relieved; she didn’t think she could stand it if he met her eyes because she didn’t know what she might do.

“So you were upset with me, but now you’re not upset with me, and you don’t hate me,” he said, but the stillness had given way to something different. His voice had taken a deeper tone that made the knot low in her belly tighten further. “Don’t toy with me, Abby.”

Unlike everything else, his warning was unmistakable.

Abby was undeterred. “It doesn’t mean I’m not still upset, and that I’m not still hurt,” she said softly, still standing her ground on that. “But none of that changes how I care about you. I’ve always cared about you, you ridiculous boy, and I always will. I don’t know how to not do that, even against my own better judgment sometimes.”

He had grown taller than her now, the top of her head reaching his shoulder. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him and all she could do was watch him. Even when she caught him drifting closer, she didn’t move away. Aegon knocked his head into hers, rubbing a cheek fuzzy with stubble against her own; it reminded her of the way Theraxis would purr and rub his soft face against hers. A shiver of relief washed through her. She inhaled sharply and held it in before shutting her eyes and leaning her head against his. His hair tickled at her nose, and when she concentrated hard enough, she was certain she could hear his heartbeat echoing into her chest. His face pressed against her shoulder and Abby lifted her arms to wrap around his shoulders and hold him close.

The picnic bag protested at being squashed between them.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered against her jacket.

She made an annoyed and put upon sound, breath fluttering at his hair with the action. “Thank you, I accept your apology.”

The knots and swooping feeling in her belly felt heady at the closeness and she pressed a kiss to the side of his head. Aegon made a sound at that. His hand still gripped her belt, the other she felt brush against her hip before dropping limply to his side and Abby found how much she liked feeling Aegon pressed against her. He was so warm, and it made her feel dizzy and they were going to have a bedding ceremony and a wedding night-

“So you brought me out here for a picnic!” Her voice was too loud to her ears and Aegon startled, eyes blinking rapidly and his face flushed as red as her own. He stumbled back and she reached for the bag to take from him but he held tight to it. “Well? I’ll set things out. You rode us out here-”

“I’ve got it!” His cheeks were flushed and he held the bag to him like some sort of shield. Abby opened her mouth to say something else but Aegon was already traipsing through the high grass of the glen towards the tree line and into the cool shadows of the Kingswood. She followed, hopping through the grass to keep up and looked back over her shoulder. Sunfyre was rolling around on his back and scratching at the ground, breathing flame on it carefully for whatever nest he was making himself to laze about in.

“Where are we going?” she called after him. The birds had begun chirping once more now that the great predator in the glen no longer posed an immediate threat. She had not been out here for some time. The king was growing ever sicker and the last hunt held had been a year or more before he’d lost the remainder of his arm. While she enjoyed horseback riding, one did not have many riding companions when said companions were dragonriders. In fairness, she supposed a galloping horse was far more sedate than soaring through the clouds.

Abby caught up to Aegon and slipped her hand into his, natural as breathing. His fingers curled reflexively around hers and she hummed in contentment when she felt his fingers tap against her.

It’s okay, the tapping signal said, and she returned it. I’m okay too.

“I was thinking we could sit by the lake,” he said with a sideways glance.

She laughed. “Are you going to push me in again? I didn’t bring a change of clothes.” A smirk crossed Aegon’s face, and the mischievous gleam flickered back in his eyes. “Neither did you - I believe I pulled you in with me last time.”

“No, we most certainly did not bring any change of clothes…”

“And we can’t fly back drenched, we’ll catch our death,” she hummed. “I guess that means we’ll have to stay out here.”

Aegon chuckled and shook his head. “I can’t imagine the fort is still up. You’ll have to make us a new one.”

“Me? Why me!” She shoved at his arm gently in indignation.

“Because I’m the prince.” Nose tilted up, amusement gentling the haughty expression on his face.

Abby rolled her eyes. “Yes, but I’ll be a princess, and it’s only right that you do it then. Provide shelter for your princess to keep her warm during the night.” She bit her lip as her words hung in the air and she felt Aegon’s gaze drift over to her again. His thumb rubbed over the back of her hand and her teeth pressed down harder as if she might hide the shy smile that threatened.

“Aye, you will…” Aegon trailed off in agreement. A large log lay in the path and without hesitation, Aegon released her hand and grabbed her up by the waist to hoist her up and handed her the satchel before pulling himself up. She reached to help him and they did the same getting down.

“Thank you,” she said softly, smiling at him for his kindness when her feet touched the ground and her belly swooped again. The feel of his hands around her waist felt impossibly hot. It didn’t feel like she should feel the heat of him through the layers and she tried to tell herself that it was because Aegon always ran hot.

Yes, it was simply that and not the closeness. Not the way he gripped her with ease and the creak of leather as his upper arms flexed beneath the fabric. “I suppose Sunfyre can help keep things warm. You know, since our clothes will be too wet and the nights get cold,” he continued as if he was completely unaffected by the moment.

Perhaps he was.

“If our clothes are too wet, we’ll have nothing to wear,” she continued and took his hand again. The sound of the water birds was growing closer and she could glean the sapphire shimmer of the lake just up ahead. “I’ll have to figure out how to make our clothes out of leaves or something.”

“You know,” he drawled softly, inclining his head to hers like a secret and she tilted her own towards him. “We could just wait it out. No need for extra effort that could be spent doing something else.”

Abby’s mouth parted, words failing her. “What, you’d hunt for our supper naked?”

“Who said anything about hunting?” Aegon said innocently.

Abby thought about the tapestries that had been moved to the gallery hall, that Septa Lyserra’s scoldings had forbidden her and Helaena from observing and yet, the pair of them had done so anyway with stolen muffins in the middle of the night once.

“Well, I…” Words stuttered over her tongue but she thought it was to her great credit that she met his gaze.

“Oh! We’re here! Give me that!” Aegon interrupted, and yanked the satchel off over her head, not even apologizing when he caught the buckle on her hair, and hurried through the last row of bushes to set up whatever picnic surprise he had planned.

The lake, although Abby wanted to call it a pond, for when she thought of lakes, she thought of the endless vast reach of the God’s Eye, and everything but the ocean paled in comparison, was calm that day, with only the gentlest of waves along its glittering surface. Birds called and chased one another across the expanse of it and she sighed happily, undoing the buttons on her borrowed jacket, leaving her in the soft linen of her short sleeve shirt and her wool and leather-reinforced riding pants. It felt a bit odd to be in trousers, picnicking, but she didn’t hate it. It certainly made traipsing through the forest easier. Settling on the soft blanket spread out for them, she picked up one of the meat pies Aegon had packed. It was only barely warm, but just enough that it made for a pleasant meal.

The pair of them ate in companionable silence, looking out at the lake and pointing out the various birds and other animals they caught sight of. They sat close enough she could feel the heat of him, but just enough room that they did not bump one another. Eventually, Aegon stripped himself of his own jacket, tugging at the laces of his own unbleached linen shirt and getting comfortable. His hair fell in a gentle curl into his eyes, his features relaxed, and something that looked like contentment softened the square cut of his jaw. It was always clenched whenever she saw him in recent months, and for the first time she could truly appreciate how relaxed he looked.

She thought about the things the queen had said to her. She thought about how cruelly she’d painted Aegon, as if there was nothing about him that was endearing. Yet, the warmth in her chest settled into a comforting sort of glow. He drank, and went to brothels, he got handsy with the servants… things that Abby didn’t ignore and didn’t like. He made her laugh, which she did like. He brought her on surprise picnics and told her he was sorry and not only did he bring his favorite honey cakes, but he’d also packed her favorite strawberry tarts.

Abby wiped her hands on her trousers and took a sip of water from the skein. “No wine?” she teased and Aegon scoffed, pulling out the tart apple cider in its sweating brown bottle.

“I’m supposed to ‘dry out’,” he sniffed, and gripped the cork with his teeth to open it, spitting it out towards the water’s edge and let out a victory shout at the soft ‘plop!’ it made upon landing in the water “Too much drink and I’m liable to hurt someone.” He vaguely gestured to his face, and Abby made a soft ‘ah’ sound.

“Hey!” Aegon did not remove his lips from the bottle as he took greedy gulps, but he glanced her way. “Don’t drink all of it! I want some too!” His eyes widened and he sputtered and hurriedly tried to stop, wiping away the rivulets of cider coursing down his chin.

Abby burst into laughter when Aegon stopped gulping in an attempt to behave himself. She might have felt sorry for it if they hadn't known one another so well. She couldn't explain why it was so funny except that he'd looked so sheepish about it, as if she'd caught him trying to steal a sweet off her plate.

The surge of affection she felt for him was enough to make her blush and she ducked further into the basket to hide it from him as she giggled. She wondered if this was how Sunfyre felt before his throat glowed and he burst a stream of golden fire at whatever lovely treat Aegon brought for him. It made Abby want to push him to the ground and pepper kisses all over his cheeks. Perhaps then the sadness in his eyes could be chased away. What hubris she had, to think she could be sunlight for the falling star that was Aegon: brilliant and beautiful, streaking across the sky; burning incandescently towards whatever end was meant for him, and there she stood, her hands up, waiting to catch him.

"I shall tell you a secret," she said as she retrieved the honey cakes from the basket. Delicate fingers broke off a morsel and she lifted it to his mouth and popped it past his plush lips to feed him. A greedy touch that lingered only for a moment before she licked the honey and sought the remnants of his taste on her fingertips.

Aegon was watching her, cheeks puffed somewhat from the cake she’d pressed into his mouth, the sun turning the lilac of his eyes pink. He was terribly still and she cleared her throat, and kept going.

“I’d hoped that maybe, um… it’s terribly silly. I stole honey cakes from the kitchen the other day, thinking that maybe you’d find out that I had them. That they’d… they’d call you to me or something.” Abby broke off another morsel to feed him.

Aegon’s mouth opened automatically, her fingers catching on his lower lip. His eyes had gone heavy lidded, watching her in the way that sent fire scorching through her veins and a heated, syrupy sensation curled low inside of her.

She watched him in return, counting his freckles, pale as dusted sugar across his nose. It was intimate. She shouldn't be doing it, but she felt drunk and alive in his presence and so Abby didn't care. "I've missed you these past few months. It's like everything loses a bit of color when you're not around." The second bit was quieter - the true secret. Her face warmed and was flushing as dark as her hair so she popped a piece of Aegon's honey cake in her mouth to shut up.

Abby stilled when she felt Aegon’s calloused palm gently wrap around her bare arm. Breath caught in her throat when his thumb caressed gently - so achingly gentle - over the yellowing bruises of his fingers from the other day in the garden.

“I’m sorry for these,” Aegon whispered, and she could feel the warm, damp puff of his breath against her skin and she immediately burst into goosebumps. The shiver that raced down her spine could not be denied. Something tightened in her stomach.

Words escaped her before she could even think. The ache was growing inside of her faster than it had before. “You could kiss them better.” She swallowed harshly, eyes affixed on some sort of middle distance towards the water’s edge, when she felt the gentle caress of his mouth against one of the tender spots. Abby couldn’t breathe. Heat spread from the top of her strawberry curled hair to the tips of her toes and her mouth had gone dry, the honey cake in her hand all but forgotten. She turned to look at the top of his head while he kissed her only to find those lilac eyes gazing up at her from beneath his eyelashes.

The flash of the soft pink of his tongue, the feel of it as he carefully traced the thumb print on her skin.

“I’d rather leave these kinds of marks on you,” he teased, voice so low that she swore it vibrated through her.

“I’d rather you did too,” she replied, and her mouth was dry, and his mouth had felt so soft. Aegon’s head lifted, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “You could, if it pleased you.”

His other hand came up and took the tip of her chin between forefinger and thumb, tilting her head down more. “It would please me to please you,” he said in a faraway sort of voice and his gaze was arresting and she felt an ache in her breasts, the desire to press against him. His thumb moved up the little dip in her chin and pressed against her bottom lip. Instinctively, her lips parted only just to press her tongue against the tip.

Aegon’s eyes were black, the lilac only a thin rim of color, and she watched his own tongue darted out to wet his lips.

It was unclear who closed the distance first. Perhaps it was both of them at the same time. But one moment, Abby was drowning in his heavy lidded gaze, the next, their mouths were brushing against one another. Aegon’s tongue teased along the curve of her cupid’s bow, and she made a sound she had no idea she was capable of when she pressed her mouth to his.

Her toes curled in her boots and Abby did not know where to put her hands. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to bury them in his soft curls, or to cup his cheeks, or wrap her arms around his neck and haul him closer, haul herself into him.

Aegon’s lips were unbearably soft - she never thought his lips could feel so soft, but they didn’t yield to hers. Another soft sound - maybe an attempt at his name, Abby wasn’t sure - escaped her and was eagerly swallowed by him. He shifted against her and while he kept control of the tilt of her head, guiding her into the kiss, his other hand came up to tenderly cradle her head. His tongue licked along the seam of her mouth once more, unyielding to her touch and she gave way to him, lost in the taste and touch of Aegon. Following his lead, her fingers buried themselves into his hair with an eagerness to keep him close and she felt something rumble through him and in turn, it drew something more desperate sounding from her.

She felt dizzy with it all, the floating sensation pleasant, the aching buzz through her veins, exciting.

Aegon licked against her tongue, her teeth, the soft insides of her cheeks, guiding her through his gentle exploration before he broke away. Pink blossomed over his soft cheeks, his eyes still heavy lidded and unfocused as they darted over her face, her parted mouth, down the flushed column of her throat and resting along the slight opening of the loosened shirt laces. Words were a complete loss. Aegon made no move to say anything either.

His mouth was red and plush. Her own tingled.

The birds called across the water.

Abby wanted to close her eyes and lean into his taste again and find out what other sounds she could pull from him. The other part of her wanted to lean in, to see if she could melt inside of him and never come out. To feel him against her like a warm, soft star.

Fingers slowly drifted away from his hair and he made a mournful sound that reminded her so much of Sunfyre. She found herself smiling and Abby leaned in, mouth caressing the flushed curve of his cheek. His arms came around her then, gently guiding her forward as he lay back and she nestled against his chest, head resting over the pounding beating of his heart.

A long, relieved sigh escaped her, a dreamy sort of giggle filtering though and she felt his own answering laughter beneath her cheek.

Chapter Text

Abby pressed her hands against her bared collarbones, feeling the prickle of heat that crept down her cheeks and flushed across every bit of skin that was revealed by the square cut neckline of the new gown. Wylla Karstark’s ruby red pout was pulled into an amused smile while she tugged at the laces of the other girl’s bodice. The pale blue taffeta had a satin shine and was, by far, the loveliest thing she’d ever owned. The neckline and cuffs of her fitted sleeves were edged with the finest ivory lace. Her golden red curls hung freely down her back, with delicate, mother of pearl combs keeping her hair from her face and the light, ivory veil that covered her hair in place. She watched Wylla move in the reflection of the mirror, wishing her own hair could look as thick and lovely as the elder girl’s raven curls.

“You look lovely, my lady.” Wylla’s northern accent was a song in itself, her amusement nothing but lighthearted. “You might make him swallow his tongue, since he already can’t keep his eyes off you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Aegon’s…” Abby bit her lip before Wylla tsked at her like a cat so she could dab some coral paint onto her mouth. Abby remained still and silent until she was done. “Aegon does, well, I mean I do catch him looking. But,” her brow furrowed and her hands fluttered and smoothed over the bodice of the dress. She missed her woven belt, and the feel of the tiny mends she’d made in the fabric.

“But what?” Wylla asked with a finely arched eyebrow and promptly reached up to pinch Abby’s cheeks until they went a deeper pink. She’d been here only a fortnight, having come south with her brother while he discussed some sort of trade agreements, and was promptly pulled into service by the queen. Better than a Hightower cousin, in Abby’s book. With Wylla, she didn’t feel spied on like Lady Penrose, nor belittled. In the short time they had known one another, Abby thought she might be making a friend.

‘Maybe', came the shy, giddy thought, 'she could be a sister.’ She loved Helaena, who had been her sister and companion, with all her heart, but Wylla had quickly filled the empty spot in Abby’s chest that she suspected her own sister, Corynna, should have filled.

It was a strange feeling to not have to take care of someone. While she was still struggling to get used to the idea of being waited on, she wouldn’t deny that there was something in her that ached to be cared for. Wylla’s no nonsense and relatively pleasant manner, and surprising sarcasm, was a delight and a surprise and she found herself hanging on her every word, looking to her for guidance in only these last few days.

“But what, my lady?” Came Wylla’s repeated question, and her cool fingers touched her chin, rubbing off a bit of stray lip paint with her thumb. Abby crinkled her nose and huffed.

“But I feel as though this is too much. That I shouldn’t be… that it’s unseemly to attract attention.”

“Och!” Her fingers flicked the tip of Abby’s nose. “What southern nonsense are you spouting now? You’re betrothed to a prince, are you not?” Abby nodded. “You want him to admire you, and no others, right?”

A heated sensation curled in her chest thinking about Aegon looking at other girls, and resolutely ignoring her. “Well, of course I want him to admire me. I want to please him.”

“And he should also please you, that’s what my mother always says. A woman takes her own pleasure in a marriage, just as much as the husband, and if you flush any redder, you’ll turn into one of those apples, I’m sure.”

Abby nodded again, pressing her hands once more to the expanse of collarbone on display. She felt so silly being self-conscious about her dress. It was nowhere near as revealing as some of the dresses the ladies of the court wore. Nowhere near as revealing as what some of the women she’d seen Aegon flirt with wearing. Collarbones and shoulders and the swells of their breasts teased in the candlelight; Aegon flush with wine and preening beneath the attention.

“Mayhaps I should tug the shoulders down some more?”

Wylla did little to disguise the indelicate snort she let out and Abby felt her hands tug along the tops of her sleeves. “Won’t work on this dress but maybe you should push your breasts up.”

“My what?” Abby squeaked, her hands now pressing against her perfectly concealed bust.

Wylla rolled her eyes, and shoved her hands down her own top to adjust her breasts. “Now you try.”

“I… Oh, just…” Muttering soft curses beneath her breath, she reached down into her tightly fitted bodice to push her breasts up so they swelled ever so softly, framed by the lace. “Do you think he’ll like this?”

“My dear girl, he won’t know what to do with himself. Lucky for me, I get to watch. Now come on.”

Abby’s fingers carefully clasped the thin, silver chain around her neck. The charm was the shield and rivers of her house, tiny against her decolletage. It was so delicate she was always afraid of snapping it, but it was the one bit of jewelry she had. So fretful over herself, Abby did not immediately notice Helaena falling in step beside her, dressed in pale pink and silvery blue, sleeves puffed at her shoulders and elbows. Abby noticed her breasts looked nice in the wide cut of the neckline, not as deep as her own.

“It’ll be better once you have the jewels on you,” Helaena said as if picking up Abby’s self-conscious thoughts, or maybe she simply understood the look. “I like it when Aemond looks at my breasts. Aegon likes breasts, he talks about them all the time. Aemond says Aegon talks about yours a lot.”

Wylla, half a step behind, positively cackled. “Oh, this is going to be glorious.”

Abby knew she was as red as her hair. “I-I can’t do this, I have to change.” Helaena grabbed her by the arm and jerked her back, her other hand coming up to straighten the necklace around Abby’s neck.

“No you don’t. You change nothing, do you understand? There is nothing lacking, and there is nothing wrong with you,” Helaena said softly, brushing a kiss at the corner of her mouth.

She opened her mouth and then shut it with a click of her teeth, nodding mutely and took a deep breath. “I’m not this nervous seeing him day to day,” she said softly.

“Nor when you pulled him behind the tapestry outside mother’s room to kiss him,” Helaena said knowingly, a smile playing across her face. “Or when Aemond found you pushing him up against the bookcase.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Abby could see Wylla’s face going red from how hard she was trying to keep her grin at bay. Failing, of course, but she appreciated the effort. She shifted on her feet and smoothed her fingers over the delicate satin bodice once more. “I don’t think that’s true. Tis I who…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely into nothing. “It’s rather unbecoming. He never initiates anything. He’s exceedingly good about it.” Which continued to confuse her to no end because she’d seen the way he’d ogle serving maids and the other ladies, not to mention how he did, in fact, like kissing her. She’d seen him reach and pinch a lady’s hip while passing, that stupid and devastating smirk crossing his features. His hands would encompass her waist or cup her cheeks, but other than that, he surprisingly did not reach for her.

He also didn’t complain when she reached for him. Aegon didn’t resist when she was the one who dragged him into quiet spots, grinning at her giggles and returning her kisses.

“It’s Aegon. He’s a fool, and he drinks too much, and if you don’t think he’s as nervous about you as you are of him, then I don’t know what you’ve been paying attention to our whole lives.” Helaena’s tone was gentle, if firm, as if patiently explaining to a child that the sun rose at dawn and set at dusk. Her lavender eyes looked down the hall towards the grand staircase and then reached up to adjust one of the combs in Abby’s hair. Helaena’s own silver-gold hair was braided back from her face, a vine of pearls woven into it. Guilt stung her that she hadn’t been the one to do Helaena’s hair.

“So you’re saying he’s too nervous to, um…”

“Accost you?” Wylla supplied helpfully. “In a good way.”

Abby huffed. “Yes. Accost me the way I want to accost him. No, surely there’s a better word than that.”

A smirk crossed Helaena’s features, wicked and lovely across her pretty mouth. “You want him up your skirts the way you want to see beneath his breeches.”

“Helaena!” Abby gasped just as Wylla let out a bubbling screech of giggles, unable to contain them. Helaena joined in the mirth and Abby growled at them both. “I am not dignifying that with an answer.”

The Targaryen princess, a dragonrider in her own right, with a mount older than most, leaned in to brush her cheek against her own, mouth close to her ear. “I know you were thinking about Aegon when we practiced kisses,” Helaena murmured, mirth in her voice but even amidst all the teasing, Abby didn’t feel belittled. “And you’ve been putting it to good use.” She pulled back, and Abby breathed through the heated pool in her belly and all the squirming wriggling that came with it. “It’s Aegon,” Helaena repeated.

She nodded. “It’s Aegon.”

“He calls his horse Mighty Mighty, and if he could get away with it, he’d likely go sleep in the Dragonpit next to Sunfyre.”

Abby felt herself smiling at that, a soft hint of a giggle escaping her. “Mighty Kostōba, the mighty mighty horse.” None had the heart to correct him when he was young, but the eventual teasing still made him growl. Helaena pressed her hands to her shoulders, turning her back towards the stairs and pushing her forward, smacking her bottom for good measure and earning a yelp for the trouble. The princess grinned, tongue poking between her teeth and blushing, Abby returned it, heading through the growing throng of people moving through the corridor.

“You’re not used to this, are you, my lady?” Wylla murmured beside her.

“Abby, please,” she returned with the anxious thread still in her voice, picking up her skirt out of habit. Thankfully her skirts did not trail. She wouldn’t want to ruin the finery worrying about picking her way through the city.

“Mmm, we’re in public now,” Wylla said but bumped her shoulder against her and the warm fondness usually reserved for the clutch bloomed in her chest at the elder’s camaraderie. “How scandalous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Abby giggled, inclining her head in greeting as they passed Lord Tyland on the stairs, who only spared a surprised look at her as he headed up. “You’re ridiculous and I love it, truly.” She felt the northerner keep close and Abby reached a hand behind her to take Wylla’s and give it a reassuring squeeze. The Keep was a lot, she knew, and she’d grown up there. She couldn’t imagine how much it was for a woman from the edge of the world and silently hoped that chaperoning them through the city would not be too much.

It was then her eyes fell upon Aegon, lounging at the foot of the stairs against the bannister, arm slung over the carving of the dragon that reclined along the the end, its forelegs and head resting at the pillar. His moonlit hair was a cloud of soft waves around his head, his pale skin pink and very scrubbed clean. The leather jerkin he wore was new: buttersoft black leather with shining, golden clasps in the shape of dragon heads, their gaping mouths swallowing the flame closures. The shirt beneath was red, of all things, instead of the green his mother forced him and Aemond into. As crimson as the Targaryen dragon embolized on the banners around them, the cuffs of the linen were tied with gold lacing that criss crossed their way up his sleeves, his arms crossed while he waited. The golden belt around his waist was carved to represent dragon scales, and a dagger in a matching scabbard hung from it, the pommel also a golden dragon. Even the leather trousers he wore, shoved into shining black boots, had the same gold lacing up the sides.

She bit her lip, admiring him while he hadn’t noticed her approach, until she saw that his gaze was towards a group of women laughing near the doors. The fluttering, heated squirming in her belly increased, and she made a sound in the back of her throat, aware of it only because of how it scratched.

“Did you just growl?” She barely heard Wylla mutter before she was making her way down the stairs.

“There you are!” Abby declared, a smile on her face, feeling the chain of her necklace slide against her collarbones, feeling the warm metal of her sigil charm fall into the slight space between her breasts. Her voice felt too loud, for she did her best to ignore the other gazes that turned in their direction, focused only on Aegon who craned his neck at the call before he jerked up from his languid position to turn fully towards her.

There was a deeply satisfied feeling that trickled down her spine at the way his head meant to turn before looking back again, his lilac eyes widening and turning fully toward her. She smiled far more genuinely this time, feeling the flutter start up again as she approached and took the hand he offered her. “You look very handsome,” she told him softly as he simply gaped at her, her own mouth dry. Her belly fluttered again, and she reached up with her free hand to hook her fingers in the gold necklace he wore, the sapphires winking in the light streaming through the windows. She used her hold on it to tug him down enough to brush a soft kiss against his cheek, leaving behind just a slight shine of the coral paint over the flush of pink that suffused his own cheeks.

She heard Aegon exhale a muttered curse that had her swallowing, his hand warm where it enveloped hers, and he turned his head as she pulled back so his nose could bump against hers. It surprised her, and she let out a soft chuckle that had a grin spreading slowly across his face. Sharp and playful, safe and edged in danger all the same.

His pupils had blown black, the lilac a vibrant ring.

Abby rocked back on her heels, smiling back at him and let go of his necklace.

“Good thing we’re taking the damned carriage,” he said, his thumb stroking against the palm of her hand while he guided her down the last few steps.

“Why is that?” she asked and Aegon tugged her closer so she could slip her hand into the crook of his arm. They were being watched - they were meant to be watched - and she wanted to hide her face against his arm, but instead she only tilted her head towards his as he inclined his own.

“Because I fear someone would try to pull you from the horse and spirit you away,” he said, a sidelong glance towards the guards. She squeezed his arm, her other hand coming up to press against his chest while they made their way out the main doors to the courtyard. The usual smell of the baking red stone had given way to something that was earthier and fresh - the storms the previous few days having washed away the dust and dirt that clung to the air.

The carriage was waiting, the pair of horses attached pawing at the ground, their bay coats freshly brushed and harnesses clinking with the shakes of their heads. The Cargylls were both mounted on their horses as their escorts for the outing, Ser Harrold beside them, his polished helm gleaming beneath his arm.

Kostōba, Aegon’s horse, nearly as precious to him as Sunfyre, stood patiently beside the carriage, reins held by one of the stablehands while the footman stood at the open carriage door. The stallion was a gift for Aegon’s eighth name day nearly a decade ago, and had grown larger than most of the other horses in the stable that didn’t belong to the Kingsguard. His coat was a creamy gold color, dappled in a way that made it seem like he had scales of his own. Kostōba’s eyes, bright and brilliantly blue, took in his surroundings, and he let out a soft sound when Aegon whistled to him.

Abby’s fingers tightened in Aegon’s arm when he started to pull away, confusion tripping at her words. “A-are you not, are we not riding together?” The previous warmth had given way to an icy discomfort, and she reached up to press a hand to her belly, her fingers scraping against the fabric with nervous tension.

“We’re going into the city, so I thought you’d feel more comfortable riding with Lady Karstark.” He avoided her gaze, looking at some other spot on her face. His eyes darted lower, along her low neckline. Heat prickled against her skin, but she was not as giddy for it now.

“You said we’d be riding in the carriage, Aegon.” She hated how unsure her voice sounded in her ears, and she dropped her hands from him and instead held her skirts. A deep breath, and a glance at Wylla to give her a slight, reassuring smile. “Is this because we’re not alone? Because of last time?”

Last time they’d come from the Dragonpit had resulted in them being caught upon arrival, Abby half dragged across his lap, her fingers in his hair and his hands bunched in her skirts. The Queen had subsequently forbidden them from riding Sunfyre together. Abby’s feet were to remain firmly on the ground until the wedding.

She’d been the one to initiate that as well.

Aegon shook his head, a sound escaping him, and he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Immediately, she felt her mouth water, wanting to bite on the tip of his finger, and she allowed him to tilt her head back. The jealousy that lingered hoped those ladies saw this; that he touched her so intimately and not them.

“I meant what I said about rather you being in the carriage than someone thinking that you’re ripe for the picking.” While it was endearing in its own protective way, it now rang hollow to Abby’s ears. They were burning beneath her curls and the soft, ivory veil that hung around her.

“We have the Kingsguard, Aegon, I don’t understand. For that reason, I shouldn’t leave the Keep at all.” Aegon pulled away, brushing a kiss against her forehead, and she longed for more. She longed for his lips in other places. “Aegon-” she made to follow him but Wylla caught her elbow and ushered her towards the footman.

“Get in, make yourself cozy, I’ll handle this.” She said it so matter of factly that Abby could only stare at her. Wylla merely smiled back, bobbing a curtsy, and gathered her dove gray skirts in hand, marching over to Aegon.

Abby climbed in, but lingered in the doorway to watch in fascination as Wylla Karstark hissed something to Aegon, unafraid of whatever royal protocol should be followed. There was some gesturing, and she watched her lady point toward the carriage, angling her way into Aegon’s space, not to flirt, but very clearly to intimidate. Aegon seemed to hesitate, and then shoved the reins back in the stable boy’s hands, tenderly petting the stallion’s neck and murmuring to him, before he marched towards the carriage. Abby hurriedly drew back and took her place against the far corner from the door, smoothing her skirt.

“Better this than me getting Ser Harrold,” she heard Wylla mutter, half in the carriage to glare at Aegon who was behind. “I’m not afraid of some pampered southern boy, dragonriding prince or no.”

Wylla gave her a smile as she climbed in and Abby stared at her in confusion while Aegon followed, throwing himself into the seat across from her as the door latched shut.

“Kostōba not so mighty today?” she asked, her hurt feelings demanding she needle him, even as her usual cheerful mask slid over her features. Aegon barely spared her a glance, pouting like a child instead of a man grown.

The carriage jerked as they headed through the gate and down the road. Wylla had turned her attention to unlatching the lattice covering on the window to peer out, the illusion of privacy appreciated. Aegon’s neck was as red as his shirt. He was clearly refusing to look at her and it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. In fact, Aegon had jumped from any casual touch she gave for the past few months. It was why they hadn’t ridden on Sunfyre together until they’d gone flying on the picnic and he’d apologized to her. Where she’d kissed him. In the subsequent weeks, between kisses she’d stolen because it was her stealing all the kisses, and dragging Aegon behind blind corners, although he never complained.

“I meant it, you know. That you look handsome today.” While she didn’t mind silence, she didn’t like this silence. The type where it felt like there were teeth along the edges, chewing into it if they weren’t careful. “I don’t know why that seems to have offended you so much.” The words came out a little harsher than she meant, her arms wrapped around herself and her gaze turned away.

“It didn’t offend me. I just thought that you’d like some privacy.” There was a crack at the edge of Aegon’s voice and it drew her gaze to the prince. Her betrothed. The one who tasted like whatever sweets he’d stolen from her, and whose hands felt like they’d swallow her whole, so hot that she could feel them through the layers of her gowns.

Abby turned from the window to look at him and met his gaze. Not as black as it had been in the hall. His eyes always went dark when she kissed him, so she knew that it was supposed to be a good thing, and she couldn’t understand why he was acting like this. She had been agonizing for days about this. She had just been lamenting to Wylla and Helaena about this and thought ‘This is just silly, Aegon cares for me, look at how he watched me come down the stairs’ but his mercurial behavior was nearly as bad as his mother’s.

The comparison was on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she met his lilac gaze with her own, blue eyes fixed upon his face, and said, “One moment, your hands are in my hair, and you look at me like I’m some sort of salvation or that you want to devour me. The next moment, like just now, you couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Lady Wylla had to threaten you to get in here-”

“She did no such-”

“I absolutely did,” Wylla interrupted. “Oh, wait, I’m not supposed to be listening.”

Aegon’s mouth snapped shut, and Abby didn’t glance over at the other side of the carriage. She kept her eyes on his. “If you don’t want me, then we’ll turn the carriage around and tell your mother.” She smoothed her hands over her skirt and took a deep breath. She was worried that tears would threaten, but her eyes remained mercifully clear and she raised her eyebrows at him. Aegon was staring at her, the pout faded from his sullen expression to look wide eyed in surprise. “We can. You can stop this. It’ll fade away, only just a rumor. A dalliance. There is no shame in being a prince’s momentary plaything, since we haven’t… I kissed you first, after all. I have only ever kissed you first and I will not let you keep doing this to me-”

One second, Aegon was frozen in his seat staring at her, the next, his hands grabbed hers and yanked her to him. Abby fell into him with the rocking of the carriage, and before she could straighten herself, Aegon kissed her.

Aegon kissed her first.

One large hand wound around her back while the other cradled the back of her head, his fingers tangled in the hair that escaped her veil. His mouth wasn't as soft as it had been before, this time moving as if he would claim her here in this carriage. She gasped when he tightened his hold against her, and he used the opportunity to slide his tongue between her parted lips, to curl it behind her teeth. She swallowed his sigh, her fingers bunching up the soft, red linen of his shirtsleeves.

Wylla’s presence was forgotten. All that existed was the way Aegon was kissing her like he was starving, as if someone had tried to take her from him - like in a song, like she was the source of every breath he needed. When they finally parted, Aegon tilted his head back against the side of the carriage, watching her with half lidded eyes and his mouth smeared with coral lip paint.

He hummed and she could feel it vibrate through her and she found herself humming in return, still holding herself with her grip on his arms. “I’ll fight anyone who suggests you’re a mere dalliance,” he said with his voice heavy. Abby reached up to cup his chin and stroke her thumb along where the color had smeared, wiping it away.

“So you’ll fight yourself, Your Grace?” She couldn’t help but point out that kissing her senseless was well and good, but her heart still felt sore and confused by his treatment.

Aegon scoffed and drew her closer with his fingers still cradling her head. She felt warm, and soft, and the sound that escaped her was equally so - a little mewl and a question she didn’t have the words to voice but that he seemed to understand because he licked along her cupid’s bow, teasing her and nipping at the swollen pout of her lower lip. “This is why I am the way I am, hunītsos.”

“I don’t understand,” she murmured with a shake of her head. Aegon’s fingers tightened briefly and drew a soft gasp from her when his grip tugged at her scalp. She shivered and his eyes glanced down to her low neckline, his teeth scraping over his own lower lip like he wanted to bury her face between her breasts. The understanding of why Wylla was in the carriage with them nudged at her, because had they been alone, Abby didn’t think she would even deny him. In fact, she thought she might even invite him to do so.

“What don’t you understand?” he asked and his fingers slowly loosened from her hair and pet her curls back into place before drawing his fingers slowly down her jaw and along her hammering pulse in her throat. “Do you not understand how badly I crave you? Because I thought that I made it abundantly clear.”

She blushed and shook her head. His thumb stroked along the front of her throat and she stilled, the weight and warmth of his hand making her tremble, the ache in her breasts taking her aback. “Sometimes, maybe. I’ve felt very…” She tried to find the words amidst her shyness. “I’ve felt like I’ve been chasing you, that I desire you more than you do for me.”

The wicked smirk she adored cut across his plump mouth and he squeezed her throat gently, pulling a gasp from her. “Abrogail Strong, I desire and crave you to madness and if I let myself go, I fear that I won’t keep myself from devouring you whole.”

Helaena pretended not to notice that there was a smudge of what looked like strawberry jam on the corner of little Floris’ mouth. Instead, her eyes took in the way one of the girl’s black braids was a little looser than the other. It lacked symmetry in a way that made her fingers itch to fix it. The girl’s dark eyes were wide with excitement and she could hardly keep still - a grasshopper bouncing on her feet and trying as hard as she could to contain herself in their presence. It did little to stop her from darting her gaze around, little mouth parted in wonder. She supposed the Red Keep was a magnificent sight to one who’d never seen it up close like this, let alone on dragonback.

Helaena’s lavender eyes slid to the elder girl.

Cassandra, the eldest of Lord Borros’ daughters, was more sedate in her observations. She did not share the same bubbling excitement as her little sister, and the black traveling gown she wore underscored the radical differences between her and the butter yellow clad Floris. Despite outer appearances, there was a blatant curiosity in her gaze as she took in the bustle of the courtyard; the Baratheon caravan had arrived ahead of the ladies, and the last of the trunks had just been carried inside to their new lodgings. Now it was courtiers and guardsmen, and servants all.

She felt Cassandra’s eyes fall on her critically, not unlike other ladies at court. Helaena had grown used to their gazes and the fact she did not fit the mold of a princess. She was not vibrant the way stories of her elder sister painted her - The Realm’s Delight, laughing and shining and riding and dancing. Helaena was quiet, far preferring the solitude of the garden to being in crowds, but she made every effort to be nice, to be friendly, and while she’d never heard a whisper about some perceived cruelty, Helaena felt as if she couldn’t quite get it.

She could not mirror the way Cassandra Baratheon looked to her, a golden necklace made up of antlers around her regal throat - a look that even a good week in a carriage could not take away how utterly put together she appeared..

How much of a princess she looked.

‘Sharp and soothing,’ Helaena thought. ‘The mint winds and chokes like ivy. The children can’t breathe, it’s bursting from their mouths.’

She blinked, shifting, and her shoulder brushed against Aemond’s where he was a warm presence beside her. His mouth was pressed in his usual stern expression, but at her movement, he lifted a hand to touch between her shoulder blades.

It was moments like these where Helaena felt most grateful for Aemond. Not when he was railing about their future together, the one that he’d decided and she didn’t deny, or about his place in life. It was the softer moments, when it felt like before: before the loss of his eye, before Vhagar, when it felt like her brother was there beside her once more. Quiet in his companionship, unwavering in his support, near supernatural in his understanding of her.

This was the Aemond she missed. The Aemond she cared for, the Aemond who was so absent.

Emboldened by the moment, Helaena straightened, a smile soft on her face. She did not need a crown or a herald to announce her place.

“It is our pleasure to welcome you both to King’s Landing. I hope that your journey wasn’t too difficult,” Helaena said, pushing past the urge to scream nonsense and make scary faces at them both to send them running all the way back to Storm’s End.

“We saw a bear!” Floris exclaimed with bright excitement. “Didn’t we, Cass? It was huge! I thought the guards were going to kill it, but they managed to chase it -”

“What my sister means to say is that the journey had its moments, but thankfully was uneventful, your Graces,” Cassandra cut in, a hand placed on the younger’s shoulder and a smooth curtsy performed. Her voice wasn’t unkind, but perhaps the long journey had made Lady Cassandra less tolerable to her younger sister’s excitement.

“Hmmm,” Aemond said, and Helaena smiled. Floris’ gaze was darting back from Aemond’s face to Helaena’s hands and she felt her brother shift beside her uncomfortably. “If you’ll follow us, we’ll take you to her grace, Queen Alicent, to be greeted.” Floris’ eyes went wide and Aemond was already turning on his polished boot to lead the way.

Cassandra’s own eyes widened some, her hands spasming against her skirts before reaching for Floris’ hand, jerking her behind. “Come along and don’t gawk,” she hissed softly, and Floris whined in response, a grumbling, “Not so tight, Cassa.” Helaena pursed her lips and followed Aemond, leading the pair.

It was, amusingly enough, Cassandra who let out the first quiet gasp entering the entry hall to Maegor’s Holdfast. The ceiling rose up so high that it was obscured with shadow. It was the early afternoon and the place was bustling with courtiers and administrators, all giving Aemond wide berth as he cut a path like a shark through the water.

“Your rooms will be within the ladies apartments,” Aemond explained when they reached the second landing. He paused, gesturing to the right. “It’s where the unmarried attendants of our mother’s stay.” His voice was even and steady, ever the proper one, ever the confident speaker. Ever everything, that was Aemond. Yet it rankled her that he would take charge of this when it should be her.

‘He’s only trying to protect you’, Helaena thought and while he was good at that, while she was grateful for it, Mother did the same. Everyone did the same.

“However, since you shall be serving me,” Helaena said, raising her voice and plastering a smile on her face, remembering that smiles could be heard in voices, “And Lady Abrogail, you shall come to us in the mornings for duties once things are settled. No need to worry about that now.”

Floris nodded excitedly, but her sister looked on more sedately, her expression polite. “Is it possible to have our own rooms until you… have everything sorted?” She asked. “I hope you can appreciate that given our station and our familial connection, such things would be appropriate.”

Familial connection? Helaena thought. She did not look at Aemond, not needing him to think he had to step in for her.

“I appreciate your concerns, Lady Cassandra. If you are concerned about your sleeping arrangements, you may bring it up with our mother, the Queen.” Helaena smoothed her hands over the soft pink of her skirt and gestured for them to follow. “This way!” Her voice rang through the hall and she fell in step beside Aemond, head held high.

Wylla stepped on her heels again with a half-distracted ‘sorry’ that Abby waved off, again. King’s Landing was bursting with activity that threatened to rival the crowds that were sure to arrive in the next moon for Aegon’s nameday tournament. The festival was to go on for a fortnight at least, as apprentices across the guilds presented their masterpieces to be judged and reviewed. It meant that the stalls were filled to bursting and more had sprung up in every nook and cranny and side street of the city. From finely woven fabrics and dyes, to ropes and carefully crafted saddles, the market was bright and loud with the calls of commerce.

Aegon’s right hand gripped her left, fingers entwined, and kept her between him and the stalls rather than risk losing one another in the stream of traffic down the center lane. They paused in front of a smith, the heat of the forge not as uncomfortable in the heat of the city for the breeze that kicked through.

“Oh, he’s a handsome one,” Wylla murmured, and Abby followed her gaze to the handsome smith covered in sweat and black soot, his linen shirt soaked, his arms bulging with the effort of hammering. Abby giggled softly, humming in agreement. She glanced at Aegon, who was perusing over the line of daggers on display, and noticed his own gaze flicking towards the blacksmith with clear appreciation.

Abby hummed and leaned over to brush her mouth against his ear. “Do you think he’s prettier than me?” she whispered.

Aegon didn’t glance at her, he didn’t even pause in his dual inspection of the merchandise nor the man before him. His tongue darted out, pink and wet, to slide along his lower lip in thought as he reached for another dagger. “I think he’s taller than you, which has its own advantages, especially with those shoulders,” he told her softly, tapping the hilt of the dagger. “Open, I want to see if it fits you.” She held out her free hand - she still hadn’t let go of his and he had not let go of hers - and he pressed the dagger into her palm, instructing her to wrap her fingers around it. “Sometimes one needs a good handling.”

Abby’s gaze flicked up at him, Aegon’s lilac eyes fixed on adjusting her grip. “I don’t usually hold a dagger like this. Aemond did teach me properly. Also, are you implying that I couldn’t give you a good handling?”

“I don’t think you are big enough to pick me up over your shoulder and slam me down on something.” Aegon’s lilac gaze met hers from beneath the soft bits of silver hair hanging in his eyes and he pulled the dagger from her grasp and set it back down. Even as she blushed, Abby didn’t look away. She smiled prettily at him instead and was pleased when he grinned back. She liked this side of him. No, she adored this side of him. The way he flirted, and held onto her, and the way it felt as easy as breathing between them like it always had. Only now, her gaze was more obviously drawn to that infernal tongue of his that kept swiping along his lower lip.

He was doing it on purpose. She was sure of it.

“I feel like you’re challenging me, Your Grace. Must I also now throw myself in the training yard and hope that I grow as big and strong as my brother? I think you’ll be sorely disappointed.” Aegon snorted and picked up another dagger. This one had an ebony handle carved with grooves for the fingers to fit and a thick silver inlay that encircled it and along the guard. “I don’t need a dagger,” she protested when he had her hold it and frowned at the fit.

“You see,” he murmured, releasing his hold on her hand and having her properly adjust her grip. “I already know you can handle me, my Lady. I think you’re a natural at it, even small as you are. But if you’d like to be handled, be exposed to new ways of doing things…new techniques…” He trailed off and made an approving sound at how she was holding the weapon. Somehow it made her flush all the more. “I’m at your service to give you whatever demonstration you desire.”

He met her eyes then, mouth twitched in a slight grin, but she saw the nervous look in his gaze.

Abby pushed up on her toes to press a kiss on his smirking mouth and drew away before either of them had a chance to deepen it. “I’ve been told I’m a very astute learner, and I always like to learn new things, especially with demonstrations.” Flushed, she reached for Wylla who was still admiring the blacksmith and took her hand. “We’re going to look at the fabrics over here.”

She’d much rather they do that than make a scene in front of the attractive blacksmith.

“If you two wanted privacy, then we’ll find it. I’ll stand guard outside the carriage door. Or, he’s the prince, I’m sure he can just get a room somewhere.” Wylla’s look was innocent and compassionate when Abby looked over her shoulder to glare at her, cheeks flushed red. “You know, people like us don’t marry for love often, but if you have that with one another, there’s no shame in being so affectionate before marriage.” Wylla nudged her shoulder against hers while they plucked at the delicate spools of ribbons and carefully embroidered lace.

“Being accosted in front of the blacksmith is something I’d hardly call simple affection,” Abby said.

“Weren’t you only just complaining that he didn’t accost you?”

“I need to find another word for that, and yes, I know I was! That’s not what I mean.” Abby ran a length of silky, vibrant green ribbon through her fingers, and tried to find shades of red and blue to match. “I just mean there’s a difference between doing it in public! And…”

“And?” Wylla prompted, plucking up a spool of black linen thread in hand.

“And I simply get very flustered. That’s all.” She reached into her the small purse hanging off her arm to retrieve the delicate fabric samples the seamstress had brought the previous week. “I need embellishments to go with this.”

“Oh,” Wylla breathed and ran her fingers gently over the ivory satin. “Abby, these are lovely.”

“Do you think so?” She held the pieces up to the spools of lace. “I’m half tempted to simply make my own lace but that feels so extravagant and excessive.”

Wylla clucked her tongue. “Must I remind you again, Lady Strong, that you are marrying Aegon Targaryen, Prince of the Realm? You will become a princess on your wedding day. You should have extravagance and excess because if you don’t have it for that occasion, what occasion will you allow it?” Her voice was not quiet and Abby noticed the pair of girls managing the stall perk up from where they were attending to another lady and her daughter at the mention of marrying Aegon Targaryen. The other customers looked at her as well, and Abby smiled politely back and resumed her perusal of the lace embellishments. She let her veil fall forward enough to hide some of her face, uncomfortable with the attention now that Aegon was not distracting her, moving easily through the crowds as if he were born for it.

That’s because he was born for it, she reminded herself.

“These look a bit like dragon scales, don’t they?” Abby ran her thumb gently over the uniquely shaped scallops of soft lace, mind thinking of decorations and embellishments and appliques for the gown that they were making. So many Myrish knots to embroider. She knew there was more fabric on its way, and that the delicate and sought after Myrish lace would be beyond comparison but presented with what was before her, Abby’s mind turned in contemplation. “Excuse me, my lady.”

The woman did not appear much older than Wylla, with a shock of golden curls peeking out of her little white cap. She was the younger of the pair who were manning the booth, and she bobbed awkwardly behind the counter.

“I am no lady, milady,” she said, her accent a proud, Westerlands clip. “Neva, if you please. Is there anything that you like before you? This isn’t everything we have but-”

Abby smiled, raising a hand to slow the girl down. “Neva, is this all your work? It’s absolutely beautiful.”

She glowed as bright as her hair, nodding exuberantly. “It is, milady! I’ve been an apprentice for nigh on ten years. I’ve submitted my masterpiece for guild acceptance.”

She couldn’t help but keep smiling back at the excitement Neva shared and gestured for the threads that Wylla was picking up. “Well, I’ll take these, if you’d be so kind, as well as… well I don’t want to take the whole spool of this.” Abby pursed her lips.

In the pause, Neva continued. “I can also make custom pieces, should you need something particular, milady.” The girl blushed but pushed on. “I did hear you mentioning a wedding, but I wasn’t dropping eaves! So if there is something in particular you’re looking for.”

Abby hummed softly, fingers still holding the delicate spool of scalloped lace edging. “I would like that very much. If you have more samples, I want you to bring them to the castle a sennight from today. The seamstress is coming back to do a fitting and I would like to look at what we can make. Is that too soon?”

The blushing cheeks of the Westerland girl went pale before flushing even deeper and she looked as if she was about to burst like a Dornish fire flare right there in the street. “Milady, I don’t know what to say! Yes, yes I will certainly be there. Thank you…” She trailed off suddenly, eyes widening before dropping into a curtsy, followed by the other women behind the booth. Abby felt Aegon brush against her back as he leaned over her shoulder to pluck at the lace.

“Pretty,” he said. “Do you like them?”

She nodded. “I thought the-they would look nice for my wedding dress. Do you like them? I want you to like them.” Abby tilted her head to look at him, teeth catching at her lip while Aegon’s cheeks flushed lightly pink.

“Aye, I like them.” His voice was soft and he gestured to the lot, almost negligently. “And the ribbons? We’ll take it.” Aegon spared a look at the gaping Neva, plucking the bag of gold from Wylla’s hands and tossing it to the girl.

Abby blushed, glancing between the gaping girls and Aegon, who was already looking around. “Thank you, Neva,” she said, which seemed to pull the other girl from her shock and start plucking items. “I do hope this isn’t all of your hard work.”

“Oh, no, not at all, milady.” She was positively glowing. “Good fortune to be sure."

Chapter Text

It was Aemond’s nameday and the royal gardens were more alive than they’d been in ages. Three of the terraces that spilled from the Queen’s ballroom were filled with courtiers, from young men and women newly arrived to King’s Landing, to the Queen’s ladies and children of the Small Council, to those who were slowly trickling in preceding Aegon’s nameday celebrations. Minstrels were playing beneath the shaded cover of the cloistered walkway, and there were tables laden with cakes and meats, even a marchpane facsimile of Vhagar that had surprised them all when the queen, beaming brighter than Abby had ever seen her, proudly revealed it.

“Happy nameday, my darling,” she’d told Aemond, slim hands on his upper arms, a fond kiss to his cheek. Even now, at seven and ten, he only blushed lightly at the affection of his mother rather than pull away with complaint. So rare was Queen Alicent’s softness that not even a crowd of peers could dissuade Aemond from pulling away for some sort of manly pride that he was too old for a kiss from his mother; he’d sprouted another few inches, now taller than Aegon, who was rather put out by it all.

In spite of the warmth from the midday sun, Abby could feel the promise of autumn on the breeze, a cool caress that tugged at the fire-kissed curls that hung loose down her back, held back by a pair of lapis and amethyst combs. Normally her hair would be worn pulled back in a knot at the crown of her head, but she was acutely aware of the mark below her right ear that she need not draw attention to.

She tilted her head back to feel the sun kiss her cheeks, ignoring the feeling of Aegon’s eyes on her back, of the shiver and prickle that came when one knew they were being watched.

The scent of lemon preceded the whisper of silk and Helaena’s amused voice against her ear. “You’re blushing,” the princess sing-songed, laughing softly as Abby huffed and lightly smacked her hand against her sister’s chest. It did little to deter her, and Helaena rested her chin on Abby’s bare shoulder, tugging a little at the skirt. “I like this dress. He does too.”

“I didn’t wear it for him.” The light silk organza was luxurious, shifting in colors from the softest pink and periwinkle into sage, baring her shoulders with the low neckline edged in embroidered blue flowers centered with pearls. It helped with the heat of the capital and she couldn’t deny that she felt lovely in it. “If he enjoys it, that is simply a bonus.” She bit her lip and chanced a glance over her shoulder.

Aegon stood beneath one of the cypress trees with a goblet held lazily in one ringed hand, his other arm braced against the trunk of the tree. His own eyes were on her, angling around Aemond who stood in his way, teeth pressed into his lower lip. The moment he realized she had caught him watching, he gave a slight start and Abby scrunched her face at him, teasing. His surprise eased into a satisfied smirk, the gold of his dragon stamped buttons on his black jerkin catching the light as did the rings on his fingers. She watched him tap two of them against the goblet he raised and after a shy moment, she gave him a smile and tapped her own fingers against her chin.

“Adorable,” Wylla teased from her other side, the roll of her eyes evident in her voice. Abby squeaked in surprise, the elder girl having seemingly appeared to seize the opportunity for teasing. Her cheeks flamed and she looked out towards the low hedge maze below on the next terrace.

“I didn’t wear it for him,” she emphasized, and it was Wylla’s turn to smirk as Helaena hummed her own disbelief. “You’re both ridiculous. Did you race across this whole garden just to say that to me?” Wylla raised her eyebrows in challenge. Abby squinted blue eyes at Helaena’s innocent look. “Are you both conspiring to tease me so?”

“Never,” Helaena said emphatically and Wylla was all innocence in her agreement.

“Of course I wouldn’t vault over a hedgerow at the opportunity to tease you. I’m conspiring to tease the foolish one.” She nodded her head in the direction of the brothers and Abby frowned.

“Foolish one? Which one?”

Wylla scoffed. “The one who cornered me in the hall a week ago asking - nay, demanding that I recount the tale of the Night’s King and the Corpse Queen so he could compare it to some moldy book he was brandishing like a madman.”

“Is he still going on about that?” Abby asked, catching Helaena’s own eye roll.

“I wish you’d warned me that he’s on some obsession about some kind of treatise on,” she pitched her voice lower, an attempt at modulating her voice to sound more like Aemond. “Northern Myths In Relation to the Founding of the Night’s Watch and King Beyond the Wall. Who does he think he is, taking my land and claiming to know more about it?”

“He thinks he’s Aemond Targaryen,” Helaena said dryly. “What more do you want?”

“An explanation on if the audacity comes with the dragon and that book to give him a good crack on his big head.”

Abby hummed. “The audacity absolutely comes with the dragon. Have you met Princess Helaena?”

The princess smiled serenely, her silver hair like spun gold beneath the sunlight and her lavender eyes shining with the kind of dreamy mystery they always held.

“Tis true.” Heleana sighed and pressed her hands against the low wall they were leaning against. “One does not need a cock to prove their might when they ride the oldest dragon. Sorry, second eldest dragon.” Even in her annoyance with her brother, there was amusement in her tone. “I can’t lord that over anyone anymore. Well, I suppose I can still lord it over Aegon, but then he comes back about Vhagar and then Aegon says that Sunfyre is the most beautiful dragon and Vhagar is a hoary old beast and then Aemond tells him to come say that to her face.”

The three of them fell into laughter then and Abby was grateful for the attention to be taken off of her dress and the way she was trying to hide the fact that she enjoyed Aegon gazing at her. It was good to have this. It was good to see Helaena freer than she’d been in some time. It was good to have Wylla by her side, a piece that Abby did not realize she’d been missing in her life. With the companionship that Wylla Karstark provided, it had struck her how isolated they’d been, this clutch of theirs. There'd once been a time when they’d played with more children than just their relatives. She recalled great games in the Kingswood carried out between all the children of the court, not just the Queen and Princess’ children, but those of the Small Council and others who littered the Red Keep and the capital.

That was before Princess Rhaenyra had left for Dragonstone. That was before that awful night on Driftmark.

“How do you like our new Baratheon friends?” Abby asked, hoping to keep the light mood up.

The princess hummed and folded her hands in front of her. “Floris is very sweet. I think would much rather run around like a little fawn than act so demurely.” The fondness in Helaena’s voice was undeniable as she spoke of the little girl. At present, Floris was running in circles around the fountain with one of Lord Beesbury’s granddaughters, her laughter a bright, bell-like sound.

It was not often that the other children of the court got to spend time amidst the royal family. Abby had suggested the opportunity, both for the Baratheons to be introduced to the court, as well as the opportunity for her and Helaena to start vetting ladies for their households, and to perhaps find companions for Aemond that didn’t involve whatever competition he’d decided there was between him and the Fossoway boy.

“Well, someone must have realized we were teasing him,” Wylla’s hushed voice broke in. Abby glanced up to see Aemond making his way over. In that moment Abby realized how grown he had begun to look, no longer the awkward and gangly boy he had been. Apart from his newfound height, the baby fat had started to melt from his cheeks, leaving behind a more stern look, one with the potential to be frighteningly intense. It appeared that others had noticed as well, eyes following his movement as he approached.

“Oh no,” Helaena groaned. “I swear, his hearing is ridiculous.”

“He’s come to tell us more about his Night’s King treatise,” Abby warned with another giggle, bumping her shoulder against Helaena’s who huffed softly. “Perhaps you can counter with a lesson on the molting practices of that type of lizard for Asshai. The one with the ruff around its neck and the spitting.”

“Your Grace!” Wylla’s voice called out as she gathered her dove gray skirts in hand to intercept Aemond. “I neglected to tell you about the Selkies of the Bay of Seals.”

She felt Helaena’s tension beside her ease slightly, her nails scraping against the sandstone wall and gaze drifting towards the glimmer of the bay and the seagulls that drifted through the air. There was a thrum in the girl beside her, the kind of vibration that Abby could feel in the air, as if Helaena’s very being sang with a tension like a tuning fork.

“Should you wish to find Dreamfyre, I shall set another distraction,” Abby murmured softly, letting her pinky finger touch Helaena’s pinky where their hands rested beside one another. Helaena returned the gesture with a shake of her head.

“I’m not some fragile thing,” she whispered, and the drifting quality to her voice made it unclear if Helaena spoke to her or to herself. “I will not give him the satisfaction, nor will I cause Mother concern.”

“You are not some fragile thing. You ride the second oldest dragon in the world.” Abby smiled and bumped her shoulder into Helaena’s and the princess huffed, returning the gesture. “He doesn’t get to demand something you do not wish -”

“Hush.” The hiss of the word had Abby snapping her mouth closed, head ducking down with instinctive apology. It was a tender subject, painful as a bruise for Helaena, and one that seemed to worsen with each passing of the moon. Helaena would not speak of it, but Abby was no fool to see that she did not hold the same desire that her brother did.

Sometimes, when she and Aemond sat together in the library, her feet resting on his boots while they made themselves at home in the comfortable nook below one of the stained glass windows, Abby thought she saw the same hesitance within him. She wished he’d speak his mind to her, as he had on many subjects, just as Helaena would speak hers. But this? This was a subject that neither of them had any desire to speak of and she could not figure out if they felt too beholden to the performance, or if there was something else she didn’t understand.

Floris Baratheon’s loud shrieks of laughter drew Abby’s gaze up from their hands to smile softly down at the way the girl found such joy in her new playmates.

“If you tell your mother that you do not wish for it, she will not force you, just as she did not force you and Aegon to wed. We both know if she had her heart set on you and Aegon marrying, she wouldn’t have broken the betrothal so quickly when Aemond was making his claims.” Even though she had not betrothed Aemond and Helaena, as Aemond had so fervently demanded. It had not escaped her that the queen and Lord Hand had grown increasingly anxious once Princess Rhaenyra had given birth to her fourth son, Prince Daemon’s son, and the past four years had been increasingly stressful with not knowing what would happen next. Aegon was nearing twenty, he should have been married already, if not to Helaena, then to another daughter of a great house. Helaena could have been sent away to secure someplace like the North and Cregan Stark, who had just taken his place as Warden.

Yet here they were, her and Aegon, hand in hand, counting the weeks until their wedding, and no news yet of Helaena’s potential betrothals and only a few lords out there of an age with her worthy of the hand of a princess of the realm. It was not uncommon for maids to marry young. Queen Alicent herself had been five and ten when she’d wedded the king, the man old enough to be her father. Abby’s own stomach curdled at the idea of Larys marrying her to an old lord looking for his third wife in a young and untouched maiden.

“Rivers drenched in flame,” Helaena murmured, fingernails biting into the back of Abby’s hand and the touch of pain pulled a gasp from her. “Sorry.” Helaena snatched her own hand back quickly and blinked. “I told grandfather that I’d die if he married me to Aegon. Aemond shouldn’t get all the credit for it.”

Abby was silent, watching Helaena from the corner of her eye as the princess scraped her fingertips along the sandstone. Her mind, however, whirled with the revelation that Helaena had never even hinted at before, and Abby briefly glanced over her shoulder to the gathered party.

Aemond had become suitably distracted, peppering Wylla with questions about selkies, and further beyond, there was Warren Fossoway gathered with some of the other young men around Aegon, whose lilac eyes had focused on the telling of something or another that had the boys falling into raucous laughter. Ladies mingled, from younger than her and Helaena to the women who served the queen and wives who had accompanied their husbands to the capital. Queen Alicent herself was below, on the lower terrace where Floris and Lord Beesbury’s granddaughter were playing about the fountain still, their laughter like delighted garden sprites. Then her eyes were drawn to the group near the arched entrance to the godswood.

The Lady Cassandra, eldest of the Four Storms, as the Baratheon daughters had come to be known, was to put it simply, beautiful. She was only a scant few months older than Helaena, older than expected for the eldest daughter of a Lord Paramount to remain unbetrothed, let alone unwed. Abby recalled the sour look on Lady Myrielle Penrose’s face at the news of the Baratheon arrival - Cassandra had been set to marry her brother before Bennard Penrose was caught with Lord Hayford’s daughter at a tournament in the Stormlands. Now, here the heir of Storm’s End stood, with her hair as black as raven wings, a storm of twisted curls and waves half pulled up in a thickly braided net of gold and pearl. Her features were sharp, giving her a cold sort of beauty that was both ensnaring and intimidating, as if she were Argella Durrandon reborn. She appeared older and more worldly than Abby had expected with her gown of gold satin, the bodice embroidered with black lace and appliques that evoked antlers and gave the illusion of armor.

“Do you think she can push her breasts up any higher out of that gown?” Helaena asked. Abby choked on her swallow of cider, only just managing to cough it back up into her goblet before she sputtered everywhere. She did her best to ignore the eyes on her while dabbing at her mouth with her handkerchief, and resolutely ignored the way Aegon was watching her again. His eyes burned into her, stoking something aching low in her gut.

“I think you should worry less about her bosom and how she shows it off, and more about looking for others who might work as ladies for you.” Abby coughed once more into her handkerchief and cleared her throat. Helaena clucked her tongue.

“Is that because you’re jealous of her ample bosom?” Helaena teased, and Abby prickled with indignation, huffing and running her fingers over the ivy design along the goblet in her hand.

“No, I’m not jealous of her ample bosom. I do not want you to be lonely when I’m gone, Helaena,” Abby defended herself, only half a lie, but there was still truth in the statement. She wanted to reach for Helaena’s hand, but just because Helaena had been physically affectionate did not mean she welcomed it from the outside. “We will make sure your ladies will care for you properly, but you have to give them a chance.”

“You don’t have to baby me, you know,” the princess said, her large lavender eyes narrowed in a vague sense of annoyance. “I’m not helpless.”

A soft exhale. “I don’t think you are, and I wouldn’t leave you if I didn’t have to… and I simply want to make sure that-.” That what? Abby could not lie to herself that she liked to be needed, that she needed to be needed, and she loved Helaena. She was protective of Helaena, and the idea of her being surrounded by people that didn’t understand her, that didn’t know what days she needed loose fitting dresses and quiet, or to wake up in the middle of the night, whispering and giggling with each other when dreams became too much for them both.

“Abby,” Helaena interrupted. “You’re starting to sound like Mother.”

She flushed. Alicent Hightower was a gracious and clement queen. She cared for the small folk, she kept the kingdom running as the king fell deeper into his illness. She took responsibility for her after the death of her father when she didn’t have to. Alicent was the closest thing she had to a mother anymore. But she was not kind. She was not soft, nor gentle. She fretted and raged, and fear had begun turning her into a taloned woman liable to strike rather than comfort some days. “I take great pride in being your lady. I would prefer to be assured that things continue as normal, or even better.” Helaena made a little huffing sound before softly laughing and Abby shook her head. “The Seven forbid you end up with a host of Lady Penroses.”

“You are right,” Helaena agreed, twisting her fingers together and plucking at the soft sapphire silk of her sleeves. The neckline of the simple gown was heart shaped, the appliques on the bodice mimicking flame. An appropriate call of the Hightower and blood of the dragon that made up the princess. “I do not like change. I do not want to have to get used to it all.”

Abby tentatively rested her hand on the taller girl’s shoulder, her fingertips only just touching the edge of Helaena’s sleeve. “You are an afternoon’s ride away, whenever you desire to escape the confines of your tower. I imagine there are quite a few fascinating specimens at Harrenhal for you to collect.”

Helaena made a thoughtful face, nodding. “This is true. And I can’t imagine anyone would beg to come along for such an adventure. Their loss, always.”

“Floris might.” Now the pair of girls were balancing on the edge of the fountain, carefully reaching their hands out to put beneath the spray of water. “Unless, of course, you suddenly decide that you would rather Lady Cassandra stay.”

It had been two days since the arrival of the Baratheon girls, and while Helaena and Abby both had grown fond of little Floris, Cassandra was a whole other story entirely. The pair turned their gazes towards the other end of the terrace where Cassandra still remained. Helaena shook her head and looped her arm through Abby’s, tugging her along.

“Come, let us go speak with the heavy breasted storm so you can decide if you’re taking her with you, or if we'll send her back to Storm’s End before she suffocates us all.”

Cassandra continued to hold court across the garden and Abby’s eyes darted around for Wylla, for a moment feeling the ache of insecurity at not having the elder girl around. She was still with Aemond, brow furrowed and the pair of them gesturing wildly at whatever disagreement about the selkies had developed into. Abby stifled a laugh.

“Aemond might end up tossed over the wall should he keep that up,” she murmured to Helaena.

“Good, perhaps that would knock some sense into him.” Abby glanced from Aemond’s arrow-straight form to Helaena curiously. Helaena’s silver hair shone gold beneath the sunlight, and her large eyes drifted to remain fixed on the group of women they approached.

“Your Grace,” came Lady Cassandra’s husky voice, unexpected in its roughness and yet perfect for the image she presented. It gave her an enviable air of mystery, of womanly secret that Abby was acutely aware she lacked. The others around her quickly followed suit with demure murmurs and all dropped into smooth, elegant curtsies. It was a picture of perfection in the gentle swish of fabric. Cassandra’s large dark eyes moved over to her, a dark brow arching in curiosity. “I apologize, but I don’t believe we’ve yet met.”

A slight shake of her head, Abby inclined her head in greeting, unsure if she needed to curtsy to the daughter of a lord paramount now. “We haven’t, although I did have the pleasure of meeting your sweet sister, Floris. I am Lady Abrogail, of Harrenhal. Companion to her Grace, the Princess. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Cassandra, and I hope for us to become friends.”

Cassandra’s smile was wide and broad, all straight, pearly teeth and sharp cuspids. “I’m sure we will, Lady Abrogail. Harrenhal, you say?” A soft chuckle and a curious cock of her head. “That great, haunted place.”

Ugly place was implied beneath the husky tone. It was one that she had heard enough over the years to recognize immediately and though it continued to sting, she would not let it shake her. “Yes, my elder brother is the current Lord, and I’m quite looking forward to seeing my family upon our return there. The lands are beautiful, and the cherry and plum orchards are renowned for their autumn meads.” She laughed, her eyes drifting across the rest of the young women in the group. “Lady Elinor, is it?” she asked the slight woman to Cassandra’s right, hovering and small. Her mouse brown hair looked as soft as fur, curled delicately around her narrow face. Abby smiled. “I hear that Bronzegate also has some of the best strawberries outside of the Reach. I’ve always wanted to attend one of your harvest festivals. I adore strawberries.”

Lady Elinor’s shy look relaxed and she returned her smile with a beaming one of her own, stepping forward into the circle of ladies. Abby kept her eyes affixed upon her, although she noticed the sharp glint in Lady’s Cassandra’s deep gaze. “Aye, my Lady. If you enjoy strawberries, you should try our strawberry wines. They’re not as heavy as the barrels from the Arbor, if I do say so myself.” The pride in Lady Elinor’s voice eased Abby’s nerves and she relaxed. She would not let the beautiful woman intimidate her, especially if Lady Cassandra was going to be the one to accompany her to Harrenhal.

“We will have to send for some, then, for the Prince’s nameday,” she said, glancing briefly over her shoulder in Aegon’s direction and the bickering between Aemond and poor Wylla who was in fact, looking to hold her own. Let this woman see that while she was perhaps the eye of the storm in her own home, she would not let her push her around, nor any of her ladies, and sweet Floris. All bouncing breasts, and hateful thoughts. What an ugly combination. She would have to tell Helaena later.

“I hear the Prince’s nameday feast will be one for the books,” Lady Cassandra cut in, tossing her curls over her shoulder. “Hunt and a tournament? And the feasts should be grand. I do love a good feast. Do you enjoy dancing, your Grace?”

Helaena did not meet Cassandra’s pointed look, but she rarely met anyone’s eyes head on. “No.”

Abby dug her thumbnail into her palm to keep from laughing. The pair of the Queen’s ladies exchanged glances, for the truth was quite the opposite.

“Well, I’m sure there will still be fun and revelry for all,” Cassandra’s smile was stuck in place and she cleared her throat somewhat. It was clear that she would not do to become a companion to Helaena, and Abby brushed her arm against her dear sister’s. “You know, I heard a rumor that the king plans to declare Prince Aegon his heir, that’s why it’s such a celebration.”

There were soft gasps amongst the ladies. “Oh, do you think so?” Lady Elinor whispered, a hand pressed to her cheek. Cassandra tutted, waving over a servant to refill her goblet with arbor gold.

“He’s unmarried, and the celebration is larger than any thrown since Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding. Isn’t that right, Your Grace?” The lady’s dark eyes shot over to Helaena with wide eyed eagerness and a coy smile slashed across her lovely face. Abby felt a prickle of heat along her throat.

Helaena tilted her head, gazing idly over the rest of the party. “I suppose. Mother finds frivolous celebration unseemly when the treasury could be used to rebuild the poor houses that had fallen into disuse.”

“And with the king’s ill health, it doesn’t seem appropriate to throw such festivities,” Abby added encouragingly, her shoulder brushing against Helaena’s.

“The king’s ill health?” Lady Cassandra said, as if she didn’t know after spending a week in the Red Keep that the king was rarely seen. “Well, all the more reason then to finally declare Prince Aegon heir.” Her gaze drifted before she laughed. “But do not look now, my friends, for the Prince in question has not stopped looking this way.”

Something unpleasant churned in Abby’s stomach and she felt a flush heat along the back of her neck and ears. The Queen’s ladies exchanged another glance before drifting their gazes to Abby, and she was not sure if they meant them as pity or uncertainty as to what they should say. It was obvious what Cassandra had meant - that Aegon was staring at her, of course.

“Pay him no mind,” Abby said airly, goblet tight in her delicate hand. “We don’t. It’s best to not encourage him.” Cassandra laughed louder, and Abby saw the demonstration for what it was. The tilt of her head showing off the fine line of her neck, and the jewels that decorated her. That ridiculous bosom with all the secrets inside making them shake with her laughter.

Was Aegon staring at Cassandra now? She was beautiful, and so polished, even with her callous nature hidden beneath the lady’s mask. Aegon didn’t care about personality, that much Abby knew. He liked pretty things. Pretty mouths and smiles and attention. One didn’t need a personality when they were-

“I’m sorry, I don’t seem to understand what’s so funny. Did I miss the joke?” Helaena’s voice interrupted the path of Abby’s swirling thoughts and the princess said it with such a straight face that Abby knew that it was true. Crowds could be difficult for her some days, and the backhanded nature of ladies always put her on edge, with doublespeak being at least thrice as difficult to maneuver as simple polite evasion and conversation.

Was Aegon staring at the raven haired beauty or was he still looking at her? She wanted to turn her head to look, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her doubt or jealousy. Not that Abby was jealous. She wasn’t. This was simply the insecurity of her new dress, and what her station was now, and where she stood and… and…

Abby brushed her hair away from her neck, where her curls had covered the little bruise that Aegon’s mouth left, her fingers trailing over the spot. Cassandra’s eyes caught the motion, and Abby gave a slight smile. “It will be refreshing to have someone so joyful with us at court. The days can get quite boring and monotonous.”

Cassandra hummed. “Truly? You seem like the kind of lady that has no problem occupying her time.” Her hand dropped awkwardly from her neck and Abby felt the heat creep along her throat and up her cheeks. The other girl smiled, the flash of those sharp cuspids again. “You know the sort.”

The servants' passage, one Aegon had taken to perusing on nights when sleep eluded him, snaked through nearly every inch of the castle. He had his half filled goblet in hand, the warmth of the plum cider that Abby favored coursing through his veins. His dagger was in his boot, his shirt loose and light along his skin and breeches half unlaced.

His footsteps were quiet, the murmurs from the rooms behind a soft lull. He stopped at the crosspath to pet Theraxis, the cat stalking for prey in these night hours before returning to his mistress’ room.

“You stay out. Don’t want to be interrupted,” he told him softly. The great furry thing rubbed against his calf before vanishing into the darkness, as if it took his words to heart.

It was the whimper Aegon heard first and it wrenched an agonized sigh from him as he came upon his intended goal. He leaned forward against the wall, eyes to the little peep holes that Maegor had commissioned throughout the Red Keep, and he threw back the remains of his drink before setting it on the little ledge where the one from the day before sat.

Abby was alone in her room, tucked there in her bed, safe and sound. The fire was a low glow, and it turned her creamy skin warm and golden. Her hair was like dragonfire, bloody red and gold against her white sheets. The back of her hand was pressed against her mouth and her knees were drawn up. The softness of her nightgown was bunched along the tops of her thighs - sweet things, spread as they were.

Another moan escaped her, and he bit his lip as he palmed his quickly hardening cock. Aegon had dreamt of her before. He’d pictured her heart shaped mouth rounded out in cries of pleasure, the sound of his name tumbling out of her with her frantic gasping, twisting memory to suit his fantasies of his Maiden. In spite of what he lamented over wine and whores to his brothers, about his fears to touch her, his fears to corrupt her, his self-control was slipping with each smile and each flirtation she sent his way.

He had no way to see the sweetness between those thighs, not from this angle. The ugly thought of someone spying on her tore at his gut, and it was the only reason he was relieved that he could not see. But fuck him, he could hear the wet slick. Maybe it was his imagination; it probably was, but it didn’t matter as he watched her dainty little hand palm down the curve of her belly and vanish between her spread legs.

His cock bobbed painfully as he fisted it, precum dripping over his knuckles while he stroked.

What are you wishing I’d do to you? He wondered with the confidence that came from knowing it was his touch she surely must be fantasizing about. He never missed her casual affection, and the teasing she’d done, stepping right to him in the market fair the previous day. It was him that she desired. And that was after all the adorable kisses she initiated; the first time she’d dragged him behind the tapestry outside of his mother’s room and tried to suppress the giggles that bubbled out of her, the way she cupped his face and pressed the sweetest, clumsiest, most eager of kisses across his face and his mouth.

Yet, she’d thought him disinterested. Even in his lamentations that she deserved better, someone wholly not him, the very thought that she could be taken from him was not something he could bear. Not something he could stand. But, gods, her squared shoulders and her firm speech about how she wouldn’t put up with his attitude, the way her blue eyes brightened like the afternoon sky, had gotten his blood running. So rare was it that Abrogail Strong was ever so firm and he desired to see more of it, desperate to draw it out of her.

Would she be that way writhing beneath him, demanding to ride him the way they rode Sunfyre? Or would she be desperate and wanting, begging and mewling as he pressed those damnable, adorable grasping hands into the sheets while she squirmed.

It was obscene, this tableau, soft, safe and innocent in her bed. It should be the most sacred and tender of images. Yet the sight before him, her thighs spread and trembling, her head tossing restlessly against the pillow, was just as sacred, just as tender, as her usual air of innocence. Abby’s hips rolled up against her stuttering touch. Aegon squeezed the base of his cock, trying to hold off his peak so he could enjoy this as long as possible. He wanted to see her face. He wanted to see if her brow furrowed how it did when she was reading. He wanted to see if her mouth rounded in surprise as it did when they flew together.

As if his precious Maiden had heard him, she turned towards him… and then kept turning until she was on her knees, pert ass in the air and her face pressed into her pillow.

Seven hells, he was going to explode. He watched Abby shove her nightgown into her mouth to muffle those desperate sounds that were growing louder. The nightgown had fallen down from the angle, the round of her ass shoved into the air, rocking desperately against her hand. The firelight caught at the tears on her soft cheeks and he licked his lips, swearing he could taste the salt of them. He couldn’t see the delectable apple shapes of her breasts, the only thing left hidden by the bunched up fabric caught around her arms.

“Fuck,” he muttered, louder than he would have liked, but it didn’t appear that she’d heard. She continued to whimper and grind against her hand. As his seed slipped slick over his hand, dripping to the stone floor - and there was a strange feeling of waste at the way it splattered across the stones - he realized that she wasn’t able to come from her own inexperienced touch.

Oh, his poor little rabbit.

He watched her writhe in the low firelight, fitful and sobbing in her bed as she stroked frantically at herself. Aegon’s eyes slid to the left, where the crack of the passage door was just visible.

He really shouldn’t.

He really, really shouldn’t.

He tucked himself back into his breeches and ran his hand along the crack before he located the latch. The stone moved easily, silently, and the sounds within the room suddenly cleared as he stood in the doorway, watching her barely half a room away. From this vantage, he could see the shadow between her pretty thighs, and even if he just came, his cock was twitching once more.

Aegon was relieved that his footsteps made no sound as he approached the bed, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to groan when he saw the slickness of her cunt and the shimmer of arousal running down her thighs. His mouth was watering, and he could feel himself drool at the decadence laid out there, belonging to him. Aegon finally got his legs to move, the firelight catching the cum that still streaked along the back of his hand, but he didn’t care. The bed dipped as he set a knee on the edge and he watched her large eyes shoot open, the nightgown slipping from her mouth.

“Aeg?” she choked out while he ran his fingers soothingly from the base of her spine. He felt her shudder and wriggle in her surprise, and it truly hadn’t occurred to Aegon that this might have gone far worse, that she might have shouted and screamed at the intrusion, that the guards might have found him here, or worse, his mother. He was too focused on the heat of her body against his with only his linen shirt separating them. Aegon marveled at the little freckles and moles that dotted along her back like droplets of ink against her flushed skin. On his knees beside her, Aegon draped himself over her so his arms bracketed her trembling body on the cusp of her peak.

“Shhhh, I’ve got you,” he promised. Aegon dipped his head down and was able to kiss the corner of her trembling mouth and moved to trace his lips and tongue over her cheek to capture at the salty lines of her frustrated tears. His right hand stroked along her arm and he groaned low against her soft skin when he felt the slippery wetness along the back of her wrist. “I’ve got you.”

Abby gasped and trembled and whatever protest she might have had gave way to a low whine at the feel of his touch. Aegon soothed her, kissing her cheek, the corner of her eye, nuzzling his nose into the softness of her hair. The scent of her bergamot oil clung to the damp curls at her temples and twisted a needy sort of pull low in his gut. He was desperate to dive his fingers the last few inches to join hers into the soaked treasure of her cunt, but instead he continued to stroke his fingers up and down her arm. The awareness that her breasts were free and ripe and waiting for him pulled a low groan that he unsuccessfully tried to muffle into her curls. “Come here, hunītsos,” he crooned, and pressed his palm against her quivering belly to hold her against him. Slowly, Aegon rolled them to the left, so he was on his side, her head resting on his arm and cradled in the curve of his body.

Aegon took the moment to meet her gaze fully and admire the way she looked in the firelight. Her eyes were wide and the ocean blue of them was a vivid rim around the black pupil that reflected the light. Her dark lashes fluttered and her mouth was swollen red and bitten near bloody from how she’d tried to keep her sounds in. He could see the scarlet smudged on the bit of her nightgown that she’d shoved into her mouth. Cradled as she was against him, Aegon drew the arm that supported her head around to slip beneath the edge of her rucked up nightgown and graze his fingers along the soft warmth of her breast, just there on the underside, and a slow smirk cut across his face at the way she jerked against him. Aegon glanced down and saw her pretty little toes curl into the bed.

“Good girl, ñuha hunītsos. Whatever is the matter?” He asked, his voice low, crooning softly to her like the skittish little rabbit he had named her. Abby whined and her feet pressed against his shins, tangling their legs, and the smile across his face grew. “Use your words,” he murmured against her temple. “Tell me what it is that has you so distraught?” His voice was low and soft, slow and soothing, and he relished in the way his words made her squirm against him. He felt a stirring in himself and instinctively his hips pressed against the bare curve of her ass, his palm hot and fingers spread across her soft belly. Aegon pressed her closer and his own eyes went half lidded as Abby’s fluttered.

“Please,” she whispered in a breathless tremble. Her pink tongue darted out to lick along her bitten mouth and he leaned down to brush his own against hers. He couldn’t help himself. There was no hesitation to slide his tongue along hers the moment their mouths met. The way her own was languid and needy all at once, the way he swallowed her exhales and she his. She tasted of plum cider and berry tarts from supper, the merest hint of copper from the blood on her ripe lips. “Please,” she said when they broke apart, and the hand that was not still between her thighs came up to cup his cheek.

Aegon did not flinch at the contact. No, there was never a reason to flinch at her hands touching his face. Instead, he nuzzled into the cool touch of her palm and nosed at the curve of it, desiring to taste her fingers, to nibble and drag his teeth along her wrist where her heartbeat lay.

“Tell me what you wish for, Abrogail,” he told her, his eyes fixed on hers, the gentle cadence of her full name on his tongue as familiar to him as his own. The logs in the fire popped and he watched her throat bob as she swallowed. Don’t tell me to leave, he silently begged. Let me adore you, let me touch you, let me taste and have you, let me know it’s alright.

“Please.” A third time. Songs said wishes needed to be said three times. “Let me be the only one you touch this way. Aegon? If you want to have me, let it only be me.”

I’ve never asked for anything from you, Aegon.

Aegon’s heart thudded as loud as a war drum, so loud he swore that it was echoing in the room. His eyes searched her face and she was guileless, as always, soft and pliant against him and he could see the way her own heavy lidded gaze searched his. A soft exhale escaped him when she pressed against him of her own volition this time, the fabric of his breeches all that separated his hardening cock from the curve of her ass.

I loved a maid as fair as autumn, with sunset in her hair. His Maiden, shivering from arousal, for a peak not yet reached, begging for him and begging to be his only. His Abby never asked for anything, and yet she asked for this. This one thing that people like them should never expect, never want.

“Should I be faithful to you,” he murmured with his mouth pressed against the soft pad of flesh at the base of her thumb, “my darling hunītsos, I can have you however I desire?” He had a thousand fantasies of how he’d take her. In her bed, in his, on the back of Sunfyre, in the solar, in the stables, the stairwell… and yet this moment gave birth to a thousand more and he was breathless with it.

His sharp teeth nipped at her palm and Abby jerked, the softest and most surprised giggle escaping her. Aegon couldn’t help but smile at the innocently playful sound and he pressed a kiss to her lifeline.

“Yes, you may,” she whispered. “Mo realta geal.” Aegon blinked in surprise at the foreign words, and it took him longer than he’d admit to realize she’d spoken the Riverlands tongue he hadn’t heard from her in years. Abby’s voice was such a blend of the lilt of her home and the accent of the Keep that he’d long stopped registering it, but the words that flowed from her, musical and light, brought it rushing back.

“What does that mean?” he asked, and she giggled softly, teeth scraping against her lower lip. “You’re not going to tell me?” Abby shook her head, a soft sound in the negative, and squealed when he snapped his teeth against her hand with a low growl. Aegon watched in fascination as the bite and growl had Abby’s answering squeals taper off into strangled moans, and he felt her body shudder and press tightly back, wriggling and shivering. The tugging low in his gut went straight to his cock and his fingers pressed against her belly to hold her in place while he rubbed himself against her backside.

Abby shivered and he felt her toes curl again against his calves. “A-aeg… please.” A strangled whimper, her eyes fluttering and face flushing a deeper shade of red that matched her hair.

“Please?” he asked, his fingers resuming the lazy touch along the petal soft underside of her breast, and his other hand stroked down her stomach to the soft skin above the thatch of red curls. Louder, Abby cried, and he leaned down to capture it before it could get too away from her. Her sounds belonged to him and him alone, and he wanted to taste them and see if they were as sweet as her penchant for all sweet things. “Touch you here?” He wasn’t really asking at all. Aegon stroked the back of his fingertips over her damp curls where her own fingers rested and shifted his mouth to drag his tongue along the bead of sweat coursing down her throat and took a taste of her pulse.

Her answering moan was all that he needed to finally join her fingers. He relished the way her body went taut and her back bowed, how violently she shook with the first experimental stroke of his middle finger skating feather soft over that bundle of nerves she’d been struggling with. His calloused fingers squeezed her breast soft in his palm, thumb swiping over the pebbled peak. Aegon swore he could see the way her blush bloomed like spring across her belly when he looked down to their hands, begging for him to drag his tongue across the clenching curve and the beads of sweat that gathered.

Aegon’s middle finger caressed further down, gliding through her slick folds and over her fluttering entrance to find a soft ridge of skin. Her maidenhead was still intact. The sound that escaped him was something he’d never felt before; the growl he made felt like it belonged to Sunfyre more than he.

His. That fragile bit of skin, that most intimate part of her that belonged to him. He imagined the little streak of crimson smeared on his cock while she writhed beneath and he throbbed painfully in anticipation.

Not tonight. He wanted to take care of her tonight. For now, he focused on his touch. The sound was just as wet and obscene as he’d imagined, the touch of her cunt wet and soft. “Are you going to help me, hunītsos? Tell me what you like.”

Abby whimpered and her hips rolled into his hand through clear instinct and she turned her face into his cheek. He hushed her softly, but not truly meaning it, for he wanted to hear every sound that escaped her so he could learn how to pluck her properly. “Or do you not know what you like, hm?” He kissed her nose and the curve of her cupid’s bow with soft, innocent pecks. “Is that why I didn’t see you peak?”

“I can’t… it’s too much,” she choked out, and her slick fingers gripped the wrist of his exploring hand. He could feel how the skin had wrinkled from how long she’d been working herself. He crooned wordlessly to her and licked along her quivering mouth, twisting his own hand to take hers and twine their fingers together, the back of her hand pressed into his palm.

Poor little thing. She could not have much of an idea of what she was doing if she had not been able to make herself come.There was the warm swell of pride in his chest that she’d never know pleasure that wasn’t by his hands and his mouth, and eventually his cock. That he’d get to do this for her, to treasure her this way, to make her feel the way no one else could ever hope.

Aegon hummed against her mouth briefly before lifting his head and taking a look at the way she was laid out before him. Her thin nightgown was gathered up beneath her arms and useless in covering any part of her and his own heated skin felt like too much. He still had his boots, and the weight of the dagger inside was still there.

Regretfully, Aegon pulled his hand away and the frantic whine that escaped her made him grin and nip at her nose.

“Come back,” she pouted, so very unlike her, and reached for him. The possessive feeling inside of his chest, that tender place where Sunfyre curled inside of him, flared hot and warm at her need for him - him and no one else.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, stroking his wet finger along her lip before he pulled away further so he could sit up. Her head lay on the mattress, the golden red halo of hair that escaped her braid wild around her face and she gazed up at him. Abby was a vision. He could see her shaking from how strong her arousal was, the spray of goosebumps along her skin, how achingly taut her pretty pink nipples were. Her hands reached for his shirt and he grinned, lifting his arms to reach back and pull his shirt over his head and tossed it to some other place that didn’t matter.

Immediately, her hands pressed against his belly. He’d regained some of his muscle since Cole had been putting him through his paces, and the lack of inordinate amounts of wine had ebbed away some of his softness. He groaned low at the feel of her slick fingers leaving streaks over his stomach and watched, mesmerized, as her hand moved down to tentatively stroke over the thick erection barely contained by his half laced breeches.

Aegon sucked in a long breath and reached out to stroke her hair back from her face while she touched him, his eyes trying to shut. But he kept his gaze focused on her face. Trembling, yes. Inexperienced, definitely. But instead of demure and fragile, hiding herself from him, his Maiden had propped herself up on an elbow and her soft face scrunched up in unrestrained curiosity. Pearly teeth bit at her lower lip and her eyes rolled up to meet his.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, cupping her cheek. In answer, his preening Abby leaned forward to press a kiss against his stomach. Aegon thought the Stranger would take him there. Thoughts of gently encouraging her to take him out and wrap her delicate fingers around him flooded his mind. How he’d tenderly guide her on how to please him, how to take him so he could rest his cock on the soft pillow of her tongue, how he’d watch her eyes as he disappeared inside her succulent mouth.

Fuck, he thought. I’ll come right now. Aegon felt like a new boy again, peaking in his breeches at the sight of a pair of tits and fluttering eyes.

The heated thrum of his blood had him thinking of taking the dagger from his boot to slice away her useless nightgown and he was going through the last threads of his restraint not to. She could keep that last beacon of her modesty, even when she was bare and open to him. Instead, Aegon moved to remove his boots and dropped them to the floor, the dagger finding a place on the side table. He nudged her aside so he could push her pillows up and then took his place reclining back against the headboard.

“Come here, ñuha hunītsos,” he commanded her. The gown fell back down when she moved over to him and uncertainty had pushed away the curiosity that lightened her features just a moment before. Her nerves were coming up and Aegon reached for her, grazing his fingers along her arms. “Only you, Abs, I promise.” Only her. He’d only touch her this way. She eased into his open arms. She was so pliable even while she trembled, exactly like a little rabbit, and it made him hungry. Gods above, he was a man starving. Before he could think better of it, Aegon reached up to the neckline of her gown and tore it in one swift, sharp motion. The sound of it giving way was as loud as the crackling fire and Abby’s beautiful eyes rounded, mouth falling open in shock and she squeaked.

“Aegon!” High pitched and barely a whisper, Abby was caught between giggling and scolding him, clutching at the torn edges of her nightgown. She was so deeply pink, she could be one of the blossoms in the garden. I want to write songs to the way you look right now. “What are you-”

He cupped her face and greedily drank from her mouth again, eager to hear and taste and feel more of those sounds from her. Eager to alleviate her nerves and to draw her back into the heavy lidded decadence she had just been in. He wouldn’t apologize for it either. Seven, he’d keep the ripped garment as a trophy, kept under his pillow to comfort him when he had only his hands for company. To pass away the endless days before she’d be in his bed every night.

Aegon drew her back in and she came into his arms, and something broke in the cage of his ribs to have her curled up against him, her breasts pressed up against his chest, every inch of her curved into his spaces, as if he were Galladon of Morne and she truly was the Maiden herself come down to love him. He’d been with women, too many to count and too much of a drunken haze to remember much, but here and now, it was seared into his memory with the boldest of color and sound and taste. To have her curled against him like this, whining and whimpering his name like a prayer made him drunker than his favored arbor red.

A final, tender kiss, and Aegon regretfully pulled away from the sweetness of her mouth to gently turn her so she was sitting in his lap. The gown had been lost and she was naked in his arms when he coaxed her to lean back. Her pert ass fit against his nearly painful erection, and her head rested back on his shoulder. “Relax,” he told her while he watched the way his splayed fingers encompassed her thighs and coaxed them apart to hook on either side of his slightly bent legs. He did not want to have her closing them during this. Aegon wanted her open for him.

“Fuck,” he muttered for the countless time against her shoulder and laved his tongue along the salty taste of her skin before pressing reassuring kisses against the trail. Abby squirmed, her hands coming up to cover herself and he let her have it for the moment. There was no harm in it, and it brought him such joy to see the way her delicate fingers spanned the soft weight of her breasts. “You’re so beautiful. Such a good girl.”

Abby gulped for air and nodded. “I try so hard.” He smiled against the curve of her shoulder and watched his fingers stroke along the damp, sensitive skin of her thighs.

“I know you do. You try so hard at everything. Let me do this for you, Abby. But you have to promise me something.”

“A-anything. Anything, Aegon.” So trusting. So fucking trusting and he swore he would be worthy of this unyielding faith she had in him.

“You told me you never asked me for anything-” She made a sound and moved to turn, but he bit down into the softness of her shoulder and instead she cried out in shock, in pleasure, maybe a light bit of pain. In the carriage, she has made the softest of moans when he’d tugged her hair, and the way her skin flushed when he cupped the fragile curve of her neck had heated his blood and made him curious what hidden desires he might coax from his hunītsos. His wanton little rabbit who desired him with such bright eyed eagerness, without fear or hesitation. Aegon soothed the bite with a kiss before continuing. “But I want you to ask me for more, to tell me when something feels good. I only desire your pleasure. Let me do this for you.”

Abby met his eyes then, and he could barely make out the beautiful blue in how blown her pupils were. Her pink tongue darted out to lick her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered and it sounded like a prayer, it sounded like relief as she sagged into his body, and when Aegon pressed his middle and ring finger against her mouth, she opened up and greedily sucked them down with the lingering taste of her clinging to his skin. His other arm held her close to him and he dragged his fingertips slowly up and down the center of her body, from between her pert breasts down her along the clenching muscles of her belly. The sound of her mouth went straight to his cock and Aegon carefully shifted against her ass to keep his own peak at bay. Slowly, he drew his fingers away and he didn’t hesitate to finally drag them once more between her folds. The sight of watching his hand there, against her curls twisted something deep inside of him that had his head spinning.

Abby was soaking. He could already feel the dampness running onto the front of his breeches and he let out a low, long moan of his own. “You sound like the heavens,” he told her with his mouth against the shell of her ear, tongue licking against the soft skin. Aegon took his time simply relishing in the way she felt, exploring the shape of her before he mercifully began to stroke his fingers against the bundle of nerves she struggled so much with. Abby let out a strangled cry and her body arched, but he held her tight, the same way he did when she tried to move too much on Sunfyre; to hold her close against him so the feel of her could sear into his skin, so she could feel the pounding of his heart in tune with hers.

“More,” she whispered in a strangled voice, and the curl of his grin was a feral thing against the shell of her ear. Her hips rolled into his touch even with the way he held her steady and the whine she made was a heady thing. “Too much,” she said almost immediately after the words spilled. He laughed and continued the steady rhythm of circling that precious spot.

“More and too much,” he teased, and Abby tried to arch again when he tapped gently, the sound of it soft and slick. Her toes spread out as her heels pressed frantically into the bed and he could feel the way she shook beneath his touch. Vibrating and threatening to fall. “You must have worked your poor little cunt for so very long to be this close already.” Aegon’s cock was aching. He felt like his balls would burst and if he couldn’t bury himself inside of her. He wanted to decorate her with his spend and trace it across her fire-touched skin.

Aegon kept the pace, fingers steadily increasing the pressure on that aching clit of hers. Slowly, his hand rose from where he pressed it against her belly to cup the breast he’d teased before. He barely had the time to relish the weight of it before the swipe of his fingers against that tightly pebbled nipple sent her falling over the edge, a cry so loud he had to quickly clap his hand over her gaping mouth so as not to alert her brother in the next room. It did little to stop her. If anything, Abby whined louder, shuddering against his body, her hips rolling up into his hand in a clear seeking motion. It was enchanting, a heady thing more intoxicating than the finest red wine, or her sweet ciders that he favored lately.

“Lykirī,” he commanded her and in response, Abby’s teeth caught on his fingers and nipped sharply. An amused laugh vibrated through him and puffed against her curls and Aegon slapped her cunt, his own teeth catching along the smooth column of her neck. Fingers now two knuckles deep in her warm mouth, he had to hook his leg around one of hers to keep her from squirming away. “I won’t leave you without seeing how you take me,” he promised. Warned, truly, while he pressed warm, wet kisses along the curve of her shoulder. He was pulsing against the curve of her ass, unable to help the roll of his hips up to try ease the ache.

Aegon’s middle finger traced her still fluttering entrance and gently, carefully, oh so tenderly, he pressed the blunt tip of his finger in. Her first peak would make it easier, but he was barely to the second knuckle before he bit down on the curve of her shoulder and let out a low groan.

Abby was a vice, tight and warm, and all he could think was ‘how the fuck am I going to fit?’

He needed to stop for his own self, for her to get used to the intrusion. Aegon was left gasping against her skin and trying to tell himself he couldn’t sink in all the way, that he couldn’t add a second digit and feel her stretch and whine. He didn’t want to hurt her. No, Aegon wanted to show her the pleasure she would find with him, in his arms, in their marriage bed. Abby choked around his fingers, pulling them from her mouth with a gasp, strings of spit connecting his hand to her swollen lips.

“Feels… feels… good.. You’re so good… to me…” she panted, and something warm and bright bloomed within his chest at her praise. Aegon’s finger pressed deeper and she rolled her hips up and he felt her arm squirm awkwardly between them, but he was too distracted by the warm vice of her body until he felt her soft hand over the hardness of him. He gasped and his own fragile whimper tore from him. Unbidden and instinctive, he rubbed his mouth against her shoulder and felt his vision going hazy and spotty. Aegon’s hips rolled up into her hand, wanting to bare himself to her and let her play and explore, but he realized that just as he had snared her into him, she had done the same. “For me?” she asked, and Aegon thought he was going to die. Another whimper, a choked gasp of laughter as he slowly sunk in as far as he could.

“Always,” he promised her. Her fingers squirmed and when she moved her body to give herself more room, it forced herself to ride his finger, which in turn made her tremble and shake. Abby’s petite grasp was scrambling against the half undone laces and Aegon’s hand moved with her body to help her work her hips against him. Her arousal was dripping onto his hand, the wet sound of their joining nearly better than the little grunts and shaky mewls she made. He tried to hush her and Abby lifted his hand to suck down his fingers again to muffle her sounds.

He was going to die. Aegon was going to die in this bed, his Maiden shimmering and shining from pleasure, the last thing he’d taste and touch and see. When her fingers managed to slip inside of his half-laced breeches, cool hands against his warm flesh, he was so utterly lost. Aegon groaned, her name a mantra as he bit down into the curve of her shoulder, his finger moving more frantically inside of her, curling up to find that spot that would make her shake. He hadn’t peaked in his breeches since he was a lad, and there he was, rutting up against her hand.

It was only through his own experience that he kept going until she followed him back over the edge, crying against the gag of his fingers and little rush of damp slipping across his palm while he worked her down. The feel of her squeezing his finger, and her own hand on him, had his mind spiraling, and it was taking everything in him not to shift her body over his and thrust his cock deep into her.

Aegon lost time after that. His head had gone fuzzy and hazy and when his senses had come back, his arms were wrapped around her. Abby had turned against him enough that she could press her face into his neck, and with heavy lidded eyes, Aegon watched her look at the way her own hand glistened with him.

Tentatively, Abby lifted her hand to her mouth and the tip of her tongue darted out to lick him from her finger.

He had died. Aegon Targaryen had died bringing his betrothed her first peaks, and came with just a touch of her hand like a kitling. Now he was in the afterlife, watching her savor the taste of him, smelling like bergamot and sugar, of sunshine and musk.

“You’re…” Aegon’s words trailed off and he nosed against her, licking his way into her mouth and tasting himself on her tongue. He had no words for what he felt. Her hands reached into his hair to tug and bury those messy fingers and Aegon didn’t care. His own hand, covered in her, stroked along her hip and hauled her closer to him, her breasts crushed against his chest, nipples dragging against his skin. Blindly, he reached for his discarded shirt and when they broke away, Aegon shifted them so he could slide his shirt over her head and do up the laces.

Abby was heavy limbed and flushed, the ocean blue of her eyes glittering beneath her drooping eyelids. She was a mess, and so was he, and had this been any other time, he’d order them a bath and fresh sheets. He’d cuddle her in the steaming heat of the water and see how quickly he could make her shatter, and guide her in the desperate dance she clearly was eager for.

For now, it was a secret thing. Something sacred, maybe holy.

Aegon knew nothing except that Abby was yawning and burrowing into his chest and he could do nothing but stroke her sweaty curls from her cheeks and press kisses against her freckles. The night was long ahead of them. There would be enough time to leave.

Not even his mother could tear him from her arms right now.

Chapter Text

Mid-morning in the Red Keep meant that the gallery Aegon found himself in was illuminated with bright morning sun. It was three stories with floor to ceiling windows on the north side and smaller windows that could not be opened on the south, letting in natural light that would filter through them the entire day. It was his mother’s pride and joy, and he recalled the hours she’d thrown herself into its decoration and design when he was small and her smiles more frequent, her touch more caring. This was where she eagerly brought visiting nobles and dignitaries; this gallery was where his mother shone as Alicent Hightower, a girl with dreams that he watched fade from her eyes until piety and desperation and anger took hold of her.

His mother told him that she came to the sept to feel close to her own mother. Aegon came to the gallery to feel close to his. He was trying not to think about that too much as he watched Abrogail Strong pause in front of the intricate carving of the ship that the Targaryens brought to Dragonstone.

His gaze was fixated upon the spray of freckles along Abby’s bared shoulders. More importantly, it was that her shoulders were bare at all that was drawing his attention. The samite gown she wore was of the palest blue, the top edged with a broad band of silver. He’d watched her painstakingly embroider all the little decoration on it in front of the fireplace in the evenings. In the sunlight streaming through the windows, he could see the golden threads in the silver banding that also encircled her upper arms glimmer and reveal the hidden golden dragons sewn within. She said something but Aegon paid no mind to it on his approach, too focused watching the way her red curls glowed molten down past her pale shoulders and how the freckles dotting them were like cinnamon sugar on the sweet breads she’d eaten earlier.

It had been two days since he crept into her bed. Two days since they had the chance to be truly alone and he was going mad with it. Her throat was bare and never had he thought he’d want to drape a woman in jewels, but the idea of a necklace wound around her throat, mayhaps with rubies, appealed to him. A symbol that declared she was his and his alone.

Abby’s fingers, so dainty, so strong when they dove into his hair and gripped him like a lifeline, reached up to tuck her loose hair behind her ear and the bruise, deep and dark red, was revealed just there in the softness below her ear and along her jaw.

He closed the short distance between them, his arm snaking around her waist, hand splayed across the smooth curve of her belly to pull her against his chest. Aegon had been letting her set the pace, but here beneath the shaft of sunlight, the treasure she presented was too much for him. He pressed his face against the top of her head where she fit perfectly beneath his chin (if only just, for height eluded him and found his brother instead). He inhaled the scent of her hair, the orange and lemon of the bergamot oil she used for her curls.

“Your Grace,” she whispered, and he sighed, fingers flexing against her stomach, fabric bunching slightly beneath his touch, forcing himself to be still, to not beg for more.

To not take more.

“Your Grace, we shouldn’t,” she tried again, but this time, Abby’s voice shook with the little giggles he adored and he shut his eyes when she reached up to delve those fingers into his hair and hold him close. It was his turn to shudder at the feel of her nails lightly scratching his scalp, as if he were her cat laying across her lap. Aegon felt the heat rush through his veins, from the top of his head down to his toes that curled within his boots.

“I thought you were dragging me in here for the same purpose you had last night after dinner,” he countered. The memory of her hands grabbing him and hauling him behind the tapestry on the way toward Helaena’s room the night before made him giddy and ache. His rabbit had been possessed and he’d been a hungry dragon happily accosted by her. In the fortnight since they had first kissed, she was still clumsy and unsure, but her eagerness had delighted and ignited him. It was with that heady kiss, and the feeling of how perfectly her pert bottom fit his hands beneath her simple frock that had fed his dreams that night and left him craving, as always, for more.

Abby giggled again and he tilted his head back only enough to allow her to turn in his hold. She kissed his nose, and then his cheek. Peppering her way along the curve of bone to the soft skin behind his ear where his jaw met, she suckled and nipped with the softest sound that went straight to his cock. Aegon’s eyes fell almost shut and he brought his other hand up to cup the back of her head to keep her close. Her own fingers remained in his hair with their infernal tugging, drawing soft groans and his own wanton and needy whimper.

‘Touch me, touch me for here I hurt,’ he thought. ‘Touch me and make it all go away until it’s only you.’

“Do you like that?” she whispered against his ear, and it struck him how genuinely curious she was, how guileless the intent was in her explorations. It was intoxicating in a way he couldn’t describe and Aegon’s arm tightened around her waist, his fingers diving into her hair. Her arm had come up around his own waist to mimic him and he found it adorable how she took her cues from him. What he did, she did, and he rewarded her studious nature with a nip to her ear.

Her fingers tugged on his hair and he felt her teeth nip along his jaw. His cock twitched and he angled his hips back so she wouldn’t feel it, not wanting to frighten her. “I asked if you liked that.”

Abby’s bold teasing drew a high pitched laugh of his own. “Are you demanding answers from your prince, my Lady? What liberties you take.” From his view of her throat and the succulent curve of her shoulder, he watched the blush bloom like the malvales flowers in his mother’s solar. She shook against him with her giggles and Aegon felt like he was soaring to be the one to pull such joyous sounds from her with his japes. It was heady, like the most exotic of wines he’d been given that left him floating, but this? This flamed him instead of making him feel numb. This had his heart racing and his body tingling and Aegon laughed with her. He laughed in the way he hadn’t for so long, free from the anxiety and the fear, from the nervous notes that plagued the sound.

He met her eyes and felt like he was freefalling from Sunfyre’s back to drown in the rivers. They were so endlessly, beautifully blue and crinkled from how brightly she smiled. Her blush meant it was Aegon’s turn to reach up and cup her face in his hand and pepper kisses from the top of her forehead down the delicate line of her nose to the sweet, heart shape of her mouth. There were too many kisses to count; little needy kisses like he could capture the taste of her and hold it inside. They were both laughing, breathless and needy. Aegon ached with it, feeling the desire stir in his belly. Abby pressed against him and his breath caught, kisses pausing as there was no hiding what she was doing to him.

Abby stilled against him and Aegon felt more than heard the soft sound low in her throat. The gentle vibration of her mouth where she rested it against his. The taste of cinnamon sugar and sweet cream had already been devoured, leaving whatever taste of her that hid beneath for Aegon to glut on.

He didn’t move to press further against her no matter how his body begged to rut against her like a damned kennel dog, but his mouth continued to brush against hers, mouth catching along her lower lip, teeth nibbling along the fullness of her pout. “Abs,” he murmured. “Ñuha hunītsos.” She answered with the tentative touch of her own tongue against his as if she hadn’t eagerly returned such affection before. Aegon brushed his thumbs along the curve of her cheeks and felt the heat of her blush beneath his touch. Abby pressed closer into him and his breath caught at the pressure of pressing against her belly. He didn’t care about the layers of fabric between them, it felt just as good as if they were both bare as babes.

Seven hells, he wanted to taste her again. Just thinking about it had him salivating and Aegon’s hands moved further to cup her head properly when the striking sound of cane hitting the flagstone floor echoed through the gallery.

“Lady Strong!” came the horrified shout and Abby gasped, and they sprang apart - or would have, had Aegon’s hands not been caught in her hair and her ruby curls caught on the ring he wore. She yelped in pain and Aegon cursed low under his breath as the Septa strode towards them, her cane echoing off the floor with each strike.

“Hold on,” he consoled, helping her turn her head so he could work on getting her hair free. “Septa Lyserra,” he greeted nonchalantly, the smile he forced came out as a grimace. The fierce look on the woman’s face was enough to sap any desire from him. She had been a fixture for years, the Septa of his sister and Abby, who guarded the girls like a hound. Heleana struggled more beneath the woman’s gaze, but overall did not seem too bothered by it. Abby, as always, simply said that the Septa was strict, but well meaning. Aegon thought her suffocating, more austere and stringent than even his own mother. The woman before them was barely older than the queen herself, and so Aegon couldn’t fathom why she needed a cane since she seemed to have moved quickly across the gallery.

“Your Grace,” the woman demurred with a curtsy before she wrapped a slim hand about Abby’s bicep. “I apologize for the interruption, but the lady is late for her lessons.”

“Apologies, Septa,” Abby quickly cut in, and Aegon knew the warning glance from her when he saw it. Carefully, Aegon was working the curl out of his ring, and Abby let out a familiar pained sound as the hair tore, little strands of it still stuck in the gold. Her fingers tugged at his. “Here, just get it off your hand, I’ll fix it and give it back,” she said, breathless and flushed, already being tugged away from him by the persistent bitch who’d interrupted them. Aegon wanted to snarl at the Septa, demanding she leave, but Abby was letting herself be pulled away from him and mayhaps it was for the best. The intrusion had nearly killed the arousal he was feeling and watching her walk away from him, gazing back with her large blue eyes and kiss swollen mouth, it was everything to keep him from going after her, ensnaring her back in his arms.

So instead, he gave her a little wave before pulling his fingers through his hair in frustration of what to do with himself now. He supposed he should go and see himself to the training yard. He was reluctant to admit that Cole had been right, and that the physical exertion has been a good distractor - perhaps that was one of the not so honorable reasons Aemond spent so much time studying the blade. It wasn’t as terrible as he had feared, either. In just a few weeks, his body had remembered the moves he’d used to hone so well, reminding himself that he did have some natural ability that Aemond was once madly jealous of. The prospect of participating in the tournament was an enticing one. For once, he thought to prove himself worthy of praise, to show that he was good enough.

To see Abby fuss over any perceived injury, and swoon over his skill like he’d seen maidens do towards his uncle, Gwayne.

A soft, sharp cry, familiar to him, reached his ears and Aegon’s footsteps quickened. “Abs?” he called out, hurrying out into the hall, wondering what was the matter.

But the hall was empty, his rabbit nowhere to be found. Aegon frowned, turning in a circle to see what he may have missed, but it was only servants and pages making their way to wherever they needed to go. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, and he could feel Sunfyre responding through their bond, concern thrumming through his chest. “All seems well,” he murmured, to himself and to his bonded brother in the dragonpit. Sunfyre settled but the uncertain feeling remained.

“How is Lord Tully settling in, Lysa?” Alicent asked, her focus on the parchments in front of her. The menus had been finalized for the welcoming feast that night and now she was going through everything else that demanded her focus; orders for fabric and carriages, menus for Aegon’s nameday feast and the following celebrations, a missive to the High Septon for the wedding, among numerous other things that Lysa Fossoway was incomparable in helping her handle. Her other ladies had already been sent on errands and she was grateful for the quiet in her solar. A painful pulse had started behind her eyes and it was barely mid-morning.

Lysa was in the process of sprinkling the pounce powder on the last missive and did not pause in her work. Her apple green damask dress glimmered with golden thread, the gown low cut across her shoulders. “He is well, Your Grace. The Grand Maester visited him upon his arrival to ensure he had an easy rest and as of this morning, he is hale and hearty.” She paused, cocking her head. Her light blonde hair was caught in cauls on either side of her head, the nets a thick weave of flat golden lace and the fillet that wound around her head was gold and green. It was an older look. Princess Rhaenyra had made bare heads popular in court, but Lysa preferred her cauls to hide the graying of her blonde hair.

Alicent reached up to brush away a loose auburn curl, her long hair still braided loosely as she had no one to entertain that morning. It was vanity to let her hair flow free and uncovered, but it was a vanity she clung to, her hair one of the things about her that remained untouched and untainted.

Her mother had the same thick deep auburn curls that she recalled sitting on a little plush stool when she was small, watching Cybell Reyne’s maid gently brush and curl it.

“Your Grace, are you well?”

“Hm?” Alicent blinked and realized she had grown lost in thought as Lysa had been speaking with her. “What was it you said?”

Lysa pretended not to notice her flight of fancy and Alicent was grateful for it. “Lord Elmo is breaking fast with the Lord Hand this morning and the Ladies Baratheon are settling in well. Princess Helaena has taken quite a shine to young Floris and Lady Cassandra seems to have made her own spot within the court.” A thoughtful purse of her mouth, then, “I am concerned that she does not have true interest in the princess’ company.”

“Lady Cassandra would be an unsuitable companion.” Unfortunate, but not unexpected. A sigh. She would ideally keep the maiden here rather than send her to Harrenhal. Surely with enough time, the elder girl may creep into Aemond’s affection, or at the very least some willingness at being presented with someone who was not his sister. “Has Helaena shown any preference to any other ladies-”

“Your Grace!”

Septa Lyserra was prone to fits of indignation in the way only a believer who cleaved close to the Faith could be. It often took her by surprise that the woman was not much older than herself and yet seemed so ancient in her ways. Her own Septa had not been so stringent, teaching her songs and painting. Sometimes she wondered if she should have sent Lyserra back for one who embraced the arts and crafts the way many other septas did.

“I swear upon the memory of my mother, Daemon never touched me.”

‘But you lay with Ser Criston instead,’ Alicent thought as the long simmering heat curled low in her belly. Her attention turned to the red faced woman and confusion overtook her when she saw Abrogail being dragged in behind her.

There was no helping it, Alicent supposed. Better to be too strict when it came to her children, than too lax.

“What on earth is going on here, Lyserra? Abrogail? Child, what is it?” There was no hiding the confusion but she would not rise to meet the Septa’s conniption fit. The girl’s wrist was clutched in the septa’s tight hand, her eyes downcast and it was not often she had seen her lower lip quiver.

Things had been interesting over the past few weeks since she sat with the child in front of her to make clear what was expected of her. Sweet, meek thing that Abrogail was, there had been a sense of pride in seeing her lift her gaze and speak her thoughts even though Alicent thought they were foolish and misplaced. She was young, and she would learn, just as Alicent had over the last decade, to carve her way and find her voice. It was sweet and endearing the way she cleaved to Aegon, and truth be told, Alicent hoped that the child’s view of her son would come to fruition.

However, Alicent had lived through such betrayals and treacheries that Abrogail Strong had yet to encounter, and to hold onto hope in that way without question was foolish, childish, and naive.

It was stupid and dangerous.

Her heart would only be broken in the end, and if Alicent could save her from it, the way she herself was not saved, then all the better.

“Your Grace, I must apologize for bringing you such upsetting news. I found Lady Strong in a compromising position alone with Prince Aegon.” The last of the statement was said in a hushed, offended way that had Alicent’s stomach curl with unease. Lady Fossoway beside her made a soft sound and out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the other woman work to hold a laugh back. Had it been any other sort of situation, Alicent may have expressed such laughter.

This was Aegon.

This was the future king.

Everything hinged on this.

“That shall be all, Lady Fossoway. I will send for you should I require more of your valuable assistance today. Do check on the Baratheon girls after those items are addressed,” she said with clear dismissal. The following conversation did not need such an audience. In a flurry of deep green silk, Lady Fossoway made for her exit, leaving Alicent alone with the Septa and her soon to be good-daughter.

Alicent let the silence in the wake of the closing door lengthen and she turned to slowly gather the rest of the papers on her desk. It was something that her own father did. The anxiety of it had her tearing at her nails, and she recalled how Gwayne could never stand it, blurting out whatever it was that needed to be said to make the silence stop. She noted that Abrogail did none of this. No, the girl stood still as a statue, eyes downcast, wrist still grasped by her Septa.

“And what compromising position were they found in?” Alicent finally asked, focused on putting away the inks and sealing wax.

“They were in a passionate embrace,” the septa said, disdain and offense dripping from each word. Passionate embrace, you say? Alicent mouthed to herself while her face was turned away. The dramatics of the Septa were something she disliked, almost as much as the news that was being delivered. “They were alone, and I have no idea how far they have gone, your Grace. The insolent girl will not say.”

A soft gasp had Alicent look at the blushing maiden before her. The girl’s eyes had raised, the blue of them large with pain and her own silent indignation.

“Your Grace,” Abrogail said, trying to tug her captured wrist from the other woman’s grasp. “My honor is intact and I was only kissing my betrothed. Tis harmless.” Her voice shook as she tried to find her words and the foolishness of her statement only underscored poor Abrogail’s naivete.

“Is that what Aegon told you?” Alicent asked, voice flat, and stared long and hard at the child until she stopped struggling and closed her mouth. “You told me you know how he is and I warned you of his hedonistic behavior. Yet you brushed me off, and after reassuring me that you were well aware of his nature, I have to hear about the pair of you caught alone?” Abrogail was silent, teeth gnawing on her lower lip and Alicent exhaled. “Septa Lyserra, you are dismissed. I shall handle this.” The woman dropped the child’s hand, curtsying deeply, and excused herself from the room as well, no doubt to go and cleanse herself in front of the Mother in the small Sept.

The moment dragged once more and Alicent watched her, a mouse beneath a cat’s paw. Abrogail’s hands were folded across her waist, eyes averted, and she caught the glint of gold in one of her hands - Aegon’s ring, her thumb running over it.

“You are a foolish, wanton girl, and I am ashamed of the insult you have dealt me this day, Abrogail,” Alicent finally said with all the quiet cutting she knew those words would deliver. “Do you understand how hard I fought against mine own father, your uncle, to give you time to grow up and not be dragged to the marriage bed before your time? A gift that I myself was denied and I would have for you and Helaena. Now I must hear of this! You, who I know have been taught better than to engage in such behavior. I trusted you to behave yourself as is expected, but it seems that I have been incredibly lax in your etiquette, or too lenient with your excursions dragon riding. You assured me they were chaste and harmless.”

“Your Grace,” Abrogail’s voice was small in the quiet of the room, thick with emotion, and the girl crossed towards her as if to throw herself at her lap, but stopped short, remembering herself. “My Queen, I can promise you that Aegon has done nothing more than kiss me. He has not compromised my virtue, he has not - I’ve never…”

Alicent rose then, closing the distance and taking Abrogail’s chin in her firm hand. A soft sound escaped her, but she did not try to pull away. “Were you aware he’d gotten a child on one of my maids barely a moon ago?”

Blue eyes widened, cheeks flushing a deeper red, and she minutely shook her head, Alicent’s grasp not giving her leeway. She hated to break this news to her, but the girl was living in a fairy tale.

“He did. I gave the girl moon tea and money for her to go back home to her family and find a new position, since she was clearly incapable of refuting my son’s advances. Very much like you seem incapable of refuting him-”

“Your Grace, it’s not like-”

“So you’re saying you are seducing him?” Abrogail had no answer for that, and all Alicent could think of was the image of Rhaenyra casting a web, ensnaring poor Ser Criston and his tender, stalwart heart. Capturing poor Harwin Strong, who was far too loyal for his own good. A net taught to her by her Targaryen blood, and the same blood that flowed through her son.

Forcing Abrogail back by the grip on her chin, Alicent shoved her toward the low couch and smoothed her hands on her skirt before leaning down to look into her eyes. “Let me disabuse you of your fantasies, child. You are Aegon’s bride because I believe that you can fix what is broken and infected inside of him. To show him how he should conduct himself so he is ready for what the future holds.”

She drew back in surprise when Abrogail shook her head in the negative. “Your Grace, we’re betrothed, we’re meant to spend the rest of our lives together. Should we not get along? Should we not love and care for each other?”

The slap was sudden, before Alicent could even think.

“I will not have you walk into that Sept with a swollen belly, all because you lack conviction and understanding, Abrogail! You are not his bride so you may ruck your skirts for him without moral hesitation. If you throw yourself around as such, who is to say you are not doing such a thing with someone else. Aegon’s heirs must be without question, so you must be without question.”

Unlike Rhaenyra, swearing on the memory of her beloved mother in the godswood.

Unlike the brood of pug-nosed boys with their dark curls and smiles.

Abrogail’s curls. Abrogail’s smile.

Lyone’s curls. Lyonel’s smile.

Celeste Reyne’s eyes stared back from Abrogail’s face, the river blue of them wet and shining with tears. She watched the girl before her blink, the drops streaking down across the vibrant mottling of her cheek, shaking hands clutching her skirts.

“You needn’t be so harsh with the children,” the memory of the soft voice came, so like Alicent’s own mother it made her chest ache. Celeste’s face, pale and drawn, and still so softly smiling while she wasted away, pressing kisses to Aemond’s cheek while he sat on her lap. “We love them as we wish to have been loved.”

Alicent’s palm tingled and she curled her fist and clasped it against her waist, as if physically holding herself would keep her from reaching and shaking the foolish child before her until her teeth rattled in her skull and sense came in.

“Do you understand me, Lady Abrogail?” Alicent’s voice was not her own. Bile rose in her throat while she watched the trembling thing before her. Her father stood, watching her the same, doing nothing when she said that the king had touched her.

All that was missing was the bloody nails.

The Queen watched in satisfaction, in a detached sense of something raw and aching, a scream stuck in her chest, as she watched Abrogail curtsy low until she was almost kneeling on the rug at her feet. ‘Good,’ Alicent thought, her scream still clawing its way up her throat.

“Yes, my Queen. I pray for your clemency in your goodness and love.”

‘Good.’ Alicent couldn’t breathe. Good that she was learning. Good that Abrogail would come to understand the way she had, with lessons that would not be as harsh as the ones she had to go through.

It was a kindness that she was doing all she could to save this child the way none had saved her.

Aegon’s muscles ached in a comfortable sort of way as he headed down the back staircase towards the Queen’s Ballroom. The apartments above it were currently taken up by the Tully party, so Aegon avoided the gallery, not wanting to be pulled into some conversation about politics. No, he had one focus and that was to find his maiden fair and press a kiss to her heart shaped mouth and escort her in, to show off how beautiful she looked on his arm. To show that maybe she was right, and they liked each other, so this wasn’t a terrible thing. Mayhaps he wasn’t going to fuck it all up.

He tugged on the cuffs of his doublet, his left side black, his right in red with the opposite colored sleeves. His mother had tried to force him into something green as always, but Aegon had tossed that at his brother and went about his way. Let her favorite boy dress in the color she clung to, not he, who she could barely stand to look at since the fight in the brothel. It didn’t matter. Not now, maybe not anymore when Abby looked at him.

Where was she?

“Your Grace, you look lost.”

Aegon turned to see Cassandra Baratheon gliding towards him, her smoky voice echoing against the stone walls. Behind her were two of her ladies, comely and quiet with downcast eyes and furtive glances. The Lady Baratheon was encased in a cloud of gold that nearly shimmered in the rays of evening light and torch glow that illuminated the hall. Her hair was loose, a light golden veil held in place in the way that only women seemed to know how to do.

His eyes immediately took in her low neckline, the delicate gold chain that adorned her. It would be rude not to look at such a display when it was offered so willingly. Even more when she curtsied low before him, a coy smile playing along the lush red of her mouth.

“And now you’ve found me,” Aegon smirked, touching a finger beneath her chin to tilt her face back and withdrew it just as quickly in a bid for her to rise. She was tall, as tall as Helaena, but still his eyes lingered more about the lovely expanse of her chest than her actual face. “I believe that puts me in your debt, my Lady.”

Cassandra tilted her head, teeth bright and sharp in her smile that stirred the familiar, eager ache in his belly. “You give the debt so willingly, my Prince. Are you sure that’s wise?”

Aegon leaned in, close enough to smell the perfume on her skin. A scent of spice, warm like incense, but not cloying. “There are worse debts to be in than that of a beautiful woman, Lady Cassandra,” he told her, voice low with only the tease of a promise. She didn’t seem like the type to be offended by such a thing, and Cassandra did not let him down, even if she delicately pressed her hand to her chest.

“My Prince is too kind with such flattery.” Aegon preened, pulling back and fully enjoying the attention. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had the attentions of beautiful women, and it was always good to allay any of his anxieties before one of his mother’s feasts, when expectations were at hand, and the watchful eye to make sure he wasn’t imbibing any of the wine forbidden to him. Perhaps the lady before him would help in such matters.

“I speak only the truth, my Lady. It’s Cassandra, is it not? Recently arrived from Storm’s End.” A test to see how casual and relaxed she was and again, the woman did not disappoint.

“Yes, that is correct. Her Grace, the Queen, invited myself and my sister to attend to Princess Helaena. Although, I suppose it shall be I who does, as Floris is still so young.” She lifted the hand from her chest to gesture vaguely. “It will be nice to spend time at court, experience new things. I do hope that you might be able to find the time to impart some of your own favorite things to do.”

Aegon’s smirk widened at the implication in those words, and the flash in her dark eyes showed that she very much meant it. There was no shyness in her words or her manner. Cassandra Baratheon was a woman who knew what she wanted.

“Mayhaps that would be the case, my Lady, or perhaps you’ll come with us to Harrenhal and we can be strangers together.” As much as he enjoyed the lady already, he did not think she would get along particularly well with his sister, who had the little Floris trailing after her like a baby duck. That was far more to Helaena’s liking. His Abby got along swimmingly with everyone.

Cassandra’s brow furrowed in confusion and she opened her mouth to speak before his gaze caught on the figure down the hall. He exhaled softly, shifting away from Cassandra with a vague dismissal.

Aegon’s eyes fixed upon Abby and the way the light had turned her red curls molten, even beneath her own soft white veil that was held in place with a delicately wrought silver circlet dotted with pearls. Her dress was elaborate, the twilight blue silk brocade decorated in red and green opened in front to reveal the silver gown beneath. The same twilight blue made up her sleeves, the fabric of the silver gown puffed through the slashes. Her neckline was far more demure, yet no less enticing to him. How beautiful she looked in the colors of her house.

How beautiful she would look in the colors of his.

Yes, he’d had to get her something to decorate the delicate throat, but Aegon wouldn’t deny he enjoyed the unimpeded view. His mouth watered, reminded of the taste of her by sight alone. The sounds she so sweetly made drifted through his memory like a song.

Abby’s eyes were averted, but her lady, that northern wench, Wylla, who had become her guard dog, was watching with steely gray eyes and a pursed mouth. Aegon spared her only an annoyed glance before fixing his attention on the vision before him.

His Maiden still would not rest her gaze upon, and she curtsied with her eyes hidden from him. “Your Grace.”

There was no coy playfulness, no sweet smile, no shy gaze up at him with the bluest eyes beneath her dark lashes. There was soft propriety and a downcast gaze. Not unfamiliar, but jarring given how she’d greeted him that morning. Hells, how she’d greeted him the past several days. Perhaps it was their audience? He leaned down slightly, hands properly folded behind him like a good boy when he wanted nothing more than to snake his hands around her waist, to dive into her hair, to…

A frown slashed across his mouth, and Aegon felt a curl of unease in his stomach. Abby and her courtesies were always sweet and amusing, even when turned on him but this felt strange.

“We have time, if you like, to continue where we left off this morning,” he offered, lilac eyes searching her soft features, the way she resolutely wouldn’t look at him. “What is it?”

“It would be inappropriate, Your Grace, to be found engaging in such things,” came the reply, soft as before, but there was something sharp beneath the words, like the flash of teeth. The shutting of a door.

“Inappropriate.” He drew the word out in a low voice, and while the curl of unease began working its way up his chest, his eyes narrowed. “So you’re telling me that you’re worried about being inappropriate now?” Silence filled the moment, and Aegon lifted a hand to reach beneath her chin but Abby jerked her head back and moved away from him in a whisper of fabric and flushed embarrassment.

“Please.” This time her voice was a little louder, her gaze shifting up and while she looked at him, Abby didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, they danced around to somewhere over his shoulder, to the tapestry of the Riverlands on the wall, to anywhere but him. “I know you hold little concern for your reputation, but not all of us have such luxury.” Stronger. He liked the strength in her voice, but he detested it when turned on him in such a way.

“Please?” Aegon repeated and drew back himself. The curl of unease wound through his ribs like a pair of stays, tugging and tightening. “Please?” he repeated and how dare she throw that at him after their night. A third time, as she whispered in his arms, he blinked at her, quieter now. “Please.”

Three times to make a wish. Three times to make it matter.

Abrogail wouldn’t look at him. “I am a lady, and a member of the Queen’s household. I may be your betrothed, my Prince, but I must lead us by example if you find yourself incapable of containing your desires.”

A rushing sound filled Aegon’s ears. A familiar roaring as the tendrils amidst his ribs tightened and squeezed. His face went hot and cold, then hot again. When he opened his mouth, no sound came out. Nothing. All he could hear in his head was his mother’s voice, Abrogail’s voice.

I didn’t ask for you. She didn’t ask for the lecherous, depraved monster he’d become. No longer the sweet boy his mother loved, that his mother soundly replaced with each increasingly perfect child that came after him. Would Abrogail replace him as well?

“You… I…” Words stuttered from him but he couldn’t string any together that made the slightest bit of sense. Aegon let out a sharp bite of laughter and even that was strangled. The woman before him had robbed him of speech, of sound, of everything. All that was left in his chest was a hollow feeling that not even Sunfyre’s presence could ease.

He lifted his hand to touch his own cheek, wondering if she’d slapped him without him noticing.

The sounds of her cries, her gasps of his name in the quiet of the night when the world had pinpointed to the feel of her against him haunted him, clawing at his compressed insides while she looked anywhere but him. The firelight had shone in her glossy eyes, her mouth rounded with pleasure. Now they were shadowed and dull, mouth pressed into a fine line so very much like his own mother’s disapproval.

Aegon’s fingers reached past his cheek and into his hair as if that was the motion he’d intended to complete. He wanted to tear at his hair and claw at his own face like he could rip the rot of him out and drop it at her feet so she could be satisfied with him once more.

Footsteps sounded in the hall behind him and Abrogail’s eyes focused, a slight smile breaking across her features. “Uncle Simon!” She called in greeting and Aegon’s hand gripped her bicep when she made to skirt around him. The bruises had healed, that much he knew. “Aegon,” she whispered, turning finally to look at him.

They had an audience now. She’d have to put on her pretty manners and not make a scene. Aegon said nothing and it was his turn to not look at her but instead at some unfathomable point in the middle distance.

The moment grew heavy, awkward. Abrogail shifted against him and Aegon thought he should let her go, he should say something. He should shake her until her teeth rattled and her wits fell back into place. Shake her until she admitted that this was a terrible jape and she meant none of it.

He could dive his hand into her sunset curls and yank her back and drag her to his bed like a war prize and make her take back everything she said. Give her a reason to think him monstrous, or a reason he wasn’t. ‘No’, he immediately thought, recoiling at himself for what the angry, poisonous thing inside him wanted to rage into. He didn’t want her to look at him like she was now, or worse, how his mother looked at him, but he was left confused and strangely afraid, unable to tell what was running through her head.

He could not reconcile the woman before him with her avoidance and snapping words to the one who smiled and giggled, who sighed and reached for him as readily as he did her. “Talk to me,” he commanded, voice low for her alone.

“Is everything alright?”

The man’s voice was unfamiliar, and not old, the way Ser Simon Strong’s was. This one was deep and calm, coated in courtesy and the edge of a blade.

Aegon finally turned his head to look over his shoulder at the company that had arrived. There was his lady’s uncle, a tall man grown plump as a bloated fruit with age, but the strength still lingered in his sturdy form. There was a strange pang of familiarity in the man’s face that made Aegon prickle and for a mad moment, he thought it was the ghost of Lyonel Strong coming from Harrenhal to strike him down for touching his little girl.

The man who spoke had Aegon instinctively sweeping his gaze over him. Younger by far than Ser Simon, the man had broad shoulders and an angular face softened by the light brown curls that shone gold in the evening sunlight. He was tall, taller than his companion, his two toned doublet, half-black and half-silver with golden buckles accentuated the narrowing of his figure. From the cut of his shoulders and his arms, he was clearly no slouch when it came to weapons.

Aegon’s tongue touched his lower lip, teeth biting in thought as he took this man in. His fingers released Abrogail’s arm and he took a step back. She immediately hurried past and into her uncle’s embrace. “Everything is fine. I’m so glad to see you,” she said, and Aegon swore he heard Wylla hiss at him like a cat beneath her breath when she went to join them.

“Uncle, this is his Grace, Prince Aegon Targaryen.” Ever polite, to hide whatever distaste she suddenly held for him. He approached slowly, the gathered group all bowing in deference, and Aegon breathed slowly through his nose to allay the panic that was settling in, that was threatening to send him running.

He watched the man with the golden hair alight his gaze on Abrogail. “Ser Edmund Vance, Your Grace, of Wayfarer’s Rest.” A bow to him as protocol dictated and his eyes focused on the way he took Abby’s hand, so small and delicate, into his larger one, to press a kiss to it. “Many speak of your gentle beauty, my lady, but even such flowery descriptions could never do you justice.”

Edmund Vance. Ser Edmund Vance.

“Edmund Vance, the heir to House Vance, recently lost his wife. A good man, and part of the Riverlands although a small seat,” his grandfather had said, waving the scroll in hand.

Amidst the cold and crushing pull inside Aegon’s chest, a flaring sensation began. Hot and molten in that warm, safe spot that Sunfyre lived within him; his dragon in place of his heart.

Aegon focused on the golden shine of Edmund Vance’s curls, the shy look on Abrogail’s face, the way she looked at him.

“Condolences are in order, I’ve heard.” Aegon did not give his mouth order to move, had just been utterly speechless in the face of Abrogail’s uncharacteristic harshness.. Edmund’s brow furrowed and Aegon continued on, feeling the spark of annoyance that he had to look up to meet the man’s gaze. Aegon was as tall as his father, even as the king grew stooped with his infirmity, but Edmund held a frustrating few inches on him. “For the passing of your dear lady wife.”

Aegon smiled as the golden man shifted, his face flashing with ill disguised discomfort. ‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Know your place, know that your words mean nothing in the face of your loss, not to her.’ Flushed with ruining the man’s attempts at flirting with his lady, Aegon thought to move back in, to grab her and drag her against his side. To bite his fingers into her until tears pricked her eyes, so she would know the pain she had caused him, and for her to understand that she was his.

For her to tell him why she was speaking so cruelly to him. To tell him what he had done since she’d been pulled from his embrace that morning, to have her reject his touch when she had cuddled into his warmth like the little rabbit she was.

“Your kindness is much appreciated, Your Grace,” came the stiff, soft reply, and then his eyes were on Abrogail again. “I would offer to escort you into the feast, but I think our Ser Simon has the privilege of such a vision on his arm.”

Laughter rolled from Ser Simon and he took his niece’s arm, pulling her away.

Edmund looked at Aegon. Aegon smiled back. Sunfyre growled deep in his chest and Aegon swore it vibrated through his words. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Ser Edmund. I do hope you enjoy your time here.”

Dismissing the man, Aegon continued into the hall. The Queen’s Ballroom was the smallest of the halls of the Keep. Nothing like the Great Hall, and half as big as the Small Hall in their Grandfather’s tower. It was an intimate setting: two long trestle tables took up most of the room without it feeling crowded with the wide aisle between them leading up to the dias where the head table sat. The walls of the room were carved in dark ironwood imported from the north, carved with dragons winding and twisting around carvings of trees. The room was filled with light so bright it could have been out in the gardens. Each wall sconce was covered in beaten silver to reflect the light about and the draperies along the south wall were pulled to the side and the windows thrown open to the terrace that opened up to the gardens below.

His mother stood above it all, a beacon at the high table, and his fear caused his steps to falter. She looked so young next to the ancient Lord Tully seated beside her. The green of her gown shone emerald in the light and he could make out the embroidery that made it seem like she had scales of her own. Her hair was in a low bun at the nape of her neck and the silver tiara she wore rested gently in her hair. Rubies the size of his thumb were fitted along the delicately wrought crown, each one lined with little sparkling emeralds. Fire of the Dragon. Fire of the Hightower.

‘Of Castamere,’ Aegon thought, noticing the lion broach on his mother’s bodice. Rubies for house Targaryen, rubies and silver for House Reyne. The house of the grandmother Aegon had never met. Was it always the loss of a mother and a wife that turned people cruel and cold? The loss of grandmother turning his grandfather into the cruel man he was, Mother into the fearful creature with her lion claws, his own sire too caught in the memory of the woman he’d ordered to die for the promise of a son. Would losing Abrogail do the same to him?

Fuck him, he hadn’t had a proper drink in weeks, and the wheel of his thoughts that he worked so desperately to avoid was threatening to derail him before he could even reach the dias and present himself to his mother’s hidden ridicule. What’s worse, was how he’d actually looked forward to it had Abrogail been on his arm rather than her uncle’s.

Better than being touched by that Vance prick, who had entered behind him but steered clear. Good.

A hand slipped along his right arm and Aegon startled. Helaena hummed and gave him a slight smile. Her silver hair hung freely down her back with a braid wrapped around her head like a crown and woven with a strand of rubies and chips of dark dragonglass. She wore no veil, her dress the same twilight blue as Abrogail’s, although low cut across her shoulders and dipped across her chest. Black embroidery crept along her bodice in the shapes of dragon flame. A simple gold and sapphire necklace hung about her throat, and her lavender eyes were curious and searching his face.

“Do you think I look pretty as well?” She teased him softly and Aegon rolled his eyes.

“You look nice,” he said softly, their heads leaning towards each other while they walked towards the dias. “Mother will have a fit. Who have you dressed up for?” He might have asked if she dressed for Aemond, but after the display in the garden the prior day, Aegon thought that would not be the wisest question. They may not have discussed it, but it hadn’t escaped Aegon’s notice that while Aemond was the one who discussed future marriage with Helaena, how their love was so insufferably true, Helaena’s feelings on the matter were noticeably absent. Little more than agreeable hums and nods and changes of the subject.

“For myself. Some people think their breasts are worth showing off and need to learn their place.” Arching an eyebrow, Aegon followed his sister’s gaze to where Cassandra Baratheon was speaking with some other lord, those breasts of hers drawing his gaze once more. He snorted and Helaena pushed his arm good naturedly. “I’m right, you know. What is a doe to a dragon? No need to give her delusions of grandeur more than she already has.”

“Thought about this a lot this week, have you?”

“Of course. I do not like how she speaks to little Floris, nor Abby.” Helaena paused and squeezed his arm. “You both look terribly upset again. Not that I don’t enjoy making Mother’s face look like she’s sucking on lemons walking in with you, but what’s happened?”

Aegon found himself grateful that Helaena didn’t immediately blame him and the fondness for his sister came back. The sharp edges to his expression softened and he glanced at Helaena and her patient look. Something crossed his face with the softening, because her patient countenance furrowed with concern. He gripped her arm. “Not. Now.”

“You’re angry.”

“You think?”

Mother’s face when she looked upon them did, indeed as Helaena predicted, appear as if she sucked a lemon. Her large, dark eyes darted around the room in the clear search for his betrothed and he gave a short bow, his sister curtsying. “Lord Grover, my two eldest. Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena.”

Grover Tully was an ancient man. His shoulders were stooped beneath the thick, deep velvet of his surcoat, his jowls saggy from a face that was once robust. Pale skin sallow and jaundiced glowed even more yellow beneath the warm candlelight of the hall, but did little to disguise the multitude of liver spots. His hair was thin and wispy against his head, but his watery blue eyes were sharp and bright, intelligent and cataloging even as his body wasted away. Aegon was struck by how his father, who Aegon only now noticed seated on his mother’s left, looked as ancient as a man in his eighth decade.

“Helaena, you look lovely,” their father smiled, his gaze flitting, and Aegon barely held back his snort that he could call their sister by the correct name.

“Thank you, yo- father,” Helaena demurred in a quiet voice.

“They say you ride the great Dreamfyre, Princess,” Lord Tully rasped with a wistful smile. “I had the honor of seeing the Queen of the East, dear Princess Rhaena, may the Seven keep her, fly her about the God’s Eye when I was a wee lad. A sight that still strikes me. So blue as to melt into the twilight sky.” The watery blue eyes shifted towards Aegon now, deceptively sharp and alert. “I hear news that the sun will now bring the dawn.”

“My Lord,” Aegon said, voice stilted, but the courtesies that had been hammered into him kept him from looking the fool. ‘Abby would know what to say,’ he thought, but the boiling hurt rolling through his veins kept him from looking for her and acknowledging the bell of her laughter coming from behind him. “I hope the sight of such a thing will bring you the same fond memory.” A careful confirmation. There would be no official announcement until his nameday feast, but the natural conversation and gossip of the news would rip through the ballroom by the end of the night. The servants were already talking, and he’d overheard the whisper of it when sneaking through the Keep to his nightly pursuits.

The minstrels in the gallery above the hall struck up traditional music of the Riverlands between the popular songs that accompanied the feasts within the Keep. Lord Grover and his grandson sat at the high table with his parents and grandfather. At one of the tables, Wylla sat with her brother, Harrion. The man was tall with dark brown hair compared to the raven wing’s of his sister and a long, stern looking face that broke brightly when he laughed and smiled with Lord Bracken. Abrogail had mentioned he would be marrying the lord’s daughter on his return north.

The meal began in a blur. Aegon barely remembered swiping his bread through the beef potage, nor the spiced fennel and greens, hardly recalling the details of which horse was best for the joust and whether one should wear a heavy plate or lighter mail. He lost himself in the camaraderie that didn’t truly matter, licking juice from his thumb and taking hefty gulps from his goblet like a starving man. There was no drying out on this feast night, not when his mother sought to impress, and Aegon was grateful to finally have his Arbor red coursing through his veins to chase away the heat of his hurt and anger. He was eager to fill up the gaping maw inside of his chest that threatened to break through the tightness. The numbness began to settle in, familiar even though it was not as comforting as it once was.

Cassandra Baratheon had taken the seat beside him, having tried to speak to him, but he resolutely ignored her in favor of diving into the roast boar slathered in plum sauce and the succulent apple chutney. Finally, finally, Aegon began to feel settled with food and wine in his belly. He burped and called for a fresh decanter of Dornish and something stronger for the fine Riverlanders around him, sending up an approving shout amongst them. Let his mother be displeased, he was only doing what he was supposed to. When he turned, his eyes went across the table to the other.

Abrogail was seated with Helaena shining on her left, and on her right, Edmund Vance, who was receiving the full brunt of her bright smile and the earnest way she would lean over as to be heard over the music and merriment surrounding them. He stared at her, a roil curling in his belly as Vance piled her plate for her of the delicately poached salmon and honeyed bread. As if sensing him, her gaze flicked over to his. She should have smiled, tapping her fingers against her chin or goblet. Hells, he should have done it, and her face paled, lovely little mouth pursed. Instead, Aegon glared before turning his attention to far more pleasing things. Let her see that he was not so whipped that her words would have him still beg after her.

“And what lovely thing have I done to be rewarded by you choosing me to sit beside?” Aegon grinned at the Baratheon, resolutely grinning at her eyes than what was revealed by the cut of her gown.

“Your Grace honors me with his flattery, for in turn I do not know what I have done to earn it,” Cassandra said over the rim of her goblet.

“How could I pass up spending what promises to be quite the boring feast when I have someone like you to entertain me?” He raised his eyebrows at her and reached to top up her goblet and his own, resting his elbow on the table. Cassandra hummed and clinked her goblet against his before they swallowed. “Are you normally so preening? I swore I detected a rather enticing scent of confidence earlier.”

Confidence. Surety. Cassandra Baratheon knew who she was and it wasn’t a facsimile of his mother. It wasn’t The Maiden come down meant to judge him and find him wanting with a kiss and a slash of her hidden claws.

Abrogail’s laughter echoed through the hall again and Aegon’s fingers tightened around his cup. Another swig, another refill. It was watered down, but it didn't matter. Aegon could hold his wine well and it simply gave him an excuse to drink. “Tell me, Lady Cassandra, if I have to worry about some young buck coming to steal you away should I ask you to dance?”

“Oh, I do not think anyone would dare cut in should I be in your arms, Your Grace, but…” However the sentence didn't register as he watched Edmund Vance lift his hand to brush a curl from her shoulder. Aegon’s knee slammed against the table as he swept his legs over the bench, hoisting Cassandra up to join others who had gone to the center of the room to dance. Not an infernal Riverlands dance he didn’t know. Something more fucking civilized. Something he knew like the feel of his hand on his cock. He caught the brief flicker of confusion on the woman’s face that smoothed out as the dance began and he preened beneath the attention. He wasn’t drunk, having eaten too much for it to have hit yet, but he was loose enough that it was easy to slide into the steps, to twirl the woman gowned in gold. His favorite color.

They were betrothed and there wasn’t a bit of gold on Abrogail and she always had something golden on her.

Until now.

“Your grace shames me, Lady Cassandra,” Aegon complimented, spinning her back into him as they moved across the parquet floor. “I’ve never had a more agile partner.”

She chuckled low, the heat of her body emanating from their closeness, and Aegon’s hand slid a little lower on her waist than what was appropriate, but it would just be another line on his list of sins that his mother collected. “Have you had many partners, my prince?”

His cheeks were warm from the drink and exertion and the grin he gave Cassandra was slightly feral and full of mischief. “None as high born and beautiful as you,” he answered honestly even while his ribs tightened and the words tasted like ash on his tongue.

“Let me be the only one you touch this way. Aegon? If you want to have me, let it only be me.”

Cassandra Baratheon was the daughter of a Lord Paramount, with Targaryen blood in her veins, niece to Princess Rhaenys. She was more than comely; she was an entrancing woman with hair like a storm and delicately flushed from drink and dancing. The body that her gown clung to was positively sinful. Curves in every place that was ripe for the grasping and he was looking forward to seeing how -

As the pair spun, their partners changed, and while Cassandra flew into Aemond’s grasp, his eye glaring coldly at him over Cassandra’s shoulder, Abrogail’s hands slid into his.

The blood drained from Aegon’s face while his feet continued to move. This dance he knew by heart. This dance they both knew, having practiced it together countless times. She smelled of roses, not like a Tyrell, but something richer, darker, deeper and more primal.

Sunfyre half-grumbled and half-purred in the gaping hole inside of his chest at the feel of her, the sight of her in his arms while they spun through the next dance. Her blue eyes were fixed on his chin, which was better than her full avoidance. A soft gasp escaped her when Aegon’s hold on her waist and hand tightened painfully.

“Your mother thought we should have a turn and sent Aemond,” she explained softly. Aegon scoffed.

“So by the Queen’s command, you dance with me and not of your own volition.” His voice was almost pleasant and jovial as they spun, the music an irritating hum.

The feel of her dainty foot meeting his shin was not a mistake and it pulled a half-manic peal of laughter from him. He caught the look his mother sent from the high table and rolled his eyes. “What do you and my dear queenly mother expect from me anyway? That being betrothed to her little pet will turn me as angelic as baby Daeron?” He lowered his head to her ear and his breath caught. He heard her own soft gasp and instinctively, Aegon pulled her closer. Inappropriately perhaps, if half the hall didn’t already know they were engaged by now. “I’m an awful disappointment. You know that.”

“I know a lot about you, Aegon,” Abrogail said softly with a sour edge to her voice that he found amusing. “I know that you’re better than this. And with Lady Cassandra no less-”

“You know I’m better than this?” Aegon stepped back and held onto her hand, spinning her about so that the skirt of her gown flared, her fiery hair shining under all the glow. The candlelight caught in the little jewels of her circlet, the blue of her eyes warm as she came back into his arms and for a moment, Aegon forgot he was angry when her soft hand curled against his chest. “So my drinking and my whoring and my tavern fights - none of those are me? They’re just the worst part of myself? And here I thought you were the Maiden herself, but I doubt she moans as wantonly as you do. Such lovely sounds you make, or do you deny them now as you deny me?”

They spun apart once more and Aegon ignored the stricken expression that flashed across her doll-like face as his own chest ached with the feeling. He thought she had accepted even these terrible parts of him that shamed his mother and drew her to rage. She never scolded him or chastised him for his dalliances and escapades. When the brawl that had spilled into the streets of Flea Bottom that had nearly gotten him killed before the Gold Cloaks rushed, she had simply tended to his wounds, a simple “What happened?” in her soft voice. Out of everyone, Abrogail was the one who never expected more from him.

Clearly, Aegon had been wrong.

Another twirl, a distracted wink at Cassandra as they passed, and Abrogail was back in his arms, a brittle smile plastered on her face.

“You think I'm the Maiden?” She asked as if there’d been no pause in the conversation. “Not simply me?”

Aegon didn’t understand and he reached down to grasp her waist, lifting and spinning her in time with the music, clapping and moving around one another. “You are her. Were her-”

“Until you touched me,” she said softly, bitingly, her eyes dark and shining.

“Until you acted like I was the one begging, not you,” he snapped.

“You came into my chamber.”

“You said please.”

Another twirl, another spin and Aegon was rougher than he meant to, jerking her back into his chest as the music stopped. Her face was tilted up, eyes red and shining with unshed tears and a furious twist to her mouth, such an angry expression on her face. “And you held me through the night,” she hissed and then the fury melted away to hold that brittle smile once more, her curtsy low and flawless. When she rose, Abrogail drifted closer to him and he could see the tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. He welcomed the bite of pain when she came to cup the back of his neck, her nails digging into his skin. “How filthy are your hands, mo realta geal, that you believe that their very touch has ruined me. That you have ruined me?”

As Aegon turned away he found Elmo Tully watching him and raised his goblet with a slight incline of his head.

“Lord Grover has also written of his interest in you for his grandson,” his grandfather told Abrogail as they sat trapped in that office. “He would take good care of you, and your children would have every opportunity.”

Abby stayed as long as she could at the feast. She laughed with her Uncle Simon, with Lords Bracken and Blackwood both and their sons. Wylla’s eldest brother, Harrion, was kind, teasing her and Wylla both for his sister’s new position. Her bruised and beaten heart ached even further upon seeing the love and care between the Karstark siblings, and felt herself tearing up when she realised that Harwin wouldn’t have been there if he was still alive.

He’d be at Dragonstone, with the Princess. Or perhaps after the tragic death of her first husband, Princess Rhaenyra might have married him. Maybe it would have made things better. Maybe then, things wouldn’t be so bad.

The room felt too stifling and too loud. It felt too big and too small. The scent of sweat and wine and melting beeswax and hair pomade and perfume was making her head spin. Wylla was laughing at something Harrion had said but it sounded distant. Helaena had already gone and Abby couldn’t remember when she’d left.

Wylla’s arm slid around her waist and Abby mechanically moved through the motions of good nights and evening well wishes before the elder girl steered her out of the hall. “Not my room,” Abby rasped and her voice sounded distant and thick, choked in her throat. “C-can we go to Helaena’s, please?”

“As if you need to ask,” Wylla scoffed lightly, and the arm around her tucked in further. “Walk with us to the Princess’ chambers?” she asked her brother. “If I run into that peacock, I won’t restrain myself.”

“And they’re going to send you to Harrenhal with him. Will you be locked up for tossing him from a tower then?” Harrion’s deep voice teased softly and Abby felt his hand, warm and heavy, on her shoulder and the familiarity of it tore a soft sound from her throat. She wanted Harwin. She wanted her brother like air. A gentle squeeze and Abby let herself be guided down the hall, her fingers clinging to her skirt and Wylla was forced to guide her because she could not raise her eyes, so focused on the decorated stone before her.

“Abby?” Wylla asked softly against her ear. “Abby? Did Aegon say something else to you?”

Yes, she wanted to say, but she shook her head. He never saw me, he doesn’t see me. Did he ever see me?

“It’s been a long night,” she said instead, feeling the siblings exchange glances over her head but too tired to say anything for it. The walk was filled with tales of rides through the forests of the Karhold, of fox hunts and wolves in the tree. Of young Rickon chasing after Torrhen to learn archery, of Harrion’s impending nuptials to his southern bride. “Thank you for your company, Lord Harrion,” Abby said politely when they reached the hall to Helaena’s rooms. In the torch light, he looked nothing like Harwin, and yet every bit about him was Harwin.

‘Him and the queen are nearly the same age, aren’t they?’ Abby realised. There were a great many years between Wylla and her eldest brother, and she always forgot how young the queen was. How young her brother had been when he was lost.

“Do you understand how hard I fought against mine own father, your uncle, to give you time to grow up and not be dragged to the marriage bed before your time? A gift that I myself was denied and I would have for you and Helaena.”

A soft smile broke across the severe lines of Harrion Karstark’s face and he pressed a fond kiss to the top of Wylla’s head, and brushed a familiar hand over her own hair. It was paternal, affectionate in the familial way, not familiar that made her ache, that made her want to throw herself into his arms to sob as she would with Harwin when she was small and then the doors to Helaena’s room opened and Wylla ushered her inside.

“Whatever is the matter?” Helaena asked, already dressed in her nightgown, The fire was a warm and welcoming blaze in the grate. Wylla made a soft hissing sound at the maid putting away Helaena’s gown from earlier, sending her from the room. Abby gulped down the lump in her throat, and gaped at Helaena like a fool. Her vision had gone hot and blurry, her mouth trembling. She shook as if she was cold, but her cheeks were flaming and she couldn’t breathe through her nose. “Abby!” Helaena was alarmed now and she felt her sister’s hands on her arms and a great, wet hiccup tore from Abby’s throat.

“I-I was cruel to him,” she gasped, clutching at Helaena’s sleeves. “I was cruel and I-I shouldn’t have been, but yo-your mother was furious with me a-and…” Gods help her, Abby could barely breathe as the words came rushing out over heaving hiccups. She felt Wylla’s hands at the back of her gown undoing the spiral lacing while Helaena’s fingers tugged at the laces of her sleeves.

She’d lashed out and was ashamed of it, but then, “He was flirting with that bitch, and dared to be angry w-with me about Ser Edmund and… and I miss my brother.” Abby sobbed, hysterics settled in, and she was a doll in the hands of her friends as they got her out of her gown. Helaena reached for the soft blanket from the settee to wrap around her. It wasn’t the same, it wasn’t what she wanted, but Abby realised she didn’t know what she wanted. So unused to being like this, Abby felt adrift like a leaf in the fountain and no adorable little frog to perch on her and make her laugh.

“Abby,” Helaena whispered and led her to the great bed, Wylla coming to help her up. She felt utterly useless with herself. All she could do was sob like a broken pail streaming water everywhere. Useless and silly and utterly shattered inside.

“I want them back,” Abby wailed, and pressed her face into Helaena’s chest. The comfort she so often gave to others, she sought for herself without even asking.

How selfish and unbecoming.

Her fingers clawed into Helaena’s gown like she could find proper purchase until she finally got her arms around the princess’ waist. She tried to speak again and apologise and explain herself more clearly but words were wind, and all Abby could do was cry and beg for someone to get her papa, her athair, as she called him, and her brother.

It should not be her. It should not be her entertaining the river lords and brokering peace, a pawn, a spy. It should be Harwin taking the seat at Harrenhal, Princess Rhaenyra and their boys at his side.

It should be her athair sitting at the high table next to King Viserys, not the cold, stoic judgement of her Uncle Otto and his cruel words.

The world made sense when they were alive. The world was a safe, warm place, even after the loss of her mother.

‘I want Aegon,’ came the traitorous thought. ‘I want Aegon the way he was before he turned so cruel so quickly. I want the boy he used to be, not the man he is becoming. I want the Aegon who kissed me by the lake.’

Helaena was calling for the maids to draw a bath while Wylla held her this time. She thought of the Sept and weeks of silence, of barely eating, of the frantic and terrible fear that fire would consume them all. She thought of Aegon coming to sit with her as she cuddled Theraxis in her arms. How he wiped her tears and in awkward starts, he had managed to coax a tearful smile from her when recounting the tale of nearly decapitating a training dummy on his own, and how Harwin had taught him how to properly swing. When he showed off for Cole later, he’d been impressed.

Where had her Aegon disappeared to? Gone so far away, and how foolish it was of her to believe that the way he hid himself would not eventually come to bite her.

“Were my dear brother here, he’d bloody well geld him and give me his balls on a platter for treating me so,” Abby said scathingly before she could even think. Wylla looked startled at the violent admission that escaped her before bursting into peals of shaking laughter.

“Where did that come from?” she half accused, half demanded breathlessly, and between her sobs, Abby choked out her own laughter. Helaena joined in the mirth with a shake of her head and began dabbing at her tears with a tender touch normally reserved for her most delicate of creatures. The handkerchief was soft, adorned with little blue and gold beetles.

“I don’t know,” she said as the maids came in with the copper tub lined with linen and buckets of steaming water. Another maid brough the delicate wooden box of bath oils and salts.

Abby let Helaena and Wylla poke and prod through the vials and jars, picking out sweet and calming scents to pour into the water. They only asked her minimal questions, if she favoured something sweet or floral but little else and Abby was grateful for the reprieve. It was a rather novel feeling to let her decisions stop. She didn’t have to think or plan or organise. Helaena and Wylla handled it rather easily, wrapping her long hair up with Helaena’s carved dragon pins and guiding her into the tub. The water seeped into the cold that constantly permeated her bones and her thoughts drifted to the feel of Aegon’s arms around her as they had been in her bed. The warmth of him too had chased away the persistent cold.

She sighed, letting herself sink into the water, and let their voices wash over her.

Chapter Text

Aegon had woken blearily in the watery grey light of pre-dawn, frowning at the drooling girl on his shoulder. Her hair was a soft, fawn brown, getting into his mouth where she had curled against him, and confusion overtook him at the utter lack of red. He had dreamed of red hair and blue eyes, a turned up nose and cinnamon sugar freckles across pale skin. The lack of it was jarring and annoying.

He’d not been the first man to sow Marla Lefford’s fields, and Aegon felt little guilt at plying the lady with cups of wine and sweet words in an effort to ease the pain from the gaping wounds clawed open inside him. Aegon shoved at her shoulder, and the girl startled awake.

“You best get going before you’re caught,” he grumbled, pushing her unceremoniously from the bed, and tugging the covers back over himself. She sputtered in sleepy confusion as she grabbed her things. Whatever else she had complained about went unheard as Aegon and his pulsing headache burrowed face down into the pillows. He reached beneath to twist his fingers into Abby’s torn nightgown, gripping it like a child’s toy and letting the lingering scent of bergamot and soap lull him back into a miserable sleep.

‘You’re pathetic,’ was his hazy thought on the cusp of dreaming and awake. The headache that pulsed behind his eyes was an old friend. Aegon sunk into the acrid taste in the back of his throat and the miserable vestiges of red hair in the firelight.

The next time he opened his eyes was to the spike of pain jarring through his left shoulder as he was yanked from the bed. There was no time to yell, to flail or kick. He hit the cold stone floor with a painful thump, his legs still tangled in the bed sheets. Light now streamed properly into his bedroom and Aegon was left blinking on the floor as Otto Hightower stepped into the shaft of light, a moon blotting out the sun.

“Fuck,” was all Aegon managed to groan before the boot to the ribs sent him gasping.

He barely heard the sharp inhale of his mother as he was hauled up, stumbling and tripping naked from the bed. “I should have you thrown in a horse trough,” his grandfather snarled, and shook him violently by the arm so that his teeth clacked and rattled. “Or maybe I should have you thrown from that window.” Aegon gritted his teeth to keep from letting the man know how badly it hurt to be jerked around by his arm. It was his sword arm. His gaze lowered for a moment to the fallen tangle of sheets at his feet, to the lyre that lay hidden beneath them. ‘Your playing arm,’ he thought, fuzzy and distant in the moment. When was the last time he’d even played?

‘Don’t dislocate it again,’ he silently begged, for prayers were useless for a monster such as him. ‘Maybe I’ll get a scrap of honour if I win the melee.’ If he won his bout, maybe he’d be worth something. Maybe Abby would look at him gently again instead of avoiding his gaze.

“Grandfather,” Aegon rasped, and his bloodshot eyes tracked around the man’s shoulder to see his mother by the door. She was pale and beautiful, her auburn hair a single tight braid coiled around her head. How young she looked, with her round face and smooth skin. How frightened she looked, with her brown eyes wide and glossy and the ever careful veneer of propriety and calm cracking with her worry.

Worry for him? ‘Will wonders ever cease? First a duplicitous rabbit hiding claws and now a mother who cared. How lucky am I?’

“Loras Lefford claims you deflowered his sister! How can you be so bloody stupid, boy!”

“Did I?” Aegon asked, manic laughter edging along his words amid his fear and the pain pulsing through his ribs. “Unless he’s trying to cover up getting to his sister first, someone else had the honour. She was decently practised-” The back of his grandfather’s hand struck him so hard Aegon saw stars, crashing into the poster of the bed from the force of it.

Blood filled his mouth, and Mother cried out, “Stop this! Father!”

“You have let this go too far, Alicent!” the Tower roared as Mother shoved between the pair of them. She was so little between them even when she was only a scant few inches shorter than him. It was a strange sensation. Mother so often felt like she loomed large over them as she had when they were children, until they both stood in the face of The High Tower and the shadow he cast over them all. Aegon lifted his hand to his bloody mouth, teeth sore from the hit and cutting against his lip. “That boy should have been taken in hand years ago! You had a duty and an expectation. The boy made an utter fool of himself last night, and he’ll make a fool of himself each day you coddle him.”

Coddle him? His mother had never coddled him, and if she had, Aegon could hardly remember those soft touched days. A hand smoothing over his hair, a smile and a kiss, all were fleeting things. He looked at the way her shoulders shook from the effort to keep from curling them in on herself.

“You will not touch him,” she gritted out and against all reason, Aegon saw his grandfather reach for her.

Through the haze of his pulsing headache and the pain through his arm, he shot his hand out to grab his grandfather’s wrist before he could touch his mother. The man glared through his surprise at Aegon’s intervention and he shoved The Tower back, stepping between him and his mother with no care for himself.

“She is your queen,” Aegon spat, all remnants of his manic laughter gone, and despite his lack of clothing, he squared his shoulders, princely disdain dripping from his voice. “You’ll fucking address her with the respect owed to her and that she deserves. To lay hands on your monarch is treason. You’d not commit treason, would you, Lord Hand.”

The room was silent.

Aegon could not breathe and he did not hear his mother breathe either. He could feel her trembling behind him as Otto loomed over them. He looked at his grandfather with disdain and disgust, doing his best to mimic the same expression the old man constantly levelled on him.

“You stink,” the man finally growled. “Get a bath and then get to the council chambers. You will not embarrass this family any further when everything we do is for your benefit. Lady Lefford will be given a position in your sister’s court and you’ll keep your cock in check until you’ve bedded your wife and made heirs.”

Aegon swallowed harshly and felt the tingle in his hands, the thread of ribbon wound through his ribs knotting tighter. He watched his grandfather storm from the room, his mother sparing him a soft, glossy eyed look before the door shut heavily behind them. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed and gazed down at the mangled instrument beneath his feet.

Aegon stared into the middle distance between him and where Lord Bracken sat across from him, and wondered if this was how Abby felt when he grabbed her.

His right shoulder ached and had now become a dull, burning sort of discomfort that he was familiar with from landing on it too hard or twisting his arm the wrong way in the training yard. It wasn’t dislocated - a sensation Aegon was all too familiar with - but the burn persisted, and all he could think about was the press of his fingers into Abby’s bicep both in the garden and the night before in the corridor.

The imprints of his fingers along her pale skin, yellow moons peaking between the stars of her freckles, came to mind. Burned there behind his eyelids. She’d chirped softly when he grabbed her the first time and he knew that it hurt more than the soft sound would have indicated. She made no such sound the evening prior, and Aegon couldn’t help but wonder if she had been prepared for it and held the sound in. Hadn’t he learned the same lesson over the years? Hadn’t he kept the sound of his own pain locked tight inside of him that morning?

“This is not the first time we’ve heard of fields or orchards burning, my Lords,” Lord Wylde said from across the table. “Food that does not just belong to your holdings, but to the realm, and to your liege lords. Lord Elmo, what recourse has been doled out for this?”

His gaze darted briefly toward where his sire sat at the head of the table. King Viserys was filmy eyed, reclined back in the great seat, sipping from his goblet. He’d worn his crown for the occasion, the swirls of gold catching in the light streaking from the seven pointed star above. Aegon wondered if it should have been sitting at his left hand, as his eldest son.

Not heir. Never heir.

Maybe never truly wanted.

His mother sat on the king’s left, beautiful and austere in her gown of green silk that sat high around her neck, the colour so dark it might have been black, the pattern glimmering like her own set of dragon scales in the morning light. Her curls, still vibrantly auburn, were pulled away from her face where her tiara settled, a delicate thing of wrought gold and opals. Across from her sat his grandfather in the same deep green-almost-black doublet, and beside him, Lord Elmo.

“Lord Elmo is looking for a new bride, and they’d be looking to bring Harrenhal into their holdings.”

“Each season you think to nip more and more of our lands away-”

“Those are our lands and you bloody well know it! You saw the survey done three years ago that proved it!”

Aegon resolutely did not look towards the end of the table to his left, where Ser Edmund Vance sat beside Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships, barely hiding his exasperations with the proceedings.

Abby would be his wife, all chirps of pain and guileless eyes and judgement, and she would make him Lord of Harrenhal. He was not heir, after all. He had nothing to his name. Nothing to gain upon the deathbed of his father. Nothing to show for anything.

His fingers traced the goblet in front of him, and he stared down at the watered wine he’d been allowed like a child. The urge to fling it across the room was strong, and he tapped his fingers against the delicate metal. He wondered if he clenched it hard enough he could crush it within his grasp.

Crush like Abby’s arm. Crush like his grandfather’s grip on his bicep that morning. He knew from experience the marks would be black by nightfall. Had his marks on Abby gone black? Were they black that morning? Surely he hadn’t grabbed her that hard, no matter how much her words tore at his very essence, no matter how he thought to drag her away, to shake her.

Aegon wasn’t sure if it was the hangover or the mere thought of those marks that made his throat burn with bile.

Her words stung. Her words ran around his mind like dogs chasing a rabbit through the labyrinthine forest of his mind. Abby never avoided looking at him in his eyes, but the previous evening she’d looked angry and shamed. His fingers curled against his goblet, and it took everything in him to keep from summoning the servant for more, not wanting the harsh gazes of his mother and grandfather to fall upon him.

“Are you implying, Lord Blackwood, that the results of the survey ordered by this very council were not upheld by your liege lord?” His mother’s voice cut smoothly through the bickering lords, and it sent prickles along the back of Aegon’s neck. He knew that voice. The earnest curiosity that hid the trap she lay before her was more familiar to him now than the gentle crooning from his childhood. Aegon gazed from the corner of his eye past Lord Wylde to where his mother rested her primly folded hands on the table.

“Just beat each other and be done with it,” he muttered, taking a mouthful of wine as he tried to figure out what was lying before him. He did not realise a silence had fallen across the table at his mother’s question.

“Aegon,” rasped his father, and it took everything in him not to give a start at the king calling him by name, and the correct name at that. “My boy, if you have something to share, you are welcome to it.”

All eyes swivelled to him, and Aegon’s gaze stayed upon his father. A prickle of heat crept along the back of his neck, familiar and stomach churning. All that missed was the fire crackling at his back, his brother maimed and in pain in the chair before him. Instead, it was lords of the realm, and Edmund Vance’s poncy, square cut jaw and curls like a crown on his head all looking at him.

‘Aemond should be sitting here,’ he thought. ‘Aemond wants to be here, Aemond is the one you all want here, not me, why me?’

It was him in this chair though, not Aemond. It was he who would become the Lord of Harrenhal, and it was he who his mother and grandfather were looking to so desperately place on the throne. It was he who that rotting corpse of a king wanted so desperately that he sacrificed his first wife to it.

A tap of his fingers on his goblet, a breath and the relaxing of his shoulders. A shifting in his chair because Seven help him, he couldn’t be the only one thinking it.

“If neither of these fine lords can produce adequate reasons for their incessant squabbling, then arm yourselves, and we’ll go out into the training yard right now, and put it all to rest.”

He was dancing along the edge of glib, a smirk less feral than he felt cutting across his face. “Did your boys not readily draw live steel in front of my sister in a bid for her hand?” The story was infamous - the way Willem Blackwood sliced Darren Bracken so quickly and deadly that Bracken had bled out within moments… and cut his sister’s tour quite short. “Let us see how well the pair of you fare, and we’ll consider all matters closed.” He raised his goblet to the lords and took a healthy swallow, refusing to feel shame or acknowledge the heat that burned his neck.

The moment hung still and silent.

A rasp from the king stuttered into a cough before a thready peal of laughter issued from him. He slapped his hand on the table, filmy eyes dancing from his grandfather and mother to Lord Elmo and the rest. “Inspired,” he declared with mirth. Aegon glanced down at his goblet, his smirk frozen on his face. He felt Lord Wylde’s bulk shake beside him as he chuckled along with his sire, and Aegon ventured a look down the table where Lord Lannister was smirking. Edmund Vance and his perfect features that made him look like a bust carved from marble, had a thin, vaguely amused smile on his face.

His father was amused by the idea, and it was becoming increasingly clear that perhaps, just perhaps, the man had been thinking the same thing. His father and his need for everyone to get along also held little patience for all this bush beating. Aegon held his breath, gaze drifting to his mother’s face.

Her elbows were bent, mouth pressed against her clasped hands in what should be pensive thought. It took him a moment to register the slight shake of her shoulders, the crinkle at the corners of her large brown eyes.

Aegon’s teeth scraped over his lower lip to hold back his own chuckles and he felt like he was floating in his chair. The feeling of shame and embarrassment quickly faded away and was replaced with the warm feeling in his gut at the laughter of both of his parents. He didn’t even care that his grandfather looked like he was sucking on a lemon, or the unamused looks of Lord Bracken and Blackwood. Even lipid Lord Elmo was hiding his smirk behind his goblet.

The arrow sunk with a snick and a thud and Wylla Karstark grinned broadly in satisfaction at the final shot she’d made. The target was not a normal target, but one that Abby had eagerly made. It was a thick canvas the size of a dinner table with a lovely maiden painted upon it. Her hair was impossibly long and flowing, blazing in all the colours of the rainbow with different types of targets nestled into her long hair and around it. Stars were the smallest targets dotted around the expanse, with various looking gremlins and kapas and other mythical little beasties hidden in the hair to be defeated. Wylla had hit each one, right after the other without a single arrow going off course.

The applause from the gathered ladies in the garden was righteous, small amounts of money exchanged as they indulged in lighthearted gambling for the afternoon’s entertainment. Wylla spun on her heel and curtsied to the crowd with a flourish, her raven hair pulled back from her face in a series of braids that came together in a larger one hung down her back, woven with silver charms and pearls.

“Are you prepared to follow that, my Lady Abrogail?” she called out in challenge with a lighthearted laugh. Abby took a deep breath, holding her own bow against her chest and running her fingers over the carved weirwood leaves and ripples of a river flowing around it. It felt good to get back to archery. She had not indulged in quite some time, the joy in the simplicity of it all falling by the wayside with her lessons. Not only that, but to indulge in the childish joy of paint and ink outside of her small sketches for Helaena’s collection. To put away the things that had once brought her joy, and take upon the lessons of what it meant to be a lady.

A lady in Queen Alicent Hightower’s eyes.

Her cheek still smarted with the phantom pain from that particular morning, even though days had passed since then; the subsequent pain from how cruelly she’d spoken to Aegon. She’d known those words would have hurt him, and it wasn’t that she had sought to do so.

What had she been seeking to do?

Shame curdled in her belly beneath the faltering smile she sent Wylla. It had been her friend’s idea for archery, as she lamented the loss of her bow left home in Karhold. Truly, Abby was excited to indulge and play about. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged in one of her favourite hobbies, and the feel of her bow in hands was as comforting as a beloved child’s toy.

“Not really, but I suppose that just means more gold will be won under your name,” she called back with a laugh and picked up the first arrow. Abby ran her fingers over the crimson fletching, pretending to feel the shaft for anything that would impede her success.

“Can I try next?” Floris asked eagerly from where she sat with Helaena, who was braiding the child’s hair. Abby chuckled, noting that the elder Baratheon was nowhere to be found. She wouldn’t complain. The idea of failing miserably in front of Cassandra Baratheon made Abby’s skin prickle as if she’d burst into hives. Not to mention, the curl of heat in her belly when she thought of how Aegon smiled at the woman, how he held her close when they’d danced at the feast the night before.

“Let me be the only one you touch like this.”

The first arrow stuck between the painted maiden’s eyes and Abby’s eyes widened in surprise. The burst of laughter from Wylla rippled through the gathering, and she crowed, full of amusement.

“Well done, Abby,” Wylla grinned, stormy eyes flashing with amusement. “Look out ladies, you’re done for should you try something.”

Abby rolled her eyes and nocked another arrow, letting it fly. She managed to hit the targets, although did not come as close to Wylla’s arrows as she’d have liked. There were a few frustrated groans from behind them amidst the polite clapping and while Abby’s curtsy was not as flourishing as Wylla’s, she did sketch a little bow as Floris bounced over in excitement, large brown eyes shining with eagerness.

“Father says I can’t go hunting because I’m a girl and I don’t know how to use a bow,” she explained in a rush. “So I’ll learn how and then I can fell a stag and wear its antlers and he’ll have to let me do what I want.”

Abby sucked in her lips to keep her giggles in and beckoned Wylla closer. “Well, I think that’s a very good reason to learn, but you should also find things to simply enjoy. And I think you’ll have no better teacher than Lady Wylla here. You’ve been on hunts, haven’t you? Many more than I have.”

“Aye,” the raven haired woman said, bending down to show Floris how to hold the bow. “Many beasties in the north to hunt. Come here, you wee storm, and we’ll have you felling stags in no time.”

As the pair moved closer toward the target to go over proper footwork, Abby turned to head towards the path, planning to go sit in the godswood on her own. She was dressed simply and comfortably in a simple sage kirtle, silver lacing spiralling along the front and sleeves that clung comfortably to her arms. The linen was light, the breeze tugging at the fabric and sending it rippling around her as she walked. The neckline softly dropped but did not quite reveal her full shoulders in their entirety. Two twists woven with white ribbon held her hair back from her face to come to a knot at the back of her head, the rest of her curls free down to her waist. Simple and comfortable, there was no chance in drawing the ire of the queen once more. She should not have tried to be something she was not. She should have understood who she was and who she was supposed to be.

Cassandra Baratheon she was not.

Tempting Aegon was not something she should want to do. She should not seek to draw attention to herself in such a way, no matter how nice it had been, how good she had felt once she’d gotten comfortable. To feel like she knew her own body and feeling maybe some of that womanly secret.

The ladies had turned their attention to other things as they pulled out sewing and cards for their afternoon beneath the sun. Topics turned to gossip and how the talks with the Riverlords were going, but the dominant conversation that followed Abby was that of the impending tourney and hunt for Aegon’s nameday, and the grand feast.

The betrothal feast.

That week there would be a day of fittings for her wedding gown and trousseau. The queen was speaking about holding the wedding in the Great Sept, and even the Dragon Pit was being considered so that all the realm could see their nuptials, to not have it hidden away from the populace.

“Lady Abrogail!”

The deep voice, a lilt drawing out some of the words, was one that was still out of place to her and she startled, eyes looking up to meet those of Edmund Vance who was coming down the gravel path with a smile on his handsome face. The dark blue of his doublet complimented his fair colouring, skin tanned golden from what she was sure was a life often spent outdoors. The smile on his face was disarming, and Abby’s hands fluttered to tug nervously at her cuffs so she couldn’t hide the blush on her cheeks.

“Good day to you, Lord Edmund,” she greeted with a slight nod, reminding herself she did not need to curtsy to him. The queen was rather clear about that. She was not officially a princess yet, but it was appropriate for her to begin acting like one. “You’ve escaped the council room, I see.”

“Aye, and with more of the day to pass by with much better company,” he grinned and glanced around. “Have I interrupted you, Lady Abrogail, or, by chance, caught you at the perfect time to ask if you would take a turn with me in the gardens. I’ve yet to enjoy them and how fortunate that you surely know them far better than I.”

Abby glanced back over her shoulder towards the picnic area where everyone was still laughing and enjoying themselves. Wylla was clapping as Floris took her first shot and Helaena was making headway in talking with fair Allana Tyrell that Abby hoped Helaena might find a friend in. The Reach woman’s sharp wit could be intimidating, but seeing Allana and Helaena laugh together eased Abby’s worry.

“You’re starting to sound like mother”, Helaena had pointed out and Abby bit her lip before looking back to Lord Edmund. Surely she didn’t need to worry about a chaperone. Abby was betrothed, and there were plenty of people around in the gardens. Nothing untoward could be questioned.

Her next thoughts lingered to how she’d pulled Aegon behind the dragon topiary in the lower terraces while his mother’s ladies were well with earshot.

“You haven’t interrupted me, Lord Edmund. I was simply taking in the air. You are very welcome to join me.” She gave him a tentative smile and slid her hand into the crook of his offered arm. “This way offers a beautiful view of Blackwater Bay. I often sit here when the Princes and Princess go dragonriding.”

Lord Edmund was quite tall and she was acutely aware of the fact as they strolled past the fragrant flower blossoms and carefully cultivated bushes of the gardens. He’d been her companion at the feast, readily offering to fill her plate on her behalf and kept her attention with stories of their travels south and questions about King’s Landing and the Keep. At first she’d been anxious, unsure if she was encouraging a flirtation that would mean trouble. But she found herself warming beneath the attention, soaking it up like a dying plant for water. It was so different from her normal day to day and had left her feeling like she understood something more about herself than she had before.

Was this what Helaena meant, what Wylla had meant, when one basked beneath the attentions of a handsome man? She had been to enough gatherings and feasts to see the harmless flirtations, and not so harmless, in court. While it wasn’t the first time she’d experienced it, it felt different now. Was this how it felt to know more than one did before? It felt like something had woken inside of her, unfurling invitingly regardless of the cruel punishment the queen had bestowed on her.

It felt good to have Edmund Vance smile at her. It felt good to be treated as something other than a little girl, something other than a companion or prop.

Something other than holy Maiden.

“Do you ever go dragonriding?” he asked curiously, and she hummed, nodding, and very much forced herself not to think about the last time she’d gone riding. Aegon did not have a right to dominate her thoughts, and she would not give him the time. Not after what happened.

“I have. I enjoy riding Dreamfyre with Princess Helaena. I often wonder if it’s how birds feel when they fly. She glides so smoothly in the air.” Which was true. Dreamfyre was swift and elegant in the air and Helaena called it air dancing, enough to lull someone to sleep with how gentle it was.

“The most I engage in is horseback riding,” Edmund chuckled. It was a gentle, warm sound and his eyes crinkled at the corners, bright and warmly hazel. She couldn’t stop her own smile widening. “I quite enjoy them. I fancy myself a bit of a horse breeder.”

“Do you have many stables then?” She’d enjoyed horseback riding as a child, but the hobby had fallen by the wayside at the prospects of dragonriding. Abby didn’t even have her own horse.

Edmund nodded and plucked a delicate purple flower from one of the bushes they passed. He twirled the stem between his fingers, one of the petals falling away to be crushed beneath his boot while they continued walking. “Not as many stables as Harrenhal of course, but I breed the swiftest horses in the Riverlands. Even faster than the Dornish paints if I may be so prideful.”

“You may, my Lord,” Abby laughed softly. Edmund tugged her to a stop and she looked up curiously. The sun turned his light brown curls a burnished gold beneath the light, the little wisps curling along his forehead and ears.

“Edmund, please, my lady,” he said softly and reached up to tuck the purple flower into her left braid. Her mouth went dry and she could feel the flush spreading through her cheeks. His fingers ensured that the flower stem was woven into the strands of hair. “I hope that you would consider me a friend to you, as you come home to us in the Riverlands.” His smile broadened somewhat and his hand fell, touching on her curls lightly before pulling away. There was nothing harsh about him or his touch. He was gentle with her and the care of it touched her.

“Edmund,” she repeated. “You are so very kind in your offer. The Riverlands will always be a home to me, and I’m looking forward to returning.”

“Is the Keep not home to you, Lady Abrogail?” The question took her by surprise and she pursed her mouth thoughtfully.

“The Keep belongs to the people. It is the centre of the world, where everything runs through these halls.” He fell in step beside her once more, walking along the edge of the garden level. There were seven terraced levels descending towards the final level. From their vantage point above, Abby could take in the garden mazes down the gentle slope, little alcoves perfect for curling up with parchment and charcoal, the games they’d played through here as children. “I’ve grown up here more than I’ve spent at Harrenhal but… it is not my home. It is not my place as it is with the cl- the royal family.” She paused before a dragon statue nestled amidst the bushes, instinctively reaching out to run her fingers over the snout with a melancholy fondness. The salt breeze tugged at her hair and the flower nestled into her braid. “I do not belong here, truly.”

“You’re a river girl, Lady Abrogail. You are not meant to bake in the sun and heat and flame.” His words were earnest as he met her gaze and she felt almost uncomfortably seen beneath his hazel eyes and the experience he had on her. “You are most welcome home.”

His words rang true and she clutched her skirts in her hands to keep from fidgeting, coming to lean against the stone balustrade that lined this part of the terrace. Her gaze flickered up to the sky where Vhagar and Aemond were presently flying over the Blackwater. She imagined she could hear his familiar shout of excitement. Her heart ached, thinking about what could have been, what might have been.

“I was meant to go home with my father and brother,” she said softly, not looking at Edmund and instead focusing on the distant figure of Aemond and his dragon. “I stayed here instead. A last minute decision.” It saved her life; she was very, very certain of that, but it didn’t take away the strange feeling of guilt and relief that she had about it all. You lived, she told herself. Athair and Harwin would be glad of it. “It will be strange to return without them.” A nervous chuckle escaped her and she caught herself sniffling. “It’s truly strange to experience all of this without them. You all speak so kindly of my family, and I will carry that honour as best I can.”

Too caught in her gaze on the clouds, she startled to feel Edmund’s warm fingers touch her chin and draw her gaze to meet his. Warmth tingled along the back of her neck and flushed through her cheeks as she held his gaze. Her mouth was dry, her palms tingling.

Edmund smiled at her, soft and gentle and Abby shyly returned it, her heart thudding.

“Abby!” Helaena’s voice called, followed by little Floris.

“I made a bullseye! Come and see!”

Footsteps crunching on the gravel reached her and Abby stepped away from Lord Edmund’s touch, smoothing her hands over her skirt. By the time Floris rounded the curve of the path, the Riverlord had moved away an appropriate distance. Floris was grinning, gripping Abby’s bow in hands, running straight towards her.

“I shot a bullseye!” she declared again, breathlessly. “But you weren’t there but I know I can do it again.”

Helaena lingered further back, her pale blue gown glimmering with a dragon scale pattern stitched subtly in the fabric. Her large, lavender eyes took Abby in, and she felt as if her layers were being peeled back beneath her gaze.

“Are you coming?” Helaena asked, eyes large and unblinking, and Abby was a bug beneath the glass. She cleared her throat and Floris took her hand and pulled her back in the direction of the picnic. Helaena kept watching her, and as Abby passed, her sister reached up to touch the flower in her hair. “It’s lovely,” she said softly. “But rabbits should still be wary.”

Heat flushed through Abby’s neck and she gritted her teeth. “I’ve grown around dragons and their bites, Helaena. I know when I need to be wary.” Helaena’s hand dropped, and Abby smoothed her hands over her skirt, prickling with frustration. “Let’s get back to the picnic, shall we?” Abby didn’t wait for an answer, moving past Helaena to follow Floris’ excited skips.

Aegon’s head hit the wall, eyes rolling back while he suppressed the groan that threatened to fall from him. “Aren’t the other girls going to notice your absence? Gossiping little doves that you all are.”

Cassandra Baratheon’s dark eyes met his when she looked up at him. She was taller than most women he knew, and while she didn’t reach his height, it was an interesting experience not to have to look down so much when their eyes met. Her hand was between them, toying with his laces and stroking the hardness of him through his breeches.

“They notice when I’m there, they notice when I’m not,” she told him with a sharp smile, her mouth dragging along his pulse point with teeth that threatened to bite. He told himself he was being good, keeping his hands on her hips and not loosening the lady’s own lacing to take a handful of her ripe breast in hand. That would be harder to cover up should they be interrupted. “The point is I’m noticed.”

“You are one who blossoms beneath the light, aren’t you?” His words tapered off, a muttered curse escaping him and his hands gripped her hips harder. Riding high from the perceived success of that meeting, Aegon had eagerly indulged in the Lady Baratheon’s flirtations when he came upon her. Here was a woman who knew how to stroke the ego, and frankly, he didn’t give a single fuck if she meant it or not. He was under no illusions that she truly liked him. Nay, she was here for a good time, and it was harmless to let her think she would make any headway.

He was far more concerned with his other needs.

Cassandra’s chuckle was low and throaty as those fingers of hers deftly worked his laces. “How fortunate then, my prince, that they say you ride the sun incarnate.”

“Sunfyre is like sunlight, isn’t he?” Aegon hummed while the lady lowered herself to her knees before him. It meant he had to move his hands and he fiddled with the rest of his laces. “Oh, fuck, that’s good,” he groaned, rising up on his toes when Cassandra wrapped her hand around him and promptly began swallowing him down. Seven Hells, she moved fast. It had been weeks since he’d been given proper head.

It had been days since Abby had-

‘No. No she doesn’t get to be here,’ Aegon scolded himself. This was why he drank as he did, so he didn’t have to think. The not thinking was helped by the feel of her tongue dipping into the slit, the slight, teasing touch of teeth that made his blood thrum. He chuckled and reached down to gather her hair in a hand, the other reaching to cup her jaw. There was no mistaking those eyes, dark hooks that tried to peel him open, for anyone else, and he licked his lower lip, sharp smirk crossing his face.

“There you go,” he encouraged, teeth biting into his lip when she took him deeper. It was an impressive show that he enjoyed, the tears pricking her eyes as his cockhead bumped the back of her throat. The feral mouth she had on her was amusing, and more than a little attractive. But there was pleasure that Aegon found in shutting her mean mouth with himself. Aegon wasn’t under some illusion that this was true affection on her part. It felt good, and she was more than willing, had been more than willing since his mother’s little garden party and even more so at the feast when she set herself against him as much as possible during the night. He also wasn’t under any idea that this was going to go any further.

Hopefully she understood the same.

“Right there,” he groaned, feeling his balls tighten and little sparks dancing through his thrumming blood. No, this wouldn’t go further. This was fun, this was a desperately needed release because he’d been a good fucking boy for weeks without going to the brothels and Cassandra Baratheon was readily available. He was acutely aware he could go further, that the lady before him would gladly let him, or play hard to get for a few days before he got properly under her skirts, and he would have nothing to be sorry for.

He could. There was nothing stopping it and the idea of sinking into a tight, willing cunt was so fucking appealing.

Until she opened her mouth, that vicious gleam in her eyes, to go and tell Abby at the soonest possible moment, to toss her head as she had, and smile with those teeth of hers - more wolf than stag - and tell Abby for no other reason than to see the pain crossing her sweet face, and Aegon knew there would be no coming back.

“I do not like how she speaks to little Floris, nor Abby,” his sister had said, and Aegon knew this was more dangerous than he should indulge in, but there was no other avenue for the ache in his bones, with every gasp. He wanted to forget, but with every blink, he could only think of her. All he wanted to do was stop thinking.

“If you want to have me, let it only be me.”

Aegon came with a grunt, his hand reaching up to grab at her flowing hair while he spilled into her waiting mouth.

The gardens were empty this late in the evening. There was a storm rolling in off the bay and the air was thick with the scent of it. Helaena had managed to extricate herself from the gaggle of gooses that were the ladies her mother had pulled in for assignment. While she appreciated being able to find those she could get along with, Helaena was starting to falter beneath the stimulation of it all and the difficulties of needing to be polite and well behaved. She’d begun to grow snappish that day, which had sent some of the other girls scurrying away in confusion, and now? Now, Helaena sought her most needed solitude where she could just focus on the sound of her breathing and the smell of rain in the air.

Visenya looked down on her, her severe and beautiful face forever etched in marble. The paint was beginning to flake away, lending a strange sort of light to the violet of her eyes and all the bits of marble that showed through. She had a warrior’s pose, Dark Sister naked in her hand and a booted foot braced upon a viper’s head. Her hair, marble cut as it was, seemed to flow in an invisible wind, crown on her head and in the hand behind her, clutched a delicate circlet that matched the crown upon Rhaenys’ head in the wisteria garden.

They said that Rhaenys and Visenya loathed one another, how different they were, but whomever had ordered the crown in that hand had known differently. So spoken was Aegon's anger that he burned all of Dorne that it seemed forgotten that Visenya had joined him in his grief.

Helaena wondered how different things would be had they not experienced such loss.

Would Aemond join her in grief for the day that their brother might be taken from them? Would he join her on dragonback to avenge Aegon? Such thoughts used to plague her regularly over the past year as their brother’s desolation had grown worse.

As Aemond’s anger had begun to burn that much hotter, that much longer. That much bloodier.

“There you are,” Aemond’s voice filtered from the path behind her.

The distant sound of thunder echoed from far off in the distance, but Helaena continued to sit on the bench beneath the statue, staring up at her ancestor’s implacable gaze. Aemond’s own violet eyes had taken such a look on occasion.

“I came out here to be alone,” she said, not really caring if he heard her or not, because it wouldn’t stop him from coming to join her. He kept his distance and left plenty of room between them when he sat on the bench with her and for that Helaena was relieved. She was beginning to fear he was forgetting things about her in his focus.

“I was worried,” he said softly, making a bit of a face. “There’s so many strangers in the Keep now, I feared you being out alone.”

Helaena opened her mouth in defensiveness then shut it, before finally saying, “Did you fear me being hurt, or did you fear someone gaining my attention?”

Aemond stared at her, unblinking, his lips parted as if to speak but he said nothing. There was a soft click as he shut his mouth and he looked away from her. Helaena remained watching him and her fingers danced about her wrist, gently pinching on the skin and then stroking it. “I love you,” she told him softly, and he looked back at her.

In the fading light of the day, the sharp shadows and light aged his features, giving him a haunted look. The softness he once had in his cheeks was giving way as he stretched towards the sky, the cut of his jaw sharper every day. It felt like each step away from childhood Aemond had taken since claiming Vhagar was mirrored both in his physicality and his heart.

What was once soft and wild now grew harder with each stoking of the forge that was Vhagar’s flame.

“I don’t love you the way you want me to, and…” Her heart thumped painfully in her chest. “I don’t think you ever loved me that way either.”

The world was silent there in the little garden in front of Visenya’s statue. So quiet that Helaena did not think either of them were breathing. The air crackled with the storm off the shore and the breeze, clean and cool, tugged at the tendrils of their matching silver hair. Aemond stayed silent and staring and she said nothing more. Aemond was quiet and always had been. He thought long and hard before he spoke, and often it had been while he waited for his turn to share what he knew, or to brutally correct someone. Whichever brought him most satisfaction in the moment.

Thunder rumbled once more and Aemond gasped with a harsh intake of breath, tilting his head back to look at the statue. He rubbed his palms over his knees and stretched his legs out and Heleana looked away to pluck at her skirts.

“I just want to protect you,” he whispered, and Helaena found her throat feeling choked with emotion.

“I know.”

“If we married, then you wouldn’t have to go away, you wouldn’t have to be with someone who didn’t understand you.” Aemond’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Aegon wouldn’t have loved you the way you deserve.”

A soft laugh, wet and thick, and Helaena shook her head. “No, no he wouldn’t have. And being married to you would have been better than being married to him.” She sniffled and reached up to tug on the ends of her hair, hiding behind the curtain of silver. “Was it because it was him? Because of what mother and grandfather want?”

Aemond was quiet for a long moment. “I would… I’m the better choice,” he whispered.

“Would you have done it if mother had agreed to marry me to Jace?” That had been a possibility once upon a time, until her mother screamed that it would only happen over her corpse and promptly turned on her and Aegon.

Her brother growled beside her and she didn’t flinch, she didn’t pull away. It was an honest question and she was unafraid of the darkening of his eyes for she knew that it would draw a stronger response from him.

“If that bastard touched you, I’d rip him apart with my bare hands. You deserve better than a pretender pig in a king’s clothes.”

Helaena said nothing except hum in the way that he did and fiddle with her handkerchief. The breeze that was starting to kick up had the chill of rain on it, cooling the warmth of her cheeks. There would be no riding Dreamfyre tonight.

“I’m not a prize for you just because you’ve claimed Vhagar.” She swallowed a gulp of air to calm herself and make sure her voice was steady. “I take no pleasure in this, but I can’t… I won’t walk us down this path when I can stop it.”

“Did you dream this?” Aemond cut in and she met his eye, deep violet against her brighter lavender. His eyes were shining with unshed tears, his jaw clenching with anger, his hands curled into fists at his knees. Every line of him was shaking from how he held himself back, and like the dragonrider Helaena was, she shifted to reach out and cup Aemond’s cheek in her hand. Her thumb stroked against the flushed round of it, soothing him in what little way she might manage.

“I don’t have to dream that which I know in truth.”

Aemond’s good eye shut and a tear rolled down his face. Helaena stroked it away with her thumb and then, finally, leaned in to wrap her arms around him. Hesitantly, his hand came up to rest on her waist and his face pressed into her shoulder.

“You are my favorite brother,” she whispered, and thought of how Abby sobbed into her arms, begging for someone to bring her brother back, and she clung to Aemond harder, the memory of him screaming as they brought him up from the tunnels, how even with milk of the poppy, his whimpers tore at her soul in front of the fire. “I would burn Dorne for you, had I lost you, and I’m afraid I will still lose you.”

“You don’t have to be afraid, heltar gevie,” he promised against her shoulder. Beautiful beetle.

“I know,” she assured him and drew back, pushing the stray hair from his cheeks, adjusting the embroidered band of his eyepatch. “And that’s why I’m releasing you from your promise. I want my valonqus back.”

He shuddered in her hold and Helaena drew away. Lighting flashed along the sky and she pulled away, reaching for her discarded embroidery to make her way inside.

Aemond did not follow.

“I would burn Dorne for you as well,” he choked out, head bowed as he stared at the spot that she’d been sitting in. “I would burn everything for you.”

“I know,” Helaena said, and it was a war of feelings inside of her. The dragon’s blood inside her demanded that sort of payment in vengeance, and she understood it for what it was. “But I don’t want to leave behind a world of ash and bone.”

Thunder shook the sky, and the rain began to fall.

Chapter Text

Curiosity was an excited animal inside of Lady Abrogail Strong, and it had taken every ounce of self restraint she had honed in her whole life not to immediately launch into the years of questions and ideas that had built inside of her.

She deserved praise for such restraint, and she knew none would come, but it didn’t keep her from wanting to crow about how good she thought she’d done. Abby had barely touched the meal, absently dropping her extra cold meats onto Aegon’s plate if only to get through it faster. Not even her betrothed’s clear hangover and the scent of sweat and cheap perfume clinging to his wrinkled clothing could bother her. She wouldn’t let it.

No, he would not ruin her morning with his terrible decisions and she wouldn’t dwell on it either.

“Lord Ryam will be here in a fortnight and wishes to discuss the amphora shipments,” Uncle Simon said, his brogue rumbling through him thicker than her father’s accent had been, but so heartbreakingly familiar in its ebb and flow. “It might prove a good opportunity to start getting settled, Your Grace.”

Aegon shoved a rolled piece of ham in his mouth, elbows on the table and eyes darkly circled and red rimmed. “Amphoras?” he asked through a mouthful of food. Abby raised an eyebrow at him before blowing gently on her cup of mint tea and taking a sip so she wouldn’t fling it at him.

“I would also like to take the opportunity to reach out to House Buckler. Lady Elinor came with the Baratheon retinue and she shall likely be coming with us,” Abby said quickly before Aegon could further embarrass himself. She smoothed her hands over the table. “While the Arbor is a purveyor of wines, I would like to look at bolstering the competition. I think it could be an interesting opportunity for us.”

Larys slathered cream upon his bread. “You will find my sister has fancied herself the Lady of Harrenhal for as long as she found words,” he said softly, his voice carrying over them in even tones. Abby’s ears pricked with heat. His words may have been encouraging, but there was a tone in his voice that made her feel like a child who had done something clever. Mockingly indulgent. “You will find yourself a very astute student, eager to learn. Isn’t that right, dear sister?”

“I only wanted to be helpful.” True to his word, they had begun having a weekly supper together, going over Uncle Simon’s latest reports on the running of their holding and that of Harrentown. It hadn’t given her much insight into the inner workings of her elder brother’s mind, but she had appreciated the education he was providing.

Now she felt the curl of doubt that Larys was so good at coaxing out of her. Aegon’s eyes were on her and she resolutely didn’t meet his gaze, instead taking another sip of her tea.

“Well that explains the rather detailed letter I received,” Uncle Simon chuckled, and it was fond. “The queries you both had were rather insightful. It is good to see you are also interested in learning to rule, your Grace.”

Aegon paused in chewing, and Abby felt the heat creep into her cheeks. She had stated in her letter that the questions had been from them both, and had framed it as a joint venture, wanting to put the best foot forward for Aegon, for them both.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Uncle,” Aegon said, voice rough from his clearly exciting night prior. She took a sip of her tea, some of the tension in her chest easing at the way he took to her Uncle so familiarly, speaking as if they were family already. “I do not quite remember all that I had asked sweet Abrogail to convey. I do know she wasn’t sure whether or not to put in the thoughts on aqueducts.”

That drew Abby’s gaze to him, but Aegon was cracking open his soft boiled egg and soaking pieces of bread in the sunny yellow yolk. She was hit with the recollection of how excited she’d been finding out about aqueducts in a dusty tome in the library. She’d dragged it all the way outside, trapping Aegon in her sudden lecture of how beneficial such things would be.

He remembered it.

“Th-that’s true! Aqueducts!” She said, finding her voice and her confidence once more. “My more immediate concern was, well… let me just go and show you.” She pushed away from the table and hurried into her bedroom that had now seen more use in the past weeks than it had in years. She came back with a haphazard folio of parchment and two larger rolls, setting them down on a side table. She took one of the large rolls, furrowing her brow. “Uncle Simon, could you hold this end for me, if you please. Ah, thank you. So I’ve been working on this for quite some time. Athair assisted with more logistical questions with the completion of the renovations and rebuilding of the hall. Harrenhal is simply too big for a simple seat. The stables can house two thousand horses, and is unfeasible. So with the sept needing to be rebuilt, and the repairs that…” she paused, the memories catching her off guard and pressing onto her with the weight of them, “that needed to be done after the fire, I thought that perhaps what would be better suited was opening it to the people.”

“The people?” Uncle Simon’s brow raised in curiosity. He didn’t seem quite as surprised as she had initially worried.

“Yes! I thought we could dismantle the right barracks by the godswood, and install the glassworks properly. In addition, the Tower of Dread - I haven’t figured what we should rename some of these towers, they really are awful - can be renovated into apartments or, if we could figure something out, to build shops and homes and places of education for those in Harrentown and truly, in the area around. Maidenpool, High Heart, even places further north. Not only that, but the everyday workings of Harrenhal do not require such expansive forges. We aren’t building an army. We could open them up to something more communal. Those who cannot afford to open their own smithies yet could work here, perhaps renting space. Of course, we need several of these for the reconstruction efforts, but I truly think we should focus on repurposing rather than to bring it up to the hubris-driven monument of cruelty that Harren the Black created. We can turn what was a curse upon our lands to something that gives back.”

Abby was breathless when she was finished, the parchment crinkling in her grip. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and Larys avoided looking at her to take a furtive bite out of his tansy cake. Uncle Simon’s eyebrows were raised so high, Abby thought they’d merge into his receding hairline.

She did not look at Aegon. She very purposely did not look at him, but from the corner of her eyes, she could see him occupied with his goblet.

“Well.” Uncle Simon broke the silence and picked up some of the parchment she had left on the table. The sheafs of paper were currently in danger of the potential tipped honey jar. “Your father did not exaggerate when he spoke of your insightfulness, niece.” Warmth spread between her ribs at the praise. “The exuberance is all your mother’s. That woman could command an army as easily as a summer ball.”

The comment stunned Abby. It had been years since someone had so easily spoken of her mother. Abby’s own memories were hazy. The smudged images she still held were of a frail woman with a warm smile and gentle voice. She could remember cold hands smoothing over her hot brow when she was ill. Visions of her mother sitting beside Queen Alicent, soothing her in those early days of bloody, picked fingers, flitted through her mind. The early days of seeing how sad the adults were, how angry they could be. The blissful ignorance in not understanding why.

“I shall look these over, Abrogail. Whatever ideas you and Prince Aegon would like to implement, I am at your command and will provide my counsel, just as I counsel Larys, and have your dear father.” Uncle SImon gave a hearty laugh and plucked up some of his cold meat. “How strange it shall be to have family in residence once more.”

The rest of the morning meal was uneventful, and Abby was caught in the strange current of nerves and excitement and the lingering uncertainty of how she felt about the mention of her mother.

“Celeste Strong could command an army as easily as a summer ball.”

Abby could not recall a time hearing her mother raise her voice the way the queen did, or Uncle Otto. Never did she recollect her mother raising a hand either. No, her few memories were warm and gentle comforts, but she could remember quiet conversations between her mother and the queen, when her mother’s blue eyes had been narrowed, and mouth pinched in displeasure. Abby remembered wondering why the queen was being scolded as a child once, how fierce her mother’s face had been.

Her father had been capable of yelling, and that was incredibly rare. The last time she’d heard him raise his voice was at Harwin after everything that had happened at Driftmark. They hadn’t realized she’d been there. The Strong household had never been a yelling household. It had never been a place she’d ever feared.

“We have dinner with the Tullys in the small hall,” Aegon said, his snappish tone pulling Abby from her thoughts. She looked over her shoulder to see that he’d followed her from the apartments. “Try not to throw yourself at Elmo Tully as you did with Vance at the feast.”

Abby’s eyes widened, mouth dropping open at the sheer audacity of what dared come from his mouth. “I beg your pardon, Prince Aegon. I seemed to have been distracted and therefore could not have possibly heard the accusation against my honor.”

He rolled his bloodshot eyes, and Abby’s firsts clenched in her pale blue skirts. Heat flamed in her cheeks, and there was a mad moment where she ached to push him over the railing into the court below.

“You do beg so prettily-”

She stepped towards him, pushing her finger into his chest. “And you’ll never hear me beg for you again, especially if you dare continue to speak to me this way,” Abby hissed. She would not cry, she refused to show him how he hurt her. “Your loss, clearly, since you are threatened so by their mere proximity, and my daring to smile and harmlessly flirt.” She scoffed and tossed her hair over her shoulder, her curls wild to keep the chill from off the back of her neck. “I’m not the embarrassing one who showed their face this morning drunk and smelling like a brothel.” She cursed the way her voice cracked at the end, and turned on her heel to go find Wylla, to distract herself with those who would support her, and not be the target of their self-loathing.

There was a time not so long ago, where she might have taken full responsibility for Aegon’s foul mood, but she was no longer that little girl, a somewhat steelier young woman taking her place, one who understood that she was not responsible for the entire weight of other’s emotions, including Aegon’s. Abby was sorry for the cruel words she had said, the words that she knew would hurt. She was truly sorry for it, but Aegon had no right in how he continued to behave toward her in his own river of whatever self-loathing he was trying to drown himself in.

He didn’t get to use her to weigh himself down into the depths.

Abby only made it a few steps before Aegon’s large hand wrapped around her bicep in a firm grip. Her hand came up immediately, nails digging into the skin, and there was an almost pleased look on his face, a darkening of his gaze, that sent a tumult of conflicted feelings in her. Anger at not being taken seriously. Curiosity at why he seemed to find it pleasurable. The desire to scratch and claw at him until she drew red.

Her spine went rigid, a swooping sensation rolling through her belly. A rush of anger was expected, the strange thrill that accompanied it was less so. "Let go of me, Aegon."

He leaned in closer, his lip curling and his white teeth flashing in his snarl. His eyes, however, lilac and blood red from his previous night, seemed rounded, panicked somehow. "No." Aegon's gaze fell to her mouth, and she swallowed, feeling heat along her throat. She couldn't figure out if it was from anger or embarrassment and it only served to incense her further.

They were so close and she wanted to kiss him, to feel the slide of his warm mouth against hers, taste the lingering watered wine on his tongue. She wanted to bite him until he bled, to taste the crimson that would well up, and let it make her dizzy and forget everything else.

She would have kicked him if the angle was right. She would have scratched at his wrist had they been alone. If the thought hadn’t been so abhorrent, she might have slapped him.

Try as the queen might to make it true, Abby was not Alicent Hightower.

“Aegon,” she whispered, steely eyed and spine stiff. “You’re hurting me.”

His grip immediately released as if he’d been scalded, and she was sent stumbling back from the abruptness of it. Aegon’s mouth opened, shut, clenched with whatever conflict was going through him.

“Touch me like that in anger again, and it won’t be the ghost of my dearest brother you’d need to fear. I’ll geld you myself.” Wylla would gladly help her and hide the evidence. The murderous eyes that she held for the prince since the feast would have incinerated Aegon on the spot if Wylla had the power.

“Since when have you become so violent? Was your sweet and forgiving nature also a deception? A game to make me-“

Aegon fell silent, soft cheeks flushed and the silence was full and rolling with the years between them, all of the weight that brought them here. Abby was flushed with hurt that had her snapping and spitting in a way she never knew she was capable of, in a way she’d never allowed herself to feel, let alone show.

It felt good. It felt good in the way sobbing in Helaena and Wylla’s arms had done. She felt… brave.

Her mother had shown it. Celeste Strong had been more than the smiling wraith of her childhood memories, even though she had never witnessed it.

‘My mother was a lioness of Castamere. Do I not share that legacy as well?’

“I play no games, Prince Aegon.” He was not my prince right now. Her prince, her Aegon, would not treat her so. Yet, here Aegon was, doing exactly that. Behavior she had seen extended towards others had finally reached her. She thought of the list of qualities the queen found wanting in her son and her own immediate defense and her vow that she was not blind.

She had hurt Aegon, it was true, but he’d taken it and run, wielding his pain like a warhammer. It was a wound he had not expected from her. Had she truly expected him to act differently? Had she expected him to look past her words to see the pain she was in? ‘Yes,’ she thought, and he should have, but why had she chosen to hurt him instead of asking for comfort? Why had she not confided in him?

‘Am I truly so stupid and naive? Is the Queen right?’

In turn, he had expected perfection. Pretty and pliant. To comfort him as she always had. Her head ached with the confusion of all the questions.

“Did you know he got a child on one of my maids? I gave her moon tea and gold and sent her away.”

“Do not take my sweet and forgiving nature for weakness,” she hissed. Abby was the type to cry when angry, but her eyes remained mercifully clear. “I care for you, but you do not get to treat me as a toy - as a plaything that only exists for you.”

That had Aegon stepping forward and back into her space. “You’re mine, Abrogail Strong. You’ve always been mine.” The words stole the breath from her and her mouth went dry at his vow, his lilac gaze black and bloodshot, edged with a possessive desperation that was unlike what she’d seen from him before. So confusing were the warring sensations inside of her as he spoke them into being.

Abby wanted to bite him when he said those words, and the strength of the feeling frightened her with its intensity. She wanted to bite him and leave an imprint of her mouth on his skin. Where, she did not know. She wanted to tear into him with an unrecognizable drive that confused her.

Abby swallowed as the tip of his tongue touched his lower lip in that way of his.

“Let me be the only one you touch this way.”

She thought of his face wet against the crook of her neck, her fingers stroking through his hair, the curls she’d cut gathered at their feet. She thought of the way she rested her head on his shoulder, and he promised she would never go away, that he would keep her safe as she lit mourning candles in the wake of the fire.

“You’re mine, Abby,” he repeated into existence. “You’re my betrothed and you fawn all over that Vance welp one moment, and tell me you care for me the next. What is it to be?”

“I was being polite!” She only half-lied.

“You did it to make me jealous!”

“And? How do you think I feel when you show up this morning smelling like a brothel and still half drunk? How do you think I feel seeing you dance with Lady Cassandra, let alone ogling her so openly.” How desperately she wanted him to look at her that way. “If I’m so unequivocally yours, then why does it only go one way, you selfish, cruel man? Do I not get to call you mine?” Aegon drew back at her words and Abby did as well, gulping in air that didn’t taste of him. Enough distance created between them that Abby could not feel him. “I wish I could say how sorry I am to disabuse you and your mother of this notion that I am the Maiden. I’m not, and…” Her voice halted, and the flushed heat beneath her skin was suffocating and prickling, robbing her of words.

“And I’m full of vice as they come,” Aegon said as if finishing her sentence, his voice hollow and glimmering eyes that did not meet hers. “No amount of tender touch and soft words can change that.”

A fleeting twist of guilt coiled through her at his tone and she thought of Alicent Hightower’s insistence that she was meant to cure whatever was broken and wrong with Aegon. She was not the Maiden or some holy miracle, but neither was Aegon broken and irredeemable either.

“I suppose that makes us…that makes us ourselves then.” It felt strange to say, it felt strange to feel those words and to even hear them.

“Yes,” Aegon rasped. Abby’s eyes were hot, and Aegon’s were wet.

The moment stretched between them, a gulf rushing with water, soaking into her skirts and threatening to drag her under.

Abby took a deep breath as if preparing to dive into the Blackwater itself, to dive into the rush between them. Instead she turned, gathering her skirts in hand and walked away, forcing herself to look ahead to shore when half of her wanted to be pulled under with him.

The clash of steel on steel echoed through the training yard and Aegon spun his left sword, the right one connected and sliding against Harrion Karstark’s greatsword. Sweat dripped into Aegon’s eyes and Harrion himself was flush with exertion. Not even the gathered crowd around them nor the gaggle of ladies above could draw his attention.

They didn’t matter. He already had thrown up his breakfast after the first bout so whatever humiliation left for him was negligible.

Aegon sprang back and brought his dual swords down and across himself, trapping Harrion’s blade between them. He met the man’s eyes, and the northerner gave him a twitch of a grin and an approving nod of his head.

“Watch me. Ignore the distractions,” Harrion had said when Aegon stormed into the training yard half an hour earlier. Aemond was the one who took his anger out on the squires and Cole and whomever else unfortunate enough to get in his way. Normally, Aegon would have fled to Sunfyre and the sky above, but it would take too long to reach him and the space between Aegon’s ribs craved blood.

Preferably his own.

If he flew in that moment, Aegon could not promise he’d come back. Whatever that would look like.

Aegon wondered if Harrion’s blade had some strange northern magic that could carve the rot out of him that flame could not burn and cleanse away. Mayhaps he was more Hightower than Targaryen. Mayhaps that’s why he was like this.

Harrion’s swing knocked Aegon’s right blade from his grip, sending it skittering across the gravel. The larger man was on him, pressing Aegon back with great swings and the force of blocking him vibrated painfully in his arms.

"You are a million miles away, Your Grace," Harrion said, still circling him, his blue eyes discerning far more than Aegon appreciated. "That's how you end up with a blade through your shoulder. Trust me, I know."

Aegon ignored him, grinding his teeth.

"You could tell me what was bothering you, perhaps. At the least it would provide me with more of a challenge that… whatever it is we're doing now."

“We’re not talking about her,” Aegon grunted, swinging his blade out and moving around the larger man. “It. We’re not talking about it.”

“I’ve heard say that a good swordsman doesn’t let himself get distracted by such things, so that answers that.” Harrion’s mouth twitched up as he winked and Aegon felt a surge rumble through him. With a shout, he darted behind the training dummy and kicked it violently towards Harrion, buying himself enough time to go for his thrown blade.

“Begone!” Aegon commanded with thunderous force in his voice at the crowd, sending several bystanders stumbling back in surprise.

Aegon’s blades met Harrion’s with his teeth gritted and forced him back.

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Red hair? One breath away from dissolving into tears.” Aegon swore he saw judgement on Karstark’s face but the elder man simply rotated his greatsword in hand. “Don’t tell me you stepped on her feet while you were making a spectacle of yourselves.” He didn’t see the shoulder check coming and Aegon went stumbling back, nearly falling on his ass had he not come up against the weapons rack. “See? Better than a blade in the shoulder.”

A growl tore from Aegon’s throat and he swung his blades, causing the taller man to jump back out of the way. “You stick a blade in my shoulder, it’s treason.”

Harrion looked unsuitably unimpressed. If anything, Aegon swore he saw another twitch on his mouth and the greatsword was coming at him again, sliding along his left arm and leaving a white hot sting that had Aegon hissing and looking at the cut of his padded tunic and the bright slash of red along his bicep.

"Well," Harrion said with a shake of his head. "Shame. So what happened?"

Aegon looked incredulously from his arm to Harrion’s face, a weird sense of satisfaction emanating from the sharp sting of the slice on his arm. It lacked the brute force of a punch to the face and with the pain, he felt an unknotting sensation in his chest.

“I... don’t fucking know,” he said with feeling, swinging his left blade to meet Harrion’s with a clang. “I don’t fucking know what she wants from me when she never asked for anything different!”

The blades slid against each other, coming back again and again with the bright sound of steel clanging and Aegon wondered if Valyrian steel would sing differently in his hands.

“The thing about women is that they expect you to pay attention,” Harrion said, turning so Aegon’s swing missed and he turned the greatsword over his head and brought it down again in a move reminiscent of Harwin Strong and came down and would’ve taken Aegon’s head off had he not managed to black it in time. “You’re not great at that, are you?”

“How in the seven hells am I supposed to pay attention when she doesn’t fucking say anything!” he yelled, frustration tearing out of him with the force of dragon flame. “She’s always accepted me, she’s always been there for me, stood by me, she knows who the fuck I am and never said or asked for me to change. And now she thinks that since we’re going to be married I’m not what? Going to flirt and fuck and drink and be whatever…” He was choking on spit and something tangy and metallic in his mouth. “Whatever the fuck is wrong with me.”

There was a slap of metal against his chest and he looked down at the flat of Harrion’s blade pressed against his chest. “You missed,” Aegon said, tilting his chin up with a long look. “Neck’s here.”

“You’re pathetic, Your Grace.”

Aegon blinked. “What did you just say?”

Harrion lowered his blade and drew it along the end of his tunic, not looking at him, completely unbothered that Aegon could have lost his temper again and swung his blades at him. “I said, you’re pathetic. What kind of man are you, what kind of prince of the realm are you? You’re to be married and become lord to one of the largest keeps in the realm, and yet here you stand, a soft bellied boy, fretting over the idea that the lady you’re engaged to might not like your behavior.”

There was a rushing in his ears and Aegon opened his mouth to retort, to snap that Harrion Karstark, heir to a little backwater hovel, couldn’t speak to him like that, just as his sister didn’t have a right to do so.

“She’s been twisting herself in nervous circles preparing for this outing,” Wylla had hissed at him, the most courteous smile on her face but her fists clenched at her sides like she was about to fight him herself. He had stood beside his horse, resolutely ignoring the confused hurt on Abby’s face when he’d directed her to the carriage before they headed out into the city to attend the guild festival all those weeks ago. “So you are going to stop being a petulant, mercurial child and act like you are the luckiest man in the seven kingdoms to have her waiting for you.”

“She said we were lucky to like one another,” he finally rasped out, his palms sweaty around the grips of his blades. “That it’s more than what most can say.”

“She’s right, you are lucky, and revelations abound for you, Your Grace, because you’re so lucky and you do like one another, she expects you to afford, oh, I don’t know what it’s called, mayhaps respect?” Harrion’s gaze had lost the amusement and was now flat and cold as ice. “That girl is a prize that you’ve been given. I’ve seen that in the short time I’ve known her. And it seems you can’t grow up and be the man that she deserves. How would you feel if she went and fucked one of those other lords fawning over her, and then said ‘well, you didn’t ask me to change’.”

It must have been the hangover. Aegon was sure of it. The longer he stared at Harrion Karstark, the more he swore he saw Harwin Strong standing there, speaking conversationally to him after catching Aegon hacking one of the training dummies to death with his new blade.

He blinked again and it was Harrion once more, far closer now than he’d been on the other side of the training ring. Aegon hated how much taller the man was, how small he felt beneath his cold, stormy eyed gaze. Harrion gripped his shoulder in his large hand and Aegon swayed beneath it.

This would normally have been the point where his mother would snarl at him, “Do you have nothing to say for yourself?”, but Harrion? He said nothing except look down at him, waiting.

"I'm marrying a woman I've never laid eyes on when I head back north. Never met her, never heard the sound of her voice. I've written to her, tried to learn what I could of her through her own words. You though? You should probably pull your head out of the dragon shit and stop treating your situation as I would wager you treat everything else." He paused, then added, “Your Grace.”

“It’s growing late, my prince,” Erryk said with a disapproving look that Aegon didn’t give two shits about as he rubbed his hand over Kostōba’s golden cream neck, scratching his fingers along the line of his mane. “Are you sure you want to go out now?”

“Cargyll, when have I ever decided against going out this late?” It wasn’t as if it was late. The sun was a molten line on the horizon, the stars beginning to show along the eastern horizon. Night was better for him.

How ironic that he rode the sun. How ironic that the one he…

His thoughts were interrupted by another horse whickering, a dappled grey stallion with a braided white mane. Helaena sat astride him, her silver hair braided back, her riding leathers blue scaled leather with silver edging. Arryk Cargyll was coming up on his own horse, his Kingsguard armor gleaming in the evening light.

“Well, come on then. Aren’t we going flying?” she asked, eyes languid, voice expectant.

“No!” Aegon started, glaring at Arryk who was allowing his sister to think she could just ride out. “It’s not safe for you out there this late.”

“Oh, but it is for you when you avoid Ser Erryk every night?”

“Ser Erryk doesn’t make for good fucking company,” Aegon snapped. “Go back inside, Helaena.”

Helaena looked at him and then softly commanded her stallion to head out towards the gate. Kostōba snorted and whinnied softly, pawing at the ground and bumped his head into Aegon’s shoulder. He pet the horse’s neck gently, murmuring soft words to him before he gripped the saddle and hauled himself up. “Fine. Come on. If you’re lucky, you won’t even have to wait for us.”

They just wouldn’t come back. Maybe he’d talk Helaena into it.

The ride through the city was mercifully uneventful. Aegon kept beside his sister, glaring down at any lurking in the shadows that might come towards her. Helaena didn’t seem bothered by it, smiling at those who waved, their cries of ‘Princess Helaena!’ endearing in a way Aegon would not admit he was jealous of. He could see the tension in her shoulders at being noticed, and the way they relaxed once they went through the outer gates of the dragon pit.

Sunfyre was already out, chirping and chortling in his concerned way where he kept dipping his head trying to get closer, ruffled and annoyed at the dragonkeepers who kept him from rushing forward.

Aegon and Sunfyre set off first, and he looked down below as Dreamfyre’s great, blue bulk was led out into the yard. She was at least twice the size of Sunfyre, all pale blue scales and silver markings that twinkled like starlight. They circled languidly, and Aegon felt the chill of the air caress his cheeks and leech the heat from him, and for a moment, he swore he could feel Abby’s fingers cool across his brow, asking him if he was alright.

To watch Dreamfyre launch herself into the sky was a sight to behold. She wasn’t whip fast the way Sunfyre was, she didn’t lumber like Vhaegar. She took off, smooth as silk, flowing through the air like a fish swam through the sea. Her wings were great things, pale blue membranes veined with more of the silver markings that covered her great form. Aegon would never admit it, but Dreamfyre might have been more beautiful than Sunfyre when she took off into the twilight gleam, melting into the streaks of the swiftly darkening sky.

Helaena’s laughter echoed across King’s Landing, louder and brighter, Aegon swore, than the bells of the city itself. There was no need to give command to Sunfyre. He looked towards the south and Sunfyre let out his low call and took off, racing ahead towards the looming dark of the Kingswood.

Riding with Sunfyre was like flying through the sky himself. He leaned over the horn of the saddle, gloved hands outreached to press against his neck and together they moved, one being and one thought. No command passed Aegon’s lips. He simply felt his desire to run, to fly and flee until they could outrun all that plagued him. Away from old River Lords, and the storms of the North embodied in wolves with blades and teeth, away from the brokenhearted look in a pair of eyes as blue and endless as the ocean.

It wasn’t long before the pair of them circled the cliffs at the edge of the Kingswood, Sunfyre fluttering down as light as a leaf on a pond. Dreamfyre landed not long after and Helaena waited for him, perched like a little blue beetle on the rocks and looking out over the great gorge.

His sister watched him in her inscrutable way and Aegon stood some distance from her, unsure if he wanted to go to her, for he didn’t know what it was he wanted. Aegon’s gaze drifted over his shoulder to the cliff edge, the breeze tugging his hair across his face. He could simply just-

“Aegon.”

Lilac eyes snapped back to look at his sister and he kicked his foot against the ground, pawing at it like his horse before he came over and settled beside her. She said nothing, only reached over to take his left hand in both of hers to hold in her lap. His shoulders sagged beneath the leather of his jacket, his fingers twitching in hers.

“Sunfyre would be upset if you did,” she said and Aegon rolled his eyes.

“Sunfyre would get over it.”

“You’ve always been a terrible liar.” Helaena’s voice remained soft and calm and he scoffed lightly, a half hearted smirk playing on his face.

“I’m quite a good liar. You should play me at cards.” Levity amidst the depths that he was sinking in. Water and dirt or fire and blood flooding his mouth and ears and weeds and rock weighing him down.

The sounds of the forest were alive around them, the gentle song of crickets, the distant rustles of night time animals coming out of their daytime slumber. Aegon fiddled with a stone and chucked it out over the cliff edge and imagined it spinning out into the night sky to knock one of the lofty stars from their perch. Would Abby want him if he brought her back a fallen star?

“I told Aemond I wasn’t going to marry him.”

Aegon raised his eyebrows at her. “Huh.” An elegant response but there was a headache pulsing behind his eyes and he was at a loss for anything substantial. “How long has… how long have you been sitting on that revelation?”

A soft shrug, her fingers sliding across the rock towards a little lizard that had previously been sunning itself. “Some days I thought I could. Some days I wanted to marry him. I liked the way he looked at me, kissed me, desired me. Other times, I missed him. Who he was before Vhaegar.”

“Who he was before those bastards attacked him,” Aegon snarled, tossing another rock over the edge of the cliff. Helaena’s hand still held his and she squeezed his fingers, a gesture he instinctively returned back. His stomach lurched with nausea thinking about Ser Harrold carrying his bleeding, screaming brother into the throne room of Driftmark. They held his mouth open to pour milk of the poppy down his gullet to ease the pain.

‘Where was Ser Criston’, Aegon remembered thinking. Where had the guards been to find that Aemond had never gone to bed? Where had the guards been to see a loud, squabbling bunch of children on their way to what? Dragons couldn’t be stolen. Jace and Baela knew that, should have known that.

“We should have been better,” Helaena whispered and Aegon looked over at her. She was watching the little lizard crawl over her hand, the thing curling beneath her sleeve with the little head poking out as it sought out her warmth. “You should not have teased him so.”

A hot flush of shame and anger washed through him and he jerked his hand out of his sister’s hold. “Īlon kydȳbagon. Beqes? Iā valonqār īlvrot idīnnoso pirtrirzi zoklākore?.” Let us measure. A pig? Or falsely enticing our brother with marriage?

“Se qringaomnot dijāvē qrimbughere, marta issa?” Helaena countered. And is that the same as drowning in your vice and lust? The words clawed at the meat of him. Her eyes bore into him as hot as dragonfire and Aegon pushed away from the rocks and scuffed his feet in the dirt, putting distance between them so she could not see him so easily, perceiving his rot and ruin.

“She didn’t even care, so why should he?” Aegon snarled. Rhaenyra hadn’t cared about her brother, her blood, just an insult as if the whole fight had been Aemond calling them bastards, not the whole of them attacking Aemond and he needing to defend himself.

“Would you like to go riding?” his sister asked him softly, a gentle smile on her face. Her belly was starting to round with her own child, and mother was in her room, pacing with her own child to come. Aegon clutched his dragon to his chest, looking up at her uncertainty. He wasn’t meant to be alone with Rhaera, his little mouth struggling with the syllables of her name. The idea of riding up in the sky, on a real dragon rather than a toy in the nursery, excited him and he nodded, reaching and taking her hand and giggling with surprise when she scooped him up, the way mama said he was too big for.

“She didn’t even care,” Aegon repeated, his harsh voice a rasp in his throat, betrayal and hurt that he hadn’t felt in some time coursing through him.

The cliff edge was so utterly appealing.

“Dragons of flesh weave dragons of thread,” Helaena’s voice drifted softly on the evening breeze. He chewed on his lip and looked over his shoulder back at her. She was fixated on the lizard along her hand and lowered it, allowing the little thing to flee into the cracks among the rocks.

Aegon pushed the hair out of his eyes and turned then. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” It was simple, matter of fact, and she palmed her knees, the leather creaking with the movement. “He’s not, but…” Aegon was quiet, ignoring the call of the void, and focused on the way his sister’s hair gleamed in the fading light. In another life, they would be married, in the way their Valyrian blood demanded and every day, Aegon was grateful that they had both escaped the fate. He loved his sister, but couldn’t imagine doing what would have been required. He couldn’t imagine touching her, instinctively recoiling at the thought. Helaena was beautiful, Aegon would readily agree on that. Buxom and beautiful, with eyes that could stare into your soul and a smile that was warm as firelight.

“But?” he asked when her gaze grew distant. She shook her head.

“I think he felt as confused as I did. But you know Aemond. Once he has his mind set on something…” She tucked a loose strand of hair back from her face and drew her legs up to rest her feet against the rocks. “I told Mother. I suppose this means Aemond will go to Storm’s End.”

The sight of Cassandra’s mouth on his cock flashed across his vision and he thought of what that woman would do if she got her hands on his brother. Aemond was intimidating, Aegon was loath to admit it unless it was to his advantage, and women either were drawn to it or repelled. But he was still a green boy, inexperienced despite Aegon’s attempts to get him with the best the Street of Silk had to offer. Cassandra could very well tear him apart if Aemond wasn’t careful.

“Well he can have his pick out of the four, although I think that little hyperactive deer would be the best choice.” It would be several years until the child would be old enough to wed, which might appeal to his disinterested brother.

“Floris is going to fell a stag next Storm Festival. She shot a bullseye and everything.” Helaena’s tone was fond and lighter than it had been before. “I’ve claimed her, by the way. You’ll be taking Cassandra Baratheon with you. Hope her tits fit in the carriage.”

Aegon snorted, laughter bursting from him in surprise. “My my, hāedus, are you jealous of her fantastic tits. If you need reassurance, you do have some of the better breasts I’ve only passively looked over.”

“You called her tits fantastic, and mine ‘some of the better’,” Helaena said airily, and Aegon let out another snort of laughter. “It’s fine. I’ll forgive you. You have been a bit messier than usual. Ever since the feast.”

His laughter trailed off, and while his sister had elevated his mood, it wasn’t enough to erase away the tangle of vines that had woven their way through his ribs, constricting like the venomous snakes of Yi Ti. “Mmmm, have you been sending your many creatures to spy on me?”

“No,” Helaena replied. “But I spent the whole night comforting a hysterical Abrogail Strong in my chambers afterwards. I’ve never seen her cry so hard, let alone cry in general. Dear girl doesn’t like to show that side of herself.” She shook her head. “Not to mention you looked like Mother had forbidden you from riding Sunfyre before the feast started and I heard Ser Erryk talking about pulling you from a brothel and dragging you back to the keep slung over the ass of his horse.

“Well, when you put it that way.” Aegon shook his head and kicked at a stone, sending it dancing across the ground. He felt sick to his stomach at the idea that he’d sent Abby into hysterics after the feast, and there was little convincing himself that it was everything else that had upset her, when she had upset him so much.

When it was more than just her that had upset him, and he’d taken it out on her.

“She wants to geld you. Well, no. She said were her dearest departed brother still alive, he’d gift her your balls on a platter.”

“Oh, no, she threatened to geld me herself this morning.” Helaena giggled and Aegon flushed. “I showed up to break our fast hungover and smelling of perfume. That was embarrassing for her. Apparently.”

“I would be embarrassed if my betrothed showed up to eat with kin smelling of other women.” Helaena’s voice was in that easy way of hers, no judgement and matter of fact. When he met her eyes though, they flashed in the dark, a fire burning in her lavender gaze. “Aegon, you’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “You’ll be pleased to know this isn’t the first time today I’ve been called as such. Lucky for me, you don’t have a sword.”

“Yes, but I do have a dragon.” As if on cue, Dreamfyre rumbled from where she was sitting nearby, an antler hooked on her mouth from her meal she’d just finished. Aegon made a face. “Harrion Karstark is handsome though. I wouldn’t mind it if-”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Aegon cut in sharply. “Besides, he’s rather devout to the bride he hasn’t met yet. Riverlands girl.”

“Right. Riverlands girl. Not dissimilar to your own, I’d wager.”

“And what, pray tell, are you getting at? If you wish to lecture me, then do so.”

“I don’t need to lecture you, Aegon, but I do have a question.” Aegon gave her a blank look, stealing himself for whatever it was that Helaena was about to throw in his face. “Why do you think Abby hasn’t come asking to have the betrothal broken after all of this?” He opened his mouth, and shut it with a click, a shake of his head. “You’re an idiot,” she repeated.

“She’s nice! She does whatever Mother fucking tells her to do. She’s such a proud little member of her household, doing everything she can to fucking be her.” Helaena made a little face in response, but didn’t argue and Aegon tugged at the clasps on his riding jacket, shrugging out of the leather and letting the breeze cool his too hot skin.

“Do you like it when she’s like Mother?” Helaena asked curiously and Aegon flushed.

“I like it when she’s bossy. Not my fault it sounds like-” He snapped his mouth shut as his sister let out an indelicate snort, snickering from her spot. “Bratsios,” he swore at her, which only caused Helaena to let out another snort. “Fine! Fine I’m a fucking idiot. Happy?” He threw out his arms and gave a little spin for dramatic effect. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, She went into this whole thing about why the tables only go one way, and that at the end of the day, we’re just ourselves and she walked away and I think she wants to break this whole thing off-”

“She’s not,” Helaena cut in with another soft chuckle and leaned back against the rocks, tilting her head back to gaze up at the sky. “And she may sound like Mother sometimes, but she’s not. She’s not Mother.”

“She’s not the Maiden,” Aegon finished, the memory of Abby’s eyes, large and wet and flashing with anger and hurt seared on the back of his own eyelids. “She’s not… She’s just… Abby.” He felt his shoulders droop, the tension that had knotted through him for the past few days released, albeit slowly. “She’s just Abby with her needlework and her cat and her drawings and all her books.” He felt his mouth twitch. “She had a whole presentation this morning, did she tell you? I’ve never seen her handle so many scrolls, going in about all the changes she wants to make to Harrenhal for the people and she had pages of sums and she was talking about fucking trade agreements with some house and her whole face was lit up and she was talking too fast and I swear I thought she’d faint from forgetting to breathe.”

He looked down at his hands and from beneath the edge of his cuff, three half healed lines from where she’d scratched him bloody were still visible. Aegon instinctively brought his wrist to his mouth, sucking on the healing skin that still held the faint tang of copper. “When she lets herself, she’s full of fire and passion. She’s biting and vicious.” His hunītsos so sweet and soft but teeth that would bite when a hand threatened. “What did I do that made her so angry with me to begin with?”

His sister shrugged. “Maybe you should ask her before it’s too late.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice was sharp and focused on Helaena’s impenetrable gaze. “Helaena.”

“She was rather pleased on a walk with Ser Edmund the other day in the garden,” his sister finally said. “She’d left the picnic and ran into him. They were quite close together when Floris and I found them, all blushing and shy.”

Aegon’s stomach plummeted and his hands tingled, cold dread and hot fury rushing through him. Whatever look was on his face had his sister jumping up and closing the distance to grab at his arms.

Sunfyre growled nearby, Dreamfyre answering with a short, sharp huff of annoyance.

“You’re an idiot, but do you understand why she hasn’t gone to break this off yet? Because she cares for you. You’ve been pulling her away from the rest of us for years. Mittys iksā, Aegon.” You are a fool. He tried to jerk his arms from her, but Helaena held fast to him. “You are, and I resent you for it often. Aemond resents you for it, hoarding her as you try to do, but what you don’t see, lēkȳs, is that she allows you to do it. Had she not wanted you in return, Abby would not allow you to get away with it as you do.”

Had she not wanted him in return.

‘I never wanted you.’

Abby had never spoken those words though. Even the memory of it in his head didn’t sound like her. It sounded suspiciously like his mother, like his excuse for a sire, even Cole but… but never Abby.

In his grandfather’s office, Abby’s hand had been trembling in her lap before she reached for him, the smile tremulous and panic in her eyes. Not fear. Not disgust. She had reached for him, and he had reached for her when the world felt like it was breaking apart beneath their feet.

“And yet she flirts with that pompous cunt,” Aegon snarled and Sunfyre responded in kind with another growl that had Dreamfyre reaching out a clawed foot to push at his snout.

“So what? You flirt all the time and don’t you dare say it’s any different. The only difference that lays between you two is that you often go to paw and prod and fuck those you flirt with. She doesn’t.”

The idea of Abby doing more with one of her rare flirtations had the coil of anger firing inside of him once more as he thought of what he’d done with Cassandra Baratheon, with Marla Lefford after the feast.

“And? How do you think I feel when you show up this morning smelling like a brothel and still half drunk? How do you think I feel seeing you dance with Lady Cassandra, let alone ogling her so openly? If I’m so unequivocally yours, then why does it only go one way, you selfish, cruel boy?”

Protests died on Aegon’s tongue and he staggered back, feeling sick and dizzy, feeling angry and brokenhearted. Confused and uncertain, and yet entirely certain all at the same time. Helaena’s hands drifted back but she didn’t move away from him, didn’t tear at him, and certainly didn’t take advantage of the moment to push him over the cliff’s edge.

“I tried to be good for her,” he rasped.

“Did you truly? Or were you simply doing what it is you always do, and thinking it would work this time?” Helaena asked.

Aegon gave her a wary look. “When did you become such an insightful one, heltusītsos?” It had been years since he’d called her little beetle, the nickname coined by Aemond. Helaena startled at the words, her head ducking down and averting her gaze.

“You all try to baby me and I’m sick of it,” Helaena muttered, pushing him without any real force behind it. The wind kicked up, whipping at her moonlit braid and tugging tendrils of hair across her round features. Sometimes it was like staring into a mirror, the pair of them with the same round features and their mother’s large eyes. “So I’m endeavoring to speak my mind and tell you how I feel and when I think you’re all being foolish, which is quite often, you know.”

Jealousy and anger continued to roil in the pit of Aegon’s gut in the silence that followed his sister’s declaration. The idea of another man’s hands on Abby, his fingers in her hair, on her skin, of someone else making her laugh - that was Aegon’s laughter that was stolen. He always did what he could to make her laugh, to draw the bright sound from her so she would forget how sad she was, how lonely. How she giggled in his arms when she kissed him, when he kissed her. Her shrieks of laughter when he’d defend her in children’s games, their hands grabbing each other as he tugged her to the safety of his camp away from Jacaerys and Lucerys in the gardens and in the woods.

The soft sound of pain when he grabbed her cut through the memory. ‘Had she learned to quiet them as he had?’

Her eyes, so endlessly blue as the ocean itself, shining with tears that he’d caused.

Aegon just wanted to make her laugh and smile, instead of shutting down as she had after her father and Harwin’s death, when it looked as if she would simply blow away as dust. The memory of a small girl, eyes perpetually red and cheeks chapped with endless, silent tears looking so small in the sept before the Stranger. The way she’d looked at him when he approached and how her hands had fisted into his sleeves and she sobbed into his shoulder.

He remembered telling her the story of Ser Harwin slipping in the mud when they were in the stables and swearing Aegon to silence with a laugh. He told her of the time Mother had lost her wits at a giant Dornish spider getting loose in the cloisters and how Lord Lyonel had come, speaking calmly and rattling off all these interesting facts about it with a box in hand and how Mother lost her mind to just kill the cursed thing!

‘I could never hate you, Aegon.’

Did she truly mean it?

“What if I’ve just fucked it up beyond repair? What if we’re just doomed to be fucking miserable?” Aegon’s voice was small, his eyes wide and frightened in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, not since he was young and the first time the Tower had kicked him and nearly crashed his head in, lashing him with such cruel words that had Aegon stunned and spinning.

Helaena shrugged. “What if you haven’t?”

Hope unfurled, a frightened animal in his chest that wasn’t sure if it was safe, long boxed away and his breath hitched, an uncertain smile crossing his face.

Jace leaned against the carved stone of the shallow balcony outside his room. The sun had set and the moon was rising, the deepening blue of the sky beginning to glitter and twinkle with so many stars.

His thumb rubbed over the ridges of the long dead little sea creature embedded in the stone he held, lavender eyes hooded in thought. His room felt bare this night, his belongings loaded into trunks and taken down to the ship earlier in the day. Shelves that had been bursting with books and maps, with trinkets and baubles now gone and packed carefully away. Jace suspected that Luke had made off with some of the more coveted items he’d been sneaking off with, like the history of the Vale of Arryn that he’d been particularly interested in as of late.

A knock on the door drew his attention and for a moment, Jace thought about not answering, pretending he was tucked in bed and fast asleep. The heavy door creaked open and he let out an exasperated sigh. “Mother-”

“I know, you’d like me to wait before barging in,” his mother said. She was dressed for an evening of relaxation - a loose, scarlet robe with woven and knotted clasps over her nightgown, her hair braided back from her face and slung over her shoulder. The Princess rubbed her hands together and her gaze flitted over the bare spots across the room. “Well, you are six and ten. The gods know there are things I do not want to walk in on.”

Jace felt his cheeks flush, a sputter escaping him. “Muñus-” He would not think about the last time that had nearly happened, rolling off the side of the bed and being convinced he’d broken… things.

“I know.” She looked beautiful in the candlelight, her pale skin flushed golden in the flickering candlelight around his room. “Indulge me, zēapos. I only have a few hours left to tease you.” She stood beside him, gazing out at the Narrow Sea. Her warm hand reached up to stroke through his hair, dark brown curls wild and tugging free along his face and shoulders. Jace was struck by how strange it was to finally be taller than his mother, who loomed large over him for as long as he could remember, a beacon of home and warmth. He slung his arm around her shoulder and ducked his head at the kiss she pressed against his cheek.

The Valyrian flowed from him as it did his mother. Since he began his lessons in earnest, most conversations took place in their ancestral tongue. “I promise to keep Baela out of trouble.” His sister was coming with him, having raged for near a fortnight at being sent away when she had only just returned from Driftmark with Rhaena. Daemon had raged back, their voices echoing off the stone of the citadel whenever they were in the same room until Luke had declared he was moving into the caves with Arrax until they stopped.

His mother chuckled. “Oh, neither of us will hold you to that. Baela is like her parents, clever and wily. But you two will have one another to rely on, as well as your grandfather. You are second in line for the throne, ñuhus trēsys.” Jace turned and she took his face in her hands, tilting his head down to rest his forehead against hers. “No matter what anyone says, or insinuates, you are my son, my heir. You will sit the Iron Throne, you are not just a prince of the realm, se dārilaros iksan.”

“Nyke dārilaros iksan,” he repeated.

I am the prince.

Her smile was gentle and soft, her eyes crinkling at the corners and she pushed up on her toes to press a kiss between his brows. “I’m so proud of you for doing this. Do not let them forget that you are a dragon. You ride Vermax, and only a dragon can bond with a dragon.”

“I miss him,” Jace whispered before he could draw the words back. His mother’s hands trembled against his face. As he knew she would, she drew back and her hands dropped to his shoulders, smoothing his loose shirt.

“Laenor was a good man and he would be proud of you.” There was honesty in her words, but Jace could not say that Laenor wasn’t who he had meant. It had been another man, who had been unwavering by his mother’s side, who had been there for everything, that Jace referred to.

But that was treason and not even he could speak it.

Jace sucked it up and he gave a short nod. “He would.” His father had been good to him and his brothers, even if he wasn’t always there, often with Ser Qarl and other men at Driftmark. He was never cruel, always kind and encouraging upon his visits, even with the distance between them that never felt lonely, not with his mother there, not with Ser Harwin.

How lucky he was, to be loved as he was. To have so many who cared for him.

How frightening it was, to go to a place that had once been his home, and now full of those who loathed him.

Jace rubbed his thumb against the stone he held and he watched his mother’s hand join his. “What’s this?”

“I found it a few days ago, when Vermax and I went to the other side of the island.” The curled seashell had long turned to rock, broken in half over time so the inside ridges were visible. “Don’t know what it is. It just…” Another shrug. “Called to me, I suppose.”

“It must mean good fortune on your journey, then,” his mother said and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Now, my brooding boy, get some rest. You have a long journey ahead of you, and your men will be looking to you to not be half asleep slumped over a pile of rope.”

Right. He needed to be alert and present. He needed to be seen, he needed to participate, and work side by side with the sailors on their journey. Prove himself to be one of them. Prove himself more than the rumors that chased them from King’s Landing. Rumors that flashed bright as dragonfire in his step-grandmother’s gaze in the flickering great hall of Driftmark.

Chapter Text

Viserys looked small sitting next to the stone miniature of the Valyrian Freehold. Even when it had only taken up the center of the solar, it had still dwarfed him. In the nearly two decades of their marriage, Alicent had watched it grow, encroaching upon the free space bit by bit, like the empire itself had centuries ago. He kept to his alcove with his books and research piled around him and Eddard, the stone mason, loyally by his side with carved pieces placed precisely where they needed to go.

It was Alicent who sat at her husband’s long abandoned desk, fingers trailing over the delicate, rosewood knotwork along the top edge where the inkwell securely sat and dipped her pen, fingers smoothing over the parchment before her.

“Have the plans for the dais been completed?” she asked the young scribe who had come bearing updates on the wedding preparations.

“Yes, my queen.” He unfurled the parchment to show the diagram of the dragon pit, and the structure that was being commissioned where it would go in the center, the seating for the nobility of the realm ringed around it so all could view her son’s nuptials unimpeded. None could claim insult if all had a relatively equal view around the ritual, and the small folk could fill the risers that lined the pit, spectators to see the king’s first born son make his marriage vows. While rumors had ripped through the city and the realm in regards to Rhaenyra’s first marriage - brutally cut short in the wake of the riot in the throne room, the murder of Ser Joffrey at Ser Criston’s hands - and then her secretive, second marriage to The Rogue Prince, there would be no hiding, no rumor mongering when it came to Aegon’s marriage. There would be no doubt to his bride, no implied underhandedness and scheming behind closed doors.

Her son would be given his due, the honor he was entitled to as the long prayed for son of their blessed King Viserys. Her son was a Targaryen, named for the Conqueror himself. The River Lords could see it, and Alicent would ensure the small folk saw it, that the realm saw it.

Her son was the prince Viserys had longed for. Her son that she had nearly died for, frightened and alone in the childbed. Her son was who she had been sacrificed for, and she would not let him be denied, to be cast aside so cruelly, so publicly, as Aemond had been. None of her children deserved this disdain, this neglect. Not when they rode dragons and bore the coloring of their father’s house. When they were so Targaryen she could not recognize them half the time.

Then, perhaps, her father would be satisfied. Then, perhaps, Otto Hightower might be content.

Alicent absently rubbed her wrist, the pain a phantom twinge now.

Her eyes scanned the sketch before her, nodding in approval. “Good. Keeping the small folk contained to the risers will be critical.”

“The guild master has expressed concern in regards to so many in proximity of the dragon pit, your grace.” Alicent pursed her lips in thought, a slight nod.

“Plenty of people live and work in proximity of the pit-”

“Are you looking to set a feast for the dragons, Alicent?” Viserys’ rasping voice interrupted and she looked over to her husband who was focused upon the statue in his hand.

“I’m looking at seating arrangements for our son’s wedding, husband.” A tight smile crossed her face and normally, that would be enough to send him back along to caring about anything else but their children.

‘My children’, she thought possessively, protectively. Viserys had forfeited the right to call them his in private when he had done nothing, made no overture, symbolic or otherwise, for Aemond’s maiming.

“I thought he was to be married at Harrenhal, since he’ll be the future lord. This is a Riverlands affair.”

‘Warrior, give me strength. Mother, give me patience’. Alicent did not look away from her husband, holding his gaze steadily. She could dismiss the stone mason and scribe, but she waited for him to make his move, since he wanted to insert himself into the conversation he previously had no interest in before.

“Aegon is the first born son of the king,” she said tightly, trying to keep her tone even and refusing to let her frustration creep into her voice. “The realm will expect us to spare nothing in celebration of his nuptials, especially with him marrying someone not of Targaryen blood.”

Silence was the answer, Viserys watching her, quiet, before lifting his hand in a dismissive gesture. Both the scribe and the stone mason quickly gathered their items, bowing and leaving the solar. The heavy door shut behind them with a resounding thud after Ser Harrold gave a cursory glance back and Alicent was left with her husband, alone, with the crackling fire for company.

She rose, going to the side table where wine had been replaced with various tinctures and clean water. Wine had been prohibited the past moon in an effort to slow the encroaching rot along his spine that had given the king fits. Horrifying episodes that filled Alicent with fear that he would expire there, limbs frozen as his deteriorating muscles locked into place.

“Here,” she said without allowing protestation, pouring him the careful measure of water and the amber coloured liquid that smelled of savory herbs and something sharp and medicinal. She held her other hand out for the intricately carved statue of some type of ancient dragonlord and met Viserys’ lilac gaze. He sighed and exchanged the figurine for the tincture and Alicent set it carefully aside and folded her hands at her waist. “The realm has declared for Rhaenyra, but they will still find it strange if we do not hold a wedding for Aegon.”

“When did I say that we wouldn’t hold a wedding? I said that it should be held in the Riverlands, because Aegon will be the future Lord of Harrenhal.” He gave a slight salute with his cup and forced back the contents of it, wincing and shaking his head at the taste of it. He fumbled in setting the cup aside and Alicent reached for it before it could fall to the floor. “Ah. Thank you.”

“Are you feeling well? Come, sit by the fire, my love.” She gently reached for him but Viserys threw out his arm, knocking her hand away.

“You are trying to change the subject, Alicent. Do not think me so far gone I do not see it,” he said sharply, the snaggle toothed grit of his teeth on display. Alicent drew back instinctively, not for fear of being struck but at the angry sound of his voice. She cursed herself for her weakness. Viserys was not a terrifying man except in the power he occasionally wielded. He was no image of her own father, whose harsh tones would root her frozen and frightened to the spot.

“I am doing no such thing.”

The hand that gripped her wrist was a strange feeling. Visery’s skin felt fragile, like parchment, dry and cracked and as cold as a specter, as certainly as the Stranger himself when he grabbed her wrist to keep her from moving away. There was little strength in it, but the action of it was what drew her to stillness.

“There is no reason for Aegon to be wedded in the dragon pit in front of all of King’s Landing. Not when Rhaenyra’s own nuptials were a private affair.” Heat flushed through her chest and along her throat and she kept herself from snapping back that Rhaenyra’s wedding had been anything but a private affair.

Instead, she said, “He is your eldest son, Viserys. The realm expects-”

His grip on her wrist tightened and she could actually feel it this time before he flung her away. Had he the strength, he might have shoved her back. Alicent did, indeed, take a step back from him when he pushed himself from his chair.

“The realm expects me to wage war on the Stepstones. The realm expects me to name my eldest son heir. The realm expects me to bow to their whims. It is I who is king!” His shout was unexpected and loud, the gruff bark of an angry dog, for Alicent could never see her husband as the dragon whose sigil he claimed. “I rule this realm! I make the laws, Alicent, and it is I who will decide how my eldest son’s wedding is done.”

She breathed in slowly through her nose and knotted her fingers tighter in her skirt to keep them from trembling. Frustration flared inside her and she wanted to scratch at him, scream and rip at him why Aegon was now his son, and never before. Why did it matter now, why did her children matter to him for something like a wedding?

Why had they not mattered to him when Aemond needed him most, when they had all needed him the most?

“Of course, my king,” Alicent bit out. “Forgive me, for I did not think you would be interested in Aegon’s wedding.” It was as close as she could get to speaking her mind, aware of how close she was to pushing Viserys into something foolish and reckless. It was one thing to accuse Viserys of inaction, but she had been careful of pushing him since that night, when the accusations flew. When her anger and her rage and her overwhelming helplessness, the smell of her son’s blood on the air, of every flinch, every whimper that escaped him, had overtaken her.

I will never be Aemma Arryn.

“And, pray tell, why wouldn't I be interested in our son’s nuptials?” Viserys sneered and she wanted to wrap her hands around his papery neck, and strangle the life from him. Alicent tilted her head back, squaring her shoulders and pinning him with a long, hard look. Tears of anger pricked at the corner of her eyes and the all consuming urge to scream was threatening to claw out of her throat and pierce the air.

“You have left the bringing up of our children to me, Viserys.” Her voice was stilted and shaking. “Their care and their futures have been entrusted to me, and you have never involved yourself. You barely paid attention when I brought up Daeron squiring for my brother, Gwayne, in Oldtown. You gave barely any congratulations when your son bonded with your beloved father’s dragon.”

“Oh, well,” Viserys let out a mirthless huff. “I do quite recall how you claimed that I would make no decision over our children’s future when Rhaenyra brought up the idea of betrothing Jacaerys and Helaena. I believe your words were ‘not until you were cold in your grave’.”

Her nails dug into the flesh of her palms. “And I recall you just telling me that you were the king and that you would make the decisions.” She wanted to tear at him.

The tension was thick enough that Alicent swore she could see it shimmer between them, like breath fogging in the cold air of winter. Did the king feel any remorse? Did he feel any shame for his utter lack of involvement in the lives of his children? The man had even struggled with speaking to his most beloved daughter and he’d made Rhaenyra his heir. Why had he wed her and bedded her if not for more children? What was the point of it all?

Her eyes briefly strayed to his hand, and the gold ring his thumb rubbed against, rotating it around his finger with the motion.

He would have been better, him and Aemma, with a country keep and rooms full to bursting with books.

I would have been happier with a knight of song and charm. With apple orchards and gentle children.

I was a child. I was a child and it didn’t matter to you.

We would have both been happier without dragons.

Dragons had stolen everything from her, even toothless ones such as the frail wraith of a man before her.

Alicent wondered if she truly saw a flicker of shame across her husband’s eyes before he reached for his cane to make his way towards the fire. Instinctively, she went to pull the blanket from where it hung, warmed by the fire, helping him into the chair, wanting to push him into the blaze and free her and her children from this man.

He didn’t look at her as he settled. “Ensure that the rooms for Jacaerys and Baela have been prepared. Perhaps in the North tower. From the top, you can see Dragonstone on a clear day.”

The air was pulled from Alicent’s lungs and she froze in adjusting the blanket over Viserys’ lap. Her gaze locked on his when her head tilted up, so unbearably close to him that their noses may touch. She drew back as if burned.

“What?” Propriety escaped her and she shook her head. “Whatever do Jacaerys and Baela have to do with anything?”

Viserys settled back in his chair. “My grandson is here to serve as cupbearer on the small council. Rhaenyra suggested that Baela may blossom under the excitement of the capital.”

Aemond was meant to be cupbearer. Even with Abrogail’s insistence that Aegon should attend council meetings, Alicent wanted that for Aemond. With Helaena’s promise that there would be no wedding between her and her brother, Aemond was set to be the next Lord of Storm’s End.

Aemond deserved this honor, not the plain faced boy who shared a smile with her soon to be good daughter.

Who shared Lyonel’s smile.

Who shared Harwin’s smile.

“When will they be arriving?” she rasped. Viserys waved a negligent hand, already pulling a book into his lap.

“They departed from Dragonstone yesterday morning with clear skies. They should be here by the morning as long as the winds stay fair.” Mere hours. She had hours to prepare for this. Three days to lose her mind and keep smiling and entertaining the River Lords, to finish the preparations for the birthday feast and the engagement announcement.

Her eyes darted to the throw pillow on the opposite chair, her fingers twisting together before she folded them against her waist.

“I’ll make sure their quarters are prepared for them and that they’re comfortable.” The words were not her own. Alicent didn’t feel like she herself was saying him. She felt distant from her body, the way she so often felt pinned beneath him in those early days of their marriage. The need to flee, to escape, to be anywhere else but there.

If Viserys had dismissed her, she didn’t know. All Alicent knew was that she yanked open the door herself, striding past a startled Ser Westerling and heard the clink of metal against stone as Criston followed a half step behind her. His presence at her back did little to soothe her, but enough that she did not start tearing at her hair, at her skin, frantic cries and accusations falling from her. She could not do as she once did. That time had passed and while Viserys was not an intimidating man, even in his anger, he was still the King.

She was humiliated, embarrassed, sorry for how she had behaved that night, but she could not apologize for her grief and her anger, at the betrayal of the father of her children to deny any sort of justice, to allow Rhaenyra to switch the focus of the gathering, to draw more attention to that which she denied with her whole chest.

Was nothing to come from all that she had survived? No hope, no great reward for the suffering she had endured?

Tears burned hot, and she paused in a quiet corner at the top of the hallway towards her own rooms. A shaky breath. A clench of her hands, fists pressed to her eyes.

“Your Grace.”

Lysa Fossoway was elegant and put together in the golden yellow gown with vibrant red trim as vivid as the apples of Cider Hall. Her blonde hair was braided from her face and held in a net of silver, wisps of grey in the strands giving her a dignified appearance. Her rounded features were pulled in tight anxiety and Alicent swallowed back her scream to be left alone for five minutes.

“Yes, Lysa.” There was no patience for formalities from her, and Lysa slowed with the visible understanding that Alicent was already not in the mood. Her gaze flickered to where Ser Criston linered and dropped into a slight curtsy.

“My apologies, your Grace. The Lord Hand has asked that you join him later,” Lysa said softly. “To discuss some concerning rumors.”

Her stomach knotted and a sound escaped her, high pitched and strangled in her throat. To her credit, Lysa didn’t flinch or move at the sound and Alicent felt the vein in her temple pulse harder. “What else has he done?” she whispered.

“Prince Aegon had… he spent the night in the brothels, and did not come back until dawn.”

Pain pulsed dully behind her eyes. “He was meant to break his fast with Lord Larys this morning. It was important that he did.”

“He did, your Grace, however it’s been reported to me by several of the maids that he and Lady Abrogail were seen having a rather heated argument in the hallway. Accusations were thrown, although none seem to agree on what was said.”

“They’re children. They’ll have arguments.”

None of this was supposed to be happening. Abrogail was meant to be a good, obedient girl who listened to orders, who reported back to her should Aegon show any indication of straying. Alicent knew she had made those expectations exceedingly clear. Yet here she was, finding out about her son’s shameful behavior through rumor instead of from his betrothed’s mouth.

“Lady Abrogail was also seen in the company of Ser Edmund.” Lysa’s voice was quiet.

There was a rushing sound in Alicent’s ears and she longed to pull over the suit of armor beside her, relishing in the crashing and clanging of it against the stone. Instead, she smoothed her hands over her skirts, straightened her shoulders, breathed, and prayed.

“I need two rooms prepared in the North Tower on order of the King. Prince Jacaerys and Lady Baela will be staying with us.” The words were ash on her tongue, stilted and emotionless. “The prince is to be cupbearer on the council, and the lady will be taking her place at court. They’ll be arriving with their dragons on the morrow.” She forced a smile on her face. “The more the merrier for my son’s celebrations.”

Vermax and Moondancer let out joyful and curious shrieks from where they circled the ship on approach into the great harbor of King’s Landing. Jace stood at the bow pulpit, leaning against the railing. Just below was the polished bronze head of Laena’s Song’s mermaid that curled buxom and gleaming along the bow. Days on the sea had slashed a bright red burn across the bridge of his nose, and freckles had sprung up along his skin. His curls whipped from the low ponytail he wore and Jace climbed up the rung of the pulpit railing to lean better across the edge and feel the cool spray of the ocean fall across his face.

Before him was King’s Landing. The Red Keep high atop Aegon’s Hill was a monument of epic proportions, bright as a beacon compared to the dark stone that made up the fortress of Dragonstone. Gulls cried and flew across the water, the bay teaming with ships heading out to sea and trade ships bearing banners of Pentos and Lys, of Braavos and even a dark ship from Asshai coming in to drop off their trade. Behind him, the crew of Laena’s Song hollered to and fro, preparing to drop anchor.

His stomach knotted uncomfortably with nerves and he rolled his shoulders beneath the bleached linen of his shirt. His black and red jerkin was tossed negligently over a barrel and Jace looked over his shoulder at the sailors moving across deck and wished he could simply stay rather than step back on land.

Or better yet he could take to the sky. Vermax let out another shriek and dove towards the wave to scoop up a mouthful of fish, dodging past Moondancer’s attempt to steal them. His jade scales covered in gold markings gleamed and glimmered in the sunlight like a gem, like the jade that his mother called him. Little jadeling. His lavender eyes were drawn behind him in the direction of Dragonstone, too far for him to see, and too far to relieve the ache of homesickness in his chest.

“Luke gets greensick and you look like you’re ready to flop in the water like a fish,” Baela teased him from where she sat on a coil of rope, tucking her trouser legs into her freshly polished black boots. Her Valyrian was a familiar, crisp tone, dagger sharp like her father’s. “Are you sure you’re a dragonrider? Belonging in the air?”

“I’m the better dragonrider out of my brothers. I will command the sky and sea and fire. All that’s left is land and that seems simple enough,” he grinned at his stepsister, reaching up to catch the green apple she aimed for his head. “Now now, lady, we’re not meant to waste fruit on a voyage,” he scolded and took a bite of the tart fruit, sucking on the juice of it so he didn’t further antagonize her.

“You’re the only dragonrider out of your brothers, mittys,” she shot back at him. “There’s no competition when you’re the only one. Arrax is still too small and Tyraxes is still a kitling.”

Jace took another bite of the apple and leaned against the railing, feeling Baela come up and join him. Her silver curls had been carefully coiled into elegant, thick braids that brushed just her shoulders. Beaten gold rings were wrapped around various lengths of the braids, a nameday gift from their grandmother, and Rhaena had a matching set. Her twin was back at Driftmark, apparently enjoying the attentions of Lord Staunton’s second son, who was page for Lord Vaemond, according to her last letter that expressed envy at not being able to join them for the festivities.

“Won’t be the only one any longer,” he said softly, lavender eyes drifting up to look at Vermax before settling his gaze upon the dome of the Dragon Pit that was just visible past the high city walls.

The distant sound of a dragon’s roar had Jace jerking back from the railing, scanning the sky. Beside him, Baela cocked her head, leaning forward to search for herself. Below, the sailors shouted to one another, the anchor dropping. The ship was too large to pull fully into harbor that day, not with all the arrivals coming to prepare for the week’s festivities.

Nerves knotted in Jace’s stomach as they lowered the rowboat into the gentle waves of the bay. Excitement vibrated through his limbs at the prospect of getting away from the isolation of Dragonstone, where his mother had retreated, like Syrax in her cave. She was happier there, upon the rock in the middle of nowhere with Daemon, with their new son. Little Aegon was a happy boy, trailing after Joffrey more often than not, the pair of them clinging to one another and in turn, trailing after Daemon everywhere they could.

Anxiety was just as loud knowing who was to come.

“Do you think Aemond’s still sore about what happened?” he asked Baela rhetorically in Valyrian. The look she gave him was sidelong and narrow, unamused at Jace’s attempt to lighten the mood and the nerves that twisted around his insides. The dragon’s roar was unfamiliar to him, but Baela’s indigo gaze was narrowed, unsure, even a little hopeful.

“Not sure how long it takes to get over losing an eye,” she replied in a low voice. “Besides, he deserved it, laodijes peldios. Regret nothing for what happened. Luke certainly doesn’t.”

“He’s a dragon, not Dornish.” Petulant. Know-It-All. Aemond was many things, but a thieving snake? Jace did not think it fitting, but he wasn’t about to tell Baela that. Neither was he quite sure of Luke's lack or held guilt on the matter. It was something none of them spoke of. “Besides, best mind the viper talk. Prince Qoren has a son and you are untethered. The war in the Stepstones has gone on for quite some time.” It was perhaps a little too mean, truth be told, and he blamed the nerves. Jace normally didn’t poke Baela quite as hard as she liked to poke at others but the closer they got to the capitol, the more he felt his own fangs snap out.

“I’ll push you out of this boat, Jacaerys,” Baela snapped as the boat rocked upon a swell of water. Her mouth opened to send another retort but there was another loud roar that echoed across the bay, sending the gulls screaming and scattering.

Coming from above, a great shadow burst through the clouds. It had been years since Jace had seen the hulking mass of Vhagar, and he had not watched her leave Driftmark all those years ago, confined to his room with his brother after what had happened. To see her like this after watching Vermithor take to the sky with Silverwing, to see the Cannibal dive along the waters of Dragonstone?

Jace felt the icy trickle of fear snake down his spine.

He barely registered Vermax startled cry but he could feel the fear and confusion mingling through his own in the place between his ribs that Vermax lived. The sailors in the boat around them tensed, the four rowing moving faster.

Moondancer shot over them, her cry joyous, and Baela cried out, “Daor!” pushing her hand on Jace’s shoulder and standing in the boat. “Daor, Moondancer, rȳbās!” Fear and panic laced her tone.

Vhagar’s great bulk and wingspan cast a shadow over them, one that was growing larger… and larger. Jace could not see Aemond upon the dragon’s back, for he’d be a speck amid all the hoary green and the great snout. Compared to the great dragon, Moondancer was just as tiny, flying straight for the great thing.

Vhagar’s head twitched and the dragon let out a lower sound this time, the little dragon flying around her, and Jace looked startled at Baela, who’s tanned skin had paled, eyes wide with fear. He reached for her hand and her palm was clammy, her fingers hooking with his.

“She thinks it’s muñus. Vhagar taught Moondancer to fly.” Baela’s voice was faint and Jace pulled her into his side, holding her close as the tremulous balance of fear and relief shook them both to see Vhagar leaving Moondancer alone, the dragon diving down with her, letting out her own high pitched calls before Vhagar sharply pulled back, the backdraft of her wings and the rush of it sending the waves high, drenching them all and nearly capsizing the boat.

“I don’t think Aemond’s over it,” Jace said faintly.

The sound of another roar, unfamiliar to him, came from the city and all heads swiveled to see the brilliant dragon coming towards them. Smaller than Vhagar was an easy feat, but this dragon was still a large beast, terrifying in its own right. Unlike Vhagar, the shimmering blue scales glimmered like gemstones beneath the sun, as brilliant as the sky and ocean combined. The call the dragon let out was not one of intimidation like Vhagar’s had been. No, this one was directed at the other dragon, head tilted in Vhagar’s direction with a huff and a snarl of disapproval.

As the dragon came closer, it banked, the tip of its left wing dragging into the water and Jace could see the blonde figure tiny on the back, wind whipping at the rider’s hair. What was his mother doing here? On a dragon not Syrax? His brain struggled to make sense of the sight before it registered that the rider was Helaena.

Jace could not recall if he’d ever seen Helaena fly after she’d claimed Dreamfyre, and his eyes tracked the dragon with a thudding in his chest. Nerves had him tense, and Vermax cried out in greeting, his turn to dart towards Dreamfyre. Jace could feel his dragon’s excitement, and remembered that it was from Dreamfyre’s clutch that his egg had come from. A bond, undeniable, the way that Moondancer cleaved to Vhagar who had taught her to fly, whose memory of Laena was still so strong.

He swallowed and watched with Baela tense at his side as Dreamfyre nipped and warbled at Vhagar. An impossible feat it seemed, and yet with clear reluctance, Vhagar shook her great head and turned, the beating of both pairs of wings sending the boats in the harbor rocking violently with the waves they caused. Seawater sloshed over the edges of the boat, soaking along their boots and trousers but they stayed afloat and made their way towards the pier, where the gleaming figure in Kingsguard armor waited.

“Prince Jacaerys!” boomed Ser Harrold Westerling, as tall and resplendent as the day they’d left the city and he was nearly half as small. The knight reached down and Jace grabbed his gloved hand and, even as old as the man was, Ser Harrold nearly pulled him off his feet hoisting him on the dock. “Lady Baela, welcome back to King’s Landing.”

Baela gave a jerky nod, her eyes still on the bay and the returning figure of Dreamfyre, having now run off Vhagar’s bulk towards the cliffs. Vermax and Moondancer careened around the bay, little and unobtrusive compared to their larger brethren. Vermax let out excited chitters, making his way towards the blue dragon.

“Last I saw you, your Grace, you were but a wee lad! What are they feeding you on that rock?” He let out a great laugh and Jace joined in, a manic release of fear and nerves and relief that they hadn’t capsized in the bay. He’d gone through another growth spurt over the last several months, not quite as tall as Daemon, but he was broader shouldered now, gangly and unused to all the fresh height.

“Lots of fish, Ser Harrold,” he grinned and held out his arm to Baela. She had only been to the capital a few times in the past, the first when they’d come from Pentos as small children, and occasionally for feasts and the like. Laena and Daemon had largely stayed on Driftmark during her mother’s life, and he knew that his sister could handle herself, but he didn’t want her to feel alone. Baela held her vulnerabilities close to the chest when she didn’t have to, vulnerabilities that she hid behind the black trousers tucked into polished black boots and the blood red tunic she wore, not dissimilar to Jace’s own clothes, though the tunic was more of a short dress on her, tapered at her waist.

After a moment, Baela slipped her hand into the crook of Jace’s elbow and looked forward, a tight smile across her face as she greeted Ser Harrold. “And my uncle, the King?”

“Eager to see you both. His grace was insistent that you received all the pomp and circumstance befitting you,” the knight said as he led the way towards the carriage. Two other Kingsguard were waiting, mounted on a pair of horses with coats as black as dragonglass, pawing at the ground in the wake of two monstrous dragons causing trouble along the bay.

Dreamfyre had vanished over the city wall and into the Dragon Pit.

Their trunks were being unloaded from the ship and would follow soon, which meant they wasted no time climbing into the wheelhouse and collapsed back on the back bench together, both peering out through the lattice work.

“The city stinks,” Baela complained with a wrinkle of her nose as if the mere fact of it offended her.

“Well, it’s a city.”

“Pentos didn’t stink like this. Didn’t Queen Alysanne do something about it? Kepe told me. Cisterns and clean drinking water. Not… stink.”

Jace had nothing to say in response to that, watching the city pass out the window. Wares being hawked with enticing calls, the sounds of trade and commerce. The carriage moved too quickly for Jace to truly appreciate the city around him, but his mind turned over the possibilities. What was the state of the cisterns? Did the people have access to such things? Myr had intricate sewer systems and aqueducts were there and in Braavos both. Could those things help the city?

A king must care for his people, must do all he can to help them prosper.

His mother had smoothed her hands over his shoulders before he boarded the ship, her gaze intent. “I was once cupbearer for my father and I learned much of the intricacies of the realm and what the people needed, and what could be done. My father… did not often take my advice when I spoke up, and oftentimes it was for the better.” There was an uncertain glimmer in her violet gaze, a twitch in her jaw that had Jace wonder at his mother’s true feelings on the matter. “Listen, and learn, ask questions of Maester Orwyle, of Lord Beesbury, of your grandfather. Be on your guard. I was fortunate to have Lord Lyonel as Hand during my time on the council, and he imparted wisdom to me that I pass to you: Your words are important, they hold weight. Do not speak to only fill the silence or to be accounted for. Speak when you are confident in the questions and solutions you bring so they are taken with the weight they deserve.” Her mouth had quirked in a sheepish smile. “Words that I probably could cleave better to.”

“Will the dragons find the pit?” Baela’s head swung about to try to peer through the latticework of the carriage windows like she could get a glimpse of her dragon. “I don’t like the thought of Moondancer chained in some pit where anything could happen to her. She should fly free, as they do back home.”

“Vermax will take her there. They were following Dreamfyre and he knows that’s where the food is.” Baela looked skeptical of it all, sighing and throwing herself back against the seat, sprawling legs and letting her head thump back against the side of the wheelhouse. “What’s wrong?”

“Your mother did not have many good things to say about the Red Keep,” she answered directly. “And that the queen may likely give me trouble and so I can’t get away with what I usually do back home.”

Jace nodded, tugging at the leather jerkin he’d put back on and reaching up to undo his ponytail. He was careful to tug his fingers through the curls, trying to get them in some order. “I never spent much time around the queen, but I do know her manner before was different than… that night.” He wasn’t sure what had been more terrifying: the way the woman had come at his mother with the king’s blade, or how utterly wrecked she had been, her complete lack of composure when every other time he’d seen her, been around her in his years, Queen Alicent had been so tightly buttoned up. Jace had never been close to his step-grandmother… but he’d never had cause to fear her before. He rewound the leather cord to keep his hair back and smoothed his hands over his knees. “Should there be any trouble, tell me, and we’ll figure out how to handle it together. She has no cause to be cruel to you.” He gave his stepsister an encouraging smile. “You aren’t part of the inheritance issue. Enjoy your luck.”

That much Jace did understand over the years away. He’d never known a world where his mother wasn’t heir, and it had taken him years to realize that women didn’t normally inherit, not like his mother had. How often women had come to his mother’s isolated court, beseeching Princess Rhaenyra to speak of their own claims, or their daughter’s claims. How often she turned them away. When he asked why, she told him that the Westerosi custom was one where the sons inherited. Targaryens and her father’s word were above that, for they sat the Iron Throne. The petitions would need to be made to the Small Council as the laws were not yet hers to make.

“Good thing we aren’t married then,” Baela smirked at him and Jace felt his ears heat with blush. Married they were not, but the betrothal possibility had been there and, bored and isolated, they’d… well, someone else had gotten to Baela before him (and she’d kept her mouth shut on that but Jace had his bets on the blacksmith’s son in the village), but she got to him first.

‘At least you won’t fuck up your wedding night,’ she’d laughed, pushing him out of her room with his clothes in hand and right into Luke, who he’d properly threatened to secrecy.

They came through the Dragon Gate, the castle’s gold cloaks and standard bearers bearing the sigils of House Velaryon and Targaryen both, the seahorse and dragon snapping in the breeze. Upon the steps in the great doorway, sat his grandfather, the king. It was the first thing that struck Jace when he poked his head out of the carriage and stepped out to face the family, was how frail the man was. His grandfather had always been a sickly man, with stringy hair and constantly wrapped in blankets, a cane in hand or a great wheeled chair.

This day, beneath the bright blue sky and surrounded by the dusty red stone of the Red Keep, the king appeared small in his chair set on the top of the staircase. He wore his crown for the occasion, as if Jace and Baela were visiting dignitaries, as if their arrival was worth that. It warmed the spot in Jace’s chest to know that this place was not automatically hostile as his mother feared.

On the king’s left stood the queen, the utter opposite of the frightening rage thrown in firelight from that night years ago. There she stood, looking almost as beautiful as his own mother. Her hair was pulled back from her face, tendrils of curls caressing her soft cheeks. Resting in her hair was a tiara, intricately woven golden branches dotted with rubies. She wore a dark green gown that covered her from the high collar to her wrists, her furred cloak elegantly draped around her.

Behind her stood Otto Hightower, imposing and nerve wracking, just there within the shadows of the doorway. Daemon and his mother had both warned them of the Hand, a man not to be trusted under any circumstances.

It took Jace a moment to recognize Daeron, who’d been a boy of eight when he saw him last. Now he was four and ten, gangly with the trappings of adolescence and cheeks still rounded with baby fat. He looked unsure and uncomfortable, giving Jace and Baela both a shy but friendly smile, his silver hair cropped short around his ears. His doublet was close fitting, quilted green and black with a dragon pin on his chest, and a hightower pin on his collar, signifying his status as squire for House Hightower.

Then there was his Uncle Aegon, years past from the way he’d fallen into a drunken stupor at Laena Velaryon’s funeral. His hair was cut short, silver curls brushing against his jaw. The startling thing was the absence of green on his person. When they were children, the boys had always been clad in green, as their mother had, but that no longer appeared to be the case. Aegon’s red jerkin was held closed with golden clasps, a black shirt beneath, a faint pattern shimmering in the fabric in much the way his mother’s gown had, giving the hint of dragon scales.

The glare on his face was ill-disguised and Jace felt Baela rankle beside him in response to it.

Jace’s glance was careful when they landed on the woman at his uncle’s shoulder. Abrogail Strong was a slight figure, the ghosts of their past held in her so that Jace dared not give more than a cursory greeting to her. Her heraldic gown clung to her, half midnight blue and half verdant green with tight fitting sleeves of oxblood red. Her hair hung in loose curls down past her waist, held back from her face in a simple half-knot in the Riverlands style. She lacked any other adornment apart from the string of pearls woven into her hair.

“Sparos bonus issa?” Baela asked beneath her breath. Jace didn’t answer her. How could he? It wasn’t the most convoluted branch in his family tree, were he being honest, but one of them.

“”Look how tall you’ve grown!” The King cried out joyfully, opening his arms out in greeting, his smile broad, revealing the loss of teeth as whatever ailed him continued to take its toll.

Did his mother know how ill her father was?

“Your Grace.” Jace and Baela paused at the top of the stairs, offering their fealty to the man before them.

This close, it startled him when his gaze fell on Alicent Hightower, how young she looked, in a way he hadn’t understood so long ago, so young compared to the ancient way his grandfather looked. Now was not the time to process this, and instead, Jace returned his grandfather’s smile and the pair of them kissed King Viserys on the cheek and his cool, papery hand reached up to touch their faces affectionately.

“How good it is to see you both hale and healthy. How exciting a journey you must have had! Taking the Narrow Sea on your own. And you’ve brought your dragons with you?”

“Kepus issa,” Baela said and Jace wondered if she was instinctively hiding herself behind the words of their blood. Viserys chuckled and patted her hand.

“Such elocution, hāedus,” his grandfather said fondly to Baela. “Perhaps the pair of you can teach your aunt and uncles how to speak properly. I don’t know the last time we had a meal in Valyrian.”

Jace caught the stiffening of the queen’s shoulders, and Aegon puffed his cheeks, exhaling boredly. “We were kindly greeted by Aemond and Helaena on dragon back earlier. It seems we’ve beaten them back here. Nothing more Targaryen than being greeted by the largest dragons in the world,” Jace said with a grin and he saw Abrogail’s bite her lip to hide the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Hoofbeats filled the courtyard once more and Jace looked over his shoulder to see another kingsguard, this one on a large, chestnut destrier, accompanying the windswept figure of Helaena Targaryen on her own dappled gray horse, her blue riding leathers bright in contrast to the dust of the Red Keep.

“Aemond will be back in time for dinner,” she called, swinging herself down easily from the saddle while the stablehand held the horse steady. She petted the beast’s neck soothingly and came up the steps and Jace noticed the way her fingers twitched, curling in and rubbing together as if they wished to clutch at her jacket, or reach for something to fidget with. A habit, he realized, she had not outgrown.

Large, lavender eyes darted between him and Baela but did not meet either, for that was Helaena’s way too.

“Dreamfyre is magnificent,” Baela said with a slight smile. “You ride exceptionally well.”

“Thank you, hāedus Baela,” Helaena said softly, her cheeks flushing and eyes focused on the Velaryon emblem Baela had embroidered on the collar of her tunic. “She is nearly too big for it. My poor dear is used to the freedom that living at Harrenhal afforded her. Would that all our dragons could live so freely as they do on Dragonstone.” Her gaze flickered to her youngest brother and a fond smile crossed her face. “It’ll be lovely to see how quickly Tessarion will grow at Harrenhal, won’t it, Daeron.” A brief glance at Jacaerys. “Trēsys.”

Jace’s mouth was dry. “Muñus.”

“You’ve both been given rooms in the North tower,” the Queen said, a tight smile across her face. No longer was she a specter towering over him. Now, she just looked sad. Sad and small, but no less dangerous, as he stood over her now by a head’s height.

One of the guards was maneuvering the king’s wheeled chair around to head back into the keep, three others gathered around and Jace noticed the handles on the sides of the chair used to navigate the many staircases within.

Baela fell in step beside him as she usually did, their shoulders brushing against one another as they walked behind the king. The queen was a step behind the great chair, walking sedately, a tension so great inside her Jace swore she was vibrating. “Once you’re both settled, we’ll have dinner in the family solar. To celebrate your welcome and Daeron’s return.” The young boy was on his mother’s other side and fussed when Alicent reached to brush his hair from his face in a gesture that strongly reminded Jace of Luke when their mother tried to coddle him.

“I told Uncle Gwayne I could ride Tessarion from Oldtown but he said it was too far for me and a dragon of her size,” the boy groused.

“Skoros zaldrizo bē gīmis?” What does he know of dragons? Baela muttered, and it was unclear if she meant Ser Gwayne, Daeron, or both. Jace jabbed her with his elbow and she scowled.

“Not difficult to figure out a little dragon only just large enough for a rider might struggle on the first long flight,” Aegon’s voice came from behind them, having both heard and understood, despite the king’s statement that his children did not seem to know their words. Aegon sounded bored but Jace could hear the blade beneath the casualness of the words. “Not to mention it would be his first long flight, mewling from his saddle half a day’s flight in how sore his legs are.”

“I would not!” Daeron protested. “I’ve been training for it. It’s the same principles as horsemanship.”

“My legs still get tired after riding,” came the soft tones of Lady Abrogail. Baela snorted, barely giving her a look..

“Ao tikoqitta iksā, vaogrot sittaaks. Daoruni sōveno bē gīmī.” You are a wingless thing, born of mud. You know nothing of flying. She shook her head, silver braids brushing against her shoulders, the charms woven in them tinkling. Her violet eyes were narrowed, condescension dripping from her tongue. He’d heard the same tone from Daemon’s mouth often when it came to talking about the Hightowers, and to Baela, Abrogail was a stranger. Worse, an interloper. Jace’s stomach dropped at the words, frowning at Baela from the corner of his eye but his tongue was caught, not wanting to draw attention, to draw questions in front of everyone. Especially when Baela was defensive and spitting like this.

“I believe I can show Jace and Baela to their rooms,” Helaena’s voice cut in. “I was going back to mine anyway and it’s on the way. Tis feeding time for my mantis and she’s readying herself for mating.” Helaena came forward, a placid smile on her face contrasted with the furious look on Aegon’s. Abby’s eyes darted between them all, nervous and uncertain. “Come, cousin, nephew,” she said, all pretenses of High Valryian dropping as she took up the common tongue once more. The princess curtsied towards her parents, his grandfather waving her away negligently and the queen’s eyes darting over all of them. She did not speak the language of their family, but her eyes were narrowed, dancing between all of them.

Helaena led the way up the grand staircase, tugging at her gloves and smoothing her fingers over the leather. “You’ll be in Elinor’s Tower, named for poor Queen Elinor Costayne. All the towers were named for the women in Maegor’s life. Tyanna and Jeyne, Ceryse, Alys, Rhaena, and Visenya. I live in Rhaena’s tower, although one could say her true tower is at Harrenhal. She stayed there to live out the end of her days, her and Dreamfyre. You know, they almost gave the throne to her instead of grandfather Jaehaerys.”

“Is this a history lesson?” Baela asked, common on her tongue and shrugging away from Jace. Helaena did not respond, taking them left at the top of the stairs past one of the courtyards.

“I’m merely educating you on the history of your new home, cousin.” Helaena’s voice had not changed in timber, but there was something beneath it that Jace couldn’t identify. “We are family, after all. Our fathers are blood brothers, king and prince respectively, and you and I are of the blood.” She paused, abruptly spinning on her heel. “The same goes for Lady Abrogail. She will be a princess upon her marriage to Aegon, and she is one of ours. You will not speak to her in such a cruel way, nor shall you speak cruelly to my brothers, including Aemond. He’s already suffered enough at your hands. Both your hands” Her gaze flicked to Jace with the end of the statement, fire dancing in her lavender eyes, head held high. “It saddens me to see, Lady Baela, that you were not given an adequate understanding of our family, that we all share the blood of the dragon, or are under its protection, but I suppose everything washes away with the tide, and memories do not get to stay.”

Baela opened her mouth to speak, no doubt to spout some of Daemon’s Valyrian rhetoric to counter Helaena’s remarks. Jace felt his cheeks flush. “I apologize for my sister’s behavior-”

“Don’t you apologize for me-”

“I should’ve let Vhagar capsize the boat.”

Helaena and Baela both spoke at once and Jace grimaced.

Silence fell between the three of them, Baela caught between chastened and pride, prickling beneath the words. Helaena began to tug her gloves off one finger at a time. “Be that as it may, I did not, for it would have done nothing to change the predicament we all find ourselves in. So I shall say this.” Her gaze rose and with great effort, she met Baela’s eyes. “We are to get along as our sire, his grace, King Viserys, has implored us so vehemently. There will be arguments, and scraps, I’m sure, but the king is ill and the eyes of the realm are upon us over these coming months.”

“We are all Targaryens,” Jace picked up where she left off, and Helaena’s eyes met his, matching lavender shades. “We need to show the realm a united front, especially with grandfather so ill. We may do what we will behind closed doors, but we show nothing but unity. The house of the dragon must show strength.”

Helaena nodded, her gaze flickering away to her hands once more. “If you hurt Aemond again, I shall introduce you to my Chromatopelma Cyaneopubescens.” Her fingers danced as she made a claw, as if it were a spider. “She is shy so I do not handle her often. I’d love the opportunity for her to make new friends.” Helaena gestured with the same hand down another hall. “Down the hall and the staircase at the suits of Vale armor. I’m sure the maids and pages are making enough noise to find your rooms.”

Jace tore his eyes from his aunt with great effort, throwing a look at Baela as she opened her mouth once more to retort. His hand found her arm and he tugged her forward, glancing once more behind them as Helaena strode towards her own rooms.

Her hair looked like starlight.

Chapter Text

Jace wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“Your collar is fine,” Baela said, teeth clicking in the anxious way she had but would never admit to. She was every inch Velaryon and Targaryen both, the gown she wore in the Pentoshi style. Black silk skimmed her swarthy and sun freckled skin, a deep v cut down her chest, the gown held closed with deep red, braided clasps. A matching cape fell in the same black silk from her shoulders down to her knees, the three headed dragon woven across the midnight expanse in the same shade as the decoration on her dress. A silver necklace was her only jeweled adornment: a seahorse and a dragon entwined around her throat.

She reached up, tugging on the collar of his dual colored doublet for emphasis, the Velaryon seahorses stitched in contrasting reds and blacks ringing around his neck. His wild curls were braided back to the base of his neck, tied with black cord and the rest curling against his neck. His mother had thought to cut his hair before he left, but was proud of his hair, and called her jealous when she was stuck with pin straight hair woven into braids.

It felt wrong to wear the colors of his mother’s house, when she still held the Velaryon sigil on her coat of arms, when his name was still Velaryon and he would not become Targaryen until he ascended the throne.

‘Who am I fooling?’ Jace wondered to himself. ‘None here look at me and think Targaryen or Velaryon.’

“You’re doing it again,” his sister snapped, tugging him into an alcove in the hall. Jace’s cheeks flamed at the closeness, smelling the jasmine perfume she favored.

“Doing what?” A pitiful protest that she didn’t buy and her violet eyes narrowed. It was not so long ago she might have distracted him with wandering hands and mouths, two bored teenagers on a lonely rock in the middle of the sea with not much else to do. That time had long passed and Jace was sure that were she to touch him now, he would not come away unscathed.

“Thinking about those foolish things that ended on our parents’ graves,” Baela hissed at him. In the arms of their dual tragedies, in the glow and shadow in the great hall of Driftmark, his concerns should have been put to bed. Jace had said the words he knew would ignite his mother, unclear of the true consequences.

Both corpses had succumbed to the flame. Jace wondered if that was the doom in his dragonblood, for all whom he cared for fated to die screaming.

Jace tugged at his doublet again and let out a hissed, “Ow!” when Baela smacked his hands.

“You’re serving on his council. You should have been serving for years now had your mother not run from the fight.”

Jace drew back at the accusation towards his mother, a snarl in his voice. “You don’t know what she went through living here, you wouldn’t say that if you knew-”

“Then she should have had the king put a stop to it, had that kasto bratsiot dragged and fed to Syrax for her treason, sent her and her whelps back to the Maester’s hold. It’s what I would have done.” Baela turned and spat on the floor to illustrate her disgust. Jace clapped a hand over her mouth and with two strides, pushed her against the wall.

“Daor,” he hissed, continuing in Valyrian. “Do not speak about things you weren’t there for and that you don’t understand.” Her wide eyes stared back at him in surprise at his anger and Jace drew back, disliking his reaction but the anger bubbled beneath the surface, unrepentant. Baela had not witnessed the growing anxiety his mother faced during their years here. Baela had not witnessed his mother’s furtive tears after a family dinner, or the clench of her jaw as he heard whispers of cruel words thrown her way as they walked the halls to his lessons. His mother was happier on Dragonstone than he had seen her in this place. “What is done is done, there is no going back. Choices were made, and now I make my own. You make your own.”

“They’ll put your drunken uncle on the throne without your mother here,” she whispered and Jace was relieved that the odds of anyone overhearing them and understanding were next to none. He doubted any of the servants around the keep knew enough Valyrian to follow the whispered conversation.

“They’d try it if she were too. Of course they would,” Jace said with a shake of his head. “Anyone in Alicent Hightower’s position would.” It did not excuse the way his step grandmother had treated his mother, but Jace had seen enough snipping at court on Dragonstone to realize that this wasn’t just an exception.

Baela had nothing to say to that and Jace moved away until his back hit the wall. It was quiet between them until they heard a pair of footsteps and soft voices.

“That was foolish and you know it, Aemond,” Helaena’s voice drifted down the hall. Jace’s widened eyes met Baela’s own and together, they shrunk further back into the shadows of the alcove.

“I was simply having a bit of fun, showing them what a true Targaryen dragonrider looks like.” Aemond’s reply was light and jesting, but the bitterness in his words were unmistakable. “Had they come on their dragons, perhaps we could have had more fun.”

“You never used to be this reckless.”

“Well I also used to have two eyes and we all know how that went,” he snapped back and the footsteps stopped abruptly. His voice went softer. “I apologize, heltar gevie. I do not mean to take my frustrations out on you.”

Footsteps resumed, lighter ones, before the heavier footfalls followed. “Yes, you do,” Helaena said firmly. “You never apologize, and attempting to do so changes nothing.”

“I’m not trying to change anything, Helaena.”

Helaena’s voice was anxious. “You need to be more careful, valonqus. You are running down a path we cannot follow.” There was a soft sound, like the jangle of bracelets. “Please cease your baiting, if not for my sake, then for mother’s.”

Aemond made a low sound in the back of his throat and Jace held his breath as his uncle’s shoulder appeared in view. It was by the grace of whatever gods looked over him that his blind eye was to the alcove and so he could not see. He was clad all in black, his straight, silver hair falling just past his shoulders, pulled back from his face with three braids. Around the side, Jace saw Helaena’s smaller shadow cast across the ground.

His uncle continued down the hall towards the solar, leaving Helaena standing in the patch of torchlight. Her gown was pale blue, with shimmers of silver thread woven through the fabric in the shape of dragons. A wide, silver belt cinched about the waist and the two swathes of blue fabric covered her, but left bare an expanse of pale skin from her sternum to her collarbones. The gown had another silver clasp at each shoulder to keep the fabric in place and Jace’s eyes fixated on the dusky little moles dotted across the skin she revealed. Her curls hung free around her shoulders and down to her waist, a loose net of winking diamond and pearls covering her hair like a makeshift veil.

Starlight in the night.

She blinked and turned her head slightly and Jace swore that their eyes met. Lavender against lavender. Then, Helaena spun on her heel and followed her brother down the hallway.

“I do not wish to be here among all the dramatics,” Baela muttered as the pair of them followed a distance behind Helaena’s drifting blue form. Jace rolled his eyes.

“As if home is any better?” he said rhetorically. In some ways yes, in other ways, there was little escaping his mother and Daemon’s more passionate arguments that would carry across the castle. It got a chuckle from Baela, so Jace considered it a win.

The family dining hall was a small affair, dominated by a long, ornately carved trestle table that could comfortably seat twenty, but that night only needed space for eleven. He was relieved that they would not be sat all on top of one another. The king was getting settled in his chair at the left end of the table, Lord Otto Hightower at his left hand.

Across at the other end stood the queen, resplendent in a gown so dark a green it was nearly black, save for the shimmer of it in the candlelight, the bodice clinging to her from neck to wrist. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a low bun and upon her head sat a silver dragon diadem, its wings spread out on either side and a pear shaped ruby made up the body of it.

Her brother, Ser Gwayne, was a head taller than his sister, with sharp cheekbones like Aemond’s, and large, dark brown eyes with a smirk that reminded him of Daemon. He was surprised to see the shock of blonde hair upon the man’s head. It was darker than the Targaryen silver, a slightly lighter shade than his father.

Jace felt the gaze of all three Hightowers flick in his direction and he kept his shoulders straight, his head held high, and a genial smile on his face. “I do hope we aren’t late,” he said with a laugh, leading the way into the dragon’s den.

If he was a dragon, so were his uncles and aunt. They were all blood of the dragon, regardless of those who tried to mold them differently, or tried to claim him and his siblings as lesser.

“Only late if I declare it so, and you are the guest of honor, my boy,” the king laughed, raising his goblet to be filled. “Come, sit, let us drink and be merry this evening.”

Jace took his place at his grandfather’s right hand, doing his best to ignore the dual stares of Otto Hightower across from him and Aemond’s wrathful, violet gaze from his seat beside his grandsire. Baela took her place beside him, and next to her, Helaena slid into her seat, speaking to Aegon on her right about her mantis. Daeron was at the end, chirping excitedly to his mother. To the Queen’s right sat Ser Gwayne, and in the chair between him and Aemond, sat Abrogail. Stiff and silent, Jace hadn’t even noticed her when he came in. Her blue eyes were large in her round face, her gown cut across the shoulders, deep blue fabric with a shimmering, dark green pattern that made it look like her dress was made of river water. The slashes in her tight sleeves revealed the deep red gown beneath, and her hair was held back in a braided crown woven with pearls, the rest falling down her back like a river of red.

Her gaze rose, large and blue rimmed with kohl, and she nodded to him in greeting. Jace returned it, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. He had always gotten along with Abrogail, even when he was often pitted against Aegon in terms of “rescuing” her in their childhood games. There was always a degree of separation between them that he hadn’t really thought of, but when he watched the way she cocked her head as Luke did, and the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled at something Daeron had said, he felt the understanding of why that he hadn’t as a boy. He had never registered the physical similarities, so focused on dark hair and pug noses as everyone had been in his eyes.

Jace let out a long breath and pulled Baela’s chair out for her, which she took with sweeping grace. Despite the earlier tension, she nodded to Helaena. “You look lovely tonight. The shade of blue suits you well, cousin.” It seemed that Helaena’s threats had earned Baela’s hard won respect, for her tone lacked the feral edge of taunt, of laying a trap, that it held with those that she did not care for.

“Thank you, Princess,” Helaena returned and then, far more softly, Jace barely heard her say, “You breasts look fantastic.”

Baela’s face twisted in a bark of laughter, choking into the goblet of wine she had just lifted to her mouth, and Jace caught Helaena’s innocent grin on her pleasant features, her own shoulders twisting and Jace quickly glanced away, grateful to see Lord Otto softly conversing with the king.

“My good-brother, Lord Rodrik, and Lord Jason Lannister will be attending council on the morrow to discuss issues with the Ironborn. It appears their summer raids have continued longer than anticipated. If it weren’t for the celebrations, Lord Jason would have stayed to defend the coast.”

The king hummed.

“A prayer before we begin?” Alicent’s usually sharp voice was soft yet guiding, echoing from the other end of the table and the conversations quieted. Hands were joined around the table and Jace did his best to suppress the shiver when he took his grandfather’s fragile hand.

Baela’s brow furrowed at Jace, sending him a silent, confused look as they joined hands and he gave a slight shrug. His step-grandmother had always been a woman of faith, that he knew, and so prayer at mealtimes was not unheard of, but not a practice on Dragonstone, or it seemed, on Driftmark. Most certainly not under Daemon’s eye.

“Mother, we thank you for the health and well being of our family as we come together for the first time in many years to break bread.” Jace chanced a glance sidelong at his grandsire, whose eyes were closed in prayer, and a flick across the table to Lord Otto, whose head was bowed as the penitent words flowed. Even Aemond sat there, head bowed. “May the Smith help us mend and forge new bonds that have been fractured. May the Warrior give strength to our king. May the Father smile down upon our coming celebrations.”

“Thank you, your grace, for those words,” Jace forced out with a smile and an incline of his head. He would not give Alicent Hightower a reason to throw cruel words at him, or find something wanting in his presentation. He was his mother’s heir, third in line, and no words of spoiled blood or pug noses would take hold on him like a barnacle to a hull.

Alicent watched him for a long moment, mouth pressed into an uncertain expression before easing slightly. “Thank you, Jacaerys.”

The doors to the back of the room opened, tucked in an alcove with a tapestry pulled aside and the servants entered, clad in simple white and red garb. The minstrels took their place near the door to the room and struck up a gentle tune. The first course brought out was a salad of sweet and bitter greens with candied almonds and a steaming broth full of root vegetables, with warm loaves of fresh bread stuffed full of saffron and currants. The table was awkwardly quiet at first, the dominant conversation being Daeron’s excited chatter as he spoke about the trip from Oldtown.

“They cheered for us!” Daeron exclaimed. “Tessarion flew across Highgarden and everyone cheered to see us. And I got to see Garmund - he’s a page for Lord Tyrell now, and they left a few days after us. We took the Mander up and I saw Lord Fossoway at Cider Hall, and then Bitterbridge and we got off at Tumbleton and Aemond! We saw Vhagar! She was flying over the Kingswood. ‘Twas brilliant! She scared half the guards with us, since the only dragon they’d ever seen was Tessarion.”

The exuberance of his younger brother brought a hint of a smile across Aemond’s scowling face, and his violet gaze shifted from where he watched Jace and Baela to look down the table, leaning closer towards Abrogail who was smiling indulgently as she soaked her bread in the soup.

“Did you? She quite enjoys it out there, and roosts in the cliffs. Perhaps she thought Tessarion was a screeching swan.” Helaena giggled and Daeron sputtered in indignation at the tease.

Even Otto Hightower looked amused, a strange fondness in his expression while the king was content to enjoy his course, humming occasionally and giving a hint of a smile before drawing Lord Otto into conversation about the Westerlands and the Ironborn.

It struck him as odd. Had he not missed Daeron? Was he not interested in the journey from one coast of their land to the other? And all the boy had seen? Daeron was talking about the small villages along the Mander, and how Ser Gwayne had explained the river villages were similar to those of the Riverlands themselves.

“The Mander comes from some spring deep in the mountains around Tumbleton,” Abrogail explained. “Were it not so, it might be possible to dig a canal to connect the Mander to Blackwater Rush. Wouldn’t it be extraordinary to travel by boat from Oldtown all the way to Harrentown?”

The empty bowls were in the process of being taken away and replaced with trenchers of broiled pork, the scents of arbor red and ginger wafting from the crackled fat. Individual meat pies arrived, stuffed full of beef and cloves, cinnamon and carrots that Baela beside him dug in with gusto. There was no fish, thankfully, for Jace was tired of fish.

“Can you imagine the amount of pleasure barges that would come out of such an endeavor?” Ser Gwayne laughed. “See the sights of the Mander to the desolation of Harrenhal.”

“Harrenhal is not desolate,” Abrogail said, teeth catching on her lower lip as if she could not believe the words came out of her. “Our family has worked tirelessly since it was so graciously gifted to us by his Grace’s grandfather to uphold Princess Rhaena’s care for it.”

“Abby is more interested in aqueducts and cisterns for now,” Aegon said, drawing Jace’s attention to the first words his uncle had spoken all through dinner. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that the pair of them matched - the only difference in their clothing was Jace’s doublet was black on the left side, and Aegon’s was black on the right side. Outside of the accidental coordinating outfits, Jace’s eyes darted back to Abrogail’s. Her cheeks were flushed.

“I’ve been meaning to study the plans for Queen Alysanne’s cistern network,” Jace blurted out before he thought too much on whether or not it was a good idea to do so. He ignored the way Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent’s gazes swiveled to him.

“They’re quite fascinating,” his aunt, no, his soon to be aunt, said softly, but there was a hopeful look in her gaze. “Aemond and I looked over them while I was working on my plans for Harrenhal.”

Aemond’s violet gaze was boring into him. Jace focused on Abrogail beside him. “I’d love to see them when you have time after all the festivities.”

She smiled then, cheeks dimpling in the way Joffrey’s did, and it made Jace’s heart ache with a sensation of loss, of things that could have been. “I would enjoy that very much. Perhaps we should include Ser Gwayne in the review, so he may be reassured he’s not being sent away to a desolate ruin.” Gwayne winked at her and Jace caught the way Aegon tapped his ringed fingers against his own goblet, watching the interaction at play before him with a scowl.

“Uncle Gwayne and Daeron will accompany Aegon and Abby to Harrenhal,” Helaena explained to Baela, who barely spoke over the course of the meal and instead was watching their family with slightly narrowed and suspicious eyes. “So it’ll be the four of us here.”

“Such fun, won’t it be, nephew,” Aemond said, droll with a smirk cut across his mouth as he drank from his goblet.

Jace met the smirk with his own smile. “Of course it will, Uncle. Just like we were boys in the training yard. I look forward to testing our mettle with one another. I have fond memories of such things, and grandfather enjoyed himself, didn’t he? What was it, grandfather? We push one another down, pull each other up?”

“Hear hear!” the king agreed with a jovial laugh, rasping and amused. “We’ll throw a proper tourney for your nameday, eh?” He reached out to pat Jace’s hand and Aemond’s own fingers clenched around his goblet.

“Well, Jace’s nameday has already passed along with Aemond’s,” came Helaena’s soft voice. “But mine is next and I think I should like a beehive of my very own. Perhaps I could take the ones over in Rhaenys’ garden? By grandfather’s tower.” She cocked her head. “The apis mellifera are quite fascinating creatures, you know. Why, I read an account that explained that after the drone impregnates the queen, their genitals are ripped out and explode, having fulfilled their purpose.” Helaena hummed, thoughtful. “Truly, it is quite common in the animal kingdom for the male of the species to be subservient to the female. Perhaps I could interest you in exploring this endeavor with me, Baela? Since Jace and Aemond will be too busy hitting one another with long sticks in the yard.”

Escaping her brother’s apartments to the gardens could not have happened sooner. Two days before, the Westerlands party had arrived.

Jason Lannister made his entrance with all the pomp and circumstance the Warden of the West commanded, and was accompanied by her grandfather, Lord Rodrick Reyne of Castamere, and her half-sister in tow.

Corynna Strong had married the third Lannister, Erwin, when Abby was still a little girl. She had not seen her sister in years, not since their father and Harwin had passed. Cory had insisted on taking her to the Westerlands, to Casterly Rock and away from everything she had known and loved, all for some excuse that ‘Abrogail needs a mother now and she should be with her kin.’ Abby had sobbed into Queen Alicent’s lap, beseeching her cousin to let her stay. The memories of Alicent holding her much as she had done when Abby was small and her mother was ill, the kindness that had become fleeting within Alicent Hightower had come, continued to feel confusing in light of her recent treatment.

‘Do not cry, dear, sweet girl. You will stay here, with us. I will care for you.’

Cory had returned to Casterly Rock as there was no way to reject the Queen’s declaration, more annoyed, Abby thought, with the lack of control over someone else than any real upset. She’d given birth not long after to her first child, and it was all for the best, it seemed.

With very little of an actual relationship, it seemed Cory was making up for lost time, diving into a series of criticisms and demands at what Abby should be doing. Pinching at her upper arms and hips, clucking her tongue and commenting how she looked sickly, brows arched in disapproval at the new gowns, ready to demand new ones made until Abby found her frozen voice and said that the queen herself had approved them.

She released a long, shuddering breath and took in the air of the garden and the scent of the hydrangeas that surrounded that particular part of the path.

“There is nothing wrong with my dress,” she muttered to herself. Her underdress was a dark, oxblood red linen, black lacing along her forearms. The loose surcoat fell around her, dark blue and green damask edged in black instead of her usual silver. Her hair was unkempt, loose and wild around her shoulders, twisting down to just past her waist like an urchin.

Another sigh and she smoothed her hands over the front of her dress and turned to go back inside only to run face first into Ser Edmund Vance’s chest.

His warm hands grasped her by the arms, laughter low and vibrating through him. “Easy there, Lady Abrogail,” he said, and she felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Whatever are you running from?”

“Ru-running?” she stuttered in confusion, and drew herself away from the warmth of the older man and his refreshing care and kindness. “Oh, it’s all so much inside. I came looking for some fresh air, really.” Abby swallowed and cleared her throat. “Have you too come to take a turn about the gardens? We could walk together.”

Edmund gazed down at her, head cocked as if she were something amusing and he reached up to tenderly tuck some of her wild hair behind her ear. His finger gently traced the shell of it and Abby was helpless to hold back the shiver that snaked pleasantly down her spine. His light brown hair gleamed golden in the sunlight, every inch as valiant and noble as Ser Gwayne Hightower, every inch as handsome.

And he seemed interested in her.

Nothing could come of that. She was betrothed after all. But it wasn’t as if it was all official quite yet; only rumor and talk and they could very well declare that he’d marry Cassandra Baratheon at the feast instead of her.

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and they headed down the terrace into the garden maze of flowering bushes. It was just them, it seemed, and Abby’s belly fluttered at the daring impropriety of it all.

‘If Aegon can gallivant into brothels after making hollow promises, I can enjoy the companionship of a handsome man.’ Besides, it wasn’t as if Abby was planning to sleep with him.

“Abrogail is not a name I’ve heard before,” Edmund chuckled as they walked together through the gardens.

Abby shook her head, a bright smile crossing her face. The truth of it was something that made her feel close to her athair, the love in the name more than enough to make up for strange looks. “No, my father found it in a book during his studies at the Citadel. Abrogail was the name of a Shadowbinder of the supposed founding of Asshai. It’s said that after raising the city, she retreated to Stygai, the City of Ash, where she has ruled in the dark for a thousand years, with her corpses and dragons.” A laugh escaped her. “He always liked the name, and was quite content that I had no desire to flee to Asshai to learn blood magic.” Edmund’s face was the picture of surprise and disbelief, and his laughter joined hers, warm and hearty.

“You? Named for a demon witch from Asshai? I never would have thought it,” Edmund said with a shake of the head. “You are as far from such a beastly creature as they come.”

“Why thank you, Ser Edmund. I am reassured to know that my schemes to bind all of Westeros through blood sacrifice and fire are still hidden.”

Their eyes met and Ser Edmund let out a laugh. The sound was lower than before, though no less warm, and it settled in Abby’s belly, the feeling now familiar from all the times that Aegon had roused it to the surface in her. He looked down at her, his hazel eyes hooded and Abby felt herself freeze. She knew that look now, she knew what it predated, and yet she did not move away, she did not raise her hands to stop him. Instead she bit her lower lip, worrying at the flesh there. Edmund raised a hand, his thumb gently swiping at her mouth.

“That is too sweet a mouth to destroy so, my lady,” he murmured.

‘When had he stood so close?’ Abby wondered, for there were only a scant few inches between them now.

“I’m sorry,” she said, eyes downcast, the familiar words falling from her lips though she knew that she had no reason to apologize to the man before her. She owed him nothing. Yet her feet stayed firmly planted where they were.

Edmund’s thumb and forefinger found her chin, tilting her face up toward his. He smiled at her then, a slow, easy expression, and something fluttered to life in her belly, though she was not sure if it was desire or anxiety. Time seemed to still and Abby opened her mouth to make some excuse, to pull away, to head back inside to deal with her frustrating sister. But then Edmund’s lips were on hers, a soft weight that silenced her.

‘He is so warm.’ That was her first thought as his hand cradled the soft curve of her jaw. He deepened the kiss then, a swipe of his tongue against her own. It was so different from how Aegon had kissed her. There was no battle for dominance that she was expected to lose, no licking flame of the desire that had built and built for years now. It was a nice kiss, she supposed, and Edmund was a nice man. For a moment she leaned into him, tasting him, allowing him to guide her face just where he wanted it, allowing him to lead.

The confusing feeling in her belly grew and she knew it now for what it was - a distinct sense of wrongness. For all that Aegon was, and for all that he was not, he was hers. Edmund was not, would never be.

She pulled away, ever so slightly, tilting her face back toward the ground as the heat built in her cheeks.

“Come now, Abrogail, demon queen of Asshai,” he whispered. The sound of his voice was rough, like water over the stones of the river, and it tugged at something in her, something she had only so recently discovered. He leaned in once again, this time crowding her against the wall, his mouth on hers. Her hands found his chest, fingers curling into his doublet, just as the cold stone of the wall seeped through her gown, shocking a gasp from her. “I knew you didn’t find me so terrible.” The edge of laughter in his voice should have calmed her. Instead discomfort skittered uncomfortably over her skin.

‘He doesn’t taste right,’ she thought, and as quickly as the thought came, Abby pushed it stubbornly away. Then, just as quickly, she realized he had not used her proper title. The intimacy of it doubled the uncertainty she felt and her struggling attempts to figure out how to release herself from it.

“Should I think you so terrible, Ser Edmund?” she asked him. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed herself on her toes to kiss him, to ignore the discomfort that she was feeling and tell herself that this was more than fine. Helaena had kissed other boys than just Aemond or Warren Fossoway. She had overheard Cassandra Baratheon whispering about stolen kisses behind tapestries and in alcoves with some lord. She too should get her share of kisses. Even when they didn’t make her ache low in her belly, it still stroked at the shivery bit that made her want.

Even if the kiss was only nice, even if he pressed his body against her more and stroked the heat of his palm against the curve of her waist, slipping beneath the fabric of her surcoat to bunch at the linen at the base of her spine.

A sound of protest tore from Abby and she pushed at Ser Edmund’s chest, but he did not move. He seemed to take her sound for one of desire and dropped his hand from her jaw to the curve of her breast. The discomfort and warring desire flared hot and instinct drove her. She lifted her hand and clawed her fingers across the side of the knight’s neck, unable to get her knee up or hope to push him away, to do what Harwin had taught her.

To do all the things she didn’t need to when it came to Aegon.

It was Edmund’s turn to hiss, and he drew back with a startled look. The hand that had been on her breast reached up to clap against his neck and she could see the lines of crimson her nails left in their wake.

“Unhand me,” she snapped, cursing the tremble in her voice, and shoved at his chest, trying to get his arm out from under her gown.

“Are you trying to live up to the moniker, Abrogail?” He asked in amused confusion, looking at the red on his fingertips.

“Lady Abrogail, Ser Edmund,” she forced out. Her hands were trembling and she shoved him back again now that there was some space between them. He faltered back a few steps, and Abby tried not to think that he’d done it to make her feel better, not because there was actual strength behind it, and the thought of it was almost enough to have her claw across his handsome laughing face. “You overstep with your familiarity.”

“Have I? Was it not you who kissed me just now?” He tilted his head, regarding her like a child. “How can one overstep when one has been invited.” It wasn’t a question, and Abby’s cheeks burned at the truth in his statement.

“I-I did not invite you to touch me that way, ser.” Her fingers curled against her belly but she forced them down into fists at her side, refusing to let him see how desperately she wanted to protect herself. “And you did not move when-”

“Many women give such protestations, Abrogail-”

“Lady Abrogail, ser.”

A smirk played across his handsome face, another shake of his head, and the condescension she felt from him reminded her of the same that she felt from the queen. She felt trapped and confused at the idea that these people thought her a little girl, a naive child, yet put her in these positions and expected something more of her.

The way she had expected more from Aegon.

‘You put yourself into them’, said a voice that sounded suspiciously like her brother, Larys, curled unpleasantly in her mind.

“If you’re trying to insinuate that ladies do not play at the occasional dalliance within the gardens and in the shadows of a keep, Lady Abrogail, then you have much to learn.” He reached up to try to brush her hair from her face once more and she snarled at him, reaching up to claw at the back of his hand, this time like a feral cat. She gripped his hand, nails cutting into the skin, and tore quickly.

“Leave marks,” Harwin had told her, cupping her face in his hands with the most serious look she’d ever seen. “Should someone hurt you, you tear at them like the pikes in the Red Fork in a feeding frenzy, so none could ever have cause to doubt you.”

She wanted Harwin then, to stand between her and this awful man who had come to her in friendship and kindness.

Yet, Harwin was dead and she was alone.

“I do not wish to learn anything from you, ser, if you only wish to speak down at me so.” Her voice did not tremble this time and her fists clenched in her skirt, ignoring the shine of red beneath her nails.

“Oh, but I’m sure the drunken princeling they mean to shove into our lands is an eager teacher, hm?” He chuckled at whatever look must have been on her face. “Your father was one of the smartest men in the realm, and they say you are clever as well. Do not tell me you are distracted by the gold and the titles.” He advanced and she retreated, her back hitting the wall once more, but she would not shrink against it. “If the Targaryens mean to exercise power in our realm, they will be in for a rude awakening. You, my lady, need people on your side and I am happy to be your stalwart advocate.” His voice lowered. “Your shield. Your teacher. Your-”

“Prince Aegon is my betrothed. He is my shield, my defender, and I am his. Do not mistake the colors of my bridal cloak for the loss of my family name and my loyalty to the rivers. I am Lady Strong, and my children will be raised in our way, blood of the dragon or not. If you dare to insinuate that my marriage has compromised the honor of House Strong, or our standing, I shall make it known of your dishonor towards me, which is now considered treason, in case you’ve forgotten. And if you try to touch me again, I will tell Aegon, and he will have you dragged by the hair to feed Sunfyre. He is my shield, and he shall defend me. Not you.”

Her trembling increased and Abby clutched her skirts, giving the knight nothing more than a sidelong glance as she darted around him, the dismissal she gave chafing at the manners and propriety that had been etched into her bones, even after what he had done, the words he had thrown at her.

She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to run from this. A sob tore from her throat and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth before spitting the lingering taste on the ground, as if it were enough to rid the memory.

The crescent of red beneath her fingernails made her skin crawl and she hiccuped a small, frightened sound as she burst into the Godswood.

Aegon was standing there beneath the great heart tree. He faced the carved, weeping face, his head tilted back, eyes closed as if in prayer.

She turned abruptly in hopes of avoiding him, avoiding his questions and his angry eyes, and her skirt caught between her legs and under her shoe, sending her to the ground where her hands scraped against the pavestones. She let out a pained cry before she could stop it, all hopes of being gone before he noticed her dashed as she was.

“Abby?”

“Please not now,” she whispered, wincing at the bloody scrapes on the heels of her palms. Her prayer was not powerful enough because Aegon was there beside her, his hands reaching out before he stopped himself. Aegon’s fingertips only just brushed her hand and he gazed at her. His silver hair fell into his eyes, lilac clear for once.

He had freckles over his nose and across his cheeks. She loved those freckles.

“Let me see,” he said softly. “Please?”

Abby couldn’t breathe. Her throat was choked up and she shut her eyes, hot tears rolling down her cheeks and with a nod, she held out her scraped palms to him for inspection. “I’m sorry,” she whispered instinctively.

“Why?” He asked just as softly. He pulled a handkerchief from the inside of his jerkin. He paused in the motion, brow furrowing as he realized that a dry handkerchief wouldn’t do much good. She shook her head and spat on the heels of her palms.

“There,” she sniffled. Aegon snorted and began dabbing the dirt off the scrapes.

“Clever girl.”

“I try.”

“Why are you sorry?”

Abby blinked through her tears. “What?”

“You said you were sorry. I was asking you why.” Aegon’s thumb stroked along the lifeline of her left palm in a soothing manner. There was a gentleness in him that eased the lonely fear she felt. “Unless you were apologizing for falling. Then perhaps your skirts should apologize to you.” His eyes widened, lips pressed together comically, and he shrugged.

Abby’s teeth scraped over her lower lip but it did little to disguise the twitch of her smile. “Mayhaps-” her words were cut off by the hiss of pain. It was fleeting and he shushed her softly.

“I’m sorry.” His thumb pressed gently into the center of her palm and his eyes hidden by the fall of his hair.

“Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitched and Aegon met her gaze. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Pink bloomed in the round of his cheeks and he leaned forward to press his forehead against hers. Abby released a long breath that she felt like she’d been holding for weeks. Mayhaps she had. Or perhaps it was only in the past minutes since she’d woken that morning. Since…

“I…” He breathed in her exhale and Abby was transported to the meadow in the Kingswood where everything in her begged to soothe him and tell him it was okay. Then, she held back. Here, she held back too. “I didn’t see you. I thought I did, but I wasn’t.”

Her eyes flooded with tears at his words. Aegon was not one to apologize, but since this betrothal, he had done so twice already. She knew he had meant them before, but little had changed. In the simplicity of the words that spilled from him now were different. Quiet. Vulnerable.

Truth.

Three times for a wish. Three times to make it real.

Aegon’s hand cupped her left cheek and his thumb brushed her tears away, but they were replaced with more. “I saw… Cole says every girl is the Maiden, every woman the Mother,” he whispered with his voice cracking. “My mother who has rejected me with more fervor while she clings to me for this mad future, and how she clings to her Seven as if it will make it better and yet none of them were what I needed. It was you. It was always you standing there when I had nowhere else to turn. You, who had always been there with open arms to accept me. How could I see you as anything but holy? How could I not see you as the Maiden come down to me, as if I was as worthy as Galladon of Morne for your affections. How could I not cling to you when my mother and her gods turned their backs to me. To face the idea that I was losing your acceptance when I didn’t know what I had done was too much. It was too much like everything else. Gone was the safe harbor in you, because I was so foolish as to not see the true you, only what my mother and Cole had told me you should be.” Tears shone in his lilac eyes and rolled down his cheeks as her own did. “I was blind to truths, no better than my father. I punished you for it. It’s unforgivable, to treat you so, when I’ve always wanted… I do not know.”

The prince was not prone to rambling. He was not one for a slew of words and speeches and declarations in this sort of way. While not as reticent as Aemond could be, to hear Aegon present this all to her was a surprise. He was breathless at the end of it with lilac eyes wide and focused on her and Abby’s heart clenched hard in her chest. The idea that this was something he’d tumbled over and over with himself and was looking for the opportunity to tell her took her by surprise and overcame the fear and the nerves that threatened to drown her.

Abby leaned into his touch, wet mouth dragging against the skin of his hand. Words were wind. Words did not matter coming from her right now. She knew that she had her own apologies to make, but the lack of rehearsal in Aegon's words, the way he compared himself to the man he hated most, tore at the gentle parts of her and robbed her of her own declarations, as if Aegon had borrowed them to give himself strength. Her tears came faster and Abby drew back when Aegon shifted.

"You do not ne-need to know, just hearing you…” Her breath hitched as she tried to find something to say that felt worthy, but he silenced her when he reached down to scoop her into his arms. Her lips parted and she tried to speak, but being held close like this, surrounded by the warmth of him instead of the cold ground, or being crowded against a cold stone wall by someone she did not truly want, had her falling silent. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck as he headed up the gentle incline and carefully sat them down among the twisting roots of the weirwood tree.

How often had the two of them sat here beneath the bone white boughs, sharing marchpane and honey cakes? How often she was talked into reading him tomes assigned by the maester for his studies?

He said nothing as they sat, only held her in his lap and pressed his warm lips to her forehead before tucking her head beneath his chin. Abby lifted a hand to fist into his black shirt sleeve and for the first time since the death of her family, she let herself lean into him for the warmth and reassurance that had been absent from her life for so long. The culmination of everything that had come before, everything happening now, threatened to drown her. She pressed her face further into his neck, her sobs soft against his skin, and his arms tightened around her.

Abby had seen Aegon at low and weak moments. He had wept in her lap and into her hair numerous times over the years.

Now Aegon had found her fallen, and like she had done so often for him, he lifted her up.

Aegon’s tears wet her hair and her own soaked into the collar of his shirt. Abby imagined herself sinking into him, slipping into all the gaps and spaces of his body and nestling in there where it was warm and quiet, where they could be alone together away from everything else.

“I’m sorry for what I said that night,” she whispered against his throat, her nose stuffed from her crying and voice thick and raw. “I expected something different from you, something I never asked for, and that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat and Aegon’s arms tightened around her, his fingers stroking her hair.

“You are rather terrible at asking for things,” he said in his own low voice. Abby let out an indelicate snort, sputtering at the gentle tease. She vividly recalled the last time he ordered her to tell him of her desires, and her cheeks flushed deeper than they already were. How she craved it, how she wanted more.

She shifted against him so her fingers could fidget with the buttons on his shirt, needing something to distract her hands with. “I suppose I need to practice then.” A swallow and a sigh. Aegon huffed a chuckle and his breath sent her hair fluttering. His hand was warm when it took hers and she felt him run his thumb against the back of her hand.

Then Aegon went still, and Abby swallowed. There was no resistance when he lifted her hand and there was no hiding the red crescents beneath her usually well kept nails, and the streaks of crimson on her fingertips he hadn’t seemed to notice before.

Fair enough. Aegon often missed the details.

“What’s this?” he asked in that low tone, the one that vibrated through his chest and into her very bones. “Abby?”

Cold swept through her veins and a terrible knot of anxiety twisted tight in her belly. Shame followed quickly after the cold, a red hot sensation that burned along her neck and stung at the corners of her eyes, painful in her cheeks. It was one thing for men to engage in such things. It was another for women, let alone someone betrothed to the prince of the realm. She could still feel the vicious smack of the queen’s palm against her face, the cold and remote look in the woman’s large eyes as they tore her apart.

She had been given a duty as Aegon’s betrothed, and it was to fix him. It wasn’t to love him. It wasn’t to be intimate and passionate with him. How ugly the thought was. How cruel it was to think they had betrothed them, while thinking that she could not love the wreck that was Aegon, that she cared for in spite of his faults and flaws. How could she do anything but love him?

Helaena had her share of stolen kisses. Many of the ladies of court had. Why should she be any different? Aegon certainly was no chaste, virtuous son. He would come to their marriage bed well practiced.

Abby’s mouth was dry and she swallowed harshly. Nerves were night moths fluttering wildly in her belly. “I…” Another clearing of her throat, and Abby lifted her gaze to meet his. “Ser Edmund tried to take more than what I had allowed. It seems chivalry was not part of his knight’s vows.”

Silence grew between them while Aegon studied her face and she felt bare before him. There was no hiding behind her hair even as she half tried to. There was no disguising the flush of her skin and the trembling of her mouth. She wanted to beg him not to be angry at her, that she didn’t intend to make the knight think he was owed more, but Abby kept her mouth shut. She had kissed him just as he kissed her and it had been her choice to do it.

Aegon studied her face with her hand clutched tight in his, thumb pressed into the center of her palm. She didn’t look away. She would not look away, no matter what kind of shame she felt. Defenses pushed at her throat. Little hedges like ‘I promise I didn’t encourage him’ were tempting, but she swallowed them down as she tried to swallow the shame she felt and the anger at how the man had behaved.

Slowly, Aegon shifted the arm that curled around her so he could lift his hand to cradle the back of her head, his fingers in her hair. The touch sent a shiver down her spine and chased away the heated curl of shame with the intimacy of it. His thumb stroked against her palm and he gave a slow nod.

“I suppose with how I’ve treated you, it’s the least you could have done for yourself, hunītsos.” The use of the endearment took her by surprise, and she met his gaze, the pupils blown wide with a simmering anger. “But if this is from protecting yourself, I’ll bring you his hands should you wish.”

Her laugh was short and shocked, tearful as it was relieved and she curled her fingers around his. “I do not need his hands. He walked away wounded in both body and pride after I told him that you would have him drug by the hair to feed to Sunfyre. Though I would hate for our poor boy to be fed such a meal.”

Aegon stared at her in ill disguised surprise at what she said. She couldn’t tell what was going on through his mind. Was he upset with her? Did he think she asked for it? That she had led him on how he had accused her of?

“You, my fierce Abrogail,” he finally said, hand still cradling her head and his other came up to trace a knuckle along the softness of her cheek, “were brilliant. You hide your claws and fangs so well, but they are sharp to be sure.” Aegon’s cheeks were lightly flushed, lilac eyes dancing with a tumult of emotions she could not untangle. But she knew his anger lay not with her. “Our poor boy?”

Abby scrunched her face up shyly. “Sunfyre likes me and I like him. You have to share him.”

“I have to?”

“You must.”

Aegon rolled his eyes and nudged his nose against hers. “I mean it truly. I do not enjoy the idea of someone else kissing you, but it pales to the treatment after. I would not have you hurt and afraid. I know how men can be.” He faltered then but Abby could fill in the details. She understood that Aegon had been that sort of man. ‘Was he still that sort of man?’ she wondered.

“Were you aware he’d gotten a child on one of my maids barely a moon ago? He did. I gave the girl moon tea and money for her to go back home to her family and find a new position, since she was clearly incapable of refuting my son’s advances. Very much like you seem incapable of refuting him.”

Her voice was a quiet breath and she pressed against his chest. “Would… if you kissed me and I didn’t want it, or if you touched me and I didn’t want it, even if maybe I seemed like I did, o-or I had changed my mind. Even when you’re my husband and you have your rights. I know you have your rights and my duty and-”

“I would stop,” he cut in. Aegon’s voice was firm, and she knew that he meant it. “I never want to look at you and see fear in your eyes. Fear that I put there. I will take anger, I will take pity and sadness, but I could not...” His voice had started strong, but as he went along, it wavered, thick with emotion until he fell quiet with a shake of his head. “When you looked at me that night of the feast, the words that you said-”

“I should not have-”

“Stop,” he commanded, not harshly, but firm. “I need to say this. When you said those things, the idea of you seeing me as something sick and broken, I could not abide it. I could not breathe. If you saw me as a monster, as something not worth your touch, then there was nothing else for me.” Aegon tilted back, putting space between them, his head thumping gently against the tree, and he turned his gaze to the gentle whisper of the blood red leaves above them. “I was harsh with you in my pain. You caused me hurt and I wanted to throw it back tenfold. Why should I try, if I upset you so? If you no longer leaned into my touch, for the little time I had it? I… fuck.”

Aegon would not look at her, and Abby felt a knot of worry in her chest, the cold and hot feeling twisting through her. His hands had fallen away from her as Aegon drew in on himself, but she did not pull away from him, did not reject him, and he did not shove her away. “We didn’t make promises,” she whispered.

“We did. You asked me to only ever touch you that way.” He pulled his fingers through his hair, tugging on the silver strands as he took a deep breath. “I… took the Lefford girl into my bed.”

Marla Lefford, Lord Loras Lefford’s younger sister who had arrived with the Riverlands party. A pretty maid around her age, with pin straight brown hair and bright green eyes. She’d been nice, if a little flighty, when they had met.

Abby felt a rush of jealousy but swallowed it down, letting it burn all the way to her gut, a new sort of pain. A nod. “Were you kind to her?”

He might have snorted a sad sort of laugh, but there was no effort in it. Honesty was the order of the day and he shrugged. “I wasn’t unkind. I wasn’t the first one there, but I think she expected more. More care, perhaps. More enthusiasm, certainly.” He swallowed audibly and looked up at her. “I’ve been… engaging with Cassandra Baratheon. I didn’t take her to bed. I wouldn’t.”

The memory of Cassandra Baratheon speaking of stolen moments in alcoves and behind tapestries came in stark clarity and she felt a coil of heat and sick. She’d listened to her and never realized that it was Aegon she’d been referencing.

“Why not?” She didn’t want to know, but the words escaped her before she could lock them away. The jealousy burned hotter as she thought of Cassandra Baratheon and her womanly secrets, her sharp laugh and the tossing of her hair. How beautiful and worldly she was. How stormy and clever she was. How so obviously not Abby.

She was the better match for Aegon in the long run. Cassandra Baratheon was the heir to the Stormlands as it stood right now.

But Cassandra Baratheon did not grow up at Alicent Hightower’s knee. Cassandra Baratheon would not be a tool sought to control Aegon by his mother through her. Perhaps that was what made him want her. Abby thought she would choke on the notion.

“If I took her to bed, I knew she’d hurt you with it,” he said softly. “For whatever that is worth, I didn’t want to hurt you in that way. Whatever was happening was between us, I would not put you in her sights with my foolish choices.”

“She’s coming to Harrenhal with us,” Abby said in the same quiet voice.

Aegon clucked his tongue, a helpless look. “I have been known to, as you say, not think things through.” He looked at her then, helpless and nervous, tentative and hopeful. Brave, in the way he so rarely exhibited. “We do not have to bring her to Harrenhal. If you do not want her there, then she won’t be there.”

Her eyes rounded in surprise at the decision placed in her hands. She held it, unsure of what to do. Courtesy, propriety, the swallowing of unpleasant emotions, all of it compelled her to answer that she would put the matter behind her and allow Cassandra to come with them, so as not to offend the fickle Lord Borros. It would be the right thing to do. The forgiving thing to do.

The Seven preached such forgiveness.

Septa Lyserra taught those virtues, yet the woman had pulled her from Aegon’s arms, torn the ring forcefully from hair where it had gotten caught, sought to punish and inflict pain for something that Abby did not find wrong, did not think she had anything to be sorry for. That was not kindness. That wasn’t gentleness, or understanding. It was cruel.

Should she tell Aegon what had happened in his mother’s room? To explain? No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t come between Aegon and his mother.

But how she ached to say something. How she wanted to tell Aegon the pain that had been caused, and to be defended, to be comforted and protected. How she wanted to use her voice to speak of the hurt that she’d been caused.

“I do not want Cassandra Baratheon at Harrenhal,” she said in a quiet but firm voice. Her eyes were wet and she still trembled from the emotions tumbling through her. “I do not begrudge you what you engaged in with her, and I’m glad you told me. But I do not want her there. I do not want her in our home, where we’re to make our life together. I do not care what it says of me, of what gossip would spread; if they call me insecure, if they call me jealous. I do not want her there.” Her breath hitched and she reached up to drag the edge of her red sleeve across her wet eyes. “You’re a prince. You’re charming and beautiful, and you ride the most beautiful dragon in the world. I want to be yours, Aegon. I’ve only ever wanted to be yours and… and I-I want you to be mine. I want you to want me as much as I want you. I do not care about the Lefford girl, or Cassandra Baratheon, whatever brothel visits, or what else came before. I am selfish enough to admit I want you to myself now. I want our marriage, our marriage bed, to be only for us.”

Aegon looked at her like he’d never properly done so and Abby’s hands fluttered up to cover the flush of her cheeks, tilting her head to hide behind the fall of her messy curls. For the first time the two of them sat there with their hearts held out to one another, without dressing or armor. They were naked, their ribs cracked open, and she was begging to crawl inside the cage of him, to wrap herself around his heart and be surrounded by him, bone and flesh knit together to hold her close and keep her safe and warm.

“Hunītsos,” he murmured, and he wrapped his hands around her wrists to tug them from her face. She resisted and he snorted, tugging more until he had her wrists held. “Abby, look at me.”

Her resistance gave way and he held both her wrists in a single hand so he could cup her left cheek in the rough warmth of his palm, his fingers stroking where they tucked into her hair. Aegon was smiling softly. It was a ghost of one, barely there, and he simply watched her, searching for answers to questions she did not know.

Then his smile widened and he nodded and Abby thought she finally knew what question he had been asking all this time.

It was not conscious to fall forward into his touch. He pulled her in and the feel of his mouth was, before everything, right. The taste of spiced wine and something inherently Aegon. There was no sense of wrongness or unsettling discomfort. Kissing Aegon felt like coming home. It felt like being wrapped in a blanket warmed by the fire on a cold night. Gently, he used the grip on her wrists to tug her closer and when he released her, she twined her arms around his neck and his freed hand looped around her waist to cradle her close. The kiss did not deepen. It was nearly chaste. It was a dream. It was everything she missed over these past weeks.

The groan that Aegon released when they parted shot straight through her, and it took everything in her not to whine for more. She wanted to chase his pouty mouth and dive into the pool of heat that had gathered between them. Instead, he nuzzled his nose against hers before resting his forehead to hers.

“I want to be better for you. I want to be who you see me as. I want to be worthy of you, but I do not know how. I do not know if I’m good enough.” Abby’s fingers lifted to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck and breathed in his exhales. “I am afraid” went unsaid but she could hear it woven amidst his words. The desire to comfort him was there, threatening to overwhelm her, to push aside her own pain, to reassure him without doubt that it was fine.

“Who do you want to be, mo realta geal?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

She pressed a kiss to his lower lip. Soft and sweet, a gentle reassurance. Aegon exhaled and she could feel his shiver match her own. “I have always believed that you did not have to be what you were. To throw yourself into wine and women, to put down your swords; these are things I wish you had not done, but I understood why. When you said those words to me, when you lashed out in pain, I grew angry because I realized you were supposed to be different when it came to me. I also was not seeing you fully. But I see you now, and I still want you. I choose you and whomever you choose to become. Do not do it for my approval. Do it because it is what you want most. You do not have to be anyone else but Aegon, and whatever that means to you.”

Aegon’s nod was minute, the gesture reminding her of the little boy he’d once been, shy and nervous. “Do you mean it?” He whispered, and she would not have heard him had they not been so close. His voice was thick and his eyes shined with tears.

“I do,” she whispered.

He sniffled and nodded again. “You do not need to be my mother. You do not need to be one of those perfect ladies. You are fierce and passionate and you are so beautiful when you are free. You are not the Maiden or Mother or whatever the seven hells demand. You are Abrogail Strong and I’ve wanted you for as long as I have had memory.”

“I don’t know if I know how to be anything else, Aegon.” Her voice was so small she could barely hear herself.

“Neither do I, Abrogail,” he said with his own soft kiss to her trembling mouth. Abby whimpered and his chuckle was soft and deep, snaking through her with a heat that made her hands shake. “We’ll be fools together, won’t we? Stumbling in the dark to figure it out.”

A shaky laugh sounded and she shook her head with a shy and tremulous smile. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

“That you are. Never fear, I shan’t let go of your hand.”

“Good, because I will not let go of yours either.” Abby felt her cheeks flush and watched his own do the same. It had been so long since she heard him sing or pluck the strings of his gittern or lyre. “I would like to hear you sing me songs again.” He had done so when they were young, but Aegon’s interests had fallen to the side as they’d grown, the same as her own interests in painting and archery had done. Could they, perhaps now, reclaim them?

He exhaled, blowing moonlit hair out of his eyes. “Well, then it’s settled. Might as well chain us together.”

“Is that not what marriage is supposed to be?” She asked with a teasing grin and a pinch to his side. Aegon squealed with a high pitched sound and her grin broadened. “Ticklish, my prince?”

She found another spot along his ribs and he squirmed with another flurry of strangled giggles as she tickled him. His hands found her and the soft, tender bits beneath her arms and her shrieks of laughter joined him as they fell sideways in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing was filled to bursting in the days approaching Aegon’s nameday celebrations. Never had Abby seen so many people crush themselves into the Red Keep. ‘More will be at Harrenhal for the wedding’, Helaena had said, their small group seeking solace away from the gaggle of the court for a while. Baela had come with them, overwhelmed with the crush of noise herself, even if she did not admit it. The Princesses Targaryen, Abby, Wylla, little Floris, and Baela’s two ladies had all sought the quietest part of the gardens to hide from the increasingly aggressive attentions.

Now, though, Abby could not hide from the crush of people.

The Reyne retinue arrived in the early afternoon, and while an ancient and powerful house as theirs deserved their pomp, the familial presentation was for Rodrik Reyne, uncle to the Queen Alicent Hightower, and grandfather to the future Princess Abrogail Strong.

Grandfather to the potential future queen, as the whispers and rumors flew around the Red Keep with the coming celebrations. Rumors that Abby wasn’t sure would come to pass, but could not deny that the king’s wishes still might change. That was a future she wasn’t sure what to think about.

His hair was more gray than auburn, thick and wavy as if he were a man of twenty instead of near seventy. Lord Rodrik was tall and broad, an imposing figure on his gray and white courser, its fine white mane braided into little knots along the elegant arch of its neck. To see him and the king that was only feet away from her had a curl of unease snaking through her belly. To look at the king was to see a man wasting away, a man at death’s door. To see Rodrik Reyne dismount with fluid ease was to see a man who, while past the prime of life, clearly had so much left in him.

“Your Grace.” Lord Rodrik mounted the steps, arm clapped to his shoulder in the Westerland sign of fealty as he bowed. “It is good to see you in fine spirits, my king.”

“No finer time than to celebrate such a joyous occasion, Lord Rodrik,” the king said with a smile. Rodrik clasped Uncle Otto’s arm in a firm grip, pleasantries exchanged and his smile broadened as he bowed lower before Queen Alicent.

“You are the light of the seven, aren’t you, my dearest,” he complimented her, genuine to the core. The queen’s cheeks pinkened at the praise and she readily embraced her uncle, fingers grasping his arms.

“We are so glad you are here to celebrate, uncle,” she said. “I am pleased to see you in such fine health and I’m so sorry Aunt Dalla could not come.”

“It is a long journey and she is not as quick as she used to be. She was quite happy to stay back with Daerion and enjoy the children. I am their favorite, after all. It’s only fair that I give everyone else the opportunity to receive some attention.” Alicent blinked as she registered the joke, a chuckle spilling from her as her uncle pressed a kiss to her hand.

Aegon stood between his mother and Abby, and she felt more than saw him straighten up as Lord Rodrik turned his cool blue eyes on him. Age had not shrunk the man, and Lord Rodrik stood as tall as Uncle Otto, and though there was a far less threatening air to him, it made him no less intimidating. Aegon’s chin tilted up to meet the man’s eye and he inclined his head.

“It is good to see you, Lord Rodrik,” Aegon greeted, his voice polite and steady, when not two hours before, he’d been with her in the alcove behind the tapestry of Jonquil Drake frantic with nerves at meeting her grandfather. It seemed like the kisses she’d given him, as well as the growing bruise that was barely visible above the collar of his deep green damask doublet had not eased his worries. “I hope your travels were easy and without issue.”

The last time they’d seen any of the Reynes had been near a decade ago, at her mother’s funeral. They had spent time with her and her father at Harrenhal before coming down to King’s Landing to spend time with the queen and her children, and that event was entirely different than now.

“Good tidings on your nameday, nephew,” he returned with all the formality as if he were addressing him by princely title. “Our travels were well, and it’ll be good to be off the road for some time.” An expression of mischief danced in the pale gray-blue eyes of Rodrik as he assessed the prince before him, eyes catching on the bruise on Aegon’s neck and then glancing at Abby and the arm she had laced through his own. He raised a brow. “It would appear that your betrothal has made a man of you yet, my prince. I might even say you’ve grown an inch or two since I last saw you.”

Heat flushed through Abby’s face and Aegon’s own, his sputter brief and confused as the Lord gave him an amused look, as if he might ruffle his hair had Aegon been a decade younger. Instead, he gave another incline of his head before coming before Abby.

“You are most certainly taller than I last saw you,” he said, cupping her face in his gloved hands, the scent of horse and spice clinging to him as he kissed her forehead. Her hand slipped from Aegon’s arm to clutch at her grandfather’s crimson sleeves beneath his brown leather jerkin, warmth spreading through her chest at the gentle affection.

“Not much taller than this, I’m afraid,” she said, a light, awkward laugh. Her grandfather reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, where the rest of her hair hung in a long, simple braid down to the small of her back. He cupped her cheek, and she caught a shine in his eyes, a slow exhale as the familiar look of grief she knew well crossed his features, aging him in the moment. “I’m very glad to see you, grandfather.”

Rodrik Reyne nodded, pushing past the emotion before moving on to greet the rest of his nephews and niece, and she felt Aegon’s hand slide around her waist, fingers bunching slightly against the crimson and silver damask against her hip. She hid her hands in the belled sleeves, knotting them together and taking comfort from Aegon’s touch. Her chest ached painfully but she gave him a smile when he murmured her name.

“I am well,” she assured him, leaning into him momentarily before their party went inside, her grandfather speaking of the gifts he had brought for all of them.

Over the past days, it had been a bustle and flurry of becoming reacquainted with her grandfather, of suffering through her sister’s company. The apartments that she technically shared with her brother had served as the hub for the activity of their family. Houses Strong, Reyne, and Lannister moved in and out of the modestly decorated space. It had been overwhelming, but with the arrival of her grandfather, Cory’s acerbic tongue and judgmental looks had been averted, and Abby wondered if there was jealousy hidden beneath all that venom. She had fallen into her own acquaintance with the Queen, whom she had known when she’d served as one of Rhaenyra’s ladies when they were young.

Abby also had to organize the gifts brought from the Westerlands that would be sent back with Uncle Simon. Bolts of fine cloth of gold and silver from the expansive Reyne mines, a peregrine falcon, lovely cream and gray with black specks and bright black eyes she’d named Caelus. There’d been books too. A small chest carved with mountains and flowers contained five books, mostly from Myr, and some from Braavos, including what looked to be an interesting treatise from a Volantine woman who advocated for the importance of women’s contributions, and another on teaching woman to cultivate what she had determined as useful qualities, to achieve worthy acts in their lives.

‘A woman’s success,’ it read, ‘depends on the ability to manage and mediate by speaking and writing eloquently and effectively, for men so easily dismiss the thoughts of women, especially when their power is threatened by them.’

Perhaps she should look to promoting more copies of the sumptuously illustrated work. Perhaps she might even try her hand at replicating some of the images therein. There’s been a box of paints and new charcoal among the gifts, as well as a newly bound book for her to sketch in. Abby smiled at the idea, and had tucked it away for later.

“Mind the dress,” Wylla’s voice came from behind, already dressed for the feast and bossing about the red-clad maids of the holdfast who had been helping Abby as she worked to put together her household. Theraxis lay reclined along the end of the bed, his great yellow eyes watching the flurry of maids with such focus as if he too were supporting Wylla’s orders.

“Only a single lady?” Grandfather had balked, perceiving insult before she’d hurriedly cut in, explaining Wylla was more than enough, she did not want to be demanding, and hadn’t needed anyone else.

Wylla had snorted, eyes flashing in the familiar argument. “She’s meant to be looking for more ladies over the course of the festivities,” with all the same annoyance aimed at her as she had aimed at Aegon in the courtyard so long ago. “She needs six at least, but will she listen to me? Nay, she’s a wee stubborn thing and Lord Larys doesn’t seem to push it either.”

The gifts had not stopped there, and she was currently staring, wide eyed, at the most recent one.

The ornate wooden box before her was made of varnished rosewood, with inlays of silver decoration along the edges, and an equally delicate lock that her grandfather had carefully opened with a tiny silver key. The tiara that lay inside was fit for a queen. Ten citrine sunbursts wove together like flowers, the colors of them running from red to gold to orange and in the center of each, diamonds glittered. It sat in the center of the box, resting on a cloth of silver pillow and her mouth went dry.

“Th-this is too much. Grandfather…” Abby’s voice faltered and she lifted her gaze to meet his. Never had she felt so spoiled, so doted on. She felt guilt for it, the way it warred in confusing uncertainty. So long she had never asked for more, and it wasn’t as if Larys was a doting brother who snuck her sweets and trinkets the way Harwin had.

Her grandfather’s gaze was a mixture of annoyance, affection, and more that she did not understand. “It is most certainly not too much, dear child,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. Wylla slightly raised her eyebrows when he wasn’t looking and gently lifted the tiara from the box. “You are the blood of Castamere. You are my blood, my granddaughter,” he had said, cupping her cheek in a warm, rough hand and pressing a loving kiss to her brow. “The realm would do well to remember that you are a Reyne just as the queen is. It is not simply Hightower blood no matter how much my good brother likes to pretend.”

At least her grandfather was honest and she could not blame him for that. This was how the game was played. This was how power was brokered, even Abby understood the simple truth of it. Unlike most, Rodrik Reyne did not hide his motives, and the care that he expressed towards her since his arrival a few days ago had proven genuine. He did not ask her for favors, had inquired about her wellbeing and made sure she had what she was owed to her station.

Wylla’s nimble fingers had ensured the tiara was settled in her hair, twists of braids securing the citrine that matched her hair. The Riverlands style was one that she was glad not to give up and she would not have anyone thinking she was anything but the daughter of the rivers, and now a child of Castamere.

Her grandfather had escorted her down to the queen’s party. The king and her brother and uncle were already in the throne room and she could hear and feel the buzzing of growing anticipation as they approached the antechamber. Her hand rested in the crook of her grandfather’s elbow and her fingers spasmed with nerves. His hand found hers and she looked up at him, mouth parted as if to speak. He smiled at her instead.

“You look so much like your mother,” he said softly, his blue eyes misty and his smile warm. It took Abby aback. She had not seen the Lord Hand smile so openly and honestly. Larys barely smiled and when he did it made her wish to avoid it more often than not. The last man who smiled at her in such openness was her father. “She is here with us and she would be so proud of you.”

“Would she approve of this?” Abby asked softly. It was a silly question, the kind of question a motherless child who could barely remember her own mother asked. She could see the queen through the doorway at the end of the hall, hear Helaena’s laughter echoing along with Daeron’s.

Her grandfather paused and seemed to steel himself. The emotion was plain on his face. The grief was palpable and he did not meet her eyes as he composed himself. “Your mother was in the very fortunate position where I could let her choose who she wanted to marry. She could wait, and find a match that she got along well with. Lord Jason was a possibility, but even if your mother wanted to marry him, I couldn’t let her resign her future to a foppish imbecile like him, Lannister seat or not. She fell in love with your father and he did not demand heirs of her or money or prestige. He simply wanted someone to spend his days with and they found that in one another. That is what your mother wanted for you. A world where you were safe and loved.”

He cupped her cheek and Abby lifted her hand to hold his, feeling her own tears threaten. “The future has one certainty and there will be hard choices to make. Know that your family stands behind you, and that you may be a Riverlands girl, but there is a lion inside of you. They say in the north wolf packs survive together. You are part of a pride and are just as fierce. Dragons could not take the Westerlands and fire cannot burn the rivers.”

“He won’t burn me,” Abby said softly. “I trust him. I… care for him. I want him, not for a title, not for whatever the future may bring. I simply want him and he wants me and we just want to be happy. I think we can make each other happy, Grandfather.”

“Good,” he said and dropped his hand. “Then should the Stranger take me this night, it will be knowing you will be happy.” He gave her a watery laugh, amusement on his face. “And should he mistreat you, then I will haunt him to madness.”

When they entered the antechamber, Lord Rodrik pressed a kiss to her hand and went to join the rest of the gathering in the throne room. Helaena was in conversation with Daeron, and Aegon…

Aegon turned to look at her upon her entrance and his face went slack. She blushed, smoothing her hands over her gown, watching as the candlelight shimmered over the green and blue layers of the skirt, the fabric diaphanous, like currents of water around her legs. Her fingers found the golden dragons embroidered over her waist, intermingling with the glittering red weirwood leaves, worrying at the material. Her slippers were as gold as the dragons on her bodice, peaking out beneath her hem as she closed the distance between them. Aegon reached for her and she slid her hand into his and watched the smile spread slowly across his face.

‘I think we can make each other happy.’

Abby was not meant to be on Aegon’s arm as they entered the feast. He should have been escorting his mother as protocol dictated since King Viserys had entered the feast already. It was a heady feeling to know Aegon would not let her go, even as he was forced to drop her hand so she could tuck hers into the crook of his arm. A thrill that continued down her spine and coiled in her belly with the rest of the bursting butterflies dancing inside that gave her the strength to tilt her chin up as all her lessons instructed her to do. The perfect posture, the perfect gait all came rushing to her in a way that she finally understood why it mattered.

The pride that she felt wasn’t about being Queen Alicent’s pet project, or even that she had somehow snagged a prince for a betrothed. She was Lady Abrogail, heir to Harrenhal, the legacy of her mother’s fierceness and her father’s wisdom. As they walked behind the queen and Lord Otto, Abby squeezed her hand along Aegon’s bicep. She was the daughter of the Riverlands, and Aegon was lucky to have her, for there were many others that she could be with.

He looked at her with clear and bright eyes, the lilac full of mirth in a way she hadn’t seen from him in so long, and there were broad smile lines around his mouth, the flash of white teeth as he grinned at her. His hair was freshly washed, the silver curls gleaming gold in the sea of candleglow. His doublet was new as well - a fine, black silk brocade with a pattern woven in that evoked a shimmer of dragon scales. Golden clasps in the shape of dragon heads gleamed down the center. The seams were piped with red silk, and red silk trim embroidered with golden dragons wrapped around from the center and over his back. The same embroidered trim encircled his sleeves, which were slashed open along the back of his arms from bicep to the buttoned cuffs, the Targaryen red brocade of his shirt beneath poking through.

For the first time, he wore a crown upon his brow. It was a hammered circlet of gold that rested gently around his head, interspersed with seven circles stamped with dragons. Before the realm, he truly looked like the prince that he was.

A son who was celebrated by his parents.

She was lucky to have him. Let them see it. Let Queen Alicent see how brightly they made one another smile when they got to choose one another. Let them see she was not beholden to The High Tower, or to the Targaryens, or to anyone. Let them see that for all they may want to whisper about machinations and intrigue, she wanted him, and he wanted her.

Abby curtsied deeply before the king before they took their seats. Aegon was on his father’s left hand - the place of honor for the evening, and she was beside him. ‘How lucky we are’, came the thought again. She had not realized she had spoken the words aloud until Aegon’s grin widened into a beaming smile, his eyes crinkling with his own joy.

This was how the past weeks should have been. This is what the welcoming feast to Lord Tully and his party should have showcased: the two of them united, happy now, even as they set out to figure out what their marriage would be, what it would look like. There was enough time for that.

“You know, people like us don’t marry for love often,” Wylla had said, words that had stuck to her ribs.

The queen, her brother, and her uncle did not care for her and Aegon’s happiness, that much was startlingly clear to Abby. They had not come together in this betrothal by choice, but beneath the heart tree, they had made a promise. They had made their choice.

As her elder sister, Corynna, and her husband, Erwin Lannister sat beside her, Abby wished for the comfort of Wylla and Heleana at her side. The latter was at the other end of the table, and Abby’s gaze sought the friendly face of the young woman at the table below.

Wylla sat with Uncle Simon and Aunt Mya, looking striking in her black velvet gown. It was cut in the southern style, the neckline edged in white and silver cut across the line of her shoulders, her raven hair twisted into three rope braids woven with white ribbon and strung with pearls. She looked like a dream, Abby thought. A maiden of winter with all her pale skin and dark hair; striking in a way that many other women were not and Wylla wore it well. Harrion was beside her, his head inclined toward a lovely, red haired woman beside him. Wylla had said that his betrothed, Lady Alys Bracken, had only just arrived. She was so slight next to the northman’s bulk, her smile soft, eyes crinkling at the corners as she laughed at something he said.

Wylla caught her eye and sent her a warm, reassuring smile that Abby returned with a little wave, uncaring of decorum at the moment with how shaky her nerves were starting to get now that everyone was staring up at her. Her dear friend had not shied about her own discomfort in crowds, declaring her own relief that she was not the one who would be center of attention in her teasing, sharp yet fond way.

A harsh pinch against her left arm made Abby jump and she turned sharply to look at her sister, who was smiling serenely as if nothing was amiss. “Stop it, you’re behaving like a child,” she hissed behind a gritted smile. “I’ll not have you shame me.”

“If returning a kind gesture and a greeting to someone across the room is childish, then I cannot imagine you have many friends, Corynna, that do not cling to your skirts.” She smiled at her sister, whose saccharine falseness turned quickly to annoyance. “Do mind yourself, Cory. You are not my mother, nor my guardian.”

She caught the sidelong glance Aegon gave her and she felt his warm hand on hers, drawing it to his mouth to press a kiss against her knuckles. Abby felt the spray of heat along her throat, pressing her lips tightly together to keep from biting at her lip and being too obvious. He kept hold of her hand, thumb running lightly along her knuckles in familiar reassurance, and leaned in to speak softly against her ear.

“Lady Abrogail, if that’s the kind of behavior you plan on keeping up, as your husband, it shall be my duty to discipline you for such talk.”

Abby’s mouth went dry, her flush deepening and she glanced up at him, demure beneath her lashes. “Prince Aegon, you get ahead of yourself. I am the image of propriety.” He smirked and they both drew back. Abby reached for her goblet to calm the different sort of butterflies fluttering through her stomach now.

The echo of a staff cracking against the stone floor of the hall reverberated through the hall and all fell silent as the king rose, the queen beside him in what was meant to be a show of unity. But Abby knew that she was there to steady him so he did not have to rely on his cane. The black, red, and gold robe he wore nearly swallowed him whole, and she wondered how heavy it was for him.

Beside him, Alicent Hightower wore the colors of her house instead of a glow of green. She was as regal as Abby had ever seen, in a storm gray damask gown with white flame embroidery along her neck and shoulders. A cape of gray silk felt about her and the gray sleeves of her gown hugged her arms until they flared out at her forearms to bell around her wrists. Her auburn hair was twisted back on the sides of her head before coming to a single twisted braid down her back. Upon her head rested her crown of state. It was a gold circlet with seven points of golden flame rising from it and in the center flame was a blood red ruby that matched the gold and ruby earrings dangling beneath her hair.

“Be welcome,” the king said. His voice had rarely been a strong one, but he had found the strength behind it to let the words carry now. “It is good to see so many happy faces here, as we come together to celebrate my son, Prince Aegon’s nameday.” He turned his head to look down at Aegon with a nod and a gap toothed smile that, while fleeting, was genuine. The people clapped, thumps on tables shaking the cutlery, and Abby grinned at him. Aegon looked taken aback by the well tidings, the shouts of wishes for good health and good fortune. The hand that he had rested on her knee tightened and Aegon straightened in his seat, smiling back and giving a wave of thanks as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him.

The King continued, “The Queen and I also honor House Strong this night. Since my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, landed upon these shores, the Strongs have been a leal and loyal house. Ser Osmund Strong himself was the longest serving Hand, and through the decades, this family has proved themselves time and again, their fealty to the throne and their dedication to the realm. It is why upon the passing of the beloved Princess Rhaena, that my grandfather, King Jaehaerys, bestowed the great Harrenhal to House Strong. It is this dedication that before he passed, our late Lord Lyonel Strong, the Seven keep him, agreed to a proposal. We welcome you all to celebrate with House Targaryen and House Strong as I announce the betrothal of our son, Prince Aegon, to the Lady Abrogail Strong, and their investiture as the future Lord and Lady of Harrenhal, under the wise and clement eye of Grover Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.”

The whispers of the betrothal had already snaked their way through the keep over the past weeks. First the servants gossip, then the unofficial talks among the lords who had, by now, sent ravens back home to their holdings in the Riverlands. It was news that had passed naturally among the realm, and while Abby did not see any surprised faces, the cheers that roared up took her by surprise. The slamming fists on the tables, the clapping, the shouts of well wishes and even some crass remarks was not at all what she had expected. She felt her cheeks burn and the flush of it snake across all the exposed skin of her gown. She yearned for the coverings of her linen gowns so none could see how red she had turned at the attention.

Yet, Abby did nothing to hide how large her smile was, so wide it nearly hurt. She met Aegon’s eyes, his own grin crinkling the corners of his eyes, and she never, ever wanted to see him frown again if this was how bright his smile could be. He then looked at the crowd and she followed suit, waving at the smiling faces, blowing a kiss of thanks to all. She did not startle when Aegon lifted his hand from her knee to tuck beneath the fall of her curls and rest along the back of her neck in a possessive gesture that made her belly roil with heat. She looked at him from the corner of her eye and saw that his bright smile had set into something darker, more firm.

The feast began, servants coming out of the shadows. Trenchers of roast pork in red wine and plum sauce were placed before them, steaming with scents of ginger and cinnamon. Shrimp cooked in fennel and white wine steamed from large platters, boiled eggs cut and stuffed with fragrant cheese and herbs nestled among salads of other fresh herbs and greens. Abby gasped, admiring the hollowed out Stormland lemons with glistening pieces of Dornish blood oranges and lemon sticky with sugar dotted the table in pops of bright, delectable color.

Aegon was eagerly filling his plate with the roast pork he so adored, and she reached for one of the sour orange treats, popping a sticky piece of fruit into her mouth and hoping it calmed the knot of nerves that were growing insistently.

“They certainly spared no expense,” Corynna’s voice was soft at her side. Abby glanced over at her sister who was commenting on the wine being poured to her husband. Her sister was as beautiful as she was sharp, resplendent in the colors of House Lannister, a ruby red gown that set off her golden skin, and an overdress of golden silk. Her brunette curls were tamed and pulled back into a low bun at the base of her neck, encased in a jeweled net of gold and rubies, a heavy lion pendant hanging from her throat. She decided not to engage with her sister’s low commentary, for it was exactly what she wanted, and instead busied herself on the treat in front of her.

“Here.” Abby glanced at Aegon, who held his fork up with a piece of pork. She opened her mouth to decline, and he popped the piece in with that dangerous smirk flashing across his mouth before going back to his food. It was good, the spark of ginger cutting through the sweetness of the plum. It had also served to get her mind off the fact that they were eating at the head table, and she let her gaze drift, ignoring her sister’s tut of disapproval.

Abby caught Baela looking at them curiously. She was beautiful that evening in the colors of her mother’s house. The aquamarine gown was cut in the Pentoshi style like the previous one she wore to their family dinner, with a deep v cut into the bodice and the layers of fabric pinned like a chiton at her shoulders. On her head she wore a silver tiara shaped into the heads of seahorses with matching gemstones for their eyes. Abby gave the princess a small smile. “You look lovely tonight, Princess. I am truly glad to have you here and I look forward to us getting to know one another.”

Baela’s violet eyes narrowed somewhat at being addressed, and Abby felt Aegon shift beside her as he honed in on the conversation. “May your futures be bright and happy, Lady Abrogail. Cousin.”

“Thank you, cousin,” Aegon replied with his tight smile. “Perhaps it will be your nuptials we’ll be celebrating next.” The words were friendly, at least somewhat so. Abby suppressed a sigh, but knew it was at least a small win. Baela did not seem to mind sitting next to Daeron, for the pair of them had fallen into a discussion about their dragons and how Tessarion had fared in Oldtown. “I heard Mother wondering if her and Jace will wed next.”

Jacaerys.

Abby chanced another look at the incredibly awkward end of the table. There was the queen, then Lord Otto, then Larys, and then… Aemond, Helaena, and Jace. The three of them were utterly silent, like mimes in a play, and it was hard to tell what made it worse: the fact that Aemond and Jace had ended up wearing near matching doublets that evening, or the sapphire sun that was Helaena between them.

Aemond and Jace and Baela should have been separated, but Jace could not sit next to her, for the rumors that would cause and so poor Helaena was stuck as the wall to separate them.

She looked every inch the beautiful princess from a song. Her silver hair hung loose and free down her back with four braids keeping her hair from her face. The twists wound themselves into the silver tiara she wore, the sapphires winking out like stars from the woven metal strands that took the place of her usual braid. Her gown was diaphanous silk, her shoulders bared. The sleeves were a light blue and the sheer fabric hugged her arms. The gown went from a lovely sky blue to a deeper shade of twilight along the hem, and the silver embroidery evoked silver flames dancing across the gown. She wore the colors of Dreamfyre, dragonrider that she was, the princess of House Targaryen that did not need to evoke her house colors to state her place in the world.

The look on her face was blank and somewhat wide-eyed, focused on the shrimp in front of her. Abby’s heart ached, wanting to go to her and get her out of the situation she was in, but there was nothing for it. Helaena already grew anxious with crowds and she didn’t need the extra stress of being caught between two petulant looking boys.

Jace tilted his head towards her, saying something that drew a small smile from Helaena, and the knot of worry eased slightly.

The course was cleared away, the minstrels along the side gallery merrily playing songs from each of the realms present there today. Currently it was a Westerlands tune, fewer drums than the melodies of the Crownlands, and Abby caught Lord Tyland’s head bobbing to the music from his place at his twin brother’s side.

The next course was brought out and it was the largest pie Abby had ever seen, along with pottage of wild hare and cabbage, roasted lamb smelling of caraway and fennel and thyme. There was roasted chicken in orange glaze. Her gaze returned to the pie. It was as big as a wagon wheel, the pastry crust browned and caramelized and surrounded by many smaller pies like a crown. The crusts were slivered all around and gilt in gold along the top, and she could smell the saffron and cloves. They were stuffed to the bursting with more eggs and mixed meats and smelled delicious, but Abby’s stomach was knotted with nerves combined with the heady twist of arousal that pulsed every time Aegon’s knee bumped hers, or the way he’d tap his fingers upon her wrist to make sure she was alright.

Aegon inclined his head towards her, waving the servant away and pushing his plate between them. “You’re not eating. We’ll share.” He even pressed his goblet into her hand, taking hers and sipping from it in such an intimate gesture that Abby’s nerves were utterly forgotten about in that moment. She took a sip from his goblet, unsure of what to say. Aegon raised an eyebrow at her. “Eat,” he ordered and she knocked her slippered foot against his boot.

“You’re eating enough for the both of us, Prince. I couldn’t possibly keep up with you.” His appetite was a voracious one, and the plate he’d pushed between them had already started inching back towards him. She stabbed a piece of meat and gave him a look as she ate. He looked only somewhat abashed and popped a piece of crust in his mouth, licking juice from his fingers. She was reminded of the lakeside picnic, and the way his lips felt against her fingers while she fed him, the blushing heat as he fed her cakes in return and the kisses shared.

It must have shown on her face because a wicked gleam flashed across his eyes, gaze drifting to the low neckline of her gown and the gentle swell of her breasts. A voracious appetite indeed. He laughed when she busied herself with her goblet.

“Everyone is staring,” she whispered, unsure if she was chastising him or reminding him. Aegon’s gaze raked along the bare expanse of her shoulders, his hand twitching along his stolen goblet as if he was keeping himself from reaching for her again.

“Of course they are, hunītsos. Let them. Let them see how happy you look.” His gaze grew uncertain for a moment and she understood what words he held back.

“How happy you make me,” she offered softly. It was finally Aegon’s turn to blush, the expression uncharacteristically shy, and Abby could not help but lean over to brush a soft kiss against his cheek. Satisfaction was bright in her chest when his blush deepened before his own satisfaction crossed his features.

Let them witness. Let Edmund Vance and whatever moody River Lord conspired against them see that Aegon was hers, claimed by the rivers.

“Prince Aegon,” Erwin called halfway through the following course - mutton and stag and boar drenched in plum and wine sauces, brown sauces, and surrounded with dates and figs. The youngest Lannister brother was a gleaming gold lion, square faced with bright green eyes. He was not lanky as Lord Tyland nor as haughty as Lord Jason. He was a third son, bred for battle, and while he did not appear to cross swords with her sister, Abby wondered if that was a battle he had no desire to engage in. “I hear you’ll be participating in the melee on the morrow. Do you wield a morning star like Ser Criston, then? Or perhaps a battle ax?”

Corynna tutted, leaning back with exaggeration so her husband might speak. “It was only a matter of time before we talked swords.”

“The Prince is admirable with his sword skills, Erwin,” Abby piped up proudly before Aegon could speak, her turn to boast of him as he had done for her.

Aegon’s hand rested along the back of her chair as he leaned over with a grin on his face. “Some could say. It’ll either come down to skill or my lady’s favor, should she grant me. Mayhaps I’ll have the good fortune of meeting you in the ring?”

“Everyone knows the joust is where one proves themselves,” Baela cut in.

“Prince Daemon was quite impressive with his blade in the last tourney I saw him in, just as he was with a lance,” Erwin said with ease and a smile. “All the bouts require their own skills and strength.”

The conversation of the small tourney for tomorrow kept on, with Daeron joining in. Abby ignored her sister’s displeased muttering and her husband did as well. Perhaps that’s how the peace was kept in their household.

As the dessert course came out, those in attendance began to move about the room. No doubt they were eager to speak of the confirmation of what had been announced, judging by all the gazes that flitted in their direction. There were her favorite strawberry and cream cakes just out of reach, but she found that she had no appetite for the rich confection with the nervous energy building. Instead, she snagged a piece of marchpane dragon off Aegon’s piled plate of treats. He playfully snapped at her as if he was going to bite at her hand before handing her a marchpane crown without comment.

She leaned towards Aegon, brushing his ear and delighting in how he shivered at the contact. Her fingers tapped against his arm. “I’m going to speak to Wylla.”

He reached up to snatch at her wrist. “Stay,” he murmured, eyes searching her face. Don’t leave me alone next to him, she knew he was asking. Abby shook her head.

“We have to mingle, Aeg, We can’t sit up here all night.” He rolled his eyes and Abby tutted. “Go rescue Helaena.”

Aegon glanced down at the miserable end of the table and they spied Gwayne having come up, a hand braced on Aemond’s shoulder as he spoke to Larys and his father. “I’m surprised Aemond hasn’t stabbed him yet,” Aegon muttered and gave a nod. “Is this to be our duty now, my lady?”

Abby scrunched her face up in amusement and took his offered hand to rise from her chair. “Aye, it shall be, my lord. Save me a dance.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and they parted, Aegon going to join his uncle and siblings at the end of the table. She tilted her head, admiring him as he walked from her before heading towards Baela.

When Abby looked at Baela, she was reminded by the statue of Visenya that Aemond favored so in the gardens, or the tapestries that hung in the upper levels of the gallery: women who rode the skies with braids twisted into their long hair, the fierce and determined looks on their faces showing their command of the world. Targaryens were the closest one came to gods in Westeros. This fact Abby had grown with all her life. Everyone in Westeros did. She saw how the smallfolk clamored for the affections and attentions of the dragonriders during parades, the furrowed brows of the septons who disliked the competition to the Seven.

“Princess,” Abby gave the other a bright, welcoming smile. “Come with me, I have someone to properly introduce you to.” There was deference in her tone that Baela was owed, but Abby also clung to the reminder that she was to be a princess too. They would be equals in a few months, and the Queen wanted her to grow accustomed to this fact.

Baela, her lovely, violet eyes narrowed in her direction, seemed to have other ideas. Abby had asked Helaena the other evening what it was that Baela had said in Valyrian, and the princess had only said that she should not worry, for she did not believe Baela would speak so carelessly in the future. The other woman held her gaze, assessing in the way Abby was sure her dragon, Moondancer, would assess and Abby swallowed past the lump of nerves beneath the gaze. She realized after a moment that it was one of uncertainty. It had initially felt hostile - which considering whatever Valyrian she’d spoken upon arrival had been clearly hostile, it made sense - but it had also become clear that the princess was uncomfortable and therefore more judgemental, Abby thought, than she might normally be. At least, Abby hoped that was the case.

“You have people to introduce me to, Lady Abrogail?” The disdain was not obvious, and Abby wondered if this was what it meant to be unaccepted by the Valyrians. The family had kept to themselves since the landing. She had studied the Targaryen family tree in her studies and knew how rarely they married out of the houses. ‘The blood of the dragon must remain pure’, was stated when they’d learned about the Doctrine of Exceptionalism that allowed the practice of incest, and outlawed the multiple wives that The Conqueror and King Maegor had taken.

Would Aegon have wanted multiple wives? Would he have wanted someone more Valyrian to make him feel closer to his heritage? The curious thought flitted through her mind, and Abby felt a stab of jealousy at the idea of such a scenario, along with an uncertainty she couldn’t quite identify, but similar to the feeling of otherness that she found herself experiencing among the company of the other Riverlanders.

“I do. I hope, very much so, that your time here in the capital will be as comfortable as possible. I understand that it must be quite the change from Dragonstone, and the company of the rest of your siblings.” Baela said nothing at first, lips pressed in a thin line before looking down the table. Abby followed her gaze.

Jace and Helaena had a series of tarts and other confections in front of them, and Helaena was laughing brightly at the marchpane tentacles rising from a plum tart. Jace plucked one of them, slathered in cream to take a bite, offering the piece to Helaena who shook her head in amusement and reached for one of the candied lemons.

Aegon had pulled his brother away with a firm grip on his shoulder and the pair of them had headed towards the floor, goblets in hand with heads bowed towards each other. They were accompanied by some of the other young men at court; the Fossoway boys, Ser Leo Costayne, brother to Lord Owen, and their cousin, Lyonel Hightower, heir to the Oldtown seat.

Ser Leo was the eldest at over twenty, his almond eyes from his mother’s Lyseni heritage striking with the silver hair of Valyria that spread across the empire. He had already earned the title of The Sea Lion, the West taking pride in their own fierce seafarer as House Velaryon did with The Sea Snake, Lord Corlys. Little Floris had found him handsome, blushing when her avid gaze had been pointed out by Helaena. Abby had found herself readily agreeing.

At four and ten, Lyonel was as tall as Aemond with the promise to be taller, with the same cut cheekbones Abby could see was a Hightower feature, while Alicent, Aegon, and Helaena shared the soft roundness of their Reyne mother. His skin was swarthy from his Dondarrion mother, a contrast with his lighter brown hair. Her eyes drifted to the group of ladies, colors of the Reach and Westerlands in their clothes, and how they clearly were eyeing Prince Aemond, who was doing his best to pretend to be above it.

Far better for their attention than that of Cassandra Baratheon, who was stoically sitting by her heavy set father, face flushed with wine and quietly hissing at his eldest daughter. An unbidden pang of sympathy pulsed through Abby’s heart at how unhappy the other woman looked, momentarily overriding her displeasure.

Abby turned her gaze back to Baela, whose own eyes were sweeping the mass of people before them. She wondered if the rumor was true of a possible betrothal between Jacaerys and Baela, the future king and queen of the realm. Dragonriders both, in the Targaryen ways of old like Aegon and his wives, like King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne. She wondered if it had happened already and was simply unannounced, Rhaenyra waiting for the most opportune moment. Or perhaps the pair were simply siblings, mayhaps promises made out of stubborn pride. Would that explain Baela’s disdain for them? Did she see them as interlopers in a place that she considered her birthright by conquest and the Valyrian blood flowing through her?

Baela finally rose, fluid and graceful and confident in all the ways that Abby still found it difficult to be. The other woman stood a few inches taller - not a difficult feat by any means, but Abby was envious of the graceful turn of her neck. She was reminded of the descriptions of Visenya: comfortable in silks as she was in armor. What a sight the other would make upon dragonback with a war cry tearing from her. How confident Baela Targaryen was;in her sense of self, her place in the world, in all that made her Valyrian.

It struck Abby then how she did not feel like a child of the Riverlands no matter what she claimed. It felt as if she were spinning falsehoods into a cloak to shroud herself in, to distract from her own sense of confusion. As they approached the closer table where her Uncle Simon sat with the Brackens, listening to the conversation blend before her in the lilt and familiar cadence of the Riverlands, Abby found herself feeling like an outsider. It had not quite been like this at the welcoming feast those weeks ago, where they spoke the language of the capital. Her mother tongue had been one lost to her over the years since her father died, relegated to the dinner table and bedtime stories, of ephemeral memories of lullabies long sung. To hear Wylla’s own northern brogue share in the words of Old Tongue falling in a similar harmony, panic settled in Abby’s chest to find that she couldn’t quite keep up with the words exchanged.

The panic was frozen when Wylla turned her head, and all at the table gave move to rise and give their courtesies to Princess Baela. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby saw Baela shift a little, felt the whisper of silks brush against her. “This is Lady Wylla Karstark, from Karhold,” Abby introduced, her voice coming out higher than she intended as she forced past the lump in her throat. Wylla rose, nodding to her brother who was also getting up to speak with some of the other lords.

“Princess Baela, I hope you’re enjoying the festivities.”

Baela inclined her head but said nothing.

“She is my dearest friend and also far from home. Also quite the archer.” Abby reached for things that Baela might find intriguing and welcoming, hoping her instincts weren’t wrong.

Wylla shook her head slightly. “You are too kind, Lady,” she lightly teased with the use of the title.

Baela’s head cocked, the tinkling of the silver charms in her hair soft among the din of the room. “My, all that snow and ice. It’s a wonder you do not melt beneath the dragon’s heat,” Baela said and the challenge was clear in her voice.

Wylla smiled in her sharp way, ever the winter fox. “As a daughter of fire and sea, I would assume you to be well acquainted with contradictions. One must burn hot to survive the cold.”

Baela actually smiled at that and Abby took the chance. “Wylla is a far better archer than I, Princess. I hear you yourself are well acquainted with the bow.” Wylla’s storm gray eyes flitted to her and Abby did everything she could not to shift awkwardly beneath her friend’s gaze. Not in this dress, and not with the sunburst tiara that graced her head. Instead, she grinned back at her. The princess merely glanced back at her before shifting closer to Wylla.

“Do you hunt, Lady Wylla? I hear there’s to be a hunt later this week and I do so miss hawking…”

Abby released a soft breath, pressing a grateful squeeze to Wylla’s shoulder before moving on to her aunt and uncle. Her cousin, Gareth, had stayed behind at Harrenhal, and she had fuzzy memories of her Aunt Mya. The older woman was plump and warm, brushing a soft kiss with a greeting. The din of the throne room grew louder as the meal came to an end, servants dashing between the party goers, removing plates and replacing carafes of wine and small foods for guests to continue to indulge in. The music shifted to a more lively fair and the dance floor quickly filled with eager revelers.

Lythene Ryger of Willow Wood had drawn her into the shy gaggle of maidens who were standing expectantly along the edge of the dance floor, trading glances across the room at the lords and Abby had noticed the looks they’d thrown in Aemond’s direction. Lady Lythene was five and ten, soft featured with honey brown eyes, her strawberry blonde hair woven with strands of river pearls in the common half knot coil that was common in the Riverlands.

“If Lord Yorick were here, none of these men would have a chance to win tomorrow,” Melony Piper said, all dark hair and more freckles than one could count. “My sister says he was the most fearsome knight not so long ago.”

“Psh,” Lythene rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows Ser Gwayne is a force to be reckoned with. Besides, Lord Yorick never leaves Runestone and if he did, Lord Borros would throw a fit.” She looked smug with the knowledge imparted and whatever look on Abby’s face seemed to spur her on. She leaned in. “Lord Yorick is married to Lord Borros’ younger sister with a son of their own. Should Lady Elenda not have a son, it’s said his sister may push one of her son’s claims to Storm’s End.”

As one, their eyes swiveled in the direction of Cassandra Baratheon, perfectly coiffed, and everything the daughter of a Lord Paramount would be. Raven hair wild as storm clouds around her bare shoulders, her golden dress sparkling in the dancing torchlight with an opal the size of Abby’s fist nestled in the hollow of her throat. Abby’s hands twitched, smoothing over the cloud of blue and green silk organza, the golden dragons and weirwood leaves embroidered over her bodice.

A warm hand touched her wrist and Abby met the gentle, honey eyes of Lythene, who smiled up at her. “Tá cuma álainn ort, a bhean,” she said softly while the others tittered. It took Abby a moment to register the words, “you look beautiful, my lady”, and Abby smiled shyly.

“Go raibh maith agat,” she thanked her and Lythene bit her lip as if holding back a chuckle.

“Agat,” she pronounced softly, the inflection different. “A little closer to got, and less like goat.”

Her cheeks burned and she repeated it softly and Lythene took her hand, squeezing it. “I can’t imagine you get to practice with many people here in the South,” she laughed, a tinkling like bells that drew the attention of other men.

“I haven’t. I’m looking forward to getting to speak it more, but I can’t get that sort of practice teaching Aeg- Prince Aegon.”

“You mean he’s actually going to try learning our tongue?” came the aggressive disbelief of Lady Melony. “Targaryens aren’t ones to debase themselves so.”

Lythene opened her mouth but Abby cut in, a frown slashed across her face. “Aegon is a Targaryen and a Hightower, a family that traces their lineage and impact to before the First Men, some say.” She tilted her head, exhaling softly and shook her head. “The Targaryens may be above us due to the gifts of the dragon, but you can be assured that Prince Aegon will take his duties seriously.”

She was reminded of the words Edmund had sneered at her, of how none would trust a dragon coming into the Riverlands and it was foolish to think so. Lythene said nothing, watching her curiously while Melony Piper’s bright green eyes narrowed somewhat, thin mouth pursed. Abby’s grandmother had been a Piper, which made the two of them kin.

Seven and the Old Gods help her if Aegon did not live up to her promise, but Abby trusted that he would. That he would, at the very least, try.

Melony opened her mouth to speak again but murmurs danced through the crowd, attention towards the dance floor. Abby looked over her shoulder in surprise.

Jace led Helaena by the hand to the crowd of dancers as the next song started, fingers touching as they circled around one another. She was a glittering, blue dragon amidst the crowd, hair like mercury as it flowed around her. Helaena loved to dance and the joy was obvious on her soft features, Jace’s own smile a shy one, his broad frame more obvious as he circled around her. Not as tall as Aemond, but Jace would grow taller yet.

“Well,” Melony’s attention had changed. “That’s an interesting development.”

Abby’s eyes instinctively cut to the queen where she sat at the King’s right, a slight furrow to her brow, and the Lord Hand beside her, his attention also on the pair dancing. A fond smile cut across Otto Hightower’s face as Helaena laughed when Jace spun her, and Abby wasn’t at all sure what to make of it.

Helaena looked happy, though, and that was all that mattered.

Abby startled at the feeling of a warm hand stroking against her elbow and Aegon’s laughter was soft as he stroked his fingers down her arm in a way that had goosebumps flaring across her skin. His fingers twined with hers and the ladies around her bobbed curtsies, murmuring My Prince and Your Grace.

“You all look like you’re having so much fun here, but I must steal my betrothed away,” Aegon said, his voice light and amused, in his element as the center of attention and even more dangerous without drink to cloud his senses. Abby felt the heated flush creep along her throat when Aegon tugged her into him. “I promised you a dance, didn’t I, Lady Abrogail?”

Lythene looked amused, Melony uncertain and Abby turned under Aegon’s arm so that she was facing him. “You did, my Prince. Thank you for the conversation, Lady Lythene, Lady Melony,” she thanked as Aegon began tugging her away. “It was good to meet you.”

Everything else drifted away when Aegon pulled her into his arms. The contrast to the last time they’d danced together was palpable. There was no anger between them, no confusion, no fear. He twirled her as he drew her into the space as if he were showing her off, her skirt flaring around her, rippling greens and blues like the rivers of her home, the candlelight glimmering along the golden threaded dragons on her gown, and the citrine bursts along her tiara. When Aegon pulled her into him, she could feel the heat of his body barely pressed against her, the flush of it coursing through her with every hammering beat of her heart.

“I wish we were somewhere more quiet,” Abby murmured to him as they turned around one another, clapping their hands before reaching for each other again. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Aemond tugging Wylla on the floor, her friend caught between surprise and a pleased flush along her cheeks. Abby would have to tease her later, in return for how merciless Wylla had teased her.

“Do you?” Aegon asked, grinning at her, eyes full of heat. “We could, you know. It is my nameday.”

“We’ll be caught, and I’d rather your mother not find us,” she chuckled, spinning away from him to turn around Lord Tyland, who smiled down at her indulgently while Aegon politely moved around Lady Johanna Westerling, Tyland’s goodsister and dance partner. Her gaze kept pulling back to Aegon whenever they were separated in the dances, and when they came back together, there was an ache in her chest that she could not identify. Relief? Want? Longing?

Everything?

“Remind me to get you a map of the tunnels,” he murmured, leaning down to brush a kiss against her temple and she couldn’t help the bubbling of giggles that escaped her. Aegon looked incredibly pleased with himself, and as the next song started, he pulled her closer to him, hands possessive on her hips as he lifted her in the air and spun her around.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked. Then it clicked. “What, so I can sneak to your room?”

Aegon winked at her. “Clever girl.”

“I try.”

As Abby turned, her eyes caught on the furious, dark gaze of Edmund Vance across the hall, accompanied by Lord Piper and some of the other River Lords. Abby blanched, the joy she had felt abating like water on a fire at the ugly look in his eyes. So distracted, she was, that she stumbled her steps of the complicated dance, nearly falling had Aegon not pulled her to him in time. She saw his gaze follow hers, his own smile morphing into a hard look.

“I’ve taken care of it.” Abby didn’t understand, trying to find the steps again without ruining the entire dance, cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Aegon’s hand brushed soothing along her arm, his other hand warm on her waist and giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Focus on me, eyes on me, hunītsos.” His voice was gentle and firm all at once, quiet and earnest and Abby focused on the sound of it, her gaze finding his, softened now. “Aemond saved me from making a scene, but I’ve handled it.” He tilted his head. “I don’t need to take his hands.”

Abby struggled to find words, a strange and unfamiliar thrill coursing through her that she could not examine too closely in the moment. “And what have you decided to take instead?”

As the dance came to a close, Aegon reached up to cup the softness of her cheek, tilting her head back with his thumb on her lower lip. He leaned in, mouth brushing against hers, and the vow he made was full of promise.

“His pride,” he murmured, and kissed her in front of the realm to seal it.

Chapter Text

Aegon had wandered through the mass of small folk without a care, a grin across his face as vendors hawked and goods were sold, as people came out to rejoice for his day. Alyn had fallen in step beside him, following him and Aemond into the tent where Daeron was waiting. His little brother, dark blonde hair mussed from sleep, was furiously polishing Aegon’s new armor.

Not even the thick, red and black canvas of the tent could block out all the sounds of the crowds pouring into the arena that morning, but once the flaps closed, there was a kind of muffling effect to it all that made Aegon feel like he’d entered another world.

“How lucky,” he’d told his baby brother as Daeron jumped to attention and went about his duties. “That I get Ser Gwayne’s prized squire for this tournament.” The boy had preened and glowed beneath the attention in a shy, nervous way that belied his newness to the position at large. Aemond posted beside the trestle table, helping himself to watered wine and the platter of cold meat and cheese while Alyn lingered near the rack holding Aegon’s sword.

“Two swords, hm?” he’d inquired, admiring the balance on the blades with a critical eye. Which was really only Alyn trying to pretend he knew exactly what he was talking about when it came to the elegance of worked steel. It wasn’t even Valyrian steel.

“Aegon’s rare moments of overachieving,” Aemond drolled. Aegon rolled his eyes, ignoring Alyn’s soft snickering, while Daeron went to work, his gaze drifting to the second rack where his suit of armor rested, the breastplate his brother had been working on reverently placed back where it belonged.

“You are the king’s eldest son. You think the men you’ll liege over would respect a lord who’d never donned a suit of armor?” The Tower had snapped at what Aegon thought was a simple question as to why. It was a strange feeling when he was a dragonrider of all things, bonded with the greatest creature to exist. He was a god amongst men.

Once, custom dictated that a dragonrider must always be in the Dragonpit should the call to arms sound, but his mother had put her foot down when Aegon had asked. Which hadn’t really mattered, since on days where his melancholy threatened to smother him, he’d sneak out to sleep with Sunfyre anyway. Days where he felt like he would burst from his own skin, rend his flesh with claws of his own, where he swore in his dreams he was Sunfyre himself.

This day, Aegon did not have claws and fangs, nor could he breathe fire. With both feet firmly planted on the ground, he would don the armor of his mother’s people, of mere mortals. He shifted as Daeron tugged on the red padded arming doublet he was wrestling him into with a kind of single minded efficiency that strongly reminded him of Aemond. They both poked their tongues between their lips, eyes squinted in focus. It took everything in Aegon not to reach up to ruffle his baby brother’s hair and instead kept uncharacteristically cooperative at the boy’s assistance.

Warmth spread through his chest while Daeron straightened the padding and examined the red fabric for wear and tear now that it was on him.

“Can you move, Aeg?”

He twisted at the waist and raised his arms up and down to show that he could and Daeron went to the pieces of polished black armor. The finely crafted plates layered together like dragonscales of his very own, edged in beaten gold, and over his chest, a dragon was etched into the metal. Aegon was still surprised how perfectly the armor fit. He flexed constantly under Daeron’s questions and it was so different from the training breastplate he wore that would have to last through the growth spurts of his youth. This suit of armor felt like a second skin, as if he was covered with his very bones. He flexed once Daeron had finished, lifting his legs and bending around to ensure that all was where it was meant to be and he grinned at Daeron.

“Well done, squire,” he complimented. Daeron’s beam made him look younger than his two and ten years, and as brilliant as the sun. “I think you’ve earned a place with us to go mucking around Flea Bottom, hm?”

“Thank you,” he said shyly, blushing at the praise, and preening a little even though the only audience was Aemond and Alyn. “I’d hate for you to make a fool of yourself on your nameday in front of everyone.” The cheeky look in his cornflower blue eyes had Aegon lightly swiping at him, the boy dancing away while Aemond made an annoyed sound.

Aegon snatched a piece of meat off of his brother’s plate. “You know, Aemond, if you’re going to be a miserable arse, you don’t have to be here. Go sit in the box with our mother, let all the pretty girls stare at you. I’m sure it would be more fun. I was certain that Maega Stokeworth was trying to figure out how to swoon in your arms.” Aemond had found himself beneath the center of attention in a way he’d never encountered since the court had begun to fill in the past few weeks. “Or better yet, let Karstark be your shield once more and you can swoon into her arms.” It hadn’t been missed that his brother had gone straight for Abby’s lady as soon as the proverbial sharks had begun to circle. Aegon would not deny his surprise, but he kept it to himself. It wasn’t everyday his brother and his violet gaze targeted someone he wasn’t intendending to declare an enemy.

Unless declaring Wylla Karstark his enemy was a form of foreplay. Perhaps a northern custom he wasn’t aware of but surely Aemond knew everything about. Mating habits and rituals and all that.

His brother rolled his eye but the pink that tinged his cheeks had Aegon smirking in satisfaction as he looked over the drink available. Cider had been his choice since Mother had forbidden wine. A carafe of it had made it into the tent, the Arbor red he preferred calling to him. His fingers clenched and he went for the water instead. He needed his wits about him.

“And miss your great debut? I hear Vance has been known to fight with a pollaxe and you’ve only matched against blade and the morningstar.” Aemond’s unimpressed commentary on Aegon’s resurgence in training for this event dripped through every word and he scoffed.

“Are you truly belittling me for participating in my nameday tournament while you peacock around going,” Aegon lilted his voice to match Aemond’s slightly higher tone. “Fuck tourneys, I want a war and a real fight, watch me jump around the training circle with Criston Cole.”

Daeron giggled, sweet boy that he was, and even Aemond’s glower was softened at the long missed sound.

“I’ll fight in the joust at Harrenhal,” Aemond declared, his mouth curling in satisfaction at the sound of surprise Aegon made.

“You? Joust? But you hate jousting.”

“I wouldn’t want to face him in a joust,” Alyn offered with a serious look. “You’ve met your brother, right?”

Aemond shifted in his chair, chin tilting slightly with his own hint of preening. The curl of his mouth turned deadly sharp with satisfaction. “Well, well, looks like you should be trusting Hull’s judgment more than I gave him credit for. It seems he’s not the fool I thought.”

“To finally be recognized by the One-Eyed Prince!” Alyn said, clasping his hands together in prayer. “Warrior, you have heard my prayers to have my statement of the obvious that I have eyes and know when to not engage with the scariest cunt in the room is taken seriously.”

Aegon veered to the left as Aemond chucked a piece of meat at his friend, Alyn’s locs swinging with the motion, and with an open mouth, he caught the piece in his mouth, but gasped and choked briefly from the speed at which Aemond threw it. His brother looked stunned, getting up to thump Alyn on the back. Aegon glanced down at Daeron, his brother only a scant few inches shorter and promising another growth spurt.

“So proud of the progress they’ve been making.”

“Aye,” Daeron said seriously. “But I’m still your favorite.”

Aegon tapped the side of his nose and poured Daeron a cup of wine and another for Alyn, who’d coughed up the projectile. Aemond was now examining the blades for himself now that Hull wasn’t in danger of expiring.

“I still think you should go with the single blade and shield.”

“We’ve been over this.”

“It’s flashy.”

Aegon’s face contorted into confusion. “Of course it’s flashy. What? I don’t get to be flashy, you twat? Is this because you’re jealous my dragon is lovelier than yours?”

“Don’t you compare anything to Vhagar, you golden peacock.”

“Oh please, Vhagar’s more wrinkled than Beesbury’s ballsack.”

Aegon saw a flash of light as the tent flap opened, but it was Alyn who startled to attention, cutting through the bickering loudly. “Lady Abrogail!” Aegon jerked his head around, watching as Alyn hurried up to the slight figure who just entered the tent. He sketched a bow before her, Abby’s eyebrows raised in amusement as he took her hand to press a kiss to it. “It is a pleasure to finally put a name to the face, my lady. The prince’s songs of your beauty do little to match the vision you present.”

Whatever demands Aegon was about to make for Alyn to stop with his charms died on his tongue when he took Abby in, lined by the sunlight coming through the part of the tent flaps. Her wrap gown was nothing she’d worn before and it took Aegon a moment to realize it was similar to Rhaenyra’s gowns. There was nothing of his mother’s influence or of the Riverlands about it. The silk blue as a robin’s egg, the lining of her belled sleeves a warm sunset orange-gold, and the belt cinched around her waist was a wrap of golden metal etched with decorative roses and weirwood leaves. A heated sensation curled through Aegon’s chest when he caught sight of the numerous golden dragons embroidered along her body: over one shoulder where the dragon’s head rested over her heart, wrapped around one arm, down along the drape of fabric and across her skirts.

Not just a dragon. It was his dragon. Sunfyre decorating his bride’s gown, so everyone knew she was his, his to protect, his to care for, his to hoard. The place inside his bones where Sunfyre fused into him purred.

Her hair was a cascade of copper curls, a loose knotwork of braids twisted along the crown of her head, the cinnamon sugar of her freckles were dark against her softly flushed cheeks. Woven into her braids was a strand of sea pearls interspersed with topaz gems that brought out the river blue of her eyes. His eyes darted to the necklace she wore, the warmth of it a contrast against her lightly flushed skin.

He still needed to get a necklace for her. One that was wholly from him.

“Off,” Aegon barked at Alyn as if he were a pup begging. “All of you out.”

“Mother said you’re not to be left alone with Abby,” Daeron chimed from where he was putting away his armor polish. “She was very insistent, but said I’m allowed to leave you two alone after you're married.”

Aegon stared at Daeron, blinking in confusion until he caught the scent of Abby’s rose and red currant perfume.

“It’s alright,” she reassured. Aegon felt his cheeks flush while Abby stroked her hands admiringly over his armor plated bicep. “I’m nothing if not a proper lady. Besides, I brought Aegon a present.”

“Would that be proper?” Alyn asked innocently, his meaning clear. Aegon growled, feeling Sunfyre huff in his throat, a heated thing in his chest. Abby’s cheeks flushed but she paid Alyn no mind, reaching beneath the fold of her gown. For a moment, Aegon thought he might catch a glimpse of creamy skin and the little freckle along the edge of right breast, but she pulled a folded scrap of fabric out instead.

Aegon thought of the tourneys they had watched when they were little, of knights coming to the stands and the royal box to curry a favor from one of the ladies. Ser Criston would wear his mother’s favor, Ser Harwin a boon from his elder sister. How daring they all looked, wearing those favors meant to keep them safe and bring them victory.

He didn’t see so much as heard Aemond’s low voice and the rustle of the tent fabric as he pushed Alyn and Daeron out of the tent, leaving him alone with Abby.

“You made me a favor?” he asked, so soft that he could barely hear his own voice. Abby’s teeth caught at the plump red of her lower lip and with careful fingers, unwrapped the gift.

The leather braid was multicolored, the red, blue and green of House Strong snaked with the black of House Targaryen, silver charms woven into it etched with tiny runes. On closer inspection, he realized they were like the runes on the gold chain that Lyonel Strong had worn. Aegon recalled how they danced in the candlelight as the two of them sat at the table on his nameday not long before he died, and Aegon had promised not to tell that Lord Lyonel was helping himself to the strawberry cream cakes that the Maester said he wasn’t meant to have. The favor was woven and twisted into a complicated knot, foreign in its design. It was familiar, tickling at some distant memory he couldn’t quite place, but knew he had seen it somewhere before. Abby held it in her hands and he touched it, taking it in hand and he could see that it hung on a leather cord to hang around his neck.

Emotions seized at Aegon’s throat. A sense of longing that he couldn’t quite place, grief at the loss of the man he had once known, and a strange sort of trepidation that curled through it. ‘I’ll protect her, I swear it’.

“It’s…” Her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips and Aegon’s mouth watered at the sight of it. She looked up at him beneath her lashes, her eyes so blue they looked like sapphires. “Dhá chroí mar aon ní amháin.” She paused, and then said it once more with a scrunch of her nose as she pronounced it slightly differently. “Two hearts as one, interlocked with no beginning and no end… I worked on it all night!” she added in a rush. Aegon could see her hand shaking and the twitch of her fingers from nerves. “What hurts you hurts me and the charms are protection to ensure that you’re safe and-”

Aegon closed the distance between them, his hand cradled her cheek while the other held the knot between them. He took advantage of her parted mouth to lick his way inside, and steal the taste of her mint and honey tea she drank in the mornings, of the sweet cream she slathered on her bread, of whatever taste that remained that was hers. She whimpered into his mouth and he drank it greedily, a growl low in the back of his throat. He stepped closer so there was no space between them, and Abby arched into him, uncaring of the armor that separated them.

“Prūmio ezīmus ñuhus,” Aegon breathed into her. The words unbidden, a spell, a promise, a declaration. His hand was trembling and he could feel her shaking against him. When he dared to open his eyes, her own were heavy lidded and looking back at him, the slightest pull of confusion creasing her brow. Her heart shaped mouth was red and kiss swollen, trembling as he was. “Half of my heart,” he whispered, the very thing pounding in his chest, his throat, the blood rushing through his ears that he felt dizzy with it.

He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.

Three times to matter. Three times to make it true.

“Aegon.” Abby’s voice cracked on the end of his name and she reached up her free hand to curl against his cheek and pull him closer again. She nuzzled her nose against his and tried to speak, but her voice cracked again, wordless.

His words, however, did not fail him. Aegon’s fingers stroked against the soft curve of her cheek, brushing away the copper of her hair from where it had fallen into her eyes.

“I love you.”

Let him be the first to tell her, for she was always the first to say so many things to him.

Her eyes widened, the smile spreading slowly across her face, and Aegon felt as if the sun broke through the storm clouds, the warmth of her as reassuring as Sunfyre. Her eyes crinkled and Aegon could feel his own crinkle in return as he smiled back at her, basking in the warmth between them.

“I love you.” Soft voiced but there was no lack of confidence, no indecision in the return of the declaration. Favor still clutched in her hand, Abby’s fingers dove into his hair, pulling him closer.

Aegon tilted her head back, touch reverent and mouth hungry, to taste the words for himself.

The silver necklace Abby wore was one meant for the Lady of Castamere. It belonged, by rights, to her grandmother, Dalla Swift, and was meant to pass onto her uncle’s wife when he took the seat. It was, however, the necklace her mother had worn on her wedding day and Abby’s fingers toyed with flame hued carnelian. It hung, smooth and flat backed in a lay of silver along her neck. The delicate silver chain was deceptively strong, strung with smaller carnelians.

‘Strength and bravery,’ her mother had told her of the precious stones she would wear. ‘Courage and joy.’ Abby ran her thumb along the smooth surface. ‘Brave, my little river lion. The fire of my heart.’

Helaena tugged at the ends of the braid slung over her shoulder, clad in a pleated gown of midnight blue with dragon pins at each shoulder, the fall of blue silk brushing against her shoulders. Rubies on a twisted band of woven gold were braided around the crown of her head, a veil of sheer red falling around her like a shield. Her mouth was pinched, brow furrowed, and it was clear the princess was at the end of her patience with the crowds.

“I will leave after Aegon’s gone,” Helaena murmured when she saw the concern on Abby’s face. She sunk further back into the low chair she sat in, her left leg bouncing. Abby reached into the basket at their feet and pulled out the half done embroidery that she’d been working on. Butterflies and beetles glimmering in jewel tones. She pressed it into the princess’ grasp, stroking her fingers along the back of her hands with a tapping motion.

“I’ll let you know when it’s his turn. Just focus on this.” Helaena’s mouth twitched as she clutched at her embroidery hoop, and Abby chanced a glance in the row behind them.

The royal box was an elegant thing. Rectangular with four massive stone columns at each corner carved with snarling dragons circling around each one. The roof was made of terracotta shingles coming to three points for the two lower levels on either side of the main royal box. The Targaryen banner flew from the highest point, with three banners each on the other two: Stark, Tully, and Arryn on the left, and Lannister, Tyrell, and Baratheon on the right. The view of the pitch was unimpeded from either end, and allowed those in the stands around them to view their liege.

King Viserys sat in a padded chair like a chicken in a nest, his crown of gold heavy on his brow and a cup of wine in hand as he inclined his head towards Lord Otto and her grandfather. The Queen was resplendent in a gown of verdant green, braided cord across the shoulders of the gown and snaking down her bodice in a mimicry of flames. Her auburn curls were free down her back save for the delicate twists that held it from her face and held her crown of state in place. She was smiling at Lady Lysa beside her and Abby was startled with how young the queen looked. So used to the cold remoteness of her cousin, the laughter spilling from her mouth was a rare sound.

She swallowed and turned away, uncertain how she felt about the sight.

“Have you had a chance to talk with Lady Alys yet?” she asked Wylla to her left. She looked beautiful in her bronze brocade surcoat, striking against the black kirtle beneath with bronze embroidery along the arms. Her thick hair was braided into cauls on either side of her head, much how she’d seen Lady Lysa wear her hair. Abby wound one of her own red curls around her finger and wondered if she too could pull off such an elegant style. Pearls draped around the crown of her friend’s head, little treasures nestled in the expanse of raven wing hair.

“Briefly, during the feast,” Wylla said and the pair glanced down towards the seats to their left. Harrion was easy to spot with his height in the crowd, his head inclined to the smaller figure beside him. Alys Bracken, his bride to be, her dark red hair caught in a snood - less delicate than the nets favored in the crownlands and the Queen’s court. She was a tiny thing compared to her betrothed, and Abby smiled as she saw the woman reach to touch Harrion’s arm. “She’s nice. Quiet.” Wylla pursed her mouth a bit in the expression she wore when she was trying to find something tactful to say. “Are all girls from the Riverlands like that?”

“Mmm, not if you were speaking with Melony Piper last night,” Abby grinned. Wylla was brash, and Abby wondered if her mother was such a way as well. “It is difficult sometimes to find one’s voice when everyone is so loud.” She clucked her tongue and took a sip of the strawberry wine that had come in for Aegon’s nameday, feeling rather smug about engaging with House Buckler on trade agreements. It was good wine, less heavy than the Arbor Red that Aegon tended to enjoy that was too dry for her tastes. “Why, I do think you fell rather quiet when Aemond pulled you onto the floor.”

“Och! Are you going to start with me?” Wylla’s attention pulled from her brother to smooth her hands over her black skirt and her pale cheeks flushed a touch. “It was very nice of him to ask me to dance-”

“Nice, was it?” Abby would not forget how Wylla had teased her so, pulling the details of the clandestine affair that had gone on in Abby’s bedroom by the firelight. “Did his hand stay in its proper place, or did you encourage him.” She put on a low mimic of Wylla’s brogue, sounding more Riverlander than Northerner as her lilt came on stronger. “Oh, Prince Aemond, your hand is so warm-”

“Prince Jacaerys!” Wylla’s voice came out high pitched and a little strangled, loud enough to carry over the din. There was a chair that separated him and Helaena before the King, for when Aegon and Aemond came up after the melee, he would take it as his place of honor. In the meantime, Helaena was, as she put it ‘staking her claim until her brother proved himself worthy of it’.

Jace was reclined in his chair, his head bent towards Baela’s. His jerkin was dark red leather edged in black, the buckles were shining silver seahorses. “Lady Wylla,” he smiled, a look so familiar it made Abby’s chest ache.

“Are you not competing today?”

Baela laughed and Jace rolled his eyes at her before returning to Wylla’s question with a sly grin that she recalled from their youth. It generally predated some sort of mischief, Aemond often its target. “I would, but since it is my Uncle’s nameday, I thought it would be in poor taste to upstage him.”

“Upstage him?” Baela snorted, reaching down beside her to lift one of the little vases that the vendors were selling among other things. A crude painting of a yellow dragon was splashed across the red clay and a black figure holding a sword was positioned for battle. “How could you upstage the man whose liking is splashed across a dozen pisspots?”

“They’re too narrow to be pisspots,” Helaena said mildly. “But they’d be perfect for the foxglove and oleander growing in Visenya’s garden. I could show you, if you’d like, cousin.”

Abby gave the princesses a sidelong look, but was pleased to see Baela’s expression was one of amused appreciation and Helaena’s own smile was small. Jace looked confused and uncertain of what he was meant to do before huffing and helping himself to some more finger foods from the low table. Abby hummed, her own smile crossing her face as the trumpets sounded for the first round of contestants. Squires marched out onto the pitch carrying the banners of their knights. Warren Fossoway was no longer among their ranks - he’d been knighted only a few weeks ago and would compete in the melee. Many of the women around her cooed over the sons and brothers proud on the pitch with their standards.

“Oh!” Abby leaned forward, touching Helaena’s arm to draw her attention before pointing. “There’s Daeron!”

The youngest Targaryen’s blonde hair gleamed golden in the morning light, proudly bearing the blood red, three headed dragon upon the field of black for his eldest brother. Ser Gwayne had let the boy squire for Aegon this day, and Daeron looked so proud and so serious all at once.

“He looks like Aemond,” Wylla said with a soft laugh. “They both have that same serious look.” Abby giggled at the comparison. Even this far away, it was undeniable.

“He has my hair though,” Helaena chimed in, waving out to Daeron with a beaming smile amidst her discomfort of being in the crowd. Her hands clutched back at her embroidery hoop as a wave of cheers rippled through the crowd again as the standards were placed in pairs of who would face off against whom.

“What is it that you’re making?” Abby looked over to see Jace leaning over to admire her embroidery. He’d slid over to Aegon’s empty chair, while Baela remained in her own chair, speaking with one of the ladies that had accompanied her, Zara Celtigar. “Would you show me?” Helaena nodded and Abby was relieved to see her focus on Jace’s question and interest. She recalled when they were young, that Jace had joined them on their explorations into the mud and underbrush for Helaena’s interest, always asking her questions about what she’d found and what she was looking for. Tension riddled through her own bones at what Jacaerys and Baela’s arrival would mean, but the fear that Jace would have turned cruel over the years felt silly now. Hopefully it would remain as such.

First on the pitch was Ser Warren Fossoway, the gleaming gold and red of Cider Hall embolized on his shield. His squire, a sandy haired boy who had served as page for Lord Otto, bounded in front of him proudly as the heralds announced him with trumpet and drummed fanfare. She did not know the boy’s name, but his preening and excitement was adorable. Warren’s light brown hair curled along the back of his neck, his armor heavy plate that suited his broad frame well. As his opponent, Lord Ryam Merryweather, called for a favor from his lady wife, Warren approached the royal box, his helmet beneath his arm. The squires got out of the way, perching with the heralds

“Princess Helaena!” he called, cheeks flushed from the excitement and a boldness that Abby wasn’t entirely surprised by. Helaena’s head jerked up from where it was bent next to Jace’s, startled at the public address. “It would be a great boon to my spirits if you would grant me your favor on this day!”

Her round cheeks went flush pink, and Abby wondered when the last time Helaena had snuck off to trade favors with the knight before them. The princess handed off her embroidery hoop to Jace and reached into the basket for her favor. She pulled out one of the twisted bands of flowers and ivy wrapped with ribbon, normally used to crown the lances of the jousters than for a melee fighter but it worked all the same. Ser Warren would be able to hook it on his belt without issue. Helaena rose smoothly, approaching the railing and tossing the favor down to him.

“I hope this protects that pretty face of yours, Ser Warren!” she called down to him, anxiety pushed away and teasing in her tone. “It would be a pity to lose such handsome countenance to some knightly foolishness.”

Warren caught the woven circlet and sketched a bow, sending a wink up at the princess before going to meet Lord Ryam out on the pitch.

“I’m sure Warren appreciates your blessing,” Abby teased her sister. Helaena rolled her eyes and took her seat once more. Jace’s lavender eyes were narrowed, brow furrowed as he looked from Helaena to Warren as the knight swung his sword with a great yell and the bout started.

Abby winced at the first screech of Lord Ryam’s blade across Warren’s shield and the wave of excited hollering that washed across the arena. She was giddy with the excitement that it spurred on. Gone were the tangled snake nest of nerves that fostered in her belly from the feast. Here, there was comfort being in the relative privacy of the box. Yes, the eyes of the realm kept gazing up, pointing and whispering, but there were men drawing blood in the arena below, and Abby could pretend they were pointing at anyone else but her.

For his first tourney, Warren stood his ground. It took everything Lord Ryam, an experienced tourney knight with a decade and a half on the younger man to land each blow. Each white flag for the knights were slow to come. Twisting and turning, it was an exciting start to the melee events and finally, Warren struck the last blow: a clang of castleforged steel along the back of Lord Ryam’s shoulders. Lady Lysa, from her seat behind the queen, stood and cheered along with the applause of the rest of the court. Even Ser Westerling, stoic as he oft was, shouted, “Well done!” that carried over the crowd.

Helaena shifted in her chair and Abby glanced over at her. Teeth caught on her lower lip as her occasional paramour bowed to the royal box and Abby noted the flush on her cheeks.

“I didn’t know Warren Fossoway became a knight,” Jace said casually. Heleana did not clap, but held her hands before her, a broad and encouraging smile on her face, eyes dancing with curiosity.

Helaena shrugged. “It’s well earned, mind you. Ser Warren is the attentive sort. Not even Aemond could cow him.” She settled back in her chair to focus on the embroidery in her lap. “He’s worked hard for it and he makes quite a handsome figure in his armor.”

On her other side, Wylla muffled her snort into a cough and Abby silently handed her a goblet of wine with an amused shake of her head.

“What was it like twirling about the feast in Aemond’s arms?” Abby asked as the next competitors took the pitch. Her heart thrummed in her chest, her cheeks heated when her thoughts strayed to the feel of Aegon’s mouth on hers, the taste of him, the feel of his armored arms wrapped around her. She sighed, soft and distracted before her bright blue eyes landed on Wylla, who was giving her a knowing look.

“I will throw you from this box, lady. I’m not drunk yet.” She took a swallow of the strawberry wine, making an intrigued face at the taste and then another sip. “Did he get under your skirts again?” Wylla asked quietly, leaning her head closer so as not to be so easily overheard.

Abby’s cheeks flushed. “So did Aemond pull you on the dance floor to argue with you, or to be his human shield?” Their eyes met, both challenging, but there was no bite beneath their words. She would not be dissuaded from her line of questioning.

The crowd cheered as Ser Corbin Manderly knocked Ser Janos Farley’s helmet from his head.

Wylla’s cheeks, fair as the winter snow, flushed pink. “He said, rather dashingly, that he knew I’d be a good dance partner because I would not bore him with inane conversation. I then proceeded to tell him how I never, ever wanted to sew the beads upon your wedding slippers ever again. I did it for the love of you, but you better not ask for beaded slippers for any other dress or for your children or anyone else.”

“But I didn’t ask you for beaded slippers, you offered.”

“I will throw you from this box.”

Abby giggled and took her own sip of strawberry wine. “You’ve said that already. We need to get you new threats.” She glanced down at the pitch, clapping along with the crowd. “So you explained the intricacies of beaded slippers. You danced quite a bit, so he must not have been dissuaded.” Aemond and Wylla had danced several turns before he was pulled to dance with other maidens of the court. He’d not danced with anyone else even half as frequently as he’d danced with the northerner.

“He was quite pleased to discuss the original plans of the Aegonfort,” Wylla huffed, but there was a smile dancing about her red lips. The kind of womanly secret Abby had been jealous of in Cassandra Baratheon. The kind that Abby wondered if she held now. Wylla clapped politely as the knights finished, Ser Janos the victor this time around. The expression she wore was a pensive one, uncertainty creasing at the corner of her eyes. Reaching over, Abby stroked the elder girl’s arm, comforting if not sympathetic, as she was uncertain if Wylla needed sympathy so much as reassurance.

“Aemond is mercurial and moody, and knows everything, but he is, above all else, honest.” Abby’s fingers brushed at a loose thread on the bronze silk of Wylla’s gown. She had never been to the north, but Wylla had spoken of it lovingly, with a homesickness laced with the kind of frustrations one developed with a need to see the world. “I know this place is one of duplicity and confusion, but you can believe me when I tell you that Aemond plays no games. His intentions are what they are. He finds deception in such things to be foolish.” Abby grinned then. “Why be underhanded and duplicitous when he can simply threaten or show he knows more?”

Wylla snorted. “He knows everything about the Aegonfort.”

Abby shrugged, grinning. “He plans to be an unparalleled military man, you know.”

Their conversation was cut short as the trumpets sounded, louder now than they had been for the men who had come before. It was the Targaryen herald song, the drums thrumming through the stadium as the people rose, cheering for Aegon Targaryen, son of the king. Abby’s heart pounded in time with the beat, slowly rising to her feet with a grin, cheering along with the rest of the crowd that chanted his name. ‘Aegon! Aegon!’ They shouted. ‘Prince! Prince!’ Her feet took her to the railing, if only to get as close as she could, the breeze tugging at the loose curls that hung down her back.

Daeron looked so serious leading the way, carrying Aegon’s Targaryen standard to be hung, the breeze catching at his curls. This was not his first tournament, nor, Abby surmised, was it even his tenth. He carried his duties with the experience of a squire far older than he. As he hung the standard up and stepped back, Aegon grabbed his hand to tug him close, lifting their joined fists in the air together. Even with all his experience, the boy was not immune to the cheering and shouting chants of his own name as the brothers stood beneath the crowd, Aegon sharing this moment with his littlest brother. Daeron broke out into a grin, his own cheering as the people of King’s Landing, the lords and ladies of the realm who had come down, shouted out their wishes.

Aegon was so handsome. Everything narrowed down to seeing him standing there. His armor was a burnished black, the plates of it layered like Sunfyre’s dragon scales. The pauldrons were layered similarly, broadening his already broad shoulders. The gold chasing glimmered in the sunlight, his helmet beneath his arm. His silver hair shone golden beneath the light, pulled back from his face in a few small braids that Aemond must have done for him so his hair would not fall into his eyes beneath the helmet.

He turned from the crowd to approach the box as all the contestants did, his lilac eyes meeting hers. A flush unfurled beneath her cheeks even if all he did was smile so wide that his eyes squinted with it.

“My lady!” he called, his voice nearly lost to the noise of the arena. “The joy on your face could outshine the sun itself!” Abby heard Wylla scoff behind her, but paid her little mind, teeth nibbling along her lower lip. “Are you truly so happy this day?”

“I am, my prince,” she called down to him, feeling Wylla slide the braided ring of flowers into her hand. Abby toyed with the favor. She wanted to call down to him that she was so happy because he told her he’d loved her. He had said those words to her, confessed them to her first and she was drunk with it, giddy and incandescent. She wanted to kiss him again, to taste the promises on his pouty mouth, but all she could do now was toss the favor down to him. “And if you wish to keep me so happy, you will come back to me safe and victorious!”

Aegon’s smile took a mischievous edge, a rakish glint in his eye. “I do wish it, my lady. All you must do is command me.” He tucked the favor onto his armor, turning his gaze to meet his father’s. He crossed his arm across his chest in a sign of fealty and bowed before giving her a wink and going to stand by Daeron who held his swords in hand. Further down the pitch, Abby could see Aemond and Alyn Hull standing safely out of the way. Aemond looked serious, face pinched in concern as Alyn hollered his cheers of encouragement.

Abby watched as Ser Edmund entered, the cheers for him quieter than the people who cheered for their prince, but the sound of it joined the excitement of the match to come. His squire was one of the Piper boys, only a little older than Daeron and no less experienced. Edmund looked like a knight from a song, his light brown hair golden in the sun, the placid smile on his face making it seem as if the accolades of the crowd bored him. His armor was bright plated steel, elegant in its simplicity, but the strange eyes that made up the Vance coat of arms unnerved her. They reminded her of the unblinking eyes on the older carvings within the Red Keep: sightless, with their wide, frozen gazes.

His page carried his arms for him, the two handed greatsword nearly overwhelming the boy. Aegon stood with Daeron on the other side of the platform where the standards were set beside the officials for the match. He barely spared the elder man a glance, busy flexing his hands and adjusting his gauntlets. Daeron had his brother’s swords sheathed and ready.

Anxiety curled in Abby’s gut. Aegon had a natural talent with the blade, had found great joy in it when he was younger, like any boy would when they found themselves handed something sharp and deadly and taught to wield it from some of the best swordsmen in the realm. Regardless of natural talent, Aegon had not spent the past three years throwing himself into blade mastery. Not the way Aemond had.

A hot hand found her own and Abby blinked when Helaena appeared at her side and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“You’re giving Mother lemons,” she whispered. Abby felt her cheeks flame deeper but she did not spare a glance over her shoulder.

“Let her. The realm enjoys my foolish childishness,” Abby murmured. Helaena chuckled, but her form grew tense as Edmund Vance’s eyes cut in their direction. The knight approached, bowing before the king and the court.

“Congratulations on your betrothal, Lady Abrogail!” he called up, his eyes flicking towards Aegon. “I do hope to deliver His Grace back to you in one piece!”

Her fingers scraped against the stone railing she leaned against, the smile still firmly on her face. She ached to claw at him again, to peel back the layers and reveal the ugliness that lay beneath.

“That is too kind, Ser Edmund. I only hope that you are prepared to fight your first dragon.” She tilted her head. “They are fearsome opponents.”

As if on cue, Sunfyre’s call came from the dragon pit, loud even as Aegon’s mount was confined. He’d broken out that night months ago when Aegon and Aemond had fought, and was under even more guard to ensure he did not break free again.

Aegon’s grin was bright and full of what might have been boyish innocence had he been anyone else. Instead, there was something invitingly dangerous about it. It made her belly feel as if it was turning circles, the embarrassed flush morphing into something wanting and excited. His eyes met hers, his lilac gaze bright as the pink streaked across the sky at night.

The herald called the start of the match and the two men were on each other like Braavosi dervishes. Vance, with his greatsword glinting in the light, and Aegon meeting each strike with the clang of his own steel. He wielded an arming sword along with a slightly shorter sword and it was a sight to behold to see him in true combat and not just in the training yard with padded armor. Abby exhaled slowly, too breathless, too anxious to shout for him, but her eyes did not stray.

Her heart was in her throat. Ser Edmund was fierce and well practiced, a tourney knight several times over. Each powerful swing had her gasping in fear. Each clang of Aegon’s swords against his had her trembling. Edmund had reach, but Aegon had a ferocity that was less polished, more wild than his brother. He dove under swings instead of jumping back out of harm’s way. Abby had watched him in the training yard sparring against Harrion Karstark, the northman a powerhouse of grace and battle readiness. Aegon had held his own, although different from how he did now.

The crowd was a wave and a roar of cheers and hollering as if this was the best fight they would ever witness. Let it not be said the people did not enjoy a drama, or the sight of the king’s son, a fierce warrior.

Abby’s teeth caught at her lower lip, worrying the pink flesh with her nerves and excitement. Vance swung and a scream caught in her throat when the sharp edge of that great blade knocked Aegon’s helmet from his head, sending it flying and skipping across the ground and too far to reach. Abby heard Alicent cry out in worry, but there was no tearing her gaze from him.

Sweat dampened his silver hair, the fine braids Aemond put in doing their work to keep his vision clear. A laugh escaped him and then Vance’s gauntlet knocked him about the face, sending him reeling back.

Aegon laughed as the knight before him advanced, spitting blood on the ground from his. He twirled his swords lazily, arms open as if he meant to embrace Vance. The man swung, and Aegon abandoned his right blade, tossing it behind him in the dirt. His left sword came up to block the swing as he stepped into Vance’s reach. This time, a wordless cry ripped from her, more inhale than exhale. Helaena gripped her hand tightly, reassuringly, but was otherwise silent in her observation.

She’d seen Aegon pull the move before. It was not something taught by Ser Criston. No, this was purely Aegon, who spent his time in taverns and brothels, coming home with split lips and bruised egos. As Aegon stepped into Vance, his left blade blocking the elder’s sword, he turned. It all happened so fast. One moment they were both upright, the next, Vance was flying over Aegon’s shoulder, his greatsword falling out of his reach and even from the dirt of the pitch, Abby swore she could hear the ring of metal armor as Ser Edmund Vance hit the ground so hard his own helmet careened off, leaving the man red-faced and gasping.

“I don’t need to take his hands.”

“And what have you decided to take instead?”

“His pride.”

Aegon still held his arm in his grasp, looking down at him. He shouted something but Abby could barely make it out over the roar of the crowd, louder than dragons. His hands jerked and twisted Edmund’s arm in a sudden motion, the knight howling in pain as his arm fell limply to his chest, broken. The herald was declaring Aegon the winner. Vance’s page was running out to the field with two other men as Daeron ran to his brother, cheering and pumping his fists in the air. Aegon embraced him, spinning him around as the pair cheered, shortly being joined by Aemond and Alyn.

Abby’s grip on Helaena’s hand eased and her whole body trembled as the tension bled out. The heat remained though. The twisted tangle low in her belly was warm and syrupy and this time she screamed out his name, like one of the small folk in the stands, her grin so bright it might have hurt if she even registered it.

“He really did it,” Baela said. “And fucked his sword arm while he was at it.” It was only then that Abby registered that they had been joined at the railing. Jace on Helaena’s other side, Baela beside him, leaning over the railing like she could get closer. Wylla was to her left, clapping and shouting along with the rest of the crowd. “Fuck. I owe Lannister ten dragons.”

“I won’t say I didn’t think he had it in him…” Wylla began, a teasing note in her voice. “But your betrothed was in fine form today. Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” Abby repeated with a faint voice, her eyes affixed on the man below basking beneath the accolades and triumph. It was the second time in as many days that the realm cheered for him in a way he was so deeply unaccustomed to. Aegon reveled in it, blowing kisses to the crowd and waving both hands.

The favor she had publicly given him was still affixed to his belt and he unhooked it, twirling it thoughtfully around a finger before flinging it into a section of the crowd. Abby watched the scramble it caused but the crowd was too thick for her to see who had come out with the prize.

“The Golden Sunfyre indeed,” Helaena grinned. “Although more like a Golden Peacock. Abby, you don’t seem to mind, do you?”

She glanced at her. “Did you enjoy dancing with Jace at the feast?” She was no longer the only one who could be teased, and she’d make sure the rest of them knew that. It was nice, getting to have something to poke at the others about.

Jace’s face flushed. Helaena raised her eyebrows, a smirk playing across her soft features.

As the boys below disappeared back to the tents, Abby turned to take her seat. Her eyes caught the Queen’s from where she sat on the right side of her husband. There was a vague air of annoyance on her face and Abby was immediately concerned it was due to her.

‘Why should I be concerned about cheering Aegon on?’ Abby thought. It would have been a poor showing indeed if she had not. She squared her shoulders, inclining her head. Aegon had shown up sober and ready to make a good impression, both things she thought would soften the queen’s edges.

“Quite the show,” her grandfather said from where he sat on Lord Otto’s other side, an indulgent smile on his face. “Prince Aegon is quite the creative warrior, and practiced with the crowd.” He raised his goblet to the king and queen and Lord Otto. “Congratulations on raising a fine young man. To Prince Aegon on his nameday indeed.”

“Ah, that he is. We’ve minded him well, and he’ll make a fine lord, having minded the example I’ve set.” Lord Otto choked momentarily on his goblet of wine. The queen flushed, plucking at her skirts while she hesitantly returned the smile, as if expecting a jest, but found none.

“Thank you, Uncle. He is… still a rambunctious boy in many ways. But it seems my hunch was right that a gentle hand was what he needed.”

Abby sucked in her lips to hide the smile that threatened at the uncomfortable looks that her grandfather was pretending not to notice while he commented on the taste of the wine. Her heart ached with it. The presence of Rodrick Reyne had been a balm to her soul. To have someone in power care about her wellbeing in such a genuine way as he had shown her in the days that he’d been there felt as if it had started to heal something she did not even realize was broken. He did not care about her becoming Aegon’s queen, or the games that were being played. He just wanted her to be happy.

She reached back, squeezing Wylla’s arm before looking over at Helaena. “I’ll accompany you to Aegon’s tent before you go back to the castle, now that the important show is done with.”

Helaena’s relief at escape was palpable, naked on her face and she shoved her embroidery back into the basket, smoothing her hands over her skirt. The queen’s brow furrowed.

“Helaena, darling, are you well?”

The princess plucked at her skirt as she bobbed a curtsy. “A headache from all the sound,” she said. It was a familiar statement and while it did little to ease the concern on Alicent’s face, understanding shone and she nodded. Lord Otto’s concern was also there as he noticed them moving towards the back of the box. He waved to one of the servants lingering along the side of the box.

“Have the cook prepare Helaena some sherbert and send it up to her rooms,” he ordered. Helaena’s gaze brightened at the prospect of the spiced compote and she shuffled over to press a kiss to her grandfather’s cheek.

Arm in arm, Abby and Helaena exited the royal box. Her heart thudded like the drums between her ribs and she felt Helaena tug her back when she walked faster.

“Give him time to get out of his armor first,” Helaena said softly.

Abby gave her a look, prim and proper. “And what if I want to help him out of his armor?” The princess scrunched her face up to hold back her laughter. The guards outside Aegon’s tent bowed and opened the flap to let them inside the dim interior.

Aegon was indeed in the process of getting out of his armor, Daeron tugging at the shoulder strap of the cuirass with a concentrated look so far removed from his boyish glee that he’d shown just moments before.

“I can’t believe you used the same move on him that Gabor put you through that table with!” Alyn crowed as if Aegon’s victory was his own. “I wish I could’ve seen the look on his face when you started laughing-” His words were cut off as Aemond punched his shoulder, drawing his attention to the tent opening. Alyn sputtered, jumping to attention and bowing like the most experienced of courtiers, rather than the smooth talker he’d been before. “Your Grace, Lady Abrogail.”

Abby tilted her head. “So I only get such gallantry from you if I’m in the company of the princess?” she asked, a soft, imperious tone to her voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aegon smirk. “Such a shame.”

Alyn blanched, mouth gaping like a fish. “N-no, my lady! I never mean any disrespect. I…” The poor man was at a loss for words. Aemond was also looking amused at Alyn Hull caught on the edge of the unexpected teasing. Abby moved further into the cool confines of the tent, folding her hands beneath the long bell sleeves of her lapis gown. It was her first foray into the Targaryen styles that had been popular when Princess Rhaenyra was at court and a gown that she found quite comfortable in.

“Leave us,” she commanded, a smile playing on her face. “I would like some time alone with my gallant knight, and the princess needs her escort towards the carriage to go back to the castle.”

Aemond’s gaze shot over to Helaena, concerned before understanding. He grabbed Alyn by the shoulder and hauled him up. “We’ll escort her, since Prince Jacaerys lacks such manners.”

“Wylla is still in the royal box. I’m sure she’ll be lonely since we’ve left her to fend for herself,” Abby piped up. Aemond’s cheeks turned so red she thought he’d burst into flames, and he growled low before following Helaena from the tent. Abby looked at Daeron expectantly as he undid the second strap and was removing Aegon’s cuirass. “You too.” Daeron frowned, opening his mouth to protest, but Aegon rested a hand on his head, mussing his hair and pushing him away.

“You did well today, squire,” Aegon told him. “Go have some fun before you have to help Uncle Gwayne for the joust.”

Daeron squinted at the pair of them before shaking his head with the most put upon sigh Abby thought she’d ever heard before he scampered away. The flap closed behind him, cutting off the shaft of light that came in, muffling some of the revelry outside. Heat flushed through her body and Abby turned, studying Aegon half out of his armor.

He was still smirking at her, a dark look in his lilac gaze, his lower lip cut and swollen from the hit he took. Aegon turned and pulled over the chair to sit and work on his greaves, and Abby came to undo the rerebrace that protected his biceps. He smelled of sweat and the lavender mint of his soap. There was the subtle scent of something warm, something inherently Aegon that she couldn’t put her finger on, but had her belly fluttering and rolling with heat. It made her fingers tremble, the only sound the clinking of his armor as the pieces were slowly removed.

Abby moved to his other side to work on the braces, her fingers stroking over the braids in his short hair. “Aemond?” she asked softly.

“They work, even if my hair’s…” He waved a negligent hand and she stroked her hand over his head again.

“I think it looks nice. I’ll learn, if you’d like,” she offered. Aegon made a soft sound and handed her the greaves for her to put on the table so he could work on his other leg. Once both his arms were free of the armor, Abby leaned against the side of his chair to stroke her fingers over his hair again. Aegon nuzzled his head back instinctively into the touch. She remembered the shadowy night on Driftmark, the trembling fear she felt as her brother was accused of fathering heirs to the throne, of Rhaenyra demanding Aemond be questioned. Of feeling so lost in the midst of dragon fire.

Flame that eventually consumed those she held dear.

She slowly worked the braids free, tenderly untangling the twists with a sigh, as if she could breathe out the bad memories that lingered and threatened. Abby inhaled, letting the scent of him fill her gaps and spaces. If only she could crack open her body and bring him into her, caging him into the space between her ribs and lacing herself closed. Perhaps then this newfound feeling of safety, of acceptance, would never leave her.

How warm he was. More than warm, Aegon, like his siblings, ran hot with the dragonfire in their blood, and she hungered for his closeness as she always had. To keep her warm and comforted. He tilted his head back to rest along the back of the high-backed chair, a lazy smile on his face, eyes still heavy with the dark look that blew his pupils so wide the lilac was just a rim.

“I should call you kēlītsos, shouldn’t I? You’ve been flexing your claws and baring your teeth.” His voice was low and rough in that way that she adored. It had her breath hitch and the ache inside her grew. Arousal was thick in her veins, pulsing through her with each pound of her heart.

“What does that mean? Kēlītsos?” She had finally asked Helaena what hunītsos meant, blushing so deeply at being told it meant little rabbit that she swore Helaena to secrecy upon her coveted orb weaver.

“Little lion,” he said with a shrug, heavy lidded with the attention she was paying him. “Technically, little cat, but the point-”

Fingers in his hair, Abby licked her way into his open mouth without hesitation. No tender, shy touch of her lips against his. No, she was parched as if she’d been lost in the deserts of Dorne and Aegon was the only spring she’d seen in days. He tasted like salt and strawberry wine, of the copper tang of blood from his split lip. He growled into her mouth and she moaned in response, fingers dropping from his damp hair to his sweat soaked linen shirt. He was eager, giving in to the way she yanked him up to feel him against her, to lean into him on her shaky legs. Aegon wasted no time, his arm hooking around her waist to hold her close to him.

Her teeth caught instinctually on his lower lip and Aegon grunted with a note of pain. “Sorry,” she mumbled into his mouth, not really sorry at all, and Aegon didn’t seem to mind, for he growled at her murmured apology. All that mattered was the slide of his tongue against hers, the way the heat of him sunk into her, nestled there, and the heat that pooled between her thighs, of the way her hips pressed into his without nary a thought for what it meant.

Abby bumped back into the edge of the trestle table, the armor on the other side clinking with the jostle and tried to hoist herself up, but her gown was in the way and she didn’t want to let go. Aegon handled it, his broad hands grasping her waist and dropping her down on the table top. He broke the kiss, flushed face and nipping at the tip of her nose, grinning as she giggled at the playfulness. His hands played along the decorative metal and chain of her belt, stroking around to her back to toy with the clasp. Her eyes darted to his, drawn to the heated darkness of his gaze and the concentrated furrow between his brows as he worked the clasp. He held her gaze and her lips parted with each unhooked chain until they were undone.

‘Eyes on me’ she recalled, uncaring as he dropped the belt to the table, the slide and thump as it slid off. Abby swallowed, a whimper escaping her, nipples peaked against the fabric of her gown with that needy sort of aching that was spiraling through her.

“Aegon,” she breathed and arched into him, his hands coming up to cradle her jaw and caress her neck, fingers diving into the curls that flowed about her. Her hands trembled as she grabbed at his hips to pull him closer with all the imperious demanding she was capable of. He laughed into her mouth, and Abby swallowed it greedily while her hands worked at his own belt, the back of her hand brushing against the hard evidence of his own arousal. She whined again and Aegon brushed her hair from her neck to nip along her jaw and down the pulsing flutter of her heartbeat beneath her flushed skin.

“Abby,” he breathed back, his prayer answering her own. Hands tugged on the gown she wore, kindly undoing the ties that kept the wrap of the dress closed. The air hit her when the fabric was pulled away, baring her body beneath the airy linen that protected her skin from the scratchy underside of the gown. Abby shivered so hard her teeth chattered.

The feeling overtook her. It was a heady thing, like she’d drunk too much wine. Her hand lifted to tangle into his hair, his mouth dragging against the crook of her shoulder. Her other hand came up, pulling aside the collar of the loose linen shirt and she sank her teeth into the crook of his shoulder, biting into the salty taste of him. She moaned and growled as if she too were a dragon and Aegon gave a shout, a growl that sounded too deep, too inhuman to come from a human body before he snarled, his teeth locking onto her shoulder to make a twin. The sharp pain of his bite spiked hot and she bit harder into his shoulder to muffle her cry, the copper taste hitting her tongue as she broke skin.

His hands were yanking into her hair and she cried out when he pulled her off him only to take her mouth with his. He was frenzied with it. There was nothing gentle in the kiss and her own hands pulled at his shoulders, tearing into the linen shirt. Her legs came up, now free from the confines of the gown to wrap around his waist and pull him closer, feel the hardness of him press into the soft heat of her. She wanted him. She craved him. ‘Fuck what the queen says’, she thought with a possessed need that had been coalescing inside of her since the first time Aegon had kissed her beside the lake. She would have her husband now, open her body to him so he could never leave, so he would never stop touching her.

The cry that escaped her was bereft when he broke the kiss, both of their mouths red from the exertion. Aegon looked wild, a man possessed, his eyes bright as he licked his lips and leaned back to take a look at her. Abby leaned back so he could see her, the way she wanted him. The fabric was only on this side of sheer, the shadow of her form visible beneath - the dusky pink of her achingly peaked nipples, the gentle round of her breasts and the way the neckline of the shift was tugged down over a shoulder.

He growled low in his throat and leaned forward, pushing her back so she had to brace herself on her hands to keep from falling back. Aegon cupped a breast in one hand, his mouth capturing the other, the wet of his touch soaking into the material as he tended to the aching peak. It was heated and she whined, helpless to his touch and unable to reach for him lest she fall. She pulled her legs up to hook her ankles to the small of his back and hold him close, digging her hips into him to feel the thick outline of his cock pressing against her. She instinctively wriggled like a caught cat, rubbing herself against him for a way to relieve the ache that was driving her mad.

There was a knot growing in the syrupy heat of her belly and she gasped out, “Aeg, please,” but Seven help her, Abby didn’t know what she was asking for. Aegon must have, for his hand came up to press against her back to hold her steady and she immediately looped an arm around his neck while the other hand clawed at the linen of his sleeve, so hard she might have torn at the seams. It brought her closer into him and he encouraged it, his thumb rubbing over her other nipple in soothing strokes that made her shake. She felt a pang of jealousy at the idea of him touching other women like this, possessive with the need to have him all to herself, to let him forget about the faceless women, to make sure Cassandra Baratheon was a flitting memory.

Let her be filled with the womanly secret. Let her be the one he was mad for. Let her always be the one that he fought stupid men for, whose favors he wore.

The woven knot had slipped from his collar, brushing against her and she smiled, mouth brushing against the crown of his head. She pressed herself further against him and Aegon’s hips snapped into her, the groan he let out filling the tent as he switched the breast he tended to.

She wanted his mouth everywhere.

Abby’s hand wormed back between them, tugging at the fastenings of his trousers, eager to feel him, to feel the warm weight of him, to imagine what it would be like once he was inside of her. “Let me,” she begged. Demanded. Whined for with all the impatience of a child waiting for a treat. Her fingers found him, the warm velvet feel of his cock and the violent shudder that went through him. She cried out louder this time, his name broken on her voice when his teeth bit down on her breast from the shock of it before he soothed it with gentle licks of his tongue.

He was as thick as she remembered, her fingers unable to properly wrap around him and the feel of it made her light headed to wonder at how he would fit, when his finger stroking in had felt like an intrusion. Yet, she was eager to find out, hungry for it. With a grunt, Abby pressed her free hand against his shoulder to push him back, her breasts cold from the absence of his mouth. She needed space between them so she could see, so she could take in the sight of him, heavy and warm and what he would look like wrapped in her cool hand. It was an image she had been robbed of before.

She had only touched him once before in the night when he had crawled into her bed like a demon from Asshai, the kind that crept into a maiden’s dreams. It had not been as easy as this and she had barely been able to touch him properly, but had thought about it often in the weeks since. Now she could look at him and so she did, Aegon still holding her up with his hand braced against her back. A kind lover.

She was not a blind nor sheltered girl. Abby had seen the tapestries that the queen had moved into the gallery. The lurid Valyrian ones of men and women copulating in all sorts of poses. Of women embraced with other women, groups of them all tangled in a mess like snakes. Books of anatomy snuck from the library had also done little to prepare her for this.

He was flushed and thick, the tip of him beading with moisture and he bobbed as if seeking her hand when she reached down to touch him. A nervous giggle escaped her.

“Are you making fun of me?” Aegon asked, curious and teasing. “It’s just saying hello.”

She gently wrapped her fingers around him, another giggle escaping her. “It’s soft.” She did not know whether to meet his gaze or to keep looking at him to hide her sudden nervousness that did little to wick away her needy giddiness, her insatiable curiosity.

Aegon grunted, his eyes fluttering as her cool fingers wrapped around him. “It’s very much the opposite, kēlītsos,” he said in a voice so gravely and raw that it seemed to come from somewhere else. It hooked down into the knot deep in her belly, tugging at it like she might peak at the mere sound of his voice. Her fingers could not properly meet, and she felt truly dizzy. Aegon’s mouth was warm on her forehead, nuzzling into her and she sighed, eyes fluttering closed as their mouths brushed, the laziness of the motion contrasting with the frantic need that pulsed between them.

Tentatively, Abby’s hand began to stroke and Aegon’s shiver was delicious to feel, the whimper that escaped him like a wounded animal, broken and gasping against her mouth. She swiped the tip of him, gathering the wet that beaded there, and licked at the cut on his lower lip. Aegon’s eyes fluttered, the growl he made before rumbling through him.

She gasped, an abbreviated kind of giggle. “You sound like Sunfyre,” she murmured and Aegon chuckled, groaning low into her hair.

“You love him more than me,” he complained as his hot hand bunched up her shift, pushing away her blue gown some more so he could stroke his fingers across her belly. The muscles clenched and it was her turn to groan, an indelicate sound that had her jumping, her hips shifting and seeking that pressure again, the delicious touch that she had missed. “There’s not enough time to taste you.” He shook his head in annoyance, a glance at the hourglass on another table.

“Take me instead,” she said, her cool hand reaching to cup his face and draw his attention back to her. She looked up at him, beseeching. “I don’t care, I want you. I love you.”

An agonized expression crossed Aegon’s beautiful face, the feral edge he had when they first begun and the softness that came after, the fondness and love.

“Not now, not like this.” He was shifting her back from him, removing her hand so he could use both hands to tug the gown away from under her, pushing her around to tug it free. “When I take you, I won’t stop. We’ll be in bed for days,” he told her, serious, his gaze heated, his tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip. “Just when I taste you, I need more than the little time we have. I want to feast on you, not rush.” He took her gown and carefully laid it over the back of the armor rack.

Abby swung her legs, her blue eyes large and heavy lidded, watching as his hand wrapped around himself, tugging with purpose. She committed the motion to memory, tongue darting out to lick at her lower lip in an expression reminiscent of his. Her hair was a mess around her shoulders, and she was shivering not from cold, but from the heat coursing through her, the achy want that she could taste in the back of her throat and feel roiling and twisting in her belly. She reached for him, whimpering, “Aegon, please,” on her trembling voice and hooked her fingers once more into the linen shirt and tugged him to her once he was within reach.

She wanted to die when he kissed her. She wanted to drift into the endlessness of oblivion where nothing else mattered, where it was just the taste and feel of her Aegon, the feel of his body against hers, the shape of him fit against her, the only fabric separating them the damp cloth of her smallclothes. It wasn’t enough and she canted her hips, and Aegon rutted against her, the thick of him sliding along the shape of her separated by her small clothes. Abby couldn’t breathe, all she could do was taste the copper and the strawberry wine, the imagined feeling of Aegon slipping in and filling her up, right where he belonged. She craved the touch, craved his heat in a way she never knew she was capable of. Her legs came back to press against his hips, her feet hooked at the small of his back to trap him to her where he was hers, and only hers, and she belonged to him.

The familiar feeling of something building came rising through her, the gathering of a great wave to crash upon the shore. Abby gripped him frantically, tugging at his hair, pulling at his shirt sleeves, fingers scratching against his shoulders to keep from falling, even when it was all she wanted to do. Aegon rutted against her with the abandon she wanted from him, no care at all except the chase of pleasure between them as he nudged that spot only recently discovered. Her head fell back, eyes squeezed shut as she frantically sought her end and dimly, she registered Aegon consoling her, his murmured words against her throat where he’d bitten her, the mark red and surely to bruise.

“You are so beautiful, look at me,” he commanded her in reverent tones. She forced her eyes open, heavy lidded, to focus on his own distraught and desperate look. There was a sensation of insurmountable feeling as she teetered on the cusp, the world focused onto the look in his bright eyes, their gazes locked to one another. Aegon’s hand dipped between them, his rutting ebbing to be replaced with hot, calloused fingers dipping beneath the mess soaked linen. Her cry was loud, strangled, and it took everything to keep her eyes on his while he rubbed at the aching of her, fingers dipping teasingly into the heat and then she clenched on nothing, unfairly nothing, the rushing and roaring of blood in her ears and the gasping of air as she fell from the pleasure washing over her. That great wave that crashed against the shore was crashing through her.

She was vaguely aware of the way he tugged her smallclothes away, words spilling from him, “You’re so beautiful, this cunt belongs to me now, look at you,” and she nodded, whimpering over and over, ‘Please’ and ‘yours yours’ and ‘love you love you.’ She felt the heat of him rub against her, the sticky sound of it and Aegon’s own groan loud before something wet and full of heat brushed onto her. Abby watched him stroke his cock, the milky white spend of him falling upon her cunt, caught in the thatch of red curls and the sinful, delightfully reckless feeling of it all made Abby squirm. The feeling of him sliding over her heated skin, the way she was entranced by it was a feeling she couldn’t describe.

She reached down, swiping her fingers through the mess to stick them into her mouth, the way she had watched him suck her own taste from her fingers, her eyes never leaving his. In turn, she shivered as he dragged his own fingers through the mess he’d made of her. Abby canted her hip, wanting him to press inside but instead, he licked the taste from himself as well.

It felt like a ritual. Like something strangely holy, reverent within the indulgence of it. ‘Fuck what the septa said. What the queen said’, she thought savagely to herself. ‘There is nothing wrong in this, and I won’t be denied.’ She opened her arms to him and Aegon gently tugged her smallclothes back over her, petting her softly before stepping into her hold and wrapping his arms around her. Abby sighed and buried her face against the crook of his neck, her mouth pressed to where she’d bitten him.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair and she shimmered and glowed in his hold, feeling his arms squeeze her in the clinging way he had not done for so long, like he was afraid she would slip through his touch.

“I love you,” she whispered against his neck, trying to cast a spell that would embed the words into his skin, to be indelible, a tattoo that would protect him in the way her favor might not. “Can we stay here? I want to stay here with you.”

He chuckled, low and fond and stroked his fingers through the mess of her hair. “I’ll help put you back together. Pity there’s nothing to clean you with.” It was a lie, and he didn’t sound sorry at all, for her gaze drifted over to the barrel of water, soap and cloths in the corner. “You’ll just have to carry the mess for the rest of the afternoon.” Aegon sounded pleased with himself, and Abby squirmed deeper into his hold, blushing with it, shy and heady. “Come, let’s get you put together before Daeron comes back, and then we’ll go watch the jousting.”

There was a tenderness in the care he showed after it that warmed her, and Abby watched him with a soft, giddy feeling as he grabbed a comb from the table to start putting her hair to rights with unpracticed but eager attentiveness. She sighed and settled in to let him tend, and let herself drift into the afterglow.

Chapter Text

Floris Baratheon could not sit still, clutching her bow and quiver, peering out the carriage window as they approached the Kingswood. “A-hunting we shall go, a-hunting we shall go-”

“Hi-Ho the derry-o, a-hunting we shall go,” Abby sang in turn, the song a familiar one from childhood. The Baratheon girl had been quite annoyed that she could not ride a horse the way the other men did, but with the promise that she would not have to sit with her sister in a carriage, she had been content enough.

Abby sat beside Lythene Ryger, who had been quite speechless at the invite to the carriage. Wylla would have normally been with them, but with her soon to be good-sister, Alys Bracken, coming along, she was off playing chaperone and overly curious and mischievous younger sister to Alys and Harrion. Abby was glad she had the opportunity to do so, for her dear friend was giving up much to stay in the south as her Mistress of Keys instead of returning home to the Karhold.

On the other side of Helaena, Margaery Crane of Red Lake sat. Her lush, light brown hair was braided in a crown around her head, and her face was square with large, unnervingly green eyes. Her head was bent towards Helaena’s, threads of evergreen and butter yellow woven in her fingers as she taught the princess how to finger knit. It was an easier pastime during the long carriage ride to the camp than Helaena’s embroidery. Her twin sister, Desmara, sat on Abby’s other side. The only difference between the pair was her dark, chestnut hair and the scar across her full mouth.

“I’m sure if you ask Daeron when he goes out with the party, he’ll retrieve the stag antlers for you,” Helaena said, her eyes focused on the thread between her fingers. “He’ll love the opportunity to prove himself.” Floris rolled her eyes in only the way a girl of one and ten could, her black braid wrapped around her head with stubborn tendrils escaping. She tugged on the ties of her raven black cloak.

“Nay, Your Grace,” she said primly. “I would show my own mettle, and face the stag myself.” Her cheeks were pink all the same. Abby bit her lip to hold back her chuckle, not wanting to tease the girl. She caught Desmara’s own amused look, the scar across her mouth pulling at her own smile.

“Well, I don’t think they’ll let you go hunting the stag, Lady Floris,” she said. Floris looked pleased at the kind address from the elder girl. “But we’ll be going hawking and the spoils are certainly yours. That’s how I obtained the rabbit fur for my gloves.”

“That’s true,” Abby chimed in. “And you are a child of Nightsong, are you not? I’m sure falconry is in your blood.” Floris’ mother was a Caron, with a lineage of fierce warriors nestled in the Dornish Marches. Lady Ellyn Caron had songs sung of her, and how she, in part with other lords of the Stormlands, defeated the Vulture King. It was exactly the kind of family lineage Abby could see Floris idolizing.

Floris nodded seriously, running her fingers along her bow. “This is true. I suppose I should practice.”

“Practice until you come back dragging the stag behind you,” Helaena continued. “My elder sister is said to have taken down a boar with her own hands, only a dagger as a weapon. I think you have that same mettle in you.”

Floris preened, leaning into Helaena’s side to watch the magical weaving of the yarn. Abby’s heart ached with fondness for the girl, pleased that she had been taken on as Helaena’s ward. The girl was not meant to be stuck behind her three eldest sisters. The Smallest Storm would blossom, she hoped, beneath Helaena’s care and attention. It did not go past Abby’s notice of Cassandra’s harsh attentions to her sister. It reminded her of her own sister’s lack of understanding; always critical, always focused on some perception that her behavior would reflect poorly upon her. Floris was exuberant and curious, but she was not into reckless mischief or excessive rudeness.

She’d be good for Helaena. More importantly, had been good for Helaena, who had taken on Margaery Crane as one of her new ladies, and Abby would take Desmara. The Crane twins had endeared themselves quickly, Margaery introducing herself by way of teaching Helaena a new fiber art, and Desmara had gifted Abby a book on Asshai, a knowing wink in her verdant green eyes.

As the carriage pulled into the camp, cheers had already started from the other gathered lords and ladies. “With all that noise, they’re sure to scare away all their quarry,” Abby laughed, peering out the window to look on ahead.

The boys had ridden on horseback, Aegon in the lead on Kostōba, Aemond, Daeron, and Jace on their own horses beside him, with their own small retinue. Their cousin, Lyonel Hightower, was with them, as were a few other lordlings that Abby was unfamiliar with. She spied Alyn Hull’s silver braids from where he was on his own horse, smiling at the sight of the brash young man there within Aegon’s retinue. He had been a true friend to the prince over the years and it was good to see him brought into the fold officially.

Alyn would serve as steward when they departed for Harrenhal, taking on the household duties from Uncle Simon and learning under him. Aegon had been pleased that he’d agreed to the offer, brushing off his mother’s gape mouthed indignation about it. “He’s the reason I still live, Mother,” Aegon had said, unusually mild in the face of Alicent Hightower’s anger that morning as they broke their fast. He’d brushed a kiss against her forehead, and Abby wondered if he had found strength in the security they were building between them, that not even his mother could shake.

Seeing Aegon’s confidence was intoxicating, so rarely did he come off so sure of himself, and she craved to see more of it. Her teeth scraped her lower lip, belly rolling with heat.

“Good tidings to Prince Aegon, second of his name!” came the booming voice of his Uncle Hobart, leading the call of cheers. “Good tidings to him on his nameday!”

“Good tidings!” came the call of the gathered crowd. “Prince Aegon!”

As Abby settled back in her seat to wait for the footmen, she caught Helaena’s gaze. Anxiety crackled between them, mixed with the joy and love there for Aegon’s nameday. After the hunt, Abby was certain Helaena would cocoon in her chambers, barring the door should anyone try to get her into another crowd. Abby didn’t blame her, and in fact, might even join her for a bit.

The cheers had begun to die down by the time Daeron’s smiling face helped them out of the carriage. Windswept, dark blonde hair fell across his forehead as he bowed. “Allow me, my sister, ladies.”

As he helped Floris from the carriage, their eyes met, both faces going pink at the cheeks, and Abby saw her future good-brother’s hand tighten slightly around the girl’s fingers for the briefest of moments before her feet met the ground and she pulled away, her eyes on her shoes. It was not often that Floris fell quiet and blushed so red, and it did not appear that anyone else had noticed. Daeron clenched his hands to himself and his eyes met hers, his own flush deepening before he quickly hurried away.

The king had stayed behind in the Keep, as did several lords and their families. Lord Grover’s health had also kept him behind. Lord Otto had stayed to facilitate court, leaving the festivities that day in Aegon and the queen’s hands.

Her hands, Abby knew, as young ladies of the noble houses began to approach her and the princess, a few mothers in tow.

“Baela’s a Targaryen too,” Helaena muttered. “Why can’t they flock to her?”

The lady in question had rode on horseback, her red leather jerkin fitted against her lithe form over a gray tunic and black breeches tucked into black polished boots. The rings in her hair glinted in the late morning sun, sparkling as she turned her head with a laugh and dismounted her mare by Jace. Abby shook her head.

“Because they’re afraid she’ll be a bad influence, I’m sure. How are they supposed to get husbands if they dress comfortably?” Abby posited, smoothing her hands over her riding jacket. It was a warm evergreen color, deep azure and crimson soutache snaking over her shoulders like the red and blue forks of the riverlands. The crimson lined wool jacket fell just past her knees, and she wore a pair of warm trousers tucked into polished black boots. Helaena was dressed similarly, her jacket the same shade of deep azure as Abby’s decoration, embroidered with silver dragons with black beaded buttons carved in the shape of dragon head clasps running down the front.

“Hasn’t Mother decided that you should remain here to entertain all those ladies?” Helaena asked, their arms linked as they headed to the main tent. Ahead of them, Alicent Hightower was resplendent in a warm cloak of the deepest verdant green lined in black fur, her gown not one for riding or hunting, but far more comfortable for the outdoors. It lacked excessive ornamentation, the black and green skirts swirling around the tops of her own boots. Her hair was much like Helaena’s, wound in a braided crown about her head. Lady Fossoway was a half step behind her with Ser Criston as they always were, with the rest of the ladies trailing after like a gaggle of geese.

“We’re doing the receiving line,” Abby said, the fingers of her free hand fidgeting against the fall of her jacket. “Aegon’s receiving his gifts and then we’ll have congratulations on the betrothal.” She flexed her fingers, the soft leather of her gloves creaking slightly with the movement. They were lined with soft fur, luxurious, indulgent, and while she was certainly never dressed in rags before, it was rare to accept and let herself have new things when they often felt so unnecessary.

It was a new feeling to be excited about the new clothes that she had, more sumptuous than what would normally be allowed at her station.

Wylla joined them as they passed into the pavilion, warm from the braziers placed strategically about the place, each guarded by a cage of decorative wrought iron to prevent unfortunate accidents. On one end of the great tent, a small dias with a simple, dark wood throne, crested with a dragon, wings spread in welcome.

It was the King’s chair, but the king was not here.

“Are we to accompany you while you receive them?” Wylla asked. Her long hair was bound tightly back and wrapped in a coiling knot along the back of her head. Her padded black jerkin clung to her over a long tunic of gray, black riding trousers tucked into a pair of matching boots. Like Baela, she was dressed for a day in the wilderness without the cumbersome dealing with skirts.

“You look nice,” Abby told her with a small smile. “Not quite the Wildling I heard rumor of,” she teased and Wylla snorted.

“It’s a hunt and the opportunity to ride and get the fresh air. We’ll be going hawking while the men go to shove their pricky things into…” She trailed off with a twist of her mouth, the small scar along her top lip pulling at it. “Men waving around their big pointy things.”

“In a far more acceptable manner than what it implies,” Abby added on, giggling at the silly implications of it all. “And yes, I think you should. We’re receiving gifts, so you best take Desmara and Lythene with you to Lady Fossoway for instruction.”

“And then we’ll go hawking,” Wylla said with a nod.

“I have to stay here,” Abby corrected with a shake of her head. “It is my duty to entertain with her Grace.”

The northerner’s brow furrowed and both of them looked in the direction of the queen, her cloak handed off to a servant while she spoke with Lady Johanna. Wylla shifted beside her and Abby could feel the questions and arguments flitting beneath her friend’s skin. She rested a gloved hand on her shoulder, giving her a squeeze. “As I told Aegon, these are some of our new duties, no matter how dull they seem to be. Hopefully there’ll be time for me to go exploring later.” Hopefully. Abby loved exploring the Kingswood, and she’d been looking forward to going hawking, even if she did not particularly hawk herself. However, fun and indulgence could not be had in favor of duty and responsibility.

No matter how much she craved the freedom of it.

Wylla gave her a long look, teeth biting at her lip before she nodded and getured for Lythene and Desmara to follow her. Helaena had already left with Margaery and Floris and Abby was left standing alone, for the moment, amidst the steady flow of nobility pouring in for refreshment and talk. Alone, Abby was relatively unnoticed. Just a small girl in the midst of a crowd, no crown on her head to shout out who she was.

“Abrogail.”

Larys was taller than most people realized, for he did everything he could to make himself small. Few knew that Larys was as tall as Harwin had been, for her elder brother preferred to have such a small cane, to shrink himself into spaces where he could slip in. It was strange, Abby realized, that she had never noticed that it was a trait she shared with him. No desire to be the center of attention, no desire to be noticed, both for their own reasons.

The smile he gave her was an awkward twitch, but Abby noticed that it did reach his eyes, which was a rare thing, and she found herself returning it. Small and shy, perhaps, as if she were still the somewhat muddy little girl she’d been who he’d look at curiously across the breakfast table in the family solar.

He was subdued in a quilted doublet of the same deep azure and brown leather, his cloak a dark green-blue to match, clasped at the shoulder with a firefly broach. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow of his free arm, languidly walking toward a clutch of plump seating not far from the currently empty dais. The smell of cooking food caught on the woodsmoke in the air, and Abby’s stomach rumbled with hunger. They’d only had some fresh bread and cheese on the ride over, and the idea of warm, spiced pumpkin soup and a turkey leg the size of her own face was rather appealing.

“You’ve conducted yourself quite admirably under all the attention as of late, little sister,” Larys complimented, taking a seat on one of the padded benches. She perched beside him, smiling her thanks at the servant who came by with mugs of hot, mulled wine. She inhaled the scent of orange and lemon, the warmth of cinnamon before taking a sip. “Even with your, shall I say, antics at the tourney, they were quite well received.”

“Antics?” she asked lightly, feeling the curl of heat spread across her chest. There was no way for Larys to know what sort of other antics they’d gotten up to. The bite Aegon had left along her shoulder had turned bruised and tender, the imprint of his teeth still deep in her soft flesh. That mark was quite well hidden beneath her jacket and shirt beneath.

Larys only hummed and took a sip of his drink. “The other lords have expressed concern at my choice of husband for you, but I have assured them there is no reason to fret. I simply wanted my sister to be cared for and happy.” He gave her a sidelong look, placid expression barely shifting, his dark eyes large and innocent in his expression. “And everyone can clearly see how happy you two make one another. The queen…” he trailed off with a sigh, “has not quite been pleased but…”

Abby looked down at the deep purple-red wine swirling in the silver goblet. Anxiety prickled through her, confusion at her brother’s attempt, it seemed, to try to bond with her on something more personal. “Her Grace has been very indulgent,” she said softly, mouth twitching into an awkward smile that her brother returned. He inclined his head towards her only just.

“We both understand how passionate the queen’s frustrations can run, little sister,” he said softly, the scent of him cold and clean, like a tomb. Abby blinked, the awkward smile falling from her face. Her throat bobbed, the sting of bile in the back of her throat was almost painful. Had the queen told him what had occurred? Or had Larys, with his strange talents, found out what happened himself. “You will not be her ward for much longer. I imagine, like any mother, she is feeling the maternal ache over the loss of her son to his wife, and the loss of you, who is like a daughter to her.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, busying herself with another sip of wine so she might find the words. They were receiving glances from the bustling court as they found their places, platters and great soup tureens being set out along the tables. Her stomach growled again. “She was quite concerned about… the dishonor I would bring upon the royal family.” Her voice was little more than a shamed whisper and the insinuation was as painful as the day she’d been accused when coupled with Ser Edmund’s harsh words in the gardens. She straightened her shoulders, trying to push past the hurt and shame that lingered still, tilting her chin up, refusing to be cowed. “Apparently some of the other lords are quite concerned about your heir marrying into House Targaryen.” She smiled at the passing servant, plucking a small apple tart off the platter he held. “I have made my own assurances that our children will be raised in the customs of our people, that regardless of dragon blood, we are the Riverlands.” Whether or not Edmund Vance believed her, if he mocked her to those he could find for such statements, well, she could do nothing about that. She could only mind herself.

“It will be a hard road, Abrogail, given that they do not see you as one of them. Lo, they barely see me as one of them, what with all my work here,” Larys said with a nod, looking at the cake he’d plucked for himself. “What matters is that you greatly impressed Lord Tully, and his son has been amenable and welcoming-”

“I may not have grown up in the Riverlands but even I know there’s only so much influence they have,” Abby cut in, chewing her lip after the words tumbled from her, her voice a soft, biting thing. Larys said nothing to that while he chewed on a bite of cake, and she shifted slightly in her seat and took another sip of wine. “It will not be a smooth transition, not for all. A prince? Becoming vassal to a mere lord?”

“Prince Daemon was Lord of Runestone through the dear, late Lady Rhea,” he reminded her after swallowing. “I don’t recall any such problems between him and the Lady Arryn.”

“Jeyne Arryn was kin to his goodsister,” she retorted. She had spent countless hours in the library with Aemond, taking meticulous notes of the lessons the boys had that her and Helaena did not. Part of that involved wiling away a week of stormy, frigid weather, tracing out the family trees of the Great Houses. The Targaryens rarely married out, even before King Jaehaerys, but there had been Aemon and Daella to houses Baratheon and Arryn, and Queen Aemma’s siblings and half-siblings. She’d even traced her own tree: Harwin’s mother, Lysa, had been Lord Elmo’s sister. Larys and Corynna’s mother had been a Frey. Abby’s mother had been a Westerlander, already outside, already suspicious of the clannish houses of her homeland. “And if all the mutterings and murmurings are true, he cared as little and less for them as they did for him.”

She’d heard the rumors of Daemon being responsible for his first wife’s death, and the occasional muttering that he was responsible for Laena Velaryon as well, but in the past few days being with the mercurial Baela, she did not think that was the case. Abby looked back at her brother again, briefly, before smiling in greeting as Lady Redwyne and her sister settled nearby. The queen had sat on the opposite end of the circle of seating, the corral of it split evenly between the pair of them. Her shoulders slumped minutely and she kept her genial smile as the older women settled in.

Laughter caught her attention, Helaena and Baela both with shaking shoulders near the pavilion entrance as other girls joined them. They would be going hawking soon. The sun caught upon Helaena and Baela’s silver heads, giving them a golden shine. A sigh caught in her throat. How nice it would be to join them, to frolic in the lack of responsibility.

Larys shifted, still sitting at her right hand as the rest of the guests filtered in, and her attention drew back to him. “Ah, yes, the princesses and the other ladies are going hawking. Did your grandfather not gift you a new hawk for your engagement?”

Lord Rodrik had indeed. Abby had hawked some when she was a little girl at one of the hunts for Princess Rhaenyra’s nameday, but had never had a one of her own. But Lord Rodrik and her Reyne family were prodigious hawkers and the beautiful Peregrine she’d named Caelus was a little wonder. He’d been trained by her cousin, Emrik, who had fancied himself a falconer, and had sent a kind letter that she was quick to return. Letters had been rare over the years, but there’d always been well wishes and tidings on her nameday.

“He did, and I know we brought him. The queen…” Abby trailed off, her eyes darting to the other side of the tent where Queen Alicent was smiling at the younger Lady Redwyne. “She said that it was our duty to host while Aegon goes hunting. That it’s my duty. To make friends, to comport myself as the future princess.”

“Oh, did she?” Larys asked mildly, cocking his head to the side and leaning on his cane. “Yes, I can see what she would want that. It was, after all, what has been expected of her when she was your age, already with two children. She had far more in common with the matrons of the court at that point. You are here when others who should be are not.”

Rhaenyra should be here. She was the King’s eldest, his heir. Discomfort prickled along Abby’s spine, a latent spike of anger at the woman who had put her family in danger, hurt at how quickly Rhaenyra had moved to Daemon Targaryen after what happened to Harwin. Her fingers curled against her knees before she forced them to relax and stretch. The Crown Princess had always been kind to her, but could Abby even trust that? After what happened at Driftmark, and what happened to her family?

Alone now, save for Larys.

‘Not alone anymore’, she immediately reminded herself, because Aegon was with her now; Helaena and Aemond cared for her too. They too were her family. Not alone, for she had her grandfather and he loved her truly. Yet, she had felt this loneliness for so long. Rhaenyra was not responsible for her loneliness, but in many ways she felt it keenly. It felt as if everything changed because of her.

This marriage, Alicent’s desire for control, Lord Otto’s keen and watchful eye were because of Rhaenyra. Aegon’s pain was because of Rhaenyra.

Her father and brother were dead and gone because of Rhaenyra.

“I am here when others are not,” she said softly, eyes watching those who watched her, her smile flashing as she murmured her greetings as the ladies began to gossip. Larys was murmuring his own greetings to Lord Piper’s wife, complimenting her on the recent betrothal for her son. Abby’s gaze darted towards the front of the tent, where the girls were still gathered as they prepared to go off for their own little adventures.

Alicent Hightower made sure she was there. She made sure that people saw her as queen, someone to be trusted and counted on, someone that could be reached. She was here, as Abby was here.

“If the Targaryens mean to exercise power in our realm, they will be in for a rude awakening.”

Abby was not queen. She wasn’t certain what that future held, but she did know, with certainty, that she was the future Lady of Harrenhal, and that Lythene Ryger, Melony Piper, even Sarra Frey who was lingering nervously with a goblet in hand, they too would be future ladies of houses that she needed to be friends with. Abby could not just rely on the fact that she held the title, not when she did not grow up in her home, not when people like Edmund Vance were so eager to tell her that it didn’t matter, they would see what they wished.

“Lady Sarra,” Abby called, rising with a smile and handing over her goblet. She could feel Alicent’s eyes on her, and that over the other ladies. “I did not have the opportunity to speak with you at the feast last night. Pray, will you join me and the others out hawking?”

Sarra Frey was a tall girl, broad shouldered with high cheekbones and dark hair bound in a twist of three braids down her back. She wore a simple but lovely jacket of deep blue and silver, the colors of her house. At being addressed, she straightened up, green eyes wide with surprise at being noticed. They narrowed slightly, mouth parting before closing. A flush crept across her cheeks.

“I don’t have a hawk with me, Lady Abrogail,” she said softly. At her full height, she was as tall as Aemond, more softly spoken than her severe expression might have said. Abby smiled.

“That is quite fine, there are plenty to go around.” Sarra nodded, handing off her goblet to one of the passing servants and Abby looped her arms through hers and tugged her towards the others. “My legs are exhausted from that carriage ride, shall we go?”

Even Baela’s mask of judgment faded as they walked towards the edge of camp where the Master of the Mews was minding the hawks and preparing to move out further from camp. She was stuck between Helaena and Wylla, the princess’ silver head shining beneath the sun. Lythene was laughing with the Crane twins and even Sarra was pulled into conversation with Zara Celitgar, who was eyeing the tall Frey girl appreciatively.

“Are we not taking a carriage?” Margaery Crane asked as Helaena led the way past the line of them set aside for their later return.

“It is not a far walk,” Abby assured her. “And it’s nice to stretch our legs after all that sitting.” She nodded towards the Master of the Mews and his apprentices carting the hawks ahead of them. Margaery hummed in agreement, confusion placated, and Abby was set to continue onto another subject when there was a commotion from behind them. She looked over her shoulder to see Cassandra Baratheon striding behind them.

“You all left so quickly!” she announced, censure and jovial all rolled into her crisp tone. A slight smirk crossed her sharp features as they approached. Among the three ladies that accompanied her, Lady Elinor kept close at her side. Cassandra’s dark eyes swept over Abby as they drew closer, and she felt picked apart by the gaze, something sharp stabbing between her ribs at the continued haughtiness of the eldest Storm. Abby straightened, offering her own wan smile. Like hell would Cassandra set foot into Harrenhal, but this?

This she needed to be easy with; this she could allow.

“Of course, Lady Cassandra,” she said. “We would be happy to have you.” Helaena made a soft sound that Abby ignored but felt deeply. Her eyes flitted to Lady Elinor at Cassandra’s shoulder, giving her a warmer look. It was her family’s strawberry wine that had been highly spoken about over the course of the festivities, and Elinor’s responding smile was kinder.

“Congratulations are in order, Lady Abrogail,” Lady Elinor murmured. Cassandra’s eyes tightened, her smile frozen on her face.

“Yes, congratulations on your coming nuptials,” she parroted, smoothing her kidskin gloves over the fall of her woolen hunting jacket. “How comforting it must be to wed one’s childhood playmate. No surprises or excitement to worry about.”

The words were harmless enough, but the barb beneath them was clear. Abby tilted her head slightly, her own smile still on her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was Baela who spoke, angling her head between Wylla and Helaena to peer at her cousin.

“Not to mention wedding a childhood playmate means there’s no barrier to intimacy, and no secrets kept,” she said, then bit into the apple she had in hand. “Now let’s fucking move before I start hunting with my bare hands.”

Helaena was meant to be in bed but sleep eluded her. She waved away the maids and headed out into the night toward the great bonfire in the center of camp. There was no danger here, much like there was no need to fear in the Holdfast. Her slippers grew wet after only moments, the night dew soaking into the soft fabric and chilling her toes.

She wanted to dance around the fire, stare into the flames like she heard the Red Priestesses did, and wonder to herself if her dreams would make more sense then. Aemond said she was touched as Daenys was, a gift precious to their Targaryen line. It helped ease the fearful strangeness to know that her strange dreams were not simply the ‘odd workings of an overactive imagination.’ That they did mean something, but what? Helaena was never certain. Sometimes she never knew the outcome, other times they became starkly clear.

‘He’ll have to lose an eye’.

“Would you care for some company?” came a low, curious voice, a slight crack on the last word. She looked over to see Jace lingering at the edge of the firelight, his jerkin long discarded with just his gray linen shirt and trousers, a dark blue cape wrapped around him. The bright flames danced in his lavender eyes, giving them a shade of deep purple-red she found curious indeed. Did her own look the same?

“You’re not gallivanting with the boys?” Helaena asked, not meaning anything by it until the words hung in the air, and Jace’s gaze glanced to what he held in his hands. The only ‘boys’ for him to gallivant with were her brothers. Of course there were other lordlings about, but given that Jace was lingering around the bonfire caused her to wonder if he too liked the quiet.

Or if he were lonely.

“I didn’t want to…” Jace trailed off, rubbing his thumb over whatever he held in his hand. The motion of it reminded her so strongly of Abby, Helaena didn’t know how she was supposed to process it. The curl of unease and her mother’s frustration and anger coated her insides. Her own frustrations, deeply buried but still there, like the ever smoking fires of the Dragonmont, bubbled and burbled in response. The king who loved Jace more, loved him like he loved Rhaenyra more. The blind man who ignored Aemond’s nameday even though it had just happened, who only thought of Aegon’s day because of everything that happened.

The dead look in Mother’s eyes that was more and more frequent, when she stared out the window of her solar, her hands twisted and knotted into her skirts. The things that Sire-Father had done to her for no reason except his own dragon feelings, Helaena thought. His need for more and more, consuming him the way the anger would consume Aemond, and the drink would consume Aegon.

All of them pinned to boards in the king’s Freehold miniature; all of them frozen and set on display in his own gallery, for him to take down from time to time to play with.

The burst of a log in the fire startled her and Helaena realized, uncomfortably, that she’d been staring, vacantly, at Jacaerys, who was watching her, still as water, quiet as an orb weaver. He watched her, the fire throwing orange and red across his fine features, catching at the warm red in his dark, dark hair. His right eye was a sheen of red from the fire, his left cast in shadow. Half fire.

Her right side was chilled, when her left was so warm, mirrors of each other.

Half fire.

Jace held out his hand, palm open, offering to her the smooth stone that he had been fiddling with. The ridges of the sea creature who died in it caught upon the light, throwing its own little shadow as it was unable to in life, living in the sea as it did. Only now, in his hand, had this creature found warmth and light.

Helaena reached for it, her hot fingers scraping against his as she took it, feeling his own hot skin beneath her touch.

Half fire.

‘But I am full flame,’’ Heleane thought, for she was dragonflame and lighthouse flame. Lighting the way with fire in her wake. Jace was fire, yes, but he was river water, the way it rippled through him. Still and steady, but crashing and flooding with the ferocity of a dragon’s power. ‘Would this be what her nieces and nephews be?’ Is this what a union of fire and water entailed? Deadly and quiet, steady when they were full of heat and flame.

She rubbed her thumb over the fossilized creature and it felt pleasant against her skin. Soothing, tactile. Grounding. “Thank you,” she said softly and Jace smiled at her. “Pity it’s not another marchpane tentacle.” He laughed, a soft sound that sounded like water over stones and they came to sit on the bench. She shoved her feet closer to the flame and watched the steam rise from the fabric from how hot it was. There was a few inches between them, the warmth emanating, and they sat together, no words spoken. These were her favorite moments, ones she missed. It scraped at her insides, like pushing dirt away from the stone so she could find the worms beneath. They were the memories of the gardens in childhood, Jace beside her, mud and damp soaked into his knees, helping her push the rock up to find the pill bugs and the beetles and the centipedes in the dark, damp earth.

“It was nice to dance with you at the feast,” he ventured, and Helaena looked at him, the shadow along his jaw where he’d wake up fuzzy and prickly in the morning. She reached up to rub the back of her fingers against his jaw, looking at the slight pout of his mouth, the dark fan of his eyelashes. Freckles faint against his skin.

“You're a good dancer. I should know, I’m a good dancer myself.” She smiled at him and he shook his head, a flush on his face and she felt her own spread across her cheeks. He scraped the toe of his boot in the dirt and she nudged her foot against his. He was familiar, in the way Aemond was, but he was new in the way Warren had been. Someone she knew, but didn’t. He wasn’t angry, and he wasn’t pushing and probing at her, looking for a bruise to elicit feelings from, or the thrill of a princess. He didn’t look at her like she was odd, or startle at her staring, her distant sight.

Jace was simply patient, and he waited, and did not seek to chatter. It was new, it was old, it was like pressing against the ground and the dirt giving way, a little tunnel inside that one didn’t know was there, and Jace peered in and made his way inside. A dragon roosting in a cave.

His knee bumped against hers and she looked at him, their matching lavender eyes meeting. It was nice, Helaena thought, that they had this piece to share. Like two different butterflies, different colors and different patterns, but the markings were the same. The wings were the same. Simply… different.

“The mint winds and chokes like ivy,” she said, instead of what she meant to say, which was asking him if he would come looking for stag beetles with her the next day. “The children can’t breathe, it’s bursting from their mouths.” She blinked, startled, but the words that she had not known, had not meant to utter, remained heavy between them. “I-.”

He blinked back at her, brow furrowed. “Helaena, are you-”

A horrible scream ripped through camp and for the briefest moment, Helaena thought it might have been a fox shriek. But this was too loud, too close. Another scream, this time two high pitched ones and then a guttural yell. Jace’s hand gripped hers, pulling her to her feet and away from the fire. She tugged at his hold to move towards the commotion, but he tugged her back. “I’m taking you back to your tent, Helaena,” he said firmly. “We don’t know what’s- Ow!”

She had lifted their hands, sinking her teeth into the plump flesh at the back of his thumb so he’d let go and hurried towards the tents without a second glance, knowing that he’d be following her. She gripped her skirts, grateful for the warmth of Jace’s cloak around her shoulders and her heart sank, panic seizing her chest when she realized it was Abrogail’s tent that was the source of the screaming.

Three of the Kingsguard, including Ser Criston, were already there, as were the gold cloaks that had been patrolling around the outskirts of camp. Their cloaks reminded her of Sunfyre’s scales in all the torchlight, and half-dressed nobility coming out of their tents, bleary eyed in confusion.

On the ground lay a servant with a blade in his chest, blood burbling from his mouth. Helaena looked at him, wide-eyed, Jace trying to get her to look away, and her gaze went up to Wylla Karstark. The northerner was shaking, gray eyes wide as dinner plates, her hair bound for bed, her dressing gown haphazard and sprayed with blood from where the man must have coughed it at her.

“He-he came in. He was on Abby so quickly-”

“I don’t know where he came from!” Abby’s trembling frame was right behind her, clutching one of the pokers from the tent brazier in her hands, still ready to strike. Her curls were twisted and wrapped around the crown of her head, shivering in the night air in just her own nightgown, sleep mussed and clearly straight from bed. “I don’t…” She gulped. “I don’t think he meant Wylla to b-be there.” Her free hand was gripping the back of Wylla’s dressing gown, and Ser Criston laid a hand on Abby’s shoulder.

“Give me the poker, Lady Abrogail,” he was saying in a calm, steady voice like he did when Helaena was younger, cowering in a corner and unable to flee the commotion. “There’s a girl.”

Harrion Karstark was shouting his sister’s name, just as Uncle Gwayne was calling hers. Helaena turned her head to see him coming up, half dressed with his sword belt slung over his shoulder. He reached for her shoulder, tugging her back. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted, and Helaena stumbled back into Jace as the crowd parted.

Then, Aegon’s shout of, “Abby!” came crashing over the gathering crowd, pushing his way through with Aemond at his back. She caught her younger brother’s frantic look, seeing the worry ease somewhat at the sight of her before going over to the girls. Abby surrendered the brazier poker as Aegon reached her, frantic over the state of her, pulling his cloak off to wrap around her, fear and fury warring on his flushed features. “What happened?”

The man on the ground was rasping, wheezing, but it was hard to tell if he was alive or not, or if this was how his body signaled death.

“This man came to attack Lady Abrogail, Your Grace,” Ser Erryk said. “Lady Wylla got him good.” His twin nudged the attacker with the tip of his boot as Aemond looked at the man, then at Wylla. His face was carved in hard lines, but his gaze was softened.

“Did you throw it?” he asked. “Or did you pounce on him?”

Wylla blinked, her brother’s broad hands holding her shoulders. “I stabbed him.” Her voice was faint and she took the blade handle, clutching it to her. “He… I was putting away our dresses and there was a commotion… I thought…” Wylla’s brow furrowed, shaking her head. “He came in through the flap beside the bed and crawled o-on top of her. Abby screamed and I just…”

Harrion’s hands tightened on his sister’s shoulders and the girl fell silent with a soft squeak. Aemond’s mouth pursed and he knelt beside the man. His hair fell in a curtain, the band of his eye-patch not holding it back from the vantage that Helaena had. He reached down, and twisted the blade, a wet crack sounding in the sudden hushed anticipation. The wheezing sounds the man was making tapered off as Aemond pulled the blade from his body.

It squelched, a gout of blood spraying, and a strange, hissing sound like wind through a crack sounded. Aemond jerked back as some of the blood caught on the ends of his hair and he rose slowly, wiping the blade of the dagger. “Well he’s dead now, Lady Wylla. Your bravery and quick thinking is to be commended. House Karstark should be proud to have such a brave daughter.” He handed her the dagger, hilt towards her. “Keep this close, since you can be well trusted to use it.”

Wylla’s brother held her tightly as the gold cloaks hoisted the dead man between the pair of them, dragging him somewhere.

“I was half asleep,” Abby said. Aegon clutched her to his chest as his gaze swept darkly around, hands rubbing her arms. “At first I th-thought it was Wylla…” Helaena watched Abby’s hand clutch Aegon’s arm tighter, her voice falling silent. Her other hand reached towards Wylla again, the girls clinging tightly to one another.

“How the fuck did that bastard manage to sneak into my lady’s tent?” Aegon demanded, his voice not a shout like Uncle Gwayne’s had been, but more of a warning growl, like Sunfyre. “Where were the patrols, Ser Criston?”

Their mother’s protector - and Helaena realized that Mother was not there and that Ser Criston must have commanded her to stay in her own tent - shifted only slightly. “The patrols largely keep around the outside of camp to keep people from getting in, my Prince. The patrol that was walking through the tents had not made it back around yet.”

Aegon’s jaw ticked, assessing what Ser Criston had said and knowing it to be true. Helaena knew that Aegon and the others had been lingering in Aegon and Aemond’s tent for whatever gossip and giggling boys got up to in the middle of the night.

“Lady Abrogail and Lady Wylla will share my tent,” Helaena broke in, for she was the princess, and her mother was not here. “And we will have extra guards stationed around our tents, so that our Kingsguard are not stretched thin.” She straightened her shoulders and closed the distance between her and the girls. “This is enough horrible commotion for this night, and you should all be ashamed of yourselves for staring so,” she said, frowning at the crowd that had gathered. “These ladies have been terrorized, and you gawk at them. To bed, everyone! Let us gather your things and get you cleaned up.” The last was said to Wylla, who needed a fresh gown and the blood cleaned from her face.

And like the princess she was, she did not wait to be obeyed, reaching for Abby’s hand to pull her toward her tent.

Chapter Text

Grandfather is still ill, much like we saw him last but he prefers his wheel chaired more oft than not…

Things have been tense, understandably so, but Queen Alicent has been cordial and has made sure we are comfortable and have what we need…

Aegon and Aemond keep their distance, perhaps so they can glare all the better…

I do not know how to make amends for what happened…

…and they say Aemond is taken by his pains at times, darkening his room as his head aches from his wound…

I should make amends, it is right…

What do you think I should do?...

Heleana has been the warmest…

…we danced together at the feast and she was quite happy to do so. It is nice spending time with her…

Aegon is happy around Lady Abrogail and she laughs freely with him. He is not like how he used to be as much with her…

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased to see how well she is treated…

Many houses were represented at Aegon’s nameday…

Most seemed to wonder if Aegon would have been named heir and displace you but none came to pass…

…they will inherit Harrenhal. I can see the wisdom in it as Luke will have Driftmark one day, but I think of Joffrey and Aegitsos and my uncles who do not have lands and holds to occupy them…

I love you much, Muñus, I hope you are well and that I will see you soon…

Rhaenyra ran her fingers over her son’s careful script, her mouth twitching in fondness amidst her worry of her zēapos. His letter was long, too much for a raven’s wings and she started from the beginning once she had read it through once. Twice. Her ribs ached as if Jace had been carved out of her to go on this journey and she shook her head, trying to let the feeling flit away on the breeze. Her eldest had a temper, much as she did in her youth, much as his father had, in the ways that drew her in. Time stole away much, and her own bouts of temper had cooled with each broken toy, each yelling fight, each ‘he pulled my hair!’ and ‘He pushed me and won’t share!’

The sounds of swords clanged in the yard and her gaze flitted from her son’s letter - pages crinkled in her grasp - to the courtyard below where Daemon was testing the new recruits to the Dragonstone guard. His silver hair was twisted back from his face in braids as he preferred, something about war and mindset and always be prepared.

He called something towards Joff and Aegitsos as the knight before him panted, having been bested against her husband.

Baela had not written, that much she knew, though Jace had said that she had found a friend in Helaena after a tense standoff. Rhaenyra had found the mention of it surprising, for her little sister, in the times she’d been around her, had been a quiet thing, eyes large in her face, gaze flitting to everyone and no one.

Helaena has been the warmest…

Helaena was not yet married. The match with Aegon had never come to pass.

The invitation lay on the table before her next to the plate of lemon cake she liked for her morning meal on days such as this.

The wedding of Prince Aegon of House Targaryen and Lady Abrogail Strong of Harrenhal…

In five moons, the spectacle would be held in the Riverlands. In five moons, the realm would look upon her brother once more, peacocked and pulled out, as Daemon sneered, by Otto Hightower to show him off as a contender, to put pressure on her father to change his mind. Her father had nearly twenty years to change his mind and still, he had not. Not even in her absence, cowardly as it sometimes felt to retreat and lick her wounds, had her father’s support of the claim and her family seemed to waver. Try as the Hightowers might to scream and spread slanders that would call for bloodshed, her father still would not be swayed. It was the sense of satisfaction that she had felt when he came to her defense in that shadowed hall those years ago, the heated of curl in it that no matter what, there could be no question as to his choice.

He had chosen her.

Even as the feeling waned over time to give over to those moments where she doubted, all the times he had failed to reign his wife in with her abuses and vitriol, the words her son had sent her bolstered her.

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased…

Harwin’s little sister, big blue eyes and red curls bound in braids, peeking curiously over the edge of Lucerys’ cradle next to Jace because ‘She asked if she could see the baby and give him this,’ Harwin had said, as the little girl presented her attempts at embroidering a little dragon on a pillow. Little Abrogail, half Harwin’s, half Alicent’s. She had tried to bring the girl to Dragonstone with them. Would she not be happier away from the court politics with her brother and the quiet? Lord Lyonel had given her a surprised, then hard look, and Rhaenyra had felt chastened in a way her own father had never been able to evoke within her.

“I will keep my daughter with me, and should I send her away, it will be back to her home, at Harrenhal, with her brother.”

Grief washed through her like the crashing of the waves on the rocky shore below and she felt her own jagged edges inside of her. Lyonel Strong had been the best of them, putting the realm first, always by her side at every council meeting she attended, encouraging her, even as his face grew graver with each brunette curled boy she bore.

Violet eyes swept across the parchment again. A servant in the camp had tried to attack the girl, Jace said. Crept into her tent, assuming she would have been alone. Inquiries were being made, but as far as anyone could see, the man had just been a baseborn servant - blending in like no other. Rhaenyra pursed her lips and looked down at the training yard once more, fingers drumming along the stone ledge of the terrace.

She wondered how wrapped around Lady Abrogail’s finger her half-brother might be… and how opportune this moment was.

Alicent’s eldest was marrying and taking a seat in the Riverlands. It was not the bold choice that Rhaenyra had thought would happen. Surely one of the many Lannister girls, or one of the Baratheons - a great house who would be invested in their own daughter becoming queen would have made more sense.

Harrenhal, for the wealth and lands that it had, did not command armies the way the Stormlands did. It did not have endless coffers the way Casterly Rock boasted of. It was a moody fortress on the edge of the God’s Eye, surrounded by lush farmland and woods that were dark and deep and felt that you were somewhere fanciful, somewhere that didn’t hold dragons nor thrones, nothing except for a warm hand wrapped around her own.

The clashing and screaming of steel in the yard below pulled Rhaenyra from her thoughts, and away from the path of her sorrows and regrets. Turning her back to the sight below, she reached for her own parchment and quill, pushing aside the letter from Lord Celtigar.

Lady Abrogail… Good tidings on news of your approaching nuptials…

Aemond pursed his lips, his gaze rising from the book before him, a study on the Conqueror’s approach to the first Dornish war,to squint across the barrel room near the top of the tower that held the library in the Holdfast. He drummed his fingers upon the scarred wooden table, a fingertip running along the crescent burn from the time Abby had accidentally knocked over a candle while they were reading about Harren the Black.

He exhaled slowly, the way the Braavosi manuals advised and looked back at his book.

It had been weeks since his brother’s festivities, and the chill of the end of the growing season had crept in. It was not cold by northern standards, but the air cooled, the rains rolled in for the next several months, and angry storms fell over them from the Narrow Sea, their winds piercing and frightening, as if they were dragons themselves in the winds that the Storm God rode, threatening to tear apart the Red Keep brick by brick.

Helaena’s nameday had passed with quiet fanfare, the lingering lords of the realm who had not left parading their sons in front of his maiden sister. As if any of them were worthy of a dragonrider, someone as clever and kind as Helaena.

It had been complicated over the past weeks since the talk in the garden, and Aemond still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt. What had been most surprising had been the strange sense of release when his sister let him go, leaving him to sit in the rain before Visenya’s statue, her words ringing in his ears.

‘I would burn Dorne for you… but I do not want to leave behind a world of ash and bone.’

How desperate Helaena had looked, angry and frightened and full of hope as she begged not to have a husband, but a brother back. ‘How else am I supposed to protect her?' he had wondered. How else could he offer his sister protection and security if it wasn’t to marry her, to tie her to him so that she would never have to fear, never have to doubt her acceptance and those who loved her?

Aegon had not wanted to marry her. She was weird, he’d sneered. How miserable Helaena would be, how miserable they both would have been. Aemond had done the right thing. He’d stepped up, he had gotten Mother and The Tower to break the betrothal. Even if they had not promised him and Helaena to one another, that was alright, it would simply be a matter of time.

He had Vhagar. There could be no further doubt that he was truly a Valyrian. There could be no more doubt as to his place in the world. All that was left was his sister.

Guilt gnawed deep in his stomach, shame twisting around his throat when the thought filtered through. Helaena was not a bauble he needed to collect to prove something. Collecting her was not protecting her. Collecting her was not about her, but for him, and it was this knowledge that he had thought about constantly.

His sister deserved more than being a broodmare, to be a pawn in the games. The forced distance the last few weeks had given him, after Helaena pushed him from the proverbial nest, had left him unsettled and snappish.

The loud thud of a book hitting the stone floor reverberated through the room. A heavy tome, judging from the heft of the sound, followed by a soft giggling, a deeper snickering sound chasing after it before they muffled and fell quiet.

He knew, with the utmost certainty, why it had fallen quiet.

Ever since the betrothal, the grip on his best friend had been slipping. Oh, him and Abrogail were an unlikely pair, but few appreciated books and history as his cousin did. While digging in the dirt and helping Helaena catalog her collection had been fulfilling, there was something joyous in being able to have someone who understood the quiet and sanctity of the library, and who loved books and reading and learning as he did. Lyonel Strong had always indulged his questions when was young - far more enthralling than Mellos and Orwyle were, and he had fostered that curiosity in his daughter.

‘All she’s going to care about is making babies with Aegon!’ Helaena had cried, frustrated and angry when they’d been alone after the fight in the brothel.

There was a soft cry, and Aemond scowled at his book before his chair scraped across the stone floor and he strode purposefully towards the source of the sound. The histories of the Riverlands were there - not just observational books, but the census, the trade information, things used by the small council’s not-quite-so-small army of clerks and counters and lawmakers. The section of the library that Abby had frequented since the announcement and that he had helped her with.

“Not here,” came the whispered whine, laced with laughter. Aemond rolled his eye as he turned the corner of the aisle. It was shadowed somewhat this far down, The strategically polished silver angled to bounce the light around so as not to pose a fire risk among the precious books, although the day was gray and cloudy and the light reflected was that of a lamp. Abby was pressed against the bookshelves, the blue and silver brocade of her skirts rucked up with her stockings on display, her legs at present, wrapped around his stupid brother’s waist. One arm was stretched out to grab onto the bookshelf behind her, and the fallen book that had been in its place was still on the ground. Aegon’s face was buried into her chest, or maybe her throat?

He was half-blind, after all, sometimes details could be mercifully missed. Or ignored.

“This,” Aemond said, his voice even and dripping with every ounce of annoyance and betrayal he felt, “is the library, not a brothel.”

Aemond’s fists clenched at the disrespect both of them displayed to a place they knew was important to him. At the announcement of his presence, Abby squeaked, Aegon’s arms tightening around her as she scrambled to lower herself without sending them both toppling. He held his arms folded behind his back, his hand scraping along his elbow as the pair of them got themselves in order and he shook his head when Aegon looked at him, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. Abby had turned to straighten her gown.

“Are you really going to act like this?” Aegon said, for it was barely a question. “We weren’t in front of you and your book. You were the one seeking us out.”

“Because you both weren’t as quiet as you thought you were,” Aemond snapped. “It was distracting.”

A lazy smirk crossed across his brother’s flushed face and he wanted to punch him square in his stupid nose. Let him kiss his future wife with his face bashed in. “Well, my lady is distracting-.” There was a soft sound as Abby smacked Aegon’s shoulder, cutting him off with an exaggerated ow, the flinch was nowhere near the violent response that inhabited his brother when it was their mother doing the hitting. She peered around Aegon’s shoulder, her mouth just as swollen, her cheeks just as flushed and her features apologetic.

“We’re sorry, Aemond. Things just got out of hand. I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t you apologize,” Aegon interrupted her this time, a fierce look on his face.

“No, actually,” Aemond cut in, taking a step forward, using the few inches he now had on his brother to straighten his shoulders. “She’s right. Thank you, Abby, for apologizing. Are you upset that she has to apologize for you, since your self-awareness is worse than a billy goat ramming his head into things?”

Aegon’s mouth gaped in offense, his flush deepening. There was a bruise along his neck that was going to be difficult to hide. The glib nature of his eldest brother was a trial at the best of times, but this? “You know this isn’t your place to run about as you please. Shall I just unlock my doors, let you roll around in my sheets and over my personal things while you’re at it?”

“It’s the fucking library, Aemond. It doesn’t belong to you-”

Abby let out a startled cry as Aemond’s fist shot out, but as much as he would love to punch his brother, he shoved him instead, feeling the crackling of frustration, the rumble of Vhagar in his chest. “Because it’s all yours, is that it? You mewling fucking kitten. This isn’t just my library, it’s hers too, but you don’t fucking care about anything that means something to anyone else if it gets in the way of what your limp cock wants.”

“Aemond, truly, we’re sorry - Aegon, no!” Abby’s voice was lost in Aegon’s growl as his brother came back with another shove, sending him back a few steps. Aemond laughed, a hint of a sound like the thin scrape of wind whistling through a crack. Yes, yes let the idiot push him around. Let him continue to pull his friend away from him, from him and Helaena both. His gaze darted briefly to the redhead, blue eyes wide as she pressed herself back against the shelves, before meeting his brother’s lighter gaze.

“You are a glib fucking fool, Aegon,” Aemond said lowly, his mouth curling as he readied for a fight, needing to expend the burn of flame inside of him. “I don’t care what the pair of you do, I’ll say nothing should Mother hear of it, but-” he stepped forward and shoved Aegon hard into the bookstack. The ancient wood creaked and groaned, but the stacks were bolted to the floor to prevent them from topping. A few books fell from the force of Aegon’s frame smacking into it. “Stay the hell out of my library.”

He did not look over his shoulder, even as Abby called his name, apology rife in her tone. He strode through the halls, calling for his horse to be saddled while he went to angrily pull on his riding leathers. The left side of his temple ached as it was wont to do when his face was full of tension. Helaena would make him tea, protect him in the quiet, but that was not meant to be today. The last he saw, his sister was in the gardens with Jacaerys.

How he ached to wring the stupid bastard’s neck.

How bright he seemed to make Helaena laugh.

How betrayed Aemond felt by it all.

Why hadn’t Helaena said anything? Why hadn’t she told him that she didn’t want to be married? Why had she just let him wander around like a puppy and now left the fool?

‘But hadn’t she told you?’ a little voice drifted through Aemond’s mind and he paused in the lacing of his leathers. Had she not told him by pursuing that fool Warren Fossoway, and the time that he had spied her kissing him - for he had seen Helaena push the squire behind the carved dragon pillar by the gardens.

‘But she would let me kiss her, she would kiss me, and she’d touch me and I her and-’ The flurry of thoughts ached as he pulled on his boots.

It would not hurt as much if it was anyone but Jacaerys.

The ride to the beach beneath the shadow of the Red Keep was a blur. The rock outcropping of Aegon’s High Hill was a craggy, sheer thing, but the beach below was one that Vhagar enjoyed sunning herself, a guard dog laying at the foot of the bed in a way. Her head lifted as Aemond approached, lowing in greeting and shaking sand from her scales. The tension in Aemond’s chest began to ease at the sight of her, and he approached, patting a gloved hand along her scarred neck, scratching along a vicious scar she must have received in Dorne. There were no words exchanged, not the way Aegon chattered with Sunfyre. Aemond’s bond with Vhagar was one of feeling, of such deep understanding that no words needed to spill from him. In no time, he scaled her great bulk and yelled out the command to fly, which his dragon responded with her own, what he assumed was excited, call in return.

Vhagar landed on the cliffs on the western side of Massey’s Hook, the bay below dotted with smaller fishing boats this far out from King’s Landing and away from the bustle of the capital. Rage and grief, anger and fear were a tempest in his gut and he rankled at the call of Moondancer as his cousin circled above them.

If Baela wanted this fight, then he would meet her, unflinching. Let her see what dragons were made of. They did not all reside on Dragonstone.

“Laodijes peldios!” Baela howled at him, her voice a sharp shout on the breeze, her face twisted and ugly with fury, fists at her side as she readied herself to hit him should he get within reach.

Aemond glared at her, the distance between them shrunk now to an arm length. Vhagar was a great shadow behind him and he could feel the sulfuric heat of her breath as she exhaled buffeting at his back. Moondancer was a little ways away, shrieking fearfully and Aemond could not tell if the dragon reflected her rider’s mood, or her fear of Vhagar.

“You’re a fucking fool. Daemon Targaryen is your father, your mother a Velaryon, and you still don’t realize that a dragon cannot be stolen.”

“You had no fucking right!” Baela snarled. “Vhagar was for Rhaena to claim-”

“If Vhagar had not wanted me, she would have eaten me and you damn well know it.” Aemond cut her off, watching her jaw click shut with a curl of satisfaction. “Vhagar chose me, not your sister. What? You want to kill me to give her another chance at claiming her? Is that what you’re here? To finish the job that you all started?”

“Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?” Balea cried, and this time, there was a choked quality to her rage. Aemond’s eye widened slightly and he leaned back from her, a curl of uncertainty that he despised. His words had been harsh, full of the anger that he had felt simmering these past years. Aemond shrugged it off. He had earned his harshness in this. He’d been the one attacked, the band of them setting upon him simply because he chose to claim his right as a Valyrian prince.

‘Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?’

Aemond ran his tongue over his teeth and leaned back on his foot, watching Baela gasp for air amidst her choking sobs, and turn from him to look out to the bay, towards Driftmark and High Tide.

He remembered his mother’s cries, her rage, her such careful and elegant control snapping as her voice cracked in the silence of the Hall of Nine.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“Why did Moondancer choose you?” Aemond asked. “Why did Moondancer choose you, and my egg never hatched?” Baela did not look at him but he could see the way her shoulders tensed. “Why didn’t you go find the guards? Why did you come, thinking a thief had stolen a dragon and Jacaerys brought his blade? Why did they give me a pig, pretending they had found me a dragon as they both had their own? Why did they do nothing but terrorize me with that fact for our childhoods?”

Aegon had done it too, gone in on the fun, drunk on being the eldest. It had lessened considerably in the wake of Rhaenyra leaving the capital, even if his brother sought other ways to tease him - he’d never again mentioned his lack of dragon.

Aegon had come to him in his sick bed, his curls shorn, red eyed and puffy faced, tears on his cheeks, had knelt at his bedside and vowed to him.

“We protect our own and I did not protect you. I do not care if you’ve claimed Vhagar, for I was not there for you when you needed me. It will never happen again. I will protect you. I will be by your side.”

Aemond had sometimes wondered how much of the words were his brother’s own, but he had known, with certainty, that the feelings were genuine. His brother was an idiot, and they butted heads, but his brother loved him in his own way, and for as angry as Aegon could make him, he loved him too. In his own way.

He might admit that on his deathbed, unlike Aegon, who would only need to be in the depths of his cups and into the sad and tearful mourning edge.

“What do you know, Baela?” Aemond said, his voice even, coldness creeping along the edges. “Of fighting and scraping for everything that is owed to you?” He forcefully bit his tongue, copper exploding in his mouth as he broke skin, to keep from pressing further at the loss of her birth right to Driftmark for Rhaenyra’s folly.

“A prince has to scrape for all that is owed to him.” It was rhetorical, biting, and Aemond snorted, taking a step forward, his own gaze looking out at the water.

“You may have been an idiot child, but don’t play me for a fool.” It was impossible not to see how little Viserys thought of his second family, and he had seen it plainly on Jacaerys’ face, the surprise in witnessing it. “I’m sure your father relishes every word you send to him. His little spy.”

Baela’s lip curled in a snarl and she stalked closer. Aemond stayed where he was, watching her with a narrowed eye as Vhagar let out a low growl behind him. She did not move, did not lift her head, but her nostrils flared and Aemond felt the heat of her breath swirl around him. Baela’s eyes widened, and she paused, the indigo of them shining with tears.

He turned his head slightly to look at Vhagar. “Ȳgha iksi,” he reassured her, feeling Vhagar’s displeasure seeping through him, her warning and the remembered rage from those years ago when she could not protect him or take away his pain. He reached for her snout, pressing his hand to the scar above her left nostril, rubbing against it. He turned his back to his cousin and brought his other hand up, feeling the anger hot as coals, hot as dragonfire in his chest. Vhagar was full of tension. He could feel it. Would she feel that way if it wasn’t him? If she was not so worried for him, would she recognize the girl behind him as the child that Laena Velaryon surely brought to her, as Aemond would have brought his own child? Had his grandfather, Baelon, brought his sons to this dragon before them?

The silence filled the air around them, the wind thick with tension. Aemond pressed his forehead to Vhagar, took strength from her, squeezed his eye shut and ignored the pain that lanced through his head and pulsed behind his scar.

The sob behind him was soft, and Moondancer’s cry was mournful.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“I did not mean to tarnish your mother’s memory,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice carrying as he looked, blind side towards Baela. “It was not done to hurt you, or to take something from you. It was… It was my only chance. And it’s something I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand. I am… I am sorry about the loss of your mother. I did not have the opportunity to give you my condolences then, but I can give them to you now.”

The sound Baela made was strangled. Aemond turned to look at her. Baela was stiff beneath her red and black riding leathers, the metal rings in her hair tinkling as the wind tugged at her braids. He recalled the mourning child she had been sitting by her twin and Jace, the vicious yell she’d let out when she punched him in the nose that night, the howls and scream of pain. He felt Vhagar twitch and groan beneath his touch, another warning and he hushed her again, stroking her snout. He watched her gaze go towards Moondancer, who was crying fitfully, grounded still, her aquamarine wings more green against the lush grass of the clifftop.

“Do you want to pet her?”

Baela stared at him, the hostile lines to her face instantly slacking in surprise. “Skoro syt?” Her voice was small and wary, even as her eyes were wide with grief.

“My condolences,” Aemond repeated, and he found the words genuine. It was not Baela, nor her sister, or even his bastard nephews that rankled him. Oh, he wanted his revenge, He wanted what was due, but more of the blame lay with his eldest sister and their father. Of that, Aemond was secure in. He would gladly feed them both to Vhagar, to take an eye as payment for his mother.

His cousin shifted on her booted feet before whatever compelled her brought her forward. Aemond shifted, beckoning her to take her place by his side as he murmured words to Vhagar. Baela had taken her glove off, her slim, tanned hand reaching tentatively up before resting along the scar on Vhagar’s nostril.

They stood there for how long, Aemond was not sure, quietly beside one another as Baela grieved for the mother at the bottom of the Narrow Sea, and his own grief at what was taken from him.

“Do not mourn me, mother…”

‘But mourn the boy dead on Driftmark.’

It was not lightness or peace that settled over Aemond when he and his cousin parted later. He was not certain how much time had passed, only that after she had sobbed, they sat there in a strange, companionable silence eating hunks of bread and cheese and apple that Baela cut with a wicked blade. She did not give him thanks, she did not say anything, but Aemond took the offering of shared food as her own gesture of whatever truce was settled between them. The exchanged curt nods before parting, Baela northeast and away from the city to what Aemond assumed was High Tide and her grandmother and twin, while he circled back towards the city.

Aemond was not certain of the feeling he held except that it felt like he had scratched something out on a list, or deposited a burden that he was trying to carry with all his other, more cumbersome burdens. It was a closed door. That was enough for Aemond, and there was a part of him that wanted to march to his sisters and tell them that he had made nice, to have Abby’s warm smile proud with him, and Helaena’s little clap and promptly being the receiver of her latest mountain spider that Uncle Rodrik had brought her.

Instead, after entering the inner courtyard of the Red Keep and handing off his horse to one of the stablehands, he made his way to the gardens and to his own preferred solitude when the library - so recently desecrated - was not an option. No, Aemond needed air, he needed the statue of Visenya to look down upon him. There, where Helaena had snipped the strings and released him from the vow he had made, the goal that held him that was more about him than it truly was about her.

Where his sister had set him free, and he loved her all the more for it.

The problem, he found, upon striding down the paved path and through the dripping ivy, was that his garden was not, in fact, as empty as he hoped. Wylla Karstark was kneeled in front of a bush of hyacinths, carefully cutting the purple blooms and placing them in a basket beside her. She was clad in a dove gray dress, the black fabric of her kirtle beneath poking out through slashes along her shoulders and puffed at her elbows. Her fox features were pinched in concentration and Aemond watched her for a moment, silent as she had clearly not heard his approach.

Wylla Karstark was an unknown. She was pretty enough, with a long nose and sharp jaw, gray eyes that flashed when she was annoyed, which was the majority of the time. She had a rather frustrating talent of being able to look down at him even as she had to arch her neck, for she was as petite as Abby was. Their joint misfortune, just like Aegon’s. She was also well read, their conversation at the feast turning from a mutual annoyance to discussing the book of poetry that he had seen her reading, which itself had turned into a rather long and in depth conversation on the Valyrian poet, Praxilla, whose work had survived by the grace of her living the life of leisure in Lys when the Doom happened. Wylla and his elder brother unknowingly shared a fondness for drinking songs penned by the scribe, although Aemond was smart enough to know he shouldn’t bring that up.

Not until he needed to.

“It is polite to speak when coming upon someone, Your Grace,” Wylla’s northern burr was arch as she focused on her task. “I would curtsy, but you can see I’m already on my knees.”

Aemond’s cheeks flushed at the turn of her words, and he was not certain if she understood how they could be taken. He decided that she didn’t, for she did not turn to look at him, seemingly unbothered. All for the best, he supposed, for Aemond did not think he could meet her gaze should she be facing him.

“Why are you cutting my flowers?”

“Your flowers, Your Grace?” Wylla laughed, a sharp, lilting sort of sound and he wondered if that’s what she sounded like when she sang. Did she sing? He had not asked her. “These flowers belong to Queen Visenya, for it is her garden, is it not?”

“It is my garden,” he pushed back, frowning at the back of her head, the mass of thick, twisted black braids kept in place with a woven, pearl hair net with wicked looking, pearl tipped hair pins to keep the heaviness of it in place. He flexed his hands, wiping them on his riding leathers as he approached. There were other flowers in her basket, like wisteria and some of the roses from the main garden. He sat, bending his one leg to rest an arm on while the other reached in.

Up close, he could see the red flush to her pale cheeks. He did not recall them looking so red when he saw her the day before, outside of the bit of sun all the girls had gotten during the sun.

Her smack was quick, the sound of flesh stinging flesh loud and he immediately pulled back with a hiss and a glare. “How dare-”

“Those aren’t for you,” Wylla said forcefully, the gray eyes of her bright in her face as she finally looked at him. “They’re for Lady Abrogail.”

Aemond had killed a man for the fox-faced woman before him without hesitation, and the knowledge of it settled in him still, generally buried over the past few weeks because he had no idea what to do about it. They’d been attacked in the night, and Wylla Karstark had shoved a knife between the man’s ribs without hesitation. So tall, Wylla Karstark seemed, so loud, filling up the spaces she was in without holding herself back, that he had so often forgotten how small she was.

Until she was there, in front of him, those gray eyes like the storm ridden ocean.

Aemond held her gaze, reaching back into the basket to pluck one of the deep purple, nearly blue anemones that she had gathered, twirling it idly between his long fingers before reaching up to tuck it behind her ear. Wylla was still beside him, her red painted mouth parted slightly, so he could see the flash of her white teeth behind it. Her cheeks deepend in their red to match the paint on her lips and Aemon hummed.

Abby had been understandably shaken. Knowing her as long as he did, even with the smiles affixed to her face, he knew the signs as intimately as he understood Helaena’s or Aegon’s, or his own mother’s. Wylla Karstark was a mystery. She had been quiet, from what he had seen, but the wedding preparations had taken up much time with the girls, as well as her brother finally leaving the capital earlier that week.

He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking, before he met her gaze. “Are you alright?”

Her inhale was loud. It trembled and she pressed her red lips together, her throat bobbing with a swallow and looked back at the flowers but did not move to cut anymore. Aemond did not push her, but only waited.

“Yes? No? Strangely yes,” she finally whispered. “I think that’s what bothers me more.”

“That bastard came in with intent to harm,” Aemond said. “If you didn’t kill him, someone else would have. You were incredibly brave.” None knew where he’d come from. The assailant had been clad in the same red garb as the rest of the servants. A baseborn man. Waters or Storm, Aemond couldn’t remember, much like he had no memory of the man’s face before he stared down at it, red and wheezing before he killed him.

“At least it wasn’t Aegon,” Wylla whispered, her eyes wide, drawing his attention back to her. “What would have that turned into - him sneaking in for them to slobber all over each other. Me thinking he was an attacker and-”

The snort of laughter that escaped Aemond at the idea of it all could not be held back. He bent his head, gasping for air as his shoulders shook and it was only a moment before Wylla’s own peel of laughter joined his. It had been some weeks since he’d laughed, in the wake of what happened at the hunt drying up what little humor he’d indulged in. There was an infectious quality to Wylla Karstark’s amusement that he found comforting. Aemond looked at her, her face flushed from her laughter, and he leaned in, kissing her.

The laughter abruptly stopped, her mouth soft against his, still from her clear surprise. She tasted like oranges. Abby must have indulged in the sweet and sour orange cakes they had at the feast. Wylla did not respond, but she didn’t move away either and Aemond took that as acceptance, and he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, thumb swiping softly against the apple of it. Kisses with Helaena had been different - always expected, always ready, with her initiating many of them. The one time he’d kissed Abby, when they were little and Jace had dared him to, did not count. The both of them had made faces, vowing to never do it again.

Kissing Wylla, though? He never wanted to stop, especially not when she reached up, the clippers making a soft thump along the grass to wrap around the end of the braid slung over his shoulder. She tugged it gently and Aemond broke away, blinking and gasping. “What?” he asked. “Should I have not done that?”

“Oh, you should have,” she reassured him, breathless and red faced. She licked her lips and looked at her fingers still wound around his braid, toying with the leather tie. “I was just reminded of something someone told me once.”

He cocked his head, mouth pursed. “What was it?”

The smile that cut across Wylla’s face was amused, the scar along the top of her lip giving a mischievous bend to her small, red mouth. “It was about how dragons purr when you pull their hair.”

Whatever thought started to coalesce about her late night conversation with his sisters was pushed right out when her lips found his.

Chapter Text

Emotions were a tempest inside Aegon Targaryen as riotous as the churning waters of Blackwater Bay. He slammed the heavy bedroom door behind him, the fury of it shaking the candles in their holders on the small table inside the door. Sunfyre was a growling, heated presence inside the cage of his ribs, pulsing in time with each beat of his heart. How he craved for fang and claw so all would feel his fury.

Too hot. His skin felt too hot, too tight, too much.

Aegon tore at the buckles of his doublet, peeling off the rich, green brocade and tossing it aside. It did little to assuage his feelings. Sick curled in his gut; an impotence he could do nothing about. He yanked at the ties at the throat of his linen shirt and his eyes landed upon the bottles on the table, where they’d been residing for the past few weeks.

‘Mother wishes you to dry out’, his siblings had said the night after him and Aemond had been dragged back to the keep, the betrothal announcement and his brother’s words swirling around his head. No more wine, no ale, no beer. Only ciders, or the watered wine they’d break their fasts with.

What good did that do him now, when nothing was at the ready to distract him anymore? Besides, it would be a shame for all these nameday gifts to go to waste.

Aegon cocked his head as he approached, swiping up the first bottle. He ran his thumb along the waxed cork, the familiar Arbor seal pressed on top. Thunder rumbled outside as Aegon worked his dagger along the seal with practiced ease, bits of wax falling to the floor like petals as he leaned against the window pane. The cool air that accompanied the end of the harvest season felt good on his heated skin, the spray of rain just outside a balm even if it was not quite what he needed.

What kind of man was he who could not protect who he loved the most? Over a moon had passed since his nameday, since Abby’s horrible scream ripped through the night. All Larys Strong had found in his investigation was that the bastard had worked in the kitchens for the past year. No family, a “quiet fellow”, with a few dalliances with the serving maids.

Nothing.

What cold comfort it was to his hunītsos, who could not sleep alone and had taken to his sister’s bed or pulled Wylla into her own. Few nights she’d even crept into his bed, mouth wet against his throat as he distracted her from her nightmares and fear, to replace everything with the thought of him and only him. How he could lose himself in her, the scent of the heady, dark rose and currant soap that clung to her skin, to forget about his lacking when she mewled his name, rutting against his cock separated only by her small clothes, his teeth worrying at the bite he’d left on her shoulder back in the tent, refusing to let it fade. How easy it was to be there, with her, than some stinking brothel with bought comfort.

Aegon gasped for air as the red dribbled over his mouth and down his chin, staining his shirt. Without thinking, he’d taken several pulls from the bottle. It was perfectly dry as it snaked down his throat, a familiar feeling of relief, and the taste of plum and cherry far more enticing than the ciders he’d been restricted to. He watched from behind the silver hair that fell into his eyes as lightning illuminated King’s Landing before a crack of thunder boomed, loud enough to startle him even though he’d been prepared for it.

Dragging the back of his sleeve over his mouth, he leaned against the ledge and shut his eyes, letting the storm mist across his face - the wind blowing north and thus, his room had avoided getting soaked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Theraxis' great, gray bulk come slinking out from behind the wardrobe, watching him with large yellow eyes as he promptly flopped over onto his side and turned, looking at him upside down.

“The lords tell me should I need anything, I have only to call upon them,” he told the cat, putting to voice what he’d held inside him these weeks. “So ready they are to give me my sister’s birthright, I do not even have to ask them for it.” He shook his head, another pull to ease the rumbling ache. “What kind of man do they take me for?” Theraxis had the courtesy to blink at him, pawing at the air and he snorted softly.

“They take you for potential.” Aegon startled at the unexpected voice. Theraxis let out a pleased meow and scampered up, prancing on deceptively light paws towards his mistress. She was lovely in the firelight, the glow of it catching along the edges of her hair, her long braid slung over one shoulder. Gone were the light silks and fluttering linen of the warm months. She was clad in a dressing gown of cream, embroidered with vines and flowers, the sleeves slashed from her elbows, the lavender lining reminding him of the flowers she had in her room the other day. “Oh, hello my darling,” she cooed, dropping to her knees to greet her cat - the animal the size of a hunting hound, seemingly larger as he tried to crawl into her lap while she laughed. The gown she wore was a deep v at her neck, and he could see the ties and lace of her nightdress beneath.

Her delicate fingers scratched around Theraxis’ ears as he pressed his cheek against hers and finally, her eyes met his. “We haven’t talked about it. Is that why you were so upset just now?”

Aegon took another pull from the bottle and went to the table to grab one of the goblets resting there. “Your brother has no more news,” he said, not hiding the truth from her, but guilt spurred him to take another drink. Abby’s lack of response indicated she had either already been told or was not surprised. Or a dozen other things involving how she didn’t indulge in her far more unpleasant emotions.

She pressed several kisses to the top of the cat’s head before he padded to the door and she followed to let him out, shutting and locking it behind her. He said nothing, giving her time as she rested her head against the wood to gather herself and splashed wine into a goblet like a good betrothed. It was easier to make sure he didn’t drink all of it without letting her share, and surely some wine would loosen her anxieties, if not her tongue.

There were times he wondered if she would ever trust him with all the things she left unsaid - if she would ever trust anyone with them.

Aegon approached, boots thumping softly on the rich rug. She turned at the sound of his approach, watching him as he took a sip from the goblet before holding it up to her lips for her to have a taste, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “He has no news. Cole and the whole fucking Kingsguard and the City Watch captain have found nothing.” Abby’s hand wrapped around the goblet to take another sip, and she looked so fragile, half in shadow with her back against the door, that he wanted to scream, to throw the bottle and demand the heads of the watch who were meant to be guarding the camp.

He took another swig from the bottle instead, drifting further into the room so she could not see his anger. Futile, he knew, but he’d not have her fear him, not when he was like this. Not when he feared himself.

“You wondered what kind of man the lords took you for,” she finally said and he knew a subject change when he heard it. Aegon scoffed and Abby tutted. “I said they see potential for someone to curry favor with. Your sister may be your father’s heir, Jeyne Arryn rules over the Eyrie, but your sister’s rule puts in doubt their own holdings. Should their sisters and their sister’s children then come before them, or the eldest daughter who married the heir to another keep? Not to mention a woman? Sitting the Iron Throne? Ruling over them when they would not even let their own wives do so?”

“It’s an ugly fucking chair,” Aegon complained.

“So you would not mind your wife ruling you?” was her teasing reply. Warmth spread through his belly - whether from Abby’s words of ruling him and the images that conjured to mind, or the reassurance she was not going to press him to ‘at least think about it’.

“I would not mind, for my wife is far cleverer than I.” The words were easy, calling her wife, that it nearly caught him off guard. Abby paused, teeth scraping over the pout of her lower lip, stained dark with the wine. He took the goblet from her to take another drink. “I do mind that they think me willing to steal my sister’s birthright - something made abundantly fucking clear that is not, and never will, be mine as long as our father lives. If her marrying Daemon did not cause it among-” He caught himself and shook his head. “Nothing will knock her from that pedestal. I mislike them thinking me such a monster.” It did not matter if he and Rhaenyra were close. They were far from it, and the war of jealousy, of anger and frustration towards her, did not mean he would take the throne from her in retribution, first born son or not.

Setting the bottle down on the low table before the fire, he lifted his arms, pushing up on his toes until his spine and shoulders popped deliciously. He groaned, tucking his hand beneath his shirt to scratch his belly and growled as he felt a cool hand join his, nails slightly sharper scratching against his skin and the fine hairs running along his skin, vanishing beneath his waistband.

“Decided to pet me instead?” he groaned happily, nuzzling his nose against the crown of her head and inhaling the bright scent of her hair. The distraction she provided was a good one and he let out a snort of laughter when she pushed him back onto the couch.

“You are most certainly not a monster, nor as awful as they try to paint you with such ambitions,” she said fiercely, immediately, and he held onto her defensive words and reassurance, let them be a balm to his wounded soul and the space where Sunfyre purred, content with the sweet and fierce words.

Aegon let his head fall back on the back of the couch and enjoyed the way she looked above him. Her face was slightly flushed from the wine, mouth stained red as a rosebud, small and plump and begging to be kissed. She was covered up in her dressing gown, no erotic enticement that he was used to seeing and yet she stirred his blood and his arousal all the same. ‘Lovely’, he thought, reaching a hand up to tug on the end of her copper braid, demanding her closer.

“I would devour you,” he murmured, licking his own wine stained lips. He’d tasted her off his fingers, but had yet to truly indulge the way he wanted. To escape into her was all he wanted, better than the wine that coursed through his veins. This was the vice he wished to indulge in, to lose himself in, and all the better with his Abrogail, his love.

Abby raised her eyebrows at him and pressed her hand to his knees to make room before lowering herself before him. His mouth immediately went dry, his lilac eyes widening as he took in her adorably focused look. First, she went for one boot, tossing it away, then the other followed and he settled in to be taken care of. Fingers, delicate with a needle, needy and demanding when in his hair, perfect when tangled with his own, began to work on the lacing of his trousers. His cock twitched, half hard already from her touch, and the groan Aegon made when she touched him had his toes curling against the rug.

Her giggle was sweet, as everything about her was. It was by no means the first time she’d taken his cock in hand, fingers struggling to wrap around his girth in a way that made him see stars, that begged to see her stretched around him, whimpering and whining to take him. This was no different. She drew him out, moisture already gathering around the head and her thumb immediately swiped to spread it around, a gentle squeeze following.

“Missed you,” he murmured, wrapping her braid around his hand once and tugged her closer. Abby’s pupils were blown wide and the flush of her cheeks was deeper, and he knew she liked the gentle pulling of her hair. Aegon had been delighted to discover how much she liked it when he handled her in such a way. “Fuck, you are so beautiful.”

Abby smiled, a shy look of a blushing maiden, before she leaned down and pressed a kiss to the tip of him his mouth jealous with need of her. He jerked at her braid in surprise and she yelped, shock rather than pain and an apology fell from him. Her eyes narrowed at him, assessing.

“Did you like that?”

No longer soft. No longer guileless. No longer his little rabbit; this was his kēlītsos, the little lion batting about its prey. Her thumb was idly stroking the underside of his cock in the way that sent him to shivering, balls aching, and he nodded. He lifted his free hand to cradle the soft curve of her jaw, thumb pressing against her lower lip. His heart was thudding. He’d wanted this for so long, had dreamt of it, but hadn’t asked, unwilling when she was so new to all of this.

Her mouth opened more, and he looked at the sweet pink inside, and Aegon released a long, shuddering breath.

“Please,” he whispered.

Abby’s teeth nipped at his thumb and he let her go, shifting around to give her more room. His fingers danced over the little buttons holding her dressing gown closed, tugging idly at one. Aegon wanted to tug at her collar, take a peek at her breasts, but the angle denied what sight was his. Another snort of laughter escaped him when she reached up to his chest to push him back. He watched, enraptured, as she opened her mouth once more, resting the salty, warm tip of his cock on the pillow of her tongue and wrapped her pretty lips around him.

“Jaw soft,” he told her through his groan. “Do not force yourself to take more.” She wouldn’t be able to, and he did not want her to hurt herself or him. Just as her sweet words soothed his woes, her mouth soothed him as well.

Aegon let himself fall into the warm tingle of wine and arousal pumping through his veins, gaze heavy lidded as his Abrogail pleasured him. The vision she was to him had him aching and it took everything not to force himself further into her mouth the longer she continued, to use his grip on her braid to guide her down. He would be good for her. A good teacher. He felt her sigh and moan around him, and praise fell from his lips.

“That’s a good lass… you’re doing so well,” he reassured her, delight settling into the heated knot in his belly with each happy wiggle she made. Even as the pacing of her mouth left something to be desired, or the moment where he felt the tease of her teeth before she adjusted and left him wanting more of that sharpness that had his breath catching, he still could not imagine a more intense experience. What she lacked in experience and technique, she more than made up for in exuberance and the simple fact it was her on her knees for him. Cassandra Baratheon might have had a mouth that could take him down, but his precious girl wanted him.

He desired nothing more than to be truly wanted.

Her mouth popped off, strings of spittle clinging from his cock to her lips as she gasped for air, eyes wet with the tears that came from taking him, and he hushed her, reaching up to stroke her cheek and smiling as she nuzzled into his hand. His thumb stroked over her mouth, spreading spit and his own essence until her lips shone with it, glossy and inviting. “Easy now, you can use your hand for a bit.” She was good at that. Abby nodded, eager, and tugged at the waistband of his trousers.

“Up,” she ordered hoarsely, and he complied, helping her work them down and off so there was no barrier. Aegon reached behind his head to tug off his shirt and lifted a foot to rest on the table behind her, lazy and languid, balls tight and aching. A whine stuck in Abby’s throat, those depthless eyes looking up at him as she leaned down, tracing her tongue along his balls, her hand sliding down to cup them the way he’d taught her. Long licks, kisses, each different affection, had Aegon feeling as if he’d spill all over her and ruin her pretty gown. “You are being so good for me,” she told him when she lifted her head from him to smile up at him.

“I want to be good for you,” he swore with a frantic nod. “I will be, I promise. Please don’t stop.”

Abby had the gall to giggle at him. It was then that Aegon noticed that one of her hands disappeared and he realized that it had slid beneath the gap of her dressing down, her nightgown beneath bunched up. A fresh wave of heat washed through him at the idea of her own arousal so demanding from this that she needed to find relief.

Oh, his poor kēlītsos.

“I want to taste you,” she whispered, and he could hear the catch in her voice, just there when he knew her arousal was growing. Abby’s hand worked him, slick and perfect with that slight twist of her grip and he nodded.

“Please,” he begged again. “Clever girl, you’ve learned so fast, you can do it. I know you can.” He tugged on her braid again, hard enough for her to feel it, and it drew a moan from her, the arm that was tucked beneath her gown moving a little faster. “Open up, you’re almost there.” His words were catching with his anticipation as he fed her his cock once more and Abby took him with an eager whine that vibrated up from the base of his spine. His hips jerked towards her, unable to help himself, and she choked as more of himself forced inside but she didn’t stop, taking him with greedy, needy sounds. Then, her other hand joined and the sensation of her wet fingers stroking against his balls and the soft skin just behind had him seeing stars.

It was over nearly as soon as it had started and he was falling into his end like he was still a green boy, the pressure at the base of his spine imploding, pulling him farther and farther down until he was pushing her away, attempting and failing to warn her of what came next. Abby's eyes were wide, wet and blue and endless, as he came, her name choking off in an almost pathetic cry. She was not deterred, the first of his spend catching along her cheek before she was taking him in hand, continuing to stroke him as he caught along her chin and mouth, over her pretty dressing gown that he got to ruin after all.

Aegon did not care, his vision blurry, everything focused on the feel of her hand, the pleasure of his release, the way the milky white spend decorated her. There was a strange sense of waste in the back of his mind that he did not give more thought to but knew where it came from. That time would come soon enough.

He fell back against the couch, limbs soft and tingling, his own mouth wet, his skin heated in that satisfying, post-peak flush even more the better for it was Abby that brought it on, because she loved him. Gods, he loved her. He loved her so much he could not find all the words for it.

“I love you,” he panted, head lolling over to his shoulder as he gazed at her, fondness, affection, everything he could not put into words heavy in his tone.

“I love you too,” she returned, voice rough and weighted and just as sincere, meeting him in the place between them. Affection surged through him and Aegon tugged at her braid again before dropping it, hands reaching for her arms to draw her up his body, his eyes dark and heavy as her tongue swiped against the silkiness of him against her mouth. In a daze, he reached up to push more of it off her chin and into her mouth, and she noisily sucked the taste of him off his fingers.

Eager and adventurous, Abby was not some soft maiden, frightened of a romantic touch. Nay, Abby was an eager lover, excited to be with him, wanting to be with him. How many years had he spent chasing a peak that he could not name, throwing money at women, men sometimes, trying to find the piece that he craved. He was far more experienced than she would ever be, and how he desperately wanted to take her, to bury himself in the home of her body.

How easy it would be, and yet it was the knowledge that it was expected of him to 'ruin' her before their wedding that stopped him. To get her fat with his child, to take some kind of advantage of her, to only sate his own desire. The way the bitter bitch of a septa had grown horrified at their needy kisses in the gallery, to Aemond's angered remarks in the library, to Mother's hawk-sharp stare every time Aegon drew close, the reminders to Abby about 'virtue' in his mother's solar in the evenings. The idea that he was seen as some insatiable, lust filled creature who could not be trusted to control himself, raked hot against his insides. The way he was judged, and the way he knew she would be judged, left him feeling just as strange and raw as the assumptions that he coveted his sister's birthright.

To deny himself the full pleasures of his body allowed him to shake away his own past; to discover in the slow build up of all that brought her pleasure was a new experience and one that he would draw out - to deny himself the pleasure just as he denied her the full experience of him - to build up the anticipation was too enticing.

He kissed her then, the taste of wine, of her and him, making his belly burst into excited moths like the ones pinned to his sister’s collection boards. Abby was shivering and filled with tension as her own peak had not yet been realized, but she came into him eagerly, a needy thing in heat, and he would sate her as she had so kindly and sweetly done for him.

“You are a mess,” he chuckled, and Abby’s flushed skin burned deeper once more. He pondered for a moment before wrapping his arms around her and rising from the couch.

She squealed, a delighted sound, and clung to him as he took her to the bed and deposited her amidst the soft blankets. He braced his arms on either side of her, capturing her mouth for another kiss before he pulled away to get a clean cloth to wipe the rest of her face with. The water in the basin was cool, and he took his lady firmly by the chin to work on wiping her face. Even as Abby’s giggles filled the room, she remained pliant and well-behaved, teeth worrying on her lip as he cleaned her up.

“Ticklish, are we?” he teased her, fingers fiddling with the buttons on her dressing gown. There were only five of them. Five annoying little bastards kept him from her perfect breasts.

“How dare you tease me when I performed so well,” Abby replied with her nose tilted in the air haughtily, which bared her throat to him and the slick shine of spend clinging to her skin. He dove in, licking it up with the flat of his tongue, pushing her back onto the bed as he hovered over her, devouring her neck with exaggerated sounds as if he were Sunfyre feasting upon a carcass. She shrieked, giddy and squirming, his captured prey, and he growled and hummed against her throat and lost himself in the sound, in the scent of her. “Oh no! The dragon is going to eat me!” she cried, pushing at his shoulders as fiercely as she clung to him. He groaned, grinding his hips against her as he felt the bite of her nails in his skin, the edge of pain soothing amidst the pleasure.

The dragon was, indeed, about to feast.

He would be as good of a boy as she had called him and not tear the dressing gown. Aegon took his time to undo each of the fastenings, easing her out of the pretty fabric before tossing it blindly behind him.The nightgown beneath was simple - cream colored linen with pink ribbon laced through the neck, little ruffles along the ends of her sleeves. Nowhere near the near sheer gown he was used to seeing her in. There was something sweet in this, something that called to the dark thing in him that demanded he ruin, and he nuzzled between her breasts, tugging at the pink ribbon with his teeth to hear her laughter again. How much better to have wine in his blood and the sound of her in his ears to chase away all the dark thoughts that haunted the corners of his mind, chasing endlessly, predator to prey. Aegon’s teeth snatched at a nipple, peaked beneath the nightgown, the damp of his mouth soaking into the material.

Abby’s fingers dove into his hair, her other hand grasping desperately at his shoulder as she arched into him. There had been no sweeter experience than discovering all the ways she found pleasure, and Abby was deeply responsive. Not in the way the others had been - responding only to what he sought regardless of the pleasure, only for what he paid them for. Abby was a taut string, full of ticklish spots and places that made her whimper and writhe. Aegon wondered if he could make her peak from toying with her breasts alone - he’d heard for some that was possible, and he was curious if it would be the case for his love.

He kept her clothed, the need inside him thrashing against the restraint, wanting to devour her, to take her and make her his without question. Aegon’s mouth continued to focus on the ripe swell of her breasts while his hand reached down to tug her gown up over her thighs, reaching beneath the fabric to tug her smallclothes away, fingers working at the tie. She was a clever girl, reaching down and helping him remove them until he could touch her freely. Aegon sighed, long and low, vibrating at the feel of her silky and warm against his fingers. A final nip at her breast and he slid down the bed between her thighs. Aegon laughed as they spasmed, and Abby tried to close them around his head.

“Let me,” he coaxed her and she squealed, softly, wriggling against the bed.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice hushed, and he pressed her thighs apart, Abby letting them fall as he hooked a trembling thigh over his shoulder.

“Kissing you.” Aegon stroked her thigh soothingly and nipped along the soft skin of her thigh. She jerked beneath him with a needy whimper and her fingers found themselves in his hair once more. With a content sigh, Aegon leaned forward to stroke the flat of his tongue softly along the seam of her, the taste of salty and sweet bursting on his tongue. Abby gave a choked cry before it turned muffled and he lifted his head to see her shoving her nightgown over her mouth to muffle the sound. He chuckled and pressed a kiss to the warmth of her, humming so she could feel it and how she squirmed and wriggled at the sensation. Aegon wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t muffle her sounds - he desperately wanted to hear her, every sound, every sigh, to hear his Abrogail whimper and beg for him.

Though he knew how loud Abby could be and the last thing he needed was his mother finding out about this.

Aegon kissed his way back down, avoiding the place where she ached the most and tending to the rest of her. Spreading her with his fingers that knew her so intimately, and allowing his tongue to do the work, kissing her here as well as he kissed her ripe mouth. Seven help him, all he wanted to do was feast upon her with abandon, to hold her down as he brought wave after wave of pleasure over her. Not now though, not yet when he’d never touched her like this, and there were so many new things to learn about her, and what brought her the pleasure she so deserved.

It was so simple to fall into it, the enjoyment in the tasting of her, his hands stroking along her thighs, along the tender flesh behind her knees, reaching up to stroke her belly and feel her desperate hand grab his, clinging to him as she rolled her hips into his touch with a growing insistence. When he wrapped his mouth around the tender bud, another sound ripped through her, back arching, sound muffled behind her attempts at quiet. Her fingers pulled in his hair and he felt it shoot straight through his cock, feeling the stirrings of his arousal come back. He growled softly, nipping along her thigh near the crease, the little mole there a hidden thing only for him. Teeth nipped harder, curiously, and Abby cried out again, fingers pulling at his hair and something dark and molten stirred in his chest. The need to bite her, to break her tender skin, leave a scar of his teeth there for him to admire, for her to touch when she needed him, coursed through him, the needy, feral thing inside of him demanding it. It could match the mark he’d been deepening along her shoulder, that filled him with a heated possessiveness every time he touched or saw the evidence of his claim.

Not yet. He couldn’t yet, not here, not now. But he could leave a bruise, mouth worrying at the soft skin of her left thigh as he left numerous marks along her collarbones, places she could hide and cover. When they were free at Harrenhal, he would not let her hide them. Let them see how much he loved her, how much he craved her.

How Abrogail belonged to him.

Aegon picked up his pace as her hips grew insistent, her fingers tugging harder on his hair, wordless mumbles and whimpers peppered with her gasping, “Please,” and “Aegon,” and even something whispered in her mother tongue, the words giving her a twist and lilt to her tone, “Mo realta geal.” It took only two swipes of his tongue over her clit to have her crying out, slick gathering along her folds, her body trembling at the newness of the sensations, and the familiarity of the peak he gave her. He moved back to press kisses along her thighs and up to press more of them along the clenching muscles of her belly.

“I’m not done yet,” he told her, watching in delight as she managed to prop herself onto her elbows, face flushed and her beautiful eyes heavy lidded. Before she could say anything, his tongue swiped at the fresh rush of arousal once more, insistent this time, the pressure increasing from his more exploratory efforts earlier.

He let the need take over, the touch of his teeth nipping at her skin, the way the tip of his tongue danced Valyrian letters over her to find which motions drew her desperate and frantic. After her second peak, Aegon pressed two fingers inside of her, giving her the sensation that he knew she instinctually craved by the way her moan was full of relief, and the shocked cry as he carefully pressed a third inside of her. His mouth and chin shone with the evidence of her, his other arm banding over her stomach to keep her frantic hips steady as he feasted on her, his thank you for her eager display at pleasuring him from earlier. After the third wave crested, Aegon withdrew to press his wet mouth against her belly, working his way up to settle further between her thighs, cock aching as his arousal returned. When he brushed against her, he whimpered, and beneath him, Abby’s hips rolled up trying to catch him. He knew that motion, the way she angled her hips, the way her eyes, blue and wet and blown black, gazed up at him.

“Aegon-”

He cradled her jaw with damp fingers, his eyes focused on hers, the little freckles sprinkled along her nose and cheeks. A harsh swallow, his throat bobbing, and he let her rock her hips up against his, feeling the slick warmth of her body against him, knowing that after her peaks, she’d be ready for him. It would take little to settle himself and bury his cock inside her sweet cunt.

Their breaths came out in tandem. Heavy gasping filled the air as he lowered his head to press his forehead to hers, noses touching, breathing in each other’s exhales. While he cradled her jaw, Abby reached down between them to wrap her fingers around him, guiding the tip of him along her folds.

“Careful,” he warned her, thumb pressing lightly against the pretty, fluttering pulse in her throat.

“I will,” Abby whispered, voice little and delicate, a mewl as her eyes fluttered, his cock rubbing along the seam of her, bumping along the apex of her. “I need you… I hate waiting…”

He kissed her softly, the arm he was propped up on shaking. “I know, hunītsos… soon. We won’t leave our bed for days, I swear,” Aegon promised her. “I’ll tie you to it, have my way with you. Hells, you can tie me down and have your way, darling.”

“And I’ll say thank you,” she gasped and he could feel the clenching over her body, the fluttering of her cunt against his cock as she peaked again, a little ripple compared to the waves from before but all the same. “As I thank everything I ride.”

It wasn’t more than a moment before he spilled over her for the second time, his spend dripping across her cunt and slipping across the back of her hand. Their moans were soft, muffled as she swiped her tongue in his mouth, and he gave himself over to her, settling into the softness of her body.

Soon.

Soon she would be his, forever.

The double doors to the king’s apartments had intimidated Aegon since he was a boy.

That was their purpose, after all - to be intimidating and guard the sanctum of the monarch. Aegon wondered if his namesake had wanted such doors, or if this was from the menace that Maegor had sought to employ. Were they modeled on the lord’s chambers on Dragonstone? He’d only been to the island a handful of times and had never made it towards those sacred apartments that his elder sister now kept. The ironwood imported from the North was dark and gleaming, the intricate carvings of snarling dragons flying through the knots and whorls of the deeply polished wood. The handles themselves were cast iron, the sinewy body reminding him of Sunfyre’s sleek frame, wings splayed out to press against the door.

Sers Lorent Marbrand and Steffon Darklyn flanked the entrance, the elder Ser Lorent looking at him with his hand raised to open the doors for him but had paused at whatever look was on Aegon’s face. The man was not much older than Ser Criston, his auburn hair gleaming a shade of molten gold in the shaft of afternoon light.

If his father was dead behind that door, would the men standing here bend the knee to him, swear fealty to the king’s first born son? Or would they flee to Dragonstone to throw themselves at Rhaenyra’s feet? Would the blood of he and his brothers still coat their blade?

‘You are the challenge, Aegon. Should Rhaenyra take the throne, your life may be forfeit.’

Would it really? If he didn’t matter to this man?

‘But you do matter,’ a little voice stroked at his thoughts. ‘Near a full moon’s turn, this castle was filled with the expectation that you would be named heir. Finally acknowledged. The rights as first born son finally, finally extended to you. Finally, Sire would have to acknowledge that he beget you, could no longer ignore and wish you were a dead child born to a dead woman.’

The people had cheered for him. They had called for him.

Would being king make that worth it?

Aegon tugged at his left cuff, tucking his fingers inside where the favor was wrapped comfortingly around his wrist over where she had scratched him all those weeks ago. Warmth flooded through his veins, and the knots in his chest eased, and the scent of her rose and currant perfume oil danced through his memory.

It didn’t matter. None of this mattered; the king did not matter, not anymore. For once, Aegon found himself relieved to greet the day, one step closer to escaping this city and leaving the machinations and the ghosts behind. The future was no longer a dim, necrotic thing, a looming noose waiting for him to climb the gallows. His mother and the Tower’s ambitions, once smothering and all consuming, now felt like something he could finally escape. He had dreamed for years of fleeing across the Narrow Sea to the pleasure houses of Lys, or the once secret city of Braavos, and to know that the Riverlands held such an escape for him, away from the legacy of his forebears and into the life of a country lord, allowed him to finally breathe.

Ser Lorent opened the door and announced his presence. “Prince Aegon, Your Grace.”

It took everything in him to not wrinkle his nose at the medicinal scent that clung to the cloying drifts of incense as he stepped into the room, the great door shutting behind him with enough of a thud that he fought not to flinch. It reverberated through his bones, and Aegon had the mad thought that it was the stone door of a tomb, trapping him inside with the shambling corpse of his sire.

Whatever new concoction Maester Orwyle had been giving him appeared to have staved off the rapid decline he’d been experiencing beneath Mellos’ care. The rot had eased somewhat, and the king’s mind was clearer. He sat beside his table, a great book before him making notes about a new expansion, no doubt. Aegon approached quietly as his father did not acknowledge him right away, and for the first time in some years, he took stock of the Freehold.

The scent of stone dust in the air struck another memory. This was one where he was smaller, mother preoccupied with Daeron’s first steps. He’d slipped in behind Lord Lyonel to lay on the cool stone beneath the table. His father had found him later, surprised, before Aegon had explained that he was too hot and the ailing king got down on the floor and lay beside him. He’d been so surprised that his sire had joined him that he froze, uncertain as to what to say. The king had filled the silence, speaking of how dragon’s blood runs hot in their veins through the bond they have with their mounts. He’d spoken of the theories of the magic that created the dragons, that made them, the Valyrians, different from mortal men so they might ride in the skies.

His breath caught in his throat as his sire patted his hand.

“You’re a good boy, Aegon.”

“Thank you, father.”

The Freehold had expanded further, nearly pressed up against the balcony doors if not for the slight gap behind it for one to get through to open the doors. His father’s quill scratched across the paper, fully occupied with whatever thought he was absorbed in. Aegon’s eyes rove over the buildings, and settled on the great dragon carving perched upon a platform on one of the buildings. The wings were broad things, beginning to spread open, its thick neck arched, its head a rough shape that reminded him of Vhagar. If only it were painted, decorated the way the frescos and murals of the Holdfast were.

Aemond would surely know more about what Aegon was looking at, what this district was meant to be, but Aegon knew that even his brother’s voracious appetite did not hold a candle to their father’s obsession. Aegon doubted even Gaemon and Daenys the Dreamer could recreate the Freehold in such detail. Had the warlord Aenar thought of teaching his grandchildren of Valyria? Or had the coming of the Doom and losing everything they’d ever known, the people and places that were once home, been too painful of a thing?

“I am not sure if that dragon will speak to you no matter how hard you look at it.”

The chuckle that followed was raspy and Aegon jerked as if caught doing something he shouldn’t, backing away from the table before he broke anything just by being too close. He looked up, his sire’s dark lilac eyes so like his own, cloudy with his illness that had prematurely aged him.

Aegon’s hands shifted, wiping his palms on his legs to keep from crossing his arms protectively over himself. He did not know how to speak to the man before him, and all thoughts and preparations he’d made that morning, going over what he’d say to him in his head had all vanished.

“Sunfyre is a good listener, but I don’t think dragons make the best conversationalists, stone or otherwise,” he said, his voice higher than he’d intended.

Another chuckle and a shake of his head. “No, they do lack that needed ability to carry on the other end of a conversation.” He hummed in the way that Aemond had. “The lords of the realm had nothing but good things to say of you, my boy. An impressive feat of might in the tourney. Lord Edmund came to beg for reparations for his injury. I told him he had fought well, but let us not mewl over being bested by someone better, hm?” A shake of his head and the king set his quill down, his full attention on Aegon in a way he had not experienced in some time.

A heated sensation coursed through Aegon and he couldn’t figure out where it had started. He felt it spread in his chest, along the back of his neck and into his cheeks, not quite embarrassment, not quite pride either, but something that felt in-between, as if being seen was both a good thing and an embarrassing thing.

“Everyone knows.”

“I imagine the man is sore knowing not only has he lost to me in front of the realm in combat, but the hand of my Lady as well,” Aegon said, fingers twitching along his wrist for the reassurance he needed once more. It was easier to speak of things not quite himself, than to figure out how to respond to his king’s approval. Even his grandfather had little complaint at how he conducted himself during the festivities. There’d even been approval as to the attacker in the camp as well.

Thinking about it still caused Aegon’s blood to boil, the ache in his hands to raise that bastard from the dead and tear him apart himself.

“You will do well, I think,” the king continued “in your own country house. I envy you the escape, in truth, and it will be good for you. Get out on your own.”

As if Aegon was being sent to a hunting lodge in a little village, and not the largest castle in the realm, beneath the eye of Lord Tully and half the banners displeased at Aegon’s presence, and the others who spent time vying for favor. Still, the king’s platitudes strangely bolstered Aegon and he straightened his shoulders, coming around the table slowly, lingering along the edges of what looked like a market.

“Thank you, father.” Aegon was pleased that his voice did not falter on the word. “I’m looking forward to it. Sunfyre will enjoy the freedom, and I know Abby is looking forward to creating a household.” Aegon was still trying to learn their names outside of the twins who had remained in King’s Landing with both Abby and Helaena, as well as the bubbling and babbling Ryger, who was helping Abby practice the River tongue, and in turn, she was practicing with him. Warmth spread through his chest and he finally met his father’s gaze. “I came to ask about the family jewels.”

“Oh?” The king settled in his chair, a curious tilt to his head as he waited for more.

Aegon swallowed. “Yes. Abrogail is to be my wife, a princess of House Targaryen. It is only fitting that she have her own pieces from the treasury, and I’d like to pick some for her.” He took a breath, forging on before he could lose his nerve. “I would also like to make some custom pieces, that would be hers to… heirlooms. I saw how pleased she was to receive some of her mother’s things. I’d like for her to have that for our own children.”

He imagined Abby’s belly, round with child, his child, their family. Abby, dripping in jewels that he’d chosen for her, that brought out the sparkle of her eyes, the red of her mouth, to glimmer around her throat and in her curls. Aegon’s fingers twitched beside him as if he could reach into his mind for her, to draw the vision in reality.

“Mmm…” That hum, again so like Aemond’s and yet so very not, broke through Aegon’s thoughts and he watched his sire nod, reaching for a piece of parchment. “True enough. Let it not be said that House Targaryen does not care for their own. Women do love jewels.” A dry chuckle. “You should be careful how frequently you give them to her. She’ll come to expect a piece for every minor inconvenience. What one must do to keep the peace.” There was a scratching across the parchment, a pause before it resumed. “One of the crowns, of course. And jewels for… two pieces. I think that is more than enough to supplement whatever House Strong holds in their own treasury.”

He held the parchment out and Aegon closed the distance, as close as he dared, to take it from him. “Take this to Lord Beesbury’s office. He holds the keys to the treasury.”

“They’re not held by your own office?” Aegon asked curiously, glancing down at the scratch of his sire’s hand. A tiara and jewels for two pieces. Aegon wanted to cry that it was not enough, that it would never be enough, but it was more than he had truly expected. To be given this so willingly had left him feeling lightheaded; he’d been prepared to defend his request and to not have to was a strange feeling.

It was not something he thought he should get used to.

“No, the treasury holds the taxes, which in turn goes back to the people. Wars, tourneys, the maintenance of the King’s Road. The servants here and at Dragonstone, the upkeep of the Red Keep. The allowance for you and your siblings to fund all that drinking and merrymaking that I know you like. Your mother’s ladies, the Kingsguard, the Dragonpit… Feeding dragons is not cheap.” The king laughed again and Aegon prickled at it, uncertain how to handle the man before him talking with him so normally, as if they were truly father and son. He ran his tongue over his teeth behind his lips as his sire settled back in his chair and the heavy, dusty book in front of him. “No need to pay double the guard to simply store our things somewhere else. Take that to Lord Beesbury, and do give him my regards, boy.”

Boy. At least it was better than Baelon.

Aegon looked at the paper in hand, permission so unexpectedly granted, before his feet moved and he knocked on the door for it to open. The heavy thing swung open, Ser Lorent giving Aegon a slight nod and…

“Ser Criston,” Aegon said, not quite hiding his surprise to see his mother’s man standing there. Lilac eyes searched the Dornishman’s face as Ser Lorent closed the king’s door behind them. If Aegon didn’t know any better, he’d think that before the man’s features smoothed out, he might have looked worried. Ser Criston? Worried? The thought didn’t seem to register with him. He’d seen Ser Criston look concerned when one of them took a particularly nasty blow in the training yard and blood was involved. He’d seen concern when Helaena was having one of her struggling moments where she needed to get away from everyone.

“Your Grace.” The knight’s voice was low as he fell in step beside Aegon, a half step behind as he did with his lady mother. Unlike the last time, all those weeks ago after the knight had tried to give him advice, there was no air of judgment radiating off the man. “Prince Daeron expressed his wishes for the pair of you to go flying.”

“Did he? Well, I’ll find him after this.” A smile stretched along Aegon’s face. Daeron had been incandescent with the prospect of going flying with his siblings now that Tessarion was big enough to take a rider, and Aegon knew Helaena had gone out with him already. Aegon tried not to feel guilty for it, since there would be plenty of time for the pair of them to ride together without Mother fretting all the while.

"Your Grace."

Aegon paused and turned to look at the knight, uncertainty raising the hairs on the back of his neck. 'This is it', he thought. This was when the lecture would start, when Ser Criston Cole, his mother's sworn shield and protector, the man who first taught him how to hold a sword, who had been there when he was frightened and afraid after Daeron's birth, when Mother was bedridden, when the maesters feared she would not make it, would take another piece from him, and Aegon wondered if it would be that one piece that would send him toppling into shambles.

Nothing he'd done would matter. Nothing would be good enough.

"I have not had the time to tell you how well you've done," came the words that Aegon struggled to register. "I must admit, I was uncertain how things would turn out given your long time away from training, but..." Cole shook his head, a smile crossing his handsome face. "That was an inspired fight, my prince. You took what I've taught you and what you've learned on your own and used it well."

A flush of heat rushed through Aegon, that sudden nervous flush that usually came from shame, but in this moment felt strangely optimistic. "Thank you, Ser Criston," he said, voice stilted, mouth dry.

"You've handled yourself admirably these past weeks, my prince," Cole continued. "I am proud of you, and the man you've shown yourself to be, and I have made that known to your mother." His dark eyes shifted away as his fingers drummed against the pommel of his sheathed sword. Praise was hard earned from Ser Criston, and something Aegon had thought he himself had long given up chasing, as Aemond received it so easily. "She worries for you, of course."

"Of course," Aegon said faintly, eyes burning and he cleared his throat. He was, much like in his sire's room, a boy once more, small in many different ways. The weight of expectation was looming and all he wanted to do was run from it, and how unforgiving the failure could be. Yet he yearned for it. "Thank you for your kind words, Ser Criston." Stilted. Unsure. Aegon felt foolish. He felt like something else was looming and it wasn't coming.

"Should you wish to continue training, I would be glad of it," the elder continued, peering back at him. "With your uncle, Ser Gwayne, coming with you to Harrenhal, you would also be in good hands."

"I will consider it, Ser Criston," Aegon said quickly, desperate to escape the strangeness of receiving praise. "Is this why you came looking for me?"

Cole was quiet, watching him for a moment before shaking his head. "I heard you had gone to see the king." There was more to the statement but Cole did not finish it, and Aegon was not certain how to take it. Had Cole been worried for him? "Your mother did express hope you would join her in the Sept after supper for evening prayers, but I did not think she would ask you outright. That task might be left to the Lady Abrogail.”

Aegon grimaced at the idea of it. He had accompanied his mother to her prayers over the years, had found his own sense of comfort not in the gods, but in the quiet time with her. The way Mother’s face would relax in the candle light, the whispered prayers, even stories of his grandmother who had died a handful of years before he’d been born. The moments were precious to him, were moments where the gulf between them did not feel more than a trickling creek, where Mother’s hand rested warmly between his shoulder blades or stroked her fingers along the nape of his neck as she did when he was small.

“I’ll attend with her tonight,” he said softly. “Thank you, Ser Criston. Please send my mother my wishes.”

“A round!” Aegon declared, hopping up onto the bench, his hand gripping Alyn’s shoulder. “For Alyn Hull! The best fucking man I know!” He giggled, pleased with himself even as Alyn smacked him in embarrassment, ignoring his protestations and dropping back down in his seat.

The Shallows was a tavern they had only recently become more acquainted with as Aegon drew further from the Street of Silk, and Alyn’s aunt and uncle ran the place at the top of the street from the main docks. It had become a comfortable place, all considered, and Aegon had found excitement in the stream of sailors and bards that frequented the place, often only in the city for a night or two, with tales from the Stepstones and the fighting, of far off Myr with their new inventions, Braavos and their clever fighting men.

“You’re ridiculous,” Alyn shook his head, shoving at his shoulder once more as stabbed a hunk of meat out of the stew.

“He’s not,” came the clipped tone, a northern burr tempered by the southern accent. Fresh tankards of the house ale were set on the table as Bri shook her head. The deep green of her kirtle looked nearly black in the low light of the tavern, her skirt tucked up in her wide black belt. “It’s what you deserve.” It was Alyn’s turn to receive a hit as she shoved at his shoulder, before Alyn grabbed her hand and pulled her into him to kiss her cheek.

“You just can’t wait to get rid of me,” he complained. “You’re so happy the prince is dragging me all the way to Harrenhal so you can finally run away with Beric Storm.”

Aegon reached for his tankard and quickly occupied himself while the pair fell into their bickering, and he was quite certain Alyn’s hand had made it to the wench’s backside. He rolled his eyes and turned to look out at the rest of the room from their vantage point at the back of the tavern. Below, the crush of small folk were cheering as the drinks were dispersed, shouts of ‘Hail Prince Aegon!’ in thanks and calls and well wishes for Alyn.

“I’d have no one else by my side, Hull,” Aegon said after Bri returned to her duties, grasping his friend by the shoulder.

“Who else would keep you alive?” countered Alyn with a snort. “I consider it a fine payment for my bodyguard services to you over the years.” Aegon prickled at how transactional Alyn made it sound, a frown crossing his face before Alyn’s hand gripped his shoulder in return, drawing his attention back to him. “We have had fun here, in the city, have we not?” he asked, a smile instead of his usual playful smirk crossing his face. “TIme for us to have a new adventure. How robust do you think the city life of Harren Town actually is?”

“Fuck if I know,” Aegon said shortly, still prickling but trying to shake it away. “You can bring your girl with you.”

“Nay,” Alyn murmured, taking a swallow from the fresh tankard. “Bri promised to stay with my mother until Addam’s back from the Stepstones.” Alyn’s elder brother was serving in the Velaryon fleet, fighting down south in Lord Colrys’ war. “She won’t leave until he’s safe and returned to us.” Aegon nodded, understanding. The Hulls were a close family, Alyn’s aunt and uncle having opened the tavern when Alyn was a babe, not long before Aegon himself had been born. His mother was one of many who wove fishing nets - a trade that could be easily found north in Harrenhal. However, Aegon had offered to put his mother up as well, set up and comfortable how he knew Alyn hoped for her.

“Word from your brother?”

A shrug. “Lord Velaryon won another battle - according to those merchants from Qohor that came in this week. Rumor is the Triarchy might be enlisting the Bright Banners.”

Aegon drummed his fingers against the tankard. “He’ll be fine. And when he comes back, we’ll make sure he’s taken care of.” Another drink to cloak it in the casualness rather than the seriousness of his words, uncertain how Alyn would take it.

“First you make me your steward, now you offer to make my brother another part of your new house?” There was a teasing quality in Alyn’s voice, but Aegon knew better, just as his friend knew his own tones masked his own truth. They had been through much together, things that neither of them would ever speak of, but knotted them together like the nets Marilda Hull wove with such care.

He snorted and shook his head, tearing off a hunk of the fresh bread Bri had brought, soaking it in his own stew. “Addam can do what he likes, and whatever I can make happen, I will. It’s not charity,” Aegon quickly added, because Alyn would rankle at times about charity until he learned not to complain about it. “He served the realm. Should he want to be a Gold Cloak, should he want to set up a tavern in Harren Town, hells, send him to Oldtown and become a Maester-”

“Aeg,” Alyn cut in, fingers gripping his shoulder and Aegon fell silent, eyes focused on the food before him. “I want to come with you to Harrenhal. I want to make a better life, I don’t want to raise my children in this stinking cesspool of a city, I want my mother to have the garden she’s always dreamed of.”

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Aegon said, voice low, the frown pulling at his mouth once more. “I’d still let you have it for-”

“Aegon,” Alyn said. “As your steward, all I ask is for your respect.”

“And as your liege, all I ask is you tell me when I go wrong,” Aegon replied, finally meeting his friend’s eyes. They were bright green, like his aunt’s, and his mother’s. The silver hair was the only thing that hinted at his origins. His true origins. ‘As your-’ Aegon could not finish the thought and instead he hooked an arm around Alyn’s shoulder, pulling him in to smack a kiss to his silver head. “Here, steward. Give that bard a dragon and let’s get something good playing.”

Chapter Text

“Cassandra Baratheon has bled.”

The queen’s rooms were quiet. Rich green and black drapes hung open as wide as they could to allow the light in, but the panes were closed to the cool fall breeze. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, dancing along the decorative stone swirls along the mantle. The usual gaggle of women that occupied the room had been absent these past few days - her court having dispersed to deal with multiple assignments for the daily running of the castle and the wedding. Alicent looked up from the parchment before her, releasing her lower lip from the intensity of her gnawing teeth. Her gaze met Lady Lysa’s from where the elder woman looked up from her own sheaf of parchment.

“I will go and speak with Lord Beesbury on these matters, Your Grace,” she said softly, rising in a whisper of apple red silk, her usual caul replaced by a barbette and veil given the cooler weather. The way the woman turned her head, reaching for her papers, reminded Alicent of her own mother in such a swift and sharply unexpected moment, that Alicent’s chest clenched and stole her breath. Lysa Fossoway was her beacon of normalcy over the past years, but she was not her mother.

How desperately she wished her mother was here. How keenly that feeling sharpened as the other woman left and Alicent remained here, alone, with Lord Larys Strong.

His firefly-handled cane thumped softly against the rich rugs scattered about her solar and he took a seat on the chaise, settling himself down like a vulture, waiting to feast. On her secrets, on her thoughts, on wherever his tightly guarded whims struck him. Yet, she had few that she could call confidant, even if she dare not call him friend.

“Good.” The snap of the wooden pen box punctuated the single word as Alicent put away her ink and tucked away the parchments that Larys so curiously watched. “Lord Borros insisted that we have this engagement sealed before the new year and the wedding.”

It felt like when Viserys dragged himself to High Tide to present himself to Lord Corlys to beg his heir’s hand in marriage for a sullied Rhaenyra . It was beneath him, it was unbecoming, and it was exactly why, Alicent felt, Lord Borros felt he could demand the way he did.

‘I am not beholden to my father’s oaths, but I will not be taken for a fool’, the man had said. No sons of his own yet, Alicent knew that it was not his fear of being taken for a fool that had brought him blustering and demanding, but the fact that his sister, his only sibling, had sons. Both, to Alicent’s knowledge, were unwed. There existed a possibility for Helaena, one she would have to revisit later.

For now, her attention focused on the fact that it appeared Borros Baratheon thought that Vhagar would be enough of a deterrent for his sister’s sons to claim the Storm Throne from his own children.

“So that is what is to be then? Aemond to the storm, to match the tempest inside of him.” Larys tilted his head in the thoughtful way he had, his hands folded along the top of his cane. “Better, maybe, than risk quenching his fire in the snows perhaps.”

Alicent furrowed her brow. “Snows?”

“Only a turn of phrase, Your Grace. There are many eligible women in the realm to tie our Prince to. The Stormlands keep him close, rather than the cliffs of Casterly Rock or even the isolated northern houses. Northern houses, such as House Karstark offer little, while Storm’s End grants you a realm. Better than his sister as well, although I have not heard Prince Aemond express those wishes in some time.”

Alicent rolled her eyes and went to pour herself some of the mulled wine from the carafe by her window. “House Karstark, or any of the other Northern Houses, would do little for Aemond.” As for Helaena, she too had noticed her son’s waning insistence over the past few months in regards to such a betrothal. She hoped that he too realized the futility of such an endeavor.

“And it isn’t as if Lord Borros could not take another wife should-”

The clatter of her goblet on the table cut off the direction of Larys’ ponderings, and she turned on him, a sick and ugly feeling in his chest. “It is unseemly to speculate or wish for such things, my Lord Confessor,” she said tightly. “My son will marry Lady Floris. Aemond will have a position and income here at court, regardless of what the future holds,” she whispered. “He will make a fine Hand.” When her father could no longer be Hand to Aegon, Aemond would be an ideal successor.

“And Daeron could serve the crown much like Ser Criston. Now everyone is taken care of.” A soft chuckle filtered into the room and sent a shiver up Alicent’s spine. “You have done well for your children, Your Grace. It is good that they at least have a mother who cares for them so.”

“Someone has to. If my son is not his father’s heir, then he should be taken care of. The realm knows too well the idleness of second sons and unhappy brothers.” She shook her head, unflinchingly meeting Larys’ disquieting gaze and the amused curl of his mouth. “If the king would not even be amenable to the idea of Aegon being his sister’s heir, then something must be done.”

A pulse of a headache thrummed behind her eye. Aemond chafed already beneath his brother, beneath the duty that had spurred him to his lessons, to his training, but she knew Aemond would want more. He hungered for more and she could not give it to him. Would her ambitious boy be content with his child married to Cassandra’s heir? ‘He would have to,’ she thought, though her fear persisted. This was the cost of duty.

“Have you only come to speak of Lady Cassandra’s state of non-pregnancy, or have you come to drop news that Helaena is with child.” The pointed non-question was sharper than she might have normally intended but the onset of having to tell Aemond, her angry, precious son, would give her a fit the way anything difficult aggravated her husband and king.

“All goes accordingly, my Queen,” Larys said, nonplussed, and if anything, the amusement was lingering there. Alicent hated the small feeling it gave her. No, not small, she realized; not small as how her father or even Viserys made her feel.

Larys made her feel trapped.

“Very good then. If there’s nothing else, Lord Larys-” The sharp, heavy knock on the door mercifully broke into the tension and Alicent could barely contain her desperate tone. “Enter!”

Gwayne was the most welcome sight behind the door, his doublet so deep green as to be almost black, the fabric of his gray shirt poking between the ties of his sleeves. The silver buttons were stamped with the High Tower and the flames atop it. The angles of his face reminded her so much of Aemond, but she could see all of her boys in that face. The sharpening of Aegon’s jaw, Daeron’s nose. Warm, brown eyes took her in before looking over her shoulder as Larys scraped his way to standing.

“Ser Gwayne,” the lord greeted and she felt, more than saw, her brother stiffen slightly. Gwayne had not been here long, but his dislike of the Master of Whispers had been a decisive one. Her brother was firm in his manner, much like their father; once lost, no good favor could be regained.

“Lord Larys. I’ve come to pull our Queen from these shady interiors to take a turn in the fresh air. I’m sure you also have much to attend to.” Not that the solar itself wasn’t brightly illuminated, stained glass windows sending streaks of colored light about the room, and Theraxis, Abby’s cat, was sprawled in a patch of warm light that the stained glass windows turned his gray fur purple and orange.

“Who would I be if I kept her Grace from spending time with her much missed brother,” Larys said, inclined slightly to Alicent. “I shall take my leave then. Good day to you both.”

As soon as the door shut, Gwayne’s blue eyes, their mother’s eyes, pinned her.

“I mislike you having private conference with that man. Where is Lady Lysa? Or Cole?”

Alicent raised an eyebrow. “You mislike.”

“I do.” He seized an apple from the basket on the table. Brown hair, once sandy blonde as Daeron’s in youth, fell into his eyes. He kept it short, as Aegon, and the sight of him had her wonder if things would be easier had her eldest looked more like her. “He is a foul man, and I do not like the way he watches you.”

She rolled her eyes at her brother’s protestation. Touched as she was by his protectiveness, it was too many years too late. “Well, Lord Larys is the Master of Whispers for a reason. There is a certain unsettling that comes with the position.”

Gwayne rolled his eyes this time and bit into the apple, the fruit crunching loudly. “I still do not like it.”

“You do not have permission to pass judgment and disapproval as you made the choice to leave.” Resentment rose ugly in her throat, her voice not her own; a fragile thing, a girlish cry. Her nails scraped along her wrist as she turned away from him to her desk, eyes unseeing as she reached for the first paper. “I had to make my own protection.”

“Ali-”

“No,” she snapped, shaking her head. “You left.” Then I lost Rhaenyra. “And do not claim it was your injury. You couldn’t wait to flee back to Uncle Rodrik. How sad it must have been for you to instead be sent back to the Tower.” Instead of staying there, with her, so she would not be alone, so their father would not be so bold as to push and press and bear down upon her. Bitterness dripped from her voice and the sound of tearing filled her ears. Alicent looked down to see how she’d torn the acceptance from Dragonstone for their presence at the wedding.

She felt like she would be sick.

A strange sound escaped her throat. It sounded like a growl or a wounded whine. Alicent could not be certain. What she was certain of was Gwayne’s arms wrapping around her from behind, holding her bones together as she felt like she would shatter. Her brother said nothing and for that she was grateful.

Fear tangled between her ribs, pulling them apart and compressing them just as tightly so she felt like she couldn’t breathe no matter what. Gwayne held her tightly, held her bones together, kept her body from bursting into a thousand shards. She gasped for air, tears hot in her eyes but refusing to fall. At some point, they ended up on the floor, the deep green of her skirts pooled around them as she leaned into her brother and he rocked her much as he did when she was young, when they would play knights and dragonriders in the gardens, when mother was there, and she’d fall and scrape her knee, or he had whacked her too hard with the stick, or Rhaenyra was angry when her moods got the better of her.

“I’m sorry,” Gwayne said softly, so softly she could barely hear it and her nails bit into the thick fabric of his doublet.

“You could have stayed,” she cried, her fist hitting his bicep. “You could have stayed, I needed you!” Her brother had nothing to say to that, he only squeezed her tighter as she finally wept, her fears tumbling out of her. “Why did he do this to me if they do not matter to him? They’re his blood too and he never cared, he never cared. He begged for sons! He begged for them and I gave him sons and it didn’t matter so what was it for?”

Alicent wept bitter tears, pushing and biting her fingers into her brother, who sat there, quiet and unmoving as she tore into him. The months, the years bubbled up in her, all the shattered dreams and the fear and the confusion, the immeasurable pain that had stripped away everything inside of her until she was whatever she was now, a stranger to herself. “They’ll kill them, Daemon or whomever seeks to curry favor with Rhaneyra, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care and they treat me as if I’m mad.”

She wasn’t mad. She knew that she wasn’t, everyone knew that she wasn’t, but much like the king never put Lord Corlys in his place all the times the man stormed out of the Small Council, Daemon perched as a vulture on Dragonstone for months without recourse until he stole an egg, Rhaenyra escaping recourse and being covered for her indiscretions. Had Alicent’s own children be fathered by Ser Criston, to pass off as trueborn children, her own fate would not be so kind.

Why had no one sought to protect her, the way the king, mercurial in his affections towards his eldest child to begin with, still protected Rhaenyra?

Alicent did not know how long they sat there, the gasping and the tears, the undulating pressure around her middle ebbing and increasing until it finally started to fade. Gwayne’s hand slowly stroked her back in soothing motions, his cheek resting upon her head. As the silence grew and her sobbing eased, her brother finally spoke.

“I’m here now,” he said. “And if you wish me to stay with you instead of accompanying the boys to Harrenhal, I will.”

She shook her head. “Aegon will need you. Guide him, help him. He’s doing so well, I’m so afraid that he will slip…”

“You are afraid of everything, aren’t you?”

Alicent scoffed, wet and stuffy nosed. “I am being realistic. I need someone there who will tell me if I need to intervene-”

“Alicent.” Gwayne shifted, his voice sharp enough to draw her attention and she looked up at her brother, meeting his blue eyes with her own brown. Gwayne had their mother’s eyes, the Reyne eyes. Would her grandchildren hold those eyes as well? Or would Aegon’s Valryian gaze overpower them? “Let him grow. Let him have a chance away from here.”

“And if something happens to him?” Her lower lip trembled and she bit down on it so hard it hurt. Her brother’s mouth twitched in a smile. Sad, fond.

“He cannot thrive if you are tangled around him like a choke vine.”

“And what of father?” she whispered, harsh and unnerved.

“I’ll handle father,” Gwayne reassured, or attempted to do so, but Alicent felt the fear pulse inside of her, the uncertainty at what felt like a foolish promise. His eyes searched her face for several moments and Alicent, unnerved, reached up to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief and tried to gather her wits. “Alicent? Do… do you want your son to be king?”

Alicent’s heartbeat thundered in her ears and she pulled back from her brother to stare at him. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out and she shut it with a click of her teeth that longed to nash and rend those around her. A fresh wave of tears burned in her eyes but did not fall this time. She pressed her handkerchief into her eyes, took a deep breath, and felt in her bones.

“Aegon may not want it, but it is the only way to protect us. Viserys will not. Rhaenyra will not. I tried. I did, and I never thought she would hurt the children but…” Alicent shook her head, the fear still there, still acrid and painful. “Her callous disregard of my son, her brother’s maiming. And what they did to Laenor?” Her voice was a whisper, the fear, the shock of it that still stuck with her. “It was Daemon, to be sure, but Rhaenyra knew. And it’s that which terrifies me. Rhaenyra doesn’t have to give the command, or even raise the blade or-or bring Syrax to exact her justice. Daemon and whatever other lords seek to curry her favor will do what they think needs to be done, and that is to keep my children from being a threat, from being beacons of rebellion regardless of them being part of it or not. And if none do it for her, she will be forced to do it.”

Aegon may not want his sister’s throne, but Aemond? Her precious boy had received a grievous injury, but his sire, his father and king meant to protect him, had not cared. That night on Driftmark showed the court how utterly vulnerable Alicent and her children were, and her father had been right. She had to fight for them in a way she never had before. Aemond had risen to the challenge beside his mother, a protector, but also quiet and feral in ways that frightened her, in ways that sometimes reminded her of the way Daemon Targaryen used to stride about - a siren song of strength compared to his elder brother.

If to truly protect them meant putting her first boy, precious in his own ways, her little Aegon who was finally smiling again, on the throne? To protect them? Then so be it.

Let all they’d been through, let all she had been through, be worth it, let it mean something. Mother and Father above, please just let it have been for something.

“They speak of the great insults done to our House,” Gwayne said softly, leaning against the foot of her bed, one long leg sprawled out before him, the other bent to lean his arm on. “To not name your son heir, then why take his Hightower bride?”

“I wonder, had he married Laena Velaryon, if he would have named her son heir,” Alicent said, frustration edging into her voice. “Corlys Velaryon would not tolerate his grandson not on the Iron Throne-”

“Which is why House Velaryon has not broken with Rhaenyra,” Gwayne finished with a snort, but there was no amusement in it. “The Sea Snake wants to make a name for his house. These Valyrian politics - but what man doesn’t?”

“Viserys doesn’t,” Alicent rolled her eyes and Gwayne met her gaze, the pair of them snickering like children. She felt the tension in her chest ease with the laughter, better than tears, and pushed at her brother’s knee. “It’s guilt over Aemma Arryn’s death and the king is a stubborn man. He is easily run roughshod but when his mind is made…” She shook her head. “Had father not pushed, maybe it would have changed. But father made him feel like a fool, and Viserys cannot abide that.”

“It was not just father, though,” Gwayne pointed out. “Our house pushed for it, yes, but whispers and confusion have run rampant through this realm since Aegon was born. Women do not sit the Iron Throne. Seven Hells, Jaehaerys held a council because he could not decide between a granddaughter or grandson. What power does House Targaryen truly have if they must beg the lords of the realm to decide their succession when it should be clear, the way the rest of the realm does?”

“Dragons,” Alicent pointed out softly. There were so many dragons now, many from Vhagar, a few from eggs that Meraxes had laid - she recalled from Aemond’s excited speeches, a thick tome of dragon lineages clutched in his arms. “They have dragons.”

Gwayne’s hand reached up, fingers warm against her forehead as he pushed away a loose curl. “You are just as fierce,” he told her. “If not more.”

“Stop,” she muttered and pushed at his knee before they rose and she smoothed the wrinkles of her skirt.

The children were scattered that morning. Helaena was in the gardens with little Floris and likely Jacaerys skulking after her as he’d taken to doing when council meetings weren’t in session. He had behaved well enough, from what she had seen and what had been reported to her. Bastard born he may truly be, Jacaerys had always treated her daughter kindly. There was frustratingly little she could do with the boy now, for word would trickle back to Viserys, who would feel like he needed to roar to make himself feel in control before retreating back to his lair.

She knew that Aemond kept watch, although her boy as of late had been distracted. When not in his studies or the training yard, he was hardly to be found. Which left Aegon and Abrogail, and at least she knew precisely where they would be then.

The weeks following the festivities had seen a change in her son, and one that Alicent wasn’t sure how to feel. The dalliance with the Lefford girl aside (no bastard had taken root, and the girl had been given a place in her household until such a time a match could be made), as well as whatever foolishness he’d engaged in with Cassandra Baratheon, Aegon had performed admirably. His spectacle making tried her patience, but won admiration through the court. No longer her little boy, her first son, Aegon had come into himself in a way that Alicent had not thought him capable of, and feared that it would not last.

For all the pain that ached and clawed inside her ribs at the sight of them, the displays of affection between her son and Abrogail had also proven fruitful, and she did not sense any facet of artifice between them. When her son smiled down at his betrothed, an easing sensation coursed through her, as if the tightly spooled coil inside of her was able to release gently.

Relief. Relief that this might, in fact, work out better than she hoped.

Perhaps the girl had been right in defending Aegon, yet Alicent still held her breath, did not let her relief grow unbound. Aegon often threw himself into new pursuits, at least once upon a time. He’d let it consume him and just as she thought she found what he needed to truly take responsibility, the novelty wore off and then there they were, back where things began, her son drunk and dunked in a horse trough to sober him up.

They found the children in the small, family dining hall. Abrogail’s ladies were clustered on a set of low chairs and chaises that had been brought in. Lady Desmara Crane and Lady Merei Thorne sat on either side of Lady Wylla, silk and lace across all their laps as they worked on Abrogail’s trousseau. The Riverlands girls that Abby had taken for ladies had returned home in order to get their own things and order, and would meet the wedding party at Harrenhal. Alicent regarded their dresses - all different, and made a mental note to ensure that uniforms denoting their statuses as ladies-in-waiting were taken care of when the seamstress came for the next wedding gown fitting.

The dancing master stood at the edge of the parquet floor where her son and cousin stood, the minstrels in the corner with the Targaryen drum and other instruments. The room was cool in the early afternoon, the torches out, the curtains fluttering gently in the fall breeze. Samwell was sweet voiced, and had been in court since her wedding a score ago. He was not a particularly tall man, still plump, but the years had sharpened the roundness of his face. He still composed, but now served as a dance master, leading the court in new dances. Samwell had taught the children as well, and as Alicent watched him, his feathered cap of red and black striping bobbing in time with the music, it felt as if she were transported to a godswood and a song she never wanted to hear again.

Samwell’s exasperation was palpable, and Alicent could see the pink flushed along Abrogail’s face all the way up to her hairline.

“You go left,” he instructed her sharply, the cane he held to keep the tempo cracking loud enough to cause the children and herself to jump. “The prince turns right, as the flow of air. You are receiving him, my lady.”

“Left,” Abrogail repeated, fingers twitching in the pale blue damask of her gown. Aegon gestured in the direction she was meant to go in and the music resumed. Aegon had the steps down, but Abrogail struggled to follow the beat that was so different to the normal court dances. Alicent wondered if it was some memory of Old Valyria that thumped through her son’s veins, for she recalled that Rhaenyra and Laenor’s rehearsals had gone quickly. Alicent had mercifully been saved from such a dance, for the king had not wanted to perform it again.

A short ‘Ow!’ escaped Aegon and he jumped away as Abby apologized for stepping on his feet. Alicent sucked in her lips to hold in a laugh as Abby glared at him, snipping at him, “You are ridiculous.” Alicent clapped her hands and the music stopped, bows and curtsies from those gathered before her.

“Thank you, Master Samwell. I think that’s enough for today,” she said, watching Abrogail’s shoulders sag in relief. “You may resume on the morrow. No progress can be made when one is so frustrated.” She watched the girl open her mouth and then shut it quickly, eyes downcast. As the minstrels gathered their instruments, Alicent released her brother and approached the pair. Aegon had moved closer to Abrogail, curling a long, red curl around his finger.

Whatever her son was saying to her, Alicent could not hear, but she took the time to appreciate their closeness in a way she had not allowed herself to before. They had behaved themselves admirably in the weeks of festivities. Even as jealousy curled in her gut from the shattered dreams of her girlhood, the worries that had plagued Alicent’s days had eased as she saw how well they had gotten on, how favorably many in the realm looked upon them. Many had come to her, speaking highly of the match, how clear the pair were fond of one another.

How rare that very thing was in so many unions across the realm.

Alicent feared. She feared from the moment her eyes opened to past the time her eyes closed, feared for the safety of her children, and their happiness, unfairly, she knew, was not at the top of her concerns. To know that this might keep her son safe, to know that for the first time in years too many to count on her own hands, her son looked happy…

“I am half convinced the dance only makes sense to those with Valyrian blood,” Alicent said, a small smile crossing her face as she attempted to reassure her cousin. Abrogail’s features scrunched up uncertainty.

“Should we also not do a Riverlands dance as well?” The uncertainty left her, a small curl of a mischievous smile crossed the girl’s face as she eyed Aegon. “I’d like to see how well you perform that.”

Alicent pursed her lips at her son’s indignant look. Abrogail was not pregnant, there had been no scandals, no whispers. Whatever the girl had done to influence her son appeared to be working, the words she had said in such anger had taken root as Alicent had hoped. Aegon had thrown himself into good presentation, regardless of whatever dalliances her son had engaged in with Lady Cassandra.

“You are marrying a Targaryen, and with that comes certain expectations and obligations,” Alicent said carefully, her fingers running along the deep sleeves of her deep green gown, fingers tracing along the golden embroidery of the cuffs. “The might of the Targaryen House will be on display.” The girl nodded, eyes averted respectfully and Alicent watched her son continue to wind one of the long, red curls around his finger. He tugged on it, drawing her attention.

Alicent looked away to watch the minstrels leave the hall, the door closing with a soft thud behind them, the ladies continuing to work on their sewing. “Your brother is not here? Nor Helaena?”

“Daeron is with Helaena in the gardens. He has no interest in dancing,” Aegon rolled his eyes as Gwayne did. “He’s twelve.”

“Aemond is in the training yard with Ser Criston,” came Abrogail’s soft addition, reaching up to bat Aegon’s hand away from her hair. “He’s training for the wedding tourney.”

Aegon snorted. “Even though he complains how tourneys are nothing to real war.”

“Do not think you’ll escape the training yard with me,” Gwayne teased him. “Just be grateful I won’t have you out at sunup, given your newlywed status.”

Abrogail flushed. “Is-is everything alright, your Grace? Did something happen?” Aegon’s eyes swiveled curiously from the girl to her and Alicent smoothed her hands over her skirt.

“We would announce it at dinner, but I had hoped to speak to Floris.” she shook her head. “Lord Borros has agreed to the betrothal between Aemond and her. Obviously not for a few years - she is only a girl, but it will at least give time for her and Aemond to get to know one another.”

‘You had been only a girl’, Alicent thought. It was why she had fought so hard against her father to wait just a little longer before betrothing Aegon and Abrogail. To give the girl more time, the way her mother would have wanted, the way that it had not been afforded to her. She would do what she could for Floris.

And hopefully give Aemond time to come around to the idea.

Alicent sighed. Hopefully, her second son would be in a more receptive mood after hours having Ser Criston exhaust him with drills. “I shall go find your brother and hopefully catch him before he flees for Vhagar. Floris will be easy enough to speak to, if her sister hasn’t found her already.” She reached out, stroking Aegon’s hair, pushing the silver strands out of his eyes. The way he stiffened did not go unnoticed, and her heart ached with guilt. Her hand dropped, her smile tight and Aegon gave her a slight bow, Abrogail bobbing her own curtsy, a murmured ‘Your Grace’ whisper soft.

The moment Jace saw Aemond dominating the training yard, he felt his stomach drop and promptly went right and through the tunnel towards the gardens. While things with his uncle had been only filled with tension, Jace knew when to pick his battles and that was one he did not need to dive into.

The terraced gardens of King’s Landing featured in some of his earliest memories, when things were simpler, when the animosity and the tension hadn’t suffocated them all. In the gardens, the rest of the world fell away, much like how he felt when he rode Vermax, his jade wings skimming the waves of the sea, the salt wind in his face. The suffocating stench of King’s Landing was not so bad here, and while one was never alone - too many servants, too many lingering lords and ladies, all to ever truly be hidden - it was still a reprieve and Jace made his way down to the third terrace where the fountains were. With the fountains were mud, and he knew that Helaena would be there with her jar to dig up little things to feed her collection.

The first thing Jace heard was the laughter of children, and he spied Floris Baratheon swinging a stick rather aggressively at Daeron, whose eyes were wide in shock at the battle cry she let out. A grin broke out across his face as he gathered himself, and swung his stick back with equal fervor. Baela’s ladies - minus his step-sister who was still at High Tide - were gathered on the stone terrace along with Helaena’s new lady, eating cakes and gossiping.

Helaena herself crouched beside some of the large stones, a jar beside her as she rolled over one of the stones. Her hair was bound in a simple silver braid hung over one shoulder, her deep green gown embroidered with silver moths turned muddy and damp from the wet ground. Jace watched her pick a worm from where it clung to the stone and set it carefully away.

“Fish with feathered fins,” she said as Jace approached and he noticed her gaze was focused on her work, fingers twitching, the words nonsensical. He had not seen the expression on her face in years, had thought, mayhaps, her moments had abated over time as she grew older.

It was not the case. It was not something the princess had grown out of, and he remembered with clarity of a frantic, sobbing fit she’d had when they were children. Helaena was meant to be handled gently - Jace remembered his mother saying as much when they were young, not long after Daeron had been born. He should treat Helaena kindly, and respect when she did not want to be touched, and be mindful of loud noises. And so he did, stern with Luke when he would screech in excitement or indignation, snap at Aegon when he raised his voice. It had been the two of them playing in the halls of the Red Keep, playing a game of hide and seek, and he’d found Helaena, frozen in the hallway to his mother’s room, tears streaking down her face, clutching something to her. It had been nothing, but she would not drop her arms, and not knowing what to do, Jace had gotten his mother. Belly round with Joffrey, she’d come out, concern etched on her features and together they sat on the ground with Helaena, his mother not touching her but speaking to her in calm tones.

“The rats, the rats, the rats are coming,” Helaena had whispered in a frantic mantra.

“The rats will not hurt you, hāedus. I will go to Lord Lyonel and we will ensure there are more ratcatchers employed. I promise.” His mother said firmly and clearly, not dismissing the concern, her gaze towards him.

“And if we find a rat, we will get Abby’s cat to help catch them,” Jace had promised with a nod.

She was not crying here. She was distant from the world around them, and focused on something that wasn’t the little bugs she was dropping into the jar. Helaena was so far away and Jace kneeled beside her. The ground was wet and cold and promptly began soaking into the wool of his trousers. He ignored the uncomfortable sensation and remained beside her, curls in his eyes and reached for the scurrying little bugs to drop in the jar.

“Fish with feathered fins and storms of ivy,” she whispered. “Not that one. The red ones get ignored.”

Jace started when he realized she had addressed him in the middle of her whispers and dropped the red pill bug back onto the soft earth. It eagerly burrowed back into the soil, vanishing without a trace.

“Shall we find you a fish with feathered fins?” he asked her softly, a slight jest in his voice as he attempted to draw her back into the present moment. Helaena did not reply to him but shifted the jar better between them and he went about pulling up the next large stone to pull the bugs from beneath it.

“Promises shatter in ice,” Helaena said.

“What?”

Heleana drew back to sit on her heels, the rock falling back in place and her hands covered in mud. Her gaze appeared to fix on them and Jace watched her quietly, the sounds of Daeron and Floris’ laughter filling the garden. It felt ominous to him, the feeling rushing in like water behind a broken dam.

Tentatively, Jace lifted a hand to rest on her shoulder. “Helaena, come back to me,” he urged gently, thumb stroking against the soft wool. “You’re going somewhere and I haven’t any idea how to follow you.” He would if he could, for he knew that whatever plagued Helaea was a frightening place that she should not traverse alone, even tethered to Dreamfyre as she was.

All he could do was reach for her, and hope that she heard him.

Helaena slowly blinked, as if the act itself was something she had to remind herself or force herself to do. Jace swallowed and chanced a glance over his shoulder. Daeron and Floris were still chasing one another with their sticks, and the ladies were occupied with their chatting. He frowned with an uncertain feeling. Should her ladies not be attending her? Or did they think it best to leave her be? A sharp inhale of breath drew his focus back to Helaena. She pulled away awkwardly, hands fluttering and fingers flexing.

“I…” Helaena looked lost, confused, and she stared at him but did not meet his eyes, mouth opening and closing, words unable to escape her. Jace shook his head and kept his hand to himself in her clarity of not wanting the touch.

“You’re alright. You’re safe here.”

“Helaena?”

Abrogail’s voice carried past the hedge and she came around the bed, mouth tight, gripping tightly to Wylla Karstark’s hand. The dark haired woman looked pale, face tense as she followed.

“See?” Jace said, hoping it would comfort the princess. “Abrogail’s here.” Would that help? He felt impotent, helpless, useless in the worst possible way.

Abrogail and Wylla dropped to the other side of Helaena, the mud and damp soaking into the hems of their skirts. “How long has she been like this?” Abrogail asked, voice quiet but firm, blue eyes searching the princess’ face before looking at him.

“Since before I came.” Abrogail reached for one of Helaena’s hands, spreading her fingers out and gently stroking each of them to keep them from bending back into the anxious claws they had been. The ease of the motion spoke to how often they’d done it, Abrogail pressing her thumb gently into Helaena’s palm to ease the rigidity.

“Helaena? What is the matter?” Abrogail leaned in and Helaena did not meet her gaze but drew back, pulling her hand away and clutching both to her chest. A sound escaped her throat, small, a growl perhaps? Or a whimper? Helaena’s silver braid swung and she sharply changed direction, shifting to her knees to grab Wylla’s hand.

“Silence doesn’t mean the grave,” Helaena hissed. Wylla’s gray eyes were wide, brow furrowed in confusion as Helaena leaned in, pinning Wylla in place like a moth on one of her boards. Jace could see how tightly she gripped the other’s hand.

“Your Grace?” Wylla whispered and Helaena grabbed her now with both hands, shaking her head. Abrogail met Jace’s eyes, confused, before her gaze went to the ladies sitting on the terrace. The confusion turned to incredulity.

“Have they been sitting here this whole time?” she asked him in a calm voice, and the familiarity of it hit him in the chest. Her voice was calm, but there was nothing calm in the words. There was a quiet anger simmering beneath those words, brightening her gaze, and it reminded him so much of Ser Harwin that it took his breath away. Gentle and fierce.

Jace knew immediately that she meant, and he felt his own jaw tick as his understanding of the situation shifted. He nodded, holding her gaze, feeling a tempest inside of his chest. “I’ll stay here,” he promised and Abrogail’s gaze softened along the edges, her hand reaching out as if she meant to cup his cheek before she stopped herself. Hand still in the air, her fingers curled and with another nod, she gathered herself up to do whatever it was she meant to do.

“Don’t.”

Abrogail stilled, awkwardly half standing, Helaena’s fingers gripping her wrist. “What?”

The princess dropped a hand from Wylla to reach for Abrogail’s wrist. “Don’t,” she repeated, her head tilting, her mouth pursed in annoyance. “Don’t do that.”

“But, Helaena-”

Helaena yanked Abrogail’s arm hard enough that the unbalanced girl toppled over with a wet slap and Abrogail grimaced as the mud and wet soaked into her more uncomfortably. “They are supposed to be tending you.”

“And they are. I sent Margaery away before Jace came by.” Helaena sounded more exasperated than the annoyance that filled her actions and she gestured for Jace to hand her the jar of bugs. “You mustn’t lecture them.”

“I-” Helaena gave her a look and Abrogail shut her mouth, chastened. “I’m sorry.” In the quiet after the words, Daeron gave a shout and Jace saw him hit the ground hard, his stick sword flung out of his hand as Floris Baratheon stood over him, her own sword pointing right into his face. The ladies cheered and clapped for Floris, and offered their sympathies to Daeron. Helaena huffed and let go of Abrogail’s wrist.

“Jace was here and I was fine. Thank you, Jacaerys.” His cheeks flushed beneath her unblinking gaze, chest warm, even as the confusion of what had all happened still stormed inside of him. “He came exactly when I needed. Not too early, nor too late. I am capable of expressing my own needs.” Abrogail flushed for different reasons, fingers twisting. “What is it?”

Abrogail looked to Wylla. “The queen came to our dancing lessons-”

“Was it about how you keep stepping on Aegon’s feet?”

“I didn’t step - No!” Abrogail’s nose wrinkled with annoyance. “‘Tis not my fault dances are so complicated and that my feet do not behave. No.” A deep breath, another look, this time in the direction of Floris and Daeron. “She said that Aemond and Floris are now betrothed, she was going to find Aemond and then you.”

The silence held. Then, “Even though Wylla and Aemond have been kissing everywhere?” Helaena asked.

“But she’s eleven,” Jace protested.

The words hung in the air while it was Wylla’s turns for her cheeks to flush and Abrogail to stare at her. Jace also looked at her, surprised that Lady Wylla would even want to voluntarily get that close to Aemond, let alone kiss him.

“You’ve been kissing Aemond? And you didn’t tell me?” Abrogail’s incredulous voice was hushed so as not to pull the attention of the others.

Wylla shrugged helplessly. “It hasn’t been everywhere,” she muttered beneath the attention. “And this isn’t the point. I…” Wylla shook her head. “Prince Jacaerys is right, Floris is a little girl, does she mean to send them both to Storm’s End?”

“At least it isn’t Cassandra,” Helaena said with a frown. “No, they will not be sent to Storm’s End. Floris is my ward. She will stay with me for as long as I can keep her.” A sigh. “Floris has many years before she is to be married. Who's to say the betrothal will even last?”

Wylla looked uncertain. “You sound sure of yourself.”

Helaena looked at her. “I’m not. But Lord Borros is feckless and mercurial, he may change his mind if it means he cannot betroth Cassandra, or if he has a son.” Jace did not know if those were truly Helaena’s opinions on the matter, or if she was mimicking what her mother had said.

“Can you not break it as you did yours?” Abrogail asked. Helaena shook her head.

“Breaking my betrothal to Aegon should never have worked, and it was because our grandfather already found it distasteful that he convinced our father to break it on the eventual promise that Aemond and I might marry, and that also isn’t happening. Obviously.”

The look on Wylla’s face was one of confused near-disgust, one that Jace had seen in many outside of their family. Most found it objectionable to imagine kissing their own siblings, and Jace himself could not imagine kissing Luke if his brother had been born a girl, so he perhaps understood that.

Besides, none would find it strange if Helaena was only his cousin, for the blood they shared was the same in that regard.

“Floris will not mind if you keep kissing Aemond, Wylla, do not fear that,” Helaena continued, tightening the lid on her jar.

Wylla sputtered, glaring at Helaena. “Respectfully, Helaena,” she said, not even giving her the proper title, and Helaena looked up from her jar. “I do mind. I will not be some paramour, or continue some ill-fated dalliance with your brother just because Floris doesn’t mind. Floris is eleven and she deserves to be treated respectfully, not to mention I deserve it. I will not be shamed, or the newest subject for court gossip.” She sniffed, and Jace could not tell if she was trying not to cry, or if she was so angry she could spit. Abrogail rested a hand on Wylla’s back, lower lip caught between her teeth. Helaena shut her mouth, brow furrowed, and looked at her jar of bugs. “If Aemond suggests such a thing, I will cease everything. I will not allow him to do that to me, nor anyone else. I will push him out of a window for such a thing.”

Jace smothered his laugh into a cough at the imagery of such a threat, and had to keep from offering to assist the lady.

Helaena pressed her lips together, a little snort escaping her. “I would like to see that. He does need it sometimes,” she allowed. “I will see what mother says when she comes.” Her fingers drummed against the jar, and still, Helaena did not meet anyone’s eyes, still caught in whatever in between space that plagued her, but her words were more present, and that was truly what mattered.

Sitting there on the cold, wet ground, Jace wondered what his mother would say about all this. He had been sent to King’s Landing not just to serve on grandfather’s small council, but to be her eyes and ears amongst the viper’s nest. Any piece of information, no matter how small, could possibly become crucial to her cause. But as he sat there, Helaena’s hand drifting to rest near him, it felt like a further betrayal to reveal the conversation, even though he had, more or less, been a part of this. It wasn’t as if it had been overheard and none of the women knew he was there. They had none, and spoken openly regardless.

He could put off writing. At least for now.

Chapter Text

It was a fortnight by horseback and only six hours by Sunfyre to Harrenhal, but the royal progress along the Kingsroad took a moon. The people needed to see them, the queen had insisted, refusing to let them stay and ride out on dragonback. Instead, Helaena would stay, Ser Criston at her side, and the sworn sword would fly with the princess in a month’s time. Baela would fly out with them on Moondancer, Jace on Vermax, and Aemond would accompany the royal progress without Vhagar.

Harrenhal could only house so many dragons.

Abby was ready to be done with it all; her body felt like it would never stop jostling even when she was out of the wheelhouse. The days on horseback were better, but even those had left her aching from her inexperience. Aegon had whispered in her ear that it would be good practice for her, and how precious she looked bowlegged. The ribald flirtation had sent a rush of heat and anticipation through her, as well as frustration with him for making light of how uncomfortable she’d been. For his cheek, she’d bundled herself in the wheelhouse with the Crane twins, Merei Thorne, and Floris, the latter of which had her hold her tongue to keep from ranting.

She missed Wylla.

Wylla, she knew, would loop her arm through hers and recount all the wonderful ways they could make Aegon miserable. Jesting, of course, though the pair regularly snipped at one another.

Guilt roiled in Abby’s gut. After the betrothal announcement between Aemond and Floris, Wylla had taken the opportunity to flee to Stone Hedge to witness her brother’s nuptials to Lady Alys Bracken. It had been good that she did, Abby thought. She would be able to see her mother and other brothers, who had come down in order to attend her wedding, and Wylla did not know when she would see them next. Karhold was further north than Winterfell and her friend was giving up a great deal to come live at Harrenhal.

That said little of the other reasons why Wylla had eagerly left for Stone Hedge, and Abby thought of Helaena’s words all those months ago. ‘And I’ll be left alone while you and Aegon are busy making babies together!’ She felt like a poor friend and and even worse sister, unable to deny that as the weeks had passed, her focus had been less on duties she’d taken so seriously, of being there for those she cared for, and more focused on the making of her wedding dress, of the stealing time with Aegon with a desperate heat and wanting, of responding to well wishes and organizing a household… when she had promised to always be there for Helaena. When she had begun to foster a love and friendship with Wylla that had grown into its own sisterhood.

Jace had so easily comforted Helaena during her difficult days when Abby was pulled away or otherwise occupied. And Wylla had not even told her of the budding romance between her and Aemond - now brutally cut short in the wake of politics beyond their control. So consumed she’d been with Aegon, with everything else, things that, selfishly, were for her and her alone, and so easily she’d forgotten those she vowed to care for.

Abby would do all she could to make up for it. She would ensure that Wylla did not feel forgotten, that her and Helaena could indeed visit often. She would write, she would-

“Lady Abrogail?”

Desmera’s voice cut through the swirl of guilty words flitting through Abby’s head and she looked up at the Crane girl. Desma, Abby corrected herself. Desmera preferred Desma. She was holding the wool kirtle in her arms, the shade of green as lush and dark as the fields they passed through with red weirwood embroidery along the arms. The surcoat carefully folded on the table was half red and half blue and edged in silvery rabbit fur, among the other parts of her heraldic dress. She would not be in the wheelhouse as they came into Harrentown, and the parade that announced their arrival would be a large one. Already they had seen an uptick of traffic along the Kingsroad and the tents in the fields, the small inns filled to bursting the closer they were. With only a few hours until they approached the town, it was almost like they were approaching King’s Landing. Merchants were setting up along the way to hawk wares and Abby knew that the crowd would be thicker the closer they crept

The distant call of dragons echoed outside the tent and Abby and Desma poked their heads out the flap to crane their necks to look up.

“I can’t believe Ser Criston is riding dragonback with the princess,” Desma murmured, and Abby laughed. He had stayed behind with Helaena, and Abby knew it was to keep an eye on Jace. What Abby would have given to see the look on the knight’s face when he was told that he would fly with Helaena. Not even Queen Alicent had flown with her children, despite both Aegon and Helaena’s offers.

Abby knew how big dragons were, having been around them her whole life, but this was different. With no expansive sprawl of King’s Landing or the Great Sept to compare, they seemed even larger. Past the many tents of the camps, the moors of the Riverlands was all there was. No buildings, no great mountains or spires or monuments. Just the green, rolling hills surrounding the Kingsroad and the forest beyond.

Dreamfyre’s bulk was impressive, the blue and silver of her scales standing out in the morning light, her call warm and low, melodic in a way that was surprising for a dragon. Two smaller dragons were flying about, answering the calls, scales in shades of jade and bronze and silver as Jace and Baela danced around the great dragon.

There was another familiar call, the trilling echoing across the moor like a song. Abby’s heart swelled, hearing Aegon’s happy shout from somewhere inside the camp as Sunfyre gleamed as bright as the morning sun. How she missed him, how she missed being free in the air where nothing else mattered.

Desma tugged on her elbow, laughing. “Come back here, Abby, you’re still in your nightgown.”

Abby allowed herself to be pulled back in the tent, and was soon joined by Merei Thorne, who came bearing a plate of cold meats and bread and warm cider to break her fast.

“I’m ready to be done with all this mud,” she groused, dark hair loose and free about her shoulders, her swarthy skin flushed from the cool morning air. “Ser Rickard says the crowds up the road will be thick by the time we reach them.” Merei’s uncle was a member of the Kingsguard, and Abby was grateful that she had sought information before arriving.

She let herself be tugged out of her nightgown and a fresh chemise pulled over her head before Desma got her into the green kirtle and Merei shoved a piece of bread with ham into Abby’s open mouth. “Wylla’s sent word this morning with the rider.” Merei waved the scroll around. “Your rooms have been made ready, and Lythene and Sarra are settling in, so all you need to do is arrange things to your liking.”

Abby eagerly reached for the scroll as the girls laced her into the kirtle. It was a short message, but Wylla’s handwriting was comforting and familiar.

“Is Alys another one of your ladies?” Merei asked, moving the surcoat out of the way while Abby sat to eat. Desma opened the box of combs and ribbons and hairpins to get to work on her curls.

Wylla’s letter had mentioned help from Alys Rivers, and Abby shook her head before Desma pinched her to keep still as she carefully worked Abby’s curls.

“No, she’s a member of our household. A healer and sometimes ladies maid. She helped my mother when she was pregnant with me, but declined to come to the capital with us.” Her memories of the woman were fuzzy whenever Abby tried to look at them more closely. Dark haired with large grey eyes, Alys had been a fixture when she had visited Harrenhal over the years. “It’s good that she’s helping Wylla. I know Aunt Mya has her hands full with everything and my cousin, Deidre, is there to help.” Deidre, the future Lady Smallwood of Acorn Hall, had grown up at Harrenhal and would prove helpful in this busy time of preparation. Deidre’s younger sister, Cassana, lived at Runestone and would be arriving with Lord Yorick’s party soon.

Desma’s hands worked quickly to pull Abby’s curls from her face, winding a knot of braids along the back of her head, the rest curling down her back to her waist. It would be hours of riding, but also hours of being seen by the people who looked to Harrenhal, who looked to her family, as their liege lords. Merei pulled a delicate net of silver dotted with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds and pinned it around Desma’s delicate knotwork.

With her mother’s carnelian necklace around her throat, Abby shoved her feet into her riding boots and grabbed a last chunk of bread and ham before ducking out of the tent as her ladies oversaw the packing of her things.

The sea of black and red tents felt like a field of Targaryen poppies as she made her way through the camp. The ground was not as muddy as Merei complained, but Abby was nonetheless grateful for her sturdy boots. Already the grass was churning into a muddy mess in various places and she carefully stepped around them. Servants paused to offer quick bows and curtsies, which Abby felt awkward about. They did not need to pause in their duties to acknowledge her, but at the same time, it was strangely satisfying to be recognized, to be deferred to in some small way.

Abby was not sure how to feel about it, so she pushed the confusing feelings away and shoved the rest of her bread in her mouth.

She found Aegon where the horses were stabled, tethered to temporary posts and being fed their morning grain. The morning light turned Aegon’s curls a soft gold, his gray linen shirt tucked into a pair of high waisted, black riding pants, stripes of red embroidered with gold scales down the sides into a pair of tall, shiny black boots. He was without his own surcoat and she knew that it was just as ostentatious as her own heraldic gown: black and red and scaled as was the Targaryen way. She licked butter from her thumb as she approached, gaze raking over him appreciatively and the opened neck of his shirt, teasing the lightly freckled skin that she longed to kiss.

Kostōba was as brilliant as ever, pawing happily at the ground and rooting his nose against Aegon, clearly looking for more treats. His cream colored coat shone as golden as his master’s hair in the sun, brilliant against the caparison of red and black taffeta for House Targaryen. Aegon was busy stroking the snout of another horse, focused on checking the buckles of the halter and bit. The mare was a brilliant chestnut, so red that it matched her hair, it’s mane only a scant few shades darker. It pawed the ground beside Kostōba, nickering and also looking for treats.

“What’s this?”

Aegon turned, eyes wide as if he’d been caught, a sleepy smile on his face. She was no longer mad at him, of course, but the forced distance over their travels was frustrating, in addition to the misery of frequently having to sleep outdoors, no matter how comfortable the tents were. It made tempers shorter, and the stress of everything that was to come was fraying at her.

Aegon closed the distance between them, cupping her face in his hands, and the touch immediately had her shoulders relaxing and she sighed as he kissed her. Chastely, but it was Aegon and his teeth snuck in a quick nibble before he pulled back. She did her best to hide her pout, tasting the wine he’d had that morning on her mouth. Abby licked her lips, blushing at the look he gave her.

“Happy nameday!” he declared, gesturing to the mare. Abby blinked at him, owlish and momentarily confused.

“Nameday?” What day was it? Time had become an endless blur of bumpy roads and the creaking wheelhouse. He raised an eyebrow at her, taking her chin in hand and tilting her head to look up at him.

“It’s your nameday,” he repeated slowly as if she hadn’t heard him the first time.

Oh! It was, wasn’t it? She sputtered softly and he chuckled, pressing another brief kiss to her parted mouth.

“Happy nameday,” he repeated more slowly this time, snickering at her lapse of memory and dropping her chin to caress her shoulder and turn her towards the mare. “She’s from the same stock as Kostōba. Six years old and well trained. She’ll be gentle with you and give a hoof to the face of any who should try to pull you from her.” His grin brightened as he went on, lilac eyes crinkled in excitement as he glanced back at her. Abby could see the hope in Aegon’s face, the nerves and question of if he’d done well with the gift.

Kostōba snorted at Aegon’s shoulder, nudging at him more insistently. Aegon huffed and pulled another piece of carrot from the pocket of his black riding coat. Abby reached up to gently stroke the velvet soft nose of the mare and took the second carrot that Aegon offered. She eagerly took it with greedy teeth, and Abby giggled as the velvet nose tickled her palm.

“She’s beautiful,” Abby said, giddiness bubbling through her belly, swooping at the thoughtfulness of the gesture, and surprise at how exciting it was to be given a horse of her very own. “And she won’t buck me off?”

“Well you’ve proven to be a good rider already, on dragonback no less, though it’s different with a horse, obviously. And I think as long as you keep petting her and speaking to her sweetly as you do, provide plenty of carrots, maybe even some apples? Oh, I think you’ll be just fine.”

Abby scoffed, but her smile was bright. “Endless supply of carrots and apples and oats. Understood, my prince. I will endeavor to bond her to me.” The mare huffed softly as Kostōba’s head came near hers to bump it.

“They look good together, don’t they?” Aegon asked softly, casually.

“They do,” Abby agreed with a soft laugh. “She matches my hair.”

“Exactly. That’s why I picked her.”

“And your horse matches your hair.”

Aegon shrugged, cheeks flushed pink as he scratched around his stallion’s nose. “I have good taste. Do you like her?” There was a furrow now between his brows as he pointedly asked her, her words not doing enough to convey her thanks. It was a guileless thing - Aegon wasn’t trying to tease a deeper showing of affection from her in his usual, playful way. Abby handed him her gathered skirts and he took them, confused, and she reached up to cup his face with both hands, his skin warm against her perpetually chilled fingers.

“I love this gift, Aegon. No one else has wished me happy nameday, but you did, and provided me a thoughtful gift that I love very much,” she reassured him, teeth catching on her lower lip as the words visibly washed over him. She could feel the tension vibrating through him, as if he couldn’t quite believe she enjoyed the gift, or was waiting for something to drop, or a dozen other things. She felt him shudder and relax into her and Abby hummed, thumbs stroking along the apples of his cheeks. The furrow eased, the tension in his shoulders relaxed, his gaze grew softer as he turned his head slightly to nuzzle against her touch. Her belly was warm, fingers toying with the softness of his silver hair, affection surging through her. Abby pressed up on her toes to press a soft, innocent peck to his plush mouth. “I love you, Aegon.”

“I love you,” he whispered shyly as his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. Satisfaction and ease seemed to fill him as she pulled away and took her skirts back from his hold. He cleared his throat, tossing his hair back from his face and reached up to stroke the little white star on the mare’s forehead. “Now we can go riding together - properly have a good race.”

“You want to race? Well then, we’ll have to come up with some good wagers then, won’t we?” The prospect excited her, the planning for things they’d do once the wedding was over and they could just get on with the rest of their lives; away from the Red Keep, away from the politics and the eyes that constantly watched them, away from everything that chased them in waking and in sleep.

Another bright call sounded above them and they both looked up to see Sunfyre circling, his chirps and clicks echoing down to them. The mare snorted and backed away, shaking her head at the closeness of the predator. Two of the stableboys came hurrying over to help calm her. Abby backed away, not wanting to be too close should she rear up, feeling foolish that she was unable to calm her horse, let alone understand how.

“He missed you,” she said, and Aegon laughed, bright and happy as he always was when it came to his golden boy.

“He’s a smart one, isn’t he?” Aegon grinned. “I was…” He trailed off, uncertain, and Abby pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“He would not abandon you. That menace broke out of the dragon pit to get to you, remember?” Not that Sunfyre had caused any damage outside of freeing himself from his chains, and would not return until Aegon had gone to retrieve him before they were dragged back to the Red Keep all those months ago.

“He would most certainly not.” Confidence returned to Aegon’s voice and he cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting words of Valyrian and gesturing north.

Abby’s gaze drifted from the sight to look out past the horses to the rolling moors past them. The mist still hung heavy along the ground, slowly burning away as the morning grew, lending a murky sight of the forest that obscured the sight of the God’s Eye.

A twisting sensation spooled through her chest as she watched the trees. There were oaks abundant along the road, and as they drew north, there were pines dotting the landscape as well. But the great, dark forest beside them was different. The oaks here were giant things. Once, as a little girl, she’d ridden out with Harwin into the Red Wood. There were a few red oaks in the Harrenhal godswood - massive things that shot past the great height of the walls. Here in the forest surrounded by them, it felt like another world. The trunks of the trees were as big as the family dining hall in the Kingspyre. Uncle Simon said that the great round table had been cut from such a trunk.

Ancient trees that had survived the great heart wound of Harren the Black. Spirits lived in the weirwoods; she remembered those stories, and the ancient sentinels remembered too. They were here long before and would be there long after -

“Hey!”

Strong, warm hands gripped her arms and shook her. Abby blinked slowly, feeling tired and confused. Aegon was looking down at her; face pale, confused, annoyed. “What’s gotten into you? I was calling for you, Abby.”

“But…” As she meant to say she had not moved, Abby realized that she could not hear nor smell the horses, and that the sounds of camp were softer than they had been before.

“You kept walking and I thought you were going to show me something but then you stopped speaking,” Aegon went on, but his voice sounded odd - strangely muffled and then clear. She reached for him but her hand missed his arm and he reached for it, tugging her to him. “Abby, you’re freezing.”

She was always freezing.

The crowd was deafening and the drum beats of the parade only added to the din. The chestnut mare, now named Stranger, trotted smoothly beside Aegon’s stallion as the royal procession made its way through Harrentown. The scouts and messengers had not lied.

The crowd was large, not only the townsfolk but filled with those who had traveled far and wide to witness the festivities and hawk their wares. As they approached her family’s castle, the fields field with colored tents sporting the banners of the noble houses that had made their way to the God’s Eye.

Harrenton was not an exceptionally large town although little was when compared to King’s Landing. It was a trading post, a crossroads at the mouth of the Riverlands. Trade and travel that came south from Darry would stop here, as well as the trade from the south at the capital. The buildings were white stucco and plaster with the red oak timbers from the Red Wood, tiered three stories tall with steeply pitched, clay shingled roofs. Many of the ground floors were made from red bricks. Mud was in abundance here, and pottery and bricks were their foundations of trade.

Abby tilted her head up to the banners hung across the thoroughfare, the tri color streamers of House Strong interspersed with the black and red ribbons of House Targaryen. Those who could not find space along the red brick road hung out from the leaded windows, waving flags and banners, throwing out handfuls of flower petals from the winter flowers in swirling dances of pinks and purples, whites and yellows. Young children on their parents shoulders, too disinterested in whatever people were on display, giggled and reached to try to catch the petals. The people yelled for House Strong, they yelled for the name of her father, they yelled…

They yelled her name.

‘Lady Abrogail! Lady Strong! Princess Abrogail!’

Her cheeks flamed, her grin both shy and beaming, unused to the attention being paid to her. Abby glanced over at Aegon, who preened beneath his own attention, the petals that were thrown about the air catching in his silver curls.

‘Prince Aegon! House Targaryen! Lady Abrogail! House Strong!’

His lilac gaze found her, his grin broadening, all teeth and bright eyes, dimples creased in his cheeks. The breeze caught in her curls, fluttering the delicate silver veil around her face. The flower petals drifted and swirled between them, caught in his hair, in the silver and red manes of their horses, and everything felt like a dream.

Now they left the main thoroughfare and made their way up the switchback to where the castle loomed, and as they made the turn, the world dropped out as the vast, glittering expanse of the God’s Eye filled the horizon. Abby’s breath caught in her throat and beside her, Aegon audibly exhaled, momentarily halting his horse beside her to take a look. Behind them, Abby could hear Daeron’s exclamation of wonder.

The God’s Eye ate the entire horizon, glittering like an aquamarine gem beneath the cloudless blue of the sky. The only thing that interrupted the site was the distant, hazy sight of the Isle of Faces, obscured by the haze and distance.

“It’s bigger than the Whispering Sound,” Daeron breathed. “Uncle Gwayne-”

“Aye,” the elder sounded just as surprised, just as awed. “Large enough for the eye of a god, isn’t it?”

Seagulls called along with other birds along the banks and Abby could just make out a few fishing boats tiny on the water. She rose up in her saddle to take a better look, vowing that she would never tire of the spectacular sight.

“I didn’t realize how I missed this sight.” She laughed, unsure if she might cry from grief or joy.

“It’s the color of your eyes,” Aegon said softly, his gaze firmly affixed to the sight before them. He wasn’t even looking at her, just caught in wonder. It was a new expression for Aegon, and Abby was loath to draw him from it. She reached over and he must have seen her, or maybe he’d been reaching for her hand at the same time. “It’s endless, like the sky.”

He squeezed her hand and with a gentle command, their party continued.

Harrenhal was a scar against the landscape, the black stone stark against the green and blue of the landscape. With towers shooting up higher than the tallest of Maegor’s Holdfast, Harrenhal loomed as its maker always intended: Ominous and impossible to ignore. The twisted, melted stone that capped the towers were vicious reminders of the violence in the past, but life bloomed amidst the ruins. Sentinels and oaks, vibrant and lush, shot past the tops of the stone walls from the large godswood that butted up against the shore. Harrenhal held a small household guard and several called out from the gatehouse.

Making the final turn, their party was greeted by the half shattered statue of Harren the Black, only his legs and rearing mount left above the bridge. It started with stone and then switched to thick ironwood that spanned the dry moat beneath, and, as if to welcome them home, Sunfyre of all things perched above the gates like an enormous, golden hawk, calling out and declaring that this was now his domain. Stranger whickered nervously, hesitating in approach until Abby urged her on with a gentle hand against her neck.

“Seven hells,” Aegon muttered, barely caught over the sounds of the hooves on the wooden bridge and the creaking of the carriages behind them. Whatever else Aegon said was drowned out beneath the sound of Sunfyre’s trilling. The golden dragon was singing and it was a haunting tune that echoed along the stone like water over river rocks. The sound of it sent dozens, maybe even a hundred or more, bats bursting from the ruined tops of the tower. Distracted by the creatures that took to the sky, he pushed off the gatehouse, the horses rearing as stone debris fell in their path.

Abby looked at Aegon, eyebrows raised. “He can’t keep doing that.”

He frowned, half-offended and mildly concerned. “It’s not his fault the stone is crumbling,” he said, but the defense was half-hearted as he eyed the broken stone being pushed out of the way.

Aemond and Daeron, Ser Gwayne and a few of the Kingsguard followed them, the guards taking a station at the gate until the king passed through. The rest of the party in their wheelhouses were held back until the stone was removed.

The gatehouse was a great thing cut through the thick, black curtain walls. The way was lit with torches, the echo of the horses’ hoof beats giving an uncertain cacophony as the sound bounced around the tunnel. Abby’s gaze drifted up, the ceiling of the tunnel shadowed but she remembered Larys telling her the frightening tale of the dozen murder holes where they would drop oil and poisonous spiders and venomous snakes down onto those who tried to breach the castle. She’d had nightmares for weeks.

Aegon said nothing beside her, and the look on his face was one of bewildered interest. She bit her lip, a smile playing. He had only ever known King’s Landing, after all.

Tears pricked her eyes as the strange longing sensation that had harbored for so long in her chest eased. It didn’t go away, but she could feel the hooked edges of yearning, the grief, the feeling that she did not belong, that something was missing, smoothing out into something bittersweet. Beyond the great walls of the castle, Harrenhal was full of life. Beneath the great shadow of the ruined towers, a reclaiming had taken place over the years, and the notion soothed that bramble within her.

As the party passed through the gatehouse into the outer bailey, Abby’s eyes darted over the crowd that had begun to gather. Over the years, some of the ruins had been dismantled and turned into proper staff quarters. A new granary, the stables,meant to house a thousand horses, had partially been converted to a barn. Before them, the Hall of a Hundred Hearths loomed, rebuilt through the reclaiming of the ruined Tower of Ghosts, now only a few stories tall.

The focal point of the hall was the ornate, stained glass window above the colossal entrance. Along the top half of the circle, a weirwood tree was carefully placed, the red leaves a border around the top, the cream colored branches reaching wide, and the sun behind it sported the tri-color stripes of her family’s sigil. Below the roots was a mound with seven circles - each portraying the sigil of each aspect of the Seven.

The Andals had spread their faith when they had conquered, but here in the halls of her family’s seat, and through the Riverlands, folk noble and small alike found a faith made their own - to mourn the loss of the weirwoods in their subjugation, and the comfort found in faces old and new alike. Especially here, on the shores of the God’s Eye, where the last of the southron weirwoods still thrived, where whispers and tales of the Children of the Forest outside the North clung like moss to the stilts of the houses along the riverbanks.

Fluttering fabric caught her eye and Abby looked up to see the banners of their house strung between the towers, interspersed every two with the black and red House Targaryen, and every ten with the blue and red fish of House Tully, their immediate overlords. In the front of the hall, where the crowd was thickest, the short, white hair and broad frame of Uncle Simon stood out; he was clad in a rich, black coat, Aunt Mya beside him, her dark curls thickly streaked with silver, her gown red. Her cousins were there too; Garret, with his strawberry blonde curls, not much older than herself, holding his three-year-old daughter, Gwenys, just as ruddy gold as her papa. His father, Ser Edric, leaned heavily on a cane on the other side of Uncle Simon. As she went down the line, she caught sight of Wylla, clad in Abby’s colors in a gown of deep blue with a sash of green and red, beaming brightly beside Alyn Hull, who looked dashing in a jerkin of deep, blood red and black pants tucked into shiny, polished boots.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Your Grace,” Uncle Simon greeted Aegon before his warm gaze found hers. “Welcome home, Lady Abrogail.” The title address to her felt odd, but this was a formal occasion. Two stableboys glad in House Strong livery reached for the bridles of the horses, Aegon dismounting easily as Abby frowned in slight annoyance at the yards of fabric of her surcoat. She’d shifted to side-saddle before they’d entered the town in preparation for an easier dismount but it was still daunting.

“Allow me, my lady.” Alyn was there, grinning at her, his green eyes soft and Abby returned his bright expression with a relieved one of her own.

“Thank you, Mister Hull,” she said, grateful, and let Alyn help her from the horse and set her safely on the ground. She caught Aegon’s brief annoyance at being denied his gallant moment and she patted Alyn on the shoulder. “We have some things your mother and a Miss Bri had sent up to the castle.” Alyn’s friendly expression moved to a grateful surprise, and she could see the red coloring his tanned cheeks.

“And I thank you, my lady. I am most appreciative.” Abby felt a giddiness at making a good impression with Aegon’s friend, and she left Alyn to embrace her great-aunt and uncle, uncaring if it was improper. This was her family, and even though she’d only seen a few of them not long ago, this was different.

This was a homecoming.

The warmth of her Uncle’s hug made her chest ache further, and Abby tucked her head beneath his chin, squeezing him tightly, eyes shut and for a moment, allowed herself to pretend that there was no pomp and circumstance and that it was her father who embraced her. Uncle Simon would never replace him, but he reminded her so much of him that she would not feel guilty for clinging to the memory. He seemed to understand, for she felt him squeeze her extra hard before releasing her with a paternal kiss to her forehead and then allowed Aunt Mya, who exclaimed, “A chroí! Tá cuma álainn ort,” before she was wrapped in a cloud of softness and the smell of lilies from her aunt’s perfume. Her hands, shaking slightly with her arthritis, carefully touched the veil she wore and the carnelian necklace around her throat. “You’ve got that Westerland poise to you,” she observed, and though the words might have been taken as a slight, there was a fondness there. “Like your mother and that Lefford blood, but oh, you’ve got the wild river in you, don’t you.” Her hands gently cupped her face, and Aunt Mya’s dark eyes shone with tears. “They haven’t taken that from you. Good.”

“It’s good to finally be home,” Abby said, her voice thick with emotion. Joy, sadness, grief, relief, and a swirl of other things she could not identify. She cleared her throat, turning in her Aunt’s embrace to gesture to Aemond, Daeron, and Gwayne who had dismounted. “May I present Prince Aemond and Prince Daeron, as well as the queen’s brother, Ser Gwayne.”

“Ser Simon,” Gwayne said, sketching a bow. “I hope you do not mind my squire and I joining the household.” His grin was bright and disarming, his hand coming to clasp Daeron’s shoulder. “My sister hopes for us to keep an eye on my nephew, but I think it will be a good opportunity for my squire to also learn from a renowned knight such as yourself, Ser.” Abby bit her lip to hold in her laugh, appreciating the look of surprise and pride on her uncle’s face. “And Lady Mya, these are for you.” He produced from his green leather riding jacket a carefully wrapped package. “Your lovely niece shared with me how you once loved lacemaking. While this could not compare what you’ve made, I do hope you find use for this.”

“From the lacemaker who made my wedding dress,” Abby chimed in as her blushing aunt took the carefully wrapped package of lace. Aunt Mya’s features shifted into amusement.

“Oh, I like this one, Simon. You can sit by me at dinner, Ser Gwayne.” Uncle Simon rolled his eyes while Daeron stepped forward, sending a look at his uncle.

“And I brought this for Lady Gwenys,” Daeron said, not to be outdone by Gwayne’s flirtation. He produced a doll from his own coat, made from soft linen with carefully made brown yarn hair, and painted blue eyes with a felt crown on her head.

“Thank you very much, my prince,” Garret said, shifting Gwenys in his arms. “Can you say thank you to Prince Daeron?” Gwenys’ eyes were large in her face, gnawing shyly on her lip as she snuggled into her father, unsure of what to make of all the strange people. Daeron held the doll up higher, taking the little hand to wave at the child.

“Hello, Lady Gwenys,” Daeron said in a silly voice, blonde hair falling into his blue eyes, his own cheeks pink at all the attention. “Will you be my new friend?”

That drew the little girl out of her shyness, bubbling with giggles and reached for the toy with grabby little fingers. “Fank you!” she shouted, squealing as she clutched at the toy. Abby felt Aegon at her back and shivered as he leaned down to brush his lips against her ear.

“Was I meant to bring a gift?” he asked, his whisper harsh with anxiety. Abby pressed her lips firmly together to hold back her giggle and turned into his hold, a kiss brushed to his cheek.

“You’re fine. There’s plenty of time. I think it’ll have more meaning after the wedding.”

Abby’s gaze briefly took in the arrival of the carriages that held the king and queen, and the small council absent Ser Tyland. He’d left court with her grandfather to Castamere where his wife, Elayna, was ready to give birth to their children. Twins had been born, according to the raven that Abby had received from her cousin, and Elayna was sorry she could not bring them, but it would be nice to see her. Lady Elayna preferred the freedom of Castamere, and Abby could not blame her, not when being here among the half ruin of Harrenhal had revitalized her in a way she could not describe.

The crowd all lowered themselves in deference as the king was helped from the wheelhouse. Travelling had been difficult for him, and the progress had taken as much time as it could in order to keep him comfortable. He clutched his cane, squinting in the afternoon sun, the light catching upon his golden crown. The expression on his pale, mottled face was difficult for Abby to read, and she wondered if he was thinking about the last time he was here, when the lords of the realm declared him king over Princess Rhaenys and her son.

Larys appeared from the next carriage with Lord Jasper Wylde and the Grand Maester, a placid smile on his own features. “Uncle, you’ve outdone yourself,” he complimented. Abby noticed then that her uncle’s smile tightened, no longer meeting his eyes as he regarded Larys.

“It has been some time since our house has something so wonderful to celebrate. Not since Abrogail’s birth, I think. After so much tragedy, these halls benefit from the festivities.”

“We are looking forward to them, Ser Simon,” the queen smiled, her hand fluttering to the king’s arm. “It has been a long journey, and the king needs rest and recuperation. We shall reconvene for supper?” It was not a request. Alicent Hightower could command with a smile, and all the authority afforded to her as the mother of the realm.

“Of course, your graces,” Aunt Mya said with a smile. She clapped her hands and there was a flurry of activity, the king’s wheeled chair being brought out while Uncle Simon explained they had easily accessible rooms for the king so his time here would be comfortable.

Then there was a flurry of raven hair and blue wool as Wylla’s decorum barely kept her from completely barrelling into Abby and she clutched her friend, embracing her tightly and burying her face into her shoulder. She smelled of cinnamon and spice, familiar and comforting.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she cried, Wylla giving her a tight squeeze.

“I’ve missed you too! You look beautiful.” Abby pulled back and Wylla pinched her chin with a playful look on her fox features, the little scar along her mouth pulling at the smile on her face. She pushed her hand away with a shake of her head, hooking their arms together.

“As do you! Is this a new dress?” Wylla hummed in the affirmative and led the way across the tightly packed gravel. Aegon and Alyn fell in behind them, and behind them, the rest of her ladies followed. The king and queen and the rest of their immediate party were being led into the closest tower - what was ominously referred to as the Tower of Dread.

It was where Athair and Harwin had died.

As she watched the king and queen enter the tower, something ugly curled in her chest. ‘Good’, she thought savagely, though altogether unlike her. She hoped the ghosts that slept there would haunt them. The queen would not treat her so unkindly if her father were still here. The king? Well, he deserved a good haunting. Let the ghost of Lord Maegor Towers terrorize him during his stay.

The main hall at the foot of the Kingspyre Tower was a bustle of activity. Servants in the House Strong livery hurried to and fro from the small kitchens beneath the tower, sending out refreshment to the new arrivals.

“As soon as we had word of your arrival, I had a bath readied,” Wylla said. “There’s the bathhouses, of course, but I thought you’d like some private time.”

“That does sound nice,” she sighed, heading up the staircase. The next floor above the hall held the galleries and the library. Precious things that her father had loved, and his father before him.

‘What if fire seeks to claim me here? As it had them?’

The fear was ugly and painful and squeezed the breath from her lungs with its sudden onset. Wylla’s voice was muffled in her ears as she stood frozen in the stairwell.

“In the black of night, the dragon did rise.”

“What?” she choked out, turning to look through the open doors of the gallery. It was not Wylla’s voice. Abby could not even be sure it was a woman’s voice. She tugged away from Wylla’s hold to the open archway but a firm grip on her arm tugged her back. Aegon stroked her cheek, drawing her attention back to him. Abby’s cheeks colored. “I heard… I thought…”

“It’s just the wind,” he told her.

“Unfamiliar sounds,” Wylla chimed in, coming to her other side, although her eyes narrowed at her friend’s discomfort. “Come, we’ll get you settled into the bath and you can lay down. A lazy lie in.”

Abby nodded, mouth shut as everyone stared at her with worry and confusion. Catching the brief look Wylla and Aegon exchanged, Abby tugged away. She felt judged, as she had felt that morning when Aegon had shaken her out of whatever haze had taken hold of her. It was one thing to have such a lapse in front of him, but now here she was in front of their household, so many eyes on her, confused and curious. Gathering her heavy skirts in her arms, she soldiered forward, desperate to get out of her gown. If she could, she would have stripped from the surcoat in the stairway itself, but she would have gotten tangled in the fabric and likely tumbled down the stairs.

What an auspicious start to the festivities; a tragic bride felled by a broken neck.

She ignored the call of her name behind her, climbing past Uncle Simon’s apartments and office to the landing of what had once been her mother’s rooms. They were rooms that might have belonged to Rhaenyra Targaryen in another life, or Sabitha Frey or Alysanne Blackwood, or any dozens of young women in the Riverlands her brother could have taken to wife.

None of this should be hers. This castle, these lands, were not her birthright.

They were drenched in ash and screams and the knowledge of this was grasping her tighter with every step she took before she burst through the doors of her apartments. Afternoon light streaked through the large doors that opened out onto the multilevel balcony that went from her rooms up to Aegon’s chambers. Beyond would be the beautiful sight of the God’s Eye, but for now, it was the brilliant blue sky and the roses that crept along the stone and woodwork. Low couches littered the space, plush rugs faded with age, and before the fireplace and its merry flame, was the large tub draped in linens and ready and waiting.

The shadows beside the fireplace moved and Abby stilled, fear freezing her limbs until the face of the shadow appeared. The woman was older, older than the queen, mayhaps, with inky black hair that hung to her waist, a square face and storm gray eyes. In her hands, she held a woven circle of twigs, and Abby looked at the stick figure coming to shape in the center of it.

“Lady Abrogail,” she greeted, her accent like Wylla’s, like her Aunt Mya’s. “Did you leave the rest of your chattering ducklings behind?”

Buzzing filled her ears and Abby pressed her hands to her chest, fingers knotting into the fabric. “I… I… I can’t breathe.”

“If you could not breathe, you could not speak,” the woman pointed out, discarding her wood weaving on the chair. She closed the distance and grabbed Abby’s hands. “You speak, therefore you breathe. I hear your gasping. So keep doing that.”

Hands joined the woman’s to help her out of the surcoat and work the laces on her kirtle. Her vision was dark and hazy around the edges and she continued to heave and gulp for air. She swooned and arms caught her.

“What did she say, Alys?” she heard Wylla ask.

“A tincture from my chest,” was the answer. “The one in the blue bottle. And the smelling salts.” Alys River tsked and her face shimmered before her as she backed Abby to the low couch. “If we shove you in that bath now, you’ll faint and are liable to drown. A bride felled by her bathwater. What a tragic end.”

Abby blinked, her mouth dry. “What did you…”

“Alys likes to be cryptic,” Wylla’s voice drifted to her through the buzzing in her ears. She let herself be shuffled around and moved as if she were no more than a ragdoll onto the chaise, her legs propped up higher than her head on a pile of cushions. Time passed in a haze as the dizziness and the rushing passed. Alys sat on the couch beside her, holding a goblet to her mouth and Abby grimaced at the strangely sweet and medicinal taste of the thin, red liquid. Her limbs tingled and the drunken feeling gave way to a more relaxed sensation. Alys’ large, slate-gray eyes filled her vision and the elder woman tilted her head, appraising her.

“I cannot call you Little Lady anymore, can I?” she asked, but Abby didn’t think it was much of a question. “Although, you are still littler than me, wee beast.”

“Oh, so she calls you that as well?” Wylla’s voice drifted from somewhere behind the couch. “Do you feel like you can get in the bath now?”

Alys helped her up and held the goblet to her mouth once more, feeding her the strange liquid. “Someone should tell the princeling that his lady is all right, I can hear him pacing.”

“Hear him?” Sarra Frey’s voice chimed in, confused. Abby smiled wanly at Wylla as the elder girl helped her out of her chemise and into the tub. The water was still plenty warm, but not the scalding, steaming heat that it had been from when she first came into the room. “But he’s so far away.”

“You’re just not listening close enough,” Alys said and passed her the goblet. “Make sure the coinín beag drinks all of this.” The door shut behind the woman and Abby settled against the back of the tub, Wylla’ pinning her hair up.

“Doesn’t Aegon call you little rabbit as well?” she murmured against her ear.

Abby did not answer.

The confused look the servant gave Jace when he asked where the family crypts were was not something that would normally bother him, but there was no reason that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be asking where the family crypts of his host were.

The look in Ser Simon Strong and his wife’s eyes upon seeing him still stuck with Jace, and he tried not to keep looking over his shoulder as he strode down the gravel pathway through the family gardens. Torches were lit along the pathway, servants and guests still milling about, and the gardens were beginning to bloom as the seasons shifted. Lady Celeste’s mountain roses crept like a great, dark beast, along the outside of the Kingspyre tower, up to balconies above. Jace stole a glance up there, at the distant, flickering light behind the windows.

Abby should be here. She should be with him. This was more her family than his. Did he even have a right?

Jace straightened.

He did. He did have a right. Ser Harwin was someone in his life he cared for, who cared for him and his brothers. He had been gentle and kind - to them, to their mother.

Ser Simon looked at him as if he’d seen a ghost.

Goosebumps bloomed beneath Jace’s black tunic. Perhaps he was one.

The Sepulcher of House Strong was largely underground, but the entrance to it was a stone gazebo, just over a story tall, with seven stone pillars carved to mimic the twisting boughs of the weirwood trees. The branches held up the circular roof, the torchlight casting long shadows over the carvings of strange creatures. There was no door, simply smooth stone stairs leading into the torch lit crypts beneath.

At the foot of the stairs were a pair of doors, heavy ironwood etched with more of the weirwood motifs and little creatures that Jace realized from this close distance were meant to be the Children of the Forest. They were different from the drawings he’d seen in his books. These were spindly things, some with fins in place of ears, with large eyes and sharp little teeth. He reached to undo the latch but the door was partially ajar. Had Abrogail come down to pay her respects? Should he leave and return another day?

His mother would be here on the morrow, and as soon as Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen set foot in this place, Jace’s chance to come here would be lost.

The door made no sound as he pushed it open to slip inside and he blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the deeper gloom. Braziers affixed to the pillars were spaced out every few dozen feet or so and as he quietly walked the path his ears could just make out the distant sound of rushing water, though he had no idea where it was coming from. Stone tombs were erected every few archways, and he paused in front of the tomb of Maegor Towers before he caught sight of the dragon relief nearby.

Targaryens were not entombed, they were burned on pyres, back to flame and ash from whence they came. But Harrenhal’s last lady was honored here.

In the stone alcove, a beautiful carved relief of Dreamfyre stood, raised on her legs, wings spread and her neck arched to call out to the sky. At her feet was a pedestal with an urn in the shape of a dragon egg.

Rhaena Targaryen, Queen of the Rising and Setting Sun. Mother of her beloved Aerea and Rhaella. Beloved by Prince Aegon, where their souls meet once more.

To always Chase the Sun.

The crack of a cane hitting the stone echoed violently along the walls and Jace choked on dusty air, panic taking over. The next tomb was that of Lord Osmund. There was just enough room to duck behind it and Jace crouched behind, his heart pounding in his ears.

“You are kind to accompany this night, Your Grace. I confess, when I extended the invitation, I was not sure you would accept.” The low voice of Lord Larys drifted through the quiet ghosts, otherworldly beneath the earth himself. Your grace… was grandfather also down here?

“Lord Lyonel was a good man,” the king rasped, his voice shaky with emotion. “The best of us, I think. No better servant to the realm than he.”

“Surely you yourself are the realm’s greatest servant, my king.”

“Mmmm, Lyonel offered good counsel. I did not listen to him as much as I should have.”

“My father served the realm with all the wise counsel of a Grand Maester and the knowledge of one of your vassals, my king. In the end, however… Even beneath his great wisdom, matters of succession were well out of hand.”

Heat burned along Jace’s neck and rushed into his cheeks. He pressed his face against the cold, stone tomb but it did little to calm him.

Driftmark. It always came back to Driftmark. It came back to screaming and blood. It came back to his words. Yes, the words of a child, but his words that he knew, without question, would prevent punishment.

‘He called us bastards.’

With such a simple sentence, Jace watched, clutched in his mother’s arms, as the king’s ire went from Aemond’s wound to the accusations that had chased Jace and his siblings all their lives. Words that he knew were cruel, that upset his mother, yet words that spoke true. Lord Lyonel had stood, struck and silent beside the Driftwood throne, and Ser Harwin had lingered by the door, unarmored and disheveled given the late hour it had been. As old as he was now, Jace knew. He knew. He knew.

Ser Simon had looked at him as if Jace were a ghost.

Jace reached up and gripped the edge of the tomb of his blood, feeling the burn of Vermax inside of him with every beat of his heart, loudly thumping in his ears.

“I did not want it to happen that way, Larys,” King Viserys finally spoke, his voice mournful and heavy.

“I know, my king. Only a Targaryen can truly master the dangers of flame. Mere mortals such as those who strove to follow your wishes could only wish to wield such understanding.” The sound of scraping metal grated on Jace’s nerves. He hit his head against the tomb and had to shove his fist in his mouth to keep from crying out.

“Only Ser Harwin-” the king began and then stopped. Jace could see the long throw of their shadows along the stone floor. They weren’t moving.

“Whatever tragedies befell, they have brought us here, my king. Have the wounds not healed as you had hoped? Your daughter and brother arrive here with their children after their long absence. Our houses will be joined in only a few days. The match you and my father discussed so many years ago is now far more advantageous, as is right, for the King’s first born son, given the unusual circumstances.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Lord Larys.” The scrape of two canes now. Jace pressed himself as far into the shadows as he could, straining to listen as the two men made their way back up the corridor beneath the eyes of the dead. He dared not breathe, he dared not make a single sound for fear of what might happen were he discovered. It felt like an eternity before the door shutting reverberated through the quiet.

Jace sat on the cold ground, frozen and still as Dreamfyre’s statue. His heart continued to pound in his ears as he tried to process exactly what he had just heard. King Viserys, a peaceful man, so afraid of any confrontation that his mother fled to Dragonstone to hide than maintain her presence at court. She’d sent him to do it for her.

He couldn’t escape the catacombs fast enough. His feet slipped along the damp stone as he raced towards the entrance. Ser Harwin would forgive him, he was certain. Now? Now, he needed to get away as fast as possible. He tripped hard up the stone stairs, his left knee and shin screaming in agony before he made it up and forced himself to slow down so as not to attract attention. What would it say to see the king’s heir racing through the gardens of Harrenhal? Jace’s lungs ached and he kept trying to remember to breathe. All he knew was that he had to get away.

How could he hold this? Should he tell his mother? What would she do? Nothing. She’d do nothing, forbidding them - forbidding him from speaking of Ser Harwin. Did he tell Abby?

It would destroy her.

Should he - Jace slammed into a figure, sending the two of them sprawling to the gravel.

“What the fuck, Jace!” Aegon snapped, aggressively shoving him off. He too was dressed for night in his own gray linen and breaches, dark circles beneath his eyes. It struck Jace, hard between his ribs, how much Aegon looked like Jace’s own mother in that moment. How much he sounded like his own mother. Jace’s palms scraped against the gravel and he heaved a breath. “What?” Aegon repeated.

Another breath and Jace felt the words strangling him, and could feel the tension in his face as he looked at his uncle, his childhood playmate, with wide, lavender eyes. Aegon stared at him and whatever annoyances were on his tongue fell. His brow furrowed. “What is it?” he asked again, less sharply this time.

Jace gulped once more for air and heard Aegon mutter something about panic attacks before the elder manhandled him up to his feet and towards one of the benches. “Get your head between your knees before you pass out,” he snapped, hand on his back to push him forward. In spite of Aegon’s annoyance, his touch was gentle, if firm.

Also like his mother.

“Breathe, you idiot,” Aegon said and sat down beside him, hand between his shoulder blades. Jace did as he was told, falling into the way things once were, where Aegon led and Jace happily followed. They could never return to those days, and Jace did not wish for it, but Seven Hells, it had been easier.

He did not know how long they sat there, listening to the lowing of dragon calls outside the walls and the shrieking of bats, the distant sound of water fowl amid the rushes outside the castle walls. He breathed in the cold air, let it ebb at the fire in his blood. He spat on the ground and finally sat up, aware that Aegon’s hand did not leave him until Jace settled against the bench.

“You said something but I couldn’t understand,” Aegon ventured with his brows raised in exaggerated curiosity. The quiet of the night filled the space between them, the gaps left when things had reached such a breaking point.

It always came back to Driftmark.

“The king…” Jace whispered, heat burning in his eyes. “T-the king, he… ordered the deaths of Lord Lyonel and… Ser Harwin.”

Chapter Text

The wind howled between the cracks around the windows and Abby snuggled deeper into the covers, Wylla’s hands clasped around her own. The bed was three times the size of the one she had in the Red Keep, and she tried not to think that the last person in this bed had been her mother.

“It’s alright,” Wylla whispered. “You shed all the tears you need.”

The words had been robbed from her in this haze of grief and loss, of confusion, and so many other things that raked at the soft meat of her insides. She could only nod into her pillow, and let Wylla push her hair from her face, half unfamiliar words in the song she sang quietly to her. It was only as Abby finally began to drift off, did she hear the sound of the door open, but she did not open her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Wylla hissed.

“You’re here to make sure nothing untoward happens,” Aegon’s voice drifted over her, followed by the soft thunk of boots on the rug. “The bed’s big enough; I can wake the other ladies to join us.”

“She just fell asleep-”

“Is she alright?” Aegon’s voice was softer and closer all the same, and Abby felt the bed dip as Aegon climbed on top of the covers behind her. The warmth of him was like a fire, soothing and comforting as he pressed up against her back, effectively keeping her contained between him and Wylla. She turned her head slightly and Aegon’s lips tenderly grazed her temple.

“She will be.” Wylla’s hands squeezed hers and Abby sighed, finally able to drift fully asleep.

Sleep had eluded Aegon, and he had woken far too early for his tastes, the murky gray light that signaled the coming dawn creeping in through the windows. The maid who had come to stoke the fire had stared at him, wide eyed, before dropping into a curtsy and hurrying from the room. He rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss to Abrogail’s temple before dragging his stiff body from the bed and slipping quietly out onto the tiered balcony. He reached up, fingers caressing the wisteria blooms he’d sent back with Ser Simon all those months ago. Abby adored them, and he wanted to bring a piece of their garden here.

His father had ordered the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong.

Jace had said little after the revelation, speaking of what he’d overheard, his voice harsh and cracking between breaths and in Aegon’s hands lay the admittance that his sister had truly sired bastards by the tongue of her own son. Jace had put the lives of his family in his hands then, amid his gasping and tear filled eyes. It was the moment that Alicent Hightower had been waiting for all these many years…and Aegon only kept a hand pressed between his nephew’s shoulder blades, sat beside his childhood companion, and simply sat there with him in the dark.

By rights, Aegon should hate the boy beside him. His feelings for his sister were a tangled knot of Helaena’s embroidery thread that joined the ribbon tied through his ribs. A piece of him that he would never be free of, for Aegon didn’t know how to cut himself free of it. It was not his sister in the crypt that Jace had heard, however. It had been the king, sire and grandsire, the head of their family. The man who looked past Aegon as if he was a specter that was too painful, and then the moment where those eyes focused and for those fleeting heartbeats, Aegon thought the king saw the son that he had.

His own hand held the blade - or in this case, lit the match - and it occurred to Aegon then how obvious it felt. Targaryens believed in a cleansing fire. Their house words spoke of this, Fire and Blood. Fire and Blood had come for House Strong, not a powerful wave crashing against the towers like some suspected Lord Corlys to have been responsible for it. His weak father had taken the accusations personally, and defended his daughter with the same sort of viciousness that Mother had defended Aemond. The same sort of viciousness that he never bestowed upon them.

Too weak. King Viserys was too weak but it was not weakness, Aegon thought, to spare a child. Had Rhaenyra admitted what had happened, he doubted anyone would have faced death. Ser Harwin would have gone to The Wall, Rhaenyra’s sons disinherited. Maybe Aegon would have become her heir then. Not that he wanted it, but Aemond would have even at that age, and that might have been something.

No. Instead, the king spilled blood through the sort of schemes he disdained of.

Harrenhal was too unfamiliar for Aegon to make his way through quietly. It was early enough that he wasn’t bothered, but it meant that the murmured conversations of the servants were his to overhear.

“They say it’s a Second Great Council,” a voice had said to their companion; two servants scraping out the great hearth that had burned low through the night. “I heard that the king will name his son heir at the wedding.”

“He didn’t name him in King’s Landing,” the other voice had pointed out.

The first voice laughed. “But more are coming to the wedding. You can see the tents for miles!”

The court had whispered those rumors the whole of Aegon’s life, every time his name day came around that it would be the year that he would supplant his sister as heir. Rumor that would chase along the whispers of court each time Rhaenyra gave birth to another brunette boy.

He wants me to inherit nothing! He wanted to scream at them. They all saw it. They all saw over and over again how little King Viserys cared for his long sought after first born son. The boy he stopped caring about as soon as Precious Rhaenyra’s little Jacaerys came.

Jacaerys Velaryon, who looked like Ser Harwin and always had, who shared the same dimpled smile as Abrogail. Jacaerys, who the king doted on and spoiled and paid more attention to than Aegon.

Jace, who had come running to him when he was small, crying because something had frightened him. Jace, who tagged along after him when Aemond rolled his eyes and stuck his head in a book.

The castle was already bustling as Aegon made the long walk to the stables, Kostōba already saddled by his request. He reached up to rub his palm along his face while he fed the horse a carrot for his good behavior and left out the main gates and down the trail west, away from Harrenton and towards the roost where Sunfyre and the other dragons had nested.

His father had ordered the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong in order to cover up for his sister’s indiscretions.

Sunfyre rumbled beneath him as he climbed on, chittering and confused, watching him with great, golden eyes and trilling softly; a whistle of a song. Dreamfyre was curled up a ways away, Vermax chittering beside her while Moondancer perched up along the jagged rock of the ruined tower that made up the dragon roost. They all watched as Aegon and Sunfyre took off and Aegon let his stomach drop, the wind from the ascent pull tears from his eyes and tried to escape into the nothingness of the sky.

Did he even want to be king?

He had meant it when he said that he would not contest Rhaenyra’s claim. Kingship looked exhausting, with everyone demanding and expecting and pushing and pleading. He already dealt with the favor seekers and the clout chaser amidst court, preying upon him to aid their own desperate grabs at ascent. Cassandra Baratheon had been a more dangerous indulgence; the comely heir of a Lord Paramount with eyes set on something more. He wasn’t a fool. He knew that allowing her to think she could get her claws in him had been a risky move, and one that he was pleased had worked out for the better. She had not been the only one, nor, he knew, would she be the last.

Sunfyre let out a loud shriek and swooped down, the flotilla of previously peaceful ducks floating languidly upon the still waters of the lake now a frenzy of frightened calls before the dragon let out a pleased groan and scooped a mouth full of the water fowl into his mouth, belly just skimming the water, tail splashing in the sudden descent and quick ascent to avoid crashing into the depths. Water splashed up, the droplets catching into colored streaks of light in the early morning rays. He shouted in surprise and delight, Sunfyre shaking water from his head as he indulged himself, successfully pulling Aegon from the spiral of uncertainty that he had found himself in.

He did not want to be king, nor did he want to hide himself away amidst the ash and bone of the past the way his father did. He wanted to wake each morning buried balls deep in his wife, senses filled with her to erase away the haunted dreams of loneliness and pain. He wanted to greet the day upon dragonback and watch the sunrise; a streak of blue as vivid as Abrogail’s eyes, streaked with pink and orange and purple, the rays turning Sunfyre more golden and brilliant than ever. Where the world was quiet and peaceful, where nothing chased and demanded and clawed. Aegon wanted a life away from the harsh demands of King’s Landing. How peaceful it was here at Harrenhal. Yes, he missed the sound of bells from the Great Sept, the bustle and crush of Flea Bottom, but it was not a longing that bred contempt. Aegon knew that in his bones. It was an ache of appreciation, of thankfulness, because the quiet here, unexpectedly found as he and his dragon danced above the God’s Eye, was a gift he had not realized he had needed, let alone wanted.

The Isle of Faces was shrouded in the morning mist and the high, bone white boughs of the weirwoods reached up through the fog, the sprays of vivid red leaves like drops of blood against the snow. Sunfyre kept a distance away and Aegon did not urge him closer. He knew little of the island except that it was the last home of the Southron Weirwoods, a sacred place of worship. He squinted towards the island, the little outcropping that jutted out into the water, and startled as something moved.

The antlers caught his attention; the twist of the them at first fooling him for branches of a tree before the figure moved. It was no beast, at least, not one that Aegon had ever seen before. It was a shadow in the mist, a figure of some great height but he could not tell if it was what adorned its head or if the figure was truly tall. It moved out of the trees, the damp swirling around it as it stepped into the streak of morning light that lit up the little outcropping, shrouded in shadow.

Aegon’s ears pricked as a strange sound met him. A loud but low humming seemed to emanate the closer they came to the island. He had never heard such a thing before and although it was a distant sound, it reverberated in his bones, vibrating along the back of his neck.

His father had Lyonel Strong and his son were killed to protect Rhaenyra from further accusations.

The accusations had not been erased, and Aegon had seen the way Ser Simon had looked at the boy, eyes wide, the man who was so quick with words stunned speechless.

Everyone knows. Just look at them.

He craved the sweet rush of Arbor Red down his throat, or the taste of Abby’s cunt on his tongue. He craved escape and with an anguished shout, he urged Sunfyre faster, letting his roar claw at his throat just as Sunfyre joined him, the sensation of his dragon a comfort in his chest. The pair of them yelled together, Aegon breathless and lightheaded, his throat protesting at the scream he let out.

Sunfyre let out another trilling call and took off higher, the end of his tail slapping against the water and Aegon craned back to watch the figure as it grew smaller and smaller in the distance. The feeling in his stomach was one of uncertainty; an unsettled sensation that roiled in his belly like a sloshing ale tankard. He leaned over the horn of his saddle, running a gloved hand along Sunfyre’s scales. Another strong beat of his dragon’s wings, and Sunfyre sped faster into the dawn sky, the cold of the clouds hitting against Aegon’s face, cooling the perpetual heat of his skin and stinging his eyes. Yet he inhaled the smell of petrichor and let it course through his body and wash away the odd sensations and the thoughts that plagued him.

Still, it stuck.

His father had his wife’s father and brother killed to protect his sister. His wife’s other brother had a hand in it.

His sister, Aegon would never forget, who stood in the face of their brother’s maiming, the grievous injury that could have killed him; an ugly and long, painful death from infection and agony, to change the focus to her, and the perceived injustices against her, to the expense of the rest of them. Instead of punishing her children in any sort of capacity, she turned it into something completely different. Cruel and unnecessary; no one had been speaking of it. It had to do with Vhagar, not an attack on Rhaenyra herself. But she had run with Jace’s quiet words of a foolish child, bringing in what wouldn’t have been on the table had she not been fucking Harwin Strong and trying to pass his children off as Laenor Velaryon’s.

The king had eagerly gone along with it, further than even Aegon expected. King Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, was mild, milquetoast, and so averse to conflict that he and Aemond would start muttering, “Oh no, my indigestion! Oh no, my ulcers!’” every time some sort of disagreement or conflict began to rise at whatever familial occasion came about. Their sire, who yelled and railed when he wished to be contrary to exercise his desire…had ordered the deaths of his Hand and the man’s heir—the man who his heir was fucking.

Three children too late, of course, but the king had been backed into a corner and had snapped and spread his wings to show he could be just as dangerous as Prince Daemon. Aegon knew that much about his father. Even if none knew how it had happened, did Rhaenyra know what their father had done for her? Aegon could not know her mind, but he knew if it had been himself, he would have raged at it.

He would have gone into the king’s room and torn his heart from his chest. This fool of a king who waited too long, acted too late to do anything and left them all here: fractured and broken with no hope of anything but blood across the throne.

Was Rhaenyra not also a dragon? Or had she rolled over and showed her belly in the face of their father’s twisted adoration?

Alicent Hightower’s children. Never brother nor sister..

Aegon had no choice. There was no world he existed in where Rhaenyra was not his sister. She had enough luxury to put distance between them, and how aggressively she did. Her shadow loomed behind him, and he knew that his own dogged her. She was not coming to this wedding for him. She was not coming to share in his incandescent joy to finally be bound to the one he loved. She was coming to assert her place, to remind them all that she was their father’s favorites, their father’s chosen.

What would she do in the face of House Strong who saw Jace’s face, and would soon see his brothers? What would the king feel compelled to do? Would he set the rest of the house ablaze to erase whatever physical similarities would undermine Rhaenyra’s claim? As if three sons of his own weren’t enough to undermine her? Take their faces instead of their tongues.

King Viserys despised nothing more than being made to look like a fool.

It was never just Mother who railed at what was plain to see. It was never just her.

‘Do you think Rhaenyra’s sons will be your playthings forever? When she ascends the throne, your life may be forfeit. She could move to cut off any challenge to her succession. You are the challenge, Aegon! Just by living and breathing!’

Sunfyre rumbled beneath him, the chirping purr he made one full of confusion and concern, his great head turning to look back at him. Aegon remained slumped over the saddle horn as the dragon flew aimlessly above the God’s Eye and the rolling hills of the Riverlands. It would be so easy to unhook his belt and let himself roll off and plummet into the depths below. To escape the machinations and lies and secrets of his family and replace it with the depths of blue would be a simple escape. Whatever violence his mother and grandfather saw in the future, could he simply… make it go away? If he went away?

He could not. He would not. Not now. Not when he was so close. He could not leave Abby here alone in this world; he would not abandon her the way she had been left behind by everyone else. He’d promised and he meant it.

Aegon looked up from his staring at the pink frills along Sunfyre’s neck to blink up, eyes stinging, as a warbling, undulating call echoed from the east. It echoed over the rolling green fields and the forest that hugged along the banks by the castle. It was a distant sound that sent a shiver down his spine, undulating and unnerving. His stomach swooped and dropped uncomfortably, and the half bottle of wine he’d drunk last night threatened to slosh up. Sunfyre rumbled beneath him, a growl in his throat as he whipped towards the east with a screech.

There was only a single dragon in the sky; his sister must have gone further to meet the carriage that held the children and the Velaryons. The blood red of Caraxes’ scales glinted like garnets in the morning light. The distant sound of laughter joined the dragon’s call as the red pitched and turned north.

Sunfyre’s warning call screamed louder across the sky. He didn’t need to be told; Sunfyre simply knew. They bolted after them a heartbeat later, racing towards the hulking, melted spires of Harrenhal, thoughts of oblivion, of glutting on lake fish forgotten. His friend might not be quite as old as Caraxes, but he was just as big, and fast, if not faster. A screech let out, a flash of hot light expelled from Sunfyre as they gave pursuit, but the wyrm merely dropped down and another laugh echoed back. Something hot burned in Aegon’s chest and Sunfyre shuddered beneath him.

The command rested on Aegon’s tongue, tempting as a fresh bottle of wine, as his winsome lover spread upon his bed. It was from a deep, feral place in his chest, where Sunfyre’s presence glowed warm and molten through his veins. He bit his tongue and Sunfyre screeched for him. The need to take the other man and his dragon in his jaws, rip and rend and shake the bits of them as blood sacrifice to the gods, was near consuming. A rage inside of Aegon that had built over the years threatened to bubble up. The hot tang of blood rushed into his mouth both from dragon dreams and the fact that he’d bitten himself to keep from shouting. He was desperate to do something with this rage that had nowhere to go, and the idea of rending Daemon Targaryen limb from limb, offering him as sacrifice at the feet of his mother to free her from the strangling fear that turned her angry and desperate.Aegon would take the threats of their family, prove to Aemond that he too was capable of standing up, bold and strong. To show Otto Hightower that he was not the feckless fool he sought to puppet. To prove to Abrogail that she would never have anything to fear, ever again, and that their family would be safe.

To show Rhaenyra that she could keep her claim that she so desperately wanted, but that she would not come for them, lest she meet the same fate.

To show his sire-king, the decrepit old man he was, that Aegon would defend them with fire and blood too when he would not. To force King Viserys to see him and know that this was the creature he’d turned him into; that he’d turned this family into. Where his mother had turned cruel and desperate to protect them, where Aemond was angry all the time, where Aegon lived each day with a sword above his head, wondering if that morning would be the day the king did not wake, and the dragons would scream.

Another laugh echoed as the pair ahead swooped down to skim the water before bursting back up, amused and uncaring of the screaming dragon that gave chase. Daemon was enjoying it. He howled as that rage took him, and Sunfyre screamed along with him. They were nearing the great curtain walls of the fortress now, the sun to their right casting their shadows along the glimmering blue of the God’s Eye, the antlered shadow on the outcropping long forgotten. The wyrm banked further northwest to the dragon roost and Aegon hissed.

“Lilagon, Sunfyre,” he commanded, and Sunfyre danced. The dragon glided effortlessly into the turn, coming up up along the inside as they circled Harrenhal and used the momentum to burst past and rocketed straight for the broken tower. Sunfyre let out a warning cry, banking around and rising up, wings spread. Aegon had no thoughts, no words, except to protect. This was his, and this laughing man and his strange dragon wyrm had chosen already.

Like Viserys, Daemon had chosen his side, more dangerous than the rest of them.

The dragons below in the pit started shrieking in response to Sunfyre’s call, but Moondancer shot up, her calls far less distressed, the verdant green of her scales glimmering as she twirled in the air. At the little dragon’s approach, the wyrm circled towards her, the elongated neck ensuring that Caraxes’ eyes did not leave Aegon and Sunfyre, warning him away.

“Sȳrī tymptan!” came the distant shout. Aegon felt Sunfyre shift. “Aōha kepa avy dīnagon ozūndegon amastas! Rhaenyra aderī kesīr ulza.”

Dreamfyre was ululating from the ground in response to Sunfyre’s warning and Aegon glared towards his uncle.

“We’re fine,” he murmured to the dragon, scratching at the scales along his neck. Sunfyre huffed his displeasure but did not cry out again. Dreamfyre was still making sounds, but the distressed call had stopped and the two of them lowered to the ground, Moondancer still above and circling. The Dragonkeepers were rushing about, and Ser Arryk was holding onto his horse’s bridle, the stallion stomping its feet with fear at the shouts of the dragons. Aegon could see a wheelhouse in the distance, another Kingsguard stallion leading it ahead.

He undid the hooks on his saddle and slid down Sunfyre’s wing before the dragon could settle properly, his golden eyes fixated on the other dragon settling himself away from Dreamfyre. His breath was quick and his skin felt overly hot, prickly, like he was about to let out his own flame. Daemon Targaryen was far more fluid; lazy, even, as he swung himself down, the fall of the man’s hair and his long limbs a familiar sight. There was a strange moment when the man turned and cocked his head, that Aegon thought he was looking at his brother, and wondered in a terrifying moment, if Daemon Targaryen was Aemond’s future.

The last time he’d seen his uncle had been at Laena Velaryon’s funeral. A figure seen occasionally during his childhood, Daemon Targaryen was more a staple of stories and sneers than what Aegon would consider an actual uncle. He’d holed himself up on Driftmark with the Velaryons and the twins before he married Rhaenyra, and the pair of them had refused to come to court since their marriage. The man had changed little over the years. Tall and silver haired, Daemon was a figure of health compared to King Viserys, still recovering from the long trip up from the capital.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Prince Daemon,” Aegon said, a final, gentle pat against Sunfyre’s neck, the dragon’s head turned to keep his golden eyes on the Blood Wyrm and its rider. Aegon lifted a hand, tugging his glove off with his teeth before pushing his tousled, wind tangled hair from his eyes. He would not be intimidated. He would not let the whispered threats of what Daemon Targaryen would do if the opportunity found him overtake him. This was his home, and Aegon was still the king’s son, and the prince was a guest. He’d made his loyalties clear years ago.

He remembered with such startling clarity running after his sister, shouting her name, begging her to wait for him, struggling to get his coat on and tripping in his haste. “Nyra wait!” She was striding down the hallway, the sun catching on her long silver hair, like Visenya reborn, waving to Daemon and Laena Velaryon. His sister had paused and looked back at him but it was Daemon’s sharp, cruel smirk that had stopped Aegon short as the man reached for Rhaenyra’s shoulder and drew her attention.

“He is of no importance.”

More who did not want him.

Aegon stumbled slightly as he felt a huff of warm, sulfuric breath hit his back, followed by the gentle bump of Sunfyre, the warmth of his purr vibrating inside the hollow between his ribs and through his limbs. There was a gentle chirp, like a bird song, and Aegon turned to press his hands against the dragon’s warm snout, pressing a kiss between his flared nostrils. “Lykirī,” he murmured, calming them both. Another pat against his warm scales and Aegon shoved his gloves in his pockets. Ser Arryk was watching him from his post near the stone cottage where the Dragonkeepers were staying. The elder man’s brows were slightly furrowed, his face impassive, but his gaze flitted to Daemon’s briefly before looking back to him.

“Your Grace,” Ser Arryk said. There was a question in the simple greeting that came from the years that Ser Arryk had been his sworn shield. It was nothing specific and sometimes it caused a prickle of uncertainty and self-doubt, different in the self-conscious feelings that Ser Criston stoked.

“I’m sure the prince would appreciate the quiet solitude of the carriage ride,” Aegon said on his approach, his gaze darting towards Daemon as he stalked towards them. The carriage would be there shortly, back in sight after the bend around some of the boulders that marked the border of the shale caves here along the lake. “He does spend much of his time surrounded by the babbling of children.”

“How thoughtful you are. You certainly don’t get that from your mother.”

Aegon ran his tongue over his teeth, jaw aching with a pain that was not his own, Sunfyre still rumbling beneath his skin. The bait was blatant, so low hanging that he could kick it should he so wished. How he wished to take it and pummel Daemon with it. His mother’s hands may have left scars upon him, but she was his mother. His defender even when he disappointed her. These last few months were strange and hopeful in a way he didn’t know how to handle. Her touch had been gentle across his brow or upon his shoulder, her smiles tentative but there, the furrow between her brow easing.

His mother who cuddled him when he was small and afraid when she was pregnant with Daeron, that he would lose her, who cared about the small folk in her sponsorships and initiatives she was so busy with. Nothing Aegon would do was ever good enough, but sometimes? Sometimes it was.

The response to Daemon was on his tongue, ripe and juicy as a grape. “And we know you get nothing from yours.” Cruel and barbed and hooked, his own teeth bared if Daemon Targaryen was so eager to see what he was made of.

“I did not realize you and the queen were so close for you to recognize what qualities I did or did not receive from her,” Aegon said instead, wan smile and cursory look in the elder’s direction. “If you were wondering, I do get my good looks from her, and a taste for honey cakes.” He shrugged, reaching over to stroke the velvet softness of his stallion’s nose. “The hair is, of course, from my father, the king. I notice Baela wears the same displeased expression you wear. As well as your nose.”

The smile he gave Daemon was a bit brighter this time as the carriage pulled up, Ser Marbrand on his steed. The door opened unexpectedly and Baela herself came out, silver braids swinging and the gold bands shining in the light. He had spent enough time around his cousin over the past few months to see the same uncertain tension in her shoulders that he frequently saw in Aemond as she took in her father.

“I heard Caraxes,” she said by way of greeting, the deep greens and blues of her riding leathers scored with seahorses and dragons. Daemon’s attention swung to his daughter and Aegon ignored the rest of the conversation as it turned into High Valyrian, rapid and ancient, their accents markedly different from how he spoke with his own siblings. A raw feeling struck hard inside his chest, and he watched them for another moment before his attention swung to further movement at the carriage.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Prince Daemon,” Larys Strong’s voice carried unexpectedly well given his low tone. “Forgive me for not getting out - it is rather difficult for me to move here.”

Daemon’s face was impassive at being addressed by the lord of Harrenhal and Aegon looked at the soft, torn up ground that the carriage had stopped in. Baela gave Aegon a nod before pulling her father’s attention, her Valyrian flowing easily. “I thought we could go riding. Just you and I.”

“Another carriage is on its way, your Grace,” Ser Marbrand said. “I shall stay here, Ser Arryk.”

Kostōba pawed at the ground and without being asked, the footman tied Aegon’s horse to the back of the carriage. Aegon bristled, opening his mouth to demand the servant cease until Larys’ voice came once more.

“Join me in the carriage, my prince. We are going to be family soon, and it’s so difficult to get time together.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed a touch, long lashes hooding his eyes as he turned his attention back to the footman who had handled his horse. He could hear his uncle and cousin still conversing in rapid Valyrian, their words muffled just enough, so easily flowing between them that Aegon couldn’t keep up. The horses knickered and whined, pawing at the ground with the proximity to the dragons.

“Of course, Lord Larys. We will indeed.” Aegon gave him a tight smile and gestured for him to enter the wheelhouse first. The ones from the capital prioritized privacy with their screened in windows. The ones belonging to House Strong were more easily opened, the windows with little, folded shutters and fluttering linen curtains; far more open and far less like a cage.

Larys tapped the handle of his cane against the roof of the wheelhouse, and with a gentle jerk they headed back. Aegon leaned back against the plush pillows of the bench, stretching his legs out before him. In the small space, it was a sight to see how tall Larys Strong was. He was a thin man, much like Aemond, but while Aemond walked as straight as a blade, Larys made himself small. A sick feeling curled in the pit of his stomach as the understanding washed over him; the feeling of seeing one in the mirror. Aegon did the same thing. Curled shoulders and slouching to avoid the gaze of those who would bite at him.

The only difference, Aegon surmised, was that Larys’ desire to be undetected did not come from something as childish as his own desire to be unnoticed.

The soft sound of scraping drew Aegon’s gaze down to peer at Larys’ metal boot.

“When you take your seat here, my prince, you should know what you’re up against,” Larys said softly, his dark eyes pinning Aegon like one of Helaena’s bugs to the board. “You handled the council meeting well, as the squabbles of the Blackwoods and Brackens are exhausting to us all. Of course, Grover Tully approves of you. He may have sworn oaths to your father’s chosen successor, but make no mistake that he will raise banners for you. His grandson, Elmo, on the other hand…”

Aegon recalled the elder man with a wash of inferiority. Elmo Tully was tall and broad, with dark, auburn hair and piercing eyes that shifted from blue to green, he recalled, because it had unsettled him. ‘Lucerys’ eyes,’ Aegon remembered thinking when he first sat across from the man at the small council table.

“Aunt Celeste isn’t your mother, is she?” Aegon’s brow furrowed as he tried to reconcile the woman who had helped raise him with how she could bear this giant of a man. Ser Harwin let out a sad sounding laugh and shook his head.

“No, my prince. My mother was Lysa Tully, granddaughter of Lord Grover. I squired in Riverrun before my father became Master of Laws for your father.” Ser Harwin shook his curls from his face, reaching to tie it back to keep it from his face. “She died when I was a little sprog, barely walking.” A distance took his eyes and Aegon averted his gaze to offer the man privacy.

“He supports Rhaenyra,” Aegon finished, not wishing to dance around implications.

“He will, if only because he views the Hand and your mother as overstepping the crown’s wishes and the contract between the throne and its people.”

Aegon frowned at this, arms folded across his chest. “Speak plain, Lord Larys,” he said with his own hard look. Aegon understood games, he understood doublespeak, but there was much left to the imagination and he would not be made a fool of. “The throne provides for its people. What imagined overstepping is he so worried about? He’s simply sore that he lost Harrenhal to me.”

“He’s concerned about the dragon this marriage placed in his lands.” Larys shrugged softly and leaned back in the seat, the carriage jostling over a particularly large bump. “Harrenhal of course is a boon, but not in the way you might think. A comely bride is merely an additional perk, not the prize as it was for you.”

Aegon hummed softly in a way that reminded him of his brother and curled his fingers into his arms to resist the need to pick at the skin. Aemond had said something similar over the course of his nameday. How now all would see how vulnerable he was, and the way to wound him most grievously. Aegon, on the other hand, had sneered at that. Abby was not a weakness to him. To lose her would be to lose himself, yes, but it would not destroy him like Aemond tried to imply.

Of course it wouldn’t.

“They’re here to discuss the marriage contract. Lord Elmo is here on behalf of his father since Lord Tully is abed back at Riverrun. Several of the other river lords are with him, wishing to hammer out the details the crown and I worked out in regards to the inheritance of Harrenhal and jointure, the dowry, and the fact that Lord Elmo sees your placement in the Riverlands as a threat that you will take the Paramount seat from him should he not support you.”

Aegon’s face twisted in confusion, nostrils flaring at the insult at being accused of something he had no desire for. He leaned forward, a hand reaching up to the handle along the roof of the carriage to balance himself.

“He accuses me of coveting his seat?” Aegon hissed. “Just as these lords think I’m plotting to steal my sister’s throne. Why are they so quick to think ill of me? To accuse me of villainy and brand me traitor when I’ve done nothing of the sort. I plot no schemes or collusions—”

“You were born,” Larys interrupted with a soft and earnest voice. He too leaned forward, mimicking Aegon’s position. “You are the first born son of a king who murdered his first wife in the hunt for a healthy, living son, Prince Aegon. You did not choose this mantle, you did not choose to be born the son of the king, and I did not choose to be born with my own struggles. But these are the lots we have drawn in life and we must make the best of it.”

This close, Aegon noticed how he looked a bit like Ser Simon, who himself looked like the ghost of Lord Lyonel. Larys’s features were sharper than the rest of his family, he and his sister both, likely from their Frey mother. But the dark eyes reminded him of the amber glass eyes that stared out of the mounted stag heads and bear heads that lined one of the small halls in the Red Keep.

“Your own struggles?” Aegon snarled. “Like murdering your father and brother so you could have the seat instead of skulking about the Red Keep for the rest of your days?”

Aegon leaned back and so did Larys, who dropped his hand to grip the handle of his cane. He looked out the window silently, his jaw clenched, fingers tapping against the amber bauble on the cane. Larys did not ask him how he knew.

Caraxes’ whistling shriek echoed high across the lake valley. There was an even more distant answer: the long absent cry of Syrax that he hadn’t heard in years.

As Larys Strong’s dark eyes found him, Aegon felt like the elder was peeling away his skin as methodically as he peeled fruit, or the flesh of the convicts in the torture cells of the Red Keep. Aegon watched the twitch of his features and the shadow that passed over his gaze.

“Prince Aegon,” he said slowly, words measured, pausing for a moment before he finally continued. “The death of my father and elder brother was a tragic accident. It was never supposed to happen that way.”

Aegon’s mouth went dry. So what Jace said was, in fact, true;that Aegon had blurted it out to the man accused was of no matter. The bottom of his stomach dropped out with an unpleasant swoop.

Larys’ can thumped softly against the floor of the carriage. “It is not something that was done out of greed, or selfishness. Nor was it years of resentment. I loved my father very much. While a lesser father would have cast a babe born as I was aside, to dash their heads against the stone and write the babe off as another loss in a long line of tragedy, he fed my appetite for learning. He taught me how to hone my mind the way my brother honed his blade. He offered to send me to the citadel if it was what I wished, just as he attended in his youth before his brother, Tristafer, died and he became heir. When I declined to go to Oldtown, he helped me find a place in the world where I could excel.”

“Then you killed him,” Aegon said, voice low, brow slightly furrowed. “A man you claimed to love, who had done so much for you, and you burned him alive.”

The other man looked down at his cane, impassive in the face of Aegon’s words. He took a breath, a slight shake of his head, then met Aegon’s eyes once more. “Princess Rhaenyra kept my brother at her side and my father, love him as I did, he did not stop it. He could have. He did not.” Larys paused and his eyes went downcast, sweeping across the floor, but Aegon did not think he was truly looking at anything. “The king saw a threat to the stability of the royal family and made his wishes clear. When the king wishes something, it will be done. Your father wanted to silence the whispers. I would not let some assassin come after my family. We all make sacrifices in life, Your Grace. Often, that is in response to…,” Larys met his gaze, “...the actions, or inaction, of our fathers and our siblings. Duty and sacrifice are tenets of your mother’s, so I know you understand. I sacrificed them to salvage what I could of our house, and to save my sweet sister who was meant to return here as my brother finally came to take his place as future lord.”

The silence was oppressive, the air thick from it, as Larys held his gaze for several more moments before releasing him to look out the window. Aegon had nothing to say and instead looked out his own window towards the lake and the trees along the shoreline. Larys had given him much to consider and it was a new experience to not have it all blamed upon Rhaenyra or even the fleeting implications in the complacency of the king. Larys had implicated his own father and brother; a mess made of the four of them.

Aegon recalled the pale, silent ghost that Abby had turned into after the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin, barely remembering the discussion of her returning to Harrenhal. His mother had been quiet too and locked for hours in the sept. Aegon had thought she had been grieving with Abby, had grieved the loss of the relationship she had had with Lord Lyonel. Did she too know about this?

It was so much. It was too much for him to think of all right now and he didn’t want to focus on it. The danger at hand now was the presence of Elmo Tully and the other lords who were raising an issue and trying to prevent his marriage. The anger at being misjudged and assumed that he was coming for things he could not give two shits about, that took the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want to be king and he didn’t want a Paramount seat. He just wanted his dragon, and Abrogail, and whatever family they made for themselves.

Chapter Text

The outer bailey was bustling with the mid-morning crowd, the banners of Runestone flapping from the back of two wheelhouses that were settled in front of the hall. Larys said something about their cousin, Cassana, having arrived. Aegon recalled that one of Ser Simon’s granddaughters was married to the lord’s younger brother. House Royce was a far friendlier kin to House Strong, it appeared.

Abby was there, being embraced by a soft featured, robust young woman with dark curls and a smiling face that reflected the rest of the Strongs. There was a tall man, dark blonde and kitted in shades of purple and bronze, a half cape slung about him like a knight from a story beside a comely woman who could only be his wife, given their matching outfits. Aegon considered this, as Abby already seemed to cleverly sneak in the embroidery of Sunfyre on her gowns. Maybe they could start matching, like the horses.

“Your Grace, Lord Larys.” Ser Simon’s voice interrupted Aegon’s internal adventure down a road where he and Abby had matching dragon coronets to receive the Royce party. “Lord Yorick Royce, and his wife, Lady Shireen Baratheon, are here as Lady Jeyne Arryn’s official representatives.”

The bow Lord Yorick gave was flawless, tightly controlled and not over the top, nor was his wife’s curtsy overly exhibitionist. There was a difference in the Vale chivalry than that of the Reach. Aegon supposed it might be because life in the Vale was harder, what with the mountains and all that came with it.

“Well met, my lord, my lady.” Aegon inclined his head in turn, smiling. “Tales of your deeds in the Stepstones are still told at court. I hope to see you in my wedding tournament?”

Lord Yorick’s beard was slightly darker than his hair, flecks of gray peaking through. Many of the men had beards and Aegon was beginning to feel like he should give his own a go. He was unshaven that morning, his own stubble scratchy along his jaw. Certainly he could grow a fine beard.

“You honor me, Prince Aegon,” the other man said, a slight smile on his face and a glance down at the brighter smile of his wife, her hands wrapped comfortably around his bicep. “If you are not competing, then I shouldn’t feel so bad being able to crown my wife the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“We heard your own nameday duel went quite well, Your Grace,” Lady Shireen complimented, and Aegon’s ears flushed red. “A wonderful debut.”

“It is my wedding and I don’t think I’d be forgiven for getting a gauntlet to the face and having my sweet lady play nursemaid as a start to our marriage.” Aegon shrugged, a lazy grin on his face. It earned the chuckles and amusement he’d been looking for.

“Playing a little nursemaid can sometimes ease the nerves,” Lady Shireen leaned a little closer, her deep blue eyes bright with mischief. Aegon could see the slight glimmers of resemblance between the lady and that of her niece, Cassandra, but the lady of Runestone lacked the predatory look that the younger woman held. Lady Shireen’s edges were softer in a way that reminded him of the hazy memories of Aunt Celeste, and even Abby in some of her more confident moments.

Aegon was very conscious not to let his eyes fall below the woman’s face.

Lord Yorick’s own cheeks flushed lightly, but he shrugged with a raised eyebrow in agreement. “There’s plenty of time for the prince to be given advice on his marital duties. We’ve been on the road since dawn, and I could use a bath.” They departed with courtesies exchanged and Aegon approached Abby who was giving a final embrace to her cousin.

“Deidre will be in the gardens with little Dyana,” she told Cassana. “And Morya has Gwenys as well.”

Aegon’s hand snaked out to grab her wrist and tug her over to him, automatically snaking his arms around her waist and pressing his face into the loose curls around her shoulders, half her hair woven in a braided knot at the crown of her head.

“Aegon,” she breathed.

He didn’t know if it was a protest or relief and he simply squeezed her tighter and pressed his lips to her pulse. It was easier to push away everything else that plagued him and sickened him when he was here with her. A tonic to his raw wounds, Aegon let himself drift into the clean scent of earthy rose and red currant perfume oil and soap.

“Did you eat?”

Her frustrated sigh was low in his ear, her hands pressing against his shoulders even if she wasn’t pushing him away. “Did you tell Wylla to make sure I did, or was that simply her being her usual bossy self?”

“I might have mentioned something in passing, but the gods know she won’t take orders from me.” But they had reached an understanding between themselves, in recognizing that they needed to make sure Abrogail Strong did not run herself empty as she was wont to do.

She tilted her head back and her fingers curled in his jacket. He knew he smelled of dragon and rain but she didn’t appear to mind. Her freckles were stark against her pale face and he took in the dark smudges beneath her eyes, but her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and so he did not worry overly much.

“Lord Elmo and some of the other river lords are here to discuss our marriage contract,” Abby said softly. “I think it took the queen and the lord hand by surprise.”

“Larys told me.” Aegon nodded towards the slow moving figure moving in the direction of the tower where his father and the royal household were put up. Abby moved to tuck her cool hand in the crook of his elbow, her other holding the blue wool cloak more tightly closed around her throat. It was a bit chilly that morning, although Aegon’s blood ran too hot to usually notice. “Elmo thinks I’ve come to take his paramount seat from him and feed him to Sunfyre.”

“I think he would still be upset even without the dragon,” she murmured. She’d told him of the rumors she’d heard during his feast, about how some of the lords were upset with the idea of a Targaryen encroaching onto their land. Which Aegon thought was utterly ridiculous. Abby had pointed out that when a Targaryen came into the Riverlands, they tended to conquer or cause other trouble. His gaze flicked to the melted towers high above them—the hubris and legacy of men come and gone long before him. “If someone is displeased with his ruling, then what’s to stop them from coming to you as a representative of the crown?”

“They just assume I’d hear them and not just send them on their merry way,” he scoffed with a bitter note to his voice. She squeezed his arm.

“It doesn’t matter, Aegon. It’s the perception of it. The implied threat. Not to mention the succession. If you’re seen as a figure in the Riverlands over the Tullys, that would change things.” As always, Abrogail was right when he let himself listen to her explanations. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t discussed it before, a plate of honey and cream cakes between them, her hands occupied with sewing while he fed her and himself. Still, he rolled his eyes, dragging his booted foot back and forth over the gravel and kicking up rocks.

“They’re already calling our wedding The Second Great Council,” Aegon sneered. “They’re all so eager to force such ambitions upon me.”

“Tis foul,” Abby returned with her own disgust. “At least we know what we’re up against.” Aegon’s chest warmed with her ‘we’ mention and he ghosted a kiss against her temple. The guards at the door to the tower bowed their heads and opened the heavy doors, whitewashed to hide the scars from the fire.

“We do,” Aegon murmured, shifting his arm to wrap around her shoulders and keep her close to him as they ventured into the tower where her family had perished. She trembled lightly beneath his touch and he gripped her arm, thumb stroking against the round of her shoulder. She was doing so well, holding herself together. He would give her what strength he had.

The hum of conversation could be heard as they headed down the hallway, the inner windows allowing the torchlight into the interior in lieu of outer windows.

“I hate the name,” Abby muttered, “Tower of Dread.”

“Then we’ll change it along with whatever other name changes you wish to make.” He raised his eyebrows at her, making a silly face, and Abby scrunched her nose as amusement pulled at her pretty mouth.

She was straight as an arrow as she walked, years of lessons pulling her spine rigid and tilting her chin just so. It was a facsimile of his own mother’s posture when faced with those who would underestimate her. Regal. Elegant.

Aegon dropped his arm from around her shoulders to stroke the spill of curls down her back before offering his arm to her so she could hold onto that instead of gripping her own hands so tightly about her waist he thought she might break her fingers. His own heart hammered in his chest, to be faced with all these lords and know that each moment in that room was a different level of judgment and assessment than he’d received those months before. Aegon had gotten on well with the men at the feast, plying them with fine wine and bawdy stories. He was good at that sort of thing; it’s when things became formal and full of layers that he didn’t understand that he struggled with.

“You’ll do well,” she whispered.

He pressed a quick kiss to her hair. “We’ll do well.” There was no doing this without her; he didn’t even want to try.

The second set of heavy wooden doors were opened, these ones newer than the others, to reveal the circular hall and the blazing fire in the great hearth that was taller than a man and just as ornately carved as the one in the Kingspyre tower. Some of the plaster frescoes high above them were patchy in places, revealing where new plaster had been replaced but not yet painted. There were tapestries similar to the ones in the other tower, these depicting hunting scenes along rivers and through weirwood forests. Aegon was distracted momentarily by one depicting women with flowing hair reaching out through the rivers, fish fins along their arms.

The table in the hall was enormous; a great wheel of wood cut from one of those great red oaks in the forest. Seated here, all were on the same level. There was no head of table, even if Queen Alicent sat in the mostore ornate chair there. It was the only denotation of status.

“Where is the king?” Aegon inquired of Grand Maester Orwyle. Mellos had retired back to Oldtown at the close of the nameday festivities to live out his last days in quiet. Aegon had felt relief at the change; the younger maester was far easier to deal with and didn’t look at him with rheumy eyes full of disdain.

Orwyle inclined his head to both of them, his hands folded beneath the large, gray sleeves of his robe and his maester chain clinking. “He is recovering from the long journey. He has bid the queen and Hand to handle these discussions Lord Elmo has…” The man trailed off, lips pressed together in disapproval, but of what specifically, Aegon didn’t know. “Found need of. It is good that you are both here.”

It was a surprising statement of encouragement that left Aegon momentarily stunned, Abby’s fingers curling into the leather of his riding jacket he still hadn’t changed out of. There hadn’t been time and it wasn’t as if Larys had brought a change of shirt for him. No matter. They were so concerned about his dragon and his title, let them be aware of it. His riding leathers were made of supple black leather with scalloped detailing along the shoulders and down his arms that looked like dragon scales. There was a shimmer in the leather when the light caught on it that gave the iridescent glimmer of gold from the gold thread stitching, and the buttons were gold as well, stamped with dragons. The lining was a fine, deep green and gold wool brocade, and the inside of the neck and his cuffs were a soft shearling lining. High in the sky, even his dragon blood could only do so much, and the garment would prove too warm soon enough. He was already tugging at the stamped buttons with his free hand, his other arm still clutched by Abby.

“Good morrow, my lords,” he called out with every ounce of mustered levity he could, leading Abby towards the vacant chairs on his mother’s right side. “Morning, Lord Hand,” he greeted his grandfather, who stood to Mother’s left, hand resting on the back of his chair. He leaned down to ghost a kiss upon his mother’s cheek, feeling her startle. “Mother, you look well rested.”

“Good morning, Aegon.” Mother’s dark brown eyes widened with surprise, an uncertain smile gracing her lovely face. “You were up early?”

“Nothing like beginning the day on dragonback and greeting Prince Daemon upon his arrival,” Aegon said, a brief, close lipped smile on his face before pulling out the chair to his left for Abby to sit in, and taking the seat immediately to his mother’s side. “It’s good that I returned as early as I did. Lord Elmo! It’s wonderful to see you again, as well as the other familiar faces here.” He grinned brightly at the assembly all while sick sloshed in his gut, the ribbon around his ribs tightening with the edges of panic. A servant poured him a goblet of weak wine.

Lord Elmo Tully was tall and deceptively broad, his coat a deep, dark blue with scarlet, four strand braids that looked like fishbones along his shoulders, red trim along his wrists. As he drew closer, Aegon noticed the buttons along the front of his coat were in the shape of fish, and the brocade pattern along the hem were also stamped in silver scale print. His face was tanner than when he saw him last; clearly a man who preferred riding horseback instead of a wheelhouse.

Handsome, to be certain, and Aegon wouldn’t forget that Tully had also sought Abby’s hand. Regardless of what Larys said, Aegon couldn’t fathom that he was not bothered by losing out on the chance for her. It was foolish to think otherwise. And Aegon didn’t think he could blame her had she picked Lord Elmo Tully over him. Seven hells, Aegon would have picked Elmo Tully had he been in her place.

“Likewise, your Grace.” His voice was low and smooth, water over river stones. While some of the others looked visibly surprised by Aegon’s entrance, other’s did not, and it appeared that Elmo Tully was unflappable as they came. “Although I know this conversation will be a complicated one. As I was stating to Lord Otto and her grace, vassals of mine have come forward with concerns over the past few months and I’m inclined to agree with them.”

His bright eyes cut away to look at Larys who was seated beside his grandfather. Aegon watched him settle comfortably in his chair.

“I must confess, I am confused as to why a contract that is not only approved by the crown, but by our Lord Paramount, Lord Grover Tully, is now suddenly drawn into question, and additionally, why my fellow lords are viewing myself in such a light.” Larys folded his hands on the table in front of him, a glance towards the Tower beside him. “I understand a certain amount of skepticism was raised by some, but as a beloved member of the queen’s household, my sweet sister-”

“There is no record of Lady Abrogail’s wardship under Queen Alicent,” Elmo Tully cut in, the room silent as his deep voice echoed across the large table. “House Tully had first right as your liege lord, Strong. Your father stated he was not interested in warding the girl.”

“Extenuating circumstances, Lord Elmo,” Otto Hightower did not raise his voice, but it carried to every part of the room. Aegon reached for his goblet and sipped from it to hide his confusion, wishing he had bread and some kind of meat to settle the alcohol in his gut from the night before. Larys hadn’t mentioned anything about Abby’s wardship during the carriage ride. Beside him, Abby was still, but her hand reached beneath the table to rest on his knee. It was purely comfort; for him or her, Aegon didn’t know, but he dropped his free hand down to tap two fingers against the back of hers in reassurance. “Lord Lyonel Strong was a member of the king’s Small Council, his wife, my niece, and the queen’s first cousin.”

“In addition,” Mother continued with a look of disapproval that he knew well and was grateful not to be under, “I had helped raise the girl since she was a babe. It was agreed between Lord Larys and myself that to remove her from my care would further upset her after all she had already endured. There was no reason to rip her from everything she knew.”

Aegon watched the eyes around the table swivel to look at Abby beside him and he turned their hands beneath the table so he could hold hers. Her fingers were cold and he gripped them tight.

“Abrogail had served as a companion to Princess Helaena since they were young girls,” Larys spoke, his words slow and deliberate. “The crown did not purchase her wardship before our father died, nor after, because I did not sell it.”

“Her ward price was nearly a thousand gold dragons!” Elmo snapped, his jaw ticking. “A portion of which would be paid to House Tully as your liege lord.”

“And the greater portion to House Targaryen, your liege lord,” Mother said sharply, the reprimand subtle but clear. “Are you upset, my lord, that your house lost income in this deal you’ve imagined having taken place?” Elmo’s nostrils flared. Mother frowned and waved to the servant closest to her. “It is early, and we have only just arrived. Please bring light refreshment. I think we could all use a bit of something to eat. I did not have time to properly break my fast this morning.”

Abby relaxed beside him and Aegon felt his stomach rumble as within moments plates were brought in and platters of freshly carved ham and steaming loaves of fresh bread were brought in. A sweet porridge with honey and molasses, morsels of dried fruit tucked inside, was set in front of them.

“You need to eat,” he murmured, spooning some of the porridge onto her plate along with a piece of ham. He helped himself to the crusty bread and slathered the red currant preserves across it, licking a bit from his thumb. He leaned over and whispered, “You are worth far more than a measly thousand dragons.” Abby scoffed but she picked up her spoon to take little bites.

Aegon looked to his mother who was helping herself to a piece of bread with delicate bites, and he realized that she had planned this. Larys had not spoken of Abby’s wardship, only of Aegon and Sunfyre being a threat. To get Tully on the defensive and make him look like his only issue with everything was due to money, not the perception that Aegon was here to cause trouble for him. Aegon looked at the other lords around the table, filing away his realization to think about later.

Elmo Tully’s face was no longer flushed with frustration. In King’s Landing, the man had been quiet, observant, but he’d also been with his father, who was the ruling lord. He leaned in conference with Lord Piper beside him, nodding quietly before straightening.

“Clearly there is much confusion that needs to be clarified for the peace of our vassals,” Elmo began again, his jaw no longer clenched and a slightly more relaxed curve to his shoulders. “Many have been under the ugly assumption that the laws of wardship were not followed. As we all know, the practice of warding our precious children is what helps keep the peace, strengthens ties, and ultimately serves our houses and the realm.”

“I completely agree with you, Lord Elmo,” Mother smiled her tight lipped smile that brought the youthful light back to her face. Elmo averted his eyes briefly and Aegon’s own narrowed a touch at the man’s reaction. “I can assure you, Lady Abrogail was never my official ward, although there are those who used the term for ease of explanation. She served as my daughter’s much loved companion, and I imparted the knowledge I had to her future role as a Lady just as I did when her mother was alive.” She let the silence hang with an expectant look.

Aegon noticed that neither his mother nor Elmo Tully offered any apology to one another.

“With that matter settled,” Otto said, wiping his fingers on a soft towel to be handed to the servant. “You made mention of several disturbing accusations towards the Crown that we felt were better discussed in casual conference behind closed doors than in the throne room in King’s Landing.”

“Several of my vassals expressed discomfort with Houses Bracken and Blackwood as well as House Tully being called before the Small Council. Additionally, this summons was then accompanied by the announcement that the king’s eldest son would be the next Lord of Harrenhal.” Elmo pushed his half empty plate to the side, the last bite of crusty bread abandoned. ‘A travesty,’ Aegon thought, and popped the last piece of his bread into his mouth. It was a little too big, his cheeks puffed slightly around it, but there was no choice but to commit. Now he was keeping up with the information Larys had given him. So not only did Elmo, who was pretending to be the acting Lord over his dying father, believe that Aegon was coming for his seat, but he also clearly believed that House Targaryen had what? Stolen Abby? Held her hostage to take her claim?

Aegon’s gaze flicked to his mother and grandfather briefly, but both their faces were impassive, schooled features impossible to tell what it was they were thinking.

“To be clear on the concern,” came the rasping voice of Lord Piper from Elmo’s right. The lord was older, thin as a reed, his graying brown hair curled around his ears and neck. “The Brackens and Blackwoods will tear each other apart any chance they get. It is an issue that myself and fellow houses are concerned about. We were fortunate that under his Grace, King Jaehaerys, peace had been brokered. With the wedding of Lord Bracken’s daughter to House Karstark and the discussions held in the capital, tensions appear to have eased. Some feel that this was the decision behind this marriage, and the presence of the crown in the Riverlands.”

The quiet after the statement was uncomfortable, and Aegon coughed as he swallowed his piece of bread. That also matched with what Abby had said Lythene Ryger had told her all those months ago. He ventured a look to his bride. Her face was pale except for the splotches of bright color in her cheeks, her rosebud mouth pursed with discomfort.

“Then allow me to gladly free you of these misconceptions, my lords,” Mother said, her chin tilted up and her gaze meeting each lord and lady in turn before finally landing on Elmo Tully. Her elbows rested on the arms of the ornate chair, hands folded loosely in front of her. She was utterly relaxed now and Aegon found himself mimicking the posture, even if he felt nervous and on edge. The food in his belly helped. He could feel Abby’s anxieties from her place beside him as keenly as if they were his own. She needed him to be calm. She needed his strength. His mother needed him to be reasonable. He could do this. “During Lord Lyonel’s time as Hand of the King, he and the king had discussed this betrothal. I had also discussed this betrothal with him on numerous occasions. Harrenhal had nothing to do with these conversations. Unless there’s the implication that he had a premonition of what was to happen here…”

The air rushed from his lungs, accompanied by a surprising sense of relief. Instinct compelled him to lift Abby’s hand and press a light kiss to her knuckles, holding her hand in both of his for a moment. She was finally starting to warm up and he looked to see her tension ease and finally relax back in her chair, if only a little.

Elmo Tully held Mother’s gaze for a long time, their eyes locked in some sort of silent conversation or contest, Aegon could not be sure.

“This idea that the crown would overstep themselves and park a dragon on your doorstep over squabbling houses is ludicrous, Lord Elmo,” his grandfather finally said. “We understand how the perception could have come about. Those who wish to sew discontent will always look for nooks and crannies to slither through.”

“No?” Elmo asked mildly, an arch of his brow as he propped his arms on his elbows, large hands folded in front of him. He wore no rings on his fingers, Aegon noticed. “Law states that through her marriage, Harrenhal will become Prince Aegon’s. He is not bringing lands to this marriage and instead, Lady Abrogail’s dowry is providing everything in this union. Seven protect her, should she pass without issue, Harrenhal becomes the prince’s… and then the lands will eventually pass to the crown.”

The implication was clear. Aegon was still the eldest son. Should Viserys change his mind on matters of succession and Aegon named King, then Harrenhal, its income and lands would pass from the Riverlands and become part of the Crownlands.

“The prince is bringing a dragon to the marriage,” his grandfather’s voice was equally mild, even amused.

“Should Prince Aegon pass without issue, Harrenhal will still be in the hands of my sister,” Larys spoke, reaching for his goblet. “It will not default to the crown, nor the prince’s next of kin. Abrogail will maintain her hold.”

“And what is to prevent the crown from simply marrying her to another one of the king’s sons?” Lord Mudd spoke this time. It was the conversation that his father hated and could only happen with him still abed. Aegon instinctively felt the prickle of anxiety and the shortness of breath that came when discussions that edged on the succession, as well as the terrible idea that Abby would just be given to Aemond or Daeron. Daeron was just a boy and the idea of Aemond and Abrogail in that way made Aegon’s blood boil, teeth aching to snap his jaw around his brother’s throat and rip it out. It didn’t matter if Aemond was betrothed, or if he didn’t covet Abby in the least. The mere thought of it incensed him.

She belonged to him, and to think her alone and vulnerable without him had Aegon threading his fingers through hers, the closest he could come to splitting open his ribs and trapping her inside where she’d be warm and protected, worth more than a thousand gold dragons or this castle or her inheritance.

Abby squeezed his hand with both of hers, thumb stroking along the back of his hand and he looked down at her. She was there, he was there. The tension eased only some.

“And should Lady Abrogail pass in childbirth without issue?” Posed Tully this time. Aegon thought he was going to be sick at the thought of it. The talk of all this death, hers and his, it hung over him like a specter, as if it were an unspoken wish. “Prince Aegon would hold ownership-”

“I do find it interesting how we are so quick to assume that I will die within a month of their marriage and not live a long life,” Larys cut in, a placid smile on his face. “It is only a deformed foot that I live with, not palpitations of the heart or fever or grayscale…” He trailed off with a wave of his hand. Tully and Lord Mudd both shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Beside him, Mother lifted her goblet and he could see the amusement on her face that she was trying to hide. Larys’ words were enough to cut through the tension and Aegon huffed out a snort. Abby giggled quietly beside him.

“Apologies, Lord Larys,” Elmo said. “But these are important discussions.”

“And the assumption that I myself would not have also thought of and worked out with the final negotiations?” Larys Strong shook his head, lips pursed. For a man who did not speak often, he had slid into the moment well. “I must say, the lack of faith you appear to have in me not only as a lord of a holding, but a member of the Small Council, and your direct vassal are fully on display and I am concerned that if these things were shared by Lord Grover, that it was never brought up during the prince’s celebrations.”

Once more, Aegon saw that Larys Strong had Elmo Tully on the back foot in front of several of the houses in attendance. There was no illusion to the privacy of this conference. Not from the servants in attendance, nor from the lords and ladies who would discuss this with others. He wondered if this was normal discussion between vassals and their lords. The mediation between Houses Bracken and Blackwood with House Tully in attendance had gone differently. His mother had defended House Tully when certain implications had come up. It was exhausting to watch and process, and Aegon felt like they were circling.

Elmo’s face hardened. “Lord Strong, you leave the running of Harrenhal to your castellian. You have not been in the Riverlands for any extended period of time since before your father took office as Master of Laws and later Hand of the King. I correspond more frequently with Ser Simon than I have with you until recently. What am I left to assume of you, my lord?”

“To be asked to serve the realm is the highest honor, Lord Elmo, and I do not regret my position, and neither did my father. Each raven sent to Harrenhal is reviewed and passed onto myself where my replies are sent directly to House Tully. I do not know the workings of the paramount house, and I am disinclined to assume anything, as it serves none. Your concern and those of my fellow vassals are noted, and our great queen and Lord Otto have been nothing but above board in our negotiations between the prince and my sister.” He inclined his head in the direction of Mother and grandfather, who returned the gesture. “Queen Alicent and her father work tirelessly with the king and any concerns that you have with his Grace's choices and decisions should be brought up directly with him.”

Silence filled the room once more and Aegon looked at Elmo Tully, stone faced and displeased at the failure of whatever outcome he’d been hoping for.

“Your concerns for Lady Abrogail are well intentioned, Lord Elmo,” Mother said. “And you do well to bring the concerns your vassals have to us, although I do wish we had discussed these sooner, and not on the eve of my son’s wedding.” The gentle rebuke was a statement of the obvious and she leaned back in her seat. “The assumptions made that the crown would engage in duplicitous behavior to undermine the sacred agreement between vassals and their liege lords will not be taken to heart and will be left at this table. I can also assure you, Lord Elmo, and your fellow lords, as well as Lord Tully, that the king and I thought long about this betrothal. The king had discussed this previously with Lord Strong and subsequently the new Lord Strong, and was happy to join our families. If there are further concerns, then when his Grace has recovered from the journey, we will be more than happy to discuss any lingering concerns. Are there?”

“Lord Mallister isn’t here because of Ironborn ships spotted near the Cape of Eagles.” It was Lord Ryger’s turn to speak up now. “They raided a few of the villages along the bay last year.”

“Then a dragon here in the Riverlands will be helpful,” Aegon declared with a grin. Not that he was happy about burned villages, but they were much further from his mind than this prime opening. “King’s Landing is but a few hours flight from here, so I would imagine the Cape of Eagles would be similar. It could be enough to scare them off.”

A murmur washed through the room, the tone much different than the distrustful gazes and whispers that held them only moments before. It didn’t matter if Elmo Tully and the other lords believed his mother and grandfather or not. Aegon had seen the opening to something that mattered far more: the safety and protection of these people. Flush with finding his way, Aegon stood, chair scraping across the flagstone, and tugged his riding leathers off. It was much too hot and sweat had started gathering along the nape of his neck. He rested a hand along the back of Abby’s chair, his body inclined towards hers.

“I understand your concerns, and I have listened to them in earnest. If you can be reassured of my commitment to your house, Lord Elmo, and to our fellow houses, then take this thusly. Our children will be of the Riverlands. I am as much invested in the safety and wellbeing and protection of these lands from the Ironborn and whomever else chooses to attempt to press advantage. I swear myself to this. And if there are still sore feelings over… whatever happened in the past in regards to wardship, then I would happily ward one of your sons, Lord Elmo. My younger brother, Daeron, would benefit from boys his own age, as he will be here squiring for my uncle, Ser Gwayne.” Aegon tilted his head, catching Tully’s gaze with a slight smile. “Ser Harwin spoke positively of his time squiring with you at Riverrun in his youth.”

“He did,” Abby said, her voice soft but steady. “And perhaps we can discuss in the future one of our sons fostering with you at Riverrun. My father always reassured me of the ease the partnership between our houses had, and we would like to continue that tradition. I may have grown up away from here, but the rivers run through my blood; Harrenhal is my home. Our people are my kin. The prince speaks truly. Our children will be raised with the customs and traditions of our home, and Aegon and Sunfyre will fiercely protect the sanctity of our realm.”

Many heads were nodding and Elmo’s gaze pinned Aegon in place and he met it without hesitation. Whatever his mother and grandfather plotted, it was beyond Aegon’s knowing. What he did know was that he needed to prove himself to Elmo Tully and the Riverlords, and finally start ripping these assumptions that he was some eager villain set to usurp everyone in his path. He tried to convey that in his look, his hand dropping from the back of Abby’s chair to her shoulder, fingers curling protectively over her slim shoulder. He didn’t want the throne. He didn’t want Tully’s seat. Aegon wanted a home.

Abby, and Harrenhal, were what he wanted.

Abby sat still as Sarra Frey wound spring flowers into her hair and Lythene knelt before her, tracing blue ink along her hands and bared arms. The gown she wore had slashed sleeves, a style she did not often wear without tighter sleeves beneath and the cool air spread goosebumps along her skin. Coupled with the ticklish tracing of the cold woad, she was doing her best not to shiver too much.

“You all have strange customs,” Rhea Royce said, crunching into a juicy, red apple, the juice running down her chin and she swiped it away with the back of her hand. “Won’t that paint turn her blue for days?”

“They make you visit the Bronze Kings for blessings at Runestone,” Cousin Cassana pointed out with a laugh, handing over fussy little Dyana to her mother, her elder sister Deirdre. “You know how those crypts are. I still feel like I’m being watched.”

“Besides,” Deirdre added, cooing at her daughter. “Woad doesn’t stain, and most certainly won’t stand up with all the wedding preparations.”

“Ah yes.” It was Wylla’s turn now, knocking her foot against Rhea’s knee as she leaned against a moss and ivy covered stump at the edge of the blanket. “We’re making an Abby stew of hot water and goat milk. What could survive? Lythene, do you think we could go ahead and paint her all over? Is that a custom here?”

Abby rolled her eyes with a smile as the women around her laughed at the joke. “I am sitting right here,” she pointed out in mock exasperation. “I like this. It lets me feel closer to my family.” Her cousins would remember if her mother had partaken in the riverland custom. She knew, of course, that Aunt Mya certainly had, as did great-grandmother Sabitha. Mayhaps her grandmother, Addison Lefford, did as well, although she was also technically a Westerlander. Abby had been overly worried that she wouldn’t get this, that the queen would overrule it in the name of legitimacy for Aegon.

She might have, until Elmo Tully and the other banners sat at the great table the day before to accuse dragons of coming to feast on fish.

Sarra’s fingers snagged on a knot and Abby hissed at the painful pull while the other girl immediately apologized. “Almost done,” she promised.

“I’m nervous,” Abby said while Lythene finished the swirl up near her shoulder. The green gown was not the traditional blue of a Riverlands bride, and it wasn’t anywhere near the style that usually was done, but it had made do in a pinch and Abby did her best to ignore the pang of inadequacy that kept threatening to surge up. It was a low, little thrum in the back of her mind, telling her that she was a false thing, that she had no claim to a heritage she’d been taught to be proud of, for she had not spent long summer days in the fields chasing lambs or taking oaths and prayers beneath the weirwoods and the seven in the family godswood.

It was said that the Harrenhal godswood was the largest in the realm - even bigger than Winterfell’s, which Abby had a difficult time believing. Wylla had no answers to it, since it had been some time since she had seen her cousin, the now Lord Cregan, but said that Harrenhal’s was very large. It was as if a whole forest had been encased in the castle walls. Abby thought it more than a little strange, since Harren the Black had no issue in chopping down every remaining weirwood grove for leagues to build the fortress, yet he left this one standing and even protected. Was his wife a maiden of the Riverlands? Had she managed to appeal to some sliver of better nature to protect this one tree from being sacrificed to Harren’s hunger? This tree that was witness to the fall of crimson leaves and bone bark, chopped and stripped and brutalized and splashed with blood of their people.

Wylla tugged on her hand and pulled her from the spiral of thoughts that clouded what was meant to be the happiest of times. “You. Get over here.”

“I am,” she grumbled and allowed Wylla to pull her along, gripping her skirts to make their way through the untended and overgrown path. A stream ran through the godswood and Abby let the sound of rushing water push away the shadowy haze that her thoughts had turned to more frequently since they’d arrived. What a sour and unhappy bride they must think she was. Wylla tucked their arms in together and she relaxed into it after all the time apart, finding comfort in her friend and her unwavering spirit beside her. The other girls laughed ahead of them, Rhea lingering on her own as she took in the sights and the crunch of her apple. Cassana, Deirdre, and little Dyana followed a bit behind, the sister’s catching up after their years apart. She was not alone even if the presence of what was lost lingered in every birdsong and every shadow of the towers. “Father would not wish me sad,” Abby confessed for Wylla’s ears alone. “But I cannot help it.”

“Of course you can’t,” she said reasonably. “But he would not want his absence to hinder your joy. You are happy, aren’t you? If you are not, I will deal with Aegon myself.”

“Are you simply looking for an excuse to do so?” Abby teased and Wylla had the grace to flush at being caught out.

“No, not… he’s been better.”

“He has. And I do like to see the both of you getting along, even if it’s about minding me like I can’t take care of myself.” She shook her head but there was a warmth of fondness at their apparent arrangement. Abby did not need minding; she was capable of looking after herself, but it warmed her to know that they were looking after her as well. “I am happy - to answer your question. I trust the gods to ensure that athair knows of my happiness, and mother sees it too.” Abby rubbed her thumb against Wylla’s black and silver sleeve to reassure her and herself, and found that her mood had lightened as they trooped their way through the woods.

“Here we are,” Deirdre announced, bringing the group to a stop. They had followed the steam through the forest for a good quarter of an hour, the path clear if overgrown. Here they came to a stop, not quite at the heart tree. Abby would make the final trek herself. Her elder cousin came to her side, a soft smile on her face and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Go, a leanbh, and speak with them.”

Her hands shook and Abby wiped her palms along the green wool of her gown. Wylla squeezed her arm with encouragement and they parted for her, letting Abby push through the last of the trees on her own.

Past the oaks and the evergreen, the bone white boughs of the great heart tree rose up. The stream widened here into a pool at the foot of the weirwood. Abby’s arms exploded into goosebumps and a hard shiver rolled down her spine, like the rushing of the water over the moss covered rocks before her. It was larger than the one in King’s landing, twisted and broad, reaching as high as it could towards the sun above. Her eyes searched for a way to approach, as she did not have any little raft to cross the waters. She remembered warnings as a child to be careful of the stream as there were spots that were far deeper than they appeared. Finally, she found the sliver of forest floor that reached the tree and she crossed it, another shiver coursing over her as if she stepped through some sort of threshold.

Before her, the tree stood, ancient and all knowing, holding the spirits of all who came before them. Abby noticed, being this close, that none of the other trees came near, as if they knew the weirwood needed room in this captive place.

You’re alone.

The thought struck Abby like a crossbow bolt between her ribs and she blinked past the tears that filled her eyes. The weirwood tree was alone here and it must be so foolish of her to feel such empathy for it but she couldn’t help it.

“I have returned,” she said, dropping her skirts and staring up at the angry face of the tree. “I have been gone for so long I do not know if I remember the song of the rivers, but I know that it’s called me all these years.”

There was no answer. Of course there wasn’t, but she waited all the same, meeting the hateful eyes of the visage before her. It was no surprise to her that the weirwood looked angry. It had watched slaughter and pain. Helpless, the both of them were when it came to the protection of their family, and Abby felt the heat surge through her chest, the anger she so rarely gave into burning brightly in this moment.

“I can’t bring them back, and I wish I could make them pay for what they’ve done,” she cried and closed the distance to stand closer to the face. So close now, she could see the fissures in the bark and so clearly the red staining of the sap. “I can only vow to you, on my life and my children, that we will protect these lands from fire and salt, from the cruel reach of our enemies.”

These were not the blessings asked from a blushing bride. Abby didn’t know what feeling possessed her. She only knew the certainty that the weirwood’s loneliness and her own could not be bidden. They shared this thread, this lonely thread, and she inhaled sharply. “You called me all these years, didn't you? You are why this place has always felt like home to me when I had no answer for it, isn’t it?”

The leaves whispered in the wind.

The stream continued to rush.

Abby continued to meet the angry gaze of the weirwood staring back at her.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was gone for so long.” Abby took a step, pulling her skirts up to make sure she didn’t trip climbing over the large, gnarled and moss covered roots of the tree. Tentatively, she reached a hand out as if touching the face’s cheek. She was meant to be saying prayers and asking for blessings like the Children of the Forest were above her in the boughs, listening and taking note.

This felt more right. She didn’t understand why but only knew that it felt like whatever had drawn her away from camp the other morning and towards the Red Wood. Abby wished she could put it to words. She wished that she understood all that was happening.

“Sióg bheag.”

She was speechless, her fingers curled against the trunk and her other hand gripping her gown. She could only hear the stream and the water. She couldn’t hear little Dyana’s babbles, or the laughter of Wylla. Abby shivered again. There were no dragon calls, she realized. There was nothing except the pool of water and the weirwood and them.

The man was tall. At least, Abby thought it was a man. He stood on the other side of the tree, the water of the pool lapping along knees covered by rough, dark green trousers, his tunic woven of leaves of dappled green and red, his arms bare and big like the strongman she’d seen fight the last feast day of the Warrior. It was the antlers that her gaze was ultimately drawn too. Antlers that looked like they were sprouting from his wiry red hair, bone white as weirwood boughs. His face was square and ruddy and worn, skin like leather, his beard long and hairy.

“Níl aon rud sa saol seo ach na crainn agus ní bheidh muid beo ach ar feadh tamaill bhig,” the man spoke, his voice rough as river stones, worn as if abused by smoke. His eyes were dark and his gaze impossible to tear away from. Abby frantically attempted to discern what he said. Trees? Life?

“I…” She swallowed and forced herself to breathe. She did know these words, even on a long forgotten level. “We will only be alive a short time… Pangur Bán… Pangur Bán….” Abby sang the last words uncertainly as the lullaby tugged at her deep memory. The words cracked from her, creaky from disuse as she sang. “An dorchadas a chasadh chun solais…”

Turn the darkness to light.

Silence fell and the weirwood’s leaves shuddered. Something tickled against her hair and cheek and Abby lifted her hand to pluck away one of the crimson leaves that had fallen.

“Duais tine gréine,” he said, tilting his head up to the sky. “Duais fola.” Prize? Sun prize? She didn’t not understand what sort of prize he meant by fola, a word she wasn’t familiar with.

“I don’t understand,” Abby confessed. Her voice trembled and she hated it. She hated that she was struggling with words spoken to her in the cradle. Words that were a part of her but long left unspoken and now rusty and creaky with disuse. “I want to understand.” She tilted her head, watching the way the antlers looked beneath the dappled light. “You’re from the Isle of Faces, aren’t you?”

He inclined his head slightly in what she could only assume was confirmation and she bowed her head in return. The Green Men were the protectors of the weirwoods, of the most ancient practices. Pilgrims seldom visited the Isle, but they did, many choosing to stay among the small community to pray, to protect the trees, to practice whatever vestiges of the magic that was left before the Children had vanished far away.

She tried to find the words and they came out pathetic to her ears. “I came for my wedding blessing. I didn't mean to disrupt your quiet.”

“A bride for Harrenhal.” The common tongue was so clear that Abby blinked, stunned into silence. “They leave quickly. Sickness. Water. Poison.”

Harwin’s mother had died from Winter fever and her own had died from a long illness. Larys and Cory’s mother had drowned. None that she knew of had been poisoned.

A bride with a broken neck. How tragic.

Abby’s knees buckled and she sat heavily down on the gnarled roots as the air was knocked from her. She tried to swallow and push the words out but her throat was closed and her eyes were hot. A shudder rocked her frame. She was so exhausted from her grief that Abby thought she should find it a relief that it would not be her grief to bear this time, but the idea of being parted from Aegon, from leaving him alone to the further machinations of his mother and grandfather, to whatever the realm chose. Would they think he had poisoned her? Would he be held up as the criminal by Elmo Tully?

To not wake up in his arms every morning? To not taste his kisses, to not feel his arms around her holding her together and trying to lend her strength?

It was a damning hell. It was not peace. It was not solace, it was agony.

“In four moons, you will be blessed.”

She blinked past the angry tears in her eyes. “What? But you just said-”

“In four moons, the gods will bless you.” He turned in dismissal and she pushed from the roots, crying out after him to ‘Wait!’ but he didn’t. What did this even mean? Was she going to die in four moons? Would the gods save her in four moons?

“Please! I don’t know!” She cried again, tears rolling down her cheeks. The Green Man mounted the bank and Abby drew back as she got a look at his legs. They weren’t human legs, they were like a deer’s: bent and furred.

Then, he was gone and Abby was alone.

Her and the weirwood tree.

Chapter Text

The examination was one that Abby had been dreading for weeks. The pitiful looks while the women whispered, “Lady Whent’s maidenhead was said to be torn during her examination and when she didn’t bleed in her bedding ceremony, her husband threw her from the tower!” or, “Lady Swann had no maidenhead and when she claimed it was her betrothed, he denied it and her father…” left her with such dread that she felt the constricting, sick feeling creeping upon her leading up to this.

There weren’t any further explanations as to who Lady Whent or Lady Swann were. Abby had gathered that what was most important were the terrible outcomes of not proving one had been chaste, virtuous, and untouched. By definition, Abby was none of these and she was torn. While she regretted nothing that she and Aegon had done, things she’d actively begged for, she felt the curl of shame that never quite went away. The phantom pain and heat from when the queen had slapped her for being wanton still lingered at the edges of her memory.

Her feet were propped on stools at the edge of the bed and Abby tried not to squirm, face flushed with embarrassment as it was each of the previous times Maester - now Grand Maester Orwyle - examined her. Queen Alicent sat by the fire with Helaena, Wylla and Sarra attending the maester with one of his assistants who was carefully taking notes both for whatever record and for marriage documents. At least it wasn’t with everyone surrounding her.

‘A better girl, a more virtuous girl, would have rebuffed his flirtations’, she thought, though the voice in her head didn’t sound like her own. ‘A girl who held the Faith close to her heart would not have sought such things outside the marriage bed’.

As often as women wanted to whisper horrifying stories of maidens who didn’t bleed, many others also giggled of what clandestine touches they’d gotten into with their own betrotheds. It wasn’t as if she’d been lying with any of the other men at court. She had been only with Aegon and there should be no shame in it, even if they hadn’t done the act itself yet.

Now if only she could stop feeling it at this moment, it would make this whole ordeal far easier.

“And you last bled…?” Orwyle asked in the sort of casual tone one talked of the weather.

“A fortnight. I was a week late but we were traveling.” He nodded in confirmation and the scratch of the quill against parchment filled the silence. Abby continued before he could ask. “Over the past few months I’ve either bled a little early or a little late. I felt more discomfort at the end of the year than I normally have.”

“She was on bedrest with tea,” Wylla said to the maester’s questioning look, prepared and at the ready for any explanation that needed providing. Abby wanted to hide her face against Wylla’s neck and let her deal with this for her. “That seemed to settle her just fine.”

“Good. My lady, have you had any unusual pain here?” He gently pressed along her lower belly. It was a question that she’d been regularly asked since she first bled. Her mother had difficulty conceiving and had been prone to pains. Orwyle had expressed steadfast concern over Abby’s own health

“While I was on bedrest,” she said softly, the cold trickle of trepidation curling through her gut. They’d been worse when she’d been younger but had lessened over time. Orwyle asked more specific questions and she answered each one while trying not to notice the way the queen’s head was tilted slightly in her direction, pausing over the letters in hand.

She knew that her maidenhead was gone. It had happened not long after Aegon’s tourney when he curled his fingers inside where she needed him, the digits streaked with red when he’d withdrawn them. Helaena had casually mentioned that her own was gone due to dragon riding the next morning unprompted. Wylla lost hers due to much beloved forays horseback riding back home at the Karhold.

But beneath the watchful eyes of Queen Alicent, the shame still lingered.

“I see no reason why you won’t be able to conceive a child.” He was dipping his hands into a waiting bowl;Orwyle espoused the benefits of clean hands and she was grateful for it. “You are young, healthy. I would like you to do your best to wait at least another year however.”

“She is eight and ten,” the queen said, voice strained in a way that Abby couldn’t recognize. “Older than I. Many mothers have been made younger than she.”

‘Queen Aemma had,’ Abby thought. ‘And then they said she died because of it.’ She was aware of what the queen meant, however. Rhaenyra had many children, all boys. Aegon had none.

“I understand, Your Grace, but with her mother’s history, I would feel better if she waited.” There was a hint of gentle reproach in his voice.

Abby stared up at the blue damask that made up the canopy of the bed. The silver designs upon the rich fabric were woven in flowers and what seemed like hearts. This was her mother’s bed. This was the bed she herself had been born in, her mother in labor for a full day and night after losing previous pregnancies. The conversation of the other’s in the room turned to rushing in her ears as she stroked her hands over her own flat belly. She wanted children. She wanted little babies with large, lilac eyes and crinkled eyed smiles. Pouty mouths and curls like clouds around their heads. Abby wanted Aegon’s children, she wanted their children, to give him a household full of joyful shouts and let him be the loving and devoted father that he had lacked. To let them make up for the disappointment his own childhood had been filled with.

She twitched when hands moved her skirts and her teeth sank into her lower lip.

“I promise to be quick,” Orwyle assured her in his kind voice. She didn’t nod, nor any sound, eyes fixated on the canopy and imagining her mother there, her face not conjured from memory but by the painting that was fixed in the gallery the floor below.

At least the maester had taken care to warm his hands before he touched her.

Abby looked up at the gallery around the front of the great hall. They called it the Hall of a Hundred Hearths even if the true number was closer to thirty. The cavernous space had been painstakingly rebuilt since King Jaehaerys had held his Great Council all those years ago. Instead of broken stone like the jagged teeth of a maw, the archways had been rebuilt with stone from the ruined tower and the old sept. Instead of bats and spectres, servants were hanging down banners of House Targaryen and House Strong, interspersed with the grey fields of House Hightower and the silver and scarlet of House Reyne. Minstrels lingered on either side behind the servants, plucking lutes and hurdy-gurdys, testing the throw of the sound.

A long exhale drew her gaze back to Aegon’s face, where he stood across from her, their hands entwined, his long, deep green doublet so dark to be nearly black and edged in black braid and a golden dragon embroidered across his chest. “Can we be done with this already so we can practice the bedding ceremony?” he complained. His voice was not loud but it carried and the Queen snapped a quick, “Aegon!” While her cousin, Martyn Reyne, snickered from his place to the side next to Aemond, who had been tasked with holding the cloak for the ceremony. While Aemond looked dutifully at attention, Abby knew him well enough to notice he was bored out of his mind. He nudged the snickering Daeron beside him, which only spurred on the younger boy’s giggles.

Lord Roland, the king’s Master of Ceremonies, sputtered at being interrupted, his thin face flushed. “My prince,” he said, and Abby raised an eyebrow at Aegon and t the tight control Lord Roland had on his final threads of patience, her own amusement barely held by her tightlipped smile. “The wedding ceremony will be witnessed by the realm at large and must be perfect.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed at the perceived slight to him and she squeezed their joined hands.

“What my prince means to say is that so few will actually be able to see what’s happening, let alone hear us.” Aegon turned his narrowed eyes to her but she continued on. She didn’t want to be here for another hour either, but his complaining wasn’t going to help matters. “They’ll all be far more interested in how entertaining the feast is.”

Lord Roland’s indignation eased with an exaggerated sniff and he flounced away, a peacock in garish gray and lemon yellow. With a dramatic flourish, the Master of Ceremonies gestured towards the dias beneath the decorative canopy. Behind the pair of thrones that had been brought from King's Landing, the royal banner proudly displayed: A tri-headed dragon in shimmering obsidian on a field of scarlet, declaring House Targaryen's current claim on the castle.

Is that what it looked like all those years ago when House Targaryen had last claimed this hall?

“Their graces will sit here, presiding over the ceremonies,” he continued. They were still fixed to the spot where they’d stand during the ceremony and Abby didn’t understand why they had to be there. It appeared that the pompous entertainer liked positioning his audience as if they were names on a board. Perhaps it made it easier for him to go on as he did without considering they were real people who desperately wanted to sit down. Abby had attended weddings before and she knew this had all gone on far longer than what the actual ceremony would be.

At least, that’s how it felt.

Aegon resumed rocking back and forth on his heels, puffing his cheeks and exhaling in boredom. Her gaze drifted to the others. The queen had approached Lord Roland with Uncle Simon, Lady Lysa her ever present shadow. Cousin Garrett was also there with more note-taking, her uncle cutting in at specific moments where Lord Roland drew breath to ask questions that she was beginning to suspect were designed to frustrate the man.

“I thought this place was supposed to be a ruin,” Martyn’s soft voice carried from where he was attempting to whisper to Aemond. She did her best to ignore it, instead looking back up at the diamond glass windows made from Westerland quarries that had been set into the newly rebuilt arches. They were not stained as the great window was at the front of the hall, but instead her house’s sigil was inset into the panes in frequent intervals.

Her father had attended the Citadel for a time, earning links in history and money, even ravenry, the black iron, copper, red and yellow gold links winking out between the numerous steel links that signified his mastery of the law. He’d told her that the decoration of the great hall reminded him of the Citadel, that his grandfather, Bywin, found master stonemasons and glassworkers to rebuild at least this place and try to salvage the ruin that they were granted after Princess Rhaena’s death. The Citadel had been good to them. Garret’s elder brother, Garsey, was a Maester, and their uncle, Petyr, was still travelling Essos in his old age, learning the mysteries of the world.

Would one of her sons follow in those same footsteps? Would her boy hunger for knowledge of the great unknown? Wish to become familiar with the law as her father had? Or history? Or discover something that had been long forgotten to time?

“A curse sent in Harren’s demise… Burning bright with flaming glow… this tale of woe read long ago…”

Abby looked up to the gallery, trying to find the source of the singing. It was the same voice she had heard on the day of their arrival, singing of dragons and fire. Servants leaned over the balustrade affixing the heraldry banners, the musicians moving up and down the gallery looking for the ideal spots for their placements, and a lone woman she didn’t recognize drifted amidst the bustle. Abby could not make out her facial features, but the fall of silver hair marked her as a Targaryen.

At first, she thought it was Princess Rhaenyra coming to observe the goings on, but her soon to be good-sister was more voluptuous, favoring rich, royal purple and Targaryen scarlett, her hair in luxurious braids. The woman Abby watched now was reed-thin and clad in a samite gown, a veil of black over her hair and a matching black wrap over her shoulders, drawing her further into shadow between the shafts of afternoon light.

“In the black of night the dragon did rise…”

The woman paused in her wandering, turning to look at her, and Abby’s mouth filled with the taste of ash and copper. The woman’s face—

A sharp tug on her hands had her lose her balance and with a small ‘oof’, she fell into Aegon’s arms.

“You were wandering again,” he told her, his voice the whisper of a breeze barely heard. Abby felt the heat rush into her cheeks, a sharp shock as the rest of her shivered. Martyn was busy flirting with Sarra Frey, who looked both amused and bewildered by it, and Daeron was watching the exchange with his own curious speculation. Amidst the group of ladies and companions, it was only Aemond and Wylla who were watching her closely, fixed points on either side pinpointed upon her like prey.

“I was caught up in the singing,” she said and did her best to ignore the confusion on his face. Instead, she stayed where she was, too hungry for the warmth of him to pull away, letting herself give in to his strong frame and the way his hands stroked over her arms, his fingers catching on the golden ties of her brown and cream patterned sleeves.

The rehearsal had finished not long after Abrogail’s eyes drifted and glazed, the sight of it curling fear through Aegon’s ribs. The look was similar to the one Helaena had when her mind went elsewhere, but that was expected from his sister; Helaena had always been that way. Abrogail was always present, though not in the calculating and predatory way his brother was. A rabbit among predators, seeking to be useful, seeking to avoid claws and teeth. Anxious and ever at the ready. She’d been off since their approach and it had made sense. This was her long-since-lived-in home and their wedding was approaching without her family, without her parents. Abrogail had not been so far from him since they were children and grief was the black mourning shroud she wore.

His father had ordered Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin’s deaths…

Three days.

Three days until the wedding. Three days until the waiting was done and he could be put out of his misery from the anticipation. Three days until he could lock them behind closed doors and let everyone get drunk and celebrate and Aegon could be done with it and not leave the bed. He meant it. Not that he minded the attention and he knew he was doing quite well considering the lack of snapping and yelling that had been conspicuously absent from Mother and The Tower.

Once they were gone, he wouldn’t have to put a show on for them, he wouldn’t have to strive any further. He could simply keep his attention on his wife and draw the smile back to her eyes, distract her and comfort her in the best ways he knew how. It would only be them and no one else and that was all he wanted.

Yet…

That wouldn’t happen for another three weeks. Not only was there the wedding, but the king and council would be holding court for those who normally could not make the trek all the way down to King’s Landing.

His father ordered the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong and Jace was, indeed, a bastard, as well as his two brothers.

Aegon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and suppressed a yell. Instead, there was the distant call of Sunfyre who rumbled in his chest, reassuring and warm and there where he needed him. Another call eventually followed, the warbling of Caraxes and the vague honking call of Syrax in turn. He gritted his teeth.

Three weeks, or maybe sooner, until Rhaenyra and her retinue departed. Sooner if she wanted to get away from the same things he longed to escape, longer if she wished to reassert her position as their sire’s favorite. He’d only seen his sister upon her arrival, the lot of them lined up as the carriages pulled in, Rhaenyra swathed in rich plum and crimson and black; shapely, with eyes like chips of amethyst, cutting into the meat of him. The whole spectacle left him frustrated and anxious with no outlet but to drink in his rooms, prevented from sneaking away into Abby’s with all the fuss of the women about her.

“Aegon?”

He pulled his hands through his hair and gripped the locks, gaze cutting to Daeron who lingered nervously at the end of the great bed, tracing a finger over the knotted weirwood. A dead bed of dead souls. Aegon did not pray to the old gods, but even he knew a bed of weirwood should be a bad sign. His previous night’s sleep in the thing had been plagued with strange dreams half remembered, including one where Lyonel Strong was standing over him with bloody eyes and the smell of burning flesh.

“Hm?” Aegon fumbled with the goblet, sending it rolling across the table and each attempt to grab it pushed it further until it rolled to the floor. Frustrated, he kicked it away with his foot and grabbed the other more carefully, pouring some of his favored arbor red into it.

“Is Abby alright?” Daeron asked, his brow furrowed and his dark eyes uncertain.

‘I don’t know,’ he thought, growling into his cup. He couldn’t fix it, he couldn’t see what was wrong, only that she was drifting away again and he was scrambling to pull her back. If he tied a ribbon around their wrists, would it keep her there? Would it prevent the memories, the melancholy, from gripping her as it had those years ago?

Aegon was the melancholy one, not her, not Abby who was gentle touches and sunlight in the gloom, and to see her like this, like how she’d been after the fire, terrified him beyond description.

“Are you worried for her?” he asked.

Daeron looked uncertain at first, chewing on his lower lip and looking at his hands before he nodded. Even as his uncertainty lingered on his face, his shoulders straightened and he met his eyes. “Uncle Gwayne says Abby will be my lady now that we’re here, like Lady Sam was in Oldtown, and that I should watch her and look after her for you, for a knight’s duty is to protect those who need it.” The boy grew more decisive as he spoke. Aegon was certain that the tenet had been drilled into him as much as the sword training had.

“Then you may go check on her and report back for me,” Aegon instructed with a gesture of his goblet towards the door. The lad grinned and nearly ran from the room, closing the great door behind him with more force than he intended, for there was a muffled, “Sorry!” that he could barely hear. He reached up to tug the laces of his shirt loose, the light linen untucked from his unlaced trousers and headed out onto the balcony. The scent of wisteria and roses assaulted him and Aegon reached up to run his fingers through the hanging purple blossoms before looking down upon the bustling courtyard below.

“So where am I staying?”

“Not here,” Aegon replied, gaze still fixed on the gardens below. The day was cool but the sky was bright and blindingly blue, cloudless, and filled with dragons. Below, figures too small to identify celebrated the start of the wedding festivities surrounded by bards, jesters, and enough food to feed an army. The wine and ale were flowing and wouldn’t stop for the rest of the week.

Martyn scoffed and leaned on the balustrade beside him, scratching at his long nose, dark, strawberry blonde hair falling across his forehead. “Then where?”

Aegon jerked his head. “One of the towers. That one,” he gestured vaguely to their left, “or the one my parents are staying in.”

“Don’t they call that one the Tower of Dread? You’d put me in the most dreadful place? Me?”

“I told Abby we could rename them if she wished.”

“But—”

Aegon’s gaze didn’t move but he did reach up to clasp Martyn’s shoulder and jerk him closer. Yes, the place was a ruin, full of ghosts and phantom fire if the stories were true. He thought of the spectre of his dead good-father. “Martyn, that’s all of Harrenhal, but this is my wife’s home. Careful how you speak of it.”

“Not your wife yet,” Martyn said, not as chagrined as Aegon wished and that drew his gaze. Ser Martyn Reyne, first cousin to Lady Abrogail Strong by way of her mother and his father, and Aegon’s own… however distant relation. Good brother to Ser Tyland, Martyn had come to court, a scant few years older than Aegon himself, when the Lannister had become Master of Ships and married Martyn’s elder sister. He’d gone back to Castamere the year before due to the ill health of Lord Rodrik’s wife and his sister, Elayna’s, own pregnancy. It was oddly sentimental, given Martyn’s general lack of any outwardly care for anything outside of a good ale and blonde with big tits.

Aegon had few friends and Martyn had proved to be a decent companion over the years, mucking about Flea Bottom together, and enjoyed when Aegon paid for rounds of drinks or got them access to the most private of rooms in the best brothels. “Look at you,” the young man continued, unperturbed. “I know Harrentown doesn’t have the most exciting offerings, but surely that’s going to change. We could go and christen each new whore, really make sure they’re up to- fuck!”

Aegon’s fingers dug into the soft meat of Martyn’s shoulder, the fine red fabric of his shirt wrinkling beneath the grip. Martyn may have a few inches on Aegon—most did—but Aegon was a dragon with a treasured hoard he would protect, and he would not take the insult or let anyone think they could.

“Martyn,” he said, his voice sharp when he met the other’s gaze. “You’ve been gone quite some time so allow me to catch you up since you missed my nameday and the announcement of my wedding. I’m marrying Abrogail Strong and I happen to be very much in love with her. She also happens to be close kin to you, thus, I expect you to be as invested in her wellbeing and safety as I am. You are one of my oldest friends, Ser Martyn, and I’m happy to have you as a guest in our home. Martyn?” He squeezed and the other man winced further.

“Yes?” Aegon raised an eyebrow and Martyn fumbled. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Aegon’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Fuck all the whores in Harrentown that you want, I don’t care, and I’ll make sure you’re given the honors you deserve, but things are changing and you’re not going to fuck it up for me, are you?”

“No, Your Grace.”

Aegon released him and headed back inside, letting Martyn stumble and find his footing behind him. He exhaled heavily through his nose, throwing back the rest of his wine and contemplating another when Daeron returned, scratching at his cheek in his uncertain way.

“Um… Aegon? They won’t let me in.”

Aegon looked bewildered. “They won’t?” Daeron shook his blonde head with a wordless confirmation and Aegon dragged his toes against the rich, dark blue patterned rug. “Huh. Did Wylla say anything?”

“No, it was one of the other girls who answered. Um, Lord… Royce’s daughter, I think? The new one.”

“The one with the big tits?” Martyn chimed in, his hands gesturing towards his own chest with a laugh. The laughter cut off abruptly into a yell as Aegon threw the goblet right at Martyn’s head, smacking him in the nose.

“I don’t want to see your fucking face until dinner,” he snapped. He didn’t particularly care what Martyn thought or who had big tits or who didn’t, but Aegon was not about to have Martyn talk about Abrogail’s comely ladies around him, lest someone decided to run off to whisper in her ear that Aegon was the one complimenting Rhea Royce’s impressive tits. Abby was welcome to initiate that conversation.

He was trying so hard to be good for her.

Aegon dropped to his knees at the foot of his bed and shoved the blankets off the chest to dig through for what he needed. His sire had said something about too many gifts to angry wives and while Abrogail wasn’t angry, she had shut herself away. And with her continued strange behavior, he needed to stop it immediately lest she go too far from him to reach. “Where the fuck is it?”

“Where’s what?” Daeron asked. Martyn had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and Aegon was only dimly aware of the door closing, presumably behind him since the muffled annoyance of a bloody nose was no longer heard.

“A box about this big,” Aegon gestured and the boy immediately began looking on the other side of the room. Everything had been unpacked from their arrival so it couldn’t have gotten far.

The longer it went without finding it, the more panicked Aegon started to feel until Daeron gave a triumphant shout, carefully brandishing the box that had been buried somewhere in the wardrobe. Aegon pressed a kiss to Daeron’s forehead and headed out down the connecting stairs of the joined balcony. He ran his fingers through the wisteria, plucking a strand of vibrant, purple blooms before heading down the stairs toward Abby’s rooms.

“Can’t you just say no?” He didn’t recognize the woman’s voice wafting through the open, leaded diamond glass window. He paused before it, tracing the colored glass of the window beside it, blues, greens, and reds laid in pretty, geometric patterns like a fan of peacock feathers.

“I can't say no.” It was Abby’s voice, high pitched and distressed. “She’s the queen. It doesn’t matter if it’s in my own home, she is our queen and my good-mother.”

“You know, I thought most other women were as awful as her,” the first voice said again, a little muffled now - they must have been eating. “But it turns out, my cousin is simply awful. You are all quite lovely.”

“Thank you, Rhea,” Abby said, identifying the unknown voice. Aegon grabbed the door handle only to find it locked.

How rude.

“Hey!” He rapped his knuckles against the decorative glass of the door, peering through the clear parts to squint inside. “Let me in!” He tried the door handle again. Why was it locked? Why was he being denied? Aegon rattled the door again until a mass of dark hair and pointed fox features appeared on the other side of the glass. “Wylla, let me in.”

“Your command, my lady?” Aegon frowned. That was unusually hostile. What had he done? They were talking about his mother, not him. The last he saw Abrogail, he’d left her at her door with a gentle kiss on her forehead and a stroke of her freckled cheeks. Only hours later he was being denied.

The door opened and instead of Wylla, it was Abby. Her copper curls were a halo around her face in the late afternoon light, the sun catching at the bits of gold in all the red. Little tendrils of hair framed her normally sweet face, but the expression she wore had his ears turning red. Like him, she was half dressed, the wide neck of her silk chemise falling off her shoulders and his gaze raked over her bare neck and the tender dips of her collarbones. Had her expression not been so upset, he would have tugged at the neckline to peer down to the sight of her breasts that he spent most of his time thinking about. Even with whatever perceived upset she had, he could not deny the need that surged in his belly at the impassioned sight of her, and he forced down the need that growled inside of him, demanding satiation.

“You look-”

She cut him off, closing the distance between them to poke her finger in the center of his chest. “I look like I’m trying to find the earthly reason why the queen just told me that Cassandra Baratheon would be joining us as a companion of mine when you promised she wouldn’t.”

“What?” Why was she speaking of Cassandra? “I told her when we made our agreement months ago.”

“You didn’t know?”

He should be offended by the assumption but the way that Abby’s anger flushed her features was an indulgence and one he was relieved to see compared to the half-vacant and distant look he last saw on her face. His response clearly robbed her of words and so Aegon tucked the wisteria bloom behind her ear and guided her backwards into her chamber with his hand cupping her neck, thumb stroking against her pulse. Wylla rolled her eyes at the pair of them and tugged Rhea and her half eaten apple with her.

“Come on, we’ve got to make sure everyone else is prepared for the feast.”

When the door shut, Abby shoved at his chest and he took a step back but his free hand remained resting against her neck. “Stop distracting me,” she complained. “I’m upset with you! You promised me Cassandra wouldn’t be here!”

“Well of course she’s here for the wedding,” he said slowly, trying to understand what he was missing. He tugged her back with his hold on her neck and his thumb stroked against her fluttering pulse. Aegon delighted in her shiver, the way he could see her nipples tighten beneath the delicate fabric. “Then she’s leaving-”

“She’s not,” Abby interrupted, breathless.”I just told you!” She swallowed and Aegon relished in seeing the war within her, caught between the ember of arousal he was stoking and what annoyance at his mother she was trying to push on him. Gods help him, this was frighteningly easy to see the effect he had on her, how easily he could sway her from being upset with him, especially when there was no need to be. He would make a good husband in knowing what she needed and how to get her out of her head and stop worrying about everything. “The queen said that Cassandra would be staying at Harrenhal after the wedding. I don’t want her to be my companion, I want her gone!”

“I want her gone as well. I promised you that she wouldn’t be here and I’ll speak to Mother about it, alright?”

He didn’t know what the matter was. Floris was engaged to Aemond so Lord Borros got his dragon and prince to soothe whatever imagined slights. What he knew of the man, he was inept at politics, but Cassandra was sly. He could not see Borros strong-arming his mother, but perhaps a manipulation from the man’s daughter… Well, at least there was Martyn to act as a shield should she attempt anything.

Abby’s hand came up and curled into the loose fabric against his shoulder, tugging his attention while she turned her head and nuzzled against his wrist. “It will be fine,” he reassured her.

He watched the anger in her eyes gutter out, not altogether gone, but pushed away for a moment. “Aren’t I the one supposed to tell you that?” she teased and Aegon shivered at the brush of her mouth against the thin skin of his wrist. Groaning softly, he forced her head back so she’d look at him and swept his tongue past her lips, drawing in whatever else she wanted to say. No more thoughts in her pretty head, no more shadows darkening the blue of her eyes or furrowing her brow. He tasted the familiar tang of arbor red on her mouth and he chuckled.

“Did you get into my wine?” he asked her, pausing in the kiss to look at her heavy eyes.

“There was no cider,” she shrugged, yelping softly as he nudged her to the bed. She automatically parted her thighs expectantly, leaning back on her hands. He exhaled and pressed the box he still held against his mouth. The short hem of her chemise had pulled up and he admired the scarlett garters around her stockings, golden letter As entwined with silver As. Their initials.

He hated to deny what her gaze was asking for, but he’d come with intent. “I’ve brought something else for you,” he said, only briefly palming his aching cock. Abby raised her eyebrows at him, eyes going to where he’d touched himself and reached for his waist.

“A surprise?” He let himself be pulled forward with a sly grin and tapped her nose with the edge of the box.

“Close your eyes and lift your hair,” he instructed her and she obeyed while Aegon opened the box and carefully pulled the necklace from the soft inside. Sunfyre had lost scales in a scuffle with Dreamfyre that night on the cliffs long ago and he’d gathered them, knowing what he wanted to do with them… sort of. He hadn’t been able to decide until he observed her wearing the heavy, citrine necklace at his nameday feast.

Aegon ran his thumb over the dragonscale choker, the back lined with soft, deep black velvet to protect the tender skin of her throat. Hanging from the center was a tear shaped ruby, so deeply red as to look like a drop of blood, that nestled in the hollow of her throat. He tied the ribbon just tight enough so it wouldn’t move, enough for her to truly feel it and then leaned back to admire the glitter of his mark upon her.

It was the irrefutable proof that she was his, the wife of a dragon, so beloved by him that none could challenge nor take her.

“There,” he murmured with pleasure and pulled her up. Abby’s eyes flew open and he took in the look of surprise and delight, the red flush spreading across her skin as he set her in front of her full length mirror, the silver surface polished to the perfect shine. His hands rubbed her shoulders and he leaned forward to brush his mouth against her cheek and met her gaze. “Do you like it, rabbit?”

Wordless, she nodded. Abrogail turned in his arms and pulled him into her, sealed her lips over his, plundered his mouth with her tongue and tugged at his shoulders, his arms, desperate for him. Aegon would not deny her, he hungered for her, the gaping maw in his chest that sought her and the comfort and warmth demanding to be filled, gathered her against him, pulled her soft body into his. She tasted of arbor red and of apple and cream. She tasted like his downfall and his resurrection, like he’d been dead and born anew just beneath her touch and with her taste.

They stumbled back into the chaise by the fire and she climbed onto his lap, pushing him back full of demanding. Aegon’s hands went beneath her chemise to grip her pert ass and rock her against his aching cock, swallowing her whimpers and he moaned her name. He tugged the fabric of her smallclothes aside and-

The door banged open and Wylla Karstark clapped, her new, heavy chain of keys hanging off her belt jangling in her wake as she’d taken to doing to announce her presence.

“Off!” she called out, clapping her hands. “Off of him, Abby, we’ve got to get you dressed.”

“I don’t want to,” Abby mumbled but they parted nonetheless, Aegon’s toes curling in pleasure even at being denied.

“Really, Wylla,” Lythene said from the door, but she sounded less exasperated and more that she was full of amused giggling at the spectacle. Abby pressed a kiss to his nose and he smiled at her.

“Do you feel better?”

She nodded with swollen lips and a pleased smile that pushed little dimples into her cheeks. “Yes, I do. Thank you, mo réalta gheal.” She continued to evade what the words meant but at that moment, he didn’t mind. Rhea appeared over Abby’s shoulder to bodily hoist her from him, earning protests from them both and guided Abby towards the wardrobe. Wylla returned, eyebrows raised and offered a hand to tug him up.

“All better?” she asked, worry in her low voice.

“So you aren’t mad at me?”

“Och!” she swatted at his arm and shoved him back towards the balcony. “You are vexing. Begone!”

“Ah, so that’s where she’s getting her annoyance with me from.” He laughed as Wylla made to throw a slipper at him and darted back out the door.

Kingspyre Tower held its own great hall on the ground level, bigger than the Queen’s Hall in King’s Landing and entirely too much space for what was only a gathering of the family. It was a large family, all told, between the Targaryens and Velaryons, the Strongs and the Reynes, the Hightowers and a handful of Florents. Even with all of them seated around the cleared floor for dancing, Aegon was certain that they could comfortably fit double the size. Three great fireplaces were roaring to warm the space and minstrels played from the gallery a story above them.

Greens and golds, scarlets and silver, it was a sea of colorful fish that rose to clap as they entered the room. Abrogail jerked in surprise at the wave of sound beside him, fingers spasming against his sleeve. Aegon’s own reaction was automatic. He waved and she followed the gesture, laughing nervously at the intimate attention of the gathering. Great-Uncle Hobert was closest, stepping forward immediately to clap him on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, my boy!” he called. The exuberance that Lord Ormund Hightower expelled was so unlike Lord Otto’s that it continued to take Aegon by surprise and he let himself grin in return, basking beneath the warm glow of congratulatory adulation.

“Our thanks, cousin,” he said as Ormund’s new wife, Lady Samantha Tarly, appeared at his elbow. She was Abrogail’s age, equally red of hair, but her own skin was dusky and her eyes large and vivid green. Aegon kept his eyes on her narrow, smiling face and not below where her golden necklace hung with a sapphire as large as the one in his brother’s eye.

“They’ll return to us for much gossip later, my love,” she told Ormund, the man giving Aegon’s shoulder a final squeeze before letting go. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you, Lady Samantha,” Abby said as the other pressed a kiss to her cheek before they were finally released. It was slow moving along the right side of the hall to where the servant was guiding them to their seats at the top table. Handshakes and kisses, everyone seeking to get in a word of well wishes and congratulations.

Finally, they reached the top table where the king sat, looking better now that he’d rested for a few days. He raised his glass and Aegon’s steps faltered for a moment as he came face to face with Rhaenyra who stood beside him, and with her, Daemon, who was looking at Ser Simon with an incredulous look as the shorter, elder man espoused the way the lamb for the night’s feast had been prepared.

“They stuff it full of cranberries, you see,” Aegon heard before his attention fixed upon the woman in front of him.

Before sickness had hollowed the king’s cheeks, Aegon always thought that Rhaenyra looked like him, but he could now see their similarity. He was closer to his elder sister than he’d been since… Well, Aegon couldn’t remember the last time he was so close. Even during her arrival, there had been distance between them, two orbiting suns competing for the strongest pull.

Always competing, even if he never wanted to in the first place.

Now, this close, he could see the shape of their nose, and while Rhaenyra’s face was plumper due to her recent pregnancy, it was still her. Still the woman he remembered all these years but now with the clarity he hadn’t before. He could see Jacaerys in her features. The nose and mouth were the same, as well as the purple of their eyes. Were those Aemma Arryn’s eyes? Were those his eyes?

‘Is this why Mother can’t stand to look at me? Because I look like Rhaenyra?’

The Realm’s Delight. It was an apt name, if only by how beautiful she was. Her silver hair was long, with four braids pulled away from her head, woven with black and scarlet ribbons strung with charms. They reminded him of Syrax’s horns. Her crown was a band of gold that looked like scales with rubies interspersed that matched her earrings. Her gown was black, the rich pattern only visible when one was close. Further away it glimmered like scales, and the elegant, gold braiding was studded with pointed obsidian chips.

Rhaenyra had come wrapped in the opulence of House Targaryen and armored in her own way, shoulders bared and neckline plunging, throat dripping in a heavy necklace of onyx and rubies and her light cape a fall of netted black.

“Rijnondi, Āegos.” Husky voiced, the clip of King’s Landing hadn’t faded since she’d departed, but the Valyrian accent was stronger than even Aemond’s. Her lavender eyes flickered to Abrogail, and she said in the common tongue, “And congratulations to you, Lady Abrogail.” The smile that crossed Rhaenyra’s face did not reach her eyes. Her lavender gaze was shuttered, on guard much like Aemond’s could be. Her fingers were held before her, delicately rolling one of the many rings she wore in what Aegon thought might be nerves at best and a play at coming off nervous at worst.

“Thank you, Princess,” Abby said, not soft spoken like she usually was. Her cheeks were flushed and her voice was a little loud. Endearing, to be sure, but also entertaining. “And thank you once more for coming to celebrate with us. It’s been so long since we’ve seen you. You’re looking well!” Her words rushed at the end, loud enough to draw the attention of Daemon.

“My brother tells me that you are being given the title of ‘princess’ upon your marriage,” he said, cutting over whatever Ser Simon was about to say next. His black doublet matched the design of Rhaenyra’s gown but was edged with red and black braid instead of the goldenrod that his wife wore. “I remarked at how unusual it was for such a title to be given, since that’s reserved for the heir and their family. Not even my late wife received such an honor and she was of Valyrian blood.” His face took on a thoughtful expression, mouth pursed and eyebrows raised. “Some fascinating negotiation on that front.”

“Prince Aegon is the king’s eldest son.” From the other side of the king’s chair came Otto Hightower, his graying beard neatly trimmed, his black doublet edged in green braid to match Mother’s gown. The golden hand that announced his office pinned his decorative cloak in place. “It is an honor he is entitled to.”

“Entitled?” Daemon’s voice was arched, his lips curling back in the same sort of smile Aegon had seen on his dragon’s face. He looked towards his sister, whose lavender eyes were on the play, fingers twisting her ring around. Perhaps it was not a play at nerves. Aegon glanced at the door the servants were going through, longing in his heart.

“Which do you think will become apoplectic first?” Abby asked in what he was certain she meant to be a teasing whisper in his ear, but wine and nerves had made it audible for the gathered group. Aegon’s eyes widened, a nervous and amused giggle escaping him as Rhaenyra’s own gaze flitted back to them, surprise and amusement on her features.

Ser Simon let out a hearty laugh, clapping Daemon with most familiarity on the shoulder. “Let us sit, eh? Now, while the cranberries offer such splendid tartness, it’s truly the persimmons that bring such spark to a roast boar…”

Aegon’s stomach growled at the thought of roast boar, but Rhaenyra did not move from where she was standing beside their father and in front of the chair that was meant to be his. It had been his for his birthday, the attention of the realm upon him in celebration, his father smiling at him with kind words. He was aware of the warm weight of his crown circling his brow; the hammered crown of gold with the seven dragons that was his. The crown that had once been Prince Aemon’s, then Prince Baelon’s, and then his sire’s before he became king.

It was his now and for tonight, for this time, so was that seat.

Rhaenyra had so much. She had titles, she had affection, she had every acknowledgement without fighting or scraping. Of course she assumed what was his for once was hers by rights, everything else was.

Aegon sighed through his nose, something that could be excused as a particularly loud exhale. He wanted the warmth and positive attention, even if only for a few moments, but was this even worth it? Sitting by their sire, threatening the tense peace for a chair he wouldn't want most of the time? With a nod to his elder sister, he motioned towards the seat at their father's side.

“Thank you for coming so far.” He gestured with a nod towards the chair they stood over. “You’ve been away at Dragonstone for so long, it must be good for the two of you to catch up. I believe I’ll engage with Ser Simon on the delicacy of the roast boar.” He felt the warmth of Abrogail beside him and took comfort in it.

‘I am my father’s true born son,’ came the sober thought, his eyes briefly flicking to where Jace was leaning down to speak with Lucerys, thinking about the way his shoulders shook as he sobbed in the gardens. ‘At least I have that.’

When Aegon looked at his sister again, her shoulders had slumped and it was then that he realized how tense she’d been since he approached. There was a curious look on her face, one of surprise and uncertainty, her eyes studying his own face as if words were written there, his thoughts on display. Aegon met her gaze unflinchingly. She didn’t know him, just like those Riverlords didn’t know him. Just like so many of those men who whispered about him didn’t know him.

“Sit down already.” The king’s rasp broke through the space between them. “Rhaenyra, you are a dear.” He reached out a hand to pat her arm. “There’s no harm in letting the lad sit here. It’s his wedding after all.”

Rhaenyra turned, mouth opening as she tried to grasp for some response, shaken from her thoughts by their sire’s words. “O-of course it is.”

The king chuckled again. “What good conversation I must have for the both of you to be bickering over the chair.” Aegon raised his eyebrows and found himself catching Rhaenyra’s eye at the strange statement. Did something pass between them? Some understanding or mutual confusion? Or had he imagined it? “Come, Aegon. Let us start this feast already.”

“I’m starving and Aunt Mya said that she had them prepare candied plums!” Abby pressed a kiss to his cheek as the servants pulled the chairs out for them, Rhaenyra taking her seat to Abby’s left and murmuring to Daemon as she did so.

“You need more than candied plums for however much you drank,” Aegon said, bending his head close to her.

“I did not drink that much,” she protested, her face turned so close to kiss but if he did, he wouldn’t stop and this was not the ideal audience for such a thing.

“You drank on an empty stomach which makes it that much. I should know—”

“---Because you drink more than a Braavosi sea lord?” The words were Aemond’s but the innocent tone was entirely her own. Blue eyes gazed at him from beneath her lashes, flashing with her annoyance. Aegon gave her a look and shifted to allow their goblets to be filled, a local wine by the winemakers in Harrentown. Claret drops splashed over the rim and ran down the silver, snaking over the swirls and whorls etched in for the rivers to the stems shaped like weirwood trunks, their leaves creeping up the bottom of the cup. Abby reached for hers and Aegon snagged it. “Aegon!”

“Not until the bread comes out,” he shrugged, sipping from her goblet for good measure and set it out of her reach.

She scowled and snatched his goblet instead of reaching over him like he’d hoped and he began to protest before he caught the gaze of his sister from around Abby’s head. He stilled, staring back at her and her inscrutable gaze before the tap of a goblet rang through the hall and his father was raising his hand for quiet.

"Tonight we gather in private celebration for the pending marriage of my son, Prince Aegon, and Lady Abrogail. House Strong has long served House Targaryen loyally and faithfully, and it is only right that now they are to be joined in marriage. Lord Lyonel was a steadfast Hand and a good man, would that he could have seen our children come together. Alas, something he did not have the opportunity to see." He raised his goblet ever so slightly higher as he looked towards the table where House Reyne sat. "An honor that Lady Celeste would have enjoyed for her daughter and her family as well. But there is no need to dwell on those no longer with us. Please, everyone, eat, and be merry. There is only more of this to enjoy in the coming days."

As the room clapped politely for his speech, Aegon exhaled with relief to the sounds of the musicians starting their songs, letting it wash over him. He reached beneath the table to rub his hand along Abby’s thigh, seeking out her twisting fingers and distracting her from where he knew her thoughts had gone. He felt the return squeeze, longing to strangle his sire for the moment in such dwelling over the dead and what he’d done for Rhaenyra, the thoughts of the truth beneath threatening to choke him.

Mercifully, the servants appeared with the first course. While the wedding feast would last for hours, this night would not shy away. Platters of pies stuffed with eggs and cheese, smelling of parsley and thyme, were set in front of them along with ones brimming with venison and dates and reasons, smelling of pepper and ginger. They were all small hand pies, and Aegon saw Daeron gleefully loading several onto his plate across the hall. There was a pottage of barley with raisins and berries and fresh loaves of bread still steaming slightly from the oven. Aegon immediately loaded several pies onto his plate even though there were more courses to come.

After sex, food and wine were welcome escapes and the only path he had in the moment.

The hall descended into merriment, plates being passed and laughter accompanying the merry tunes surrounding them like snowfall. The anxiety was palpable beneath it all, the subtly held breath that something would happen and hadn’t yet. Two pies down and Aegon had yet to see her eat and so he pushed one of the pies on her plate closer towards her. Abby swatted at his hand and he laughed.

“Are you going to vex me all evening, Aegon?” Abby asked before delicately biting into one of the meat pies.

“Are you going to challenge me all evening, Abrogail?” The wine was light and fruity on his tongue and he took a larger gulp, letting it warm pleasantly down his gullet.

Abby scoffed. “Clearly, I don’t challenge you enough.” He felt his lower belly tighten at her words and looked over at her, a quiet snort coming from the other side of her. Rhaenyra was looking at her plate though and not at them, so he was uncertain if the sound had come from her. His bride, however, did look at his sister, goblet paused in midair. “I am appreciative of you sitting beside me, Your Grace. You have saved me from my own sister ruining my appetite.”

Aegon choked on his bite of meat pie and this time he knew Rhaenyra had laughed. It was short, if a little awkward, clearly she was just as startled by the glib statement as he was coming from Abby. It reminded Aegon of Syrax.

She hummed and took a sip of her drink. “She is quite keen to insert her opinion constantly and I’m grateful that you do not appear to be the type.”

He looked at his plate, eyes wide at the exchange. Silent prayers were said and he was listening intently should Rhaenyra say something to upset her. Abby’s fire was often hidden and to have it come out now was both exhilarating and terrifying given the company.

“Lady Corynna and I were companions in our youth,” Rhaenyra said, voice low with curious amusement. “It does not surprise me to hear that she hasn’t changed. You’d think Johanna Lannister would have curbed that habit of hers.”

“I don’t think there is very much that can curb her habits.”

Silence fell once more and then the brush of warm lips against Aegon’s cheek startled him as he inhaled rose and red currant of Abby’s skin. “I love you,” she whispered against his cheek. “I’m still upset about Cassandra.”

His cheeks flushed deeper with arousal and his hand found her leg again. “It’s only the first course, hunītsos.”

The look she gave him was heated, annoyed, and vulnerable all together and it was everything in Aegon, the awareness that he had been forced into over these past few months, that kept him from indulging as he wanted. Instead, he reached up to rest his hand on the back of her neck, his fingers running against the golden scales that circled her throat and delighted in her shiver. She was new to this game and he’d make her work for it. The distraction it provided was welcome, softening the jagged edges of tension in his gut.

Plates were cleared and all were appropriately in awe of the large boar that took four servants to carry out, setting it upon its own table before the main table. It was a great beast, its skin deliciously darkened and tusks gilded with gold. The clapping and approving cries of the crowd nearly overtook the music from above.

“Five men to take it down,” Ser Simon’s voice came from the end of the table. “Two spearmen and three crossbow. Do you enjoy boar hunting, my Prince? The Red Wood has a healthy sounder we’ve cultivated since I was a lad. The cloves add such a depth of flavor-”

“Along with the cranberries?” came Daemon’s dry reply.

“And the currants!”

“And the currants,” Aegon whispered against Abby’s ear, sending her into a fit of giggles while a plate of fritters smelling of honey and elderflowers was set before them, a vegetable pottage of beans and dishes of several sort of sauces were set before them. Dishes stacked high with lace thin crepes were also set down to wrap the pork in should one so choose.

The servants brought platters of the fresh sliced meat, bits of cranberries and currants, chunks of persimmons and juicy chunks of pork fat glistening across the pieces. It was set before Abby and Aegon and his fork immediately reached to stab a piece only to knock into Rhaenyra who had leaned over at the same time for the same piece of meat.

Their eyes met, Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed with surprise, her own cheeks a little flushed from either drink or who knew what else. Maybe Daemon was toying with her beneath the table as well.

“Don’t mind me,” came Abby’s soft sigh, her loosened tongue spilling out what Aegon was sure were meant to be her own thoughts. “I’ll just sit here and wait.”

“Please,” Aegon broke the stalemate first, removing his fork and gesturing. “You first, you are the elder.” It was not meant to be any sort of barb or biting remark, only off-handed, but as soon as the words left him, Aegon tensed, two dogs over the last bone.

Finally, Rhaenyra’s lip curled in a smirk that reminded him so strongly of Aemond that the resemblance unnerved him. She stabbed a piece of the succulent pork and deposited it on Abby’s plate. “For you, sweet sister.” Rhaenyra helped herself and Aegon took his piece, the feeling enveloping him strange and uncertain. The flash of Jace sobbing beside him the other night flashed once more across his memory, the position that his mother had put him in.

His sister was a strange collection of memories, many of them colored by the ugliness in Driftmark’s great hall and her turning her back on them, for demanding Aemond’s torture, for twisting something so horrible to some personal attack to her.

Then what their father did…

Did Rhaenyra know? Did she know it was actions done for her sake that had Abby sitting here fatherless while the king made overtures of how unfortunate it was that Lord Lyonel was not here to celebrate his daughter’s marriage? Was that why she was being kind to her? Was it guilt? As he dumped cuts of pork onto his plate, Rhaenyra had stolen the plum sauce and he sullenly contented himself with the lighter, strawberry sauce that Abby was using.

Even with the moments of darkness snaking through his thoughts, the occasional holding of his breath when someone shouted through the room, bracing himself for something to break out, the rest of the feast passed without expected calamity. Looking down the table to where Heleana once more stuck between Aemond and Jace revealed resignation on his brother’s part, Jace’s frown rarely leaving his face.

The course passed in relative ease, Abby relaxing beside him with another goblet of wine nearly finished, her cheeks flushed with it and her hand occasionally sliding up his thigh beneath the table. Bowls of water and linens were brought out after the meat was cleared to wash their hands and the sweet confections appeared as the minstrels struck up merrier tunes for people to dance and mingle too, their bellies full of good food. Custard tarts, sunny yellow with saffron and smelling of ginger and piled with juicy berries, tarts filled with apples and figs and smelling of cloves and cinnamon, and of course, little almond comfits and marchpane dragons, one which Abby promptly bit the head off, pale sugar coating her mouth so enticingly he had to steal a kiss.

Aegon licked his mouth when they parted, his tongue caressing her mouth and her flush matched her hair. “Did you want to dance?” The floor between the ring of tables already sported some of the family, Lord Corlys spinning a smiling Princess Rhaenys and Martyn being pulled against his will by one of the Florent girls.

“Maybe in a little while,” she murmured, and he was relieved that she lacked the melancholy cloud that had settled over her since their arrival. The diamond tear drops that hung from her tiara tinkled as she rested her head on his shoulder and Aegon slid an arm around her shoulders, twirling a copper curl around his finger. Rhaenyra made a quiet excuse and headed towards the Velaryon table where the twins sat with Luke, curiously bypassing Jace. Daemon remained speaking with Ser Simon, or perhaps held hostage by the old man, but curiously had not appeared to escape quite yet.

Aegon’s eyes were heavily lidded with contentment, even stuck sitting next to his father who had said little to him over the course of the feast, and so it took a moment for him to notice the whispers beneath the fresh tune the minstrels played.

Helaena had gone on the dance floor, her silver hair contained in a net studded with sapphires, an overdress of Targaryen black with beautiful, floral embroidery in bright blue, the sleeves and skirt opened to reveal the matching blue undergown. His younger sister looked strange in black, so rare it was on her. She reminded him of one of the birds she once had. The feathers had been so dark they looked black, but when the wings flapped and the sun caught, they shimmered in so many jewel tones.

The murmuring was not about Helaena.

Jace had followed her onto the floor, his tunic a rich, black velvet with the three headed dragon embroidered upon his chest. The red cape clasped to one shoulder swished behind him and Aegon thought it excessive, poncy, and he was more than a little envious. Perhaps he needed to add a cape to his wardrobe. His face was flushed, his eyes darting around nervously, and Aegon saw his mouth move in some quiet hiss to Helaena but she ignored him.

No one else ignored Jace. No one else was ignoring the dark curls around Jace’s face. Aegon looked down the table towards Larys, but the man had vanished when Aegon wasn’t looking. Instead, Ser Simon and Daemon were looking towards the dance floor, his uncle’s face inscrutable, Ser Simon looking concerned. House Strong’s looks were blatant from the table they shared with the Velaryons. Lord Corlys’ brother, Vaemond, was scowling into his goblet. Rhaenyra stood behind Luke’s chair where he sat next to Rhaena, her hand gripping the wood as she paused in her conversation with her son to look at the pair now dancing.

Cold slithered down Aegon’s spine and he ran his tongue over his teeth behind his lips. He tilted his head back to look to where his mother sat to the king’s right, finding Larys behind her murmuring in his mother’s ear, his grandfather absent from his chair.

It wasn’t Jace’s fault.

Aegon thought of the time he met Alyn’s brother, Addam, and the lilac eyes that stared back at him.

It wasn’t their fault either.

It wasn’t Aegon’s fault. Sometimes, it wasn’t even Rhaenyra’s fault, or his mother’s fault.

“Come on,” Aegon murmured, tugging Abby out of her chair and pulling her behind him. He really needed a cape too, but for now, it was fine. For now, the gold crown shone around his head, the diamonds tinkled and shimmered through Abby’s curls. This was their night and everyone should be paying attention to them.

Chapter Text

Abby had checked on the security of the mounted braziers around her rooms three times. She had shifted the protective grate in front of the fireplace double that, ensuring the rug was out of reach, that no linens were hanging too close to any sources of fire. She lay in bed, alone in the quiet with the curtains closed, open, half closed, and still she could not find sleep.

Rising once again, she peered out through the diamond glass windows to the gardens, observing the flickering light from the torches that bordered the meandering trails. Abby had seen Lord Tyland and her cousin, Elayna, slipping away after supper, flushed with drink and their arms wrapped around one another into the gardens. Aegon’s company eluded her, despite her longing for escape. There was always someone lurking, watching. As if their play would result in her walking down the aisle in two days with a swollen belly.

It didn't matter. She’d asked to be alone that night, gently pushing Wylla from the bed. The elder girl had cocked her head, reaching down to stroke the stray curls from Abby’s face before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Are you sure?” Wylla had asked her softly as Abby curled in on herself in the bed. “I know I’m not who you need right now,none of us are, mo chara ghràdh, but I would not leave you alone in your head.” Abby had giggled softly amidst her strange aching. It had been interesting the past few days, learning the minor differences between the northern tongue and the riverlands. Both were so deeply similar, yet certain words were different. It helped ease some of the ache, but Wylla had been right. None of them were who she needed.

It was the peace she would have to make.

The scrape and clink of the lock drew her attention to the door and Abby shifted on the window seat to watch Aegon slip in. Abby did not run to him, curled up as she was, but she did give him a wan smile after he’d locked the door behind him.

“Were you waiting for the coast to be clear?” she asked him, pulling her legs further up against her chest and burrowing deeper into her nightgown. She should have retrieved her dressing gown for the extra warmth, but could not bring herself to do so.

“Your northern guard came and got me,” Aegon said as he approached, taking his own robe off and wrapping it around her snugly before he sat on the bench beside her. His blood ran hot, skin always warm, so she’d found it surprising he’d worn a robe to come see her. Modesty, perhaps? That also seemed strange for him. Regardless, Abby hummed and snuggled into the warm velvet, and Aegon reached out to lift her feet into his lap, wrapping his hands around them. It almost hurt at first to feel how hot his skin was against how cold her toes were and she wiggled them. “Pity I missed the pair of you in bed together.”

“That is our private time,” Abby said primly. “No boys allowed. And thank you for addressing her as my guard.” Aegon’s nicknames had been unkind, and she’d made sure to put a stop to it, just as she prodded at Wylla for her own contributions to the sniping. She would not have the two of them poking each other too harshly, and even when it made her feel uncertain and babied, she appreciated their getting along since coming to Harrenhal.

Aegon’s teeth flashed in the streak of moonlight coming through the window as he grinned at her, fingers working into the balls of her feet that made her toes spread out and a shiver course up her spine. “Do you like that?”

“Mmmm, yes, don’t stop.” She flexed and stretched her legs out further so he could more easily tend her. Abby leaned her head back, fingers playing with the end of the coil of hair over her shoulder, eyes looking up at the cloudless sky littered with stars. Tomorrow, the festivities began. Fireworks from Dorne and candlelit barges along the lake, dancing and music would be held in the gardens and in the yard surrounded by the melted towers of Harrenhal. Firefly-like lanterns would adorn the space. The Riverlands and the realm had all come together to celebrate their wedding.

To wait and see what upheaval the crown would announce.

Hands left her feet and grabbed her arms. Abby yelped as Aegon hauled her into his lap, maneuvering her around so her back was against his chest, and his feet propped up so she sat along his legs. She wriggled in protest, but Aegon’s arms tightened around her and his lips brushed along her ear, teeth nipping softly.

“You were going far away,” he told her, as if scolding her. “I had to catch you.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed, knowing he was right.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the ache pulsing in her chest constricting her words. “I did not mean to.” Tendrils of things she could not see had hooked around her limbs since she came back to the riverlands, tugging her like the song she swore she heard on the whistling wind through the cracks of the castle. Aegon always had the knack for pulling her back to the moment when her thoughts whirled so quickly she was a feather on the breeze. Now, it seemed, she needed to hold his hand lest she vanish into the forest like she nearly had the day of their arrival, the morning mist clinging to the edges of her skirts, the song and the whispers drawing her away and deep into something that tickled in the corners of her mind.

Aegon’s warm fingers cradled her jaw, and he tilted her face so their eyes could meet. The lilac of his gaze was a thin rim, pupils blown in the dim room, a pensive look on his face seeming more intense as the shadows highlighted the cut of his jaw and his cheekbones, deceptively soft in the light of day. His touch did not hurt, but it was firm. If she wanted to pull out of it, Abby knew that she could. Instead, she melted further into him, meeting his gaze.

“Do… do not go far from me, Abrogail,” he whispered, only barely audible in their proximity. He tightened the arm he had banded around her, and Abby wanted to break open his ribs and crawl inside to reassure him, greedily claiming the warmth and possession of the man who held her—the one who was still so lost, still such a boy in so many ways. Abby reached up a little awkwardly to cup his cheek in her cold hand, thumb stroking along his lightly freckled skin, drinking in the warmth of his touch, the love in his gaze.

“I will not go far from you,” she swore, a vow meant for blood. “I will not, I swear.”

The kiss was anything but chaste and innocent, as they’d been forced to satisfy themselves with beneath the many watchful eyes. Aegon licked his way deep inside, claiming her, reminding her of his taste and his touch. She trembled against him and her fingers dove deeper into his silver curls while she shifted in his lap to better take him. There was nothing in her head but the taste and feel of him, the way his hand moved from cradling her jaw to cupping her throat, his thumb pressing gently along her hammering pulse. Her free hand pressed against his shoulder to shove him back against the pillows so he would stay still, but there was no illusion who drove the kiss. She could feel the arousal tug deep in her belly with each stroke of his tongue, the pressure along her pulse from his hand. When they broke apart, she pressed her forehead against his, the pair of them gulping each other’s exhales and their lips brushing, unable to stop.

She tried to find words, say his name, but could not. Aegon let out a small whine beneath her. Abby gave him a gentle, suckling kiss to soothe him, and his hips rolled up into hers. He whimpered into her mouth as she ground down, taking in her own mewling reply before he broke them apart, pushing her away slightly.

They were both breathing hard, Aegon’s fair skin flushed, his mouth swollen red. His gaze raked over her face and his large, hot hands cupped her cheeks, thumbs stroking against her skin, against the corner of her mouth. She nipped at the pad of his thumb with a little growl, rolling her hips against him as a lazy smirk bloomed across his face and his eyes fluttered at the pressure of her against where he’d grown hard.

For her. Only for her.

He would be her husband and share her bed. It would be her that he swore vows in front of the realm and to the gods. Not Cassandra Baratheon or some exotic Essosi bride or a fair-haired Lannister or a Redwyne with a fleet to challenge the Sea Snake.

He was her Aegon, who whimpered beneath her mouth and hungered for her, who begged for her to not leave him, who she was certain would tie and bind them together just as desperately as she wanted to and the need only grew. She was not a dragon. Fire did not course in her blood. She was his rabbit, she liked being his rabbit, but she was a lion too and she had claws that she didn’t quite know how to use, but she would, just as fiercely as any dragon.

“You’re mine,” she snarled, the anger and hurt that Cassandra had burned inside her flaring. Was it a snarl that escaped her? She didn’t know. Her blood was a pounding drumbeat pulsing in her neck, in her ears. Abby watched the way his eyes widened, the slow smirk turning darker, delight and curiosity, and shades she couldn’t recognize but felt a tug deep and low in her belly. “This is my castle, and you will be my husband.”

Had she ever let herself do this? The hungry way he looked at her told her that she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. Abby kept it locked away, always giving and never taking. She wanted to take. She deserved to take after giving everything, didn’t she?

Aegon pulled at the rich robe he’d wrapped her in, harsh and impatient tugs while she turned and wriggled in his lap, turning her way out of the robe and the brocade falling to the floor. She straddled his lap and her knees pressed into the soft, red velvet cushions on either side of him, the soft fabric of her nightgown hiked up along her thighs with the angle. Abby pushed the hair from his brow, teeth caught on her lip as his gaze raked over her, his eyes dark with the heat that reflected her own. Aegon toyed with the coil of copper hair over her shoulder, pulling soft whimpers from her with each tug.

There was so much left. So much that had not been touched that she dared not crack open. She wanted to trust him, and part of her did, but it had been buried so deep for so long that Abby didn’t know if anyone could be trusted to unearth what she'd hidden away.

He nipped at her mouth, hard enough that it might have hurt had it not sent a flood of heat between her thighs, or drawn a whimper from her, his name dragged out on her broken voice. Aegon’s hands dropped to her knees and tucked beneath the embroidered hem of her linen nightgown, shoving it up to bare her thighs. His hands were burning on her cold skin and she relished in it.

“Come here,” she commanded in a trembling whisper with her mouth against his so not even the ghosts could hear her. Only Aegon. Only for him. “Fill me up.”

‘Break me open and come inside.’

Arousal was sticky and hot in her veins, coursing thick and making her languid, making her shiver. Refusing to be denied, Abby dove into the heat of his mouth as his fingers found the damp heat of her cunt and stroked her experimentally. Her knees buckled and Aegon swallowed her delighted gasp, the pair of them trembling, her with relief and anticipation both.

Give me this, please, oh please.

As if she spoke aloud, Aegon didn’t hesitate. He didn’t tease her before sinking two fingers inside. She cried out, loud and bright and without restraint, rising up on her knees and her hips rocking into his touch. The stretch was warm, only a slight discomfort at the initial intrusion. With the broken kiss, Aegon’s mouth found her cheek and jaw, teeth and lips nipping and grazing, suckling kisses along her skin and sending blooms of heat beneath each affection.

The neckline of her nightgown was untied at some point and fell down to gather around her waist and the tops of her thighs. His teeth caught on her breast, biting with more purpose than his suckling kisses that left blossoms of red in his wake. She cried out, fingers tangled in his hair and pulling, desperate for all of him. The sound of his fingers inside of her was nearly as loud as her cries and she rose on her knees to give his hand more space. Abby’s head fell back and her eyes looked out the window and the way she could see the moon just past the dripping wisteria that he’d brought from Rhaenys’ garden and the slight ripple of their own reflections between the colored glass rivers that decorated the paned glass.

His fingers twisted against that spot inside of her that he taught her how to find and Abby’s vision went hazy, knees buckling and nails clawing at his shoulder when she gripped him for purchase. Words were lost, Aegon’s mouth noisily suckling her breasts and the ridges of her collarbones and her cries joining the sounds of her soaking cunt its own song in the chamber.

A loud half squeal, half cry tore from her when Aegon leaned up to drag his teeth against her pulse and her hips lost their rhythm, stuttering and losing the easy roll that she’d developed as the pressure inside of her increased, a bow drawn taught. His thumb swiped against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs and between the pressure inside and out, Abby came with a loud cry, heedless of who heard, a gush of wetness soaking his arm and both their laps, her hands clawing and pulling at him, his mouth sealed along the soft curve of her jaw, teeth holding her in place.

“There you go,” Aegon whispered into her skin where her pulse rushed, drawing her into him as her trembling thighs could no longer hold her up. There was the touch of teeth again, the sound of his mouth kissing against her skin. His other hand came up to push the tendrils of hair that clung to her sweaty temples, her cheeks and the corners of her mouth. She nosed into his hair and felt the pounding of his heart echoing into her chest where her breasts crushed against him, aching nipples scratching against the linen of his own shirt.

He lifted his slick hand, sucking a finger into his mouth before holding his hand up to her. Abby swallowed his middle and ring finger down, greedily tasting herself as he grinned at her before leaning down to lick some of her slick that had coursed down his arm. The obscenity of it should have shocked her to stillness, but instead, it only spurred her own, rubbing herself against him like a cat in heat. She needed more as she sucked on his fingers before he drew them away with a pop.

“You’re so beautiful when you fall.” Abby’s gaze caught his; fire and such a possessive want that had the arousal heating even as her body struggled to come down.

“Come with me,” she begged, or maybe she was ordering him, her shaking fingers pushing the hair from his face and tilting his head back a little more. Aegon laughed, low and vibrating through her. She smiled in return, the giddiness rushing through the arousal and began pulling at his shirt, chanting, “Off, off! Get this off!” as they both laughed, tangled and twisting from the clothing.

The pair of them tossed aside the flimsy material. Abby immediately leaned down to run her mouth and teeth along his shoulder, shifting awkwardly while Aegon worked her own gown over her legs to lay discarded along with his.

“I’m sick of waiting,” Aegon said, leaning her back just a bit and capturing her mouth, tongue stroking against hers, licking at the soft insides of her mouth. She whined, and he whimpered when she wrapped her hand around his cock, the flared head slick with moisture that she used to aid her movements.

She shifted on her knees to take him, but a loud slap! and the accompanying sting and startled cry gave her pause. “What was that for?” she hissed, pouting and confused. “You said-”

“Let me,” Aegon commanded, his voice low. Abby felt a deep pulse between her thighs as the tone of his words ignited sparks through her veins. She struggled against his manhandling, only enough to hear him growl and smack his hand across her bottom again.

Aegon shifted on the window seat, spreading his legs a little more and adjusting her before he lifted his damp hand to spit in his palm. He held it up to her. “Go on, help me,” he said, his lilac gaze nearly blown completely black. Abby nodded and spat in his hand, watching curiously as her spit mingled with his. She giggled when he nipped her mouth sharply, tugging at her lower lip hard enough for her to feel it when he let go. Abby gripped his shoulders to steady herself as she rose on her knees and looked down, their heads touching as they both watched him wrap a hand firmly around himself.

Abby stared and audibly whined while watching him stroke his cockhead through her slick folds, his other hand on her hip to keep her from moving too much. The tip of him nestled in, familiar and warm as he gently pressed inside. He’d pressed only the tip inside her, dragging against her, teasing the pair of them over the past months, and she was so tired of waiting.

If he put a babe in her belly now, it would be seen as a fortunate sign from the gods; a wedding night blessing of their union.

She wriggled in his hold and Aegon groaned, his fingers spasming on her hip. “Easy now,” he instructed, their gazes fixated on where he was slowly sliding into her. Abby lowered herself down, the stretch of him increasing, the pressure and discomfort something she was aware of beneath the desire and the all-consuming want of him.

She soon discovered it wasn’t easy. Abby could not drop down, nothing so simple as when she would drag her needy cunt over him to content herself with the shape of him pressing against her. She tried to sink down a few inches and found that her progress had stopped. Slowly, Aegon helped her rise back up and she lowered herself again, lip caught between her teeth in concentration. Gods help her. He felt so good, but the stretch was more than she expected. There was a sting, a burn as she tried to take him that she had not anticipated. It was sharp, like the feeling of slicing one’s finger on parchment, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek at the new discomfort. Once more she rose and once more she sunk down, taking him in bit by bit.

“I-I can’t… I want.. Why won’t it…” She gulped for air. The arousal was still sticky hot in the depths of her belly, in the crooks of her elbows and where the sweat gathered behind her knees, but her frustration was growing, the subtle pain growing with it as she felt her body tense with the newfound limits of her body. Abby looked at him helplessly. His flushed face was contorted in pleasure and heat, gaze fixed on where they were joined before he met her eyes.

Aegon leaned in to lick into her mouth, stroking against her tongue like how his fingers stroked inside her. “Breathe,” he told her between kisses and looking down at where he disappeared inside of her. Again she rose, and this time Aegon tugged her down further. Something in the way he pushed past her body’s resistance twisted the coil in her belly tighter and she cried out, mouth wet, eyes fluttering. It hurt, yes, like the feeling of thorns pricking along her skin, but more than that was the pleasure of finally having him.

Aegon’s breathing grew labored as they slowly worked her down, his fingers pressing hard enough into her waist to bruise, the other hand gripping her left thigh now that he no longer had to hold himself steady lest he slip out of her.

When he finally sunk fully into her, she could feel him in her throat, behind her ribs, nestling inside her like she’d always wanted. The need to crack open her ribs and cage him inside of her to keep her warm, to keep him safe, to keep him with her always and forever, never far from her, never gone, never alone finally, for this moment, felt fulfilled. Complete.

“Aegon,” she whined, hiccuping at the end of his name, and leaned down to kiss him, to taste him, her hands gripping his shoulders as his own gripped her waist, her thigh. Abby thought he might leave bruises come the morning.

‘Mark me, claim me. Stay inside me, don’t ever leave me. Never leave, not you.’

Aegon slowly helped her rise higher and higher until Abby thought he’d slip from her and she grew frantic, her fingers clawing at his shoulders until he hissed with pain and pleasure. “Don’t you dare take me off, don’t you dare, Aegon.” Her attempt at ordering him to keep his cock in her was a shaky, hiccuping mess that earned a throaty laugh. Aegon kissed her words away and helped her back down until he was fully seated in her.

Again and again, Aegon lifted her because her legs were useless things, a fawn unable to hold herself up. Up and down, over and over, until the pinch and discomfort of her body trying to accommodate him began to fade. Finally, she was able to fight his control, if only a little. Abby rocked her hips, pushing down on his shoulders for purchase while trying to lift herself, seeking the control, refusing to give it all to him.

Aegon needed to know he was hers. He was hers to seek pleasure from. Hers to claim. Just because he was a dragon didn’t give him the right to decide how quickly she could ride him.

She would not admit that there was a coil of heat that spread through her as he controlled, guided, commanded her. Abby simply would not share it for now.

The rhythm was soon found between suckling kisses and insistent twitches of her hips, Aegon’s own hips snapping up as Abby found her balance. A dance she was unfamiliar with, but her body seemed to understand what was expected, even if they weren’t in sync, much like how she would step on his feet or bump into him during dance practice. Between moans of pleasure and thready laughter, Abby gave into the feeling. One hand continued to grip his shoulder, leaving red, crescent moons from her nails and scratch marks when she scrambled and the other reached up to press against the cold glass window so she could get on her knees to better ride him. She squealed when Aegon leaned down to lick at the ticklish skin beneath her arm before snaring an aching nipple with tongue and teeth. Her skin was mottled red from his bites and kisses and she’d relish each one in the morning.

The cold glass against her palm centered her, kept her from fully giving over into the haze of pleasure, the shine of lightning through her veins, the roiling, syrupy heat that made her hips jerk. When she came down, Abby ground her hips against his in an attempt to find a new bit of pressure that pressed against that place inside of her. Aegon’s hand went between them and his calloused fingers rolled her clit idly, stroking absently like he would her temple when she rested her head upon his shoulder. The light and tender touch had her cry out, body taught and back arching.

“Come on,” he consoled her. “You’re so close. I know you are, hunītsos.” He kissed her cheeks, her mouth, and she sought his taste in return. Aegon’s fingers still danced over her, his other arm banding around her to hold her close. Abby clung to him as the pressure increased, his thumb moving faster, his hips rolling up until the kiss broke, a wordless cry echoing through the chamber as she clenched around him, sobbing as pleasure rolled through her. She could barely hear his own grunt and shout after her, but she could feel the warmth of him spilling inside of her, filling her in all the ways she’d been desperate for these months.

Coming down didn’t feel like crashing. It felt like she was floating, warm, hazy, and heavy-limbed, melting into Aegon’s arms until she was certain that she would simply slip beneath his skin. They slumped back against the window seat and her legs splayed awkwardly on either side of him, face buried into his neck and he nuzzled into her hair. Aegon’s breathing labored in her ear and her own rushed through her. Dimly, she was aware of an ache, but it didn’t deserve her attention right now.

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his salty skin and snuggling in more. “I love you so much.”

Aegon vibrated beneath her, humming into her hair. “I love you too. Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head and sighed, further relaxing into him. “Did I hurt you?” Aegon’s answer was a soft laugh and a whisper of the negative against her ear, arms wrapped tightly around her. Abby rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, a sleepy smile across her face. “Thank you for letting me ride you.”

Aegon’s answering laughter was just as loud and bright as her earlier cries of pleasure.