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Chapter Text

Two days after Rhaenyra’s arrival, Gwayne found her in the gardens. She did not have Aegon with her, but seeing Alicent frazzled and desperate, Rhaenyra had taken the babe from her arms and promised to settle her. Alicent, grateful, had thanked her with a sweet smile. Even if the betrayal still stung, hope still lingered that they could be reunited, that the babes would be their bridge.

But hope was no more than a fool’s curse as would soon be learned.

Rhaenyra, escorted by Ser Erryk since Criston was still aboard the ship, walked through the flowers and trees, Helaena swaddled in crimson silks detailed with tiny little onyx stars. The silver hair on her head was thin, had a slight curl to it that reminded Rhaenyra of Alicent, of Gwayne. She smoothed her fingers about it as she pointed out the flowers.

“You would have thrived in the Citadel.” Gwayne said. “If you’d been in possession of a cock, that was.”

“Thank the Gods I am not a man, then.” Rhaenyra huffed, glaring at him. “Had I been anybody else, Helaena could have been hurt.”

“In truth, I think you to be more dragon than anything. I saw you with Syrax, same smile, you know.” Gwayne hummed. “Thank you for helping Alicent, I know your relationship has been fraught since the wedding.”

“Your father is a cunt.” Rhaenyra replied blithely.

“I shall not deny that.” Gwayne huffed. “He told me to return to Oldtown, I told him I’d stay where I please. Alicent wishes for me here, you wish for me here, and so here I shall stay.”

“I never said I wished for you here.” Rhaenyra reminded with humour. “You are simply like a flea I cannot get rid of.”

“Then I shall take my swordsmanship someplace else.” Gwayne teased. “I found a place, down by the shores. Nobody will see us there or hear us should your dragon descend and feast on my bones, down by the water.”

“You are no feast.” Rhaenyra japed. “Will you show it to me?”

“What about your little white shadow over there?”

“Ser Erryk? Ser Gwayne wishes to accompany me to the shores; I think Helaena would enjoy the waves. Would you have any objections?”

“None in the least, Princess.” Ser Erryk said, his head dipped from where he stood sentry by the cloister. “I shall give you and Ser Gwayne your privacy to sooth the little Princess.”

“My thanks, good ser.” Rhaenyra replied, eyes alight with humour as he returned her gaze to Gwayne’s fond grin. “Shall we?”

Gwayne shook his head, cursed himself foully and nodded. The chatter between them was light, breezy in the face of the spring sun. Gwayne told her gossip, and Rhaenyra returned it with her own, Helaena  safely ensconced and warmed in her sister’s hold. It was easy, their conversation, as easy as it had been when they were young and Gwayne would tell them terrible stories in hopes of scaring them.

It hadn’t worked, of course.

Then he led Rhaenyra down toward the steps, offered to take Helaena but she had simply scoffed. There was no safer place for her sister than in her arms, no safer place for a Targaryen than beneath dragon’s wing. Gwayne shook his head, humour brightening his eyes, and he descended the countless steps with a smirk thrown over his shoulder.

Rhaenyra followed him, Helaena secured in her arms. She’d never been here before, never saw the lapping waves that danced upon the rocks beneath the half wall. Upon the hill, the Red Keep bloomed bloody, but Rhaenyra turned her gaze to the open water, to the smooth stone beneath her feet and the shrubbery that was lush and verdant on the hillside. Gwayne stood in the centre of it all, offered her a luxuriating smile.

“It’s perfect.” Rhaenyra murmured.

“Sundown, I should think.” Gwayne said. “I’ll source the blunted steel. You’ll have strength enough from a decade of dragon riding to wield it.”

“You’ll teach me how to fight?” Rhaenyra questioned.

“Oh, Princess.” Gwayne smiled, voice delightful and low. “I’ll teach you how to win.”

“Good,” Rhaenyra said. “Anything to defend my horde.”

“Targaryens.” Gwayne muttered, his voice tinged with fond astonishment. “A strange breed indeed. You do know they are my sister’s children and not yours, yes?”

Rhaenyra frowned, tilted her head to the side, annoyance burning. “I am the eldest. I ride a dragon, I have hunted, have gifted Aegon the charred meat, and with Helaena I shall do the same. Just because you do not understand it does not mean you can disparage it. We are the blood of the dragon.”

“I did not mean in that way.” Gwayne admitted. “You are just a peculiar bunch. I adore you all the same for it, in truth.”

“You adore me, do you?” Rhaenyra questioned, lips curved into a feral smirk.

“I’m risking my head to teach your swordplay.” Gwayne reminded. “You still think yourself Visenya, but you need not be.”

“Would you be my Visenya?” Rhaenyra wondered lowly, her head still tilted, her eyes still tracking his movements, from his jumping jaw to the way he swayed upon his feet. “Or do you think yourself Aegon?”

“I think myself none.” Gwayne snorted. “But if you should wish it, Princess, I would be your Orys.”

Rhaenyra regarded him. Gwayne seemed nervous, something she had never seen before. To be named Orys, the forgotten conqueror, the stalwart champion and defender meant something. Not for the first time, Rhaenyra wished his name had been different. He would have made a fine husband, for even now he sought only to see her soar as a dragon should.

“It’s not been long enough for that, I think.” Rhaenyra said.

“It’s been that way for long enough.”

She advanced on him slowly, knowing that Ser Erryk saw all. Gwayne stood firmly, did not cow in the face of her gaze. Rhaenyra was intimidating even as she held a babe in her arms, grace unnatural in a way that only Targaryen’s possessed. His throat bobbed and Rhaenyra only smiled.

There was nothing to say to that, not something that could be spoken about anyway.

Helaena, dozing as she was, released an irritated huff at Rhaenyra’s stillness. The babe liked movement, like to be rocked back and forth. Alicent had made comments about how she seemed to dislike being near windows… and odd thing that, but babies were odd. Rhaenyra still loved them, oddities and all.

“I’ll see you at sundown.” Rhaenyra murmured. “I must go fill my father’s cups.”

“I can take Helaena back to the nursery if you’d like?”

Rhaenyra nodded, leaned down to press a kiss to the silken strands of Helaena’s hair and then placed her in Gwayne’s waiting arms. It was strange to see how right it looked, Halaena cuddled close to the grey and blue fabric of Gwayne’s luxurious surcoat, even if there was a dagger and sword belted across him. Rhaenyra tried to not think about how well it suited his eyes, how they seemed brighter with Helaena in his arms.

After that, Rhaenyra had to listen to the council prattle about needlessly over her engagement. Some took Otto’s side, seeing it as a reward for the Velaryon’s actions, but Lord Strong himself seemed pleased. Rhaenyra knew that her father had been besieged by parchment, by requests for her hand, but he had promised to let her choose and so she did.

Laenor was the best possible option. Even if they did not come to love each other as husband and wife, there was a familiarity there, for they had grown together. It was advantageous too, for Rhaenyra knew Lord Corlys would love nothing more. With it, she too would gain the experience of Princess Rhaenys.

She’d been a naïve fool to think the Lords would bow to her. Rhaenys had been right, had been raised by her own father to succeed him, for what reason should she not? Then she had been passed over not once, but twice because there had been a male present…

Rhaenyra would not let that happen to her, but her father did not prepare her well, could not, for he had never been prepared. Rhaenys, however had, and that itself was a boon. Rhaenyra had been sullen in the beginning, had shirked her duties as a way to rebel against her father, but something had changed the night of the storm, the night she held Aegon properly for the first time.

He’d been so small, so fragile. Men would see him torn apart and poisoned, see him crowned, but to do that they’d have to ruin him, break him, and put him back together again how they wished him to be. Rhaenyra wanted him as he was, her babe brother, her tiny little fledgling.

She knew she had done right when Syrax had purred against him. Knew she had been right when the same thing happened with Helaena. Dragonblood knew dragonblood, and dragons only turned upon dragons with flame and fang when men willed it. Rhaenyra would not let that happen.

If Aegon had have been older, if she’s been younger, they would have been husband and wife, Prince Consort and Queen. Now they would be brother and sister, dragon and hatchling, Queen and Princeling.

It was better this way.

Rhaenyra thought of the delights that awaited Aegon and Helaena upon her ship, and she could not wait until it docked, until she could steal them away to her room and lavish them with everything they deserved and more. She could see it clearly, a nest of pillows and silks and furs, the fires crackling, them dozing gentle beneath her wing, surrounded by her heat, guarded from the outside world that would see them be anything other than babes.

She’d had to tell Laenor that she’d all but stolen her siblings from their mother, but it was hardly Rhaenyra’s fault that Alicent didn’t know what they needed. She loved them, Rhaenyra knew she did, but only a dragon could truly love a dragon, and Rhaenyra’s father had not been a dragon in a very long time.

So, it was up to Rhaenyra.

Seeing that Lord Tyland had near emptied his cup as Lord Lyman continued to report upon the royal treasury, Rhaenyra picked up the carafe and went about her duties. She was nearing eight and ten, too old now to still be filling cups, and yet her father had still thought it her place.

Perhaps, since she had laid out her reasons for wedding Laenor, he would change his mind, and if he did not, Rhaenyra would ensure it was changed. Since the storm she’d taken to reading the old accounts, taken to training herself if her father would not do it for her. But all of it was pointless without a voice.

“Your Grace.” Otto began, all eyes flicking to him. “Perhaps we should speak about the lawlessness of Flea Bottom? The City Watch has been lacking of late in certain regards.”

“There numbers are rather low, are they not?” Viserys hummed. “I suppose that is because quiet a few of them followed Daemon to war. We should find a new Lord Commander, honourable and steadfast, one who cares for justice in the name of the crown.”

“Ser Gwayne would be an excellent candidate.” Tyland Lannister said. “A true knight of the realm, and the son of the Lord Hand. I have no doubt he’d be up to the task.”

“I’m sure he would be amenable.” Otto smiled. “He had no duties to attend to, and perhaps he would remember that he is a knight and not a nursemaid.”

“Father?” Rhaenyra called, smiling at him sweetly. He turned his head to her, his own smile mirrored. “Could I make a suggestion?”

“I’m sure it would be an interesting one.” Otto jibed.

“Go ahead, Rhaenyra.” Viserys said.

“Would it not look better if we simply, elevated a member of the City Watch instead of sending in a complete stranger that would no doubt be shunned?” Rhaenyra inquired.

“It is a fine idea.” Lord Lyman murmured. “Less chance of dissident from those still loyal to Prince Daemon.”

“But who could be trusted by us that would be trusted by them?” Tyland wondered with pursed lips, eyeing Rhaenyra.

“Ser Harwin is well liked among the court, and none here could doubt his honour or integrity.” Rhaenyra said, looking toward the Lord of Harrenhal “And his own father has served the realm faithfully as Master of Laws. I could think of few better suited to the position.”

Then her amethyst gaze flicked back to her father who was pondering her words. She pleaded with all the Gods both living and dead that he would hear her words, that he would listen to her. If he did not, he would just undermine her, make it easier for others to do the same.

Rhaenyra had to prove herself more than a brother would have, and even then, she would still have her detractors. Rhaenys had been right, and Rhaenyra had been too prideful to even contemplate it then, too high off the fact that her father had trusted her to name her as the Princess of Dragonstone.

But she knew it knew.

And she remembered how Ser Harwin had raised a toast to her when she dragged that boar back to camp. Remembered the smile on his face. So too did she remember the look upon Lyonel Strong’s face when Viserys had announced that Rhaenyra had decided to marry Laenor. Rhaenyra did not know much about Larys in truth, but Ser Simon had been kind, quick-witted and brilliantly sardonic.

They would be good allies to have, when she needed them. Rhaenyra would not relinquish her throne without a fight, knew that her father would never do it because of the guilt he felt over her mother’s death. But he had to do more.

“The Princess’ words are true.” Lord Lyman said, nodding. “What say you, Your Grace?”

“If Ser Harwin is amenable, I see no reason not to.” Viserys hummed. “A most excellent proposal, Rhaenyra.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Rhaenyra said softly, smiling in the face of his obvious pride.

Viserys huffed and turned the council to the next order of business. There was little more for Rhaenyra to do in truth, no more cups to be filled, but she watched, waited and wondered. Otto had regarded her only once, but the contemptuous sheen of his eyes was unmissable. Rhaenyra found it funny how it had been he who had suggested her as heir in the first place.

He had only done it remove Daemon; she knew. Otto Hightower simply thought Rhaenyra a placeholder until his grandson was born. But Otto had made a mistake, for dragonblood is liquid flame, and fire consumes all. His grandchildren Aegon and Helaena may have been, but they were Rhaenyra’s blood, the beginning of the clutch she wished for.

She had always wanted siblings, had wanted children once upon a time too. But Rhaenyra had witnessed her mother slowly crumble, smile less, her fire dimming, and she did not wish that upon herself. The notion of pregnancy, of the childbed, still left her veins flooded with terror because it was so easy to die then, and if that were to happen, who would protect the young then?

Finally, her father dismissed the council. Rhaenyra returned to her rooms, changed into her riding clothes and settled at her writing desk. She’d not had lessons with the maesters or the septas since she had been six and ten, but that did not mean she herself stopped learning.

She had liked the histories the best because it reminded her of when she was younger, when her grandfather would hold her on his lap and tell them to her. It reminded her of the nights when her mother lay abed and Rhaenyra would curl in beside her, held her hand and listened to her mother’s sweet, soft voice. It reminded her of the times she would be with her father, when he would tell her of Old Valyria as he whittled and carved his model.

Then there had been Daemon, who regaled her with stories and treasures from the East. Aemma hadn’t liked the stories, found them too bloodied and macabre to be told to a child, but Rhaenyra had delighted in them, and there had been nothing in those days that Rhaenyra did not want for. She had her family, all of them together, bound in fire and blood and love.

And then it had been gone. Aegon was no replacement for her mother, nor for Baelon. He was simply Aegon, the first of so many eggs to hatch and survive, and for that she would see him thrive. Rhaenyra did not forget her nameless, faceless brothers and sisters that had been lost within her mother, nor the ones who had faded in the cradle.

Aerion.

Jaehaerys.

Baelon.

Rhaenyra had loved them and lost them. Perhaps that was why she’d been fearful in the beginning, scared that one day she would wake again to the news that Aegon or Helaena had stilled in the night never to move again. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Yet, if grief was the price for loving them, for being loved by them, then Rhaenyra would pay it a hundred times.

“The King, Princess.” Ser Harrold announcedannounced, and Rhaenyra flicked her gaze from the book to her door.

“Father.” Rhaenyra greeted as she moved from desk to sofa. “Is everything alright?”

“You’ve changed much in these past months.” Viserys said. “More like your old self if I am honest. I am gladdened to see you happy, Rhaenyra.”

“For a long time I wasn’t.” Rhaenyra admitted. “I was scared, angry, alone. You were but twenty feet away from me, and yet it was as though you were in Asshai. Alicent… Laenor and Laena were gone, Daemon too. I had nobody, father.”

“I am sorry, child.” Viserys murmured. “I was blind in my own grief that I did not see the suffering of yours. Mellos tells me you’ve taken an interest in my Grandsire’s rule?”

“I had to begin somewhere.” Rhaenyra huffed. “I’m eight and ten, still filling cups and scarcely being heard despite the fact I am heir.”

“I will not replace you as my heir, Rhaenyra.” Viserys said vehemently. “You are my firstborn, the very best of your mother, of us all. You have Daemon’s drive, his passion, his temper too at times. Yet you have a good heart, a kind heart, temperance. You believe in right and wrong, in justice. The realm will never be safer than when it is in your hands.”

“And yet the Hightowers believe it should be Aegon because he’s a boy.” Rhaenyra muttered. “They’re not alone in their thoughts either.”

“They will learn to trust you in time, my dear, just as they did me. The Baratheons still disparage me.” Viserys reminded with a smile. “As rulers, we will never be able to please everybody.”

“Have I pleased you?” Rhaenyra wondered. “Deciding upon Laenor as my husband, with my thoughts earlier?”

She felt so young again, craving her father’s praise. He had always made a game out of, and Daemon had done too, her mother as well. They knew that Rhaenyra had passion, that her blood burned hot and would never truly be satiated and so they allowed her what she wanted so long as she did well, so long as she tried.

But Rhaenyra no longer had her mother or Daemon, yet she still sought the validation, the support, of her father, her King. She loved him fiercely, would see him protected too since he had lost his wings, since he could no longer hunt for himself. He’d refused Daemon, but he would not refuse her…

Except for swordplay, but that was what Gwayne was for.

“I am proud of you.” Viserys said, placing his hand atop hers. “So very proud. I see you with the court, with your studies, your brother and sister, and each day you prove me true in my choice. Your decision to wed Ser Laenor, to do what I did not, although rather sudden, is the best possible match. And the business with the City Watch is a boon for it rewards not only Lyonel, but also his house.”

“I just want to make you proud, father.” Rhaenyra admitted, smile turning watery. “And mother too.”

“Oh she would be so very proud of you, Rhaenyra. All she ever wanted was for you to be happy. Are you happy?”

I would see you happy, contented. I will not live forever, child.

And you think a man would do it?

A family.

I have a family. All I want is respect, father.

“I am.” Rhaenyra nodded. “Things have been fraught with Alicent, it is still… raw I suppose. I don’t think we could ever rebuild it. But for Aegon and Helaena…”

“I understand.” Viserys murmured. “And perhaps, when the gallery is opened, you and she can host a ladies court, like my grandmother did. You could perhaps find friends amongst the ladies of the court, rather than only having your siblings and dragon.”

“They don’t respect me, think I’m still the little girl who grew up in these halls.” Rhaenyra huffed. “Nobody sees me, father.”

“You must earn their respect. When Lord Corlys agrees to the proposal, which I have no doubt in my mind he will, and people learn that it was you who fashioned the deal, they will see you not as a little girl, but the Princess of Dragonstone.” Viserys counselled.

“You’d let me make stipulations?” Rhaenyra inquired.

“If they are within reason and you want them, I see no reason not to. There is nothing I would deny you, Rhaenyra.”

“Except the sword.”

Except Daemon.

“You have no need for a blade, and should you ever need to raise one, the men who guard you have failed, the realm has failed, and I have failed.” Viserys returned with an exacerbated shake of his head, silver hair flowing like moonlight. “We are not conquerors anymore. I inherited peace, and I will strive for peace.”

“But a sword is needed to defend the peace.” Rhaenyra said in rebuttal. “How am I to wield Blackfyre?”

“We have people to see to the executions if they are required.” Viserys reminded. “I would see you live a bloodless life.”

Rhaenyra nodded, knew that her father would never change his mind. Though he was often indecisive, drawing out decisions, once they were made, he never reneged upon them. Rhaenyra was similar; however, she was also more impulsive. A fault she tried to temper, but she was a dragon, and so if there was something she wanted, she got it.

It was there way.

Her father left her not long after, a lingering kiss upon her temple before he departed. That had Rhaenyra smiling, and she looked out the window. Her rooms, the heir’s rooms, were large, her own bedchamber, and then three smaller ones and a solar, but Rhaenyra’s favourite thing was the balcony small as it was. It was enough, however, for her to look out upon the city, to look upon the might of the dragon pit and Syrax who circled it, golden and growing in the face of the setting sun.

The setting sun that reminded Rhaenyra of Daemon and Caraxes. If he’d been spotted, he’d be back, and Rhaenyra wasn’t sure how she felt about that. He’d been gone longer this time than any other, had left on such a sour note, and yet Rhaenyra still loved him. Why he’d been married off to somebody in the Vale when her own mother had been an Arryn made no sense to her.

The wedding, of course, was never consummated. Rhaenyra didn’t even know if Daemon had gone to Runestone, and she didn’t care to know. It made no difference, for no matter how much she desired Daemon, no matter how much her blood sang for him, no matter how much she wanted him, her father would never allow it.

Two things he had denied her: The sword and Daemon. With Daemon, she was safe, her hatchlings and fledglings too. Daemon would burn the realm to ash and cinder, for he was the sword of their family. No slight against them went unpunished when Daemon was about. Rhaenyra also knew that their relationship, Daemon and her father’s that was, had changed when her father had a crown placed upon his head, when he relied on Otto to help him govern.

A Hand should be in service to the realm and the realm alone, not his kin. Rhaenyra doubted that Lord Lyman or Lord Lyonel would have thrust their daughters and granddaughters at the King, for they were true servants of the crown. Otto Hightower was a grasping snake who dripped honey venom into her father’s ears.

Worse than Maegor, Otto had said more than once. It was a common taunt against Daemon, but he wore it like armour. Rhaenyra had read her family’s history, she never thought Daemon to be Maegor. Daemon would never hurt them, never slay them. He loved them more than anything. Rhaenyra knew that, wished her father would remember it.

Daemon was simply Daemon, a dragon like she was. His blood was fire, his temper as sharp as Dark Sister’s blade. Rhaenyra loved them, she did and he loved her. It was their way, the way of the dragon, for they forever sought one another out, claimed what was theirs with fire and blood.

But it didn’t matter because her father wouldn’t allow it. She was the heir, er marriage was for political gain, duty and never love. Rhaenyra did not care if she dd not come to love Laenor as a wife loves a husband, as her father loved her mother, or how her grandparents had adored one another.

She just wanted respect, and with Laenor she would have that, or at least she hoped she did. He wouldn’t see her chained to the birthing bed, wouldn’t see Rhaenyra in the same state as Aemma had been, as Alicent was now. Rhaenyra would have to endure pregnancy, the birthing bed her greatest fear, but she would endure.

She had too if she wished to ascend the throne. Rhaenyra wouldn’t be a foolish little girl anymore, no, no longer. She would be the heir her father wanted, would show the realm that her father had been right, that she would be a good Queen, even if she had to do it by herself.

Herself. Alone. A dragon alone in the world was a terrible thing, for they were meant to be toiled and coiled around one another, meant for each other. A dragon can only love a dragon.

Rhaenyra remembered a time when she’d been younger, ten and one perhaps, and Daemon had returned from his travels in the East. Her father had thrown a banquet to celebrate, but Rhaenyra had eyes for Dark Sister and Dark Sister alone. Daemon had placed it in her hands, kept her secure and safe. Viserys had fretted, Aemma had shaken her head fondly.

They had thought her to love the sword because of Visenya, because it was pretty, and everybody knew Rhaenyra liked pretty things. Daemon had known though, as he always had, and he took the sword from her, twirled it in his hand and made a promise.

You’ll never have need for a sword, Rhaenyra, for Dark Sister and I will be your sword. Should you ever need one, I have failed you, we all have.

But then Daemon and Viserys were fighting more, her mother grew weaker with each passing year, the losses too much, and finally Daemon was gone. He had promised her, and though he did not break it, he did not fulfil it. He’d stolen the dragon egg she’d picked for Baelon, did it on purpose to vex both her and Viserys.

Rhaenyra longed for the days when she, Laena and Laenor would run through the gardens, when her father and mother, Daemon and Rhaenys and Corlys supped together. Those days were long gone, but perhaps, they could come again. Fire and blood, salt and sea, together they were unstoppable.

The Princess of Dragonstone sighed, rose then and made her way to the gardens, down passed the length of steep steps and sat upon the bench, eyes drifting over the waves. She’d lived in the Red Keep her entire life, but never once had she been here. It was peaceful there, the water rolling against the sharp rocks, seafoam splashing.

Rhaenyra closed her eyes and simply listened to the sea, to the wind, to thrum o fire-laced blood in her veins. She was afraid in truth, afraid that no matter what she did, it would never be enough. Rhaenyra would never be a son; but Westeros was not conquered by a son alone. Both Visenya and Rhaenys had sat upon the throne, and one day, Rhaenyra would too…

But the seas reminded her of better times. Laenor and Laena too. If her father was true and Rhaenyra could fashion her own agreement, it would be a boon. Even if rumours of his preferences were true, Rhaenyra did not mind. There were ways, awkward as they were, to see their duty done, to see babes born even if the thought of the childbed had Rhaenyra’s spine turning to ice.

“You’re plotting.” Gwayne said, and Rhaenyra turned to him with a dangerous look. “Did I scare you, Princess?”

“I’m terrified.” Rhaenyra replied blandly.

She regarded him with calculating eyes, her gaze lazily dragging across his form. He still has his own sword, his own knife, but there was more. Aloft in his arms was a roll, thick, brown fabric and Rhaenyra tilted her head curiously. Gwayne huffed, set the roll on the bench beside her and unfurled it.

“Blunted steel, short sword, long sword, bastard sword, knives.” Gwayne said.

“Why do you have all of these?” Rhaenyra questioned, eyes roving over the weapons. “This seems… excessive.”

“Hightower tradition.” Gwayne shrugged. “We keep the blunted blades we’re taught with. Most don’t have as many as I do, but well… I like swords.”

“I’m not surprised.” Rhaenyra huffed. “Blackfyre’s Valyrian steel, as light as air, I don’t know which one is more suited. I’ll defer to our judgment in this matter since you’re the teacher.”

“A horrid thought, me a teacher.” Gwayne laughed. “We’ll go with this one. A bastard sword, a bit shorter than what I’ve seen of Blackfyre, but the same width.” Gwayne took it in hand, then stood there awkwardly for a moment. “Can I…?”

Rhaenyra nodded, held out her hands an allowed him to manipulate her hold. He was gentle, careful, and Rhaenyra wondered if it was because she was the heir to the throne, or if it was because she was Rhaenyra. Gwayne had always been a conundrum of contradictions.

“Do you know what do to?” Gwayne inquired with a hint of humour.

“Stab them until they stop moving.” Rhaenyra grinned. “And then once more for good measure.”

“Oh, Princess this is going to be delightful.”

And so, Rhaenyra and Gwayne stayed by the lapping water. He pointed out the parts of the blades, the differences, the way to hold the hilt. It was easy in those moments, for Rhaenyra’s blood sang for she was finally displaying her strength. She did not think she would ever be as good as Visenya, never good enough for war should it come, but it was enough to protect, and that was all she wanted.

The evenings continued like that for five days. Rhaenyra went to council meetings, poured cups of wine, brought Aegon and Helaena to the dragon pit even in the face of Alicent’s hesitance. Rhaenyra understood it, but Alicent would never understand that Syrax would never let anything happen to Rhaenyra and the hatchlings she had claimed as her own.

There was no place safer than beneath a dragon’s wing, and when Rhaenyra spread her arms and her siblings were near, there was indominable, unrelenting source of dangerous protection. Nothing would harm them, Rhaenyra would see to it until they could do it, and if there came a time where they could not protect themselves, Rhaenyra would do it herself.

If she was that protective of her brother and sister, she dreaded to think how she would be with the babes born to her.

Everything changed, however, on the fifth day, for the sails of her ship appeared in the bay, and in the skies, Caraxes whistled.

Daemon was back.