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Rhaenyra did not wish to care as she did. Her father and Alicent had both betrayed her, had left her adrift in the turbulent seas of grief. There was no anchor for her, Laena and Laenor gone, Daemon banished for his heartless comments. She had only Syrax to love her in those dark days, but a dragon’s love burned bright and ferocious, like their god-gifted flames.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was Princess of Dragonstone, and she did not need love and comfort so long as she had fire and blood. Yet a dragon alone in the world was a terrible thing and she was so terribly alone. Bereft in her own home, lost upon the tides there was nothing to her person but oaths and words.

But oaths and words could so quickly be turned.

Still, she filled the cups of her father’s council, still did her mind offer solutions that would never be heard for her father did not wish to hear them. Rhaenyra loved her father, she did, but there was a vengeance in her heart ever since she had heard what he had done to her mother for want of a boy babe.

And then Alicent had been pregnant, had brought forth a son on her very first labour only nine months after the wedding. The very thought sickened the Princess of Dragonstone. To know that Alicent had not suffered even an inch of what her mother had caused disgust to coil, slithering cold like a serpent.

But Rhaenyra was no serpent, no, she was the blood of the dragon, and a dragon claimed what was theirs. When first she had laid sight upon little Aegon, pink from birth and squealing, she had dismissed him as a phantom of the babes her mother should have had, the brothers she would have wed and adored and protected with all her strength for she was the eldest and so she would be the fiercest.

Just as Visenya had been.

But when she looked upon Aegon all she saw was challenge and betrayal. It was foolish of her to blame a babe scarcely free of the womb, and so she blamed her father and the boy’s mother, for hate was easier to feel than loss. She had stayed as far away from him as she could in the beginning, had tried to distance herself, to keep herself adrift in the waves that wished to claim her.

It did not last long.

One night, as the storms of summer battered King’s Landing, Rhaenyra could not find sleep. She could not escape the crack of thunder and the scent of her mother’s pyre, no matter how long had passed since that day, and so she walked. She found herself in near her father’s rooms, something she had done when she was but a girl, before she learned that dragons did not fear storms for they were its bringer…

Then there was a piercing shriek as violet lightning cracked through the sky, as it forked out and carved through the sky in untameable beauty. So like dragons, storms, fierce and ruin under the clatter of wingbeat and thunder. Targaryens were bonded with skies, with the dragons who held dominion over it, and so Rhaenyra did not shrink in the face of it.

But Aegon, little Aegon who was only a few months past his first name day, Alicent already swollen with another babe, another threat, did not know the power that ran in his blood. Rhaenyra followed the sound of the cries as a dragon hunted its prey, but it was not prey she found, only a babe.

Alicent’s blood. The girl who Rhaenyra had loved as a sister, as perhaps something more in truth, the girl who had betrayed Rhaenyra because her grasping cunt of a father had bid her too.

Her father’s blood. The man who had held Rhaenyra at his knee and told her stories of Balerion, the last of Old Valyria. He had told her of her grandsire, a man Rhaenyra had only hazy memories of, who told her of Daemon and her mother.

Her own blood. Aegon was her brother. Rhaenyra’s to guard as Syrax guarded her. Her little brother, too young to ever be a husband, but not too hard to imagine he had been a brother. Similar blood ran in their veins, dragon’s blood, and such a rare thing that was. it was to be shared and cherished and adored, for dragons were might.

And dragons never dragons to be alone.

Rhaenyra plucked Aegon from his crib and shushed him gently in the face of the storm. He clung to her, Rhaenyra’s arm beneath his legs, her hand cradling his silver head. She walked him to and fro beneath the flame of candles, humming gently as she did so.

The babe in her arms, her brother and blood, quietened. He sunk his head against the blue velvet of Rhaenyra’s nightclothes, grasped his hands around her neck in a gentle hold. In that moment Rhaenyra adored him, for he was simple her brother, her babe to protect, the sibling she had craved since she understood what the hole in her heart meant.

He did not cry again that night as Rhaenyra held him, as she pressed her lips to his downy soft head, as she carried him through the halls to her own chamber. She did not leave him from her arms, nor did she sleep to ensure her little brother was content as he dozed.

The sun was rising when he awoke with a cry, the storms lost to the bloodied horizon of the dawn. He was hungry, she knew, and so she went about seeing him fed. A nursemaid came to her rooms, confused but unquestioning as the Princess placed the Prince in her arms and bid him to eat.

Aegon latched without much fuss and greedily ate his fill. A true dragon he would grow into, Rhaenyra decided as she took him in her arms again, wiping sweet milk from his red lips. She would ensure of it.

He might have been her father’s blood, Alicent’s blood, but so too was he hers. She would keep him close, would love and adore and cherish him, for her was her little brother, and one day in the future, she would teach him their songs and histories, would teach him how to fly on the dragon he would claim. He would be a dragon rider, and he would be Rhaenyra’s, hers and hers alone, as would the babe in Alicent’s belly and those who came after.

They would be hers, and if they were hers, they would never rise, and if they ever rose, they would never fall.

Her father found her later, harried and concerned. He softened in the face of his babe son in his beloved daughter’s arms, as she sang to him, lulled him to sleep. Viserys watched, his eyes wide and wet, his heart aching for the woman he had murdered, for that should be their child, with their daughter, but that was not to be.

“What happened?” Viserys inquired, taking a seat, fear fleeing him.

“My little brother has not yet learned to not fear the storms.” Rhaenyra murmured, stroking his pink cheek. “He was alone. A dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing, is it not?”

“It is.” Viserys agreed. “You are good with him.”

“He is my blood, my brother. I would cherish him, so he does not know what it is like to be alone.” Rhaenyra returned, voice like ice. “I always wanted little flames to adore, father.”

“Visenya come again. A dragon to protect her hatchlings, her babe siblings.” Viserys nodded, understanding that no words could soothe the ache and loss that Aemma left within them. “Perhaps you could take him for some time. Alicent’s middle term has been hard upon her, I’m sure Aegon would enjoy the company of his sister.”

“Can I bring him to Syrax? To the hatchlings in the pit? His egg did not hatch as mine did, but he will be a dragon rider.” Rhaenyra hummed, cooed at Aegon who stared upon her with large, violet eyes, dark and glimmering. “I will teach you of our histories, of our song and flame, little light. You are a Targaryen Prince and fire is your birthright.”

But the Iron Throne is mine. You are my brother and I will love you, but should you rise, you will fall, but if you are mine, you will be mine in perpetuity.

Viserys smiled lovingly at his daughter and his son, how she cradled him close to her. His heart rejoiced in seeing it, for in the past months he had feared that Rhaenyra would grow hateful of her little brother, fearful that Viserys would replace her as his heir, but he had no intention of it. His daughter would be the first Queen in her own right, she would have the power of Rhaenys, the mother of their line, her love and her light, the steadfastness of Aegon, his drive, and the protective wrath and ruin of Visenya.

She was his daughter, Aemma’s daughter, and so she would be Queen. It was not only about keeping Daemon far no matter how much it hurt Viserys’ own heart with thoughts of his brother alone with only his dragon of his companion.

His dragon and his whore in truth, squatted upon Dragonstone like vermin with men of the City Watch. Daemon had not even come to his wedding, but nor had the Velaryons, nor had the Arryns, and Viserys knew the fault lay upon him and him alone.

But it settled in the face of Rhaenyra smiling down at Aegon.

“You should take him upon Syrax, as my own mother took Daemon and I.” Viserys mused. “As Daemon took you, as Rhaenys did.”

“I would be honoured, father.” Rhaenyra murmured.

And so, the Princess of Dragonstone was never seen without her little silver shadow. She brought him to the dragons, to Syrax who sniffed upon him with wonderment, and the three year old dragon as yet unnamed but with scales with colour of spun sunlight curled about the pair of them like a kitten.

Rhaenyra loved her brother, kept him close and sat with him in the moments of tears as his teeth came in while Alicent rested as her pregnancy progressed. That babe too, would be adored by its sister.

In truth, Aegon Targaryen was Rhaenyra’s first child, but he would not be her last, not in the least. He would be the first of many hatchlings who grew beneath the Dragon Queen’s wing and the realm was forever changed for it.

__________

Aegon’s second nameday was upon him, celebrated with a great royal hunt that had most of the realm gathered. She was sure her own had been just as grand for she had forever been lavished in gold and gifts since she was but a hatchling herself, Syrax her cradle’s guardian before she had grown too large, before she had been left under the care of the dragon keepers.

And now Rhaenyra guarded Aegon in much the same way, but she would not be forced away as Syrax had been. She was the first face he saw in the morning, the last at night. She brought him to the gardens when her duties allowed it, to the dragon pit. She read to him in High Valyrian and Common both, spent time upon fur rugs rolling  soft balls back and forth.

Alicent hadn’t liked it, nor had Otto, but they had their viper fangs in her father, they would not poison her brother. Rhaenyra did not care for them, no matter how much she had once tried to bridge the gap between them. She wasn’t there for them, was there for Aegon, for her duties and her throne.

She had not intended to love him, but it had not been hard.

“You should join us on the hunt.” Viserys hummed, a warm, gentling smile upon his face. “Perhaps the White Hart may even appear before me.”

“Boars remind me too much of squealing children.” Rhaenyra said. “And why should we hunt the white hart if it is the symbol of Gods? We would not slay our dragons for a hunt, and they are our power, so why should we slay the symbols of the people we rule over? Surely justice is better than spilled blood and a gilded trophy?”

“True.” Viserys moved, took some wine and regarded his daughter. “But men of peace are quick to have hot blood.”

“And Daemon has been at war for nearly three years.” Rhaenyra huffed. “Even Lord Lannister is concerned of the Triarchy.”

“Not today, Rhaenyra.” Viserys sighed. “It is for your brother.”

“And that is why I say it to you now, my King.” Rhaenyra admitted gently. “Unlike those fools who wished to be seen garnering their King’s attention. He is alone out here, Laenor too. I would see no harm come to them.”

Viserys shook his head and drank again. Alicent looked between father and daughter, bewildered. Rhaenyra concerned herself with Aegon, settled him on her lap and twisted his toy in the air, watching his delighted smile as wonderous lilac eyes followed her movements.

Rhaenyra had no taste for the hunt, but she adored the sight of her little brother upon her lap, a wooden carving made in the image of Syrax his favourite toy. Alicent watched them warily, a hand crested atop the protruding curve of her belly that was stained in tawny fur and ivory.

Rhaenyra paid her no attention as she usually did. Alicent was simply there. The love between them had be lost, had turned fetid and infectious. Alicent was her father’s creature, and her father would want his blood on Rhaenyra’s throne. She would not allow that, she would raise her brothers and sisters as her own, would keep them close and loving and adoring, would ensure they wanted for nothing so that they would not turn.

She would ascend the iron throne as her father decree, for his guilt had all but promised it.

“Rhaenyra.” The Princess of Dragonstone repeated as she bounced Aegon on her lap beneath their father’s adoring gaze. “Rhae-nyr-a.”

“Nyra.” Aegon babbled.

“Close enough, little egg.” Rhaenyra huffed, her fingers carding through his hair. “Aegon.”

“Me.”

Rhaenyra was rewarded with a gummy smile, its pinkness disturbed by flash of ivory milk teeth. Rhaenyra grinned at him, held him close and tangled her hand around his two, settling as the carriage bumped. Across from her, Alicent winced, and Rhaenyra wondered if harm had been done to her little hatching within her womb.

For even if the babe had been born of Alicent Hightower, they were still Rhaenyra’s and so she would see no harm come to them.

“Should you be travelling in such condition?” Rhaenyra questioned, worried for the babe and the babe alone.

“The maesters said that the country air would do me good.” Alicent admitted, her words somewhat awkward, stroking at her belly.

“Well, perhaps will be with your own child sooner than late and make me a proud grand sire.” Viserys murmured with a smile. “You do so well with your brother, I cannot wait to see you with your own babe.”

“I am contented to be a sister.” Rhaenyra huffed. “The realm can wait for another heir until a suitable husband is found to me.”

“Have you been looking?” Viserys inquired. “Far and wide ravens have come.”

“It is my duty in the future, is it not?” Rhaenyra questioned; her head tilted as she cradled Aegon in loving hands. “To further our line with dragon riders and kings and queens. I just do not wish it now, father. Not when these men only want my name and my blood and my dragon.”

“Love comes eventually.” Viserys said.

“But babes come quicker.” Rhaenyra reminded, fearful.

Alicent smiled sadly, her eyes sorrowful has she looked upon her once friend. The distance had grown between them, bridged only by the babe born to her and the one within her. It would never be repaired, the sting of betrayal too deep, the schism of darkness too wide.

Alicent Hightower watched as her child was stolen from her, but she did not know it for years to come.

“It is not too bad.” Alicent admitted, her hand settled atop her belly. “Aegon came quickly and without much fuss.”

“Did he indeed? You screamed as much as my mother did.” Rhaenyra scoffed; her eyes narrowed dangerously.

Viserys, sensing the mounting tension, sighed and poured a goblet of sweet wine. He took a long mouthful and turned his head to his daughter with inquisitive eyes. so easy did she rock the babe, so easy did she hold him and love him. Aemma would be proud, and oh how a treacherous piece of him wished the children had been born to his love rather than his new wife.

It was not long before the royal carriage came to a halt. Aegon was handed to the maid then and the King, his wife and his heir stepped out to an amassed crowd who were clapping. Already the scent of woodsmoke stained the air, meats roasting and petrichor heavy. Aegon cried.

“Hail, hail, Aegon the Conqueror-Babe, Second of His Name! Here's to His Grace on his second nameday.” Hobert Hightower called, clapping his hands wildly.

Others followed, though far less jubilant and the treacherous Hightower leach. He had bent the knee to Rhaenyra, had sworn his oaths and here now, before the Lords and Ladies of the Realm, he broke them.

Aegon continued to cry.

Fury and wroth ignited the dragonblood in Rhaenyra’s veins. She took her brother from the nursemaid and hummed in the face of watchful eyes. Amongst the crowd she met Otto’s, his brother’s, gaze, and with a bounce and a kiss to his fluffy head, Aegon settled his head in the crook of Rhaenyra’s neck, tried to hide away from the loud noises that he still disliked.

He was hers to protect, and so she would protect him from the noise and vipers alike, for there was no safer place in the world than beneath dragon’s wing.

Her father called them to attention, and Rhaenyra’s eyes flittered about. Aegon garbled, so warm and precious in her hold and she vowed never to let him go, and if any were stupid enough to try and take him, they would be met with fire and blood, fang and fury.

Rhaenyra was apart from the people of the court, but she was never alone with Aegon in her arms. He tired quickly, a lazy babe in truth, and soon Rhaenyra left him under the careful, watchful eyes of his nursemaid after she tucked a crimson silk blanket atop her. Her father who was seated, drinking joyously with Otto, offered her a grateful nod.

She ambled along inside the tent. She heard Lady Redwyne discuss the war in the Stepstones, Lady Lannister’s words on the women who had been taken and sold into slavery and her stomach turned. The world was such an awful place. She snagged a piece of almond cake, its syrup sticky between her fingers and listened as the woman disparaged Daemon’s efforts, the Sea Snake’s.

“Perhaps the Princess could give us some insight?” Lady Redwyne all but demanded, her dog on her lap and crumbs on her lips. “It is your uncle who spearheads this war is it not?”

“My father said there was to be no talk of the war so as to not taint my brother’s nameday.” Rhaenyra reminded sharply. “And Daemon is still the King’s brother, he deserves your respect as he serves his realm and his King.”

“Have you heard anything from him?” Lady Lannister inquired lightly.

“I’ve not spoken to Daemon in years.” Rhaenyra shrugged. “As you say, he has been at war.”

“Since you supplanted him as heir.” Lady Lannister scoffed.

“Prince Daemon was not suited, but the Princess is.” Alicent said in defence of her once friend.

“He has made a mess and once again the King must see it remedied.” Lady Redwyne grumbled, stroking at the dog’s head.

“My uncle and the Sea Snake serve the realm.” Rhaenyra reminded with a sibilant hiss. “But how do you serve the realm of late, my lady? By eating cake?”

Everything was stifling then, hot and slick. Already had a Hightower called Aegon the second of his name, already had a Lady said that Rhaenyra had supplanted Daemon. Even Alicent’s attempt to defend her done nothing to sooth the scorching heat, for it was her family, her father and uncle, that whispered venom in Viserys’ ears.

Aegon was her brother. Her father had named her as his heir, and he had not wavered since, but he did not listen to her. The babe in Alicent’s belly would too be hers to love and cherish and protect, for dragons looked after their own.

Rhaenyra stepped outside for the air she craved. Lord Jason set upon her immediately, dragonpits and wine and other notions that Rhaenyra did to pay attention to. She curled her fingers around the goblet, drank it slowly and though she would never admit it, the wine was good.

Lord Jason didn’t get the hint, and Rhaenyra’s rescuer came from the unlikeliest of sources: Ser Gwayne Hightower. So effortlessly did he slide alongside Jason, so easily did the Lannister Lord jump, humiliation pink of his cheeks as his wine dripped and spilled.

He excused himself quickly and Rhaenyra supressed her satisfied grin, but Alicent’s brother made no such effort. He raised his cup to her, and Rhaenyra mirrored it with a smile. It had been years since she had seen Gwayne, four years older than her and gone back to Oldtown after Daemon had brutalised him for being Otto Hightower’s son.

Such a petty man her uncle, to mar such a pretty face.

“Ser Gwayne.” Rhaenyra greeted. “I do think Lord Jason shall be mourning the loss of his doublet for the rest of my brother’s festivities.”

“I thought it best to save your sight from such a garish display.” Gwayne quipped.

“My thanks, good ser.” Rhaenyra hummed. “A noble and gallant servant to the realm.”

“The sharpness of neither your wit nor tongue has not dulled in recent years it seems.” Gwayne huffed, poured more wine into the goblets when Rhaenyra nodded.

“If anything, it has been honed and dipped in Valyrian steel.” Rhaenyra mused, finishing her wine. “I am not well versed in the art of war, but words are a women’s weapon.”

“You always did admire Visenya, but I thought you to be Rhaenys in truth.”

Gwayne smiled then, his hair cut close to his head, the red gold of the strands lighter than Alicent’s but still catching in the sunlight. Rhaenyra regarded him for a moment, and it felt as though the necklace around her throat, the one Daemon had given her, the one Aegon loved to hold, seemed to warm.

“It was good to see you again, Ser Gwayne.”

“And you, Princess.”

She found her father, Aegon awake beside him on the floor, blinking away the sleep in his eyes slowly as he clung to the Syrax toy, and Otto Hightower with their heads bent. Otto was saying something then, words lost over the din of it all, but Rhaenyra could imagine what he was saying.

Aegon is past infancy, Your Grace. He is your son; the Iron Throne is his right.

Fury lashed violently. Men thought her to be nothing more than a broodmare, women thought her a little girl, her father too. She was Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne. She was a dragonrider, the blood of Kings and Old Valyria.

Otto would not steal her little brother and turn him into a puppet.

“You told me that you would give me time.” Rhaenyra said as she stepped toward her father, her Valyrian liquid smooth and fiery. “Why is it that Lord Jason just told me that he would build me a dragonpit when I became his lady wife?”

“You are of age.” Viserys reminded gently. “But I did not give him leave to inquire.”

“Good. Because I’d rather marry a rat than an arrogant lion who would not even do me the courtesy of remembering that I am your heir, father.”

“We do not exist above duty for we are duty.” Viserys huffed, aggrieved by his daughter’s stubborn nature. “You will have to marry, for even I did not have a choice in marrying your mother, but love comes, child.”

“It is not love I require, father. It is respect.”

And Rhaenyra turned on her heel, silver hair twirling like a veil of starlight. She pressed a kiss to Aegon’s head when she bent low, promised him to return so he would not be alone, that she would not be alone, and then she was gone.

With the wind rushing in her hair, her horse beneath her strong and galloping, Rhaenyra left the oppressive sense of the royal hunt behind her, would not let it smother her flame. There were twin shouts, loud and closing in. Rhaenyra did not care; they could chase her down if they wished.

She raced further into the King’s Wood, through crystalline streams. Hares and rabbits ran from the noise, birds took flight as their silence was disturbed. Still, Rhaenyra did not slow, and she wished for Syrax to burst from her chains and come to her, wished to settle upon her dragon’s back and fly.

Rhaenyra would never be a son, but Aegon had only succeeded because of Visenya and Rhaenys, because of their dragons. They could not take that from her, and they would not take the throne from her either.

“Princess. Princess.” Ser Criston cried, reaching for the reigns. “Slow yourself before you bring harm.”

“She’s a dragon rider, I think a horse is nothing.” Ser Gwayne huffed, though he clicked his tongue and laid his gloved hand upon the nape of Rhaenyra’s horse. “Settle yourself, girl. Cole did not mean to frighten you.”

“Do not speak to the Princess in such a way.” Criston snapped. “Your familiarity is unbecoming.”

“I was talking to the horse.” Gwayne rolled his eyes. “I trained her myself. A good mare, sweet under the circumstances, ferocious if she thinks there’s a threat upon her rider. You should be lucky, ser, she’s trained to kill a man with a single kick.”

“I took you for a knight, not a horse breaker.” Rhaenyra huffed, fondly patting the mare’s neck. “I did not realise the gift came from you, only that she arrived for my nameday. She is nothing like Syrax, but I am fond of her none the less.”

“Alicent said your old horse was easily startled.” Gwayne shrugged. “Startled horses are dangerous horses, especially around dragons, Princess. Did you name her?”

“I had not.

“Princess, we must be getting back to camp. These woods are not safe.” Criston began, fretting like a nervous hen. “Please, I must insist.”

But Rhaenyra did not want to go back to the men who thought her as nothing more than a womb, to the women who scored her because she was young. The woods were the closest she could feel to freedom without being atop Syrax, and she would not do her duties the dishonour of abandoning them.

Nor would she abandon Aegon. Rhaenyra had promised her little brother that she would return to him, and so she would. Eventually.

“I say we ride, good sers.” Rhaenyra murmured, looking out upon the verdant green swaths of the King’s Wood. “Or fish.”

“Princess.” Criston protested, brown eyes deep and dark with worry.

They had grown close in the years since his white cloak had been settled atop his shoulders. Where once it had been Ser Harrold who shadowed her every move, now it was Criston. Such two different men they were, but Rhaenyra liked them both in different ways. Ser Harrold had been indominable, resolute, but he was kind and had learned that Rhaenyra rather enjoyed his dry with.

But Criston was softer, gentler. Seen combat he might have, but sweet he was still. He fretted something terrible, had a need to prove himself. Ambition was good, a driving force and it was necessary, but more than that he had been her friend. But there was something about it that irked her, for he believed she was virtue and fairness in the skin of man.

Rhaenyra was a dragon. Her scales impenetrable unless another dragon would do her harm. Daemon had his chance and he had refused to act. Aegon would never have need to raise his claw against her. Dragons did not turn on dragons, for if they did, they would be ruined.

And Rhaenyra would not allow it. She was the eldest and so she was the fiercest, the protector.

“I would ride ser, sleep beneath the stars and sup on fish or hare or both. You can return to the camp if you wish, but I will not listen to another moment of their ceaseless prattling.” Rhaenyra huffed. “Fools to think they can tame a dragon. Lady wife, I am and will remain my father’s heir. I will be their Queen, their children’s Queen.”

“The Lannisters have always been idiots.” Gwayne reminded with a half-lipped smirk. “They want your dragonblood, so then their children can claim them with their name.”

“Any husband I have will take my name.” Rhaenyra replied fiercely. “You would think the title Prince Consort would soothe their egos.”

“Men’s egos are not easily soothed.”

Rhaenyra shook her head and continued forward. Criston eyed them warily before he too, followed as his oaths demanded, as his heart desired. It was easy that night, simple. Hares were hunted down and skinned, and though Criston tried to protest, believing that a Princess’ hands should never be bloodied, Gwayne taught her how to skin them, to cook them.

They had wandered into the depths of the woods, camped near a creak where the horses rested, tethered to a tree. A fire was built and burned, meat cooking upon it as the stars brightened the darkened sky. Rhaenyra listened to the stories that her companions shared, drank from the flagon Gwayne had handed her, but she mainly stared into the twisting, curling flames.

Such a strange power, fire. Everything that house Targaryen possessed was owed to it. It could no more easily be controlled than the dragons, but Rhaenyra did not wish to control it, did not wish to snuff it out. Fire, after all, was both creation and destruction, survival and death.

It was power, and Rhaenyra needed power if she was going to keep her throne.

It did not get cold as the night passed by in drips and honeyed laughter, and set still Rhaenyra found herself upon Criston’s cloak, Gwayne’s own over her shoulders. The fire crackled, the creek flowed.

The only thing missing was Aegon, Rhaenyra realised. He would have liked this. Rhaenyra had liked it when she was younger, when she had her mother had gone on tour. She’d slumbered under the moon at the Eyrie as her mother told her stories of the years she’d spent there before she had married her father.

Rhaenyra didn’t want to be like her mother or her grandmothers both. She didn’t want to be like Alicent, constantly pregnant, constantly in labour until the birthing bed became her grave. She wanted to live. Wanted to thrive.

Wanted to soar.

“Did you hear that?” Criston asked.

“It’s probably just the wind.” Rhaenyra murmured. “Or Gwayne trying to scare us.”

“He should not think himself allowed to frighten you, Princess. He is a knight, sworn to protect and defend the innocent and women.”

Criston stood and went for his sword. Rhaenyra stared at him, anger growing. Even he who had been by her side for years thought her weak and defenceless, a fragile little babe to be coddled and wrapped in silk.

Rhaenyra hated it.

She though of him and Gwayne. How different they were. Alicent’s brother at least remembered the blood that ran in her veins.  It had been amusing to watch them snipe at one another in truth. They had agreed on nothing, not even the best way to cook the bloody hares.

Men and their egos.

Then there was a squeal and a curse. A boar ran at Criston, and he was flat on his face and unmoving. The horses spooked, neighing loudly as they reared up. Rhaenyra fell backward as it turned and ran at her, tusks glinting in the firelight. It was atop her in a blink and then there was something warm and wet along her skin.

“Gods.” Gwayne huffed. “A man sets about righting himself and he returns to carnage.”

“Are you alright, Princess?” Criston questioned.

The boar squealed and moved. Rhaenyra had been right, they sounded like Aegon’s shrieks when he’d gotten a fever. She hated it. Wanted to silence it. The dagger on her hip was in her hand and she brought it down again and again and again.

She would never be a son, but she could be Visenya, and she would learn how to defend herself.

Blood matted her hair, was heavy and dripping on her skin. Crimson tears rolled along her lips and Rhaenyra felt the heat of the fire bind with the iron of blood, watched as it shimmered on the dagger like clotted ruby ink in the face of the dancing flames.

“I’m fine.” Rhaenyra said as she looked up at him. “We’ll take that back to camp with us in the morning. I’ll make a gift of it to my brother.”

“I’m not sure a gored boar is an appropriate gift for the Prince, Princess.” Criston said, eyeing her wearily. “Did you hurt yourself? Hit your head?”

“Of course it’s appropriate.” Rhaenyra scoffed. “I will always provide for him, hunt for him, guard him. He is my brother, a hatchling who does not yet know how to hunt and fly.”

“I once put spiders in Alicent’s bed when we were younger.” Gwayne reminded. “I think this is far better.”

“The only thing she hated more than spiders was snakes.” Rhaenyra recalled, the memories of Alicent sullied because of Otto Hightower. “But you couldn’t find any snakes.”

“Probably for the best.” Gwayne shrugged. “Right, Cole. First watch, second watch?”

Criston nodded but he didn’t seem happy about it, didn’t seem happy in the least. There was something to him now, a heaviness in his limbs and a sheen to his eyes that Rhaenyra did not know. He settled himself by the fire, sword across his legs. Rhaenyra settled herself against the log, her gaze returned to the flames. Gwayne nudged her with his foot, offered her a cloth and a flagon of water.

“Drying blood itches worse than lice.”

“I’ve never had lice.” Rhaenyra teased.

“Take it from me then, it’s fucking annoying.” Gwayne laughed. “I can just see the faces of the court when we return. Oh, my father will be furious, Alicent too I’d wager. She regrets the distance between you.”

“Is that why you followed me then, Gwayne? For your sister? For your father?” Rhaenyra questioned sharply, though lowly so Criston would not overhear. “A marriage perhaps?”

“I’m a rational man.” Gwayne hummed. “I followed you because I wanted to, none bid me to do it, and certainly not to pester you about marriage. I saw what you did to that boar, I like the idea of keeping my insides intact. And my head atop my shoulders, and not being dragon feed.”

“Syrax has better taste than you, I promise.” Rhaenyra teased.

“I take great offence to that, Princess. I’m a delectable snack, your dragon would be lucky to have me.” Gwayne replied, his lips pulled and eyes bright with amusement.

“It has been good to see you, again, Gwayne.” Rhaenyra admitted. “I think I shall miss your wit when you return to Oldtown.”

Gwayne shrugged. Rhaenyra wanted to question him, but she simply leaned back and pulled Gwayne’s cloak over her lap and cast her eyes skyward to the stars. It was that that sight she fell asleep to, the sound of the fire burning, the scent of blood heavy in the air.

Rhaenyra made her decision that night amidst fire and blood. She would be Visenya, and she would be Rhaenys, but she would lose no siblings in a war, nor would she die. She would live, as her mother wanted her to, she would rule as her father decreed her to, and she would thrive as she wished to.

And the following morning, ensconced between Criston and Gwayne, still bloodied and with her prize dragged behind them, when the White Hart appeared before her in all of its glory, she bowed her head and bid Criston to leave it unharmed.

Gwayne, who wasn’t looking at the White Hart, instead deciding to gaze upon the flame and blood of the Valyrian Goddess before him, also made his choice. Her father would fail in Ormund’s bid, and the King would never change his mind. Gwayne, unlike most of his family, didn’t give a fuck about who sat on the throne because it made no difference to him, even if it could have been Alicent’s babe.

But Aegon was more Rhaenyra’s babe in truth, and it was a truth all would soon realise. For Rhaenyra Targaryen stalked through the camp high upon her horse, bloodied and beautiful and Gwayne had never seen anything as awe-inspiring. Nor had he ever seen so many men look horrified in the face of the Realm’s Delight.

Rhaenyra had been right. They were all fools for wanting to chain the dragon, for wanting to tame her. Dragons weren’t meant to be tamed, they were power, strong and unconquerable, and Rhaenyra Targaryen was a dragon. The first babe born after the death of Balerion the Black Dread. The youngest dragonrider.

“A gift for my brother, father.” Rhaenyra called as she dismounted. “For every dragon must have his first hunt burned for him.”

Viserys rose from his seat and walked toward her with a smile. He grasped her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to both of her temples before he turned to the crowd, his arms spread wide.

“The Princess of Dragonstone, my Lords and Ladies.” Viserys called. “Has brought this gift to her brother Prince Aegon in the tradition of Old Valyria. Have it cooked and served at once.”

“To the Princess of Dragonstone.” Ser Harwin Strong cheered, raising his cup in toast.

“To the Princess.” They chimed as one, their cups raised.

“You should clean yourself up before you hold Aegon.” Viserys murmured in amusement.

“Fire and blood is our way.” Rhaenyra reminded.

“I would rather Alicent did not go into labour. She’s gentle of heart.”

“As my King commands.”

Chapter Text

Alicent went into labour a moon and a half after Aegon’s second name day. It was the only reason that Rhaenyra had not embarked upon her marriage tour, for she wished to see her newest hatchling. Rhaenyra kept Aegon to herself as the day progressed, as Alicent cried out from her birthing room. She brought him to the gardens, sat him before the Weirwood tree upon piles of pillows and silks and hummed to him.

Aegon stared at her with wide eyes. The High Valyrian lullaby always soothed him to the point where he was hazy with sleep, his head pressed against her shoulder as he chewed upon his fingers. Here, where they were, there were no sounds to be heard but the wind, no screams or curses as Alicent laboured.

It was funny to think that a year ago Rhaenyra scarcely cared for him and now she cradled him as though he was the most precious thing in the world to her. She chuckled, leaned and pressed a kiss to his downy silver-spun hair and reached for his Syrax figurine and twisted it in the air.

She couldn’t wait to introduce the newest babe to Syrax. Like Rhaenyra, she too adored hatchlings. It made sense since Rhaenyra and Syrax were one in the same.

“Muma.” Aegon said.

“Your mama isn’t here.” Rhaenyra whispered. "She's having your little brother or sister, sweet Egg."

“No. Muma.” Aegon huffed. “Nyra muma.”

“Do you mean muña, little Egg?” Rhaenyra inquired; her heart alight with love. “Muña means mother. I am your sister. Mandia. Can you say that? Man-di-a.”

“Manda.” Aegon grinned. “Warm.”

“Close enough, sweetling.” Rhaenyra huffed, stroking his cheek. “Close enough.”

Rhaenyra sat there, Ser Criston hovering far enough away to be forgotten entirely, though there was a fond sheen in his eyes as he watched her cuddle her brother close to her. Aegon dozed after that, and he clung to her. Rhaenyra dreaded to think what it would be like in a few short weeks when she left to find a husband. Somebody suitable, who would respect her, who would not see her caged but flourishing, flying high and hunting as dragon were supposed to.

Part of her wished she could just marry Daemon, but her father would never allow it. It would be easier, better. Daemon was a dragon like she was, he would not see her set about in gilded chains. He would give her a horde of hatchlings that would come from her, and he would not cut her open as her father cut open her mother.

But it would never happen, and there were no others she would entrust her care to. She needed somebody fierce, somebody who could protect her children if she herself could not. Already did the vipers swarm and she would not let them feast on her babes.

“I thought I might find you here.” Gwayne said lowly so as to not disturb Aegon. “My nephew sleeps like the dead.”

“Like my father.” Rhaenyra hummed. “Do you know how Alicent is?”

“Still labouring if the screams are anything to go by.” Gwayne admitted with a wince. “Horrible business. Something joyous shouldn’t be so bloody.”

“Are you squeamish, Gwayne?” Rhaenyra teased.

“Princess, I don’t think I can tell you what how I truly feel with young ears about.” Gwayne regarded Aegon fondly, Rhaenyra as well. “You’re good with him.”

“I always wanted siblings.” Rhaenyra reminded sadly.

“Sorry.” Gwayne murmured. “I did not mean…”

“I know.” Rhaenyra said. “Take him for a moment, will you? It’s going to rain.”

Gwayne nodded. So effortlessly did he take Aegon into his arms and settle him in his hold and he even offered a hand to Rhaenyra that she took with a roll of her eyes. Rhaenyra took Aegon’s toy then, kept it in her hands as Gwayne carried him. Before they left, Rhaenyra told one of the serving girls about the oncoming rain, and she bowed and went about gathering the silks and pillows.

 Together they walked silently toward the nursery, Criston behind them but Rhaenyra could all but scent the irritation from him. He had been different in the last month, had been different since Rhaenyra stabbed the boar to death and wore its blood like a trophy.

He wanted a princess, a toy. He wished to be the gallant knight defending the virtuous princess, wished to chain her into the shackles of gentleness. Rhaenyra was only gentle with her kin for dragons should never fight dragons.

“Rhaenyra.” Viserys greeted, beaming as he walked toward her. “My girl, come look at your baby sister.”

“Is Alicent alright?” Rhaenyra asked.

“She is well. She asked for you.” Viserys nodded.

“I’ll take Aegon back to nursery.” Gwayne said.

“Nonsense. Come along, Gwayne. See your niece. Your father is already on his way.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

They crossed the corridors toward the birthing rooms and Ser Arryk pushed it open with a dipped head. Otto was already there, the babe in his arms. Something within Rhaenyra chafed at seeing him so close to an innocent, fragile babe but he wouldn’t harm his own grandchild…

This is the same man who pushed your best friend to marry your father. The same man who stole them both from you, who sullied your mother’s memory. The same man who would steal your throne. He is a threat to the babes, he is, he would poisonous  them and they’re still so young.

“Have you named her?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Helaena.” Alicent replied. “Would you like to hold her, Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra nodded. Otto regarded her, Gwayne peering over her shoulder with Aegon in his arms. There was something there, present for only a split second before he placed Helaena, tiny little Helaena, swathed in black and red silks and laces into Rhaenyra’s arms.

“May your fires burn bright, little flame.” Rhaenyra murmured, sealed the blessing with a kiss to her sister’s small head. “You are the most beautiful thing  I have ever seen.”

“You will have your own soon.” Viserys whispered, his arm around his daughters as he pressed a kiss to Rhaenyra’s temple. “They are a wonderous joy even when they vex us.”

“She’ll have no greater protector.” Alicent smiled, her hair curling and cheeks pink. “No fiercer friend.”

A dragon protects their own, Rhaenyra did not say as she handed Helaena back to Alicent. The babes came from Alicent, sweet Alicent who wore crystal shackles, who bowed to the whims of her father and men alike. Had she come to Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra would have seen her protected, would have seen his father do his duty but Alicent had instead betrayed her.

Betrayed her in a way that could never be forgiven no matter how beautiful the babes were.

She turned then, back to Aegon and Gwayne who still held him as her father and Otto spoke, as Alicent cooed over the babe in her arms. He smiled at her, and Rhaenyra delighted in the way the creases of his forehead deepened, how his cheeks tightened, the brightness of his eyes.

If only he hadn’t been Otto Hightower’s son.

**

The day Rhaenyra had said goodbye to her brother and sister had been painful. Not long after Helaena’s birth did she depart on her marriage tour, alone in the world with only Criston by her side. In the days before she left, she brought the children to the dragonpit, held them close and was never without them.

The lords and ladies thought her sweet and kind for that, for they all knew how much the Princess of Dragonstone loved her siblings. They remembered her in youth when Queen Aemma had been with child, how even the fear of loos was not enough to dampen her spirits. The court had been happy to see Rhaenyra happy, for they all remembered how withdrawn she had become after her mother’s death, after her father’s marriage.

The day she departed, her father had seen her off at the docks with an accompaniment of guards and servants and a maester. Helaena did not understand, but Rhaenyra still held her, still kissed her head and promised to return to her.

Aegon, however, did. He didn’t want her to go. He had cried something fierce, his face pink and fingers fisted around her neck. That of course had set Helaena off, and Alicent was cooing, trying to soothe the two-month-old Princess while Aegon screamed his heart out.

So, Rhaenyra did the only thing she could do to quell the aching hurt that she herself had caused. She hummed, tune haunting and heartbreaking, a show of loss for the months that she would have to spend away in order to do her duty. She would find a husband, one that would not shackle her, would not tame her, for if they tried, they would be burned.

She needed somebody who would see her soar, that would see her hatchlings strong and fierce until they themselves could take to the sky, until they could hunt for themselves. Rhaenyra did not know if any such man existed outside of Daemon, but even he could not be fully entrusted with the act…

That was if he ever even returned to the nest.

“Rhaenyra?” Viserys had murmured. “My child, the time will pass quickly, and soon you will be returned to us. You will see the keeps and people and lands you will one day rule over, and you will let them see you for the kind, loving woman you have grown into.”

“Muma. Stay.” Aegon had pleaded. “Stay. Nyra.”

“I will bring you back gifts.” Rhaenyra promised, laying her cheek atop his head. “I will bring you back the wonders and delights of the lands; all you can want and more.”

“I shall send a second ship.” Viserys teased. “You will write to me, won’t you? Remember to enjoy this for what it is, Rhaenyra. These are not shackles I place you within, search out he who pleases you, who will be the man you wish for. I care not if he is a squire or a Lord. If he pleases you, he will please me.”

Rhaenyra nodded and pressed another kiss to Aegon’s fluffy little head. Alicent had Helaena in her arms, was rocking her back and forth, grateful that the babe no longer screamed. She handed her brother to her father and pressed a kiss to cheek.

“Are you sure I cannot take Syrax? She needs to fly, father, stretch her wings as I do.”

“Will she follow you if I have her released from the pit?” Viserys sighed.

“She’ll follow. It would do the realm good, to remember the strength of our house.” Rhaenyra added. “It had been too long since the dragons flew anywhere other the capital.”

“I will assume that is why you’ve a dragon keeper amongst your retinue?” Viserys said glibly.

“I must leave two, I do not think I can leave three.”

“And so you shall not.” Viserys nodded. “Go now, and come back with stories to regal the babes with.”

“Safe travels, Rhaenyra.” Alicent murmured, offering a fleeting smile. “May the winds be favourable.”

Otto Hightower, impassive and annoying as ever as he stood there in the face of the royal family, simply nodded at her. He’d found no issues with the marriage tour in the least, especially not since if Rhaenyra was married to another then she could not marry her quarrelsome uncle.

Otto had other words for the Rogue Prince but he would not repeat them where the King could hear them, or the women, or the babes. If he had ever done unto Hobert what Daemon had done to Viserys, his name would be blackened and struck. Second sons should know their place.

Unaware of Otto’s odious internal conflicts, Rhaenyra bid her father goodbye one final time before she stepped onto the ship, Criston behind her, his cloak billowing in the wind. He had that sweet sort of look on his face that men got when they looked at women and babes, yet something within in made Rhaenyra bristle for a moment.

Settling herself by the rail as the last of the preparations were undertaken, watched as her brother and sister and father departed. She offered Aegon one final wave and the boy, still so obviously upset, turned his head away from her. Rhaenyra knew he did not mean it, knew that his little body did not understand the force of his feelings, the weight of them, but it hurt none the less.

She crossed the deck, the intricate, flowing velvet of her travel cloak warm in the face of the wind that blew, and stared out upon the Rush. Men milled about and Rhaenyra sighed, her eyes fixed upon the rush, and all that would soon come after.

The Vale. The Riverlands. The Stormlands. The Reach. The West. The North. She’d be gone months, and when next she saw her brother and her sister she would be naught but a stranger. Even if Rhaenyra did not find her husband, she would find friends, she would show the people their future Queen.

The words and whispers of the Royal Hunt had not been forgotten by her.

“Princess.” Ser Gwayne shouted, running toward the ship as Rhaenyra turned to the address. She walked to the edge, leaned over the rails. “Aegon bid you to have this, so you don’t get lonely.”

“I doubt Aegon said that.” Rhaenyra huffed, and she reached for the dragon carving, the one Aegon had never been parted with since she had gifted it to him.

“He pulled your father’s hair and said give Nyra. I thought I would make it sound more poetic.” Gwayne grinned. “And your father did not wish to return with Aegon because there was every bit the chance you might steal them away.”

“It was one jest.” Rhaenyra smirked.

“One my sister took to heart.” Gwayne laughed. “Good hunting, Princess, try not to eat too many of them alive, there are other women in the realm in want of fine husbands.”

“And now I am Rhaena.” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. “If, by chance, you are gone before I return, good ser, your delightfully sardonic wit has been a fine companion over the last few moons.”

“I live to serve, Princess.”

Gwayne was gone with a wink, and Rhaenyra shook her head. She returned to Criston, the carving firmly in her hand, noted his dour expression and the way his eyes tracked Gwayne’s retreating movement. For one absurd moment Rhaenyra though him jealous, but she quickly forgot about it as they set sail proper. He was a good companion, and there was something in her heart that belonged to him, a soft sort of thing that could so easily be ruined. Neither of them acknowledged it, could not because of oaths and duty both.

And it was definitely forgotten when she spotted Syrax’s bronze-gold scales glinting in the sunlight and the happy little shriek that followed. Rhaenyra steeled herself for what was to come, and with a prayer to her mother, she hoped that everything would be well.

For weeks, months, she travelled about from keep to keep, supped and dined, danced and drank. None of the men were what she desired, even if they were pretty enough to look at, if they were fighters. None of them were men she could envision being the father of her children, the father of Kings and Queens and dragons.

She did not yet find a husband, not in the least, though she flourished amongst the people. Her uncle had named her Realm’s Delight, and now she lived up to that title. Her mother’s cousin had greeted her warmly, had marvelled at the sight of a dragon in the Vale since Daemon never made an appearance after his own wedding.

That had made her laugh, in truth.

From the Vale they went to Harrenhal where the Lords of the Riverlands had been gathered. Ser Simon Strong, the castellan, bade them a jubilant welcome even in the cursed, ruined castle. The men were young and old, sweet and kind, clever and quick. Rhaenyra went riding along the grasslands, flew from Harrenhal to the God’s Eye to watch the sun setting in the same place Harren’s line had ended.

Rhaenyra might not have found her husband, but she found her voice, her duty, her calling. Bards sang tales of her beauty, of Syrax, of their grace in the air. The smallfolk cheered and more often than not, Rhaenyra could be found perusing the markets for gifts for her brother and sister. 

There had been a lot of them, in truth. Lord Lyman would no doubt be despaired.

“The people love you, Princess.” Ser Criston murmured one night as Rhaenyra returned to the chambers Lord Mooten had provided for her in Maidenpool before they journey to Storm’s End. “The Mother and the Maiden in one.”

“They are to be my people and they should know me as I know them.” Rhaenyra had said.

Though in truth, they did not know. She was a Targaryen Princess, and while gentle love flowed in her heart, so too did wrath and ruin. Rhaenyra’s temper was quick to ignite, slow to cool, but none had every truly infuriated her. It was probably for the best. Let them believe her to be the Realm's Delight, for she was beloved, as her father was, as her mother had been.

Storm’s End came next, as did the next batch of men. Syrax nested outside of the castle, fed auroch and deer and delighted in the craggy cliffs that reminded her of home. She didn’t much like the rain, though. Lord Boremund was kind enough, and Rhaenyra knew that he had supported Princess Rhaenys as his niece, over her father during the Great Council.

The months away from the Keep, away from Aegon and tiny little Helaena, had been both painful and freeing. Rhaenyra had learned much, listed to the gossip and the bickering that went about the realm that the Red Keep was hardly privy to because it was its own web of secrets.

It had been wonderful.

But then the marriage tour ended in blood and gore which wasn’t that surprising with Brackens and Blackwoods in the same room, though Rhaenyra wondered if they had chosen to travel to Storm’s End because it was neutral, and therefore they could kill each other easier…

And swords had been drawn and the Bracken lad had his belly cut open. Rhaenyra had revised her earlier thoughts, the Blackwood boy had gutted a man twice his seize, he would be a fine protector of her children, but he was so young, the very thought of it made her skin itch.

Still the Blackwoods seemed to breed them sweet until blood was scented. That could be useful.

They had sent out men to tame her, men who wanted her power, none of them wanted Rhaenyra for who she was. Perhaps not even Daemon in truth, but she rather loved the idea of him anyway. It was then, to the rasping death knell of Jerral Bracken, that Rhaenyra made her decision.

She would do what her father did not. Laenor was younger than her, yes, but with him, she would have the Velaryons, and she would have a man who would respect her, who would see her as more than a womb to be filled with seed and babes. He had a dragon; he had been to war.

She would wed Laenor as her father should have wed Laena.

“We’re going back to King’s Landing.” Rhaenyra announced, turning to face the gory scene upon her.

“Princess? We’re due in Bitterbridge in three days.” Criston said, stepping in front of her. “Don’t look.”

“It is blood and death, Targaryens are no stranger to it.” Rhaenyra huffed. “I thank you and yours for your hospitality, Lord Boremund. The time within your halls has been an enlightening experience.”

“We are honoured to provide, Princess.” Lord Boremund said with a dip of his head. “Shall I send word to the harbour?”

“No need, my Lord. Syrax will enjoy the flight.”

“Princess, you cannot mean to fly your dragon all the way back to the Keep.” Criston pleaded.

“I do.” Rhaenyra stated. “She’ll make quicker work of it than the ship will.”

**

Rhaenyra returned to the capital with a dragon’s snarl. She circled the Red Keep thrice before Syrax ascended and stretched her wings across the city. Finally, Rhaenyra landed her within just outside of the dragon pit. She dismounted her dragon, and pressed a loving forehead against Syrax’s throat, and the she-dragon all but purred as she bent her neck around to stare at Rhaenyra.

There was no bond in the world like one between a cradle-hatched dragon and its first rider, especially for the first egg and the first babe to be born after the passing of Balerion the Black Dread.

For a moment they seemed to just exist together, two threads of the same string, gilded ivory, crimson and onyx, curled about. Syrax huffed, brought her head down closer and the heat of her scales seeped through the air.

“My soul, my blood, my hearth.” Rhaenyra whispered. “We will keep the hatchlings safe, see them fly high and hunting as we do. We will rule the skies and the land, and with Laenor and Laena, the seas too.”

Syrax purred, the pressed her snout to Rhaenyra’s head, and when the Princess pulled back after a long, harmonious moment, her dragon was all but smiling. In the blue of her eyes, the sky burned bright and clear, theirs to take and rule.

“We were not expecting you back so soon, Princess.” The dragonkeeper announced, staff at the ready. “Is all well?”

“Indeed it is, elder. Syrax and I missed the hearth is all.” Rhaenyra patted her dragon’s wing. “Do not chain her, she will do no harm to the livestock or the smallfolk.”

The dragonkeeper bowed his head again. If Rhaenyra, who was a dragon in the flesh and bone of man, would not be shackled, then neither would her blood. She watched Syrax lumber about, used to the motions of returning to the dark, smoky caverns beneath the pit and smiled when Syrax looked back at her one final time, love and devotion brimming in the skylight of her eyes. They were born together, grew together, but Rhaenyra hoped they would never die together.

Rhaenyra turned and waited; knew her father would send somebody to collect her. She had a feeling he would be furious that she had absconded from the tour, having only done half of it, but Rhaenyra had seen enough. None of those men would be what she wished, none of them would be what she needed. They were all grasping for power that was hers and hers alone, and she was a dragon, she did not give easily.

But if she were to wed Laenor, the rift between the two ancient houses of Old Valyria would be mended. Perhaps it would be enough to get Laena to come to court, and for some terribly tragic passing to befall upon the Sea Lord’s son since Laena had no want or wish to marry him, and in her letters had said that he’d been a boring, gambling, feckless idiot who her mother despised.

Why Laena had not just fed him to Vhagar as Rhaena did her own husband was lost on Rhaenyra. Vhagar was the oldest and greatest of the surviving dragons, it would hardly be the first time she snacked upon human flesh.

“Princess Rhaenyra.” Ser Gwayne smiled from atop his horse; Rhaenyra’s own beside him. “Your father bid me to greet you upon your return to the city.”

“Did you join the Kingsguard while I was away, Ser?” Rhaenyra inquired. “Surely my father does not leave only you to protect me.”

“I take offence to your lack of faith, Princess.” Gwayne huffed. “I would look terrible in white.”

“Blue always was your colour.” Rhaenyra hummed, mounted her horse and grinned. “Tell me of the Keep while I’ve been away?”

“Do you take me for a gossip?”

“Yes.”

Gwayne shook his head in amusement and began to weave his stories. Weddings. Quarrels. Stories of Rhaenyra herself that had returned to the Keep long before she had. Mostly, however, he spoke about Aegon, and little Helaena who was not so little anymore. That both delighted and saddened Rhaenyra, to have missed much of the same early growth with Helaena as she had with Aegon.

It disheartened her to know that her sister was a fussy babe, that she did not no easy comfort. At the look of concern, entrached deeply in the fear that these babes could be taken from her in the way her brothers and sisters had been, Gwayne offered her a consoling smile.

The maesters had assured everybody that Helaena was healthy, that in time Helaena would simply grow out of it as most children did. Rhaenyra could not defend them from sickness, even that was beyond her, but as she looked at Gwayne, the pair of them riding side by side in the face of the smallfolk who bowed and watched, she thought that perhaps he would grant her something.

Something her father would surely refuse her, even though he refused her nothing in life. Something that Criston too, had refused, too horrified to ever speak of it again.

“Would you do something for me, Gwayne?” Rhaenyra asked, amethyst gaze flicking toward him as the Red Keep loomed.

“If I can.” Gwayne shrugged. “If I cannot, I’ll find someone who can. Is there a suitor you need removed, Princess? Or Cole?”

“Nothing so extreme, and Ser Criston is a good man, kind.” Rhaenyra snorted. “I wish to learn to defend myself with a sword.”

“You want me to teach you swordplay?” Gwayne questioned incredulously. “Your father would have my head if I so much as scratched you, and my father would have mine for even considering the notion.”

“But you will consider it?” Rhaenyra wondered. “You’re the only one who would do it. Ser Criston told me it was unseemly for a woman to bear arms, as though Rhaenys and Visenya did not conquer. It was Visenya who founded the Kingsguard, and yet he thinks the idea unnatural. Why, in the North the women are taught to fight too.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Gwayne promised. “The months away suited you well, Princess, it’s good to see you happy again.”

Rhaenyra’s lips twitched as she supressed a smile, riding beneath the gates of the Red Keep. Gwayne jerked his head toward the castle proper and Rhaenyra fingered her horse’s onyx mane before she departed. As much as she wanted to, she knew she could not just go to the nursery, no, Rhaenyra had to face her father first.

He had spent so long treating her as he little girl, it was time he saw her as his heir. As the Princess of Dragonstone. As a dragonrider.

She found him alone, in the small council chamber. Her father was seated at the head of the table as he always was, the Hand at his wide. Rhaenyra offered them both a smile, watched and moved with a fluid grace across the room to seat herself to her father’s left. He snorted out a sardonic sound as her disregard, but it was still tinged with fond exacerbation.

Otto Hightower’s nose scrunched imperceptibly, but nothing was imperceptive to the Lords of the Sky, for they were the greatest of hunters.

“You have returned early, Princess. The Reach, West and North will be saddened, I am sure.” Otto hummed.

“Perhaps. But I will not find what I require there.” Rhaenyra said. “The people of the realm were most delightful, father. They opened their halls with warmth, and I thank you for allowing me the opportunity to see the people I would one day govern.”

“And where is you escort?” Viserys demanded.

“Shipbreaker’s Bay, I presume. I believe I’ve found my husband, my King, if you would agree to the match.” Rhaenyra returned fingers clasped atop one another on the table and the anger, the fear, fled from her father's face.

“And who might this man be, Princess?” Otto probed.

“Ser Laenor Velaryon.” Rhaenyra replied, glaring at the Hand. “Ser Laenor is good and kind, and we know each other well, Laena is one of my dearest friends besides. I will fulfil my duty to the realm, mend the rift that has occurred not only recently, but by the Great Council, and reinvite the Velaryon's to court, once they prove victorious in the Stepstones.”

“They have already done so.” Viserys murmured, staring at his daughter. “Caraxes was sighted off Driftmark. I have no doubt Daemon will reappear again.”

“Is this not his home, father?” Rhaenyra questioned darkly. “With you and I, with the babes? We were not made to be alone.”

“Your defence of Daemon is admirable, but unneeded. He is… Daemon.” Viserys sighed.

“And your brother still.” Rhaenyra hissed, her High Valyrian curling and sibilant. “Should I send Aegon away in the future if he were to vex me? Or sweet Helaena?”

“Calm yourself, child.” Viserys rebuked with a huffed, his jaw twitching. “I see your months away did little to lessen your fires. I am glad for it, and glad that you enjoyed yourself. We will send word to Driftmark once the council has been informed.”

“Your Grace.” Otto interrupted smoothly and with a smile. “Perhaps it would not be wise at the present time. It would be seen as a reward for the seditious behaviour of house Velaryon.”

“Sedition?” Rhaenyra scoffed. “There was no sedition, ser. No action was taken against the King or the Crown, only the defence of the realm. No longer will people fear being stolen to pleasure dens, held for ransom and brutalised.”

“It is not so simple, Princess.” Otto demurred.

“And why is that ser? Because I know naught of war? You have seen as many battles as I.” Rhaenyra replied waspishly. “Or is it because I am a woman? The women in my line have been strong, fierce, warriors.”

“I meant no disrespect, Princess.” Otto hung his head in faux shame. “You are just young. I seek to protect you from the horrors of the world in the same way I would protect mine own daughter.”

Didn’t stop you from shoving her in front of my father when she was ten and five, did it? It didn’t stop you from parading her about in her mother’s dresses when she had died not even a year before. Where were you, Otto, in those times when you daughter laid her head upon my shoulder and cried until she had no more tears left.

“Dragons need not be protected, Lord Hand.” Rhaenyra said, her eyes flicking to her father. “I have made my choice, my King. I would wed Laenor.”

“There is the other matter about Ser Laenor.” Otto reminded. “Of his preferences.”

Rhaenyra, despite having not seen or spoken to her cousin in neigh on four years, felt her restraint slipping at the way Otto’s voice oozed saccharine poison. Rhaenyra cared not if Laenor found his companionship in men, cared not in the least. It would leave her to pursue her own interests if they could come to an agreement.

She promptly ignored the face that flashed in her mind, blue eyes bright and half-lipped smirk beautiful. She ignored the silver hair and lilac eyes that followed. She could never have them

“Rumours set against the heir to the richest house in Westeros.” Rhaenyra returned, unyielding as Valyrian steel. “Laenor is our blood, father, our kin. For three years he has fought, and won, if you tell me the truth. But I ask, what knowledge would the Hand have of seditious war camps when he himself has not left the capital?”

Viserys inclined his head in agreement, turned to look upon his Hand whose jaw had tightened. It was then Otto Hightower realised he had made a mistake, a terrible mistake that could never be rectified. He had thought Rhaenyra Alicent, a good girl who would do as her father bid, who would realise the natural order of things and have her claim set aside in favour of Aegon’s as Hobert wished…

He had forgotten she was a dragon.

He bowed his head deeply, apologised for his misaligned gossip and Rhaenyra only huffed. She looked to her father then, and he nodded sharply once and allowed her leave. Rhaenyra, uncaring that she smelled of the skies and dragon, made her way to the nursery, wished to lay eyes upon her brother and sister for the first time in months.

She found them easily enough. A nursemaid was rocking a crying Helaena, and Aegon was alone on the mat, a tower of blocks before him. Rhaenyra stalked them quietly, watching for a moment and then in a single movement she was before Aegon’s tower and on his knees.

“Nyra.” The child shouted, flung himself over the toys and latched into Rhaenyra’s throat like a starved lamprey. “Home. Muma home.”

“My sweet Egg.” Rhaenyra murmured, clutched him close and kissed his head. “My sweet brother. I have missed you.”

“Sad? Missed you.”

Rhaenyra straightened herself, curled Aegon on her lap and beckoned for the still crying Helaena. The nursemaid handed the abbe over with great care, and Rhaenyra was glad that even though she was frustrated that she could not soothe Helaena, she did not treat her sister any differently for it.

If she had, she never would have been seen again.

Rhaenyra settled Helaena in the crook of her arm, swayed back and forth as she hummed. She bid Aegon to look in the pocket of her travelling cloak, and the boy all but squealed as he pulled his carved Syrax free. He curled his fingers around it, leaned up and pressed a kiss to Rhaenyra’s cheek before he ducked back down again, embarrassed.

Rhaenyra only shook her head, spread her arm wide, and held both children beneath dragon’s wing as she murmured stories of their travels, of the presents that waited them both on her ship. No present, however, could compare to the roaring fires that burned knowing their sister had been returned to them.

It was how Alicent found them later, Helaena sleeping, soothed and silent in her sister’s arms, Aegon coiled about Rhaenyra, languid and sleepy. Alicent watched for a moment, bitterness rising within her, for why did her babes settle or their sister and not their mother? What did Rhaenyra possess that Alicent did not? Rhaenyra could have what she wanted, and she wanted Alicent's children.

It wasn’t fair.

“I am glad to see you returned, Rhaenyra.” Alicent said, though the Princess did not startle, knowing Alicent was there by her scent alone. "I hope your travels went well."

“I am glad to be home.” Rhaenyra murmured, her eyes on the babes and the babes alone. 

I have found us another dragon, little loves, one who will defend us until the last. Laenor is good and kind, and though he will not love you as I do, he will love you because I do. You’ll want for nothing, need for nothing, for you will have me, and you will have your uncle.

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.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, strode toward the throne room with her spine straightened and her head held high. Behind her trailed Ser Erryk, a fine knight of the Kingsguard who, while not as chatty as Criston was, had a delightful wit. He was the anthesis of her, shrouded in white and silver, whereas Rhaenyra was draped in shadows and blood. Her hair was braided in an intricate design, and placed within them were pins topped with clusters of pearls and obsidian. Across her shoulders was draped a cape of liquid darkness, and around her throat was the necklace Daemon had gifted her so many years ago.

And in her arms was Prince Aegon Targaryen who would not be separated from her because it was their time. Her little brother was quite the dragon, possessive. Rhaenyra loved it. she carried him through the halls, followed the score of nobles in the court who murmured at the sight of the Princess and the Prince.

One is never far behind the other, they said, it’s like Aemon and Baelon come again.

Rhaenyra only smiled at them, bid Aegon to wave brightly before he ducked his head back into her shoulder. He was such a shy baby, but Rhaenyra had no doubts that he would grow out of it, for he was quite the charmer when he wanted to be. Rhaenyra had more than one piece of cake stolen from her because those soulful lilac eyes.

Entering the throne room was odd. Her father was already there, crown affixed upon his head, but he looked tired. Rhaenyra knew he hadn’t been sleeping well, that the sickness that plagued him was robbing him of his life and fires, and it would eventually leave Viserys Targaryen as little more than a smouldering ember that would be extinguished with a single breath.

Rhaenyra took her place to his right, just before the throne. People were still walking in, Aegon had grown quiet, and even though he was had recently turned three, he did not wish to stand, to hold her hand like he so often did when they walked. No, Aegon liked to be held close to the fires of her heart.

“Perhaps the Prince should not be here.” Otto murmured.

“Daemon will do not harm to his blood.” Rhaenyra said, laying her head upon Aegon’s silver hair. “It had been four years, Lord Hand, perhaps it is time to put aside your petty grievances since your daughter is Daemon’s good-sister.”

“Muma.” Aegon hummed. “Peach?”

“Later, sweetling.” Rhaenyra cooed. “And we will see the tapestries and I’ll tell you stories of our home.”

Otto regarded her coldly once she said that. She could understand it to an extent, but if she wanted to teach her brothers and sisters about the magic in their blood, the fires that both soothed and destroyed them, she would. Alicent would no doubt teach them the stories of her house, but she did not know Valyrian lullabies and dragon song, did not understand that the babes born of her womb were different.

Did not understand that blood of the dragon was not just a saying, that fire and blood were more than just words. They could learn, or they could not, but what Rhaenyra would not allow them to do would be smother the flames in her siblings’ blood.

They would be fierce dragons when they grew, Rhaenyra knew, for she had decided upon it. And like her father, she did not change her mind. Her father offered her a smile, sweet and gentle, for Viserys’ heart was both overjoyed and mournful as he watched her with her brother.

Viserys hated the part of him that wished they’d been Aemma’s babes.

The people had come to a stand, and then Rhaenyra, her father and her brother were besieged by white cloaks. Viserys had Blackfyre in his hand, was leaning on it as he watched and waited. Rhaenyra tightened her hold on Aegon who wriggled, and she felt Daemon long before she saw him.

He walked in without a care in the world, without a care for the crown of sticks upon his head. He had grown even more beautiful I the years he’d been gone, his silver hair cut short, draped over his forehead like luminous starlight. Daemon had always been proud, had always been arrogant, had always been a dragon. He took what he wanted, and he wanted Viserys’ attention no matter what.

Rhaenyra scoffed, held her head high and met Daemon’s questioning gaze as he walked along the centre aisle of the throne room, the court murmuring and whispering t one another that the Rogue Prince had indeed returned.

Daemon simply wondered where Rhaenyra had stolen a fucking child from.

Daemon advanced slowly, like a hunter stalking his prey. Ser Harrold unsheathed his sword, held it out and stopped Daemon from coming closer. He threw an axe down and Rhaenyra shushed Aegon when he made a discomfited noise.

“Melt it down it and add it to the chair.” Daemon announced proudly, his voice dripping with delight.

“You wear a crown.” Viserys noted, and even though Rhaenyra;’s attention was split between Aegon and Daemon, she could feel the frustration, the anger and, perhaps, most importantly relief. “Do you also call yourself King?”

“Once we smashed the Triarchy they named me King of the Narrow Sea.” Daemon informed, his head dipped, but his eyes calculating, cutting in the face of his brother’s gaze. “But I know there is only one true King, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra watched as Daemon offered up his crown, as he fell to his knees before his King. A part of Rhaenyra delighted in the twisted warning he had left, but another part of her was more intently focused on the way Otto skulked about. Her father walked toward Daemon, and then he was on his feet, his head bowed against Viserys’ shoulder, and he was cupping his hand at the back of Daemon’s back.

“It is good to see you hale and hearty, uncle.” Rhaenyra said as she too followed her father. “I had wondered what had happened to you after three years of silence.”

Daemon snorted, his eyes crinkling. “Ink is sparse in a war camp, Rhaenyra. How did you come by a child?”

“Aegon, your nephew.” Viserys muttered. “Say hello, Aegon.”

Aegon offered Daemon a smile and a wave, but Daemon seemed unimpressed. Rhaenyra had a feeling it would happen, his hatred of Otto Hightower transcended rationality, but if it he dared speak a word against the babes, the self-control Rhaenyra had would be lost.

“Did you steal a babe, Rhaenyra?” Daemon inquired with a humourous lit.

“It is hardly stealing when he begs me to take him.” Rhaenyra huffed. “Should we go to the gardens, father? For the exhibit.”

“A most excellent idea, most of the court will no doubt be there.” Viserys agreed, and he held out his hand. “Come along, Aegon.”

Aegon puffed against her, eyes pleasing but Rhaenyra shook her head and pressed a kiss to his temple before she had him standing. Aegon pouted but quickly went to his father with a promise of sweet cake. Daemon and Rhaenyra were silent, and for a long moment it seemed as though it was just the two of the, in the universe.

For a moment, before the Iron Throne before they followed the masses, the raging fires of chaos within them met, curled around each other in strands of carmine and onyx, ivory and gold. The fires settled, did not rage, and Rhaenyra smiled up at Daemon who only shook his head fondly.

Then, in the gardens they were joined by Alicent and Gwayne was lingering about, and Aegon, who had been looking at the flowers, had turned and ran to his uncle with a delighted shriek. Gwayne caught him easily, and Rhaenyra turned to Daemon then, secluded beneath the trees, wine in hand.

“I saw a ship.” Daemon commented lightly. “I thought you would have been on it.”

“I flew home from Storm’s End.” Rhaenyra said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “None of the men would suit so I decided to not waste my time.”

“Shall you just play nursemaid then?” Daemon jibed. “The Spinster Queen, that’s how the histories will remember you.”

“I have decided already upon a husband.” Rhaenyra said with a show of teeth. “I’m sure you know him well.”

“Laenor? Fucking Hells.” Daemon scoffed, reached out to thumb the necklace around her throat. “You still wear it.”

“Of course I do, you gave it to me.” Rhaenyra reminded. “And there is nothing wrong with Laenor.”

“I’m sure his paramour would say something different.” Daemon murmured.

“He can keep him. I don’t expect love, only respect. The men I have seen, who wished to wed me, would see me shackled to the birthing bed, see me tamed. I will not be my mother, or my grandmothers.”  Rhaenyra drawled, High Valyrian like liquid fire on her tongue.

“So cynical.” Daemon hummed. “You have grown fierce these past few years, Princess.”

Princess. Daemon only ever called Rhaenyra Princess when he wanted to get a rise out of her, when he wanted to poke and prod and tease and jape. She wondered if there was still a lingering scar upon Daemon’s heart caused by his banishment. It was odd to have him so close after so long. She wanted to reach out and smooth the bunched fabric of his vermillion tunic, but she could not do that.

But oh how she wanted. Rhaenyra turned to an easier topic then.

“He will be a fine husband, of this, I am sure. He’s a dragon rider, and it will bring the Velaryons back into the fold. I’m sure Lord Corlys will delight in knowing his son will be Prince Consort, that he will have another generation of dragon riders.”

“So sure you are that your children will be dragon riders.”  Daemon huffed. “Grandsire had many, and only three claimed mounts. Half the eggs never hatch.”

“I know they will be. They are my blood; they too will soar like I will.”

“And the whelp that clung to you?”

“My brother and sister are mine, uncle.” Rhaenyra all but hissed, words striking fast like a cobra. “They are the blood of the dragon, our blood, my blood. I will see them raised right, keep them safe from all that would harm them. I will hunt for them, hold them, and carry them when they are weak. Beneath my wing, nothing will touch them, and never will they want for anything.”

Daemon smiled. It wasn’t the usual half-lipped smirk that he used, or the sardonic twitch of his lips. No, it was a real smile, true and blinding that showed his teeth, that caused his forehead’s creases to deepen and pull. Daemon was beautiful when he was happy.

“A true dragon.” He said, tipping his cup to her. “Though I am not sure how their grandsire will take it. Mayhaps the old cunt will keel over and die and do the realm a service for once in his life.”

“You hate as easily as you breath.” Rhaenyra teased.

“One of my many talents.” Daemon returned, and then his eyes flicked behind Rhaenyra, to the shrieking laughter. Rhaenyra felt Aegon long before he wrapped his arms around her. “Nephew.”

“Demon.” Aegon said brightly.

Rhaenyra laughed, high and throaty. Daemon’s eyes narrowed, but there was a playful quality to it, like the elders who nudged the young into their first flight by nipping at their tails, training them for the hunt. Rhaenyra carded her fingers through Aegon’s hair, carful not to snag any of her rings on his fine, silken strands.

“Daemon.” The Rogue Prince said with little bite. “Daemon.”

“Daemon.” Aegon repeated, tasting the name on his tongue as though it was the finest of sweet treats. “Daemon. Hug?”

“You shouldn’t hug strangers.” Daemon huffed.

Rhaenyra shot him a warning look, eyes narrowed dangerously as she settled her hand on Aegon’s shoulder. She and Daemon were embroiled in a bitter match of wills, and it only ended when Aegon tugged on Rhaenyra’s sleeve. She looked down at him, tilted her head for Rhaenyra Targaryen did not need many words to understand.

Dragons, after all, were instinctive creatures, the greatest of predators in all of the known world.

“He’s family.” Aegon whispered, or rather tried to. “Papa talks about him lots.”

“Does he now?” Daemon inquired, so very pleased by that little tidbit.

Aegon shrugged, shrunk back into Rhaenyra’s warmth as Daemon eyed him speculatively. A strange child, that one, offering hugs to strangers and then hiding behind his sister’s skirts. It would have been funny if that that sister was not Rhaenyra, especially since Syrax was somehow flying free in long, sweeping wingflaps along the Bay, Caraxes chasing after her with delighted trills and whistles.

“Muma too.” Aegon said. “What’s it?”

Rhaenyra huffed indulgently, moved to wipe the crumbs from his face. “A dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing, because we need our flock for light and love, and we are dragons. We shall never be alone.”

“An odd thing to tell a babe.” Daemon hummed; head tilted curiously. “He calls you muma. Too far to be an attempt at sister, Rhaenyra, but so close to mother.”

“I am the eldest.” Rhaenyra said as though that explained anything. “Mother, sister, guardian, protector. I am whatever they need me to be, because I will not let him poison my own flesh and blood against me because I am not in possession of a cock.”

Daemon choked on his wine. Oh, Rhaenyra had always been fiery, yes, but this as different. This was the way Syrax acted when she brough forth her first clutch of eggs six years ago, a clutch of two, one cold and the other bursting free and golden. She had let none near them save Rhaenyra for those first few weeks, until the hatchling learned how to command the fires within.

His niece was more dragon than man, her flesh perpetually warmed from the viscous flow of dragon blood in her veins. Daemon wondered if so too did her blood smoke in the same manner of Caraxes’, if it was just a touch too dark like Daemon’s was, but he never wished to see Rhaenyra bloodied.

 To do so, to have allowed that to happen, had the wine souring in his stomach.

Gods, he loved her, but he would ruin her too, he knew this. He was chaos, his flames unbridled and angry, sparking and crackling like a storm of fire. He could not subject Rhaenyra to that, not when she too had a temper, not when she was a dragon, truer than Daemon was even.

But dragons shouldn’t fight dragons, for with the destruction wrought even a victory is a loss. Balerion had torn Quicksilver apart with a single scratch. Dragons were rare, so very rare, for them to turn upon one another was a horrid thought.

But Daemon had to give Rhaenyra her dues, she wanted to keep her throne, and what better way than to kidnap and raise the main threat? It was positively twisted, the exact thing that Rhaenyra excelled at, but there was more to the world than babes and the idea of duty. Rhaenyra had passion in abundance, but she did not know the true meaning of it, sweat-slick skin and carrying moans. She deserved to know life.

She needed to learn that just because it was her duty it did not mean it had to be dull. Laenor, Dameon knew, had no care for the female form, wrapped up in a nauseating sweet love with one of his knights. Rhaenyra did not seem to care, and so Daemon suspected Rhaenyra had her eye on somebody to fill the void of duty with.

Daemon didn’t know who it was, for he knew it was not him, no matter how much he wished it to be, and there were few others deserving of Rhaenyra’s attention.

“Why is Ser Crispin staring at us?” Daemon inquired, leaning forward.

“He does not like you, and he thinks me the Maiden and the Mother come again.” Rhaenyra replied. “I also abandoned him in Storm’s End. He’s rather protective of my innocence as if we of blood and fire know innocence.”

Dameon snorted, agreed with her assessment. He looked over to Ser Crispin, could see clearly how the man’s jaw clenched, how his eyes flicked away furiously. Daemon stifled a laugh. Of course, Rhaenyra’s sworn shield, a member of the Kingsguard, would want her.

He’d never get her though. Rhaenyra did have taste and it was expensive. Perhaps that was why she wished to marry Laenor, the Velaryons did have quite a bit of gold and that did not even make mention of the thing that lay about High Tide, gifts to Rhaenys that no price could be put upon.

“Why did you choose Laenor?” Daemon wondered.

“My marriage was always going to be political, and at least with Laenor it will be easy. We can fly and drink and jest, reminisce about our youth. He is not a stranger to me.” Rhaenyra murmured as Aegon stole another slice of cake. “He will not see me shackled.”

“If he did, I would cut off his head.” Daemon promised. “But he is good, a terrible singer. He is like you in a way.”

“Oh? Are you implying something about me, uncle? Whatever is pretty to me is pretty.” Rhaenyra huffed.

“No. I simply meant that you both wish to appease and make your fathers’ proud. Corlys will love it, Velaryon babes on the throne.”

“My first child will ascend the throne as a Targaryen. We forged it in fire and blood, it is ours and ours alone. Any not of our blood who sit it will die a terrible death.” Rhaenyra vowed.

Daemon’s lips twitched in amusement at the vehemence in her tone. There was the dragon, claiming what was hers, what she wanted. Rhaenyra wanted the throne, true, but Daemon could see it extended beyond that, extended to the Princeling that clung to her and the abbe still in the nursery. He wondered if it would extend to whatever other babes his brother had.

He knew the answer was a resounding yes, even if it still irked him that his brother did not trust him because of that venomous leech that sucked him dry. There was nothing in the world he would not do for his family, for Rhaenyra, and there was nothing more he wanted than to take her to wife, to bind their blood upon Dragonstone’s sand.

He wanted it, and yet it was the one thing he could not take. Viserys would never annul his farce of a marriage, and he surely would not allow Daemon to take Rhaenyra to wife. No, Dameon had never been good enough for his brother despite all he did for him, he was simply a pest, an irritation and annoyance that Viserys continued to love because of the blood in their veins.

It hadn’t always been like that.

“Where’s uncle?” Aegon asked, wide eyes tired and glossy.

“I’m here.” Daemon huffed.

“Not you.” Aegon pouted.

“He means Ser Gwayne.” Rhaenyra informed.

“I didn’t mar his pretty little face too badly, did I?”

No, you did not. Gwayne is still as beautiful as ever, Rhaenyra did not say, for her uncle would surely unleash Dark Sister and then Gwayne would be gone, and Aegon loved Gwayne, Alicent found comfort having him with her, and well, Rhaenyra enjoyed his company.

He was also the only person who would teach her to use a sword and dagger, and that was reason enough to keep him alive. It had nothing to do with anything else.

“I didn’t realise you thought him pretty, uncle.” Rhaenyra teased.

“A plain sort.” Daemon shrugged. “Nothing like us in the least.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes once, finished the last of her wine and took Aegon’s hand in hers. She left Daemon there, and as she searched out Gwayne, she would feel her uncle’s questioning gaze upon her. Rhaenyra delighted in being the sole recipient of his focus for it made her blood crackle, her skin tingle. She would have Daemon look upon her like that every day if she could.

But she could not.

Rhaenyra did find Gwayne, and he was speaking to Ser Harwin and a few other knights that Rhaenyra did not know. Gwayne didn’t say anything as he took Aegon’s hand, their fingers brushing for a sparse second, and then hefted him into his arms. The new Commander of the City Watch bowed his head in deference and murmured his thanks. Rhaenyra’s eyes went back to where she and Dameon had been speaking, but her uncle was gone, and that was not surprising in the least.

Rhaenyra, did however, spy Alicent alone, seated on a stone bench with her eyes misty in the way they forever were when there were tears about them. Rhaenyra didn’t have to see them to know they were there, like it was an instinctive sense that something was wrong with one of her siblings. Like the night of the storm. There was thrum, a rush, in her blood, the sound of the young calling out to the old in defence.

Helaena, she knew, was sleeping soundly in the nursery, sweet nursemaids and Ser Arryk guarding her. And a simple glance back made sure that Aegon was fine, still in Gwayne’s adoring arms. Her father too, was fine, he and Daemon teasing and joking as through the last four years had not existed. There was no one else that would cause such a surge, nothing else that would Rhaenyra’s already other senses honed and hunting. Unless…

Alicent was pregnant. Not far along if the park was anything to go by, but even something so small was already fierce. Another of one Rhaenyra’s hatchlings were waiting to burst fourth from its confines, would be born with a squeak and a hiss.

Another one.

Rhaenyra stalked across the gardens, smiling sweetly and disarmingly at all those who wished to have a moment of her time. None of them wanted anything of substance, just to impart many happy returns since she had been away for so long.  None of them knew about the intended wedding with Laenor, nobody by the small council and Daemon did.

It wouldn’t have surprised her of Alicent knew, if Gwayne did, but neither of them had made mention of it, and Rhaenyra would not until one of them did. It was no business of theirs who she was to be wed to.

“Oh, hello, Rhaenyra.” Alicent greeted.

“You don’t seem to be in celebratory spirits.” Rhaenyra murmured.

“I have been tired of late.” Alicent said. “The children have been full of unrest since you left us.”

“I am sorry to have caused them such discomfort.” Rhaenyra admitted. “Though my ship had arrived, I believe the wares I found for them will soothe them both.”

“You spoil them.” Alicent snorted.

“They are dragons, we’ve an eye for pretty things.” Rhaenyra shrugged. “Do you know?”

“Know what?” Alicent’s head tilted, her auburn hair glinting in the sunlight.

“You should speak with the maester.” Rhaenyra said in lieu of a firm answer. “You smell like you did with Aegon, with Helaena. Sweeter, like sunlight in the thinnest of air.”

“Oh.” Alicent worried at her nails. “I’m sure His Grace will be very pleased. First you return to us, and now this boon. The Gods smile upon us it seems.”

Rhaenyra nodded, and the silence between them fell tense, awkward again. It was strange to be near one another without the children as a buffer, and the tiny little thing in Alicent’s womb did not count. Alicent, shackled with crystal chains, who once arrived in King’s Landing had never left save once, inquired about the tour, about the suitors.

Rhaenyra sang her tales, easy as it as. She’d never believed the tour was simply to find a husband, had somehow always known that she would never find one in the mass of men gathered and vying for her hand.

“I think it sounds rather romantic.” Alicent confessed, still wishing for the days she believed in love and knights and songs.

“Perhaps it would have been if they wanted me.” Rhaenyra hummed. “But no, they want my name, my blood and our dragons, no more and no less. Is it truly so horrid of me to expect respect?”

“At least the men seemed to remember you are heir.” Alicent reminded with a teasing huff. “Silly of Lord Jason to forget.”

“I’d quicker marry a fish.” Rhaenyra snorted.

“Have you come any closer to deciding?” Alicent asked. “I could help… if you’d like?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Rhaenyra said. “Father knows, has given me leave to create my own terms. I’m sure it will be announced in the coming days.”

“That was kind of him.” Alicent murmured. “Are you going to keep me in suspense?”

“Hardly.” Rhaenyra shook her head. “I just thought either my father or your father would have made mention of it. I came to the conclusion in Storm’s End, it’s why I flew back myself. Though I do not believe Ser Criston has forgiven me for abandoning him to the tender mercies of the sea.”

“I’m sure he was just concerned for you.” Alicent smiled. “Storm’s End is days away; none would have known if something had happened to you.”

“As if Syrax would ever let anything happen to me.” Rhaenyra scoffed.

“I am glad you’ve returned to us.” Alicent said with a gentle smile. “It has been lonely without you. I still miss the days when I was simply the Lady Alicent and not Queen… Perhaps the King is wise in his wisdom of us having a Ladies Court. It could be… fun.”

“It could be.” Rhaenyra agreed, wondering if it was time to heal the wounds of the past, of the betrayal, for the her brother and sister and the little flame that needed to be nurtured and protected.

And so the two once friends sat side by side, surrounded by the court, hoping that they could get back some semblance of what they once had. It was not to be, however, for in less than two days there were be little hope of reconciliation, and in two moons there would be nothing but venomous animosity.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra entered the small council chamber before the others, set about going to the cups and wine that lay about on the furthest table. Her father was seated alone, even Otto Hightower, his ever-present venomous shadow, was nowhere to be seen. Rhaenyra offered him a small, tentative smile, and Viserys only nodded his head, as though he had decided something, decided that this was the correct time to announce it.

That was when Rhaenyra noticed another chair.

It did not bode well, in truth, for Rhaenyra knew nothing about her father’s current conundrums. Rhaenyra poured him a glass of wine, placed it before him and waited for her father to speak. For a long time, he did not, for he simply fingered the stem of the wineglass.

“It is yours.” Viserys said. “You said you wished to be listened too, my heir, and so you shall.”

“You honour me, father.” Rhaenyra murmured. “May I?”

“It is the seat for the Princess of Dragonstone.” Viserys affirmed. “The third most powerful on this council save mine own and that of the Lord Hand’s. Fourth in the realm after the Iron Throne, I give this burden to you, my daughter, because I know you can shoulder it.”

So, Rhaenyra sat in the chair, curled her fingers around the dragonhead armrests fashioned of black wood. Before it was one of only two chairs upon the left side of the table, and before it was one of the milkstone carved plates. Her father watched her keenly as she reached over, as she fingered though the marbles and took in hand the one that had not been there three days before.

It was the amethyst to her father’s ivory, set apart from the obsidian of the rest with ease.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked from the ball in her hand to her father’s face and she slowly sat down and placed it atop the plate with a clack, her eyes never once leaving her father’s. With a graceful fluidity that both tempered and irritated the ache from Gwayne’s lessons, Rhaenyra sat with her head held high, her back straight and her eyes keen.

Then the other lords entered. There was stunned silence, and Rhaenyra had to supress her smile as Otto Hightower took his seat to her right, for Rhaenyra was the closest to the King. It was obvious that her father had planned this, but it was obvious too that he had not informed his council even in secret.

The length of the table across from her was rather full, since Lord Tyland had not been granted the same honour as Lord Corlys had been, and so the far end of the table remained empty. Rhaenyra wondered if she could soothe his pride, if she could get him to return to King’s Landing and stay.

She trusted Lord Corlys’ ambition far more than she’d ever trust Tyland Lannister.

“Princess Rhaenyra has taken her place at this table; no longer will she be serving cups.” Viserys announced. “She is my heir, now and always, and her voice shall be heard in the same way my grandsire listened to Prince Aemon, as he did to my father.”

“A most excellent decision, Your Grace.” Lord Beesbury said with a respectful bow of his head. “I for one, am delighted to hear the Princess’ insights on court matters.”

“It is a boon indeed.” Otto added with a smile.

One meant their words and the other didn’t, but Rhaenyra did not truly care for Otto Hightower in the least. Hopefully he’d fall down a flight of stairs and break his neck, and if he needed a little push well Rhaenyra would gladly provide it for him.

For most of the council session there was little she could say, and so she did not. She would not appear a fool on the first, and so she listened, and she watched. Grandmaester Mellos thumbed at his links when he found somebody’s words to be disagreeing, but he always held his tongue. Lord Beesbury was longwinded with his words, but his mind was still quick and sharp. Lord Tyland always seemed to drink two swallows of wine when he found something amusing.

These were all things Rhaenyra had noticed over the years, and yet sitting at the table they seemed so much more. Lord Strong’s advice was the only one truly unmarred by self-interest, and he was the only man at the table that sought what was best for the realm. As the Master of Laws, he knew better than anybody that the King’s word was law, and that tradition was not law.

And so Rhaenyra listened as they returned reports of lawlessness from the fringes, the grain tithes from the lords paramount and vassal, as they spoke of courtly business. Rhaenyra listened to it all, noted it down in her mind, words to be written out later to see if she could, perhaps, understand why and treat the problem at root cause rather than just treat the symptoms of the rot.

Then they ended up on the topic of her betrothal once again. Otto was still against it and even Rhaenyra could scent the blood in the water. The Lord Hand hid it well, did not wish to be seen to reward the Velaryons for their unsanctioned war, but it was difficult to lie to a dragon. Their senses saw all. He simply did not wish to see Rhaenyra allied with the second most powerful house in the realm, the richest house in the realm, for it would no doubt cause that odious viper issues as he tried to push for Aegon’s ascent.

But Otto had not seemed to realise that Aegon was hers. That Helaena was hers. That the tiny little ember in Alicent’s womb was hers. The blood of the dragon was thick, viscous, like the fires of the earth that saw it move, like the fires that engulfed Old Valyria. Fires that Rhaenyra herself possessed, fires that bowed to her whim and want for she only ever sought to see them flush and grow and consume.

As Lord Tyland spoke, Rhaenyra met Otto’s gaze and the smile she gifted him was more Syrax than herself, though none could really tell where one began and the other ended. Entwined as they were, hatchling and babe, rider and mount, Rhaenyra was her first, and so they were the same. Dragon senses could not be lied to and yet Otto tried.

It simply proved Rhaenyra’s point that her father had not been a dragon in a long time, that he too now came beneath her wing for she would need to hunt and protect him as she did for Aegon and Helaena, and the babe within Alicent.

“It seems we have traded a Crabfeeder for a Sea Snake.” Lord Tyland accused.

“The business with Laena was years ago.” Viserys dismissed. “With Rhaenyra’s match with Ser Laenor all will be well.”

“If that were the case, Your Grace.” Otto began.

“What?” Viserys demanded.

“My brother writes most concerning news from Oldtown, Your Grace.” Otto continued. “Lady Laena is engaged to the son of the Sea Lord of Braavos. Such a match would enter Lord Corlys into an alliance with the Free Cities and if that were the case, Your Grace, we would have to seek our own with Volantis.”

Eyes flicked to Rhaenyra, but she did not cow in the face of them, oh no, she welcomed them for what she was about to do. She let the moment linger, reached forward for the wine before her that went untouched, took a long drag, looked to her father who nodded and then honed in on Otto Hightower as though he was the juiciest of lambs served up to Syrax.

Rhaenyra Targaryen could only laugh in the face of Otto’s confusion.

“Your brother is out of date on his information, Lord Hand.” Rhaenyra said blithely.

“Is he indeed, Princess?” Otto questioned waspishly.

“He is.” Rhaenyra concluded. “Laena had been engaged to the Sea Lord’s son since my father spurred house Velaryon in favour of your daughter. There is no consequence of it.”

“Is there not?” Lord Strong inquired.

“Indeed not. In the years Lord Corlys has been gone, the Sea Lord’s son had lived upon Driftmark, and neither Lady Laena, nor Princess Rhaenys, are predisposed to his honied words. Not when he gambles what his father has as though it were his own.” Rhaenyra said clearly. “The wedding will not go ahead. There is no alliance to fear, not when Lord Corlys’ ambition will be satiated with his name upon the throne, and another generation of dragon riders as his heirs.”

Silence reigned as she expected it to. Lord Strong raised his goblet to her with a nod before he took a long drink. Lord Beesbury was nodded, agreeing with her words. Even the Grandmaester appeared satisfied with such an explanation. Laena was the crown jewel of the Velaryons, Vhagar’s rider. They would not let some lickspittles have her, not when they could claim all he had for themselves.

And if they dared, Rhaenyra would reach for her cousin and take her beneath her wing as she did her brother and sister and father, as she would have taken Alicent. As she would take Gwayne, and the Strongs and the Beesburys for they believed in her.

Daemon needed no such allowances, for he himself was dragon enough to defend and destroy.

“That is rather insightful.” Mellos agreed, blinking.

“I did not know you were still in contact with your Velaryon cousins.” Otto hummed.

“Lady Laena is my kin, my blood and my friend.” Rhaenyra reminded. “She didn’t care one whit about marrying my father, Lord Hand, no Laena cared only for Vhagar, and now that she has her, she’s rather content to fly.”

“Perhaps you can fly ahead to Driftmark.” Viserys mused. “Once we receive word back from Lord Corlys. Renew the bonds of kinship with your cousins.”

“I would be delighted to do so, father.” Rhaenyra smiled.

The council meeting did not go on much longer, not that it was surprising in the least. Over the years Rhaenyra had found that there was usually little substance to it for there were scarcely problems. Her father’s reign had been good and just and perhaps most importantly easy. It was punctuated by feasts and balls, or rather it had been when her mother had been Queen, but Aemma’s death loomed like a shadow not only over the royal family, but the realm as a whole.

Rhaenyra would see to her mother’s wishes. She would let the realm see her as she wished for them to, and there was no better way that to see to the needs of the people. See them fed and they would be content, give them the idea of law and order and they would not try to challenge it because when the realm suffered none suffered more than the small folk.

Rhaenyra’s great grandsire had built roads, her great grandmother water wells. Rhaenyra too, would do something lasting, something that would stand long after she was gone. She didn’t know what it would be, but it would be something.

Rhaenyra had plans, but she did not yet have the respect, or the voice needed that would see her heard. It would come in time, and at the moment, Rhaenyra had time enough to spare. It would not always be the way, she knew, not when her father would steadily grow sicker and sicker until his fire had been snuffed out completely.

It could be ten weeks or ten years, but her father would die, Rhaenyra knew that. The idea of it made her stomach twist, but death was the truth of life, the only thing promised. Everything else was uncertain, and uncertainty bred discontent and discontent bred war.

The histories had all been clear on that.

“You look contemplative, Princess.” Criston, forever at her back since he had returned said. “Does something trouble you?”

“Not in the least.” Rhaenyra dismissed with a smile. “My father gave me full seat on the council, to prepare me further for my duties.”

“Congratulations.” Criston smiled, and it was such a sweet thing, saccharine and pure. “Your voice will be sweet, fair temperance in all things.”

“I am grateful for your faith.” Rhaenyra huffed. “Now if only the rest of the realm learned the same thing.”

“It will come.” Criston grinned.

If it doesn’t, I shall make it. The only way I do not sit the Iron Throne is if my father changes his mind, and he wouldn’t do that. Many things he is, but a liar is not one of them, not to me anyway.

Rhaenyra, as she often did, found herself in the royal nursery. Aegon was lounging languidly in Gwayne’s arms as Helaena shrieked and shrieked and shrieked in Alicent’s. The girl was frazzled, tired, as though she had been pacing back and forth before the window for hours.

Helaena didn’t like the window.

“Sit.” Rhaenyra urged; fingers curled around Alicent’s shoulder gently. “Take a moment. She’s a dragon, Alicent, she can sense you’re upset, and so she is upset. May I?”

Alicent nodded, and then Rhaenyra had an armful of her baby sister. She shuffled Helaena about, moved her away from the window with quiet, humming, coos and nodded as Alicent sat down. Rhaenyra didn’t know if she’d gone to the maester, but here, with Aegon and Helaena, and Rhaenyra, it was so very obvious that there was indeed another babe in her womb.

Alicent looked at her, eyes glassy and Rhaenyra felt sympathy twinge within her. It wasn’t Alicent’s fault that she was a child raising children, and it did not help that Rhaenyra’s brother and sister were not simply babes, but hatchlings. Their dragon blood was thick, and Rhaenyra hoped she never saw a single pearl of it.

“Thank you.” Alicent murmured, worrying at her rings. “The both of you. If it were not for you, I would have lost my mind.”

“You’re doing your best.” Gwayne soothed. “Was Aegon this fussy?”

“No.” Alicent shook her head, hair spilling. “Helaena, just, will not settle.”

“She doesn’t like the windows.” Rhaenyra reminded softly.

“I forgot.” Alicent said despairingly. “Aegon always did I just…”

“It’s alright.” Rhaenyra smiled, settling a silent Helaena back into her mother’s arms. “Did they bring up the chest?”

“They did.” Alicent said. “I knew you’d come here after the council meeting; we’ve not opened it yet.”

“Shall we?”

Alicent nodded, and she offered Rhaenyra a grateful, soft smile. She pointed to the chest in the corner of the room, heavy wood inlaid with bronze, and suddenly Rhaenyra had an excited Aegon staring up at her, his fingers curled around hers as he blinked.

Those eyes held a power over Rhaenyra that she would never be free from, a power she never wished to be freed from.

Rhaenyra settled herself on the floor before the fire when Gwayne so kindly dragged the rather heavy chest to the centre of them all, Aegon curled around her like a kitten. Her afternoon was inter-spread with idle court gossip, rumours and the like. Rhaenyra wasn’t surprised to find most of them centred around Daemon in some form, but it had always been that way.

The Rogue Prince, Flea Bottom his very own court that he ruled with blood and steel and gold. The man who had been wed since Rhaenyra was born and yet he’d never been seen in the Vale. Daemon Targaryen, a conundrum if there was ever one, and sometimes it seemed as though it was only Rhaenyra who understood him.

With a new silver-silk blanket, Helaena, finally asleep, was returned to her crib with a kiss upon her head. Rhaenyra lingered there for a moment, pressed her hand against the scales of the dragon egg sat within the brazier pot beside it. Alicent winced, stuttered a breath, while Gwayne only looked interested, eyes fond and indulgent as Aegon stole his orange tart.

Rhaenyra only closed her eyes, for like Aegon’s egg, this one too had turned cold despite the blistering heat about it.

“They’re not going to hatch, are they?” Alicent inquired, both concerned and relieved.

“Most of them don’t.” Rhaenyra reminded. “But no, they won’t.”

“Syrax did.” Alicent prompted. “A week after you were born, wasn’t it?”

“A tenday I think.” Rhaenyra shrugged. “The only one of Silverwing’s eggs to hatch.”

“And Silverwing was a cradle-hatch, wasn’t she?” Gwayne wondered.

“She was.” Rhaenyra confirmed. “And she had her first clutch when mother was pregnant, it was her egg I picked for Baelon. It went cold, but the other one hatched a month later.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.” Alicent admitted.

You wouldn’t, Rhaenyra didn’t say as she tucked the silk about Helaena, but you can try.

The tradition was started by Rhaena, and after Silverwing and Vermithor hatched in the cradle, it had continued on. Before that, only Vhagar had been a cradle hatch if the histories were true, but that did not stop one from being a dragon rider. There were still dragons, Vermithor, Silverwing, Dreamfyre, that little golden hatchling that shone like the sun that had been Syrax’s first, but he would not be her last.

Rhaenyra knew the blood in her siblings’ veins because it was her blood. Daemon’s blood, her father’s blood. Not every Targaryen was destined for the skies, but that did not mean they were any less, did not mean the blood of the dragon was not still thick and smoking in their veins.

But Rhaenyra knew her brother and sister, and indeed the babe waiting to hatch were destined for the skies, that their mounts were already there, for if the egg did not hatch, then the dragon already flew, or they would never fly at all.

But Aegon and Helaena would fly, even if only with Rhaenyra and Syrax for the moment.

The conversation was stilted after that, Rhaenyra nursing a goblet of sweet wine in contemplative silence. She knew that they were saying, old little stories that dwelled in their minds like they were still children running through the gardens again, like Syrax was still that tiny little thing that she had been that had dwelled upon Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

Everything had changed since then, and it would never be the same, but for a moment, for an afternoon, with the children, they could pretend.

“You never did tell me who you intended to wed.” Alicent reminded with a sly smile.

Rhaenyra huffed and shook her head. “In truth I thought you’d already known.”

“She might have but I certainly don’t.” Gwayne reminded with a grin, leaning forward as though Rhaenyra’s future husband was the most interesting thing in the world.

To him, it was. if it was some lecherous old fuck that was the best choice simply because of his name, wealth or armies, Gwayne would get rid of him along before Syrax could. There was nobody in the world quite like Rhaenyra Targaryen, and if somebody tried to change a single thing about her, tried to chain her down and shackle her like a prized hound, if they ever attempted to smother the fire, they were a fool.

Dragons were fire made flesh, theirs was light eternal, and so too was Rhaenyra, for she was a dragon. Gwayne adored her for it.

“Ser Laenor.” Rhaenyra said easily.

“He is good and kind.” Alicent nodded. “He will make a fine husband for you, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra looked to Gwayne then, found him nodding with one of those smiles that had the skin around his eyes deepening, had their blue hues brightening until the resembled the crystalline waters of Tarth. She knew he would have had no other reaction, for he could not, not when he, like her, understood.

No matter the friendship, the kinship it could never have been anything else. She only found that she was glad that he did not forsake her, that he only winked and stole another orange tart and made sure that Aegon kept his chubby, chewed, thieving fingers away from it.

Rhaenyra had made the right choice. Even if she and Laenor never fell in love, even if he could love her as a husband loved his wife because his heart beloved to another he could not have in the light of day, Rhaenyra was the same.

Because she could never have Daemon nor could she have Gwayne, and yet she had them all the same.

Rhaenyra decided to never question why she thought of them both, in that moment, for it did not matter.

**

Later in the day, long after the sun had set, and Rhaenyra had returned to her rooms after leaving a laughing Gwayne by the seafront, she met Ser Criston at the foot of Maegor’s drawbridge. When he had seen her, his confusion was evident, as too was his concern that her once lavishly braided her was simple, and most worryingly of all, loose. Rhaenyra shrugged off his concern, knew that if he had even an inclination of what had happened, he’d be gone to her father…

And then Gwayne would be gone, and for some reason the idea of Gwayne leaving had an itch blooming across Rhaenyra’s skin. Gwayne who had japed and teased Rhaenyra about her wedding, who was still Gwayne and Rhaenyra hoped he always would be.

He might not have been a dragon, but Rhaenyra knew he’d let no harm come to the children, or indeed to her, and that was enough, Gwayne himself enough.

Dark as it was, night having fallen, Criston took up sentry outside of Rhaenyra’s rooms with a quiet goodnight. So kind, he was, sweet and gentle. Rhaenyra had smiled at him, done the same, and then closed the door. She didn’t even have to look around to know that somebody had been in there.

Somebody who shouldn’t have been. It was not the chest full of gifts for her brother and sister, carried to her room during the daylight hours for when she inevitable stole them away from the nursey again, that offended her senses so. It was not the bowl of steaming hot water that had been left near the fire that did it either. Nor was it meat and cheese left by the account of the Old King’s early reign.

No. it was a veritable sack, plain and unassuming, that did it. It had no place in Rhaenyra’s chambers in the least, and yet she walked over to it, to the scroll that lay beneath it. She took it, undid the twine that sealed it, and saw what could only be described as a map, clear and simple and to the point. Then she dumped out the sack…

Plain clothes in shades of grey. Nothing noteworthy, the perfect thing if one wanted to see but go unseen. There was only one person who would have gone through this much effort, who would have been theatrical.

Rhaenyra huffed, shook her head. She wolfed down the meat and cheese, finished it off with the sweet wine she had left, and once again changed her clothes. Her sliver hair, the very same hair that would have her recognised with a single glance, was braided simply, tied and pinned up so it was hidden completely by the hat.

If Daemon wanted to bring her drinking under the nose of her father and the Keep, he very well could. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her, that much, Rhaenyra was sure of. He’d had his opportunity to kill her, and though he likely wouldn’t have survived it, she’d understood the look in his eyes.

He couldn’t hurt her any more than she could hurt him. Of they could tears strips of each other free with fang and claw, but it would never last, for they would so quickly offer up a part of themselves with a curling flame to seal the wound and see the skin grow anew. They were dragons, they were heartier than men.

So, Rhaenyra did as she wished, and she wished for Daemon and whatever it was he wished to do with her. She moved her furniture, made her way into the secret passages that were supposed to be legend and her heart warmed with the endless possibilities. Later she would wander around them, lantern in her hand, and she would discover the delights of the Red Keep, would discover its secrets.

And the secrets that lived in the hearts of the residents who dwelled within its bloodied wall.

She followed the passageway, climbed the steps, found that there was already a burning torch. Rhaenyra pressed on the door, pushed it open. There, pounding against the stones, was Daemon, cloaked in shadows. He smiled at her, offered her his hand and Rhaenyra took it as she always would.

Their fingers curled together, and the itch returned, hot and biting and brilliant.

“Are you ready to see your people?” Dameon inquired.

“And here I thought you were taking me drinking to make up for all the namedays you missed.” Rhaenyra huffed.

“I still sent you presents, even from a war camp.” Daemon snorted. “Greedy thing.”

“I learned that from you.” Rhaenyra reminded.

“There will be drinking if that is what you desire.” Daemon promised. “Because the point of this is for you to learn to enjoy yourself. There is more to your life than waiting to ascend the throne, Rhaenyra, more to it than the children you’ve stolen, and certainly more than dusty old books.”

“Had a good snoop around my chambers, did you?” Rhaenyra teased.

“You were gone a long time.” Daemon hummed. “I had thought you snuck out for a nighttime flight, but you don’t smell of dragon, you smell of steel and sweat.”

“You shouldn’t lose me in the crowd, then.”

“As if I could ever lose you, Rhaenyra.”

Daemon tightened his hold upon her hand and then they were gone. King’s Landing seemed to come alight after dark, sweet, scented smoke rising from fires that cooked food, others twisted into shapes. Men and women drank merrily, fucked sloppily right there on the street without a care in the world. Tightrope walkers seemed to stand upon the air above them, twiring batons of fire and shimmering fabric.

Rhaenyra loved every moment of it.

Daemon watched her and her alone, taking in her expressions of wonderment and longing. With his free hand he reached for the flagon of wine, ripped the stopper off with his teeth before he handed it over to her with a grin. He was rewarded with one of his, Rhaenyra’s smile silver like the moon above them, fires dancing in her amethyst eyes.

He had made the right choice, bringing her to the fair. It had been far too long since Rhaenyra had looked as happy as she did now, longer still since she found life to be worth living for the simple sake of pleasure. No one paid attention to them, there were no expectations placed upon them.

They were simply Daemon and Rhaenyra, hand in hand, sharing wine and joy as freely as they shared their unyielding adoration and love for one another, no matter what form it came in. it mattered to neither of them, for the love they had, much like the blood they shared, transcended the understanding of men and god alike.

Then Rhaenyra, playful and free, smirked at Daemon, stole the wine from his hip with deft fingers and took off. Daemon’s laughter could be heard, and as she expected, he chased her. They weaved around people, and none of them cared, and Daemon was never more than half a step away from her, gave Rhaenyra the illusion of victory, but always close enough to intercede should something go bump in the night.

He'd sworn the day she’d been born that he’d never let anything happen to her, had sworn that very same vow to Viserys and Aemma both. He might have failed one, one might have failed him, but he would not allow the third to be both.

Rhaenyra did not know the streets, but she did not need to. Darkness dwelled, and everywhere led everywhere, so far away from Flea Bottom as they were. Looming she could see the dragon pit, closer still the Grand Sept. She pivoted on her foot, ducked down one of the shadowy, narrow streets, and smacked straight into a Gold Cloak.

Not just any Gold Cloak. No, it had to their Lord Commander. It had to be Ser Harwin Strong. Well, at least Rhaenyra knew she’d be fine. He regarded her oddly, tilted his head to get a better look at her as though his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Daemon turned the corner then, slow and stalking. Only then did Ser Harwin seem to relax.

“Mind yourself.” Ser Harwin said with a grin.

He was gone then, nodded at Daemon as he passed him. Rhaenyra would find out in the morning if he’d gone to his father, or worse, her own, but it wasn’t as though she’d done anything wrong. Better she snuck out with Daemon by her side, behind her, in front of her, for Daemon was everywhere, than by herself.

“You shouldn’t have run off.” Daemon scolded.

“As if you ever lost sight of me.” Rhaenyra grinned.

“I could have.” Daemon reminded. “Come on, I’ve something I want to show you.”

And so Rhaenyra took his hand again, slide closer in his embrace for it was as close as they could get. Daemon was solid against her, warm and roaring. She took a moment to look up to the skies, to the twin shadows that seemed to dance a thousand feet in the air beneath the silver rays of the moon.

Rhaenyra was glad that even if she could not have Daemon, Syrax could have Caraxes.

Then came the mummers.

Rhaenyra watched, transfixed as the pantomime played out. Once she would have scoffed, would have rolled her eyes because what did their opinions matter? But she had learned that they meant something. If the discontent had seeped from the Keep down, if they had heard it, played it for humour in their lives, then it was a problem.

And every problem had a solution if one looked hard enough.

“Do you know why I showed you this?” Daemon wondered; wine-scented breath warm against Rhaenyra’s ear.

“To prove that even the small folk think me incompetent?” Rhaenyra jibed, eyes alight with irritation. “That a cock is so very important.”

“They care for bread and blood.” Daemon said with narrowed eyes. “That is all. More bread than blood in truth, but they have nothing, will never be anything other than nothing, and so they survive with their jibes and their japes. They’re only words, true enough, but words have power.”

“You’d support me, wouldn’t you?” Rhaenyra asked. “If it came to that.”

“You’ve stolen away the threat.” Daemon snorted. “Aegon is more your son than hers, and you know that. You knew that the moment you picked him up and held him, but for some reason you deny it.”

“He’s my brother.”

“If you’d been a person, mayhaps. But you’re not.” Daemon reminded sharply. “Hide your fangs and flames and claws all you will with the people of the court, but do not do it here with me. Never with me.”

Rhaenyra grasped him closer, offered him a smile full of teeth. Daemon shook his head with a huff, reached for her with his free hand. For a split second Rhaenyra thought that maybe, finally, Daemon was going to pull her close, that he would kiss her.

For a moment, Daemon thought he would do that too, and so he stole his wine back and drained hit. Rhaenyra scowled at him, but Daemon pulled her along to the mugs of spiced, warm red wine and that was that. The moment was broken, yes, but healed in the same breath, held close to their hearts, black obsidian rocks that broke the waves in the rivers of fire that made their souls complete.

The night grew darker, the revelry too. Once the first fight broke out, Daemon pushed Rhaenyra in front of him, one hand on his blade, his other arm curled around her middle. Even if nobody knew their faces, they knew the aura, the sight, of an apex predator protecting what was theirs.

And Rhaenyra was Daemon’s, just as Daemon was Rhaenyra’s.

“Come here, off the streets.” Daemon murmured. “Watch yourself.”

Rhaenyra nodded, slunk inside with ease and was greeted with moans and cries of pleasure, the sound of slick skin slapping and jovial, drunken laughter. Rhaenyra could not help it, she looked around, knew immediately she was somewhere she shouldn’t have been. If anybody knew she was in a brothel, there was every chance her plans would come to ruin because she would be ruined.

“I know.” Daemon said quietly. “But it’s never just one fight and like I said, blood and bread feed them, and they’ve had their fill of bread.”

Rhaenyra nodded jerkily, and Daemon pulled her through the place. Even still, Rhaenyra could not look away, men kissed men, women licked their way down women, men and women both. There was so much happening around her, the scent of sex and want and need heavy in the air like the curling whisps of perfume. It all made her headache, had her nose burning and her blood rushing.

Daemon dragged her into a room, barked out an order for whoever was in there to go the fuck out and he closed the door, placed his back to it. He poured a cup of water, another one wine, and stepped away from Rhaenyra.

She followed him.

“Drink.” Dameon murmured, pushed a cup of water toward her.

Rhaenyra did as she bid, found that although the water was warm, it was soothing on her parched throat. She’d drank more wine that night than she ever had before, it dulled the edge of her sharp senses, but it did not leave her adrift in the adrift in confusion. Getting a Targaryen drunk was difficult, a dragon even more so, their blood too hot, too quick.

By the end of the night, Daemon would be very, very drunk.

“Thank you for bringing me.” Rhaenyra said after a moment. “It’s been fun, even if I did end up in a whorehouse.”

“Such filthy words.” Daemon teased. “There’ll be eyes about, though more for me than you in truth. The cunt doesn’t like the fact I’m still here.”

“Can you not talk about Otto Hightower?” Rhaenyra requested, her nose scrunched in disgust as she reached for Daemon’s wine, but he batted her hand away with a huff. “He thinks I’m going to throw Aegon out the window, you know. I see how he looks at me with them.”

“Could push him down the stairs.” Daemon shrugged.

“Murder is not always the answer, Daemon.” Rhaenyra huffed, eyes tracking the twitch of his jaw, the way his tongue wetted his lips.

“It is always a possibility.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, went to take a step away from Dameon’s maddening heat, from his intoxicating scent, from Daemon himself before she did something stupid. But Rhaenyra had perhaps miscalculated how the wine had influenced her, though later she would fault Daemon’s proximity for her clumsiness. He caught her with a hand on her arm, the other gone to her hip to steady her, and it was then the pair of them realised that they could not go back.

In years to come, neither Daemon nor Rhaenyra would know who kissed the other first, but it did not matter. Rhaenyra pushed down his hood, tangled her fingers through Daemon’s hair, twisted it hard enough for the tingle of pleasurable pain to burn along Daemon’s scalp. The moments twisted together, kisses slow and sweet, languid and passionate.

It was everything Rhaenyra imagined it to be and more, and in the night sky, Syrax roared across the Bay as Caraxes whistled, delighting in the chase.

Then Daemon pushed her away with a gentle sort of care. Rhaenyra tried to his him again, would stay in the room forever if meant that Daemon would kiss her again, but Daemon only swallowed and cupped her cheek. This thumb stroked along her cheek, and perhaps for the first time in her life, Rhaenyra saw Daemon regretful.

Something in her heart blistered and cracked, and anger was forever easier than loss.

“We can’t.” Daemon reminded. “You deserve more than this.”

“Please.” Rhaenyra stared up at him, her jaw quivering, something delectable, dark and molten pooling low in her belly, coiling around her spine like a serpent. “Daemon.”

“You were made for more than this.” Daemon whispered, settled his forehead against her crown. “We can’t, Rhaenyra. I never…”

“Don’t you dare.” Rhaenyra hissed. “Don’t you dare try, Daemon. I want this, I want you. You don’t get to regret this, don’t get to regret me.”

“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.” Dameon promised, kissing her forehead. “I don’t. Even if this is the first time, the last time and the only time, I will never regret it. Only what comes next.”

The throne or me, he does not say, for he does not have to. Words were scarcely needed between them, for what they had transcended scripture and sermon alike. They were bestial creatures clad in skin and bone, their blood the only lingering notion that they were not entirely human, that they were something other.

It was that same part that craved, that yearned and wanted. That same part that raged at being denied, for there, together, entwined, they both had exactly what they wanted, but they couldn’t have it. If Daemon had been younger then…

If Daemon had been younger, then he wouldn’t be her Daemon, and Rhaenyra wanted him, man and monster both. Yet she could never have him in the light of day, and for that, something within her died.

She needed to get away from him, far away from him before she humiliated herself, but Rhaenyra couldn’t just stroll through the gates of the keep. Daemon, it seemed, still had his wits about him, and led her to where they had emerged from the tunnels. Rhaenyra did not cry as he left her there, darkness behind her, darkness before her.

But it was a near thing. So very near.

The passageways didn’t hold her interest anymore, nor did the rats or damp. She pushed through them in the darkness, torch held aloft and finally found herself back in her room. Once there, she sat on her bed, realised that she was shaking, that the want in her belly had not cooled, that it had grown only hotter and hotter.

It was fed by the wine, by the anguish, and by Syrax’s joy.

Rhaenyra cursed and in a bubbling fit of rage, she threw the goblet across the room, listened as the metal dinged and the glass shattered. Irritation flooded her veins anew, and she got up, ripped the ridiculous hat from her head and moved to the broken shards.

She didn’t remind her of her heart, no not in the least.

There was a knock at the door. “Princess? Are you well?”

“I’m fine, Ser Criston.” Rhaenyra called back. “An accident with a goblet of wine.”

The knight pushed open her door, peered in. his face fell when he saw Rhaenyra kneeling near the broken glass, and he rushed over to her, bid her to stop. There was worry in his dark eyes, questions too, and perhaps if Rhaenyra was more like Daemon she would have kissed him just for spite.

But she wasn’t anything like Daemon, and if Rhaenyra was never to kiss another man again, Daemon’s lips would linger upon hers until her pyre burned and forever after.

“I can call for a maid.” Criston murmured.

“It’s a glass.” Rhaenyra huffed, plucking at the glass. “I’m not that delicate.”

“I would never presume you to be delicate.” Criston said. “Only that you are the Princess, and so such acts are below you. Here, allow me.”

His hand moved hers, and the shard cut through her with a hiss. Rhaenyra shook her head, the pins itching along her scalp. She’d see to it in a moment, for now she had Criston before her, on his knees and clearing away broken glass that she herself had ruined in a fit of rage, dark blood welling forth.

Gods, maybe she was everything they thought her to be: A petulant child. No, no that was the wine talking, was the shadowy hisses of her mind that forever whispered the worst.

“Are you alright, Princess?” Criston asked. “I can fetch a maester.”

“I’m fine. I may have over-indulged reading my books.” Rhaenyra lied, glancing at the book that was still open on the table before the fire.

“You should sleep.” Criston said and then he noticed the blood. “You’re hurt. Princess, I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault that I broke a glass.” Rhaenyra huffed and she pressed the bloodied heel of her hand into her mouth.

“You shouldn’t do that.” Criston rebuked gently. “Here, let me see.”

Rhaenyra obliged him for some reason, probably just to know a phantom caress that she could pretend was Daemon’s hand on hers again. He removed his glove, his touches fleeting and gentle as he probed the thin slice. Rhaenyra watched him intently, and finally his eyes flicked up to her, and somehow they seemed to deepen, to darken.

And then they kissed once, and it tasted of blood, and it was wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong because when she had kissed Daemon, all she had seen was Daemon, and yet when she kissed Criston, it was not Criston she saw. No, no it was two faces blurred together, incomprehensible and yet so easily distinguishable.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Princess, please, forgive me.” Criston whispered, horrified.

He wanted her, he did, for how could he not? He wished to protect her, to honour her, and yet here and now he sullied not only himself and the vows he had sworn, but also her. Rhaenyra was unobtainable in the same was the Mother was, as pure and virtuous as the Maiden. For Criston to dishonour her was unfathomable.

“I apologise, Ser Criston.” Rhaenyra nodded, leaned away from him. “I overindulged more than I thought, it seems. Please, forgive me.”

“It is I who needs your forgiveness, Princess.” Criston murmured. “I should not, I would not… I would never break my vows.”

I would for you in a heartbeat, and then, together we could get away, for somewhere far. I could keep you safe, keep you unspoiled and silver. I could see you safe from the men who wish to ruin you: Your lewd, coarse uncle, the Queen’s brother who is too familiar, who looks lecherously upon your divine form. They would see you ruined, but I, I would see you protected.

“I know, good Ser.” Rhaenyra repeated. “The night has been long. I think I will sleep.”

Criston nodded, his cheeks alight with heat. Rhaenyra cursed herself for being so foolish. She watched him go, heard as her door snicked close, but Rhaenyra did not find sleep. Something Daemon had said haunted her.

There’ll be eyes about, though more for me than you in truth. The cunt doesn’t like the fact I’m still here.

If Otto Hightower got even a sniff that Daemon and Rhaenyra had been alone together, had been to a brothel together, she was fucked more than she already was with the realisation that had settled upon her heart. She had to get in front of it, because if he knew, he would tell her father, and if her father knew…

Rhaenyra released a breath, slunk back to her bed and cursed lowly. Morning was not far off, and if Rhaenyra was to face the coming storm, she couldn’t do it exhausted and with wine still lingering on her skin, on her breath.

She knew what she had to do, and so she would do it.

Chapter Text

In the morning, Rhaenyra called for her breakfast and a bath. If she was going to meet her fate, she’d do it on her terms, on her battleground. One of the maids attended to her, brushed and braided her hair in the manner of Visenya and then helped Rhaenyra into her clothes. It was a not a dress, a shock to some of the court when they saw her, but rather the newest set of riding clothes she’d had commissioned.

Thick and velvety, the fabric was the colour of cooled and clotted blood, rich and dark, it was accented with dark, smoking steel, an imitation of the ripples that occurred in those ancient, fire and blood forged blades. It wasn’t like anything Rhaenyra had in her wardrobe, but when she saw it on her, Daemon’s necklace around her throat, its ruby glinting in the light, she knew she would need more.

Absentmindedly, she thumbed the onyx detailing from where the fabric dipped into a v shape, stitched to resemble the dragon heads upon her family’s heraldry. Rhaenyra’s head ached, its lingering throb her penitence, but she welcomed it for the pain was grounding. It would serve her well, serve her better than regret and bitter heartache.

Rhaenyra steeled herself, smoothed down the long fabric of the outer layer of her riding ensemble and slipped on her shoes. As she did do, the door rattled with a knock, and when Rhaenyra called them in, Criston stuckk his head around the door, eyes downcast.

Alicent wanted to see her in the gardens, before the weirwood tree. The same place they had spent hours together, the place where their friendship first began, and depending on the outcome, it would be the place where it ended. Rhaenyra had always known that Alicent was envious, knew that everybody was, because as a Targaryen Princess, there was so much more that Rhaenyra could do that they could not.

Like not be married to men old enough to be their fathers and be shackled down to the birthing bed. But if Alicent tried, if she dared, provoke her, if she fell back upon the comforts of the faith as she did when she was lost, she would find no friend in Rhaenyra.

For friends did not hate friends because they possessed something the other did not.

Ser Criston was silent, awkward behind her. Rhaenyra would not lower herself to apologise to him again, once had been enough. It had been a mistake; one she would never repeat, one Rhaenyra would forever regret. She had hated herself in the hours afterwards, hate that it had happened, because she knew Criston, knew that the friendship they had would be forever altered.

He wanted her. Gwayne had said it. Daemon had said it. Rhaenyra knew it. If he thought there was a chance that anything could happen, it would not end well. Especially when Criston thought Rhaenyra to be a girl in need of protection, that Rhaenyra wasn’t a dragon, all claws and fang and flame in the face of nature. If he forgot that…

Alicent first. Then her father. Then Daemon. Then the Velaryons. Then the realm. Five adversaries or close enough to it for Rhaenyra to conquer and vanquish as Visenya and Rhaenys did. She’d do it, alone if she had to, but she did not wish to be that way.

But Rhaenyra would endure.

“Alicent.” She greeted.

“You may go, Ser Criston.” Alicent said curtly. “I would speak to the Princess alone.”

Fury, hot and untamed, bubbled to the surface as Rhaenyra stared Alicent down, her back straight, her eyes narrowed. Daemon had been right, Otto did have his spies about, but if Alicent thought she had any power over Rhaenyra she was sadly mistaken. Dragons did not cower, they met insult with fang and flame.

“What is this about?” Rhaenyra questioned.

“What happened last night?” Alicent all but demanded. “My father made some worrying allegations about you.”

“About me.” Rhaenyra scoffed. “And what accusations would they be, Your Grace?”

“That you and Daemon were cavorting about the city after dark.” Alicent replied.

“I’ve not seen Daemon in years.” Rhaenyra reminded. “We went drinking, went to a festival. I hardly see what business that is of your father’s, Alicent. Or anybody’s for that matter.”

“He was told you fucked Daemon in a pleasure house.” Alicent hissed.

Rhaenyra had to give it to Otto, he worked quickly. Already had he spun his web, tried to ensnare Rhaenyra in its silk where he would watch her struggle before he feasted on her corpse in the same way he gorged himself upon her father’s. In his haste, however, it seemed that Otto had forgotten that spider silk is so very flammable.

“That’s ridiculous.” Rhaenyra snapped.

“Is it? You Targaryens do have queer customs.”

Rhaenyra inhaled, reminded herself that she could not strike Alicent now or ever, not when there was a babe on her belly. Rhaenyra was not that cruel, even in the face of her anger, but her little brother or sister had done nothing, and Rhaenyra would not risk it. She wished to, though, for dragons were prideful creatures, and for Alicent, who had once held Rhaenyra’s secrets close to her heart to find them as disgusting as she obviously did if how her screwed up face and narrowed eyes were anything to go by, to say them made Rhaenyra snarl.

Alicent’s lip quivered, and Rhaenyra stalked around her, circled Alicent like she was a little lamb led to Syrax’ maw. Oh she tried to follow Rhaenyra’s movement, but Rhaenyra was too quick, too enraged, and she had to keep moving, for if she stopped, she did not know what she would do.

Your son and daughter are Targaryens. The blood of the dragon is thick, Alicent, it is not something that can be turned away from. Do that, try that, and you will ruin them. Ruin them, and I’ll carve out your heart and feast on it myself.

“To question my virtue is an act of treason.” Rhaenyra said sharply. “Which one of your father’s agents gave him this news? I will cut his slanderous tongue out myself for such a vile accusation.”

“Then why were you seen together?” Alicent asked, voice harried. “I only want to help you, Rhaenyra. If this rumour spread, you could be ruined. I only want to protect you.”

The Velaryons couldn’t care one whit about my maidenhead, Rhaenyra thought savagely as she stepped toward Alicent, urging her fires to cool. Alicent had come to her from a place of goodness, of fear, yes, that could not be denied, but there was something about her tone that rankled Rhaenyra. Something about the look in her eyes that made Rhaenyra want to claw them out.

“As I said, we went out to the festival.” Rhaenyra repeated. “We would have went flying, but I had a bit too much to drink, and then Daemon brought me back. Ser Criston can attest to that, I went for more wine, dropped the glass. Look, I even cut myself.”

Rhaenyra showed Alicent her palm, the thin red line pulling as she flexed her thumb about. Alicent nodded sharply, worried at her nails again and again until her own blood was pearling to the surface.

“But father told the King…” Alicent murmured.

“He told my father?” Rhaenyra huffed. “With hearsay from whom exactly?”

“I don’t know.” Alicent shrugged. “I… overheard them conversing.”

“You overheard.” Rhaenyra repeated. “And you decided to summon me here, to this place, to question me. You believe it, don’t you? You think I’d lower myself to fuck Daemon in a pleasure house?”

“I don’t know.” Alicent said, on the verge of tears that Rhaenyra didn’t care for. “You’ve always… you and him.”

“I promised myself to Ser Laenor.” Rhaenyra reminded with a narrowed gaze. “Why would I dishonour him and his family when my father has already done so once?”

The verbal strike landed true, and Alicent flinched backward. She stared at Rhaenyra in betrayal, as though it was not Alicent herself who was the betrayer. The tears continued to gather, continued to fall, but there was nothing Rhaenyra could do, nothing she wanted to do, to see them stop.

Alicent had believe her father. Had revealed her distaste for Valyrian customs with such vehemence that Rhaenyra wondered why she had never seen it before. Oh, she’d seen the jealousy and envy clear as day, was sure even a blind man could in truth, but the venom in her tone was not something Rhaenyra could ever forget, nor was it something she would ever forgive.

“Your reputation, if people heard, who would wed you now?”

“The same people that have been vying for my hand because nothing happened.” Rhaenyra hissed. “Daemon did not touch me.”

“Still, it was foolish of you to even put yourself in that position.” Alicent stressed. “If people thought you were sullied before marriage…”

Rhaenyra regarded Alicent closely, her eyes narrowed. Alicent swallowed. Rhaenyra only tilted her head to the side, and then she decided that the conversation was done. She turned on her heels, strode out of the gardens, and left Alicent there, teary-eyed before the weirdwood tree, and went in search of her father.

If he believed Otto Hightower’s venom…

Her father wouldn’t. Rhaenyra knew that. Yet still, he had to go, had to be dismissed, for if he felt comfortable doing this, if he felt comfortable undermining Rhaenyra in order to get her disinherited, there would be little he wouldn’t be willing to do. Too long had she been blind to the game, too long had she been a piece upon the board, but no longer.

They could make their moves, play it how they saw fit, but Rhaenyra would too. She’d change the board entirely if she had to, move bits and pieces about under their noses, would side-step them with ease. For Otto had forgotten something rather important when he decided to set himself against her in favour of sweet little Aegon.

Otto Hightower was a man, and men were cursed to the ground, to walk and plod and trot.

Rhaenyra was a Targaryen, she had the skies at her fingertips, and Otto best remember to look up for dragons were aerial hunters and he was her prey and prize in one. His actions had taken Alicent from her, had indeed tried to take her father from her too…

But Daemon had been right, the babes may have been born of Alicent’s womb, they might have had Otto Hightower’s blood, but dragon blood burned hot and thick. It was black and smoking, acidic and corrosive, hot. It was so very hot. And that was the blood in his grandchildren…

They where Rhaenyra’s. They had been since Aegon had cried in the face of the storm, since Helaena found solace in her arms and close to the fires, far away from the windows as she could. The babe in Alicent’s belly would be Rhaenyra’s too, and any that came after.

She was the eldest, it was her duty, her calling. They were her hatchlings even if they’d not been born form her own clutch, they would be the brothers and sisters to her own children, the children that would rule the skies and the seas. Children who understood that one should never flee from the heat, for they were dragons, fire made flesh, the last of their kind.

They had to stay together, beneath impenetrable scales and long, shadowing wingspans. Rhaenyra had lost siblings before, but these babes were hale and hearty, and she would not lose them to the manipulation of a grasping old bastard who wanted his name and blood on the throne…

Because Rhaenyra knew her father was dying. He was dying, could smell the rot that infected his cooling blood, and cooling blood was the first sign. It was how Rhaenyra had known her mother had died that day, because her blood had been spilled, had soaked through sheets, and it had been cold, the red of men, not the darkness of dragon blood.

Rhaenyra had known. Laenor and Laena, children of the skies and the seas as they were, knew something was wrong, but they were not Rhaenyra, their blood was tempered by the ocean waves, the iron salted. And even still, they had cured around her, and Laena had held her, and they three mourned as one.

And then they were gone, and the blame laid solely at Otto Hightower’s feet. Rhaenyra was no fool, her father did not just decide to marry Alicent, oh no, Rhaenyra was sure there was something more to it. Alicent had spoke of Rhaenyra being sullied, that the rumours would fly from tongue to lips and spread far and wide…

And what would they do if they learned of their liaisons?

Then Rhaenyra stopped. She was at the nursery, had not realised that her feet had carried her there, but she understood it. Just as the dragons coiled in the dark and blistering caves of the mont, their children too liked to coil about one another in times of discomfort. The hearth, the histories had called it, the place where they could burn and burn and burn, and where their flames would nourish and enrich and protect their hatchling kin.

Daemon was not her hearth, Rhaenyra knew that. He was too quick, too fiery, too dragon, just like Rhaenyra was. It was hardly the children either, too young to contain the flames, for they were meant to sit beneath the canopy of them that would protect them for everything.

Rhaenyra entered with ease, nodded at Ser Steffon who was stood outside, and Rhaenyra glad that the silent Ser Criston who was following her, stayed too. She just wanted the children, just wanted to hold them and remember why she was doing what she was.

For them. For the children she would have. For the children that came after until those dark winds threatened the realm, until they stood as one, dragonflame lighting the way to salvation.

Rhaenyra did it for her mother too, for Aemma was the kindest, sweetest soul Rhaenyra had ever had the pleasure of meeting, and for all the dragonblood within her, her mother was there too.

You don’t like him, mama, little Rhaenyra had said when her mother had walked away from Otto.

No, my sweet, I don’t. He is a fine Hand, I do not doubt his capabilities, but rather his personality.

Then why are you nice to him?

Kindness, my dear, is a thin blade, it’s our weapon, just as courtesy is. You must remember to be kind, Rhaenyra, you are a dragon yes, but even dragons are kind.

Her heart stuttered at the memory, so clear as it was, for dragons tended to never forget. Her mother would have loved these babes too, Rhaenyra realised, for Aemma had always been concerned about the children of the city…

Bread and blood.

Kindness.

I will finish what you inherited mama, what great grandmother did. For you, for the children, and for my crown.

Rhaenyra looked at her siblings, at Helaena who was nursing in the corner, and there was Aegon, on Gwayne’s lap with the Syrax carving on his own lap as he played with the coloured blocks. They were pampered and adored as Rhaenyra had been, though her father had less to do with them because of his duties, because of his illness…

Rhaenyra would rectify that immediately. They too deserved to sit beside her father’s model and listen to him tell the stories his own father had told him, the ones from the scrolls and books that had survived the doom…

He’d never made them child friendly, but in truth there was nothing friendly about Valyria. Their blood knew that, twisted and darkened with shadows and fire like the demons that dwelled in the pits of the Fourteen Flames… And that was why they survived.

“Nyra?” Aego called. “Why sad, muma?”

Rhaenyra shook her head, moved to sit on the chaise beside Gwayne who also looked rather concerned. His head tilted, his hair still short but strands of it were growing longer, and they swept over his forehead as he moved. Lighter than Alicent’s, it was golden hued rather than bronze, but in the sunlight it shone.

For some reason Rhaenyra wanted to reach out and brush his hair away, but she stilled her fingers, focused on Aegon instead and cupped his cheek, thumbed the soft, delicate skin. Daemon had called him the threat, but her little hatchling was no threat because he was hers, had been from the night she had picked him up.

“I’m alright, sweetling.” Rhaenyra promised “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Why dear Princess, did you get drunk?” Gwayne inquired with a smirk, taking Helaena into his arms and the wetnurse was dismissed, the door closed behind her. “Are you alright?”

Rhaenyra nodded. Helaena was already half-asleep; she often was after a feed. Aegon, similarly, looked tired, and Rhaenyra knew it was because Gwayne had run the energy out of him, had no doubt plied him with warmed sweet milk.

He’d make an excellent father, loving and caring, firm but fair. Rhaenyra knew she had lost Alicent just moments ago, and that hurt, it did, for Alicent had been her friend since they were children, her shadow and companion, and Rhaenyra did not know if it was even real. She didn’t know if it was just some manipulation on Otto’s part…

And Gwayne, well Rhaenyra didn’t know. He’d been there, and then he was gone, and then he came back, and then Daemon had brutalised him because he was Otto’s son, and then he was gone again, only to come back. Rhaenyra didn’t know why he stayed.

She wondered if he’d stay now, with what Rhaenyra was about to do. She hoped he did, Gwayne was… good. The time they spent together by the water’s edge was fun, easy. Being around Gwayne was easy. He understood Rhaenyra, didn’t question the oddness of her existence. He simply let her be herself…

She hoped he remained, even if his father was dismissed and sent back to Oldtown.

“I know you’re not okay.” Gwayne said quietly. “They’re both asleep, there’s nobody here but you and me.”

“Alicent and I will never reconcile.” Rhaenyra admitted. “Your father… I know he wishes for Aegon to be named heir; I know it. I just didn’t think he’d go this far.”

“What did he do?” Gwayne asked.

“I went out with Daemon last night, he brought to a street festival.” Rhaenyra explained, twisting her ring upon her finger as she looked at him. “There was as fight, and it’s never just one, is it? So, Daemon and I went into a brothel, and now your father is claiming that Daemon and I fucked in that pleasure house.”

Gwayne was silent, but he looked contemplative his head bobbing. Then he smiled, moved his hand so it was as close to Rhaenyra as he could get without touching her. Rhaenyra grasped his hand, squeezed his fingers and Rhaenyra had his full attention, just as he had hers.

“Did you?” He asked, no judgement in his tone. “I wouldn’t blame you; Prince Daemon is a very pretty man.”

“No.” Rhaenyra said. “He nearly killed you, or did the knock to you head scramble your mind so?”

“No, he didn’t.” Gwayne huffed, humour leaking into his tone. “If he wanted me dead, I would be dead. He just wanted to remind father that he could have. Sometimes the threat is more paralyzing than the action. I believe you, Rhaenyra. If you say you did not do it, then you did not do it.”

But I would have. I’d let Daemon ruin me a hundred times because I know he’d give himself back to me to heal it. just as he’d let me do the same. We were always meant to burn together, entwined and bright, ferocious and fierce.

“Alicent didn’t believe you, did she?” Gwayne inquired softly, thumbing at her knuckles.

“She said you Targaryens do have queer customs.” Rhaenyra snorted. “I know she did not wish to marry my father, that yours was the architect of the plot. I’m not a stupid little girl that people think me to be.”

“I’ve got a sword.” Gwayne murmured. “Tell me who said it and they’ll never be seen again.”

“What have I done to inspire such loyalty from you, when it is your own father who would see me removed? Who saw me only as a placeholder until his grandsons were born?” Rhaenyra questioned, her eyes flicking to a sleeping Aegon who was curled in the ebony and crimson blanket Rhaenyra had bought for him in a market near Raventree Hall.

“You are yourself, and that is all that matters to me.” Gwayne said, and he was silent for a few moments, his jaw moving, eyes bright. “Do you remember when my mother died?”

Rhaenyra did. Lady Alerie had been her mother’s companion in those first few years, had been kind and clever, and nearly as loving with her children as Aemma had been with Rhaenyra. Then she’d died slowly, wasting away into a greyed husk that smelled so wrong to the ten-year-old Rhaenyra. There had been a funeral in King’s Landing and Rhaenyra remembered standing beside Alicent, remembered clutching her hand and…

And nobody had been there for Gwayne. Otto surely hadn’t been, more husk than man himself as his wife’s remains were removed to Brightwater Keep. But Rhaenyra had found him later that day, alone as she could be, and even at ten she’d known there had been something pulling her toward him, something within her desperate to soothe and protect, to warm and nourish with the heat of her fires because he was so cold, so alone.

And part of Rhaenyra had always wanted to guard and love and protect, and so she had found Gwayne, and she had hugged him. There had been tears in his eyes for days back then, but it had been like the damn had cracked the moment Rhaenyra had settled her heat around him.

She could still remember the salt of his tears.

Then Gwayne, the real one and the young memory who seemed to be just as real, tensed when Rhaenyra took his entangled fingers with hers and settled them upon the velvet of her riding cloak, as she settled herself against him, cheek pressed into the silver silk of his shoulder.

“She was your mother too.” Rhaenyra murmured.

“But I wasn’t a daughter.” Gwayne said bitterly. “A son had no need for comfort, should never have tears upon his face even when saying his final goodbye.”

I will never be son. You will never be a daughter. What a pair we make.

“Would you rather have been born a daughter?” Rhaenyra asked. “Sometimes… sometimes I wish I was born a son.”

“I’m the only son of the second son, and uncle Hobert has his own sons in abundance.” Gwayne shrugged. “It’s why Alicent’s father’s favourite, even if nothing good ever truly comes for it. The Hightower doesn’t lack for sons, but it does for daughters.”

“Yet you were here and never once did he suggest I wed you.” Rhaenyra reminded with a huff, blinking up at him. “You are you and that is all that matters to me.”

“You are not your father, and I am not mine.” Gwayne said, shifted on the chaise and curled his arm around her in a mockery of comfort. “Father thought you’d be like Alicent that you’d do your duty when a male heir had been born and step aside, but he’s a fool. He forgot you were a dragon, once you have something, you won’t let it be taken from you.”

Rhaenyra was silent for a moment, low and contemplative. It was nice, having Gwayne around her, solid and warm but soft and nurturing. They existed in the silence for moments, but there was no tenseness to it, no awkwardness nor a need to try and escape. Different though it was to the game she and Daemon had played the night before, it still made her feel something.

Rhaenyra wondered if it was perhaps because of the proximity of the sleeping children, if it was because they too, like Rhaenyra, found solace in ivory plated brick where their blood could burn and burn and burn and yet never destroy.

Any other man save one would have run, too close to dragon maw for their want to survive to allow them to linger. Gwayne, cheek pressed against Rhaenyra’s hair, expression placid and savouring, was luxuriating in the heat that seeped between them in the same way a cat coiled about the sunbeams.

He was so very convinced that he would remain unburned, and Rhaenyra was inclined to agree. The weeks after the Royal Hunt had been some of the best, Alicent and Gwayne tucked away with Aegon, stolen meals and older stories brought forth in the name of fire and comfort.

And then the last week itself had been… Rhaenyra wondered how much of it would change when she saw her father slide Otto Hightower’s power from his breast. Would Gwayne stay? Would he go? Would he turn upon her, try to strike at her with vicious venoms and rumours…

I am not my father.

“You have no want or wish for power.” Rhaenyra realised with a breath.

“Power is both freedom and shackle.” Gwayne hummed, smiling.

It was his smile, beautiful and bright and so, so soft. Different from the amused quirk of his lips, different from genuine humour, different from the indulgent fondness. Rhaenyra didn’t even think a man could have that many looks, and yet Gwayne did.

But what if it was all just a game? What if she let him love her like he so obviously did, only for him to turn around one day and twist chains about her neck, keeping her grounded forever?

No. No Rhaenyra wouldn’t let that happen.

“I will not be chained.”

“No. No, only a fool would do that. I remember, Rhaenyra, I do. You had a dragon in your cradle, a dragon on your shoulder. You were not meant for chains, you were meant for the skies, for ruling. I know that to be true, and so do you. Those who don’t will learn in time.”

“Your father-“

“My father is a cunt as you’ve said.” Gwayne remined, his voice so soft, so tender, and he was sitting up now, cupping her cheek with deft, caring fingers. “The White Hart bowed to you, the dragons too, and. What more could he need?”

“For me to have a cock.” Rhaenyra said plainly.

I’d have with a cock or without one, Gwayne didn’t say, for humour did not have its place. No, this place, hazy and warmed by the fires, warmed by Rhaenyra’s presence alone, and beneath the chorus of shared breathes and sleeping children, was sacred.

The words that followed would define a dynasty.

“Then be Visenya and Rhaenys, for you are already Rhaena.” Gwayne urged. “It was you who placed the eggs within their cradles was it not? You who took them upon Syrax, who let them know the joys of the sky. They are my sister’s children, but dragon blood is thick, it is not something so easily ignored. It burns hotter that the earth’s fire, it is a power unto itself. A power you possess.”

“What do you want, Gwayne? It is your own family who would see me passed over.” Rhaenyra murmured. “They are not alone in it, I know, a girl heir, a horrible thought. But why throw your lot in with me? What can I give you that they cannot?”

You, he did not say, for Rhaenyra Targaryen was not a possession to be owned, not a beast to be bound. He adored her fire, her spirit as it was. There was not a single thing he would change about her, not a single part of her that needed to change, for she was Rhaenyra.

He would have of her what she let him and savour it.

“To see you happy.” Gwayne replied, his voice hoarse. “To see you soar. Father will grow tired of it, he will learn and if he doesn’t, he is a fool. I would simply see you, Rhaenyra. No more, and no less.”

“And the children?” Rhaenyra asked. “The hatchlings born here and now, those from my clutch that will come? What about them?”

“I’d set the realm aflame just to see them warmed.”

And that was answer enough, for there was no thread of discord, no scent of falsehood. He loved Aegon and Helaena like they were his own, and that was enough. Rhaenyra nodded against him, leaned up and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek before she stood. So too did she anoint Aegon and Helaena similarly, but as she neared the door, ready to face her father, she turned back to look to Gwayne.

Gwayne who was sitting there, who somehow seemed to know that he wouldn’t see his father again for a very long time, if ever, because he would not remain in the capital for long. No, no of course he wouldn’t, because he was a threat to the children, would see them twisted and broken apart and stitched back together into a tapestry of his own curation.

Rhaenyra wouldn’t let that happen.

Gwayne wouldn’t let that happen.

And together, well, nothing could stand against them.

**

Rhaenyra didn’t know what she expected when she came face to face with her father, but him sitting tiredly in his chambers, staring at the model of Old Valyria and with something heavy on his shoulders was not it, and in the brazier, the Conqueror’s dagger lay burning. She watched him for a moment, waited for his head to snap up to her.

She waited and waited and waited. Then finally, Viserys sighed.

“I would hear your version of events.” Viserys murmured. “Already have I heard Otto’s, and Daemon’s.”

Rhaenyra nodded, took a seat beside her father and offered him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Already did she know what Otto had said, even if Alicent’s words had not been the truth of it in its entirety. Her father waited, allowed Rhaenyra to collect herself, and perhaps, for the first time in a long time he listened.

He did not interrupt her, did not ask her the hundred or so questions that she knew were rattling about his mind. He did huff, did not turn away from her in anyway. He watched her as she watched him, and Rhaenyra, in her haze to protect her father, and love her father, had forgotten that he too, used to be a dragon.

And dragon blood was not so easily turned away from, especially if one of their hatchlings was in danger. Rhaenyra was, to a certain degree, in danger. Rumours spread and words took on different meanings, already was there discontent because she was a woman, already was there discontent because she had a brother.

But Viserys loved her more than he could ever love Aegon or Helaena or any of the babes that would come forth, for Rhaenyra was Aemma’s daughter. She was and always would be his little girl.

Even if it had been to her detriment in her past. He could allow that to continue no longer, not when the veil had finally been pulled from his eyes, burned away not by the destruction of dragonfire, but rather the slow, glimmering flame of love.

Then finally, Rhaenyra stopped speaking. Viserys stared at her appraisingly for a moment, then he reached over and took her hand in his, squeezed it. Rhaenyra returned the gesture, took Viserys’ gloved hand closer to her lips and pressed a chaste kiss to the black leather.

There was nothing he would not do for her. Moments from death, should Rhaenyra have need of him, he would bid Morgul to wait.

“You are young, I will not begrudge you your flight of fancies to go off an explore.” Viserys finally said. “But I should have been told, lest somebody else tell me and twist the truth of it. Do you know why?”

“Because perception is all that matters.” Rhaenyra answered.

“There is further credence to Otto’s ploys, you know.” Viserys hummed. “Servants have said they’ve seen you wandering the halls after dark, limbering and sore, dishevelled. He believed that there might have been another that you’ve been entraining yourself with.”

“And what do you intend to do about him?” Rhaenyra questioned. “He who has dripped poison in your ear for years. He who had me followed, he who thought me to be little more than a placeholder until his daughter got fat with your seed? What will you do with that plucking vulture and his grasping hands?”

“Calm yourself.” Viserys said gently and he reached for the dagger. “Come, come read this.”

So Rhaenyra took the dagger in her head, dragon-like eyes drawn to the carmine script glowing upon the blade. Syrax, mourning the loss of Caraxes in her nest, trilled, for the same magic that bound the scripture, bound her and Rhaenyra.

Fire and blood were so much more than words.

“From my blood, comes the Prince That Was Promised, and his shall be the Song of Ice and Fire.” Rhaenyra breathed. “The cold winds from the North.”

“You hold in your hand the burden of House Targaryen.” Viserys murmured. “A burden I gave to you too late, one I have not done my best to train you for. My duty as King is to hold the realm together, and yours will be the same, and your children, and their children all the way down to when our line prevails, or when the world of man is lost.”

“Father-“

“For so long did I think it was me, my son born with the Aegon’s circlet, Blackfyre seated at the foot of the Iron Throne.” Viserys shook his head, limp strands of silver-gold hair twisting. “So long I have been a fool.”

“You are not.” Rhaenyra argued. “Kind-hearted and loving, in extremes sometimes, but you are not a fool, father.”

“You would strive to protect me from the truth and that is a dangerous thing, my daughter.” Viserys warned, voice gentle and soothing. “Jaehaerys would have disinherited you for defying him. My grandsire was not a warm, loving man, not as I.”

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“But it looks like you did.” Viserys reminded. “If I were to ask you who should replace Otto as Hand, whose name would you speak?”

“Anybody?” Rhaenyra wondered.

“Anybody.” Viserys confirmed.

“Princess Rhaenys.” Rhaenyra said easily. “She was raised at Prince Aemon’s knee, at Queen Alysanne’s… I could think of no-one more deserving of the honour save one.”

“Who?”

“Lord Lyonel.” Rhaenyra shrugged. “He would serve the realm, the throne, and not the blood in the veins of whoever is to sit upon it.”

Viserys nodded, agreeing. He offered Rhaenyra fleeting smile then, took the dagger from her hand, and Rhaenyra had been unaware that she had been clutching it tightly, leaching the heat from the dragon bone and Valyrian Steel both. Viserys sighed and shook his head fondly, pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Otto Hightower will be sent back to Oldtown.” Viserys said in the following silence. “Lord Lyonel will be elevated as my Hand. However, I do not yet know who would replace him as my Master of Laws.”

“Lord Tyland could, and that would allow the Sea Snake to reclaim his seat.” Rhaenyra said. “His pride will be soothed thrice over.”

“Thrice?”

“A wedding, a babe, and a seat at the council.” Rhaenyra grinned. “Babes do follow marriage, father, or have you forgotten?”

“It is traditional.” Viserys hummed. “It I was I though you might not follow in it, though seeing you with your brother and sister gladdens and old man’s heart. You will be an excellent mother, Rhaenyra, and one day, I will take the babe upon my knee and show them their seat in the world, and you will take them to the skies, and Ser Laenor shall take them upon the seas.”

Rhaenyra nodded, blinked the notion of tears from her eyes. Yes. Yes. She wanted that. She wanted hatchlings from her own clutch, wanted eggs in their cradles that would crack open to reveal the soul of her children in fire-made flesh. She wanted it all…

But she did not want the labour. Did not want Mellos coming at her with a blade. Did not want to be gutted. Rhaenyra would die a thousand deaths for her babes, she knew that to be true, but it would be her choice to do so, not the Grandmaester’s, not Laenor’s. Hers.

She’d have to make that very clear to her husband to be, least Gwayne be true in his believe that Rhaenyra was already Rhaena come again. Rhaena who had loved her brothers and sisters so much that people believed them to her born of her own clutch. Rhaena who had been forced to wed her uncle, who had lost the ability to temper her flames so there was only rage…

Fire, such a peculiar thing, cleansing and creation, devastating and destruction.

“You are my heir, my love.” Viserys said as Rhaenyra stood, as she neared the door. “Nothing shall change that. Though I do ask that you keep your liaisons more… discreet.”

“I. Father.” Rhaenyra huffed, cheeks aflame. “It is not what you think. You have denied me only two things in my life.”

“Daemon and the sword.” Viserys nodded. “And since Daemon did not attempt to twist the truth to try and force me to wed you, it is not he. So, the sword then.”

“Where is Daemon?” Rhaenyra inquired lightly.

“Gone.” The King said gently. “Gone on his own path. If I told you he was gone on that path with a decree of absolution for his marriage, would you throw yourself at my knees and beg to wed him?”

“I love Daemon, father. I do. As I know he loves me.” Rhaenyra said cautiously. “But I offered my hand to Laenor because he is the best choice for unity and stability. I made my terms, I will not go back on them. If I have to spend a lifetime proving myself true, then I shall do it with a smile.”

I have love enough to give. I would love his as Rhaenys, Laenor as Rhaenys and Gwayne as the Orys he wishes himself to be. You and mother gave me love in abundance, and it is love that will see my scales impenetrable, love that will see my flame hotter.

There is no greater protection than a dragon’s love, no greater ruin when that love is lost. Dorne witnessed that. The Myrish witnessed that. I pray I never do.

Viserys nodded one final time before he hefted himself to his feet. His daughter would keep the secrets of her instructor if she wished, and he would guard her back from vicious, twisted rumours. To do that, he would remove a man who was father to his wife, grandsire to two of his children, and a man he once thought was his greatest friend, away.

He would do it not because duty demanded it of him, but because Rhaenyra had asked it of him. He would do it for her, for she was Aemma’s daughter, and there was nothing he would not do for her, for it seemed he could not even keep the sword and Daemon far.

Daemon who had departed as friend and brother both. Daemon who had hugged Viserys goodbye, Daemon who would forever have a place at Viserys’ table, at Rhaenyra’s table, when he returned to the nest. Because Daemon would return, for his brother was a dragon, more than Viserys had been, more than their fathers and uncle, and those who came before, but somehow less than Rhaenyra.

It was only walking toward the small council chamber, Ser Harrold behind him, did Viserys come to a halt, realisation dawning upon him like the bloodied sun. Rhaenyra, his babe, his girl, his first child, the first of them born after Balerion had passed, who had worn a necklace of ebony and crimson scales, who had black smoking blood.

Hers would be the line of Kings and Queens, it would be her babe that would see it done, her blood that had been ignited with the embers of Balerion’s passing. Her blood. Aemma’s blood.

Viserys smiled and nodded to himself, steeled his spine and was renewed in his conviction to see his girl soar.

For the realm. For the future. For Aemma.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep was alight with news of the Hand’s removal. Rhaenyra did not pay too much attention to it, too busy packing the saddlebags for her journey to Driftmark. The court had not turned on her as Alicent expected, for a rumour came from the shadows to take root and flower, and Rhaenyra wondered who its progenitor had been, for it had not been her or her father.

Yes, the former Lord Hand had the Princess followed. He was the one to suggest Princess Rhaenyra be named as heir, you know, and now he does this. An attempt, I think, to discredit her. But we all know the Princess cares only for her duties, her siblings and her dragon.

He only wants to taint her name. Wants his grandson to be named as heir. Princess Rhaenyra is far better suited. Why, she alone is binding the richest house to the crown.

I heard that the Queen accosted the Princess in the gardens. She levied vile accusations against the Princess, said they were her father’s words, but where is this supposed messenger?

And so, the court gossiped as it was wont to do. It had been announced that Rhaenyra would mount Syrax and fly to Driftmark to reacquaint herself with her cousins before the King himself and his new Lord Hand, Lyonel Strong, arrived to iron out the details of the upcoming marriage. Everybody knew it was all but done, that the Princess had done most of the work in truth, and so they cast their eyes forward to the joyous wedding celebrations that were about to come.

None could deny how much Viserys loved his daughter, none could deny how much he liked his feasts and tourneys, and those things combined had the makings of a wedding celebration even greater than the Good Queen and the Old King’s.

But Rhaenyra had not looked that far ahead, not in the least. Her attention was forever grounded in the murky haze of the present. She’d found a letter, written to her in Daemon’s hand, and Rhaenyra had opened it, read it and then burned it. No good would come of it, not even when the annulment had been announced, when a copy had been sent to Runestone.

Rhaenyra could not have Daemon, and he could not have her. Not yet. Maybe one day in the future, he would return but that was a day far away. But at least she had his words immortalised in her mind.

He loved her.

She loved him.

The knowledge of that was enough for now.

Rhaenyra sighed, twisted the end of her hair. There was a nervousness about her, one she had not experienced in a very long time. Laena and Laenor were not the problem, nor even was Lord Corlys, no, Rhaenyra’s problem was Princess Rhaenys. Rhaenys who had told her years ago that men liked the order of things, and Rhaenyra, naïve and foolish had disregarded her.

And now the poisoned tree bore poisoned fruit. Such a vicious thing, history, forever flowing in circles of fire and blood and contempt and grasping men who wanted what would never be theirs.

However, it would be hard for Aegon to steal her throne when Rhaenyra had stolen him first. Oh, how he clung to her, sweet and warm and innocent. Responsibility would ruin him, for Aegon was more cat than anything else, and as her brother, if he wished to lounge in the sunbeams all day, then Rhaenyra would find him the finest windows and the softest of pillows.

She hadn’t intended it to be this way, but it was for the best lest Otto Hightower’s poison leak into her ears and corrupt his heart. Once, Aegon may have been Alicent’s, but now he was Rhaenyra’s, as was Helaena who found solace in Rhaenyra’s darkened rooms, and so too would the babe in Alicent’s womb, and all those who came after.

Then, fires willing, her own clutch would join the hatchlings beneath her ever-growing wing, protected by her alongside Laenor and Laena, her father and Gwayne, the Strongs and good old Lyman Beesbury, for they were Rhaenyra’s first supporters in a war of wit and wiles.

The sharpness of neither your wit nor tongue has not dulled in recent years it seems.

If anything, it has been honed and dipped in Valyrian Steel.

Funny how one night, one storm and one man could change the trajectory of the world with naught but a single sentence.

But no matter what the court gossiped about; Rhaenyra mind was where it always was: her siblings. Her father had told her that she had indeed been correct, that Alicent was pregnant once more. Rhaenyra rejoiced at the idea of another babe to spoil and love and take to the skies, but she could not escape Alicent’s cold gaze, her narrowed, suspicious eyes. It had only grown worse in the days since Otto had departed under the cover of rain.

(Oh, he had told her that what he thought to be true, and because her father thought it true, then so too did Alicent. Rhaenyra did not care for her children, would see them put to the sword or smothered in their beds because they were threats. Her father had been right, Rhaenyra should have done her duty and relinquished her hold on the Iron Throne.

Otto had told Alicent the true duty of women to steer men with honied words and promises. To be compassion and care when blood ran too hot. You are the Queen, change the mind of the King, remind him of the natural order of things, lest the realm burn and bleed.

Otto had also tried to force Gwayne to return with him, but that was a story for another time.)

Rhaenyra sighed, packed up the saddlebags and handed them off to a servant to bring down to the horses. Her father had wanted a wheelhouse, but Rhaenyra saw no need, she remembered the pantomime, remember how it made her look. Daemon had brought her there for a reason, and Rhaenyra was nothing if not a quick study. Happy and fed, safe and employed, the small folk would remember who made it all possible…

Rhaenyra had been a pawn in the game long enough, no longer would she stand for it. She would do as she bid, would change the game and win.

And it started with the Velaryons. With Rhaenys.

“Are you ready to depart, Princess?” Ser Criston inquired, somewhat miffed that his charge would once again be out of his sight.

Something had changed since that stupid little kiss. Something had darkened in his gaze. He had changed. Rhaenyra missed the days when Criston had been light-hearted and funny, but somewhere along the way he had wished to turn her into a doll, all fragile porcelain rather the indominable scale of the dragon that she was.

Criston wanted the Mother and the Maiden, and he wanted Rhaenyra, but he would never get them for he did not want the acidic bite of dragon blood, the crisp, sibilant hisses of anger or the fire in her veins. No. Criston wanted a toy, a Princess to protect, for all he had was the white cloak upon is shoulders, his honour and virtue…

And his lustful wanting for Rhaenyra cracked and shattered the façade. His own weakness as a man was the mortal blow to his ego, the gilded cage for his honour as it sat stewing in poison.

“I’m going to the nursery first.” Rhaenyra said.

Criston’s jaw clenched, but he nodded as though he had any opinion on the matter. It was not the children he took issue with, oh no if he did that he’d vanish mysteriously into the night, never to be seen from, never again to be heard from. No. his issue was with the other person who haunted the nursery.

Rhaenyra had not seen Gwayne since his father had left. Well, she had seen him, it was hard not to, but there had been a distance. Not as cold as Alicent had been, nor as bereft for with her father gone, and Rhaenyra long gone, Alicent had nobody…

Sometimes I wish I could be the Lady Alicent again.

But it was too late for that now, and Rhaenyra snorted at the memory as she climbed the steps toward the nursery. Her father was already talking about grandchildren and milk brothers should both child and grandchild be born at the same time… Rhaenyra however, wished to feed her children at her own breast, for no milkmaid could ever compare to the dragon’s milk, fortified with the fires in her blood and the love in her heart it would see her babes go fierce and strong.

It would see them endure and survive the battleground they would be born into, and Rhaenyra would whisper her apologies to the babes she did not even have yet for what may come. She would never let anything happen to them, no, at the surest hint of harm to be her clutch and her hatchlings, she would rain down wrath and ruin on those who would dare it.

She would do it. Daemon would do it. Laenor and Laena would do it too, of this she had no doubt. Corlys and Rhaenys too. Her sick, ailing, dying father would do it.

But would Gwayne? He had told her he would, told her that she would be her Orys, a shadow, the one so often forgotten for he did not have a dragon, but Rhaenyra Targaryen did not think she could ever forget Gwayne, just as she could never forget Daemon, as she could not forget Laenor.

Flame and fang, salt and sea, stone and hearth. A solid foundation for the palace of bone and blood that Rhaenyra would build for her nest, for her fortress, impenetrable as it would be once she was finished, would be the place where her horde could go untouched by the horrors of grasping men.

Dragonstone.

A place she had been to only twice before, a place that was hers in name and blood. A place that she would twist and turn, for it was forged in fire and blood, and so too was Rhaenyra. She would make it a sanctuary as it had been for her forefathers, for the dragons that coiled and nestled there. Perhaps even the wild would accept her, for she was their kin more than any other.

“Muma.” Aegon screeched, running forward to wrap his arms around her, buried his head in the thick wool of her riding clothes. “Flying?”

“Not today, sweetling.” Rhaenyra murmured, apologetic. “I’m going to see my cousins, but when I return, I shall take you.”

“Promise?” Aegon’s lip quivered, eyes wide.

Rhaenyra plucked him from the ground with ease, curled him in her arms and held him tucked into her side. It was no surprise that Aegon twisted so he could settle his head into the crook of her neck. He was growing by the day, his nameday not far off, and Helaena’s not too far from that.

Rhaenyra had seen the plans her father had for the wedding, and she’d read the accounts of Lord Corlys and Rhaenys’ own, and Rhaenyra had no doubt that they would be as grand or even more so. She would have to ensure that Aegon’s nameday was not overshadowed, Helaena’s too even if the girl would not remember it.

The girl that was tucked in Gwayne’s arms, swathed in blue, black spiders stitched along the border. Helaena, fussy from the pain of her teeth cutting through her gums, whimpered and cried.

It was a sound that made Rhaenyra’s stomach churn.

“You may leave, Ser Criston.” Rhaenyra ordered. “My flight can wait.”

“Princess, they’re waiting in the courtyard. The entire council.” Ser Criston reminded.

“And they will wait until Helaena is settled.” Rhaenyra said curtly. She looked to Gwayne who was watching her, his own lips twitching. “Swap?”

He rolled his eyes and nodded; Criston Cole forgotten. It was an easy thing to do, so practiced as it was. Aegon gave only a perfunctory whine before he settled his head against Gwayne’s heart, and Helaena settled against Rhaenyra, found the braided cord of her cloak and began to chew it into oblivion.

Rhaenyra would let her gnaw upon her bones if it brought her sister even an ounce of comfort.

“Princess, I must insist.” Criston started again.

“Who are you to insist that the Crown Princess does anything?” Gwayne snorted, rocking Aegon. “I believe she told you to leave.”

Rhaenyra did not turn to face Criston, but she could feel the tension radiating off him as he stood there. Helaena could too, if her piercing shriek was anything to go by, and that was when Rhaenyra had enough of his posturing.

Men’s egos are not easily soothed.

His own weakness as a man was the mortal blow to his ego, the gilded cage for his honour as it sat stewing in poison.

Rhaenyra had to be rid of him. Ser Erryk had been a boon in those few days he had been assigned to her, kind and quick-witted. Ser Steffon too, loyal to a fault and stalworth. Yes, Rhaenyra would have one, and her clutch would have the other. But Criston Cole would never get near them, any of them.

If he tried, he would simply vanish.

“He once told me my familiarity was unbecoming.” Gwayne murmured, setting Aegon upon the chaise so he could snatch his carving of Syrax and run around the room with it. “Perhaps he should remember that.”

“I think, perhaps, it is my fault.” Rhaenyra admitted, soothing Helaena with deft fingers.

“Please tell me you did not…”

“A kiss, nothing more. Something I regret immensely. His recent behaviour, and indeed his past… for so long he was the only person I had to speak with. I fear his delusions have grown.”

“You kissed him?” Gwayne’s face scrunched up in disgust. “You kissed him, when I was right here?”

Rhaenyra, who had been focused on Aegon over by the window as he twisted the wooden toy in the sunbeams, turned her head toward Gwayne so quickly she was sure that if she were human her neck would have snapped. Gwayne was looking at her as he often did, blue eyes crystalline and bright, hair gilded by sunlight.

When she had kissed Criston, she had saw two faces flash before her. Daemon, so obvious since he had been the one to turn the flow of magma in her veins rapturous, and Gwayne. Gwayne who was before her, who was smiling as though the past few days did not exist, who was reaching out to drag his fingers through Helaena’s hair.

“It should have been you.” Rhaenyra whispered.

“It should have been me.” Gwayne agreed. “But I will have what you allow me to have, no more, no less. For so long as it comes from you, I will cherish it, adore it, and hold it close to my heart, for that is where you dwell, always and forever.”

A declaration, a promise and an oath sworn in one. Rhaenyra was sure that if Aegon was not in the room, if it had just been the two of them, it would have been sealed with a kiss, soft and sweet like the ones sung about.

“Come with me to the dragon pit.” Rhaenyra requested.

“There’s nowhere I would not go with you.” Gwayne promised. “My father tried to take me with him back to Oldtown, but I am not his to take.”

But you are mine, Rhaenyra realised, shushing Helaena who whimpered. She could not kiss Gwayne, but she did reach out, did caress his cheek with her gloved hand and that would have to be enough for now. For now, for the future held so many possibilities, and Rhaenyra, if her plan came to fortition with Laenor, then it would be a certainty.

“Aegon.” Rhaenyra called. “Come, take Gwayne’s hand sweetling. Would you like to see me off to the courtyard? Tenax will be there.”

The idea of seeing Rhaenyra’s horse, as dark as the night sky with a glossy coat, had the boy running to his uncle. Only recently had Rhaenyra named her, only recently had she begun to ride her more. Perhaps it was knowing she was a gift from Gwayne and Gwayne alone that had caused it, but Rhaenyra did not mind.

Riding a horse was nothing like flying, but she enjoyed it all the same.

Gwayne smiled at her again, for he always seemed to smile in Rhaenyra’s presence, as though she alone was worth the trueness of it. She snagged another blanket from the chaise, twisted it around Helaena who was still chewing on her string, and the two of them departed, walked down the steps and through the people in the corridors.

The Realm’s Delight and her little shadows, they would whisper. The pair of them, the Princess and the knight, forever doting upon their kin. It is good to see her happy again. Oh Queen Aemma, you would have loved to witness this.

I’m surprised she cares for them, given what happened to her mother… They are her blood; the Princess adores them as though they are her own. Gods willing, she will have her own soon, there will be no greater mother.

But Rhaenyra paid no mind to them, Helaena snug against her as she hummed, lulling the babe to sleep. She knew the Grandmaester had seen Helaena, had provided aids for her to sleep and soothe, but Rhaenyra detested the man with every fibre of her being for he had been the one to cut her mother open.

His assistant, Orwyle, however, had promise. He was younger, had wanted to treat her father with something other than maggots, and perhaps if they had, he would not have lost two fingers, would not be dying before her. Oh, Rhaenyra could scent it, the rot slow and lingering, could all but feel as the darkness dimmed her father’s light and fire.

She did not want to imagine a world without him, and yet, death was the only thing promised of life. Rhaenyra prayed that her own heat, her own flame, her own heart, would be enough to keep him strong for years to come.

He was hers, a dragon too old to take to the skies, and so he had to be protected beneath her wing. She would never abandon him, not when there were no other dragons around to coil with him, to wrap their wings around him and hunt.

She would do it until it came time for him to return to the sands of death, and when that time came, Rhaenyra would give Syrax the command, and her father would join her mother and Baelon, and all the family that, in the end, had left the world as they came into it.

In fire and blood.

“Who do you plan on giving the children to?” Gwayne inquired.

“My father.” Rhaenyra huffed. “He and Lord Lyman are to spend the day going over the budget for the wedding and tomorrow he departs. The seas sicken him something terrible.”

“Ginger root.” Gwayne hummed. “Settles the stomach, peppermint to dull the senses.”

“A knight, a horsebreaker, a nanny and a maester.” Rhaenyra quipped. “Is there anything you cannot do?”

“Travel on the sea.” Gwayne teased, and Aegon tugged his hand. “Yes, little dragon?”

“Can you fly like Nyra?” Aegon wondered.

“No.” Gwayne said dramatically. “Unfortunately, the gods ordained me to be a mortal man, but you, my dear nephew, will fly one day. Perhaps I can go with you.”

“Goldie likes me.” Aegon nodded seriously.

“Please do not name your dragon Goldie.” Gwayne coughed, and he tipped his head toward Rhaenyra. “Which one is Goldie?”

“The egg from Syrax’s first clutch.” Rhaenyra said, her heart tightening. “There were two eggs, I picked one for Baelon, but it went cold not long after the embers of his pyre did.”

Gwayne’s lips quirked. He didn’t know anything about dragon lore, but something in him told him that it was important. Important that his nephew’s dragon, if indeed it was his, was hatched from Syrax. Syrax who was Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra who was Syrax. Intangible beginnings and endings, thread of carmine and bronze, blue-fire eyes and onyx.

It meant something, Gwayne knew that much.

“Goldie’s warm, like the sun. I like the sun.” Aegon continued on, grinning up at Rhaenyra.

“When I return, we shall go see Goldie, and we will find a good name for him.” Rhaenyra promised, “And we well go flying over the Rush.”

“Go now?” Aegon asked.

“Not today, sweetling.” Rhaenyra murmured, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “See, there’s papa. Go to him, my sweet, tell him about Goldie.”

Her father was indeed in the courtyard, surrounded by the members of the small council. Lord Lannister didn’t even look miffed at having been named Master of Laws, and when Rhaenyra saw him, she offered him a charming smile.

It was reciprocated. It made sense, Tyland was always he better of the twins. At least he deigned to call her Princess, unlike his brother who said lady wife. She wondered what it would take to get him on her side, to unite the council and get each of them to back her claim.

Already did she have Lord Beesbury and Lord Strong. She doubted she would ever have the Grandmaester, not Mellos anyway, and she would ensure Corlys supported her. He’d do it for his name, and Rhaenyra did not care if he was ambitious so long as his ambition aligned with her.

She’d give him the world if it meant she’d get his fleet and riches.

“Princess.” Lord Strong greeted. “Ser Gwayne.”

“My Lord Hand.” Gwayne returned, his head dipped, and lips curved. “Congratulations on your ascension, it is well deserved for your true and honest service to the realm.”

One day, one I will learn why you mislike your father so much, because it is plain as day to see, and yet I am the only one that does¸ Rhaenyra mused as she stepped toward her father. Aegon was curled into his legs, fingers sneaking along to thumb the jewel of the dagger, but her father caught his hand and gave him a look.

It was a look Rhaenyra was very familiar with.

“Has she settled?” Viserys inquired, peering at a dozing Helaena, content to lay in her sister’s embrace soundly.

“Heat and song, I’ve found.” Rhaenyra said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “And no windows.”

“Such an odd thing to fear in a babe.” Mellos muttered, and even in the distance between them, Rhaenyra heard him.

“Fear is natural, Grandmaester.” Rhaenyra reminded sharply.

“She did not mind the height when you took her on Syrax, did she?” Viserys wondered.

“She did not.” Rhaenyra confirmed. “Nor does she mind my balcony. It is of little consequence either way.”

“This is true.” Viserys conceded. “She has three fierce protectors in her brother, sister, and uncle. Are you sure you wish to ride through the city? It is no bother to call for a wheelhouse.”

“I think it would be best, father.” Rhaenyra shrugged. “After the joys of the wedding, there are matters with our city folk I would discuss with the council.”

Viserys nodded, leaned in to take Helaena from Rhaenyra’s arms and he pressed a kiss to his eldest daughter’s cheek. “Always planning. This becomes you.”

Rhaenyra dipped her head, blood heating at the praise. It had been different since her father began to listen to her, since her words were actually heard. Rhaenyra had plans, many plans, all of them in her mind, but she would see them come, would see them planted and flourish.

Bread and blood, Daemon’s words forever echoed in her mind.

Rhaenyra bid farewell to her father, to the small council and the members of the court that had gathered to see her off. On her horse, she stopped at the portcullis, looked back and waved at Aegon one final time, and she received and enthusiastic one in return.

Ser Harwin had organised a squad of Gold Cloaks to accompany her, headed by himself. He rode to the left of her, Gwayne to her right, and there, behind them, rose Criston Cole, forgotten and silent and stewing. The Princess had kissed him, and she loved him, Criston knew this to be true, for her smiles were like sunlight, her touches like silk.

She loved him, and he loved her, and so, maybe, there was a chance. A chance that they could be together, that they could simply be Rhaenyra and Criston, beautiful lady and her fervent protector.

But it could not be that way with lickspittle that surrounded her. Like her uncle, the Queen’s brother would corrupt her, taint her. Already they did so as they told her the horrors of Flea Bottom, of its lawlessness that was difficult to root out. There was no reason for the Princess to know the horrors of the world.

The Princess was pure, made in the image of the Mother herself, and she was to remain pure, as pure as the white cloak atop Criston’s shoulders that moved in the wind. The one he had because of her, because she had thought him worthy enough to protect her.

I am hers, and she is mine.

And as the entourage closed in upon the dragon pit, the Princess’ dragon sitting, waiting for her rider like a docile little cat, Criston knew he had to protect her from dragons too.

“I thank you and your men for the escort, Lord Commander.” Rhaenyra said, patting Tenax’s neck. “I have plans for the city after my wedding, no longer will bread and blood be the only thing sustaining our people. I know Prince Daemon inquired about opening another barracks, if the small council does not see it done, then I will.”

“My thanks, Princess.” Ser Harwin said grinning. “I am honoured by your faith in my leadership.”

“You have proven yourself, my Lord.” Rhaenyra replied, dismounted Tenax with  another fond pat. “Ser Gwayne, if you would?”

Gwayne’s eyes flicked from Rhaenyra to Syrax, and something warm trickled down his spine, a thousand shocks lit his nerves with a pleasant tingle. He was on the ground in a second, and he took the saddle bags from the horse, carried them in his arms as he stepped behind Rhaenyra.

“My love and soul.” Rhaenyra called in High Valyrian. “Meet our hearth, my fire. He too will guard our hatchlings, our clutch.”

Syrax, grown larger since she’d been unchained, was definitely large enough to saddle two fully grown adults. Rhaenyra wondered if she’d ever get Gwayne in the saddle, wondered what it would be like to have him in the skies behind her, the wind rushing, their laughter lost on it.

The dragon sniffed closer, trilled out a sweet-sounding song and pressed her snout to Rhaenyra’s forehead. Rhaenyra smiled against her, pressed her lips to the scalding scales and felt nothing but her dragon’s adoring devotion and her own, as they tied together in strings of carmine and bronze.

Such a simple thing, to love a dragon, for they loved their rider. Symbiotic, for one could not thrive without the other. A dragon’s first edict was protection, for they would claw themselves from the pits of death and ruin to see their rider safe, would die themselves a thousand times to see them live.

Rhaenyra would never allow dragon to fight dragon. Never again would fang and flame bring ruin to kin, no, only their enemies. For there was a single, simple truth: The only thing that could tear down the house of the dragon was itself.

It would not happen in this life or the next. No. The future, dark and twisted as it was, had been lost the moment Rhaenyra Targaryen had plucked her brother, her would be murderer, from the cradle and held him beneath her wing and soothed his fears.

So easy it was to change the future.

“Come here.” Rhaenyra murmured, beckoning Gwayne toward her. “She won’t hurt you.”

Not when you are with me, not when she feels what I do. She will love you because I do, and that will be enough. I’m letting you touch my heart, Gwayne Hightower, letting you hold my soul, do not make me regret it.

“Good morrow, Syrax.” Gwayne said softly, aware of Cole’s piercing gaze on his back.

Syrax moved then, and Gwayne startled, rationality winning out as it always would, but Rhaenyra only laughed, curled her fingers around his arm and steadied him. Heat seeped through leather and cloth alike, and Syrax leaned down, lowered herself to the ground to allow Rhaenyra easier access.

If her actions blocked the view of the dragonkeepers, the knight that stared at her rider as though she was a prize to be won, and the awe-filled look of the men draped in gold and allowed her rider and her hearth a moment of privacy, well that was nobody’s business by Syrax’s.

“She likes you.” Rhaenyra murmured.

“Because you do?”

“When have I ever given you the inclination I like you, Gwayne?” Rhaenyra teased. “I had feared that…”

“Never.” Gwayne promised. “Never. Unless you bid me to leave, I will remain where you want me to, Rhaenyra. I swear this on the Old Gods and the New, and on the thousand and one Gods of Valyria and whoever else.”

“And what of your own happiness, Gwayne?”

“I am happiest teaching you the sword, with the children, and here. I would be the shadows if I could, just to see the beauty of your burning flame. You, Rhaenyra, being as you are, who you are, makes me happy. Nothing else could compare, not coin or riches or glory.” Gwayne said, and oh how he wished to reach out and cup her cheek, wished to tuck the wisping silver curl of her hair behind her ear. “There is no other, nor will there ever be, and I am happy with whatever you deign to give me, for you are the one who gave it to me.”

I would give you everything, Rhaenyra did not say, for she could not, not here. Instead, she pressed their foreheads together, safe and secure and hidden from view by the indominable protection of Syrax’s wing.

“Go.” Gwayne whispered, and he stepped out of her embrace, brought her gloved hand to his lips. “Bring back your fine husband, and should he ever displease you, know that you will not get the chance to be Rhaena.”

“You’ll like Leanor.” Rhaenyra promised. “And he will like you.”

“So long as you like him that is enough.” Gwayne said.

Rhaenyra nodded, stepped forward again, though this time she did not place a kiss to his cheek, but rather to his forehead. It was as close to an oath as she could come, for he would always have a place at her side, would always be welcome to the meat and mead upon her table.

Syrax shifted again, and the saddle bags were attached to her harness. Rhaenyra petted the heart-shape charm her father had indulged her in, for Syrax was her heart. She mounted her dragon with ease, did not move until Gwayne was safely back atop his horse, Tenax’s reigns in his hands. Only then did she lean close to Syrax’s neck, press her hand to her throat.

Syrax did not need a command to fly, not when their hearts and minds were one. With Balerion’s Flame secure atop her back, Syrax lumbered forth and leaped, her wings catching in the air as she ascended with a roar. Astride her, Rhaenyra laughed, a sound lost to the wind.

And on the ground, Criston Cole’s rage began to boil, no longer that simmering resentment. The Hightower knight was a threat to his Princess’ virtue, and Criston could not allow her to befoul herself again, not when rumours were already swirling about the Rogue Prince having his way with her.

Criston’s vows, after all, had charged him with defending the Princess’ name and honour, and he would do just that.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra flew low over the Blackwater and as Driftmark and indeed Dragonstone emerged in the distance, Syrax caught and upstream and ascended with a flurrying trill that carried over the still silence. Rhaenyra grinned when the sound of the song was responded too, though from which dragons she did not know.

Taking a chance, doing something she had not done since just after her mother had died, Rhaenyra circled Dragonstone before Syrax landed upon its tallest tower and she gazed out upon her power, for it was hers. She was the Princess of Dragonstone, the seamless, obsidian castle was hers, the smoking caves and caverns of the mont were hers, each grain of the volcanic sand that coloured the shores were hers,

The dragons that returned home, riderless but never alone, and even those three who had never bonded, were hers. Vermithor and Silverwing, Grey Ghost and Sheepstealer, and even the Cannibal. They were hers to guard and protect, even if they did not need it.

But that did mean they did not want it.

Syrax roared, twisted her horned head about and Rhaenyra caught sight of what seemed to aggrieve her dragon so. There, little more than a blur, a whisp of silver-grey smoke, was Grey Ghost. The dragon dove into the sea, small and nimble, and he emerged.

They’re wild, my child. Hatched but never bonded, not that we know of anyway.

Then why do they stay?

Where else would they go? Dragonstone is home to the last dragonlords, and so it is home to the last dragons.

Dragonstone would be home to her clutch and horde too, Rhaenyra knew. A three day ship-ride from King’s Landing, less than three hours on dragon back. It would be easy enough for her to go back and forth, easy for her to steal away her brother and sister and allow them to run upon the sands and find their respite from the vipers at court that would swipe at them.

All in good time, Rhaenyra promised herself, for there were other things to be done first. She leaned forward, pressed a gloved and to Syrax’s scales, aware that only hours ago her dragon had given her own blessing for all of the plans that. She urged Syrax to take flight once again, her scales glinted bronze in the sunlight, blue eyes as bright and clear as the cloudless sky.

Rhaenyra left Dragonstone with a cacophony of roars that ignited her blood, her belief and her purpose.

Then she landed upon the sands of Driftmark with a wicked smile. Syrax turned her head looked at her rider and then to the lumbering might that was Vhagar. Rhaenyra had never seen the dragon before, and what a marvel she was. The great she-dragon rose from her slumber, and Rhaenyra tensed, aware for the first time in her life that she was the prey. Once, long ago, her grandfather had taken her upon Vhagar’s back, but the memories were hazed with age and youth both, and Rhaenyra did not know if it would even matter.

Vhagar’s serpentine eyes seemed to glow as she stared at Rhaenyra, blinking slowly, and it appeared she had not forgotten that time either, recalled it better than Rhaenyra ever could. Her massive maw opened, saliva thick and glinting, her teeth as black as obsidian. Rhaenyra was far enough away to escape the flames, and Syrax was no doubt quicker, but if Vhagar wished, she could so very well end her here and now.

But Vhagar, daughter of Meraxes and Balerion, did not wish to end the fires of her sire, for they burned like liquid shadows threaded with crimson and ivory, gilded in bronze with the child before her. The largest living dragon simply sniffed, gave a noise so similar to the sweetest of birdsong that Rhaenyra was sure she imagined it, and lay her head back down upon the sand.

Syrax, sensing Rhaenyra’s unusual discomfort, the taste of her rider’s fear foreign, returned the note. Rhaenyra didn’t understand what had just occurred before her, and in the distance, High Tide’s beaten silver towers glimmered in the midday sun. There, walking amiably down the well beaten path, were four figures resplendent in aquamarine and silver.

Rhaenyra cracked her neck then, patted Syrax’s throat and promised her girl there was no danger to be found here. Above them, in the skies, Seasmoke, so much bigger than the last time Rhaenyra had seen him, dipped down into the ocean and ascended with a fish in his claw that was tossed into the air and set alight before it was swallowed.

Rhaenyra slid from her saddle with ease, a well-practised movement. Syrax lowered her head, curled her body forward slightly so her head was over Rhaenyra’s shoulder. She watched the advancing crowd with keen eyes. Beneath her, Rhaenyra only huffed before she stepped forward, uncaring of the gentle, lapping water that splashed along her boots and breeches.

“Lord Corlys.” She greeted with a smile. “I thank you for extending your hospitality to Syrax and I.”

“You shall always have a place in these halls, Princess.” Lord Corlys replied. “Come, we have a meal prepared in the Hall of Nine.”

It was Laena who bounded to her, silver coils twisting, and face made even more beautiful by the brightness of her smile. She curled her arm around Rhaenyra’s, so similar to the way she had done when they were children and, in the gardens, together plucking the rare blooms to gift to their mothers.

Gods, everything had been so simple then.

“Vhagar is a marvel.” Rhaenyra breathed. “I knew she was big, but…”

“Not quite that big?” Laenor quipped.

“No. Not quite that big, I could have sworn she was smaller, or perhaps I was. No matter to it, she has found her hearth again, with you, dear cousin.” Rhaenyra said, offering Laena a sweet smile. “And how fares Meleys, Princess Rhaenys?”

By far the most formidable person in the assembled group, Rhaenys stood by her husband’s side with a studious expression. Her eyes sharp, though never as sharp as Rhaenyra’s in truth, flicked from the Princess to her son, to Syrax and Vhagar and then she smiled, her thin lips stretched wide.

Rhaenyra had felt as though she had just won approval when she had not been seeking any.

“She is well, gorging herself on sheep.” Rhaenys replied. “Perhaps, on the morrow, we four can fly?”

“You win every time.” Laenor protested, shaking his head.

“There is no greater honour than a loss to the Red Queen.” Rhaenys said with a smirk.

Rhaenyra’s lips twitched, aware of Rhaenys’ studious eyes even as she turned back to Syrax who was laying on her belly in the face of the lapping water. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, took the saddlebag in hand before it was promptly stolen from her by Laenor with a flourishing bow and a wink.

Seasmoke settled on the beach, and as it had been when Laenor and Rhaenyra were younger, the two dragons coiled about one another, though rather than it being beneath Caraxes’ gaze, it was Vhagar’s. funny how so much changed and yet it remained the same.

Laenor offered her a nod, a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Rhaenyra wondered if he misliked the idea of marrying her, if the rumour of his preference was true. She wondered how much that would complicate everything, but perhaps, most of all, she wondered who it was he loved…

For he smelled like Syrax and Caraxes, Silverwing and Vermtihor, like her mother and father, like Rhaenys and Corlys. He smelled like a man in love with notes of sea-spray and iron. Rhaenyra knew love would not be their end, not romantic love anyway, but she would not begrudge Laenor his love, whoever it may be.

She would wait until after their food, for she was absolutely starving.

The Hall of Nine was built to immortalise Corlys’ nine great voyages across the known world, yet the name did not do it justice. Statues of jade and gold greeted her, shaped like lions and monkeys, tapestries gilded in gold that depicted great battles long since lost to the annals of time. It held more wonder than the Red Keep ever could, and Rhaenyra found she could not stop her eyes from flicking about the room.

Laena led her to the table, took the seat to her left and once Laenor had handed her saddlebag off to one of the servants, he sat to her right. Lord Corlys sat upon the highbacked chair, Princess Rhaenys to his left, Laenor to his right. Rhaenyra had feared it would be awkward, that despite her and Laena’s letters over the years that there would be a schism.

But how foolish of Rhaenyra to fear a schism when dragon could fly across the ravenous shadows of the abyss.  

It was a pleasant time, those waxing hours as they sat and ate and drank. It was simple, easy. Time had done nothing to dull the rightness of family that had flourished for years, even in the face of the Council’s decision. Even the looming anger and resentment over Laena’s spurning meant nothing in those languid, golden moments for it was Rhaenyra seated at their table.

They would support her; she knew that much. Laenor and Laena both, and Corlys too, for his ambition would align with Rhaenyra’s. He lusted for glory, not for himself any longer, not the Hall of Nine was testament to the glory of Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake and Lord of the Tides, but for his name.

A name that would be tied to dragonriders and Kings and Queens. The start of a dynasty not just of fire and blood, but also of salt and sea, as it had been with Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys, as it had been with Rhaena, Jaehaerys and Alysanne. Forever was there three, just as there was three heads on the dragon.

Even still, Rhaenyra could not escape the questioning gaze of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen who knew that there was something different about her cousin’s daughter. Where once Rhaenyra had been… a girl, in truth, blind to the world and naïve, now there was something other to her. Something had ignited the dragon blood in her veins, for the Princess before her was no longer a mere mortal with the viscous flame that was in Rhaenys’ own veins.

No. She was a daughter of fire, the likes of which had not been seen in nearly a century. Even Daemon didn’t come close.

“I think I shall show the Princess to her rooms.” Rhaenys announced once the last of the plum cake was gone.

Rhaenyra nodded, rose from her seat with an otherworldly grace that was silent. Rhaenys suppressed her smile, knowing that her thoughts were proven true. She watched as Rhaenyra stalked through her halls, as though she herself had grown up in them, and then Rhaenys finally stopped before the heavy oaken door.

She pushed open the door, smiled at the fact the staff had already lit a fire in the hearth even though it wasn’t particularly cold. They’d learned from Rhaenys, from Laena and Laenor, for fire was their constant, their ending and beginning all in one.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked around the room, to the saddlebag that lay atop the blackwood carved writing desk, to the lush, gleaming bronze and carmine silks that dressed the bed. Sandalwood scented the room, curled around the room in thin whisps that were caught in the golden hues of the glimmering sunlight.

The rooms, Rhaenyra noted, were adjacent to Laenor’s. These should not have been the rooms she was given, no, these were the ones that should have been made ready for her father. It was a statement, of that she was sure, and though the subtle snub of her father’s position rankled her for he was King and sire both, a dragon weakened by sickness, tended to by the young in the same way Balerion had been when he returned from Old Valyria, something else within her was warm.

“When Viserys told me that you cut short your marriage tour with the intention to marry my son, I must admit I was hesitant.” Rhaenys began. “There was never any interest in either of you.”

“My father made a mistake.” Rhaenyra murmured. “A mistake I will spend my life rectifying. You were right, that day in the gardens, they will never accept me, not unless I make it so.”

“So, you intend to use my son?”

“I love him, I do. Love him in a way a dragon loves its clutchmates.” Rhaenyra said, tuning to face the Queen Who Never Was “Love comes, my father said, but it is not love I require, only respect. There was no greater match than Laenor. By marrying him, not only do I heal the hurts my father done unto house Velaryon, but also those of the Great Council.”

Rhaenys took a moment to consider the Princess of Dragonstone’s words. Rhaenyra did not shrink in the face of her narrowed eyes and thinned-lipped expression. Rhaenys considered what she knew about her son, knew where his heart lay in truth, but she did not care because he was her son, her only son. She knew the court would eat him alive, or perhaps, that it once might have.

But Rhaenys recognised the look in Rhaenyra’s eyes, amethyst so dark in that moment it appeared black in that moment. It was the same look in Meleys’ eyes when she laid a clutch, when she let none but Rhaenys close to it. Rhaenys doubted there was anywhere safer in the world than beneath Rhaenyra Targaryen’s wing, for the Princess was more dragon than man, more fire than flesh.

If Rhaenys had have been anybody other than the person she was, she would have quelled in the face of the dragon wearing the skin of her cousin’s daughter.

“What set you alight, child?” Rhaenys wondered, taking Rhaenyra’s jaw in her hand, felt as the heat blistered and pulsed beneath her, warm and soothing to her, agonising to others.

“My brother.” Rhaenyra said with a smile. “Such a fragile, lazing thing. His grandsire would see him torn apart by the vipers so he could put Aegon back together, so he could be remade. That insufferable vulture would see the blood of the dragon replaced with venom and hate. They would tear my brother apart for their own gain, and I will not let that happen.”

“You’ve claimed him.” Rhaenys whispered, eyes fond. “He is yours. Helaena too, I suspect. You always wanted siblings, but they are not just siblings, are they, Rhaenyra?”

“They are my hatchlings.” Rhaenyra replied in thick, curling Valyrian. “My fire, my blood. They will grow beneath my wing, and they will soar beside me, but they shall never rise, for if they rise, they will fall.”

Rhaenys hummed, knowing that the child before her was not the same one from years ago. She was not the same little Princess, but Rhaenys had no doubt that she would indeed create that new order she wished for so much. Corlys would delight in it, delight in the power his son’s wife possessed, for Rhaenyra had power in her veins, in her voice and in her heart.

The first child born after the last of Old Valyria took shuddering breaths. Rhaenys had been there when the Black Dread had died, all of them had been. She remembered Viserys on his knees, his tears, remembered Meleys and Caraxes and Vermithor and Silverwing and Dreamfyre and even the mighty Vhagar as they roared. Even the wild of Dragonstone had mourned, had lit the ancient citadel in the hues of their flames.

And now Rhaenyra Targaryen held that power in her veins. Curiously, Rhaenys wondered what colour her blood would take if it was spilled that very moment. Would it be the scarlet of man, or the obsidian of dragons?

A part of Rhaenys hoped never to find out.

“I will speak with my Lord husband.” Rhaenys said in the silence. “I pray you speak to Laenor. Perhaps we can organise a retinue and you, Laena and Laenor can go to Spicetown.”

“I would love to scour its markets.” Rhaenyra nodded, smile pulling along her lips.

To spoil your hatchlings with, no doubt, Rhaenys thought with humour. She had been the same when she had Laena, with Laenor, and Corlys had provided her with riches beyond her greatest desires. But Rhaenyra had to do it alone, it seemed, but she was Aemma’s daughter, and Aemma’s daughter should never have been alone.

Blood called to blood as dragon called to dragon, and when they were alone, terrible things happened. No longer would Rhaenyra be alone, with only those to protect, for even the protector needed protection, and Daemon was not there.

But Rhaenys was.

“You should rest. Perhaps after we fly in the morn, you can explore to your heart’s content.”

Rhaenys turned then, went to the door and stopped. She turned, looked back at Rhaenyra who was twisting her ring atop of her finger. There was power in her veins yes, power unrivalled in truth should it ever be let loose, but she was still so young, had been burdened heavily for the last four years, had been alone.

“Rhaenys?” Rhaenyra called. “When you see him, prepare yourself.”

Rhaenys nodded, knew she meant Viserys. Their letters had been sparse over the years, but he had spoke of his ailing health only once, in his most recent letter. The words were carved into Rhaenys’ mind…

I will live long enough to see Rhaenyra married, but I do not know if I will live long enough to see her prepared as she deserved. If I cannot, I beg you, Rhaenys, see done what I cannot. I know there is enmity, I know there is regret, but she is my daughter before anything else, I would not see her ripped apart by the vultures.

Rhaenys resolved to do just that. For her house, for her son, and for Aemma’s daughter.

Rhaenys left her then, and Rhaenyra seated herself at the writing desk, opened her saddle bags. She smiled to herself when the first thing that was pulled from it was the carved Syrax figurine. It was a two-day sail from King’s Landing to Driftmark with favourable winds, and even if Rhaenyra had to manufacture the wind with Syrax’s wings then so be it.

Idly, Rhaenyra wondered when Aegon had passed it off to Gwayne, and when he had stuffed it into her bag because of course it had been him, them. Aegon didn’t like being away from her, not when he had only gotten her back after long months away, and yet still he had given her his toy so she could hold him close. There was a kindness to her brother, sweet and spiced like the finest of wines, and Rhaenyra wouldn’t let it be ruined.

Hours passed in the haze of lapping water and trilling dragons and Rhaenyra was glad for the solitude if only to gather her thoughts. She would need to speak with Laenor properly, make him aware of the stipulations Rhaenyra had decided on, and his own title indeed. There was, however, the issue of Driftmark, for if Rhaenyra was to have only girls, would their daughter become the Master of Driftmark? Rhaenyra could not guarantee it, could not guarantee her own ascension even if there had been sacred oaths sworn. Life was such a fickle game.

Then came a knock at the door, Laena’s voice sounded behind it. “Rhaenyra? We’ve brought peach tarts and wine.”

Rhaenyra stood, moved to open the door and great her cousins. There were indeed wine and peach tarts, and a platter of other sweet treats that had Rhaenyra’s mouth slick with want. Laenor set them on the table, Laena the wine upon the nightstand. The three of them piled atop the silken sheets of the bed with ease, for it was large enough, and warmth suffused the room, sandalwood replaced by seasalt and fire.

Rhaenyra could lay languidly in its haze for eons, if only the rest of her dragon-kin would join her. If that were to happen, it would be paradise, untainted and incorruptible, for the slow, rotting infection of grasping men would be burned away by the fires of harmony and heart.

Their conversation was easy. Trivial things that had no consequence in the world, and yet, because they came from Laena and Laenor, Rhaenyra found herself wanting to know them all. They’d changed in the years they’d been apart, time and age often caused it to happen even if they’d been attached at the hip, but the pair of them had grown well, clever and fierce like their mother, indominable and calm as their father.

A true union of the skies and seas.

“And where is your betrothed in all of this?” Rhaenyra wondered as she bit through the rick sweetness of the peach tart.

“Hopefully dead.” Laenor snorted. “For a Sea Lord’s son, he cannot swim very well.”

“You pushed him off the pier when he was drunk.” Laena reminded with a huff.

“Ask yourself why he was drunk at mine and father’s return.”

“So he is that bad then?” Rhaenyra hummed. “Do you want to marry him?”

“Now that I’ve had to live with him for three years? Not in the least. But the only way out of the contract is death or duel and he has guest rights.” Laena shrugged. “And is under father’s protection, so if something should happen to him… let’s say a stabbing that occurs in the darkness of night, then we hold the fault.”

“And the delight.” Laenor murmured darkly.

“I’ll do it.” Rhaenyra said easily. “Get him drunk, push him down the stairs and a broken neck later all our problems.”

“And who have you envisioned doing that to?” Laenor questioned with humour. “Far too quick it was, to not have been a want of yours.”

“I have lived alone with Otto Hightower for four years, and old Mellos. Incessant fuckers the pair of them.” Rhaenyra reminded with a smirk. “But after he tried to spin some story of me fucking Deamon in a pleasure den father sent him back to Oldtown.”

Laenor’s eyes widened, Laena threw her head back and cackled. Then their faces transformed, bright and knowing, gleeful and conspiratorial. Rhaenyra knew that look well, for it had often been used on her when they wanted to go and see the dragons, when they wanted cake and to get away from their maester.

“You would do it, wouldn’t you?” Laena murmured; her head tilted appraisingly when she realised her cousin was not jesting.

“If you wanted it to be done.” Rhaenyra said easily.

Rhaenyra would, of that she had no doubt. If Laena wanted her would be husband dead and gone, then dead and gone he would be. There was nothing the Sea Lord’s son could give Laena, especially since his father’s office would never be his to claim. Laena had riches beyond her dreams, she had her family and she had Vhagar, there was nothing a drunken little man could give her that would be worthy of her.

Laena nodded, leaned over and kissed Rhaenyra’s cheek and then excused herself, giving Laenor a sharp look that had him sighing. Rhaenyra shook her head, watched as the door clicked shut and Laenor reached for more wine.

“I do hope the idea of marrying me is not so offensive.” Rhaenyra teased.

“It is not.” Laenor shook his head. “I just do not believe I can love you as you deserve to be loved, Rhaenyra.”

“Because your heart already belongs to another.” Rhaenyra nodded, reached out to place her hand upon his shoulder. “It’s okay, Laenor, we cannot control our tastes.”

“It is not for a lack of trying.” Laenor whispered.

“If you love this person, then so too shall I.” Rhaenyra promised, offering him a smile. “Ours is a duty, yes, but once that duty is done, we can be as we are now: friends.”

Laenor seemed stricken, and Rhaenyra could not know why. Did he think she would find fault with him? Did he think she would turn away from him in disgust? They were kin, the blood of Old Valyria, dragonriders, the rules of Westeros, the belief of the faith, meant nothing to them.

Laenor looked at her then, expression wide open and vulnerable. There was a fear there that Rhaenyra wished to soothe, a worry she wished to conquer. She was the elder, and Laenor was beside her, and so Rhaenyra draped her arm around him, in a twisted version of what Syrax had done for her and Gwayne just hours ago.

“Tell me about him?” Rhaenyra asked lowly, voice silken and soft and oh so warm. “I would know the man who holds your heart, Laenor, if you would allow it.”

And so Laenor told her of his love, of Ser Joffrey Lonmouth. He told Rhaenyra of his quick wit and ability to hold his smile even in the direst of moments, how Joffrey could make Laenor smile in even the blackest of his moods. Rhaenyra listened to it all, felt that heat seep and the iron-salt tang of love surrounded them, heavy and thick and glorious.

She might never have Laenor’s love, but it was his to give as he wished, and he was so obviously besotted with Joffrey and Rhaenyra could not, would not, begrudge him that in the least.

They had decided upon the agreement between them then, for duty would not be sacrificed for their hearts, nor would their hearts be sacrificed for duty. They would live in harmony with one another, and if they could not, then Rhaenyra would find a way to make it so, for she was the elder and Laenor deserved to love and be loved as his heart wanted.

**

In the following days, Rhaenyra flew around the islands, flew over the sea. Every race was lost to the Red Queen, but it meant little, for none, save Grey Ghost who sometimes appeared to watch and respond to the call of delighted dragons, were fast enough to beat her. Syrax, spoiled thing that she was, had loved it, had missed the sense of flying with her kin.

She would not be missing their company for long, for on the third morning, as she raced Seasmoke from the mont back to Driftmark again, she caught sight of her father’s ship, dipped down low to allow Syrax’s claws to swipe through the water.

Her father, leaning over the rails of the ship and looking a bit green as the Lord Hand passed him a steaming mug of something, looked on, eyes on his daughter and her dragon alone. Viserys offered her a wave and Rhaenyra laughed, shook her head in the face of the wind and raced back to the shores of Driftmark, Seasmoke and Laenor already there.

“Are you ready?” Rhaenyra inquired once she was free from Syrax’s saddle.

“Do I have to?” Laenor wondered with a teasing lit as Seasmoke nudged him forward with his snout. “Alright, alright.”

Rhaenyra huffed when Laenor offered her his arm, though she took it with ease. Three days had been enough to reignite those ancient, fire kissed blood bonds of kinship. Three days had been enough to know that yes, yes, this was indeed the right choice not only for Rhaneyra’s hatchlings, but also the realm as a whole.

Just as the only thing mighty enough to tear down Old Valyria had been Old Valyria itself, so too could only the house of the dragon reign destruction over itself. Rhaenyra would never allow it to come to that, would never allow the dragons to fight one another with fang and flame and claw, for they were one hearth and one blood.

Lord Corlys had assembled the household as was proper. Rhaenyra was sure if things had been different, her father would not have received the common curtesy associated with his position, but that time was a time that would never come to pass.

Corlys would have his blood upon the throne, his son would be Prince-Consort until such a time as Rhaenyra ascended, and Driftmark would have a further generation of dragonriders to secure their dominion over the seas. He would also have his position upon the Small Council back, and that odious lump his daughter could have married would be vanished.

Laena had decided that one just the night before when she’d heard the lecherous fucker, drunk as he always was, losing his money as he always was, promise a night with Laena if his debts were ignored for she was his betrothed.

As though Laena Velaryon, a daughter of Old Valyria and the rider of Vhagar, was a simple possession.

“Do stop imagining murdering Sevros, dear.” Laenor murmured with a pinched expression when he saw Rhaenyra’s sharpened gaze. “Your plan has merit.”

“My plan will happen tonight, after the lovely feast your mother has prepared for my father.” Rhaenyra said darkly.

“Dare I ask how you plan on getting him close?” Laenor whispered in her ear.

“Men like that always think they can get what they want.” Rhaenyra said breezily, brightening as they walked along the sands toward High Tide. “You’ll get used to it in time, Laenor.”

“I may just renege on this marriage if it means I get to keep my sanity.” Laenor jested. “Joffrey likes you, scared of you yes, but he likes you.”

“Between the both of us, it appears as though Ser Joffrey has good taste.” Rhaenyra hummed. “He’s welcome to join the household we’re creating. I’ve to speak with my father about potential ladies, since well…”

“The only one you had became your stepmother?” Laenor said with an amused shake of his head. “No hope for reconciliation then?”

“None in the least.” Rhaenyra promised. “I cannot trust that any of it was real. I like to think it was, but I no longer have the luxury of hope. My position is precarious, but my father chose me, his eldest, as his heir and so it is mine. I will not let the vipers tear apart my brother and sister and those who come after for their own gain.”

“I never imagined I’d enter into a marriage with two babes already present, but yet, here I am.” Laenor moved to lay his hand atop Rhaenyra’s. “And here I’ll stay. Though I must ask… if there any toes I’m stepping on, any dragons I need be concerned about?”

“It is that obvious?” Rhaenyra huffed.

“Because we know you.” Laenor returned. “Daemon is very pretty.”

“Gwayne said the same thing.” Rhaenyra admitted with a careless shrug, humour thick in her voice. “Everybody says how pretty Daemon is, yet I’m standing right here.”

But Laenor froze, was staring at her as though she’d just told him a secret of the universe. Then he laughed, a sound that carried through the gentle sea-breeze and Rhaenyra could only stare on, perplexed, her head tilted to the side in a way that was startlingly similar to Syrax. Laenor wasn’t sure what the fuck he was getting himself in for, but he wouldn’t let Rhaenyra do it alone.

But Gwayne fucking Hightower? How had she managed that?

“What is it?” Rhaenyra asked. “You didn’t get hit in the head by a seagull, did you? I got a pigeon to the head once; it hurts something wicked. Father laughed at me for days afterwards.”

“Gwayne. Gwayne Hightower.” Laenor said, tone and eyes leaking with mirth. “You’ve stolen not only Otto’s grandchildren, but his son as well? By the Gods, what a marvel you are.”

“I didn’t steal anybody.” Rhaenyra huffed; cheeks pink. “And Gwayne is a friend. You’ll like him, he’s teaching me how to use a sword, so I don’t have to rely on stairs to kill people.”

Joffrey was right, you are terrifying. It is spectacular.

“Is that a euphemism?” Laenor teased, bound hair swaying, shoulders shaking.

“You’re incorrigible.” Rhaenyra grinned, and then she twisted the pair of them to look back down along the beach where Syrax and Seasmoke were watching with keen eyes and well… smiles. “He told me before I left, beneath Syrax’s wing, that if I found you to be a displeasure, I wouldn’t get the chance to be Rhaena. Oh and I’m pretty sure he’s behind the rumours that were spread about Otto’s incessant need to have a cock upon the throne.”

Laenor’s head was tar ball and water both, or perhaps one hitting the other, not quite sure if they were any different in truth. Rhaenyra said it so easily, as though she had complete faith in the Hightower when only moments ago did she question if anything with Alicent had been real…

Gwayne had done something very few in the world could do. He got a dragon to trust him. He got Rhaenyra to trust him. Rhaenyra whose trust and protection had always been like Valyrian Steel, deadly to go defy, glorious to hold. Laenor had thought that it had been Daemon and Daemon alone who held Rhaenyra’s love, but that was foolish, for Rhaenyra had always had love in abundance.

“Tell me about him?” Laenor asked gently, all teasing gone, aware of how precious it all was.

Rhaenyra simply smiled, her voice so terribly soft and fond. As she had done for him, Laenor listened with intense ease. It was wonderful to see the world through somebody else’s eyes, and even more so when that person was Rhaenyra who felt things so intensely.

Rhaenyra told him of the hunt and the months that followed. Told him of the training and the children and the promises. It was obvious that Rhaenyra loved him, loved Gwayne Hightower in a way entirely different to Daemon, than she ever would love Laenor and whoever else dwelled in her heart.  It was so obvious in the way she repeated his words, how she delighted in them.

Laenor had to give the man his applause, for he had known exactly what to say, not because he had practiced it or some such conspiracy, but because it was what he himself had felt. There was, after all, no quicker way to a dragon’s heart than through her hatchlings, and the man had promised to burn the realm just to see them warmed.

A dangerous devotion, Laenor’s senses reminded him, but a welcomed one in truth. They’d need all the allies they could get.

Then Rhaenyra, unashamed and unabashed, told Laenor about the truth of the brothel for it was only the two of them and the wind, and she told him about the regrated kiss with a Kingsguard. Laenor did not care for either, Rhaenyra could do as she pleased, just as Laenor could, though he’d reserve his judgement on Criston Cole until he met him.

And as fate would have it, Cole was there, an hour later and behind the King, as High Tide went to meet its King, and its new Lord Hand. His dark gaze found Laenor, found his and Rhaenyra’s arms still entwined, Rhaenys and Corlys to their left, Laena to their right, alongside her drunken fool would-be husband and Ser Joffrey.

Laenor didn’t like what he saw in those eyes. Nor, in truth, did Rhaenyra as Corlys stepped forward and bowed.

“High Tide is yours, Your Grace.”

(And back in King’s Landing, Alicent Hightower, alone and bereft in the gardens as her brother watched over her children as though they were his own, she made a new friend in Larys Strong. She listened to his words, soft and kind even as they delivered the heartbreaking truth to her. Alicent felt as everything she knew was ripped from her, felt as that contempt and jealously flicked and burned. Rhaenyra could taint and corrupt herself all she wished, but she would not do it to Alicent's children. Her father had been right, and now he was gone, and so it was up to Alicent herself to see them safe, to see them rise, because Rhaenyra was not fit to rule, not when she had no taste for duty.)

Chapter Text

After her father had taken an hour to recover from the trauma of seafaring, Rhaenyra found herself seated beside him, Lord Lyonel to his left, and there, across the table was Laenor, Corlys and then Rhaenys. Rhaenyra resisted the urge to shake her head at the display, knew that once it was over it meant nothing because she’d find her father and Lord Corlys would have their heads bowed over parchment and curating the most extravagant wedding since Corlys’ and Rhaenys’ own.

Rhaenyra would delight in the spectacle as she always would. She liked finery, liked the pomp and affair and the richness that her life provided her. Of course she did, dragons always liked pretty things.

But there was silence in the interim. Laenor despaired, met her gaze with a pleading glimmer to the lilac hues and Rhaenyra could only twitch her lips in response. It was not her decision to speak first, not that honour was reserved for either her father, or Lord Corlys. But neither of them had spoken in the long moments they’d been sitting there across from one another, six goblets of wine untouched.

Men and their fucking egos, Rhaenyra thought savagely as she thrummed her ringed fingers against the thick black wood of the table. Her eyes flicked down the table to Rhaenys who was watching not the display of the King and the Sea Snake with intrigue but rather Rhaenyra. Even the Lord Hand was, his lips pressed thin and his fingers steepled.

Well, if anything, it could be an opportunity to make both her father and Lord Corlys hear her. It would do well to get the practice in now when neither of them would truly care because this was just a formality. She and Laenor would wed, the pair of them had already discussed it at length, and Rhaenyra had even spoken to Corlys about some of the more pressing details.

Rhaenyra clucked her tounge and reached for the wine, the only movement there had been besides flicking eyes and strumming fingers. Immediately she had their attention and Rhaenyra smiled that well-practiced smile, the one that was disarming and charming. Her father returned it, soft and sweet as he always was when it came to her and Corlys only shook his head.

“I’m sure that’s quite enough posturing.” Rhaenyra said with humour. “Otherwise, I think we might be here until the feast, and perhaps even after.”

“Indeed.” Rhaenys hummed. “State your terms, cousin.”

Lyonel Strong’s lips thinned at that, no doubt perceiving it to be a slight against his King. Rhaenyra and Viserys, however, knew that was not what had been intended. There were intricacies to the Targaryens that outsiders would never know, and this was one of them.

Rhaenys could refuse her king, but she would not refuse her cousin, not when it meant unifying their family in a way it hadn’t been for a long time. She would honour him in this, and in all that came after, for she would make true to Viserys begged words to see Rhaenyra ready if he himself could not.

The King simply smiled, shook his head and that was enough to soothe Lyonel’s belief at the perceived slight. A few days it had been, but he was already a better Lord Hand than Otto ever could have been. Viserys had told Rhaenyra of his idea, to wed her to Aegon, of course he had, though not until she was ready to depart to Driftmark.

Incandescent rage had burned hot and fierce. Aegon was not some pawn to be moved about a board any more than Rhaenyra was. He was the first of her horde, hers to love and protect and guard as a dragon would her eggs, he was never to be her husband.

He’d been two. She’d been six and ten. The very idea was ludicrous.

“As though Rhaenyra has not already told you.” Viserys huffed. “Though if you would have any reason to refuse the binding of our houses, I would like to hear it, cousin.”

“We see no reason not to.” Corlys interjected with a nod. “It is a fine match indeed, and the Princess honours us for we know she could have chosen another. There, of course, the issue of names and succession.”

“You do not seek for the line of Targaryen to end with my daughter simply because she is a daughter, do you, Corlys?” Viserys inquired blithely, eyes narrowed.

They’d been friends once, Rhaenyra knew, back when everything was happy and plain and easy. They’d been worse than the women at court, sitting there with their wines after the dinners they’d shared as kin, gossiping like fishwives and maids. Rhaenyra remembered sitting there, with Laena and Laenor, as Rhaenys taught her how to braid Laena’s silver coils, as Aemma watched on in luxating adoration.

Those memories were golden, golden in the way her mother’s smile had been, golden in the way the warmth and fire bubbled in the peace. Her mother may have been gone from the realm, though she was never gone from their hearts, and so she lived on. Her moments of peace would live on too, for Rhaenyra would take her place and see warmth spread in the manner of nurture and healing, would allow herself the rest of carmine plots and onyx anger.

Rhaenyra had loved the days on Driftmark. Had loved the freedom of it all. She had adored flying around Dragonstone, had even once descended from Syrax to walk amongst the walls, to see the captain of the guard and speak with Maester Gerardys.

It had been him, after all, who had slowed her father’s rot by taking his two fingers. She would have him, for she would never have Mellos, did not want him in the least, and Orwyle, his acolyte and assistant, remained unknown to her still.

She would rectify that when she returned to the Red Keep. After she coiled about Aegon and Helaena and listened to Gwyane’s gossip because he had a way for spinning tales.

“We simply seek clarification on the matter.” Rhaenys said.

“Well, since it was Rhaenyra who brought forth the idea, I shall let her present it.” Viserys returned easily and Rhaenyra blinked, nodded at her father in thanks for finally hearing her.

All eyes flicked to her. Viserys knew, of course, the words his daughter was about to speak, and so too did Laenor. The Lord Hand had been informed by the King on the days upon the ship, had used Lyonel’s former position of Master of Laws to see if there was any sort of precedent, or indeed, if there were laws that had to be rewritten or struck to see it happen.

“I propose a true union of our houses.” Rhaenyra began. “Laenor will take the title Prince Consort upon our marriage, and our firstborn child, no matter the gender, shall inherit the iron throne with the surname Targaryen. The child that inherits Driftmark, shall of course, retain the name of their father, Velaryon.”

She wondered if it would rankle is pride, but Corlys had to have known that the name Targaryen would not die with Rhaenyra. No. She was creating a dynasty of her own, one that would stand until the darkness settled and the cold winds blew only to be annihilated by dragonfire. That was why she could not faulter, for if weakness was scented, she would be set upon by rats the moment her father died.

She would not let that happen, because if it did, it meant her hatchlings and all those beneath her wing could be lost. The idea of even one of them getting a scratch had revulsion coiling in her gut, had it strangled by an angry, icy serpent. Ice had no place in her body, for she was a being of fire.

“This is acceptable.” Corlys agreed, eyed Laenor who was smiling.

“Furthermore, when the child set to inherit Driftmark is ten and four, they will come to stay as ward, so that they may learn from the fearsome Lord of the Tides himself.” Rhaenyra added. “So they may learn the art of the seas as sure as they do the skies.”

“Do you accept these terms? We will of course provide a dowry for Ser Laenor.” Viserys added with humour.

“I’m the bride?” Laenor huffed out an amusing sound, puffed his chest like a proud peacock. “I’m rather honoured, my King.”

“He has his father’s tastes.” Rhaenys teased. “What say you, husband?”

And so Lord Corlys Velaryon stood with a smile etched into his face, and so too did King Viserys Targaryen. Both men reached out and their hands clasped over the table, and Rhaenyra noted that her father favoured his off hand, but that might have been because it was the only hand that still had five fingers. She watched as the deal was struck, as Laenor stood, and he came to her side, took her hand and pressed his lips to the ruby ring set with silver, smoking claws.

“Princess.” Laenor grinned.

“Prince-Consort.” Rhaenyra teased.

Rhaenys only shook her head, amusement burning in her blood. They’d be good together, she knew that. Though they’d ever love one another as husband and wife loved each other, their love would be a stronger one, bound in blood and oath and a unified goal to see their houses prosper in perpetuity. If anybody could do it, it would be Laenor and Rhaenyra. Both of them were relentless like that, especially when they knew what they wanted.

That single-minded focus could be a detriment, but Rhaenys would be there to temper them should they require it. She had no doubt that Laena would be beside them as well, that something would happen to Sevros and Laena would become a permanent fixture in the household Rhaenyra and Laenor were creating.

And what a great household it would be.

Already had Ser Joffrey come, Laenor by his side, not that it surprised Rhaenys in the least. Laenor had come to her after that first day, had told Rhaenys that Rhaenyra knew and that she did not care. Rhaenys was glad for it, did not want to think about her son alone and bereft in the viper den that had raised Rhaenys herself.

And Rhaenys would not abandon either of them.

“There is of course, one final thing before we lose the pair of you to planning what may just be the most august event of our lifetime.” Rhaenyra called, disturbing the peace.

“And what would that be?” Rhaenys inquired, head tilted to the side as she smiled.

“Lord Corlys, I would reinvite you to join the Small Council.” Viserys announced. “In both apology and thanks for your actions taken against the Triarchy.”

Rhaenyra watched as Corlys’ eyes flicked to his wife, as Princess Rhaenys gave an imperceptible twitch of her lips to convey her approval that was lost to all save one. Rhaenyra only smiled, curled her arm around Laenor who glanced at her with a sly smile. He’d known of course, she’d told him when they walked through Spicetown, as she tried to assess whether it would be something Corlys would even want.

Laenor had laughed and reminded her it was Corlys she was talking about. History remembers names, Laenor had relayed the words his father had told him. Rhaenyra should have known, he was the Sea Snake after all, a man who would never be forgotten by history, and now neither would his son, who would one day stand beside the iron throne.

There was not much more Rhaenyra could give him, but she knew that she had given him had been enough for the moment. At least with Corlys she knew what he wanted, and she could give it to him, but the same could not be said for Otto, because it would be impossible for Rhaenyra to grow a cock when she was not already in possession of one.

“I would be honoured, my King.” Corlys said with a deferential dip of his head. “That would require us to stay within King’s Landing, of course.”

“Your old rooms are being aired and dusted.” Viserys promised.

Rhaenyra huffed out an amused breath. Their rooms had scarcely been touched in the years they’d been gone because her father always held out hope that they would return to them. They were his family, Rhaenys his cousin, Corlys his friend, and Laena and Laenor babes he had once bounced on his knee and told stories of Old Valyria from the histories the Targaryens had.

Rhaenyra wondered what histories the Velaryons had.

They took their leave then, Rhaenys to oversee the feast, Corlys and Viserys and the Lord Hand to the solar to speak about the festivities and events of the wedding, and of course, the date. Laenor escorted Rhaenyra to her room, found already that Laena was standing there with a sour look.

Criston Cole stood at Rhaenyra’s door and dared deny her entry. Rhaenyra’s lips pursed, her head tilted dangerously, and Laenor was sure her skin heated in much the same way Seasmoke’s did before his beloved dragon let loose a curling jet of smoke-coloured flame.

“You need not take up post outside my door, Ser Criston.” Rhaenyra said lowly. “Nor deny entry to Lord Corlys’ daughter in her own halls. She is here to assist me before the feast.”

Cole nodded resolutely, his jaw ticking in contained fury. Rhaenyra decided that in that moment he would be gone, that she would speak to her father and see Ser Steffon placed behind her, beside her and before her, and Ser Erryk with her little hatchlings. She had made a terrible mistake years ago, had made another one just a few short weeks ago.

She had allowed him close, too close. The friend she thought she had found was nothing but a whisp of smoke in the wind, an inconsequential thing for it made her ignore the danger of the roaring heat and crackling flame of want and obsession.

He could do no harm to her, at least five different people would see him struck down before that could happen, and if he survived it, he’d meet Daemon’s particular brand of judgement. Yet it was not for herself that Rhaenyra held concern, no, she was the Crown Princess, untouchable to all those who she did not let touch her… but others did not have the same protection.

Those beneath her wing had her as their protection, and she would not forsake them for a man twisted with the notions of white honour and duty. As bad as it had been, once she had realised, it had grown worse since she had drunkenly kissed him.

A single kiss. It wasn’t even a good one, not when Rhaenyra had Daemon’s to compare it with, nor what she imagined Gwayne’s lips would feel like.

That wasn’t something she could think about.

Rhaenyra opened the door herself, walked past him without a second glance and waited until Laenor and Laena had entered before she had closed it with a snick. None could say anything improper was happening, not with Laena there, though even if there were to be, she wasn’t going to tell anybody.

Not when Rhaenyra was going to remove the obstacle that was her betrothed soon enough. Come morning Laena would be free to join Rhaenyra and Laenor in King’s Landing, though it would be a few weeks before they arrived in truth. Rhaenyra knew the wedding would take place soon enough, no doubt however long it took to organise.

She expected to be wed within three moons. Three moons because that was how long it took for most of the realm to travel to the capitol, which meant that Rhaenyra herself had three months to decide upon the ladies who would join her in their household, the knights and captain of her guard. It meant she had three months to lay the foundations for the garden that would blood the rarest of flowers and fruit in years to come.

Never before had three months been so important, but she would not have to shoulder it alone anymore. Rhaenyra looked at Laenor who was grinning at something his sister had said, heat rising on his cheeks, and no doubt that meant it was something to do with Joffrey. Laena, likewise, was smiling, bright like the sun and just as warming, as nurturing and nourishing. She deserved so much more than whatever it was Sevros the Sea Lord’s son thought he could gift her.

“You are rather silent, cousin.” Laena mused. “Plotting, are we?”

“I think I have not stopped since I picked Aegon up.” Rhaenyra admitted. “They’re always going to look to the men around me rather than me, and so I must prove to them that I am worthy.”

“You are.” Laenor decided. “Tell us your plans, Rhaenyra, tell us and allow us to help you.”

“We are with you.” Laena agreed, reached out and tangled her hand with Rhaenyra’s as Laenor did the same. “Now and always. Otto Hightower and the men of the realm who think a cock is worth more than a dragon Queen are fools, and together we will prove it.”

Together, Laena said, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. Rhaenyra had done nothing to deserve it, not yet anyway, but she would. Their loyalty would not go unpaid, neither would their friendship, their kinship. Rhaenyra leaned forward and pressed her lips to Laena’s cheek, to Laenor’s, sealing the promise.

Together.

Together the houses of Old Valyria had conquered the seven Kingdoms, and together they would keep them, would hold them until darkness drifted south and then together, with the fury of the Fourteen Flames and all the living dragons, they would light the way to salvation with flame and fang, salt and sea.

Targaryen. Velaryon. Celtigar.

Rhaenyra looked to the both of them then, her eyes dark and speculative. Laenor was sure they’d never been that dark before, never had been anything but that ethereal amethyst that had always been a touch different than it should have been. He did not fear it, did not fear Rhaenyra in the same way he did not fear Seasmoke.

That alone was one of many reasons he listened to her plans, her plots and her intrigue. Laena was the same, though somewhere along the way she had grabbed parchment and ink, a writing board, her wine forgotten. Laena had always been their mother’s daughter, blood of the dragon hot and thick and flowing. Her flame was a calm one, nurturing and warm like the sun.

But Laenor had always been his father’s son. He was salt and sea, temperance and life. But beneath the still, a storm raged, for the monsters of myth called the darkness of the vast oceans their home, and they too lived within Laenor. The men who dared to doubt Rhaenyra should pray they never met them, because Rhaenyra would not only be his wife, but she was also his kin, and he would protect them until the bitter end and forever after in the shores of death.

It came to Rhaenyra easily then, the notions of what she had to do, the things that could so very easily work or prove disastrous. She had spent so long reading the histories of her great-grandsire’s reign, of Aenys and the three Conquerors, and even Maegor’s for it was necessary. Perhaps, if she looked hard enough, she would find the places where they went wrong, and if she could do that, she could find the answers to make things right.

Her father would not live forever, he might not even see the first child that would be born to her. He could die on the morrow, claimed in his bed peacefully, leaving the world just that little bit colder. Yet in the months passed and even before that, he had begun to listen to her, and with that, there was hope.

Maybe she should just gut Otto Hightower in the streets and be done with it. None who mattered would care save her father, for his heart would be his undoing in all things. If only she knew where Daemon was, he’d no doubt relish the opportunity.

The three of them spent hours together, pages written, plots half-formed and others disregarded in their entirety. Time had gotten away from them in truth, and it wasn’t until there was a knock on the door, an empty bronze bath carried and in set before the fire.

Laenor and Laena took their leave then, and Rhaenyra folded the sheafs of parchment together, stuffed them into the bottom of her saddlebag. She and her father both would return to King’s Landing upon the ship, Syrax flying free above them, forever watchful and close should something go awry. Rhaenyra wished she could fly back, for there was an ache in her chest, one she had learned to live with as a child whenever Daemon went on his journeys, but this was different.

It wasn’t the bubbling magma of a dragon separated from its beloved twin-flame, nor was it the sense of distance between dragon and rider. No. No, it was something Rhaenyra had felt only once before, back when Syrax had laid her first and so far, only clutch on Rhaenyra’s fourteenth nameday. There had been two eggs, the bronze one she had picked for the babe in her mother’s belly, and the other who had hatched just days after her mother’s death….

It was the pain, raw and piercing yet so beautiful, of a dragon who guarded her eggs, who knew that one of them would forever remain in stone.

Perhaps Gwayne had been right, perhaps there was meaning to it all. That Syrax had come from Silverwing, who had been hatched from Dreamfyre who had come from Meraxes. Meraxes had been the mother of the line of dragons the Targaryens called their kin, and Rhaenys had been the mother of their line. Just as Syrax’s only hatched egg so far was Goldie (And really, Rhaenyra hoped her brother would find a better name for a hatchling of Syrax deserved something much better), Rhaenyra had stolen her brother, had claimed him as her own.

She missed her brother and her sister. She missed Gwayne and their evenings spent together. She missed Daemon, gone somewhere East but with a promise that he would be there for her wedding.

“Are you alright, Princess?” The maid, Ala, inquired softly as she brushed heady scent of cardamon and patchouli oil though Rhaenyra’s hair, scalding water a soothing balm to the coldness left by her aching heart. “The water hasn’t gone cold, has it? I can call for more.”

“No, no. It’s perfect.” Rhaenyra promised, tilting her head with a smile. “That oil is quite lovely; do you know where it’s from?”

“Lys, Princess.” Ala replied. “Brought in recently by a trader. I can see about acquiring more for you if you’d like.”

Rhaenyra nodded, settled herself as she dragged the sponge across her bare arms. Common as it as to have attendants for somebody in her station, she had never particularly liked the touch of others as she bathed. It hadn’t mattered that the only lady she had become her stepmother, for even then she had not liked it.

Again, her mind wandered to the thoughts of her ladies and who they might be. Otto had once told her that the Kingsguard was a reward for the loyalty of great houses, and as much as she misliked it, he was true in his word. Her ladies would have to be similar enough, but there was the problem of who was available.

Many of them who were her own age were already married and so they could not serve as her attendants. The only cousin she had was Laena and since she was currently still betrothed, she wasn’t eligible either. Lord Lyonel had two daughters; twins still yet unwed if she was correct. Perhaps it would have been seen as favouritism, especially since it had been her words that had Ser Harwin elevated but there was no harm in endearing herself further to a Lord Hand who was a true servant to the throne.

The throne that would one day be hers, so no, no there was no harm in it at all.

Her mother had two half-sisters, though it was only Amanda who seemed anyway fond of Aemma, and indeed her mother before her. She’d been married to a Cobray, and though she had sons, she did to have a daughter. Rhaenyra knew she did, for instead of a sword being thrust into her hand the moment she could walk, it was books and all the knowledge a Princess would need.

As though knowledge had a fucking gender. Knowledge was power, and power was something Rhaenyra had in abundance. It thrummed in her veins to the sound of wingbeats and snarls, echoed like the cackle of flame and the sound of ten thousand marching men.

Strong. Cobray. More would follow.

She shook her head, took Ala’s hand to step out of the bath. That could wait if only for a while, for Rhaenyra had more pressing matters to attend to, namely her first murder. She doubted somehow it would be her last, either by her own hand or by her own word.

Gwayne had promised her as much, Daemon too, and now Laenor and Laena. However, they five alone could not see the world brought to heel, not when men whispered in the dark, when the rats scurried about in the shadows ready to strike at their heels in hopes of toppling them.

A ludicrous notion in truth, the only thing that could destroy house Targaryen was itself and Rhaenyra’s duty, not only as the Princess of Dragonstone, but also as the eldest, was to ensure that did not happen.

She would start by freeing Laena and then come what may.

Ala tended to her duties well in the silence, and Rhaenyra was glad of it. Her mind was too preoccupied for idle conversation but the maid did not seem to mind as she helped Rhaenyra into her dress, as she braided her oiled hair and adorned the silver strands with clips of bronze studded with rubies and moonstone.

Rhaenyra dragged her fingers along the Myrish silk of her dress. She couldn’t help but wonder who had chosen that one specifically. It was a favourite of hers, a dark port colour adorned with bronze and onyx detailing, and upon the shoulders in smoking metalwork, were two dragon heads. Rhaenyra loved it, loved that she herself was the third head of the dragon, the tallest of them for all others fell beneath her wing.

She wondered how many new dresses would be made for her wedding, wondered what her wedding dress would look. Already there were countless ideas swirling around her mind, a myriad of colours that seemed to blur together. Her wedding would be grand, and Rhaenyra would delight in every moment of it with Laenor by her side for even if they never loved one another as husband and wife, they would love each other in a different way.

Love, after all, was fickle. The sweetest of poisons that could kill you slowly or quickly, a most perfect fruit that once consumed would turn fetid and bitter. Love was not what Rhaenyra required, only respect, and Laenor would respect her as she respected him.

There was another knock at the door just Ala finished draping Daemon’s necklace across Rhaenyra’s throat. She turned, called whoever it was in, and was surprised to see her father draped in crimson and ebony, the silver-gold of his hair pulled back by twin braids and settled atop him was his crown.

That too, would be Rhaenyra’s crown, for she was to be peace and justice and not the bloodied conquest of Aegon’s circlet.

He looked stronger in that moment than he had since Aemma had died, and Rhaenyra wondered what had changed in such a few short hours. Had it been the knowledge that should he die, his beloved daughter would be secure? Had it been the renewed bonds of kinship and friendship that had lent him their strength?

If that were the case, Rhaenyra would see it done every day. She would take his hand and take what strength Syrax gave her and pass it on to her father, or Viserys was hers to protect too. Forever more would she hunt and char his meat from him, forever more would she be the flames that warmed his blood and hearth, the fire that kept life burning within him.

Rhaenyra smiled and glided across the room and took her father’s hands in hers in a single movement. Viserys blinked once, the twice, and then his own smile was pulling at the lines beneath his eyes. They did not speak, but they did not need words when their blood spoke as it did and Viserys offered her his arm.

It reminded her of years gone by, her twelfth name day. There had been a grand feast, festivities and spectre in all. Rhaenyra had been showed in jewels and silks and the rarities of the world, but they had all paled in comparison to her father talking her arm and leading her through the throngs of people, Daemon and her mother behind them, the four of them happy.

It seemed like a lifetime ago and yet Rhaenyra clung to that memory as she did all that were coloured by her mother’s presence, when they were hazy and warm and gilded. The family she had then was nothing like the family she had now, but it was fine to love them both because Rhaenyra had love in abundance.

That was the greatest gift her mother had given her.

“Did you and Lord Corlys have fun?” Rhaenyra inquired with a teasing lit.

“Oh yes. Poor Lyman will no doubt be distraught that we’ve gone over the conservative estimates of his budget, but he planned for that in truth.” Viserys huffed. “Fourteen days of festivities. Jousts and melees and banquets. It will be the glory of our age, and an honour you are no less deserving of.”

“Thank you, father.” Rhaenyra murmured. “Laenor and I will have much to look forward to. Did you decide upon the date?”

Rhaenyra had been right, three months. That did not surprise her. It was ample time for the lords and ladies to travel, and long enough to plan such grand events, but short enough to see it done before Rhaenyra turned eight and ten just as she had promised.

How quickly everything seemed to change in truth.

“There is of course something else we must speak upon once we return.” Viserys reminded as they were announced, as they stepped into the hall where those in attendance rose.

Rhaenyra didn’t know of what her father spoke about entirely, but he did not seem concerned in the least. No, rather he seemed teasing, bright and flurrying with love as he often had been in her youth. All was well then, Rhaenyra decided as she took her seat, her father seated in the centre, Lord Corlys to the left, Rhaenyra beside her father and Laenor beside her.

Poor Laena had to suffer through Sevros, who already seemed deep into his cups. Rhaenyra didn’t know if blood or wine would spill if she were to cut his veins open. She spied the others seated upon the high table, Ser Vaemond and his wife, his eldest son scarcely four and ten and the others not in attendance. Lord Strong was in an amiable conversation with Rhaenys, around the hall, the three members of the Kingsguard her father had travelled with took up their positions, Ser Harrold the closest.

Along the other tables were traders of import from Braavos and Pentos, from the other Free Cities. Rhaenyra wondered just how long Corlys and Rhaenys had planned the feast to have such envoys present, for they were envoys, and she found herself smiling as the first course was served, as realisation dawned.

Oh very good, Rhaenyra decided, and she slyly raised her cup toward Lord Corlys who seemed to puff out in pride. There had never been any doubt that he would accept, not in weeks since that first letter had been sent. No, Corlys had simply delayed his response to allow for himself to gather a host of influential men to have them seated at his table, drinking his mead and eating his meat when the declaration was made so subtly that it appeared like smoke in the wind.

We are the skies and the seas, it said, we are the first and the last. We are together, tied by oaths and blood ancient and new. We are the last of Old Valyria and we will stand as we have stood.

The future was going to be fun; Rhaenyra knew that. Corlys had a certain flair about him, charisma and luxury, Rhaenys similar yet so different. Together they could do anything because they did not just have Westeros, no, with the Sea Snake they had the known world.

That thought settled the aching loss in Rhaenyra. The only way the evening could have been made better would have been if the rest of her horde were there, but Rhaenyra knew they would return to her in time, and that she would return to them.

Wine and food flowed easily, and Rhaenyra delighted in her father’s laughter for too long has she gone without hearing it. Laenor was beside her throughout, whispered gossip like a fishwife with an indulgent smile. If that continued, there would be no doubt that he and Gwayne would get along splendidly.

And something about that idea warmed her heart.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself.” Laenor teased, snagged cup of wine and brought it to his lips.

“There is little to not enjoy.” Rhaenyra reminded.

“Then shall we dance, dear cousin?” Laenor asked as the minstrels began their tunes, as tables were pushed back, and the games truly began.

Rhaenyra spied Sevros all but pulling a disinterested Laena to her feet, watched as he stumbled. She turned her head up the table, saw Rhaenys’ lips thin at the display, but then her eyes found Rhaenyra’s and she huffed. Rhaenyra waited for a moment, kept their gazes locked, and then finally Rhaenys Targaryen dipped her head ever so subtly and Rhaenyra’s smile stretched far and feral.

Gwayne had told her she smiled like Syrax, and in that moment Rhaenyra realised how true his words had been, for on the beach, coiled about with Meleys and Seasmoke and Vhagar, her dragon screeched, shared the joy that bubbled within her rider for they were one.

There was no end to one, no beginning to the other. They were Rhaenyra and Syrax, Syrax and Rhaenyra, dragons would protect their horde and hatchlings however they could. They were bound in the metaphysical, bound by fire and blood, carmine and bronze, and they would do this together.

“Yes, dear cousin, let us dance.”

And so they did. They spun around one another, limber and quick on their feet as all those who held the blood of the dragon were. Rhaenyra found herself in Ser Joffrey’s grasp then and she threw her head back and laughed when he whispered a joke in her ear and then Laenor stole her back with an amused roll of his eyes.

It was startling how easy it was to soak up the revelry. Rhaenyra had always been like it, had always excelled at wordplay and the very core of festivities because they were never solely about having a good time. Oh no, there was no feast in existence, no celebration or banquet that was not cast under the shadows of politics and plot.

Especially when one grew within the bloodied halls of the Red Keep.

It served her well in her endeavour however, for none were surprised when she eventually ended up with Sevros, Laena and Laenor close by as they laughed and danced, carefree and happy despite them knowing what was to come.

“Princess.” Sevros greeted with a drunken smile, the copper hues of his cheeks flushed with heat as he dipped his head. “You honour me.”

The only honour you will get from me is that it will be mine own hand that pushes you toward the shores of death, Rhaenyra did not say, for she only smiled at him. It was the smile she’d honed long ago, the one charming and disarming, sweet and saccharin. It was the smile that hid the bitterness of the poison that would drip from the words that followed, the smile tainted with the acidic bite of dragon blood.

Rhaenyra was no fool, and nor were the Velaryons. Sevros was not what he made himself out to be. Oh Laena had told her much over their letters, and none of it had been proven false in the four days Rhaenyra had been upon Driftmark. He was a man who coveted things, a man who was never satisfied. He’d watched Rhaenyra fly, had watched her in the halls and at supper and in the mornings when he was present and not sleeping off another hangover.

Sevros wanted an adornment, wanted a pretty little bauble to hang off his arm. He would not find one within the blood of the dragon, for even their sweetest were vicious if something prompted them.

But Rhaenyra played into it, allowed him to move her around as he saw fit despite her wish to get his horrible little hands from her. She imagined he was Daemon, that he was Gwayne, that he was Laenor and Laena and that made it easier even though she knew that none of them would look upon her like she was a possession, like she was something to be owned.

Much like she would never look at them in the same way. Each one so very different and yet Rhaenyra loved them all in their own way, just as she was sure they loved her. It was undefinable, untameable and unyielding and yet entirely known. It was a simple truth of the universe, one of those phantom threads that was inexplicable yet understood by all those who were bound by it.

It was why Rhaenyra felt no reservations for the task she was about to undertake.

“You are quite handsome, my Lord.” Rhaenyra murmured. “Cousin Laena’s writings did not do you justice.”

“Stories of my beauty are well sung in my father’s court.” Sevros agreed, wine stale and sour on his breath. “Just as yours are, Princess.”

Revulsion coiled low in Rhaenyra’s gut as she leaned toward his ear, as her curling Valyrian came out thick and smoky. He seemed to delight in it, even if the words were nonsense to his drunken ears. Yet still, the seed was sown and Rhaenyra curled around him with ease, stepped away into Laenor’s waiting embrace.

“Is it done then?”

“It will be.”

“Good.” Laenor whispered, took her arm and led her back to the table. “We’ll be retiring to Laena’s chambers, of course.”

“Of course.” Rhaenyra agreed with a smile before she took her seat beside her father. “Are you well?”

“Just tired old bones.” Viserys huffed, offered her a genteel smile. “You fret far too much, sweet girl.”

“You are my father and my King; I shall always worry for you.” Rhaenyra replied with a teasing lit to her tone as she reached for a cup of sweetwine. “How fairs my brother and sister?”

“Aegon told me about a dragon, Goldie.” Viserys turned knowing eyes to her, amusement glimmering in the lilac tones. “Of course we went to see him. Syrax’s first hatchling, as he is yours.”

“I do hope he comes up with a better name.” Rhaenyra shook her head.

“We hadn’t named Syrax.” Viserys reminisced. “You were never without her then, and she was never without you. We all expected your first word to be mama or papa, or even Daemon, in truth…”

“And instead, it was Syrax.” Rhaenyra finished with a grin. “I wonder if it was the same for Vermithor and Silverwing.”

“Grandfather said it was.” Viserys shrugged. “It is one thing to bond with a dragon, another entirely to have it hatched in the cradle. Even in Old Valyria it was deemed a boon.”

“Have you been reading the histories again?”

Her father had often taken flights of fancy with concern to the Targaryen histories many of times before. Rhaenyra had enjoyed the stories of it all, sat at her father’s side in his chambers, luxating in the heat and haze of the fire and family. She knew he had dreamed once, the night he had claimed Balerion. That dream was what had cost them her mother, that want for a boy that Viserys now had, and yet somewhere along the way he had changed his mind.

Omens and prophecies and Gods only drove men mad for there were a hundred and one ways to interpret them and none of them were guaranteed.

“Something Ser Gwayne said to Aegon piqued my interest.” Viserys defended. “Histories often serve to remind us of our successes and our failures, and for that we should always look to them in moments of uncertainty.”

“And are you uncertain, father?” Rhaenyra asked softly.

Viserys turned to her, offered Rhaenyra the whole of his attention as he so often did these days. He moved his gloved hand and settled it atop hers, gifted Rhaenyra a look so fond and sure that Rhaenyra found strength because of it.

“I have never been more certain of anything in my life.” Viserys promised. “You are my pride and joy and knowing that you will be fine if anything were to happen to me is a relief.”

“Nothing will happen to you.” Rhaenyra said with heat. “If the Grandmaester had done something more than leeches… I went to Dragonstone.”

“Dangerous with the Cannibal about.” Viserys reminded with a touch of concern.

“They were welcoming.” Rhaenyra dismissed. “I went back and spoke to Maester Gerardys. He has ideas, tonics and tinctures, and you remember his words, if action had been taken sooner, it would have sunk as deep as it has.”

“The Citadel chooses the Grandmaester.” Viserys returned with a twitch of his lips.

“And it is a position he can keep.” Rhaenyra huffed. “I’ve a household to build father, and that includes a maester. I would have one I can trust, one who has moved on with the times, and one who tended to Queen Alysanne in her final days.”

One who did not try to cure you with worms and leeches. One who did not cut my mother open for it was easier. I will have Mellos nowhere near my birthing bed when the time comes.

“You are the Princess of Dragonstone.” Viserys mused with a wry smile. “It seems fit that you have the maester of the citadel with you. I’m sure his assistant is well capable to look after the hurts of the island and if something dire should arise, it is a three-day sail.”

“Thank you, father.”

Talk of her household could wait in truth. Rhaenyra had months to plan it, had months to decide upon those she could one day grow to trust enough with her kin. It would not be a long list, she knew that much already, but there would be some.

The feast ended slowly, dripping slow like honey. Viserys retired to his chambers, Ser Harrold behind him. Rhaenyra had gone not long after him, pressed a kiss to both Corlys and Rhaenys’ cheek and had thanked them. Rhaenyra slipped out of the Hall of Nine, nodded at Ser Steffon who fell into line behind her.

Rhaenyra left Ser Steffon at the end of the corridor to where her room was. She bid him goodnight, set herself at the writing desk to begin the task of unpinning her hair before she braided it again in a much simpler fashion. A knock at her door revealed Laena, face flush with wine, and a joyous smile upon her face.

“You work quickly.”

“I didn’t do anything yet.” Rhaenyra said.

“Your words were enough it seemed.” Laena huffed, amused. “He was found at the bottom of the tower, at the foot of the steps. Father will be incandescent if his blood stains. Mother is keeping the guests in the hall a while longer, to see his carcass removed.”

Rhaenyra shook her head, disbelief thrumming. She’d been fully prepared to slip form beneath Ser Steffon’s view and make her way to the Silver Spire, to push Sevros down the steep, marble steps that few would ascend for the tower led only to the belltower that was to be rung in the event of enemy ships.

She couldn’t believe the fool had killed himself in the end.

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” Rhaenyra offered with a grin.

“Yes, yes, it’s terrible.” Laena laughed. “What did you say to him, he left not long after you finished dancing.”

“I asked if he wanted to know what it felt like for a dragon to ride him.” Rhaenyra shrugged. “Wine?”

“Yes please.”

And so Rhaenyra poured two goblets of deep, ruby wine and imagined it was the same colour staining the gleaming white marble of the steps. The idea delighted her in a twisted way, but it paled in comparison to Laena’s freedom form that wretched leech who would see her sucked dry and chained.

“Are you disappointed you didn’t get to kill him?” Laena’s voice bordered on incredulous. “You are.”

“I am.” Rhaenyra admitted. “I promised to do it, and I did not, and so it doesn’t feel as fulfilling.”

“It is better this way, I think.” Laena murmured. “Now if somebody were to ask you if you killed him, you can truthfully say no.”

“I don’t think anybody would have expected me to do it.” Rhaenyra reminded. “We’re just girls you and I, sweet, innocent girls who must be protected by chivalrous knights and kind lords.”

“Fuck that.” Laena scoffed, and she reclined on the bed with a grin. “You will be in need of a lady maid, dear cousin. Will Vhagar fit in the pit? The old girl’s not fond of chains.”

“They’re not chained.” Rhaenyra reminded. “Even Dreamfyre does not venture far. If we ask them not to eat our smallfolk, they tend to listen.”

Dragons and men, the only two beasts in the known world who cook their food before they eat it.

“Would you take me?” Laena inquired, her head tilted. “It would be awfully boring here with only uncle Vaemond for company. And mother and father would not let me explore the East with only Vhagar for company.”

“You and yours shall always have a place at my table.” Rhaenyra promised as she moved to lay beside Laena. “My meat and mead are yours; my protection is yours, from this day until the end of my days.”

**

Gwayne pinched the bridge of his nose for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. Helaena would not settle in the least, even though he kept her on his lap in a chair before the fire and far away from the window as he could. Aegon too, was restless and sullen. He dared not even think about Alicent who had scarcely left her rooms since their father had been banished back to Oldtown, and with the whispers of court that surrounded him.

Perhaps Gwayne had been a bit overzealous in his words, but it had been easy enough. A comment passed to a drunken knight moved quickly, and lords and ladies alike overheard their men and then they spoke to one another. The Red Keep was fuelled on gossip, and it was better they were fed with his father’s truth than Rhaenyra’s perceived truths.

But his father had to have known he would not have gotten out of it unscathed. Alicent hadn’t, that was clear to see, but so too was it clear to see that she blamed Rhaenyra entirely. Gwayne didn’t know the truth of it, but he scented his father’s particular brand of maddening love all over it. His sister had changed much over the past few years, an unavoidable thing with what she had to endure, and Gwayne wished more than anything that he had never left her alone with only her father for company.

Otto’s love was poison, he knew that, and yet part of him still wanted it. All sons, after all, wanted their fathers to be proud of them, and yet because Gwayne was Gwayne, the son of the second son in a house full of sons, he was useless. Gwayne had made his peace with it long ago with a lingering look as his mother’s bones were carted away to Brightwater Keep.

He looked down to Helaena, shushed her and tried his best to settle her against his heart the same way Rhaenyra did. It always worked when she did it, but Gwayne’s blood did not sound with the flurry of dragonsong, it did not flow like thickened magma. It would never provide the comfort his niece deserved, nor Aegon who lay his head upon Gwayne’s laugh with a huff.

They made it all worth it, in truth.

“Where’s muma?”

Muma, a twisted version of mama and muna rolled into one. It was what Aegon called out first thing in the morning and last thing at night, for he seemed to be adrift in the sea of loss at Rhaenyra’s absence. Gwayne understood it, duty meant little to a three-year-old, nearly four now and Gods how time flew.

“She’ll be back soon, sweetling.” Gwayne promised. “Come, sit up.”

Aegon tilted his head curiously and then scrambled to obey. Gwayne did not have dragonblood, but Aegon did, and though it did not seem to burn as hot and dark as Rhaenyra’s own, he hoped it would be enough for sweet little Helaena to find some respite.

It took him a moment to manoeuvre them all, to secure Aegon on his lap, Gwayne’s back pressed into the corner of the curling back and armrest rather uncomfortably.  His arm bracketed Aegon’s small form, and then he settled Helaena against her brother and Gwayne watched as Aegon curled his arms around her, as Gwayne’s own came around and his fingers knotted together.

He would not let them fall, now or ever. Alicent would kill him if he did, and he’d prefer that to whatever torture Rhaenyra would inflect upon him.

“Hela.” Aegon cooed. “Sleep.”

It was not instantaneous or anywhere close to it, but it worked none the less. Gwayne eventually had two very sleeping dragon within his grasp, and he was sure they were stealing his heat, but they did not need to for he would give it to them freely.

Part of him wished Alicent was here, that she could enjoy the peace the children offered, but since Otto had left, she’d scarcely left her chambers, attended to by the Grandmaester. He had feared at first that there was something wrong with the third pregnancy, that it caused her more discomfort than the other two, but that had not been the case.

He had tried to stay with her, had tried to make her smile but in the end, she had ordered him away. That rankled him in ways he could not even touch upon. Gwayne shook his head, gazed down at Aegon who had his head pressed to Gwayne’s chest, Helaena atop him in a similar position. It was a position they seemed to find comfort in with ease, their favoured place to rest their heads.

Gwayne remembered the first time he had seen Rhaenyra and Aegon, a memory tainted by Hobert’s idiocy. He remembered how she held him, how she hid him from the world as though it would do harm to him, how she drowned out the jubilant cheers with a hum.

Then he remembered her streaked in blood, prideful atop her horse and watching as the White Hart bowed its head and retreated into the verdant green woods. Those two moments were enough for him to understand the truth of it, coupled then with the way the King had received her and the gored bore.

If his father thought Viserys would ever change his mind, if Alicent or anybody did, they were fools. Rhaenyra would remain heir for one simple reason, and it had nothing to do with her capabilities, of which there was an abundance, it had nothing to do with her heart or her mind.

No. Rhaenyra was Aemma’s daughter and that alone was enough for Viserys.

Rhaenyra was Rhaenyra and that was enough for Gwayne.

Gwayne was Gwayne and that was enough for Rhaenyra.

She had brought him before her dragon, and that very same dragon had shrouded them from the world, had allowed truth and love to be spoken freely. Gwayne was sure there was an anointment in that moment, days passed, and t meant more than the oils that had once glistened on his forehead.

He loved her, he did, even if he did not know why. Perhaps, one day, she would love him as he did her, but if that day never came, Gwayne would continue on as he did now, for he did not want anything for loving her. For if love required payment, then it wasn’t truly love, for if his father had thought him one thing it was how not to love.

He would never be his father’s son, and for that he was glad. Instead he’d be his mother’s, instead he would be Orys and he would be Gwayne because he was enough for those who mattered.

You are you and that is all that matters to me, those had been Rhaenyra’s words. She had seen him as more than the Hand’s son, more than Otto’s son, more than the Queen’s brother or the uncle to the little Prince and Princess. It was her words he fell asleep to, children in hand and secure and safe in his arms in a mimicry of the protection Rhaenyra could offer.

It was her smiles he dreamed of, sharp and fanged like the dragon she adored. It was her quick wit and drive that warmed him beneath the coiled hatchlings atop him that Gwayne dreamed of. It was Rhaenyra’s quick feet and playful mockery as he taught her to twirl a blade and the feel of her hands under his as he corrected her grip that he dreamed of.

It was her face he awoke to, silver hair glimmering in the sun like starlight, bright and ethereal. His lips quirked, eyes half-lidded. He was sure he was still dreaming, for Helaena and Aegon were not moving, were not demanding her attention as Gwayne knew they would.

“It’s a pretty dream.” Gwayne murmured, moved his head to abate the crick in his neck.

“You drool in your sleep.” Rhaenyra teased.

Gwayne was sure he was still sleeping, still dreaming, for her hand reached out and her nails dragged along his scalp. His eyes slipped closed again, and Gwayne released a pleasant, sounded noise, akin to a purring cat in truth. It had been so long since somebody had touched him with gentle care, with tender love and not want anything for it that he knew it had to be a dream.

Rhaenyra, who was in fact real, shushed him gently and leaned forward to press her lips against the creases of Gwayne’s forehead. That, it seemed, was enough for the veil of sleep to abandon him entirely.

“I don’t drool.” Gwayne huffed, blinked his eyes open.

“But you do dream about me it seems.”

“How could I not?”

Gwayne wished he had a third hand, wanted to be able to reach out and cup her jaw, wished to smooth his thumb along her cheek. Rhaenyra regarded him fondly, moved to press a kiss to his cheek instead, and then one to Helaena’s hair, and then Aegon’s.

For a moment, Gwayne could pretend that they were their children and that was enough.

Chapter Text

Alicent sat on the chaise in her rooms, hand cradled atop her stomach even though there was no bump yet to be seen and no bump to be felt. She worried at her nails, skin crackling, blood pearling as she stared into the void of nothingness. Something bitter blooded her veins, a noxious sourness that had Alicent squeezing at her ears.

In the distance there was the sound of a dragon, and closer then were the shrieks of wingbeat. Alicent’s son, not even four years old, was on that dragon. The only notion of safety he had was Rhaenyra’s arms and chains and it would have been so easy for Aegon to fall off, to be pushed off…

So long as they live, your children will be threats to her. You know what she is Alicent, you know better than most.

Those had been the words her father had said to her, and Alicent understood the way of the world in a way Rhaenyra did not, because Alicent did not have what Rhaenyra had. She did not possess a dragon; she did not possess freedom, and she could not soar high nor could Alicent Hightower rise.

She would always be the former Hand’s daughter, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the only daughter of the Hightower. Her children’s lives would be forfeit, for there would be many who would rise in the name of the natural order of things. A son came before a daughter, all knew it, and Alicent Hightower’s worth was measured by her father’s name, her husband’s name, and her sons’.

Alicent had a son. His name was Aegon, named for the Conqueror, the very image of a Targaryen babe. Silver hair, purple eyes, and for all that Alicent loved him, sometimes she could not stand the sight of him, or his sister, or even the babe in her womb. There was something wrong with her, she knew, but she could not tell anybody.

The only person she could have told was the very same person who was a threat to her children. Alicent had seen it more than once, had seen how her babes coiled around Rhaenyra like serpents of fire and myth, how easy it was for Rhaenyra to love them, to shower them in gifts and walk them amongst the gardens. It was so easy for her to teach them the language of her own youth, their colours and names.

It grated on Alicent how easy it was for Rhaenyra to be a mother. It grated on that small, tiny part of her that was still the Lady Alicent who wanted Rhaenyra to be happy. It was like the bite of a thousand mites, gnawing and itchy. Alicent hated it. She hated how easy it was for Rhaenyra to take and take and take.

Lord Larys had told her the truth of it, just after the King had departed. Gwayne had been with the children then, another thing that irked the Queen Consort. Her brother, whom she loved, had all but taken her children from her. Alicent knew that Gwayne would never marry, knew that was part of the reason why he and their father could no longer spend more than five minutes in a room with one another…

But that didn’t matter, because Rhaenyra had gotten the King to send Otto Hightower back to Oldtown with nothing but honied words and long blinks. It was what Rhaenyra had always done; it was why she was handed everything she could have ever wanted. She didn’t know a lick of duty or sacrifice, too spoiled and too soft. Alicent knew that was why her father believed women should not rule.

Her father hadn’t been wrong. The Iron Throne was Aegon’s birthright, not Rhaenyra’s. She had enough, she didn’t need the Throne, didn’t need to be greedy like the dragon she adored so much, like the dragon Aegon was atop now, nestled in his sister’s arms.

Rhaenyra will kill them; she will have to. So long as your son, and any sons you have, live, they are threats, Alicent. Surely you see that.

Alicent hadn’t, could never imagine that Rhaenyra would harm anybody, and then she had lied to Alicent’s face, had set her vicious, venomous tongue upon Alicent like she was the one in the wrong. Alicent could not forgive that, would not forgive that.

The Princess has often been seen around the castle, Your Grace. She’s been dishevelled more often than not. I say this to you, my Queen, because I know you only wish to protect her.

Larys words had been low and curling, like he was divulging some great secret. He had been. Rhaenyra had lied, and there was no whit of duty in her actions. Alicent and Viserys had spent weeks finalising the marriage tour, and yet, Rhaenyra, because she wanted to, had returned to the Red Keep.

She would wed Laenor Velaryon because she wanted to.

Rhaenyra did whatever she wanted to, and yet Alicent was stuck in the gilded, bejewelled chains of womanhood. She would never be free of them, not unless her son got what he deserved. Alicent had tended to Viserys’ wounds, knew he was dying like her eyes told her, like the maesters told her, like her father told her.

And what would Alicent be, if her husband were to die and her son remained uncrowned? She’d be nothing, would never be free. But Aegon was a babe still, and if the Gods were cruel enough to take Viserys soon, he would need a regent.

Alicent could finally be free, it was all she desired. Oh, how she wished to simply be the Lady Alicent, Rhaenyra’s confidante and best friend, her Lady. But the Rhaenyra Alicent had known was gone, replaced by vicious fangs and grasping, thieving hands. Those same hands would not hesitate to end the lives of children, because Rhaenyra Targaryen always got what she wanted.

And she wanted the throne and Alicent’s children were in the way. She felt entitled to everything, thought she deserved everything. Already was she a princess, already did she have a dragon, already did she have a husband of her own choosing, why did she need the throne?

Why had she felt herself entitled to Alicent’s own children? Was it all just an act? Had her father been correct, had Rhaenyra simply plucked the children from Alicent’s own arms so that when the time came it would be easier for her to bash their brains or smother them in silks?       

They were horrible thoughts that the Queen Consort could not escape. She did not think to wickedness with such a precious thing within her belly. Rhaenyra would sully her babes as she had sullied herself, Alicent knew it to be true. Rhaenyra was the reason her father was gone, why Alicent was alone, why she was isolated.

Even Gwayne’s presence had grown irksome of late. In the days Rhaenyra had been gone, and indeed, even the months before that, it would always be the two of them with Alicent’s children between them, taking them to the gardens when neither could settle, who played on the floor with them.

Rhaenyra was not content enough to steal Alicent’s own children, to remove her father who had served two King’s faithfully, but also to take Alicent’s brother. How long would it be before Alicent chewed him up and spat him out? How long would it be before she grew tired of Gwayne and the children?

Would my brother’s head languish beside my son’s, my father’s? Mine own? What would happen to Helaena, to the babe in my belly? What would happen to us all?

Alicent did not understand why she loved her children as much as she did, why that love hurt and why she could sometimes scarcely stand to look at them. She didn’t understand and perhaps she never would. But Alicent Hightower understood that curling serpent in her belly, one as green as her family’s wartime call. She knew it well, for it had been a constant companion for as long as she could remember.

But it was different.

Alicent sighed, rose from her seat and walked toward the window of her chambers. There in the skies, Rhaenyra was soaring with Alicent’s son in her arms, and yet she, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had her feet firmly planted on the ground because the Gods had ordained her to be ordinary.

None of it was fair, but Alicent would endure. She would see her children rise because if she did not, they would fall to the merciless blade wielded in Rhaenyra Targaryen’s name as she moved to strike down any opposition to her claim, as she took Alicent’s son’s birthright.

Aegon was named for the Conqueror, it would only be right that it was he who hefted Blackfyre in the name of justice and honour, he who wore the crown of his forefather and namesake. It was his right, just as the Iron Throne was.

Alicent shook her head as she looked out to the skies, as Syrax disappeared. Part of Alicent was glad for it, glad for the wedding celebrations that Viserys had planned because it meant Rhaenyra had little time for much else. Yet it rankled Alicent still that the festivities were to be as grand as they were.

Despite the effort such an undertaking would be, despite the amount of time Rhaenyra had spent sequestered away with seamstresses and Lord Beesbury for some reason unknown to Alicent, she had still made time for Aegon and Helaena, for Alicent herself.

No. it wasn’t Alicent Rhaenyra had sent sweet, fruity teas for, nor had the gentle, warm broths been for Alicent. No. No, they’d been for the restless babe in her belly that had caused nausea to greet Alicent each morning.

How Rhaenyra had known when Alicent had told only the Grandmaester and Gwayne and the only reason he had known was because he was there.

Gwayne who clutched at Alicent’s children like they were his own, who meandered through the halls with a babe in hand as Rhaenyra rocked a fussing Helaena as though Alicent’s children were their own. She hated it, hated seeing them together, happy and smiling, hated seeing how easy and joyful it was for them.

The serpent coiled harshly, struck its venom-filled fangs right into the meat of Alicent’s heart with such rage the air was stolen from her lungs.

Once again Alicent picked at her nails, fingers twisting by her side. Everything had been much simpler when she was just the Lady Alicent, daughter of the Hand,  and oh how she yearned to go back to that. To go back to the days in the gardens and the easy, tittering laughter that was shared.

But Rhaenyra didn’t laugh like that anymore. She hadn’t laughed like that since her mother died, as though Aemma Arryn had taken the goodness out of her daughter as she bled to death. Now when Rhaenyra laughed it was thick and heady like liquid shadows that coalesced into fang and claw and once the venom seeped through skin it was inescapable.

Perhaps there had been a time where Alicent would not have tried to escape, but her life was no longer her own, it had not been since she had brought forth a squealing male babe on her first pregnancy. Her duty now was to ensure that venom did not seep into her children, that it did not corrupt them and blacken their hearts.

Her duty now was to protect them from Rhaenyra because she would see them ruined and rendered to naught but ash in her quest for power that wasn’t hers by right.

Alicent had thought she was the only one to see through the guise, to see past the Realm’s Delight and into the grasping thing that lay in her heart. She thought she had been the only one, and perhaps, for a time, she had been, but something had changed just days ago when the King and his daughter returned from Driftmark.

It seemed the veil had been lifted from Criston Cole’s eyes too, and Alicent wondered if it had been him that Rhaenyra had amused herself with in the absence of her uncle. She wondered if now that Rhaenyra had a new pretty toy to entertain her had Ser Criston been so needlessly tossed away just as Alicent had been.

She would find out. He would speak the truth of it, Alicent had seen how he had looked at her, as though Rhaenyra was something precious, a beacon of starlight rather than the mother of wrath and ruin. He had looked at her like that, but no longer did he.

What had he seen on Driftmark? What had he seen in his years guarding the Princess? What did he know of that night, the night that Daemon had defiled Rhaenyra, the night where she had ruined herself, where she had proven Alicent’s own father’s words.

Chapter Text

Days had passed since she had returned from Driftmark in a haze of fabrics and food tastings and flowers. She’d been right, her own father had gone mad with planning the wedding, something that was only exacerbated by Lord Corlys’ involvement. In truth, Rhaenyra wasn’t sure how she was going to survive when the two of then joined together but she’d let them have their fun, especially since she would have her own.

Just as it had been with that fateful tourney years ago, the realm was making ready to travel to the capital, and there was no Daemon there now, no Prince of the City to give them blood, but Rhaenyra was there to give them bread. It hadn’t been hard to convince her father, especially since it was an interest of her mother’s.

Ser Harwin had already seen to the issue of the fourth barracks for the City Watch, had already organised for patrols and men to root out the worst of the worst who dwelled within the darkest depths of Flea Bottom and beyond like little rats. There was no fanfare this time, no grandiose shows that left stones and sand-stained crimson and worse.

It was better that way, in truth. The hazy shadow of justice was more fear inducing than harried screams and desperate pleas. It was a subtle thing, thin and sharp and when the tip of the sword was pointed, it met its mark and only its mark with the precision of a century’s old hunter. If Rhaenyra had learned one thing from the ancient and dusty tomes she’d read, from the scrolls written in ancient, vermillion ink, it was that fear was best used thinly and clearly.

The game was underfoot. She knew it was. She could feel it in her blood, hot and thick and quivering like an infected boil that needed to be lanced. Yet it wasn’t time to make the first cut, wasn’t time yet to let the first crack appear and release the pressure until the rot was burned away.

Burned, for fire was forever the champion of House Targaryen. Their dragons were forever their strength, forever their power, but even they were not enough. They were alive and so they could die, and the very idea of one of those fearsome children of fire falling because of men made Rhaenyra’s heart quicken, made her rage burn.

She was the eldest, she was the keeper. She would protect them as she protected her precious horde of dragonlings, each of whom grew fiercer by the day. Aegon’s shyness had been lost in the days and weeks that passed though his lessons disinterested him unless the words came from Rhaenyra’s own mouth, or if he was in a particular mood, Gwayne’s.

Rhaenyra found no issue with it. When she’d been younger, her lessons had come with Laena and Laenor, it hadn’t been what they’d turned into as she grew older, when houses and histories and alliances became more important. No, those first few years had been about settling the heat, nourishing it, allowing the embers to spark and ignite and burn.

Those first few years had been spent learning to temper the want. Laena had done it with songs and seas, had often spent her days with Aemma and the ladies of court as they indulged in teas and singers. Laenor had found solace in the stables with the horses, with the seas and the lapping waves and their ivory foam. Rhaenyra had found hers with Syrax, with histories and burning blood and pretty things.

Aegon was at an age when his tether to the mortal realm of man would show itself. Already did Rhaenyra have an inclination of it, it was why she’d taken time each day even when she did not have it, to bring him to the dragon pit.

Helaena would show hers too, Rhaenyra knew. But she was still a bade yet, unburdened by all save for freely given love and gentle words. The babe yet to be born, bright and fierce already like dripping carmine wax would find theirs too, and one day, so too would the children born of Rhaenyra’s own blood and bone.

The preparations for the wedding meant that she could not see them as often as she once had, her duties required she be elsewhere. Everywhere it seemed. There was Lord Beesbury and his insights into expenditure and taxation that Rhaenyra found dry but needed, the matters of the court from Lord Caswell who was the Keep’s head steward, and most recently Maester Gerardys who had arrived from Dragonstone.

They had spent hours together over the weeks, and Rhaenyra found the man to in possession of a sharp mind and a clever and yet never dishonest tongue. Perhaps it was Daemon’s lingering influence and the fact Mellos was an inept fool, but Rhaenyra held a healthy mistrust of the men of the Citadel. Yet Gerardys had served Queen Alysanne faithfully, and he had been the one to deliver Rhaenyra herself because that had been what Aemma wanted.

Her mother had trusted the man enough to do that, and so Rhaenyra would trust that he too would serve her as faithfully as he served Dragonstone, for she was Dragonstone. It was home to the dragons, home to the fire and blood that flowed in her veins, home to the last of Old Valyria’s magic.

It was her citadel, her island fortress that would never be taken from her. It would be the sanctuary of her blood as it had been for nearly two-hundred years, and she would make sure it stood for another thousand.

But Rhaenyra was tired.

 Too early was it to retire, too later was it to go to the dragon pit. She could not luxuriate in the heat of scalding water either, for there was still things for her to do, letters to write to Laenor and Laena, and yet another one she would write to Daemon.

There were ten, none of them had been sent even though she knew he was in Pentos doing whatever it was when Daemon did when he got the itch beneath his skin that meant he left. The only comfort was knowing that he would come back, that he and Viserys had parted as brothers and not as something worse.

As it often was back when everything was simple, in those days when Rhaenyra could find hours to simply sit and bask in the presence of her brother and sister, back in those days when Alicent had not been as she was now, back when there was hope hat the abyss between them could have healed, she found herself outside the royal nursery.

Rhaenyra had expected to find Ser Arryk here, or even Ser Erryk, for the twins were usually the ones to guard the children, but she was instead greeted by Ser Criston. Any affection he may have once had for Rhaenyra had died the night she had so foolishly kissed him, and the earth had been salted when he thought himself somehow entitled to her because he loved her.

He didn’t love her; he loved the idea of a pretty princess who needed to be protected and adorned in ivory and piety and purity. He wanted a bauble, something to own and covet and defend. Rhaenyra had been none of things, would never have been those things.

It was no wonder then that he had latched onto Alicent’s skirts. Rhaenyra didn’t mind too much, for she found Ser Steffon to be more suited to her now. Dry and silent, all-seeing yet rarely seen. His company was rather agreeable, especially since he never asked questions.

Rhaenyra moved toward the door. Criston stood straighter; his dark eyes focussed on the wall before him.

“Her Grace has asked that the children not be disturbed.” Criston said plainly.

“Are they ill?” Rhaenyra questioned.

“No.” Criston answered.

“Then move aside.”

“I cannot.”

“I am the Princess of Dragonstone, Ser. When I command you to move, you move.” Rhaenyra reminded sharply.

“I am sworn to Her Grace, Queen Alicent. It is by her orders that you are not to disturb the Prince and Princess, Princess.”

Rhaenyra straightened her back. Her gaze was fierce and fiery, shadows deep in the pit of her belly coiled and slithered around her spine, ignited her fury. Her eyes found his, violent and violet, otherworldly and unnatural. Criston Cole swallowed, unease prickling along his spine, but he dismissed it for what harm could a girl do to him?

He was foolish enough to forgot that he was standing in front of a dragon who had just been denied her hatchlings, who was denying her hatchlings her. There was silence for a moment, then a vicious snarl and the clatter of wingbeats.

Cole flinched.

“I see.”

 Rhaenyra clucked her tongue, turned on her heel and in a flare of onyx and bronze fabric, she strode through the halls of the Red Keep. Whatever Alicent’s issue was with Rhaenyra, whatever fanciful rumours she held to be true, Rhaenyra did not care. She did not care for the icy looks directed at her, nor the silence or the discomfort. She did not care for Alicent’s petty jealousies, did not care for her contempt.

Rhaenyra, did however, care for her brother and sister. Alicent had tried once, to stop Rhaenyra from bringing them to the dragon pit, had tried to stop Rhaenyra from doing her work in the nursery as Aegon played and Helaena slept soundly in Gwayne’s arms. She had tried to stop it all.

But for her to deny Aegon and Helaena? That was not something Rhaenyra could stand the thought of. The were babes, hatchlings and yearlings, they existed to be loved and adored and cherished. If they’d been born from a shell rather than  a womb, they would have spent their time coiled beneath wings, would have had their meat blackened and charred for them. They would have never been without.

And now they were without. Bereft and cold and surrounded by man instead of dragon. They did not even have Gwayne as they once did, something Rhaenyra didn’t understand, and she did not understand it because Gwayne did not. She knew that Otto had tried to take him, and Rhaenyra wondered if that was the cause.

She wondered if Alicent would once again do as her father bid and order her brother, who loved her, who adored her, who helped her when the weight became too much, away. Rhaenyra didn’t want to think about it, did not want to think about how Aegon would take it if Gwayne was gone, how she would take it if he were gone.

My father tried to take me with him back to Oldtown, but I am not his to take.

But you are mine.

It was the simplest of truths, a truth known only to them, shared between them beneath the bloodied light of the setting sun. there was peace in those moments, hazy with the excitement of clashing blades and quick, otherworldly movements. Days, weeks, it had never stopped, and Rhaenyra hoped they never would. But those stolen few hours with Gwayne by the water’s edge were barely enough to temper the flames of her heart, the solid ivory-carved bricks of the hearth growing colder and colder as he too was separated from the clutch.

“Ser Harrold.” Rhaenyra greeted. “Is my father in?”

“He is, Princess.” The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard nodded and he pushed open the door for her. “Princess Rhaenyra, Your Grace.”

Viserys was seated at the table, a carving in his hand and clay and water before him. His eyes flicked toward her, his lips pulled down in confusion because while it wasn’t unusual for Rhaenyra to come to his rooms now, it wasn’t entirely usual either. He beckoned her forward, nodded to Ser Harrold and Viserys rose, his monument of Old Valyria forgotten for if his daughter had need of him, she would have all of him.

Or at least the parts of him that were still whole. Gods he missed his fingers. Cutting his chicken was such a farce now.

“Who has aggrieved you so, Rhaenyra?” Viserys inquired, stepped toward her and laid a heavy, soothing hand upon her shoulder to leach the fires of fury before they consumed her.

“Your wife.” Rhaenyra said scathingly, her voice low and curling like the shadows of night. “It is not enough that she believes the vulgar rumours her foul father propagated, nor is enough that she seems to find comfort in scorning me. No. Now she had forbidden me from the nursery. I and I alone it seems.”

Viserys had nothing to say to that. He felt his own irritation bubble. When Alicent had first been pregnant, when Aegon had first been born, she had often wished that Rhaenyra would be there, that they enjoy the experience of a babe together. The change was unusual, especially considering just weeks ago she would have been glad of Rhaenyra’s presence.

Viserys did not know what went on his wife’s mind. He knew that she felt the removal of Otto was a personal slight, knew that she had not been happy, but then again, no child would have been.

“I will speak to Alicent.” Viserys promised. “Perhaps it would be best if you and she could find a way to reconcile.”

“And how do you suggest I do that, father? She can scarcely stand to be in the same room as me at the moment.” Rhaenyra reminded sharply. “She believed the venom her father spewed in order to advance Aegon and once Alicent’s mind is decided it is not swayed.”

No. Any hope of reconciliation had died before the weirwood tree, and perhaps even before that. A part of Rhaenyra would mourn it, but it was such a tiny ember for no longer did she know how much of it had bee real and how much of it had been Otto. Rhaenyra did not trust easily and once that trust was lost it could never be repaired, and she had trusted Alicent once. Trust, she had found, was little more than illusion, worth nothing and yet worth everything. The constant conundrum of it all vexed her to no end.

Viserys, realised in that moment, that he truly didn’t know his second wife all that well. She was good and kind, he knew that, for she tended to his ailing body and aching wounds with gentle hands, but he did not know her. His old heart ached because he knew the division lay upon his shoulders, knew that his dearest Rhaenyra suffered because he had been a trusting fool.

He sighed, suddenly tired and weary. Viserys pointed to the lounge set before the crackling fire and set his old bones down. Rhaenyra hovered close to him, and her presence reminded him so much of Balerion’s might that it hurt sometimes. One flight it had been, but it was perhaps the second greatest joy of his life.

The first was beside him, her fingers curled around his wrist, thumb brushing over the branching veins of his wrist in the same way Aemma had always done when concern was rife. Viserys looked at his daughter then, at his heir, at the way her hair was braided and the clothes she wore.

He smiled and shook his head ruefully.

“Lessons?” Viserys inquired lightly, his tone jovial and searching.

“They’ll keep.” Rhaenyra huffed.

“I’m sure one of the Kingsguard would be happy to oblige you.” Viserys reminded.

Rhaenyra thought on it but shook her head. Those hours by the sea, atop the stone of the theatre, they were  her respite, the moments where she could simply be Rhaenyra. It would have been a different sort of thing if it were one of the knights of the Kingsguard, it would have been stressful and proper in a way things never were with Gwayne.

“They’d teach me how to fight. I want to learn how to win.” Rhaenyra said.

Win. There is no suitable alternative because if I do not win, I do not know what will become of me. Let as few people know as possible, let them think me a girl, a child, a spoiled little Princess. Let them have their thoughts but I shall have my truth.

I am the blood of the dragon. I am the eldest. I will fight with fang and flame and claw. I will defend what is mine with fire and blood: My clutch, my horde, my throne.

“Should you ever need to raise a blade to defend yourself we have failed you.” Viserys clucked his tongue. “But I suppose even peace is not safe.”

“Peace is an illusion we carve out of blood and bone.” Rhaenyra scoffed.

“Peace is hope.” Viserys rebutted with a wry smile.

“Hope is for the hopeless.” Rhaenyra shrugged.

Viserys wondered when his daughter had become so cynical, but he knew when in truth. The spark had been ignited with a single look, a single touch and those flames would never truly burn out. It would serve her well, that quiet, sharp mind of hers because no matter what the people thought, Viserys was not an idiot.

He had a son. It was the right thing, the tradition, for Aegon to be named as his heir. Perhaps once, in those months when Rhaenyra had skirted her duties and been defiant would he have considered it, but he never had in truth. She’d attended his council since she was but a child, and she had grown much over the last years, fiercer, stronger, more dedicated.

He would leave the realm and the weight of it to her, for he had Rhaenys’ assurances that should Viserys die, she would be the steady hand to guide Rhaenyra. Not because her King had demanded it, not because her son would be the Prince Consort, but because he asked her for, she was the eldest of their own clutch.

Viserys only wished that Daemon too would return. That perhaps, they could be as they were in their youth, silver shadows and pale Princes and Aemon and Baelon come again. Was it too much for a dying man to want his family around him, close to him, so that when the day came, and he stepped into Morgul’s shadows the last faces he would see in life would be those of his beloved family?

Viserys knew it was indeed too much to hope that Aemma’s face would be the first that would greet him upon the shores of death because he did not deserve to see her. His want of a sin, his dreams, they had ruined her, he had killed her. Her blood stained his hands, and nothing would ever wash it away.

Let the rot take his hands, it would be the least he deserved. He only prayed to the fires that it did not take his mind for Rhaenyra may have need of it.

“You should go.” The weary King murmured; mind frayed with the thoughts that plagued him. “I will speak with Alicent. Leave it for the evening if you would, and tomorrow perhaps we five can find an hour or two to go to the dragon pit.”

“You haven’t gone to the pit since great-grandsire’s funeral.” Rhaenyra murmured, confused. “Are you sure?”

Viserys huffed and reached out to take Rhaenyra’s hand in his. He offered her a gentling look, a look tinged with grief that would never fade, but it soothed his daughter as he expected it would. Viserys knew himself to be a fool in many regards, but the songs and secrets of the Targaryen history was not one such regard. He knew Rhaenyra was… Rhaenyra, knew that in her blood burned the might of Balerion, and in him there had been the magma of the Fourteen Flames.

He knew what she was, and he knew what he was to her. In these moments he was neither her father nor her King, but simply a dragon grown too old to properly hunt, one that would eventually be unable to move, one that would be at the mercy of those of fire and blood who surrounded them.

Viserys would die as Balerion did, he had known that the moment his dragon had taken his last great heaving breath. His death would be slow and creeping, it would be long. it was no less than he deserved, but Balerion had deserved better, and for the spirit of his dragon that lived within Viserys’ heir, his eldest living child, his Aemma’s little girl, he would find the strength to continue on.

Even if it meant he bore the agony of it all. He would, so Rhaenyra did not have to, so the little, innocent babes did not have to.

“I am sure.” Viserys said softly. “We should have done so earlier. I have been lost in the past of pain for too long, my girl, but I must find my way. Will you help me?”

No father no King should need ask for help from their daughter, from their child, but this was not man asking. No. It was fire, dimmed and greying like cooled embers and ash, that asked for help to reignite, for Viserys had found his spark once again, had found it the moment he had seen his Rhaenyra with her brother and sister, since she had stalked about the castle like a dragon hunted its prey.

He asked for her help in igniting the dragonblood in his veins that had grown thick and slow, so that he could flash his claws and fangs in order to give Rhaenyra, their protector, their shield, the respite she so deserved.

“You never had to ask.” Rhaenyra promised, leaned forward and sealed the declaration with a fleeting kiss to her father’s temple. “Rest now, father. For one day soon, when you are ready, you will need that strength when we soar together in the skies.”

It was an honoured thing to ride another’s dragon, no matter the bonds of kinship between them, especially when one had once ridden another. It wasn’t unusual, but there was still an ancient sanctity to it that the dragon keepers revered. Yet it meant more in that moment, for Rhaenyra was not just offering her father a promise to return him to the hights of his forefathers, no, she offered him a chance to hold her soul in his hands.

Rhaenyra left her father then, though not before she wiped the lone silver tear from his cheek. She loved him, and though love was never enough, the foundation of trust and duty had been set in fire. He would forever back her, he would, without a doubt, wretch himself from death if she needed it.

As much as Rhaenyra wished she would never need it, the previous days, years even, had told her that she might. It was a delicate balancing act on a game that could so easily change and while dragon were regal creatures in the air, on the ground they were less so.

But Rhaenyra had none of the might and mass of the dragons, even if she was one. Hers was an otherworldly grace, quiet steps and the power of a hunter’s sense, and there was no greater hunter than a dragon.

It was easy then, to return to her rooms, to bid Ser Steffon good evening with a murmur od duties and learning. The knight had nodded his head, had wished her well, and settled outside her door with an order to refuse entry to all. Rhaenyra, having stalked the tunnels often enough, did not lose her way as she headed down to the waterfront, as she passed by a little rowboat that was rotted and cracked.

She knew why it was there, prayed they would never need it, but just to be safe, she would a new boat prepared. Laenor would know more of than she would, and so she would wait until.

She would love him as she loved her brother and sister, knew that Ser Joffrey cradled that auspicious mix of iron and salt-water, fire and mist, in calloused but gentle, loving hands. It did not matter to Rhaenyra, for love was love and she had it in abundance.

Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, commander of the household guard of Her Royal Highness, Rhaenyra, Princess of Dragonstone and her royal husband, Prince-Consort Laenor Velaryon. A mouthful in truth, but an honour she would bestow upon the knight and Laenor both.

She was sure it would make a fine wedding gift indeed.

Rhaenyra shook her head, dispelled the ideas of the wedding for a moment. She saw the light at the end of the tunnel, followed it with ease and tried her best to ignore the scent of damp salt that clung to the rocks. Maegor’s tunnels were a marvel, there was nowhere they did not reach save for the highest level of Maegor’s holdfast, where the King and Queen’s chambers were, where the royal nursery was, where Rhaenyra’s rooms would be.

Her new rooms, for she had never moved from those she’d had as a girl, mainly due to the fact that they had been Daemon’s rooms, and it had felt wrong to be there when all essence of him had vanished to the flow of time.

She’d have them made ready to her likening before the wedding, and that would be where she and Laenor and Laena and all the rest of those beneath her wing would find sanctuary. It would be there that they solidified Rhaenyra’s position and breath life to a future of their own making.

It would be glorious.

But first there was a matter to attend to, Rhaenyra realised as she stepped out in the sea-breeze. Gwayne was there as he always was, but Rhaenyra could feel the tension that tightened his muscles, could scent his anger in the air. She frowned, glided across the stones and cleared her throat.

Gwayne turned to her at once, and some of that tension melted away, but the anger remained. Rhaenyra cocked her head to the side in silent question, closed the space between them until there was only heat and comfort and fabric between them. She reached out, cupped her hand against his jaw, thumb stroking along his cheekbone.

“Who has angered you so?” Rhaenyra inquired lowly.

“My sister vexes me to no end some days.” Gwayne scoffed. “There is little substance to it.”

“She has forbidden you from seeing the children too, hasn’t she?”

“You as well?” Gwayne scoffed.

“Cole took pleasure in it, I’m sure.” Rhaenyra shook her head. “I did not think a single, regrettable kiss could turn a man mad, and yet, here we are.”

“He was mad long before you kissed him.” Gwayne hummed. “Men’s egos are forever their own undoing, Rhaenyra, and he has ego in abundance. He clings to my sister like a leech now, I’ve all the mind to kill him where he stands.”

“Any action taken against the Kingsguard is an action taken against the King.” Rhaenyra reminded. “As a representative of the King, I would have you heed caution, but as Rhaenyra, I say throw the fucker down a flight of stairs and pray it kills him.”

“What is your obsession with throwing people down the stairs?” Gwayne asked, bewildered.

“It is effective.” Rhaenyra defended. “And appears accidental so no suspicions are raised.”

“Terrifying. I shall have to be mindful of my steps.” Gwayne huffed. “I fear I am not in the right mind to take a blade to you tonight, Princess.”

“Then there shall be no blades.” Rhaenyra decided, took his hand and pulled him toward one of the benches by the water. “We shall have salt and sea and stories instead.”

“I thought Ser Laenor was taking your name upon marriage?” Gwayne teased.

Rhaenyra shrugged, settled herself against Gwayne as though it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm came around her then and he stole her heat, for there, out on the open water, a storm brewed dark and ferocious. The rain would come, and so would the thunder and lightning, for it was the season of spring storms and it had been spring for years now.

But autumn came closer, and with it so too did winter.

“Do you think your father’s absence has something to do with Alicent’s moods?” Rhaenyra wondered.

“Perhaps. Or pregnancy. It seems horrid.” Gwayne’s face scrunched up at the thoughts of it. “But I do not know. Even when you were gone, she was different. She ordered me from her presence more than once. She has little companionship here, especially now that father is gone.”

“And now she has barred us from the children.” Rhaenyra muttered. “Father said he would speak to her… it is not the same for us as it is for you.”

“No, I don’t imagine it is.” Gwayne admitted.

He would never understand the oddities of Targaryen blood, but it was not his place to know. He cared not for it in truth, for he simply cared for who his niece and nephew were, who Rhaenyra was. if they were the sum of those oddities it didn’t matter, if they were who they were in spite of them, it didn’t matter.

Gwayne, after all, was everything he was in spite of his father, and that was enough for those who mattered.

“You could come tomorrow.” Rhaenyra suggested. “Aegon will practically demand it. I think you’re his favourite. I shall have to bribe him more.”

“I think none can compare to you, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra laughed, looked upon him with an amused twitch of the lips. Gwayne wondered how much would change when Ser Laenor arrived, if these stolen moments would survive duty. It did not matter if they didn’t, Gwayne would not leave, would never leave in case she or her children ever needed him.

Rhaenyra curled her fingers around his as she slowly began to recount the gossip she had heard from Lady Reyne. Gwayne rebutted with what he had heard from the knights, who were a gossiping bunch if there were ever one. Together they made quite the pair, but it was how it had always been.

The moments dragged on in an easy haze. Rhaenyra had felt the simmering anger in her blood retreat, felt as it was leached by ivory-carved stones that warmed and soothed and protected. She understood then what it meant to have a hearth, and she was all the gladder that it was Gwayne.

Gwayne who was never afraid to argue with her. Gwayne who told her she was wrong. Gwayne who thought of her as Rhaenyra, rather than her blood or heritage or title. Gwayne, a man she trusted not only with her life and reputation, but that of her horde and clutch.

A man, Rhaenyra knew, that she loved.

If only he hadn’t been Otto Hightower’s son.

“Oh.” Gwayne said suddenly, a grin pulling at his lips, eyes bright and blue like Rhaenyra’s dominion. “I have something for you.”

Rhaenyra hummed, watched as Gwayne stood. She followed him a  half-step behind, came to a stop before the blunted steal he had, but what he wanted was not there. He reached under it, took a twine-wrapped package from beneath his balled-up cloak.

He held it out to Rhaenyra with an uncharacteristic nervousness.

Rhaenyra took it, slowly undid the twine and opened the cloth. She eyed the gift with incredulity, her heart beating, her blood burning. There, in her hands, lay a dagger, thin and beautiful. Its pommel and cross were fashioned in curling, entwined black-smoked steel and bronze that resembled a snarling dragon’s head.

Ot just any dragon’s head. No. It was Syrax. Syrax with the horns she had inherited from Silverwing, with the same horns she had bequeathed to the only living dragon of her clutch.

“Gwayne…”

“I had it fashioned as a wedding gift, but I believe you needed it tonight.” Gwayne explained.

“I shall never be without it.” Rhaenyra promised, curling her fingers around the hilt, felt how right it was in her grip.

Gwayne smiled, bright and silvery. They made quite the pair there, one shrouded in shadows, the other in grey smoke and azure velvet. Light and dark. Hearth and home.

Rhaenyra hummed. There, beneath the bloodied light of the setting sun, beneath the dome of crimson and amethyst that settled over the Blackwater there was a sense of serene tranquillity. For a moment it seemed as though everything has simply stopped, as though they alone were all that remained of the mortal realm.

The air was charged with something undefinable. Gwayne’s hand settled upon Rhaenyra’s hip, and he did not flinch at the sheer heat that seemed to suffocate the wind-bitten cold of his fingers. There was no fear to him as he looked at Rhaenyra, who in turn was watching him with drifting, lazily flicking eyes that traces the rise and fall of his chest, the pinkness of his tongue as it wetted his lips.

Gwayne did not move, but Rhaenyra did. She held the dagger in one hand, and the other moved to cradle the column of Gwayne’s neck, then it slider further back, her nails scratching along the short hairs that carried the gilded hues of the setting sun.

Rhaenyra huffed. Gwayne’s lips twitched.  She drew him closer, pressed her lips against his once, twice and then a final time. She watched Gwayne, watched the heat bloom along his skin, watched as it settled on his cheeks, felt as his spine was consumed by fire and turned liquid, scented the want in the air just as easily as she could scent the sea-salt.

That alone ignited something within Rhaenyra, and she kissed him again. It was the gentling sweetness of the first three, no, this kiss was a branding claim of fiery passion and inescapable want. It was hot, dripping with lust and sweetened by a near reverential devotion that had been built on the unshakable foundation of loyalty and trust.

Built upon the bones of a love that could never live in the light of day, but dragons were flame eternal and so it would forever cast a bloodied, vermillion hue to their existence and neither Gwayne nor Rhaenyra would have it any other way.

“I think I shall have to give you more daggers, dear Princess.” Gwayne whispered once they had settled against on another, his lips grazing her temple as he spoke. “Do you like it?”

“It came from you.” Rhaenyra reminded with softness. “I shall wield it in defence of those who settle beneath my wing, so that they may grow fierce and fair. Of course I like it.”

“If one of us is to be bloodied, let it be me.” Gwayne requested.

“When blood flows, it will theirs, not ours, that settles the foundation of our future.”

When, not if. Because power demanded blood in the same way the earth demanded water, in the same way fire demanded air. Gwayne knew that was the truth. But no mortal could ever compare to the Princess beside him, for she was never mortal. A god dripped in carmine and bronze, ivory and onyx, Rhaenyra Targaryen was all things great and grotesque.

Gwayne would, without a doubt, carve open his own heart and tear out his heart to present it to her if she even wanted it.

But Rhaenyra would want his heart strong and beating and giving him life, and that was why she mattered. She wanted him, as he was, as he would be, and Gwayne wanted the same. He wanted what she would give him of her stubborn nature, of that darkness that dwelled in her heart, that very same thing that made her fire burn brighter.

He would be her hearth, her citadel, for this night and all nights to come.

Chapter Text

Little changed after that evening beneath the bloodied hues of the setting sun, but Rhaenyra did not expect it to. She continued on as she had been, continued to sit upon her father’s council, stole Aegon and Helaena away to the sanctity of her own chambers and that of the dragonpit. In fact, the only thing that had truly changed was the ever-present dagger that was settled against Rhaenyra’s left hip, bound to her by a chain of curling silver links, and Alicent’s venomous gaze.

Just as she had never been seen without Aegon in those early days, now the Princess of Dragonstone was scarcely seen without that blade, was scarcely seen in anything other than the silken shadows and clotted blood of her family’s heraldry.

In the same turn, the Queen Consort was scarcely seen at all. There were rumours about her pregnancy, after all, it had been the same the previous two times and the court had long memories. Most of them believed that Her Grace was simply unwilling to divert attention from her once friend as her wedding loomed, the tides pulling the day closer to the shore.

The wedding was indeed close, so close in fact that the Velaryons were already on their way. It was so close that Rhaenyra’s belongings had moved to the heir’s apartments. She twisted her was through the rooms, so similar yet so different than the ones she lived in since she was old enough to sleep alone. They’d been Daemon’s rooms, and for four years they’d been left idle, and because of that his influence had been stripped.

Gone was the scent of brimstone and fire-bright air. Gone were the collection of texts that Daemon swore never interested him, yet he collected them all the same from his eastern travels. Rhaenyra knew that his things were not gone in a sense, simply that her father had moved them in a fit of rage when Daemon absconded to Dragonstone like a little rat.

Around her servants bustled about, cleaning and dusting and sweeping. They paid her no mind and so Rhaenyra paid them none. Rhaenyra huffed out an unamused sound as she pushed open the heavy door to the main bed chamber, devoid of all things that had once made it Daemon’s.

Gone were the carved, lattice wood pieces that Rhaenyra had always wanted for her own room. She’d have to find out where her father had placed them, or indeed have them remade in their image if it came to that. She’d wait until Laenor was here, then together they could decide since these would be his rooms as well.

The tapestries remained it seemed. Dragon and man, man and dragon, locked in an eternal dance of pain and pleasure, suffering and sanctity. There were legends about how the first dragon lords had bent the dragons to their whims and whiles, how the term blood of the dragon came to be, and Rhaenyra would be lying if she said she wasn’t curious…

But it didn’t matter in the end for it was their power now. Her power. Blood a touch too dark, a touch too hot, senses a touch too sharp. Rhaenyra knew what the people who surrounded her thought of her, knew that to them she was still just that sweet little girl who sat on her grandfather’s knee, who sat beside her father alongside her mother when he held court.

Just a sweet little girl, as though Rhaenyra Targaryen had ever just been anything. She would show them. She’d be the mother of a dynasty that would eclipse that of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, and it had begun the moment she had picked her first hatchling up and held him beneath her wing as the skies raged.

“Princess.” Ser Steffon called out, and there was a flurry of fluffy silver hair as Aegon barrelled toward her. “The Prince is here.”

The Prince should have been in his lessons, Rhaenyra thought internally as she turned toward the knight, and indeed her brother. I thought he was getting along better with Maester Gerardys than whatever Septa was in charge of his instructions.

She caught Aegon with ease, hefted him into the air and listened to the glorious golden chimes of his delighted shrieks. He settled himself against her throat as he always did, forever finding comfort in the sound of her beating heart, in the heat of her smoking blood.

“You should be in lessons with Maester Gerardys, sweet boy.” Rhaenyra hummed, kissed his forehead. “He’s a much better instructor than the Septa, isn’t he?”

“Want you to teach me.” Aegon huffed.

“I already promised that I’d teach you Valyrian, Aegon.” Rhaenyra reminded.

“You never spend any time with me.” Aegon pouted, his lip wobbled, and he tugged on the end of her hair. “Are you going to forget ‘bout us?”

Rhaenyra stilled, cast her eyes toward her brother who was looking anywhere but her. She had known how busy she had been these past few months, and what little spare time did have was spent with her brother and her sister, and yet it was never enough it seemed. She shouldn’t have been surprised, for they were greedy little things and the one thing they desired most in the world was Rhaenyra’s love.

Love that she would give them in abundance. Love unconditional and forever flowing. She would have them everything they ever wanted save for one thing, because the Iron Throne was her prize and woe be to the fool who tried to take it from her.

But for Aegon to think that Rhaenyra would forget him, that was unthinkable.

“Why would you think that, Aegon?” Rhaenyra inquired. “How could you think that? I know I have been busy of late, but once the wedding has passed, it will be like it was before.”

Or it would be close enough to it that the child couldn’t tell the difference, but that didn’t matter much. Aegon only whined, a high-pitched keen that was so similar to the golden dragon from Syrax’s first clutch. Then the little hellion tugged on her braided hair again, sharper this time.

At least he had grown out of biting.

Rhaenyra simply moved her hand to his, shifted him around until her hair was free of his indominable grip. She corrected him with a huff and pressed her nose against his cheek. It didn’t hurt, not truly. It reminded Rhaenyra of the way the dragonlings would nip at their elders, how they would bite upon one another’s hide.

It was comforting and familiar, a test to see how strong the hatchlings would grow, and so far, while the eldest of Rhaenyra’s horde was lounging and luxuriating, there was an iron beneath him that she would nurture and nourish.

“Can we go flying?” Aegon asked.

“I have to go to a council meeting at midday, little love.” Rhaenyra said regretfully. “It would take too long to rouse a retinue, and you know Helaena sleeps at this time.”

“Just us.” Aegon huffed. “Like we used to.”

Rhaenyra sighed and her eyes darted around the room. There wasn’t much more she could do until everything had been cleaned and her own belongings we ferried, and midday was still a few hours away. If she had to sacrifice her midday meal to comfort Aegon’s fear of being forgotten that she would do it.

“Ser Steffon?”

“Yes, Princess?”

“Could you find Maester Gerardys and apologise for my brother’s absenteeism? If he inquires, tell him it was the call of the blood and that I will return Aegon to him personally before I attend the Small Council meeting.” Rhaenyra said, snagging a shawl from the end of the bed and coiled it around Aegon. “When we have supper tonight, Aegon, I want to hear all about the lessons you and Maester Gerardys complete.”

“Okay muma.”

The sullen melancholy, that insipid grey cloud folded within the single beat of Rhaneyra’s wing. She had been neglecting them somewhat, especially since Alicent had tried to put distance between them, since the looks had turned from aching to downright venomous, but it could not be helped.

Everything would settle once the Velaryons arrived. Once the wedding was celebrated. Then there would time for Rhaenyra to sleep with her babes in her arms, head nestled on the silver-silk of Gwayne’s shoulder, Laena and Laenor stalwart like the salt and iron of their blood.

And Daemon… Rhaenyra didn’t know how Daemon pit in the pretty picture she’d carved out in her mind, only that he did because he was Daemon. There would always be a place for him at her side.

“Syrax?” Aegon mumbled, blinking skyward.

Syrax, free of her chains since Rhaenyra returned from her tour, often took to circling the Red Keep. Still nimble enough was she, that the yellow-bronze she dragon could land in the courtyard with ease. There was another place too where she could land with ease, where she would settle herself upon the crags and watch Gwayne and Rhaenyra as they played with their blades and their words and their want.

They had never done anything more than kiss, and yet somehow it felt all the more precious because of it. They simply wanted each other because they were each other, not because they wanted what they other one could give them. though that did not stop Rhaenyra from gifting Gwayne things…

It was more for her own benefit than his own really. She’d spent weeks looking at fabric and at designs, and her mind wandered to him in ease, especially when she knew that blue and silver forever made his eyes shine like the stars of the night sky.

“Rhaenyra?”

That was her father’s voice, confused and tinged with the find exacerbation she was used to. He was with Lord Lyman and the elderly man smiled upon the sight of Aegon snug in his sister’s hold, just as Viserys himself seemed to soften as well.

“He wished to go flying. He found me in my new rooms.” Rhaenyra explained. “He couldn’t not have known I was there, father, yet he found me anyway. With the wedding preparations and the council and seeing to the food houses…”

“Hush, sweetling.” The king advanced and pressed a kiss to his daughter’s temple as his leather-clad fingers scratched over Aegon’s head. “Is that why Syrax has landed in the courtyard again?”

“Possibly.” Rhaenyra admitted with a blush. “We won’t be long; I’ll be back before the council meeting.”

“I was on my way to find you; the council meeting had been moved to tomorrow morning.” Viserys huffed. “Take as long as you need, tala, for you both to settle.”

Rhaenyra cocked her head to the side and felt herself lighten. Weeks it had been since she had offered her father a flight upon Syrax, and though he had made the journey to the dragonpit twice, he had never taken it. Oh, he had come close to her, had allowed Syrax to scent him, and thrummed his fingers along the ever-hardening scales of her throat, but he had still not ridden her with his daughter and his son.

“And does His Grace have any pressing business to do on this fine morn?” Rhaenyra inquired, her eyebrow raised and her voice as sweet and smooth as honey.

“The King seeks to count the coin for his daughter’s wedding.” Viserys replied with humour. “I am afraid I cannot indulge you in what I suspect you might ask.”

“A job, Your Grace, that I would be most happy to alone if it would allow you to have a moment of peace with your family.” Lord Lyman said softly, his head bowed. “Allow me to take the strain, my King.”

Good old Lyman, I’ll make sure you’re given your favourite wine for weeks, Rhaenyra thought gleefully as she watched her father’s conviction waver, and it crumbled completely when Aegon made an agreeing noise. Rhaenyra hid her smile in her brother’s hair, but she knew her father could sense it because he only shook his head with fond amusement.

“I suppose it will not hurt.” Viserys hummed. “Although soon enough she will be too large to land in the courtyard.”

“It is a good thing we have battlements.” Rhaenyra teased, holding Aegon close, her cheek pressed against his head as he coiled around her throat.

“Father used to say he had to remind Vhagar to not land atop the Keep. Dragons have longer memories than man, I have no doubt she remembered with it was little more than mood and sticks.” Viserys murmured, more to himself than anybody else. “Let us see her, yes?”

“Good morrow, Lord Lyman.” Rhaenyra smiled, willing to indulge the man because he was hers, one of those forever beneath her wing. “Say goodbye, Aegon.”

Aegon, a conundrum of contradictions, offered the Master of Coin a smile that showed off his teeth. Lyman dipped his head in acknowledgement again, bade them farewell and a safe flight. Viserys seemed to have reigned himself to it, but Rhaenyra could scent the thrum of excitement, could all but feel the bubbling heat of her father’s blood as it was reignited.

It only grew stronger when Rhaenyra spied Syrax, as her sweet girl turned her head and lumbered toward them with the excitement of an overgrown kitten. She stopped before her rider, bent her head low and sniffed the air. Aegon twisted, Rhaenyra settled him against her with one arm and reached out to scratch along Syrax’s horns.

“My sweet girl.” Rhaenyra breathed, nuzzled closer to her dragon’s maw without care or fear for her soul made flesh would never harm her. “Will we soar today, my heart? Will we three take to the skies atop your back and reignite the fires of Valyria in my father’s blood?”

Syrax cawed and came closer, her eyes as blue as the sea and skies. She sniffed, pressed her snout to Rhaenyra and there was a trilling sort of sound, a purr one would expect from a kitten rather than a dragon.

But what was the difference between kitten and dragon when both were luxuriating delights that held souls in their claws?

“Rhaenyra…” Viserys began.

“It would do you some good, father. Balerion’s strength still lives in your veins, we must simply reignite it.” Rhaenyra said with ease. “Please?”

And her father was powerless in the face of her earnest plea. Viserys stepped forward and he bowed his head against her shoulder, felt as Syrax’s heat seeped into the air, the scent of brimstone and iron mingled and settled in his own silver-gold hair. He felt as his daughter’s hand came up to cradle his head and for a moment Viserys felt weak, for no child should ever have to comfort their parent…

But Rhaenyra was not simply his child, nor was she simply his heir. Balerion’s fire burned within her, for Viserys’ daughter, his eldest, was more dragon than man. Her blood would be blackened should it ever be spilled, and Viserys prayed that it never would be. Her bones would not hold the ivory of mortality, that much he knew.

And so Viserys surrendered himself to the fires that twisted and flickered and let himself bask in that faithful, everlasting protection. He knew what he was, knew that whatever disease lingered in his blood could not be cured by the heat of dragonflame for Balerion had no mortal coil, no, instead his flame and that of their ancient homeland dwelled within his daughter.

So Viserys gave himself a moment, but then he turned to Syrax, to the dragon that had hatched in his daughter’s cradle, who had lived with her, atop her cradle, atop her bed and her shoulder until she had grown too large, and he looked upon her. Those eyes, so blue, blue as the skies that were theirs to rule, regarded him with an easy, half-lidded stare because Syrax was Rhaenyra just as Rhaenyra was Syrax, and Viserys would die a thousand deaths for them for they were one.

“You are my daughter’s soul, dear heart. I would be honoured to join you on this day, and on the days to come if you would allow me.” Viserys whispered, voice thickened with emotion.

His eyes were closed. He did not dare look, did not wish to witness the judgement in those eyes, because Syrax knew what all dragons knew, and that was what their riders knew. It had been Syrax that had descended and burned Aemma and Baelon’s pyre, it had been Syrax that had been Rhaenyra’s only companion in those long, silent months of grief.

Viserys could not stand to see that judgement reflected, because he knew he had failed his daughter, Aemma’s daughter. Aemma’s daughter because he had no claim to Rhaneyra, because he was the reason his darling girl was without her mother, and they all knew it.

All for a dream that Viserys had never understood until his daughter had walked into the hunt, boar at her heels and blood in her hair and a smile on her face. Rhaenyra, his daughter, his child above all others who was the best of them all, even if she too could be the worst of them if so pushed.

But Syrax only huffed, and she pressed her snout, so large, larger still since she had been free of her chains, to Viserys’ ebony clad shoulder. Her heat was scorching, her eyes icy, a conundrum in the same way his daughter was. the she-dragon raised her wing and though she did not bow, she leaned closer, and it was then that Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, dared to open his eyes.

He saw the blue of Aemma’s dresses, the blue of the skies and the seas. He saw the past and the future in the present and he exhaled lowl as he dared to reach his hand -the one that the rot had claimed two fingers upon- to the dragon’s hide. Syrax hissed, a sound that most would think was threatening, and if the stillness of the men in the courtyard was anything to go by, they believed it.

But there was no threat there, implicit or otherwise. No. it was only Viserys’ child and her soul offering him strength and fire, an acknowledgment that while he may have grown too tired and old to hunt for himself, he would be cared for forever more because the blood of the dragon ran thick, thickest of all in his daughter…

His daughter who held Viserys’ son in her arms as though he was her own, and he was. Only a dragon could love a dragon, only they could understand one another. They were not human, not in the sense of the men they ruled over, and so they had only one another.

It was then Viserys Targaryen, son of Baelon and Alyssa, made his choice, one that would see him drag himself rom Morgul’s embrace and the sands that awaited him. There was nothing he would not do for her, for his daughter and his heir, because from her blood came the Prince That Was Promised, no matter what it meant.

“I would be honoured to join you today, sweet dragon.”

And Rhaneyra’s smile was worth Viserys’ fears. She only looked at Syrax and then the dragon was kneeling before her mount, and Viserys knew that though he had been right in his assumption that controlling the dragons was little more than an illusion, he had been wrong too…

Because there was no control there.

No, instead there was one heart, one fire and one soul. They would do anything for one another, and Viserys knew that a dragon’s first thought went to its rider and its rider alone, and so he watched as Syrax all but grinned, watched as it was reflected in his daughter’s own face, and it was only then that realised that they were more than any other dragon and rider pairing.

They were the future. They were hope. They were power eternal. They were the beacon of a new age of dragons, the likes of which his grandparents could only dream of.

His gaze flicked to Rhaenyra, and she held out her hand, and Viserys coiled his own fingers around hers. His daughter smiled, just a hint of too much fang, a smile that would have sent the men of the realm running, but his daughter was no threat to him, that much he knew, for she allowed him this, and would allow him so much more.

She is our guardian. She is Balerion. She is Rhaenyra.

So Viserys found himself seated on behind his daughter, his son on his lap and with a corded belt of leather and iron over their stomachs. Rhaenyra herself was regal atop Syrax, that dagger of hers glinting in the sunlight and it was only then that Viserys realised that it had been made in Syrax’s image.

Whoever had it made for you, my sweet girl, loves you very much, Viserys thought, and he did not begrudge her for it because his daughter deserved only the finest of things. Absentmindedly, he wondered if it had been Daemon, but it lacked the extravagance his brother was renowned for.

“Are you ready, father?” Rhaenyra questioned, reigns in her hand and Syrax primed to launch.

“Are you ready Aegon?” Viserys inquired, arm tight around his son, his chin settled on Aegon’s downy-soft head.

“Fly. Fly.” Aegon shrieked.

And so they did. Syrax lumbered forth, and in two leaping steps she was ascending, her wings splayed and flapping with a thunderous cry. Rhaneyra cackled, a sound that was carried in the air as Aegon cried out in jubilation and Viserys felt only peace, for it had been the second time he had take to the skies since he had claimed Balerion and gave him peace in his final months.

He watched as his daughter careened Syrax through the skies, watched as the she-dragon sailed so easily through the clouds. Without words Syrax dipped left and then she was ascending over the Blackwater, then she dove low until her claws cut through the surface of the water.

Viserys did not know how long they sailed through the skies, lost in the sensation of hearth and home, lost in the way his head swam with strength renewed and the delighted laugher of his daughter and the first of her horde.

It was then that he caught sight of the Velaryon seahorse billowing in the wind, the coiled Merman of the Sea Snake visible did Viserys begin to realise.

It was only when there was a roar, thunderous and echoing, that Viserys understood. He watched as his cousin’s dragon, all gleaming red scales like the bloodiest of sunrises, descended, as the ivory and azure mix of Seasmoke left the camouflage of the clouds, and it was when his father’s dragon, the largest and mightiest of them all, blotted out the sun that he realised the truth of it all.

It was only when those four dragons took pattern, shrieking joyous like overgrown children, a space left for the fifth that was gone, the fifth that would soon return, did he understand.

It was Rhaenyra. It had always been Rhaenyra.

Chapter Text

The air of the dragonpit was thick and heady, suffused with a scent that so very few would find comforting and yet there was only one place more comforting to a Targaryen than its caves. The light was weak despite the opened dome, the shadows omnipresent and silken, dispelled only by the flickering torches of the dragonkeepers. They did not pay Rhaenyra much mind, long accustomed to her slinking around the monstrous cavern with eyes that seemed to shine in the dark, serpentine and deadly with the glow of an amethyst star in the night’s sky.

They did not bother her, did not encroach upon her territory for they were the keepers of histories and secrets and songs and they knew. They watched as she cradled the little Prince close to her chest while Syrax trilled about, her first hatchling nipping at her claws with ivory fangs that would grow blacker as the dragon grew larger. It was still yet unnamed, but none could deny that the little golden beast with its winding neck and glimmering horns would one day be bound to the Prince.

The dragonkeepers knew this. The Princess knew this, because she was Rhaenyra, her fire was Balerion’s fire, and Balerion’s fire had been the vessel of hope for the Fourteen Flames, so blessed as they were. So, the dragonkeepers did not encroach near the Princess’ person as she spoke their mother tongue, as Prince Aegon repeated it dutifully, though often incorrectly/

The dragonkeepers did nothing as Princess Helaena, a babe small and silver, shrouded in azure and starlight silks, garbled in her uncle’s arms. He was not of the blood, the dragons knew it, the keepers knew it, the Princess of Dragonstone knew it, and yet there was no danger to Ser Gwayne Hightower as he rocked Helaena back and forth because he was no danger to Syrax’s rider, nor her rider’s hatchlings.

The hearth was never a danger, for the were protection personified. His blood and bone was the comfort of the Dragon Princess’ nest, his flesh and soul, blessed by her sacrosanct presence to never be burned or defiled. The dragonkeepers knew it, but they were the keepers of the fire and so it was their duty to stand against the winds that would threaten their fire-blooded charges.

They simply watched and observed, unseen and all-seeing, for they were blood-bound, duty-bound and honour-bound to serve the last dragon lords, and it was their honour to watch as the carmine and bronze thread of Valyria burned brighter as each day passed, as Rhaenyra grew, as the children grew, as hope grew.

Fire was light and life, wrath and ruin. Without it the world of man could not survive, and now the flame, once an ember of confusion, one that could have been snuffed out by icy winds, grew into entwined pillars of blood and bone, shadow and sunlight.

Rhaneyra, aware of the eyes upon her as she bowed her head against Syrax’s maw, Aegon curled around her leg as she brushed a hand through his hair, released a sigh. Helaena made a noise and her peered at her babe sister from the corner of her eye, watched with an amused smirk as Gwayne hummed, pressed his lips to her forehead and the little Princess quieted immediately.

Rhaenyra turned then, and Aegon had already twisted, anticipating her move, and her brother settled his head in the crook of her neck as though that was his hearth and home. She mimicked Gwayne’s previous action, dragged her lips along the feather-softness of silver-white hair that would soon be long enough for her to braid.

Gwayne cast his gaze toward her, his smile soft and lazy but his breath caught in lungs. There, Rhaenyra stood, Aegon ensconced in arms that would never allow harm to come to him, a gold hatchling with its tail coiled around her leg as it butted its head against Aegon’s foot, and Syrax, bronze and beautiful, lay her head atop Rhaenyra’s, her wings splayed as though they were one.

They are one, Gwayne thought fondly, remembering the day when Rhaenyra had departed to Driftmark all those weeks ago. He would never understand the bond shared between dragon and rider, but it was knowledge he did not need to know. He saw it plainly, knew they were one, for their smiles were the same, their mannerisms the same.

Divine hunters of fire and blood and Gwayne would kneel before them in supplication day after day if that was what they desired.

“I don’t think I shall ever quite get used to the sight.” Gwayne admitted with wonderment thick in his voice.

“I tried to convince father to allow Syrax and Seasmoke to stand behind us as Laenor and I wed.” Rhaenyra hummed. “He did not agree.”

“Probably best to have a blood-free wedding, dear Princess.” Gwayne quipped.

“The only thing necessary for a Valyrian wedding is blood.” Rhaneyra reminded with a smirk as she and Syrax moved as one, Rhaenyra raising her head, Syrax lowering hers, so that the Princess could press a kiss to the dragon’s chin. “Come, they have had enough excitement for the day, I believe.”

“Stay?” Aegon mumbled sleepily. “Warm, muma.”

“We cannot stay, little love. I have to speak with Laenor about our chambers, and you must rest for dinner tonight, remember?” Rhaenyra said softly, felt as the little golden dragon retreated from her leg and instead went to its place beneath Syrax’s wing.

“No. Stay with you.” Aegon’s voice was hazy with sleep, calm and sated from the echoing beat of a steady heart and the leaching of heat from fire-filled blood.

“We shall see.” Rhaenyra acquiesced.

Gwayne huffed, knew that there was nothing save one thing that Rhaenyra would deny the children. He hoped his father’s quiet exile would make him see reason, but Gwayne doubted it. Whatever machinations Otto found himself orchestrating, however, would ultimately fail, Gwayne was assured of this.

Sure of it because Rhaenyra, daring, delightful, Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra who had fire in her veins instead of blood, who had shadows in her heart and was a celestial, bloodied goddess with a beating heart, could not be challenged because she had stolen the challenge.

Though, Gwayne thought with humour, it was hardly stealing when Aegon, and even Helaena now that she was growing, sought her out. His father was a fool to think any action he could take to further his own ambition would be successful but his father, for all of the years he had spent at the side of the King, of his family, did not know what Gwayne knew:

They, the Targaryens, the last of the dragon lords, were not human in the sense of men. They were magic woven in to flesh and blood and fire and bone. They were as close to gods as something living could be, and yet Rhaenyra transcended even that as she settled in the wheelhouse, Aegon around her, Helaena in her arms as though it was the easiest thing in the world.

Gwayne could only watch with fond eyes because Rhaenyra was enthralling and ethereal. Her hair was bound and braided, thin bronze chains glittering like threads of sunlight across the crystalline paleness of untouched snow. Clad as she was in silken shadows that resembled pools of dark, black blood, she was a beacon of light, and there, settled against her hip as it had been since the day he had pressed it into her hand, was the dagger.

She never went anywhere without it, and Gwayne adored it, because it meant there was forever a part of him with her and that was enough. He did not demand his own token, did not want anything from Rhaenyra other than her presence and her love which she gave him freely in the form of quirked lips and knowing eyes and sweet and furious kisses by the sea.

He would not change it for the world, would not change it for riches or power or notoriety because if he did, he would not be the same Gwayne that Rhaenyra loved.

There was a sound, one Gwayne was intimately familiar with when Rhaenyra wanted to gain his attention without the use of words. He’d been caught staring, Gwayne realised, warmth burning on his cheeks and Rhaenyra only shook her head in fond amusement. He dipped his own head to the side, felt as the silver silk of his doublet grazed along his chin in a mimicry of Rhaenyra’s hand.

“You ought to join Laenor in the yards some morn.” Rhaenyra said easily, her eyes flicking from Gwayne to the babes curled around her and out the window of the wheelhouse to where Ser Steffon was riding. “Men do that sort of thing, don’t they? Beat each other bloodied and then drink afterwards. We ladies are not allowed to do such things, a shame.”

There was a teasing lit to her tone, one that had Gwayne’s throat parched. The Velaryons had been in the capital for a fortnight, and the wedding would soon be upon them all, and with it, the eyes of the nobility. There would be no time to sneak about by the sea and twist blades in the air, no time to simply sit by the rolling waves and endure the silent solitude that their presence brought one another.

It was a concession, and Gwayne had known from the moment of the hunt that their time together would be infrequent, that there would forever be things more important that them and he accepted it, accepted it because if he did not, then he was not the Gwayne that Rhaenyra loved. Neither would Rhaenyra have been the one Gwayne loved if she had asked him to change, and so that was enough because they were enough.

But the introduction of the Velaryons had the opportunity to tip the finally balanced scales, yet that was not to be the case. Gwayne was no fool, he bore his father’s surname and so he was treated with a frosty sort of cordiality that one wouldn’t expect from those with dragonblood, but the salt of the ocean seemed to take precedence.

“He would like to know you as I do.” Rhaenyra continued on, though from the look in her eye she knew exactly what Gwayne had been thinking about.

“I’m afraid I’d be at a disadvantage, Princess.” Gwayne huffed, amused and light. “A sword against a dragon does not seem to be a fair fight.”

“It is not Seasmoke I would be concerned about if you were to harm to husband to be.” Rhaenyra quipped. “Besides, Laena and I are bored of tea in the gardens, we need some excitement before the festivities.”

“Of which there are many, I’m sure.” Gwayne said with a smirk. “I think I shall refrain from entering lest an unfortunate accident occur.”

“Daemon-“

“It’s not he who concerns me.” Gwayne said simply.

It wasn’t. Prince Daemon had his chance, and many more, if he wanted to kill Gwayne, but his issue was not with Gwayne, only his father. It was the chase that excited him, the knowledge that he kept Otto on his toes with fear of something happening to his only son. Gwayne would tell the Prince one day that his father would only care about something happing to him because of the surname he carried, not because he was Otto’s son.

There were Hightower sons in abundance, after all. It was why Gwayne had strayed from the path his father had laid out for him, because Gwayne wanted more than to be the castellan to his cousins, wanted to be more a sword-play instructor to babes. He was a simple creature in his wants, because he wanted.

He wanted Rhaenyra, and he would no go as far to say he had her because she was not a possession, was not a doll to be twisted about for his amusement and pleasure. He wanted the children born of his sister, wanted to give them the love and acceptance and peace that had died when Alyrie Florent did.

But there were threats to that peace. Gwayne’s own father for one, doing whatever it was he did in the Hightower now that he was nothing more than the second son again. Alicent too, alone and bitter despite his attempts to see her smile as she once did. The realm too, it would seem, still whispering about a girl being named heir…

Yet they were not the threats Gwayne concerned himself with, and they were not the threats Rhaenyra herself thought of if the tightening of her jaw was any indication. No. The threat they both thought of was one shrouded in white, a man of malignant honour and fractured ego.

Those two things alone made Criston Cole dangerous, and it was made worse by his interest in Rhaenyra. Once, once perhaps it had been inconsequential, that lingering sort of devotion that came with knowing everything you had in life was because of one person, but now it was tainted, noxious and infectious. Now he clung to Alicent like a leech, and no matter how hard he tried, Gwayne’s sister would not listen to him.

She had shut him out, had excised her power over him more than once. Gwayne did not give up, would not give up on her, but he did not want to see her stressed and adrift early in her third pregnancy in four years. He missed his sister, missed the person she had once been, and he would forever shoulder the guilt of having left her alone when she needed him most.

He would forever curse their father for thinking Alicent was nothing more than a pawn to be moved about as he saw fit. She was more than a doll to be manipulated, more than her ability to bear children.

Alicent was his sister, and he would always love her, he just wished she would let herself be loved again.

“There is nothing to be done.” Rhaenyra said stiffly, hateful that she couldn’t do anything.

Cole was a member of the Kingsguard. He had sworn his vows, had been anointed. Action taken against him was an action taken against her father, and how could Rhaenyra do that if she was to be justice and honour? She could not disgrace the crown when every measured step she took ensured that she would honour the legacy of her forefathers, that she would honour the blood of the mothers’ which ran through her veins.

She was the sum of those who came before, the progenitor of those who would come after. She would see the dragons soar and thrive, so that they may rule in perpetuity because that was their right. They were the blood of the dragon, the last of Old Valyria’s monstrous might and the sky and everything under it was theirs.

Rhaenyra looked down to the sleeping babe in her arms, at Aegon who was curled around her like a spoilt kitten in golden sunbeams, she would grant them whatever they wished for, jewels and silks and finery beyond their wildest imagination. She would provide for them as she already had, would hunt for them and fly with them, hold them beneath her wing so nothing would dare touch them.

There was only one thing they could not have.

“You will make a good Queen.” Gwayne said in the silence that followed, the Red Keep nearing. “I don’t think that is something you need to fear.”

“I’ll only be as good as my Small Council.” Rhaenyra hummed.

It was something she thought about often, in the shadows of the night. Her father was dying, he could simply go to sleep and never wake up in the mortal realm again, and if that were to happen… She wasn’t ready to live in a world where she did not have her father, nor was she ready to rule, but Rhaenyra knew she would not be alone.

She would have Laenor and Laena, Rhaenys and Corlys. They had showed their support upon the ancient sands of Driftmark and in the air as the dragons danced. She would have Daemon, her sword and shield, a man who would shy away from no act no matter how glorious or grotesque. She would have the children atop her, beside her, the children that would come from her own womb, and together they would grow as one, loved and cherished.

She would have Maester Gerardys and Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell. She would have her indominable citadel in Dragonstone, and she would have the dragons that called its black sands and sulphur hot air their home because their blood was the same. She would have her hearth and her home, and so long as she had that, there was nothing Rhaenyra could not survive.

 Her father’s legacy was inherited peace, but the one that Rhaenyra left to her children would be that of prosperity and it started with blood and bread.

“Shall we take them to the nursery?” Gwayne asked lowly so as to not disturb the sleeping children.

“Helaena will want to feed soon, when she wakes, I suppose I can allow them to leave me.” Rhaenyra said with a put-upon sigh as Aegon instinctually wrapped his arms around her neck even in the throes of sleep. “I do hope Laenor won’t mind.”

“What shall I not mind?” Laenor asked, appearing in the sunlight, white shirt rolled against the creases of his elbow, his voice low and gentling. “Ah, the hatchlings.”

“The hatchlings.” Rhaenyra agreed with a smile. “Sparring, were you?”

“Ser Harwin was kind enough to allow me to watch him train the new recruits.” Laenor nodded. “There are quite a few faces I recognise from the Stepstones.”

“Yes well, Daemon’s men are always Daemon’s men.” Rhaenyra shrugged. “Do mind if the children join us?”

Laenor looked from Rhaenyra to Gwayne, and he smiled bright and golden as he clapped a hand on Gwayne’s shoulder with a familiar sort of ease. They had even less time together than he and Joffrey did, less time even with the children they had claimed as their own, and he could not begrudge them wishing to spend it together, even if it was nothing more than inventory and decorating of their wedding chambers.

Laenor knew when he agreed to marry Rhaenyra that things would be unconventional, but he did not expect to enter a marriage with two children, a third on the way, and Gwayne Hightower, but he found he did not mind it in the least, not when it meant that his dear Joff would be there beside him.

“I would be gladdened to have their input, Rhaenyra. I have no doubt that it will be filled to the brim with their toys within a week of our marriage.” Laenor said, smiling.

“Then perhaps we should find Ser Joffrey? He is to be the captain of our personal guard; I would have his thoughts on the security of the rooms.” Rhaenyra decided, reached out clasp his wrist before she squeezed it twice in silent thanks.  

Laenor nodded, his lips curled. His gaze, a lighter purple to Rhaenyra’s own, more like sun-drenched lilacs, found Gwayne’s own crystalline eyes and Gwayne found no hostility there, only open acceptance and a kinship he was undeserving of so early into the arrangement.

But there had been stranger bedfellows in the past, none could deny it. Gwayne shifted Helaena in his arms, felt her exhale as she settled into his warmth. He’d never be as warm as Rhaenyra, but she ran hot even by Targaryen standards, but his niece always found her comfort against the strong beat of his chest. When Gwayne blinked, he found the golden warmth of Laenor’s luxuriating delight focused on him and him alone.

Ahead of them, Rhaenyra had stepped away, her head bowed as she spoke to Lord Caswell with a fond glint in her eyes. it didn’t escape Gwayne’s notice that both he and Laenor were still within her sightline.

“You make her happy.” Laenor said lowly, words careful and whispered. “I am glad of that. She has accepted me as I am, and so too do I accept her as she is.”

“We are ourselves and that is enough.” Gwayne nodded, having to look up at Laenor through half-lidded eyes so he was not blinded by the sun.

“Yes. Yes it is.” Laenor agreed.

Gwayne wondered why he felt as though he had passed some test or another, but there was no mistaking the way Laenor’s eyes flicked over his form, studious and predatory. Gwayne simply allowed it, because Laenor was Rhaenyra’s family, they had been raised together from birth, and Gwayne remembered the boy as he had been all those years ago.

Quiet. Studious. Always in want of a tale or a song.

“It is good to see you again, Ser Laenor.” Gwayne smirked.

“Ser Laenor he says.” Laenor rolled his eyes. “As though I did not drive you mad when I was a boy.”

“Apologies, Prince-Consort.” Gwayne dipped his head dramatically. “And I fear you did not drive me mad no matter how hard you tried.”

“You are still as ridiculous as ever, I see.” Laenor grinned conspiratorially. “Come, let us rescue our Princess from Lord Caswell’s adoration.”

Our Princess. Such a delightful thought that was.

Chapter Text

Viserys stared down at the cloth-wrapped box with trembling fingers. A part of his ached to reach out and open it, to finally look upon it, but he was a weak man and knew the memories that would flood his field of vision would leave him adrift in the lucent waves of grief. He’d had it made for Rhaenyra, had it made because Aemma should have been able to, but Aemma was gone from the world of mortal men, ash and bone interred with Baelon in the mont of Dragonstone, beneath her mother, beside those two babes lost in the cradle, beside Viserys’ own father and mother and brother…

Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone by my word. Gone.

Gone from the world of men though she may have been, Aemma Arryn lived on in the ordained flames of blackened blood and a heart that thundered with the beat of a hundred flapping wings and rapturous roars. She lived within Rhaenyra, within Viserys himself, within Daemon and Rhaenys, and indeed within Aegon and Helaena because the blood of the dragon was inescapable no matter how slow it moved.

But Aemma’s death had left the House of the Dragon smothered in a dense pyroclastic flow that had threatened to suffocate them all just as it had in the Doom. Days, weeks, months, years even, they had suffered under its noxious fumes, driven to the edge of despair, a malingering loss that quickened the rot in Viserys’ blood.

It was fine. He deserved it. He may not have been the one to drag the blade across Aemma’s belly, but he had been the one to kill her nonetheless, and so it was he who bore the curse of Kinslaying. So long as it infected him and only him, so long as it spared his children, his brother, his cousin, he did not care for what it did to his body, to his mind, for his soul had long since passed on to sands of death.

He stayed alive because he could not leave Rhaenyra. He had robbed her of one parent, he could not do it again. Old and weak as he was, he knew his purpose just as all of the ancient and old dragons knew their own.

He would shield her with his shrivelled, abused wings, rips and tears unimportant as they twisted around her in that final act of devoted protection. He would cut himself to the bone so whatever fool dared hunt a dragon would catch the scent of rotted, fetid blood and run lest it be infected and tainted.

Viserys would, should there ever be need of it, find the strength to take flight one final time to be what his daughter, his heir, Aemma’s daughter, needed. Balerion had not chosen Viserys, no, he had chosen Viserys’ blood, Aemma’s blood, and the last power held in those sacrosanct veins had been born anew when Rhaenyra had screamed, when Silverwing’s egg had hatched in her cradle a tenday later to reveal a golden-bronze dragonling with a crown of golden horns.

He should have known then. He should have.

It was that same strength, that same power that his daughter had so freely given him, that Syrax had given him for they were one in the same, which had him swallowing the bitter bile of loss and melancholy. It was that strength, that love untainted, pure and burning like star fire that had his fingers cease their trembling as he undid the knot of the cloth, that popped open the simple wooden box that held an ancient tradition.

The ring was fashioned of Valyrian Steel, melted down from the twin links of Balerion’s harness that Viserys had kept since his dragon had died. Aemma may have had the name Arryn, but the fire had been in her blood just as surely as the air had been. The ring was curled and coiled, and cradled between two falcon talons was a blue diamond, as clear and bright as the height of the summer’s sky, cut in the image of house Arryn’s crescent moon, and a pearl as pale as milk.

Perhaps it had been that union that made Rhaenyra the child of the sky that she was.

It should have been Aemma that gifted it to her daughter on the eve of her wedding, but Aemma was only in their hearts and minds, and so Viserys would do it. Though he’d had the ring for weeks, though the wedding was only a few days away, he knew today would be the day.

He was proved correct when a familiar, piercing whistle cut through the silence of his rooms, when it was met with a quartet of blasting shrieks that he had grown used to since the Velaryons had returned to court in preparation of the wedding.

Daemon was back.

His brother was back. Months since Viserys had seen him last, weeks, too long and filled with worry, since he had gotten a letter from his roving, errant brother.

Brother. Son. Mundane, mortal terms meant little to the last of the blood of the dragon.

Viserys never wanted him to leave again. Not when this was their chance to be as they once were, or as close as they could be since there was one brilliant piece was forever gone but never absent.

There was a knock and Viserys sighed, pocketed the ring and pulled on his gloves as Ser Harrold appeared.

“Prince Daemon, Your Grace. He has returned.”

“Do you know where he came from?” Viserys asked, amused.

“Over the Rush, from the East. It appears dragons fly faster than men can run.” Ser Harrold quipped. “Shall I assemble the retinue in the throne room?”

“No.” Viserys shook his head. “Though send word to the kitchens and have them prepare peach pastries.”

Daemon would deny it to his final days, but he had a love of all things sweet and syrupy, and those peach pastries, flaky and saccharine were his favourite above all else. They had parted as brothers that day, and so Viserys would receive him as such, for no matter the hurt sone unto one another, in the end those of their blood were so few in the world and so when they returned to the nest they would be greeted as kin.

Gods, he had been such a fool. Daemon had always been right.

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Ser Harrold nodded, and the man’s lips twitched in humour.

“Now, however, I think I shall have to find Rhaenyra.”

It wasn’t hard to find her, for even in a place so full of life her essence stood out. Heat seemed to drip from her form, pulsating with a steady cadence of quiet, gentle contentment. It was easy to know who she was with by that alone. It was something Viserys delighted in, knowing how alone his daughter had once been because of his choices, because of his actions.

Never again.

Rhaenyra sat atop a pile of cushions and silks, beneath verdant trees and whispering leaves, beside blooming flowers of scarlet and honeysuckle, with Helaena in her arms, sound and still and sleeping. Seated around her were Lady Laena, her head thrown back and silver curls dancing as she cackled at what seemed to be her brother’s misfortune if the red staining of Laenor’s cheeks spoke the truth. Aegon was there too, silver hair feathered against the ebony of his uncle’s thigh, that old carving of Syrax between his fingers.

Further away, unseen and all-seeing, Ser Steffon and Ser Lorant stood sentry, and so too did the man Rhaenyra had chosen to lead her household guard, Ser Joffrey. They gave the illusion of privacy, but should there be need of it, and Gods forbid there was ever need of their protection within the very walls of the Red Keep, they were ready.

Viserys stilled, intent and content to look upon the scene. He did not seek to eavesdrop, no, only to commit the moment to memory because Rhaenyra was smiling in a way she had not done in years. It was not the sharpened curl of a smirk nor the amused twitch of her lips, nor was it the flashing of fangs that had people scurrying from her ire and the wrath of the dragon blood that was too dark and too thick for it to ever be confused for the vermillion of man.

No. It was bright and brilliant, sharp and smooth and it had her eyes alight and gleaming like an amethyst star. Fabric, rich and luxurious, the same shade as her eyes but darker, dramatic and daring with thick bronze gold flames and curling chevrons pooled around her, gold and gems threaded through her braided hair and there, on her hip as it always was, rested the dagger that Rhaenyra was never without.

His daughter looked inhuman, godly in a way that sent shivers down his spine. The supplication of her companions was obvious, for Rhaenyra seemed to be seated higher, seemed to hold herself higher. The comforting touch as she reached out and caressed Aegon’s head from where he dozed in the protective, ephemeral warmth of his sister, showed how far she had come.

There was no greater benediction than the kisses she bestowed upon Helaena’s forehead. No greater sanctuary than her arms spread wide and welcome, encircling all those whom she called kin and hers.

Viserys had, perhaps once, feared that his decision, one made in haste and grief and anguish had been ill-conceived, but no longer. Rhaenyra proved herself true at every turn, and when that time came, either tomorrow or in fifteen years, the crown of the Conciliator would pass to her rather than the steel and ruby circlet of the Conqueror whose reign had been forged in fire and blood.

The crown will suit her much better than it ever did I, Viserys mused, his old bones proud.

A smile stretched across his lips and his eyes flicked to the sky where Seasmoke and Syrax twirled in the sky, tails coiled and wings tucked close in the mockery of battle that would never come to pass. He had been wary at first to allow them Seasmoke and Meleys and Vhagar to fly free, not because he did not trust his cousin or her children, but due to the nature of their bonding.

He remembered his own, that single flight and the hole it left. Balerion had tucked Viserys within his own soul, as all claimed dragons did, but it was entirely different from those hatched and bonded in the cradle the stories, the histories, and his grandparents’ tales had said.

But he had seen the truth of it.

No. His daughter’s soul, fire that was both temper and temperance was not held in the scaled being of her dragon, nor was blackened blood that smoked and hissed her sanctuary. They were one of the same, bound in the metaphysical, in the blood and bone they shared because the Targaryens may have been known as the last dragonlords but they were so much more.

They were the last of the dragons’ kin, and there, Viserys’ daughter, Aemma’s daughter, his heir, sat, her eyes affixed on him, an abyss of amethyst agony and love enduring, as mother to a line that would endure.

A single tear, scorching and crystalline fell, and there was a phantom caress on his shoulder, sweeping fingers Viserys knew so well but would never again feel…

It was replaced by something tangential then, a hand of fire-made flesh and blackened bones. It radiated not only heat but power, soothing and rapturous like the wingbeats that descended, that settled upon the spires of the Red Keep. Rhaenyra was before him, pensive, and Viserys was sure the tear had sizzled upon her thumb, rebuked and burned from the world of man by a godling who was ineffable and inevitable.

“Are you well, father?” Rhaenyra murmured, voice low and curling as she withdrew her hand.

“We are to be united again, our illustrious house.” Viserys said in lieu of answer because he had burdened her with enough.

“Daemon made stop at Dragonstone.” Rhaenyra mused, words dripping with heavenly humour, silver and scorching. “Thought perhaps Silverwing and Vermithor could be tempted to the city to witness a wedding that will no doubt eclipse all others.”

“The dragonkeepers of the island keep you well informed.” Viserys huffed. “Do we need to find more aurochs?”

His jibe was rewarded with a tittering laugh and Rhaenyra shook her head, the thin filigree chains in her hair glittering like sun and starlight. Her head tilted again, gaze sharpened, and Viserys could only look upon her with a raised brow because he may not have been the man he had once been, but his heart has been the one Balerion had claimed.

“Is Alicent alright? The babe?” Rhaenyra asked, an ivory tooth cutting through her lip.

It was a gesture Viserys remembered well, though he wished he had never remembered it at all. It was the look she wore when he had told her of the babes Aemma had lost in her womb, her brothers in the cradle. It was the look she wore when she was preparing herself of pain and loss.

It was a look that haunted Viserys because his daughter should never have known pain and loss because she was his daughter, and he was supposed to protect her from it.

He had failed her so many times before, but no longer.

“They are well. The early weeks are often the worst for Alicent, you know this.” Viserys soothed. “They are well tended too, perhaps… perhaps tomorrow you could escort them through the gardens as you once did? You and Lady Laena, Ser Laenor and Ser Gwayne, show the children how you were when you were children.”

“I would like that.” Rhaenyra nodded. “But that does not explain why you are nervous, father. If it is Daemon-“

“-It is not.” Viserys promised. “I have something for you, only I do not know if it is a gift you would wish from me.”

“There is no gift of yours I would turn away father, not when it is your hand that places it in mine.” Rhaenyra vowed.

His daughter was the sum of all those who came before, and yet she was something else entirely, and so Viserys swallowed his fears under the watchful eyes of the dragon atop the spire, of the one that stood a pace before him. He reached into his pocket and knew there was no way to steel his nerves now, and so he did not try, for they two may as well have been alone in the garden with only the ghosts of the dead watching.

And watching the dead were.

The King placed the box into his daughter’s hand, watched as confusion coloured her eyes, as inquisitive love lightened them. He could hear the click of the ring box, and there were scarcely three, nervous, fluttering beats of Viserys’ own heart before Syrax was singing from her perch, a trilling sort of purr that had once nursed Rhaenyra to sleep when she was a babe.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked from the ring to her father, an unbridled wetness brought on by melancholy and an inescapable loss. She swallowed once and slipped the ring onto the finger that her mother’s pearl ring sat upon. Then, in a rare show, she curled around her father in a hug that said nothing and everything.

But dragons did not need words as man did, and they were the blood of the dragon, the only ones able to hurt and heal.

“Thank you.” Rhaenyra whispered. “Thank you, father. Now mama will be with me when I wed and every day after, and should I be blessed with a daughter, with her too.”

“Oh sweet girl, your mother is always with you.”

So long as Aemma lived in their hearts and minds, she lived on. Interred as she was with their lost sons, with Viserys’ mother and father, his babe brother and Daella, she lived because her daughter lived, because her daughter thrived.

Eldest daughters, Viserys found, were an untameable force of nature. Fire was both salvation and destruction, and in the veins of the last of the dragon’s children it was something else entirely. It had been the eldest daughter who had saved them, and they had been a fool to forget that for the women of house Targaryen had always been their greatest strength.

Daenys. Visenya. Rhaena. Rhaenys. Rhaenyra.

And he saw all of them, his mother and grandmother, in the woman that stood before him. Proud and imperious as any good Queen should be, warm and loving and protective.

“You are my greatest joy, Rhaenyra.” Viserys promised, his hand moving to curl along the back of her neck as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “And your mother’s too. She only wished for your happiness, so tell me, dear girl, are you happy?”

Rhaenyra inhaled, and once Viserys had released her of their embrace, she had turned her head to look at those gathered five. Laenor cradled Helaena as though she was the most precious thing in the world, careful and watchful for even the slightest hint of her discomfort. Laena toyed with the edge of the silken square that Aegon was chewing on in sleep, drew it out over his legs to fight the breeze, careful and smiling as she did so.

And Gwayne, well Viserys found it hard to reconcile the headstrong child he had once known with the man who could rarely be seen without either the children or Rhaenyra in his presence. It seemed as though he had given up on being seen as anything more than being the nursemaid of his nephew and niece and it became him. It suited him, Viserys could not deny it, and he would not wish to. Not when Rhaenyra found comfort in his familiar presence, when Alicent had done too.

Family was, after all, everything.

So, Viserys watched as his daughter’s eyes flicked back to the assembled group, to the skies she called her domain and to the dragon who protected her soul with fang and flame before her gaze finally settled on him. He did not deserve the look of love that had her eyes bright and gleaming like the most purple of dawns, he did not deserve her, his eldest daughter and heir, the legacy of her foremothers and fathers…

“I am happy, father.” Rhaenyra promised, assured and stalworth. “And I am happiest when we are together, and Daemon will be here soon, perhaps a dinner? Just us, our family, together as it should always be.”

Viserys’ eyes flicked back up to the stalking dragon that was still atop the battlements, one pale yellow-bronze wing flapping in the wind. Syrax was roaring a sweet-sounding song, loud and cutting through the silence before she took to the skies once again. He watched as she ascended on a stream of air, as the dark, fluffy smoke from the kitchens dissipated into a sea of sapphire sky. There was a whistle, harsh and ear-splitting, but it made the King smile all the more, for Red Keep was shadowed beneath a crimson wing for a mere second and it strengthened something in Viserys.

That same strength was honed and dipped in Valyrian steel just a few hours later when his cousin appeared, veiled in a gown of azure and gold, threaded with obsidian, her Lord husband shaking his head with a crooked smile, the Velarton seahorse proud on his tunic. Viserys, for a moment, little more than a mere spectre and not a King, watched as  Rhaenyra moved to greet them, as they greeted her warmly in return.

Something in him settled when Rhaenys kissed his cheek like she had done in the Hall of Nine all those months ago, but now there was no sadness in her eyes as she witnessed his decay, for no longer did he decay. Corlys was silent, the friendship between them strained but never broken, knotted and frayed, but with enough substance to keep one afloat in the storming seas and the other tethered to the mortal realm for his heart yearned for the skies.

They would endure. The weeks of planning the wedding had seen to that. The carefree ease that existed between them, for they had been friends for so long, and a King was not granted many friends.

“It has been too long since we supped as kin.” Rhaenyra murmured, flashing Laenor a smile. “And we are to be twice over now. Though it seems we are not to  be the centre of attention this night, dear Laenor. However, shall we endure?”

“I think we can allow Daemon his moment.” Laenor returned, amused. “After all, it is our wedding that will be spoken about for the ages. Perhaps, it will even eclipse that of mother and father.”

“I don’t believe Seasmoke is large enough to carry a haul of histories and beauty from the East.” Rhaenyra teased. “Feel free to try, however. I like pretty things.”

“And that is why you’re marrying my brother.” Laena teased with a tinkling breath. “Not for his wit or charm, because Gods know he has none.”

“You may just be surprised, Princess.” Corlys hummed, his voice warm and Viserys had missed this, the easy existence that came to those of tainted, wonderous blood. “Your father and I, perhaps we should have had more oversight.”

“I was your oversight.” Rhaenys reminded with a huff, shaking her head. “They wished for elephants, I said no.”

“I have faster ships now, my love.”

“Not that much faster.” Laenor snorted.

Viserys hummed, nodded. His eyes flicked to Alicent, for all that the babe rested in the evening, for all that it gave her must needed respite form the early mornings, she still seemed discomfited. He reached for a simple biscuit, plain and unassuming, and placed it on the plate before her, then took a moment to pour tea that seemed to soothe her, a herbal concoction that Viserys found to taste of leaves and more leaves.

Alicent smiled at him, her cheeks dimpling but her eyes stayed upon the plate. Viserys knew she missed her father, even he had found himself missing the idea of what Otto Hightower was…

“An unwavering and loyal Hand.” Viserys had said, because he had been a fool.

“A cunt.”  Daemon retorted, for he had been truth.

Daemon had been right. Not that Viserys would ever say it aloud, for his little brother would never let him live it down.

“We would understand if you wished to rest.” Viserys reminded gently, cautiously, for Alicent reminded him of a fawn in these moments.

“It would not be proper.” Was all Alicent said, but she biscuit in her hand, and Viserys was gladdened to see that there was no blood upon her fingers.

Moments slipped by in vicious fluidity. Viserys rejoiced in it. He felt the air shift then, as Daemon, short hair still damp, curling slightly at the ends, from the scalding heat of his bath, strong and princely and present, in fine leathers and carmine fabric, entered.

Viserys stood at once, eyes flicking over his brother’s form like a concerned mother. He looked well, hale and hearty. He was a beacon of shadowed starlight, guiding and burning. He was there, so close. Viserys never wanted to let him go again, for Rhaenyra may have been the first child of his loins, but Daemon had been his first.

Just as Aegon had been Rhaenyra’s.

Daemon came towards Viserys slowly, the scent of the feast prepared behind them forgotten, the jubilant conversations of the royal family silenced.

Viserys inhaled a shaking breath, glad that the affliction that plagued him seemed to slow, seemed to allow him to breathe, something that came so easy to him when he was surrounded by the dripping vermilion of his kin.

Though je wore the crown of the Conciliator, but when he looked upon Rhaenys and Rhaenyra together, that heady, dark sort of love and devotion that only dragons knew plain in their eyes as they watched father, brother, and son reunite, their words unheard by his ailing ears, he realised his grandsire had made a mistake.

His choice had been the wrong one. Viserys had been the wrong choice. The Lords had chosen him for a reason, and it was not because they believed in him. Though Viserys and Rhaenys had long since come to terms with the decisions of the Great Council, the enmity for the world at large remained.

Viserys would not allow the realm of men to tear his daughter asunder for their own beliefs, for their own ideas. Dragons ruled the skies, held dominion over all above and beneath it, for even the stars were theirs to claim. Men never should have meddled with the powers of the Fourteen Flames and the dragons that called the bloodied, blackened abyss their home, but they had…

And from that moment on they had ceased being men. Mortal though they were, fire was creation and destruction, blood both nourishment and poison. The Targaryens words, the truth of Old Valyria, were more than just mere words spoken about the conquest. They were an edict, divine and dark, power and promise and payment.

That power, as horrifying as it was, as beautiful as it could be, dwelled in the silver skin of Viserys’ daughter, the only egg of his and Aemma’s clutch to hatch and thrive, his first child. His heir.

His little girl.

“Brother.” Daemon murmured, like he had done all those years ago after they had lost their mother and their brother. “I’ve come home.”

Viserys reached for him as Daemon reached for him, the elder’s hand curling around the heated flesh at the base of Daemon’s skull, three fingers free of their leather confines scratching along the short hairs as the younger’s fingers stalled, afraid of the pain they may afflict because Viserys himself was afflicted with the curse of a Kinslayer.

“You will not hurt me.” Viserys promised. “And if you do, you shall heal it.”

For that was the way of the dragon. Only the divine could harm the divine, only they had the right to. Yet for each for of tooth and claw, song and blood were offered in penitence, for words were meaningless to creatures of ash and bone.

So, Daemon gripped his arm, bowed his head against Viserys’ shoulder, and Viserys turned his head, heavy and aching as it was, toward his brother and pressed his lips to silken, silver strands. Daemon exhaled against him and for a moment, there was nothing but the whistling of arrows splitting the skies, the roar of flame and the hiss of fire.

Then came the heavy, beating drums of battle, ancient and immeasurable. The scent of scorched sand soothed by the wash of foamy seawater followed. A crack of thunder, so like the wingflap, not of the mortal coil, sounded, and the taste of thin, cold air flooded Viserys’ mouth. Finally, sunlight and starlight met, gilded flames and carmine dripping shadows pooled, coalesced into a pattern of protection and devotion, unquestioning, unyielding, spread far and wide to encompass all beneath wing that existed only in the metaphysical but were forever present.

“It is good to see you, uncle.” Rhaenyra spoke, for of course it was her to whom all threads led, red on white, like blood upon the snow, life and death and beauty rolled into one.

“It is good to be home, Rhaenyra.” Daemon replied. “My congratulations to you both, for there is no man more suited to you than Laenor.”

“You honour me, cousin.” Laenor said, and there, in a single look, passed a solemn understanding, thought it seemed to be missing something.

Viserys did not care. That third part, though not present, was there, solid and washed in ivory, a heath that would never blacken no matter how harshly the flames burned. He would do anything for his daughter, for his brother, and indeed for the babes that slept in gifted silks that smelled of their guardian.

I will give all that I have and more to see you thrive, to see you rise, to ensure you never fall, Viserys promised the aether and the dead who call it home, I will see to it, my child. You will ascend so high that you shall touch the heavens and call it yours.

Because just as Jaehaerys knew that the only thing powerful to tear down the house of the dragon was itself, Viserys knew he stared upon its divine protection. The ties that bound the living and the dead, the daughter of death blessed by Balerion’s onyx flame, who held hem in her heart and hearth and nourished them from embers to wrath and ruin.

Not for the first time, Viserys wondered what colour his daughter would bleed. He hoped to never know, for if he did, he had failed, and if he failed, he would carve his own heart out and place it at Rhaenyra’s feet in the ultimate act of sacrifice.

He lived for her. He would die for her. He would pull himself free from Morghul’s embrace and offer what was left of his strength to defend her and all those she called her own, for that was what an old dragon did for its young.

Only death could pay for life, and he would die a thousand times to see Rhaenyra live once.

Chapter Text

Aegon woke slowly, eyes hazy in the luxurious heat that cocooned him. He huffed gently, his fingers fisted around twisted silken fabric, soft and slippery to the touch. There was a hand in his hair, nails scratching along his scalp and something in him trilled at the sensation. He shifted higher, until his head was pressed heat-soaked fabric, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and spice all but lulling him back to sleep.

Above him, eyes fond and glittering, Rhaenyra chuckled. So like a kitten her little brother, soft and gentle with the right touch, vicious and scathing when rubbed the wrong way. There had been a few tantrums over the years, unusually when he felt Rhaenyra had left him alone for too long, but such sacrifices had to be made.

“You must wake up, little brother.” Rhaenyra said, her voice a scarce whisper unwilling to disturb the tranquillity that blanketed them in golden, gossamer threads of sunlight. “You must have something to eat if we are to go flying.”

Aegon brightened immediately, the idea of soaring in the skies, his sister behind him, her dragon beneath, enough to allow the last tendrils of sleep to slither from his skin. he moved quickly, albeit clumsily, until he was but sitting on Rhaenyra’s lap, his head pressed into her throat.

Rhaenyra shook her head, smoothed down the silver-gold strands of her brother’s messy hair, raked in all directions for had hand had moved of their own accord while Rhaenyra read through a book that held the King’s Law.

It was a stolen hour, or rather three, where Rhaenyra did not need to sit upon the Council with her father, where she was not meeting the masses of nobles who were arriving in the city. A stolen hour where she was not being poked and prodded for the final alterations on her the plethora of newly made gowns to celebrate her and Laenor’s wedding.

A wedding that was just days away. Two to be precise.

Rhaenyra had, once upon a time, imagined herself marrying a brother, for that was the custom, but Aegon had been born too late. Then, when she was older, when she understood the pull, carmine and bronze, ivory and onyx threaded together and leading her to Daemon, she though that perhaps she could have married him.

It didn’t matter that he had already been wed, and it surely hadn’t mattered when her father had given the decree of dissolution of the unconsummated wedding that never should have been. The Vale had already been secured by Rhaenyra’s own mother, and none in the Vale would ignore the call of their liege should there have been need of flapping banners and war.

It was a pointless marriage. It had been instilled in Rhaenyra, and indeed in all the women who came before her, that the matches of royalty, of nobility, were to be advantageous. Love mattered little in the webbed game of politics after all, its place in songs and stories.

Rhaenyra had always preferred the sound of her dragon’s trilling, her delighted shrieks as they skimmed over water. Dragons, such complex creatures, were so simple to the ones whose soul they held.

Perhaps that was why Rhaenyra had fought her father as she had. She was the Princess of Dragonstone, the eldest of a new generation of dragonblood kin, she was not some broodmare to be bartered and yet, in the end, she had become one.

She chose Laenor because he was a dragon, and that bond of ancient, powerful blood was more than cloth-bound hands and whispered words of a religion they did not follow. She chose Laenor because he was the salt and the sea, deceptively placid yet armed with the power to down fleets with a single breath.

She alone brought the Velaryons back to the throne, to the capital and the council. She had tied an unconquerable fleet and unimaginable wealth to the crown she would one day wear.

Her children, when she was blessed with them, would marry Laena’s, something spoken about over wine and cheese and beneath a hazy gauze of love and friendship.

And it was Laenor to whom she would wed. A warrior with the heart of a poet, a dragon-rider who would follow where she led, for they were blood before all. Rhaenyra was glad it was him, for it could never be the either of the others who claimed her heart, one who was her hearth, the other her mirrored flame.

One stability, the other ecstasy.

In the end, it did not matter. Rhaenyra’s goal was the throne, bequeathed to her by her mother, for guilt and anger had led to her naming. She would do what she had to in order to secure it, and she had taken the only threat that truly existed and made him hers.

The Princess of Dragonstone smiled down at her brother, her first hatchling, and curled her arm around him. Herr smile was sharp, lips curled to reveal ivory teeth, the anthesis of the obsidian fang of dragons, yet the look was identical. Rhaenyra carded her fingers through silver fluff, and for all that her smile was deadly, her gaze was soft and luxuriating as she regarded her brother, her would be challenger in a future that would never come to pass for she would not allow it.

I did not intend to love you as I do, my sweet sun, but I am all the better for it, as are you. I will guard you as fiercely as a mother dragon guards her eggs, and one day, in the future, I shall teach you to fly atop the back of my soul’s own hatchling.

Her father had told her that love came in time, but with Laenor, love already existed. It had since they were babes, a familial thing bound in blood and salt, in shared lessons.  The type of marital love would never come, but it didn’t need to,  for Laenor had Joffrey and Rhaenyra had Daemon and Gwayne both. Yet all of it paled in comparison to the love that she had for her hatchlings, for Aegon and Helaena and the fires that coiled and twisted in Alicent’s womb.

Oh how Rhaenyra wished she could love the mother of her siblings, love her as the friend she had once been, but hope was a fickle thing, and it had fled on the back of the wind before the weirwood tree on that fateful day.

But oh how she wished.

Aegon, unaware of his sister’s internal thoughts, tugged on the end of her braid and opened his mouth, somewhat hungry after his nap. He was a needly little thing in those lingering moments, forever wishing to be the centre of Rhaenyra’s glowing attention. It warmed something in him, something that his mind could not comprehend but his soul yearned for.

He loved her unlike any other, for she was muma, a beacon of flame and shadow. He loved her.

“Little hellion.” Rhaenyra huffed fondly. “Are you hungry, my sweet?”

Aegon nodded. She reached for the side-table, tore a chunk of sweetbread from the slice and slathered it with soft cheese and placed a few thinlycarved pieces of honied ham atop it. She placed it on a small bronze plate, and when she looked to the figs and grapes and apples, she found no knife. She clucked her tongue in irritation, and then reached for the blade forever attached to her, and cut them small, before she added them to the plate.

Rhaenyra shuffled them about, set Aegon against the curled edge of the sofa and put the plate upon his lap before she poured small mug of sweetened goatsmilk that Aegon adored. He grinned up at her, gums pink and milk-teeth missing as new ones grew in white and strong.

“Thank you, muma.” Aegon said as he munched on the crunching slices of apples.

Rhaenyra felt a rush of heated fondness, gave him a gentle admonishment of manners and watched as his attention fell back to his food. Such a sweet thing, her Aegon.

She herself was peckish, wished to sink her teeth into the dried, smoked pork. However, first she checked on Helaena, ensured that she was still sleeping peacefully, for there had been a moment earlier where her sister screamed and screamed until she had been pressed against Rhaenyra’s heart.

That same heart hurt for whatever it was that afflicted her sister so. Rhaenyra could do little when those moods stuck for there was no rhyme or reason to them. Maester Gerardys had promised her that Helaena was well, a strong babe that advanced as any child of the dragons should, and Rhaenyra trusted him.

Trusted him despite the chain around his being rather than because of it. Her father liked to blame Daemon for her distrust of the Maesters, and it was true to a point.

The air shifted then, scented with mountain-sweet musk and the freshness of flower-filled glades. The door opened and Gwayne appeared, but there was something wrong. Rhaenyra could feel it, a tightly coiled irritation that abated somewhat as he took in the scene before him.

Rhaenyra knew what aggrieved her hearth so much, but there was little she could do to quell it, other than offer him her presence. She crossed the room in three steps, her footfalls silent, and as she passed him, Rhaenyra brushed their fingers together and ached to take hold of them, to press them between her own in some semblance of comfort.

But she could not, not with Aegon’s wakeful presence just a few feet away.

“Did you cut his food with your dagger?” Gwayne asked, somewhat incredulous as he eyed the blade, his shoulder pressed against hers, heat seeping and pooling to fill the cracks of his alabaster foundation.

“There were no knives.” Rhaenyra shrugged, wiping off the blade with a piece of cloth. “It is to be wielded in defence of the children, is it not?”

“I did not realise you were the defence against hunger, Princess.” Gwayne teased, eyes brilliant and fond. “I thought I might find you here.” He turned his attention to his nephew. “Hello, Aegon.”

Aegon remembered some of his manners and offered his uncle a gummy smile around his bread and cheese, some of which had smeared on his cheek. Gwayne made a noise and reached toward the child, swiped his thumb along the cheese and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

“Did your uncle not feed you, Gwayne?”

Gwayne shot her flat look, though the corners of his lips were twitching in amusement. The clothes he wore, pristine and silver, were ones Rhaenyra had commissioned for him. The cobalt hues of the fabric made his eyes brighter, and she knew it was his favoured combination when threaded with black. He had, at first, tried to refuse them, had pointed out that despite being the son of a second son, he did not lack for money.

No, the only thing the Hightower lacked was daughters.

Rhaenyra hadn’t cared. She’d done it because she could, to see the pretty pink heat spread from the corded strength of his neck to the tips of his ears. She’d done it for Gwayne yes, but for herself too, because she liked it when he wore the things she’d had crafted for him.

It was the closest she could come to claiming him as her own without causing a scandal.

He’d taken to wearing them more often now that the Hightower retinue had arrived. She had never commented on how he always seemed tense after seeing them, and she would not do so now when the children were about.

And the children were always about in the few moments they could share together, their lessons by the crashing waves a memory as Rhaenyra was needed everywhere. She prayed it would calm after the wedding celebrations, so she could go back to some semblance of the way things were.

“You know I hate boar.” Gwayne muttered. “Can I-?”

“You never need ask.” Rhaenyra reminded. “My meat and mead are yours.”

Anything you want that I can give is yours and theirs. Riches and jewels, silks and songs, whatever you wish for, I shall take it and gift it to you. I will bind it in steel and flame so it is yours forever after.

A solemn vow, as ancient and harmonious as the sharing of salt and bread with visitors. Rhaenyra watched him pluck at the food, as he took her goblet of wine between his fingers and as he took a long drink. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the motion, something so simple yet beautiful. Gwayne’s throat bobbed, hidden beneath the twisted silver of his tunic.

The silence was simple, comforting. Aegon ate, Gwayn ate, Rhaenyra picked at a few berries, her mind contemplative, and Helaena slept. It was peace, a settling of her thrumming blood that was on edge.

“Are you nervous?” Gwayne wondered quietly.

“I have known Laenor his entire life.” Rhaenyra said. “He will be a good husband, a fine friend, and a beloved father.”

“Still…” Gwayne turned to her, smirk teasing and light. “Should he ever displease you, I can take him in a fight.”

“But not in a game of dice.” Rhaenyra tittered, stealing her wine from his hand.

“I was drunk.” Gwayne huffed. “And Ser Joffrey was helping him I know it.”

Rhaenyra shook her head in amusement. It gladdened her to see them together, building upon the bonds of mutual understanding, especially in the face of silent whispers about Laenor’s predilections, as though different love was diseased. Love, Rhaenyra believed, was beautiful, something to be celebrated and cherished, for love was lifeblood.

But Gwayne hadn’t cared one whit, had simply smiled when he understood who exactly Ser Joffrey was and welcomed him with a friendly clap on the shoulder and a mug of ale.

Because Gwayne was good. He believed in honour and justice. Rhaenyra wondered how long it would take for the illusion to shatter, to realise that justice was a lie sold to the people to give them the pretence of peace. Peace, a lie as old as time, because there were always threats, always plots, especially in the capitol.

Daemon had told her the people hungered only for bread and blood, but Rhaenyra knew they thirsted for power, lusted for coin. Men were simple creatures after all, wanting what they thought was theirs by divine right of their cock.

She would delight in the downfall of those fools, for it would come.

“Muma.” Aegon hummed, voice high and sweet, and Rhaenyra’s attention was on him in an instant. “Flying?”

Rhaenyra thought about if for a moment, teasing. Aegon’s eyes widened, the ethereal, glitter glow bright and pleading. When he looked at her like that there was little she could deny him, not that she ever would.

“I suppose we can rouse Syrax.” Rhaenyra smiled and she held out her hand. “Come, say goodbye to your sister and then we shall go.”

Aegon toddled toward her, took her hand and together they ambled toward Helaena’s cradle. Rhaenyra could scarcely believe she was nearing a year, that it had been two since she had plucked Aegon from his own and held him beneath her wing as the skies warred.

War would never touch them, she vowed silently.

“Would you like an escort, or shall I wait until Helaena wakes and take her to the gardens?” Gwayne inquired.

“She should wake soon.” Rhaenyra agreed. “Perhaps you and Alicent can take the walk together? The fresh air would do her some good I think.”

“Perhaps.” Gwayne hummed, but he didn’t seem to believe it. “I think she was most upset that father refused to travel with the retinue.”

That was for the best, no doubt. Otto’s pride wouldn’t have allowed him to return to the capital as a guest of his brother, rather than the King, especially since the opinions of the court were rather against him and had been for months, had been since the night of Daemon’s all those months ago.

Rhaenyra had never asked where the rumours had started, had never sought out whose lips first spoke them, which teeth had twisted them so brilliantly, but she did not have to. There could only have been one, and it was the men before her, smile liquid and eyes as bright and glimmering as the sapphires.

He had asked for nothing, and that was perhaps why Rhaenyra was willing to give him everything.

She was staring at him, she realised, studying the imperfections that made his visage everything she adored. Usually Gwayne misliked it when people focused their attention upon the cutting scar that bisected his left brow and forked along his cheek, but he never minded when she did.

That alone was a sweet sort of victory.

“Muma.” Aegon whined, patience non-existent and worn thin, and he curled around her leg, tugged on her hand. “Goldie.”

Rhaenyra hoped that one soon she’d have enough time to sit beside her brother and whisper the ancient ballads of their homeland. Those sagas, stored on Dragonstone, protected within those hallowed, bloodbound walls, had been how she had decided upon Syrax’s own name. naming a dragon, especially one hatched in the cradle, was no small task, for that name would outlive the one who bestowed it by centuries if the fires were willing.

Syrax was the first of many things that would outlive Rhaenyra’s mortal coil, but the she-dragon would not be the last of her bonded’s legacy.

But now, a scarce two days before her wedding, was not the time to set herself adrift in the seas of ideas and plans. No, now was the time to take Aegon by the hand, to press her lips to Helaena’s head and Gwayne’s cheek and take to the skies where none would question her rule.

“Have fun.” Were Gwayne’s parting words, amused and indolent.

He said it every time, as though it was possible for her to not enjoy the freedom of the heavens that were within her touch. Even the journey to the pit itself was peace and freedom, she and Aegon atop Tenax, Ser Steffon and Ser Erryk abreast of her, a wall of smoking steel and glittering gold beyond the brothers of the Kingsguard.

The path was one Rhaenyra was sure she could if she had been stuck blind and deaf, yet she was glad of her senses as she rode, for it allowed her to see the people she would one day rule over, the same people that could so very easily tear her family’s reign asunder.

Though the suffered, the mob held power that they did not know, power that had been forgotten in the seventy odd years since Maegor’s reign. It would not take much for them to remember it, a thought that had her arm tightening from where it was across Aegon’s belly.

She wouldn’t let that happen. No. If harm came to her family, to those who settled beneath her wing and called it their refuge and respite, the world of men would suffer for it.

Once the wedding was over, those little rats who dared to raise their heads would simply be razed by fang and flame, their fetid hovels drowned in salt water.

Rhaenyra would see to it, for it was her duty.