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Chapter Text

The Compiled Memories of Archmaester Vaegon

Prologue

The tumultuous events of 126 AC, known forever as The Year of the Stranger, set the stage for a civil war that would tear the Seven Kingdoms apart. It began with the tragic shipwreck that claimed the lives of Lord Viserys Skyfyre, Princess Aelyx Targaryen, and her husband, Ser Davos Swann.

Only months later, the King met a mysterious end, falling from his dragon after a fateful encounter with his cousin, the rebellious Daemon Skyfyre at the Isle of Tarth, weeks shy of announcing the betrothal of his grandson, Prince Aegon, to a daughter of House Dayne. The peace we all came to know and dismiss so easily came abruptly to an end.

In the aftermath, Prince Aemon Targaryen, eldest son of King Aerys, ascended the throne as King Aemon, First of His Name, with the certainty of an elder son and believing his claim would go unchallenged. However, his coronation plans were thwarted when members of his Kingsguard turned traitor, fleeing with the Crown of Aegon the Conqueror and swearing allegiance to Daemon, who, in turn, declared himself the legitimate King at Storm's End and quickly dispatching ravens to let the realm at large of the betrayal he suspected came from the Royal Family.

Some feared war to break down at that very moment, yet some still prayed for peace and compromise and thus invited Daemon Skyfyre to lay down his terms to end the conflict before it could ever begin.

Thus, the Seven Kingdoms watched in horror as the House of the Dragon unraveled, threatening to destroy the nearly 80 years of peace they had dismissed as eternal.

As the year ended, hopes for peace were dashed at Bitterbridge. What was meant to be a parley turned into a bloodbath. Among the slain were Ser Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King; and Prince Valerion Targaryen, the newly appointed Master of Laws and one of the last children of King Jaehaerys.

The realm was suddenly plunged into a war unlike any before. Smallfolk dubbed it "The War of the Red and Bronze Dragons", after the colors of Vermithor and Caraxes, the dragons of the rival kings. Yet, history would remember it by a more evocative name:

The Dance of the Dragons.

Chapter Text

tenth month of 125 AC

Alicent listened carefully as Aegon recited an old Valyrian poem, his youthful voice stumbling over the ancient words. She could see the earnest effort in his eyes, a spark of determination that made her heart swell.

Alongside Maester Larys, she and her husband had charted a stringent study plan to prepare him for his new role as Prince of Dragonstone. He had impressed his tutors with his latent cleverness, but she knew the path ahead would be challenging. Aemon refused to limit his heir as he once was, and all too soon, the prince would need to leave the confines of the Red Keep to serve as a page and then one day a squire. With the threat of war looming on the horizon, the thought filled her with dread.

When Aegon finished, Alicent clapped her hands softly, her smile warm but measured. His pronunciation had faltered in places, but he was young yet and his tutors would see it remedied.

“Well done, Your Grace,” Maester Larys said with a calm smile. “We shall work on the pronunciation, but already this is a commendable start.”

Aegon returned the smile briefly before turning to his mother with hopeful eyes. “Can I go play with Maelys now?”

The ladies-in-waiting exchanged amused glances and giggles, and Alicent's smile grew more indulgent. “Maester Larys, do you believe young Maelys has finished his lessons with Maester Elryn?”

Maester Larys closed his book thoughtfully. “I believe by the time the Prince reaches Princess Viserra’s quarters, Lord Maelys should be finished.”

Alicent nodded and beckoned a servant forward. “Instruct Ser Arryk to accompany the Prince to Princess Viserra’s chambers at once.”

Aegon's face lit up with joy. He kissed the hem of her skirt before rushing to the door, where the vigilant Kingsguard stood guard.

“Prince Aegon is growing into an exceptional heir,” Maester Larys remarked as he approached Alicent, his cane tapping the floor. “We should expect nothing less from such noble lineage.”

Before Alicent could respond, a servant burst into the room, bowing deeply and sputtering. “Your Grace, the King has arrived.”

Alicent exchanged a startled look with Larys and Lady Penrose, who had risen from her seat.

“That’s rather sudden,” Lady Penrose murmured.

The servant was sweating profusely, chest heaving from his run. “Your Grace, he requests your presence immediately at the courtyard.”

Alicent’s frown deepened. She stood, smoothing her skirts in a gesture meant to calm herself. “Please, be dismissed. We shall reconvene later today. Ser Aegor,” she addressed the knight at the door, “please accompany me.”

As they walked through the dimly lit corridors of the castle, Ser Aegor followed her, a silent sentinel. Her husband had instructed the knight to remain by her side while he was away, to keep him busy and to ensure her safety. She was used to the talkative Ser Arryk, whose presence felt more like a friend than a guard, but Ser Aegor was rather avaricious with his words and rarely spoke with her but rather at her.

The quietness from the man felt oppressive, amplifying the uncertainty gnawing at her. She turned to him. “Do you believe there could have been a problem at Bitterbridge?”

Ser Aegor's brow furrowed, and he took a moment before responding. “If peace talks broke down, it could justify the King’s sudden return,” he mumbled, his voice low and thoughtful. “But he was accompanied by the Lord Commander and Prince Valerion and would have been under the protection of Lord Caswell. The King should be fine.”

Alicent’s mind raced even faster as she nodded. The peace talks at Bitterbridge were a delicate affair, a last-ditch effort to stop the war her father had feared for decades. It would spell disaster for the realm and her family if they had failed. She quickened her pace.

When she reached the courtyard, Alicent’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of Vermithor's looming figure, the dragon's presence casting a long shadow over the stone ground. There was no sign of her husband, and the idea of another riderless dragon arriving at the Red Keep filled her with dread.

“Your Grace,” a soldier approached her with a respectful bow. “Please, follow me. The King awaits you.”

Alicent nodded, falling in step with the pair of soldiers who led the way, with Ser Aegor following closely behind. “Is His Grace well?” she asked, her voice betraying the anxiety she felt.

The soldiers exchanged a look, a silent communication that only heightened her worry. “He is alive and uninjured, Your Grace,” one of them replied cautiously. “But you ought to speak with him directly.”

As they approached a small door at the far end of the courtyard, the rooms of the Master-at-Arms she presumed, Ser Aegor moved to step forward with her. However, the soldiers stopped him, their expressions apologetic but firm.

“We are sorry, Ser Aegor, but the King requested only the Queen’s presence.”

Ser Aegor's eyes narrowed. “If he is injured—”

“He is not,” the soldier insisted, though his voice trembled slightly under Ser Aegor’s intense scrutiny. Alicent turned to intervene, placing a calming hand on the knight’s arm.

“Just give us some time, Ser Aegor. I will call for you as soon as I can.”

He stared at her for a long moment, the tension in his posture slowly easing as he met her steady gaze. Finally, he nodded. “As Her Grace commands.”

As the soldiers swung open the door, Alicent's eyes immediately found Aemon. She smiled at him, happy and relieved to see her husband safe and sound, but she was quick to realize something was not right, and her smile slowly faded.

He stood beside a table, his hands clenched into fists, head bowed as he gazed upon the small wooden table where his crown and Blackfyre rested.

Her heart sank at the sight of mud, dirt, and—Gods forbid—blood on both his clothes and the sword.

"Aemon! Are you hurt?" Alicent's pace quickened, concern flooding her voice as she reached out to assess his injuries, her hand lightly touching his arm. "What happened?"

When he met her gaze, she saw anger simmering beneath the surface. His hands were shaking, and the sight made her heart sink.

“Alicent,” he hesitated, his vulnerability startling her. She feared the worst. “This is war.”

She gasped. “What happened?”

“It was a trap from the start.” He muttered, avoiding her gaze and staring at the simple wooden table under his trembling fists. “I thought we were prepared for any treachery, but I was a fool. Arrogant.”

She tried to touch him, but he recoiled from her hand. “Aemon, what happened?”

He scoffed. “You don’t want to hear this…” he said, shaking his head.

“My father remained behind? Has he been taken prisoner?” she searched for his eyes.

Aemon seemed to take a pause and his dark glance flashed to her before avoiding her once more. He looked ahead, jaw clenched as he began to speak. “It was a massacre. They are all dead because of my decision.”

She took a step back, and she felt a smile forming on her lips. “Don’t jest, husband. My father must be…”

The look in Aemon’s eyes made her stop and go quiet. She suddenly felt empty and lost.

“He was the first to die,” Aemon continued his voice even, almost soothing in its remorse. “Daemon had no intention of making peace.”

She felt as if the ground beneath her had vanished, and she was floating. Her father, dead? It couldn’t be… It must be a lie yet… She looked at her husband. She let go of a trembling sigh as Aemon looked at her, guilt gnawing at his features.

“Alicent…” he seemed just as afraid as she felt. “You don’t need to know more.”

“You owe me an explanation,” she insisted, voice strained as she fought back the tears, watching the internal struggle play out on his face. Eventually, he nodded and sighed, resigned to the necessity of his confession.

“I should have executed Aegon Skyfyre the moment he arrived in King’s Landing,” he began, his anger rising. “Daemon’s so-called peace negotiations were a mockery, a spit in my face. He sought to present himself as the superior man, promising to bend the knee only if I granted him all the power he craved and attached his House to mine.”

Alicent's frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“Break the Iron Throne’s word to House Dayne for starters. Join him in a war against Dorne and name him Lord Paramount of whatever ruin he leaves behind,” he explained, his voice tinged with bitterness.

“What of the Stepstones?” she asked, her dread growing.

“Turns out, he doesn’t care about them,” he chuckled without mirth. “The scraps are for Rhaenyra, whose daughter is to be wedded to our son.”

Alicent's heart pounded in her chest as the gravity of the situation settled over her. The political machinations, the betrayal, and the deaths—all orchestrated by Daemon—left her feeling hollow.

“And?”

“And I told him no. I turned around and all Seven Hells broke loose,” he stepped away from her, irritation evident in his movements. “Prince Valerion and Daemon nearly came to blows, and that’s when Daemon…”

He fell silent, lost in thought. Alicent waited anxiously, the silence stretching uncomfortably. “He gave the order to attack?” she finally urged.

Aemon's voice was soft, almost detached. “He lifted his hands and then let them fall to his sides,” he replied. “He gave the command to attack, and your father received a bolt straight to the face.”

Alicent gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The image of her father struck down so brutally was almost too much to bear. Her knees felt weak, but she forced herself to stand tall.

“I couldn’t protect them,” Aemon continued, running a hand through his hair in anguish. “They did everything to protect me, and I couldn’t do a single thing but escape and run. Like a fucking coward.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” she snapped, anger coloring her voice as she took his face in her hands. “You get to live one more day, and that’s not a coward’s way.”

“Then what is it, Alicent?” he demanded, his voice breaking of anger or sorrow she couldn’t say.

“You live another day to stop Daemon, you live another day to save our son, and—” she choked on her words as tears spilled forth, “and you live another day for me.”

Aemon’s eyes softened. She could see the conflict within him. Alicent held his gaze, her hands trembling but steady on his face.

“The realm needs you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I need you. Our son needs you. We can’t do this without you.”

Aemon swallowed hard. He pulled her into a tight embrace, his body shaking with the weight of his emotions. “I’m sorry, Alicent,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

She melted in his embrace and let her tears pour.

Aemon hadn't wasted a single minute before an impromptu meeting was arranged with the remaining members of his small council. Alicent remained rooted by his side, feeling an odd calmness as the storm gathered around them.

Queen Rhaenys was the first to arrive, her regal bearing undiminished despite the tension in the air. She was followed closely by Prince Daeron and Lord Maryros Ostys, their demeanor somber and reflective. Ser Tyland Lannister entered last, escorted by the steadfast Ser Aegor, his usual confidence slightly shaken by the urgency of the summons.

“We are at war,” were the first words Aemon uttered, his voice steady but grim. His mother paled significantly at the declaration, the weight of his words settling heavily in the room.

There was a silence, as the remaining members of the small council looked at each other, all of them wanting to know what they dared not to ask.

Ser Aegor was the first to break the silence. “Where is the Lord Commander?” He asked.

Nephew and uncle shared a long look as Aemon walked towards him. “He stands before me.”

Ser Aegor stumbled slightly backward, his massive figure suddenly fragile and Alicent could have laughed at how ridiculous all of this looked. Aemon had always told her he dreamt of naming his uncle Lord Commander of his Kingsguard once Ser Harold’s time was done, but they never expected the time to arrive so suddenly.

“Y-your Grace, you honor me but…”

“There’s no better man for the job, and Ser Harrold knew it,” Aemon nodded absentmindedly. “I need the best man to fight beside me.”

Ser Aegor went to his knee and he bowed deeply. “I’ll follow you to the Seven Hells if it’s necessary.”

Aemon put a hand atop of his uncle’s massive shoulder. “Rise, Lord Commander.”

Rhaenys let go of her breath as she sat down, shaking. “Was it a trap, as you suspected?” Aemon nodded and Rhaenys let go of a rueful laughter. “I will see him drawn and quartered, and his head mounted above our gates.”

“House Merryweather has declared for him - he had an army laying in wait and they overwhelmed us with sheer numbers,” Aemon answered. “Ser Otto, Ser Harrold, and Prince Valerion are dead. Laenor Velaryon has claimed Grey Ghost, so we have lost a dragon.”

“Seven Hells,” Prince Daeron was beyond pale. “We must inform Ser Aemon…”

“Lord Aemon,” Ser Tyland pointed, shaking his head. “Poor lad… What should we do, Your Grace? What is your command?”

“Call the banners. All of them.” Rhaenys let out a small sigh, almost like a wail, but Aemon continued, “Aenys is already in the Riverlands. I must gather our forces in the Reach. Ser Tyland - the West must raise its banners as soon as possible. Command your brother to have the might of Casterly Rock ready to move on my command.”

“And where should they be sent?” Daeron asked.

Aemon was quiet, and Alicent could tell he was lost in thought. “If they cross the Golden Tooth, they can join our forces in the Riverlands and move east or south as needed. But Ser Aegon Skyfyre has close ties to the Ironborn and we have had no word from Pyke since this trouble began. We mustn’t leave the wealth of the Westerlands undefended.”

Rhaenys nodded. “The West is no stranger to Ironborn aggression, but perhaps the Reach has some ships to spare…”

“The Redwyne fleet is the greatest naval power on the western coast but I fear they may be needed elsewhere.” Aemon sighed, passing a hand through his hair. “The Velaryon fleet will certainly impose a blockade, try to starve us from the sea. The Crownlands can only raise at most five thousand men, and that’s if everybody remains loyal,” his jaw was clenched.

"The Red Keep alone could muster a thousand men if we accelerate conscription..." Rhaenys began.

“It won’t be fast enough,” Daeron interrupted. “Leaving the city so lightly defended would be too risky...”

Aemon glanced at his uncle. “I share your concern about leaving the Keep undefended. But I refuse to march to war without sufficient manpower, especially if Daemon attacks from the South.”

“What about raising allies outside the Kingswood as you advance?” Rhaenys suggested. “Vermithor’s presence will serve as a deterrent, even with a small land force, and your numbers can grow along the way.”

“Do we know the allegiance of every House beyond the Crownlands?” Aemon countered, shaking his head. “Some Lords will switch sides if given the right incentive.”

Rhaenys sighed in frustration. “Then wait for Aenys to summon the River Lords and march with them.”

“I can’t afford to wait,” Aemon said firmly, jaw clenched. “I won’t risk a dragon battle over the Red Keep. I need to move now.”

Mother and son locked eyes, and Alicent could sense the clash of wills. Eventually, Rhaenys nodded, conceding to her son's decision. He was the King, after all, and whether they liked it or not, he was right.

"But the question of the Red Keep’s defense remains," Maryros Ostys sighed, breaking the tension.

"The City Watch," Alicent said quickly, an idea forming. "They have enough men to protect the city with minimal support from the Crownlands."

"And who will prepare those men?" Maryros asked.

"My father summoned my brother Gwayne, and he should be crossing the Kingswood by now," Alicent said, hoping she was right and her brother would arrive in time.

"Would it be enough?" Rhaenys shook her head. "It's been decades since anyone enforced discipline among those men."

"My brother served as a commander in the City Watch of Oldtown. I believe he can handle it."

"What do you think, brother?" Daeron asked Ser Aegor, who had been silent. The knight took a moment before replying.

"I know little of Ser Gwayne Hightower and his work at Oldtown," he shrugged. "But if there's no other option, we must use whatever resources we have. The remaining Sworn Brothers can protect the Royal Family for now."

Aemon nodded. "There’s no room for error," he said, looking at Alicent with piercing eyes. "The city will be protected, and having a fierce dragon rider remain behind could deter the Velaryons from attacking." He looked at his mother.

“There’s still the blockade to break,” Rhaenys pointed out. “We don’t have nearly enough ships and it’ll be months before House Redwyne can come to our aid. But we have friends across the Narrow Sea and a man who owes us a debt.”

Mother and son exchanged a look that made Aemon break into a small smile. “I knew it was you,” the Queen Dowager chuckled as Aemon continued. “Very well. Ser Tyland, you have two tasks ahead of you. Write to your brother - command Lord Jason to lead his host into the Riverlands less whatever men he needs to bolster their coastal defenses against the Ironborn. ”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Tyland bowed. “I’ll send word to my brother as soon as we adjourn.”

“And secondly, you are to meet with Archon of Tyrosh. The Three Daughters are no friend to House Skyfyre or Velaryon. We need their ships to match the might of House Velaryon. Secure their aid, Ser. Break the blockade.”

Ser Tyland nodded. “I will see it done. What about you, Your Grace?”

“I’ll take the men I can to march to Highgarden and meet the Hightower host.”

“Are you mad, nephew?” Daeron interrupted. “If you leave it will be a matter of days before Daemon comes knocking at our gates!”

“What will you do?” Rhaenys face kept a serenity that almost felt alien. “Daemon will certainly come to King’s Landing first to claim his Throne.”

Aemon shook his head. “No, he wants my head first. Any victory will be hollow so long as I live to defy him.”

“As much as I love you, nephew, you aren’t that important to Daemon!” Daeron laughed incredulously. “He only cares about the Throne.”

“Daemon is not a complete imbecile, but he is prideful,” Aemon’s face was as harsh as his words. “He has tried to kill me once before and failed. He will focus his attention wherever I am because his ego cannot stand it. So I will leave the city, and draw him to a battleground of my choosing.”

Daeron grumbled. “You would leave us without Vermithor. What are we to do if Vhagar comes calling?”

“He will not risk turning King’s Landing into a second Harrenhal.” Aemon gestured out the window at the sprawling city. “Not only his ego won’t allow him to do so, but Lord Fleabottom yearns for this place, and any dragons above the Blackwater would be a show of force, nothing more.”

Daeron sighed, kneading his temples. “Then what will you do?”

“As I said, I will raise the banners of the Reach and draw him to me. House Hightower and Tyrell can surely match whatever army he can muster from the Stormlands, and if I’m lucky the Westermen will join me before the trap is sprung.”

“And if you are not?” Rhaenys asked. “He has Vhagar, Aemon.”

“I am aware, but I believe Vermithor can match the old beast. Laena Velaryon is a skilled rider but has no experience in battle. Her brother, with his stolen mount, will have the opposite problem. Regardless, I will delay any confrontation until Sunfyre and Seasmoke can join me. With Vermithor we can match Caraxes and any other dragon he brings to bear.”

“The way you paint the picture we have the upper hand,” Ser Tyland smiled, self-confident. “What about Lady Rhaenyra? Syrax is as mighty as Seasmoke and Sunfyre.”

Aemon hesitated as he threw a look at Alicent. “For the time being, I think it wise to leave Lady Rhaenyra in the North. There are matters there we have entrusted to her care.”

“It is wise, indeed,” Rhaenys sighed. “There are other dragons, mayhaps we can bolster…”

“We don’t have the time, Mother,” Aemon interrupted her. “Any other possible riders are but children. We will make do with what we have.”

There was silence. Then Daeron spoke.

“Brother, what if—”

“No.” the sudden growl that came from the knight’s mouth was enough for Alicent to jump as all eyes fixed on him. “I have seen the beasts a hundred times over and never bonded one. My duty as Lord Commander is great enough without the extra burden of being a dragon rider. I will serve from the ground, Your Grace.”

Daeron made a face but continued. “Father once spoke of using dragonseeds, but King Jaehaerys was not amenable to the idea.”

Rhaenys was the one who spoke back. “And he was wise to refuse. I will not let some peasant with a mere drop of dragon blood claim our birthright. The precedent it would set would be too much to bear.”

“Mother is right,” Aemon scratched his cheek. “Our riders are experienced, highborn and loyal. I won’t entertain the idea.”

“Fine, fine,” Daeron raised his hands, giving up. “Then we will do with what we have.”

“Uncle, you must raise the banners in the Vale. Close the High Road and keep Lady Arryn and the Knights of the Vale from leaving the region, at least until the Riverlords can join you.”

Daeron nodded. “Of course, House Royce stands with you. The Arryns of Gulltown and House Waynwood as well. I also have friends amongst the Mountain Clans…”

“Do as you see fit,” Aemon replied dryly. Daeron nodded.

“We know that some of the Lords of the Stormlands do not agree with their Lord Paramount, and they will pose a threat to any army Lord Baratheon moves against King’s Landing,” Rhaenys continued as if the previous discussion hadn’t taken place. “It will weaken Daemon’s power in the region if you allow me to go south with Meleys to support them. Killing or capturing Borros would deprive him of one of his greatest supporters.”

“No,” Aemon shook his head. “Not until Aenys is close enough to support you and I have news of Lord Steelfyre’s men crossing the Neck,” Aemon said. Rhaenys frowned slightly but bowed. “I need you to protect King’s Landing and my family.”

“What about Lady Rhaena?” Alicent asked, suddenly remembering the Dragonfyres who remained virtual prisoners at the Red Keep. “She could be coaxed into joining us.”

“I wouldn’t trust that woman and her dragon,” Maryros spoke, playing with his necklace. “Her mother may have her on a short leash, but is a silk leash that may break at any moment.”

“Indeed, what may prevent her from joining her husband?” Rhaenys shook her head. “She will remain a prisoner until further notice.”

“She wouldn’t leave her son behind,” Alicent tried to argue.

“She would and will,” Rhaenys scoffed. “She is no different from her mother and I much rather keep an eye on them.”

Alicent swallowed her frustration and nodded graciously as the conversation moved on.

“What else does Your Grace need at this time?” Maryros asked.

“I need a map.”

Night had fallen when Alicent at last entered her husband’s chambers. Servants were preparing a bath for him as he slowly removed his dirty riding clothes, his back to her.

"Leave us alone," she commanded, sounding more confident than she felt. "I'll take care of the King."

Aemon turned around and looked at her as the servants nodded, bowed, and quickly exited in silence. He continued with the task at hand, and Alicent noticed new, bright injuries on his body, stark against his old scars.

As the door closed behind her she walked to his side, her fingers lightly touching his skin. It dawned on her that her husband could have died alongside her father, and the thought of losing him was unfathomable.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he mumbled, turning to look at her.

She sighed, unable to hide her distress. “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want this war to happen,” she said, averting her eyes. “I wish I could take us far away and be safe.”

Aemon let go of her face, a hint of frustration in his eyes. “You desired to be a Queen and yet, you are scared.”

“Aren’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He shrugged. “Daenys the Dreamer once said, ‘Fear is the mind-killer.’”

She scoffed. “I mislike your riddles, husband. Our lives are in peril.”

“Mayhaps,” he approached the bathtub and slowly submerged himself in the water, looking relaxed. “But you are safe within these walls, my Mother and Meleys formidable sentinels. I know Daemon would never try and take King’s Landing by dragonfire.”

“And what about you?” she demanded, approaching him, and sitting next to him, frustration unleashing. “What if I never see you again? If you leave me a widow and our son an orphan?”

“You have such little faith in me?” he asked a touch of reproach in his voice.

“Aemon…”

He silenced her with a tender kiss, his hands caressing her hair. She could still smell the smoke, the sweat, and the blood on him. It made her feel uneasy.

“Don’t distract me,” she reprimanded him as he slowly sunk again in the bath. “You are going to war, Aemon, this is not a leisurely hunting trip or even a troop of bandits in the Kingswood. This is a war of dragons.”

Aemon gave her a long look, before breaking into a smirk. “You speak to me as if I were a mere green boy, who recently won his spurs. Now, enough of that. You said you were to take care of my bath.”

She made a face but allowed a small chuckle to escape her lips as she took the sponge and put it in the soapy water, passing it over his arms.

“Are you aware that you are sending away all of your Small Council?” she asked, not looking at his face. He hummed in response. Alicent continued. “You have replaced the Lord Commander, yes, but you have no Hand and no Master of Laws, let alone a Grand Maester. The Kingsguard is left with only three men and you send away your second dragon rider.”

“Indeed,” Aemon looked at her silently. “What does the Queen propose?”

“Have you thought about those who would claim your empty seats?”

“Yes,” he observed the ceiling, the silence stretching before them. “I intend to summon Lord Celtigar as Hand of the King.” She nodded, the idea seemed wise to her, the man was loyal to a fault and he hid a keen intellect, perhaps not on par with her Father’s but no one could ever measure to Ser Otto Hightower.

“And Master of Laws?” she continued. “I have thought about Aenys.”

“No, just like my Uncle he has responsibilities to attend to. I need them in the field and not warming up a seat in King’s Landing.”

“Then who else?” she insisted.

“You are too impatient, Alicent,” he smirked. “The Small Council will look very different before I leave, but I still need the time to think.”

Alicent stopped moving her hands and stared at her husband. A complete change for the Small Council, days away from her husband’s departure to war… She wished for more time, and for time to stand still until they could gather any sense of normality. Aemon seemed to have caught up on her distress because he lifted a hand, caressing her cheek.

“You ought to stop looking this alarmed,” he told her after a moment. “The Red Keep needs a strong Queen and you cannot leave that job to my Mother.”

Alicent scoffed, her husband’s attempts at reassurance and caring attitude were abysmal, but she nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Aemon caught her eyes. “Remember what I told you when we moved to Dragonstone all those years ago?”

She frowned, trying to recall specific words from their past. “You’ll have to be more specific, husband, for we said many things during those early years.”

“You don't require my permission to act as you see fit,” he echoed, taking her hand gently and removing the sponge. “You will be my voice, and your word will be law, Alicent.”

Alicent chuckled softly, seeing the warmth in his gaze and the invitation in his gesture. He was beckoning her to join him in the bathtub, the steam rising around them like a comforting shroud. She hesitated for a moment, but for once, decided to leave decorum aside and join him, as her nightgown soaked through.

“Do you trust me so completely?” she asked, her voice a whisper against the backdrop of the crackling fire and the soft splashing of water.

“I wouldn’t have married you if I hadn’t trusted you,” Aemon replied without hesitation.

She took a deep breath, absorbing his words. The gravity of the situation pressed upon her, but so did the warmth of his trust. Slowly, she let the tension slip from her shoulders, and she stepped into the bath, the water enveloping her like an embrace.

As she settled beside him, Aemon wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. “You’ll be protected by my Mother and Meleys, and she will do your bidding. The keep will bow to you for as long as I cannot be here.”

She sighed, wanting with all her heart to believe his words. “Let’s not talk about this any further,” she begged, placing her forehead against his, and without hesitating a second longer she kissed him.

The ravenry was a dimly lit chamber nestled in a secluded corner of the castle. The room was cavernous, with high, arched ceilings that created an eerie echo with every sound. The air was thick with the musty scent of straw and the pungent odor of bird droppings, a testament to the numerous ravens that called this place home. Wooden perches lined the walls, each occupied by sleek, black-feathered ravens that eyed every movement with keen intelligence.

Shelves and cubbyholes crammed with scrolls and parchment filled one side of the room, evidence of the countless messages that had been sent and received over the years. In one corner, a stone basin filled with fresh water and a trough with feed provided sustenance for the birds. The floor was strewn with straw, feathers, and the occasional fallen quill, creating a soft, uneven surface underfoot.

A large, central table dominated the room, cluttered with ink pots, quills, and sealing wax. Maps and ledgers lay open, revealing the intricate network of communications that sustained the castle's connections with distant lands. The flickering light of a few lanterns cast dancing shadows on the walls, adding to the mysterious and somewhat foreboding atmosphere of the ravenry.

The maesters and acolytes moved around the room in a coordinated dance, their actions precise and purposeful. Some were engaged in dispatching messages from within the keep, while others focused on receiving the newest communications. Despite their careful synchronization, Alicent's presence caused an immediate ripple of disruption.

"Your Grace," an elderly maester greeted her with a deep bow, prompting the other men to respond in kind. "How may we assist you?"

"My father sent for my brother, Ser Gwayne," Alicent began. "I wish to know of the latest news of his path along the Kingsroad."

The maester nodded solemnly. "I understand, Your Grace. We will inform you immediately upon receiving any word from him or his party. However, at present, there is no news."

Alicent frowned, her anxiety deepening. "Not a single raven?"

The maester shook his head slowly. "The last information we received was conveyed to the Lord Hand when your brother reached Longtable."

Her hands clenched tightly. This had been at least a week before her Father had left for Bitterbridge, so they could have crossed each other. What if Gwayne lay dead or captured by Lord Merryweather’s men? Or had an accident that forced him out of the road and into the Stormlands?

She exhaled and nodded. "Please, do inform me as soon as any news reaches us," she paused, gathering her thoughts. The man bowed and Alicent hesitated.

"I... I have a message to be sent to Winterfell," the weight of her words finally crashed upon her shoulders. Dark wings, Dark words, the saying echoed in her mind as she motioned for a chair and an acolyte brought her one.

At her words, the maester quickly signaled to an acolyte, who hurried forward with fresh parchment, quill, and ink. "Addressed to Lord Cregan Stark?"

"No, to Lord and Lady Steelfyre," Alicent corrected, releasing a small sigh as she took a seat beside the maester. With careful deliberation, she began to record her message, each word doing little to ease her troubled mind.

Chapter Text

tenth month of 125 AC

After two weeks on the road, Rhaenyra finally arrived at Winterfell, accompanied by a small garrison. The journey had become familiar over the years, a well-trodden path that gave her time to clear her mind. The cloudy thoughts that once made her feel somber had lifted, leaving space for a rare sense of peace.

She silently prayed that her uncle had seen reason and accepted whatever offer of peace was presented to him. She longed to take her children to Stormwatch, to see her mother once more, and to restore simplicity to their lives.

The welcome at Winterfell was lukewarm. Lord Stark was still in mourning for his young wife and troubled by the brewing problems his regency had brought. She sensed that her presence was not particularly well received, especially when he asked about Prince Valerion’s whereabouts.

“My goodfather had matters to attend to down south,” she explained plainly. “My husband will soon join us to discuss further, as we act on Prince Valerion’s orders.”

Lord Cregan nodded curtly. “Be welcome to Winterfell, Lady Rhaenyra,” and with that, he dismissed her.

She hadn’t taken it personally, for she was keenly aware of the many tasks a Lord had to take care of, but she was also mindful of the importance of her role. If she could get the discussion started before Aemon’s arrival, it would mean getting back home sooner rather than later. Lord Cregan had all but avoided her after their first meeting, but still, she tried.

“My Lord, a word,” she addressed him one day before supper, as he came back from the Godswood. His face gave away his annoyance.

“What is it you wish to discuss, my lady?” he continued walking, and she felt the anger rising to her cheeks as she followed.

“The reason behind my summons,” said flatly.

“I do not recall summoning you, but rather your good father.”

She ignored the slight and continued, “My husband will join us in due time, but I’d rather we begin our discussion now.”

Lord Cregan stopped in his tracks and looked at her. “You are persistent, Lady Rhaenyra.”

She lifted an eyebrow. A public forum was far from ideal but it was better than being ignored. “My good father's intentions behind the Wintermoot were innocent.”

“Although gracious of him to invite me, he should have waited for my direct command. Prince Valerion is not the Warden of the North.” He said pointedly.

She gathered her thoughts as she offered a gracious smile. “The Wintermoot is not reserved to the Stark of Winterfell, my Lord.”

Cregan’s laughter came more like a bark. “You fail to understand my point, Lady Rhaenyra. My duty is to the North as a whole. I cannot turn my eyes South just for your family’s sake.

She frowned. “This is not about my family.”

“Is it not?” he arched an eyebrow. “If I recall your mother’s house is Targaryen.”

“As your mother was a Glover if I recall.” She said sweetly.

Lord Cregan gave her a long look and she had the distinct impression that the scrawny young man she had met five years prior had died. Rhaenyra almost felt pity for him.

“We shall reconvene when your husband joins us, my lady,” he finally said, nodding to her. “If you’ll excuse me, supper is waiting. If you wish, you can join me, but we will refrain from continuing this conversation.”

She bit her tongue as she bowed. “It will be an honor, my Lord. But I will wish to continue this conversation at another time.”

Alas, it was not to be. She spent her days and nights trying to secure a private audience with the Lord, to no avail. Her persistence was unyielding, and ultimately, Ser Joran had to intervene.

"You are harassing him, my Lady," he admonished her gently as she prepared to leave her rooms, intending to intercept Lord Stark near the courtyard where she had heard he would be spending his morning.

Rhaenyra's face flushed. "He has barely looked in my direction," she retorted, her chest heaving with indignation. "What am I to do if not try to get him to speak to me for longer than two moments."

Ser Joran sighed and shrugged, his expression both sympathetic and exasperated. "To wait, evidently," he replied. "You should take your time to familiarize yourself with him, without brashly pushing for an answer."

Rhaenyra paused, her eyes narrowing as she considered his words. "I never took you for such an astute politician, Ser Joran," she remarked, a hint of begrudging respect in her tone.

Ser Joran's laughter echoed softly in the corridor as Rhaenyra made her way towards the Godswood of Winterfell.

As the days went by, she gradually came to understand the workings of Winterfell and its young Lord, despite her initial reluctance. She ceased her efforts to trap him in conversation, opting instead to behave as a respectful guest in his home. Her overture was evidently well received, as she was oft invited to attend the court of petitioners and occasionally accepted invitations to share meals with the Stark of Winterfell.

She learned the layout of the castle as well as she knew her own, a skill her mother had always emphasized. "You never know what useful things you can learn, Rhaenyra, and it is your duty as a wife to be the ears and eyes of your husband," her mother had often told her. The memory stirred a sense of guilt, which she quickly pushed aside, along with anything else that brought her shame or pain.

"My Lady," Ser Joran's voice accompanied a knock on her door as she finished writing another letter to her uncle.

"Come in," she replied without turning around, watching the ink dry on the parchment. The slow creak of the door announced her knight's presence.

"Lord Stark summons you to his private solar."

She turned, curious. "News of my husband’s arrival?"

"I do not know," he replied, glancing at the door, where Rhaenyra noticed a scrawny young servant waiting. She stood, carefully rolled the parchment, and tucked it into the inner pocket of her dress alongside another letter destined for the Ironkeep.

"Lead the way," she instructed both men, stepping into the corridor. "I can hardly believe Aemon hasn't arrived yet," she remarked to Ser Joran as they walked towards the solar.

The cold air seeped through their cloaks, but Rhaenyra found warmth in the casual conversation with the old knight.

"I've heard the early winter winds aren’t favorable along the coast," Ser Joran grumbled. "He may have stopped at White Harbor before coming here."

She hummed thoughtfully. "He would have sent word if that were the case," she sighed, feeling unusually on edge. "Still, he’ll likely find my efforts here have been in vain," she lamented, prompting a chuckle from the knight beside her.

“Ser Aemon wouldn’t be such a harsh judge of your ability, my Lady,” Rhaenyra snorted but smiled.

The servant ahead moved with practiced grace, his footsteps barely audible on the stone floor. Intricate tapestries depicting Northern legends highlighted the ancient castle's austere beauty, and the air was filled with the scent of pine and burning wood.

Upon reaching the heavy oak door of Lord Stark’s solar, the servant paused, knocking gently before engaging in a brief, inaudible exchange with the man inside. With a respectful nod, he motioned for them to enter, pushing the door open with care.

"I’ll wait here, my Lady," Ser Joran bowed his head. "I’ll ask the maester if there’s any word from Ser Aemon."

"Well, you might as well send this on to Ironkeep and..." she hesitated, holding the two parchments. She handed only one to Ser Joran. "I'll handle the second one myself."

If he noticed her hesitation, he gave no sign, accepting the parchment without comment.

Inside, Lord Cregan Stark stood by a large hearth, the fire casting a warm, golden glow that softened the room's otherwise severe ambiance. The last time Rhaenyra had been in this room, it was under somber circumstances—the tragic news of Princess Daenerys' death had cast a long shadow over their visit. The memory lingered like a ghost, filling her with a familiar, unsettling anxiety similar to what she had felt when her uncle Daemon arrived at the Iron Keep after Alyssa's birth.

"Lord Stark," Rhaenyra greeted, offering a small bow.

"Lady Rhaenyra," Cregan said, his voice a deep rumble that resonated in the cozy room. "Your Lord husband has crossed The Bite. According to his most recent missive, he should join us in a few days."

"I am glad to hear that," she smiled, waiting to be invited to sit. "But I assume that is not the reason you summoned me."

Cregan gave her a bemused look and a half-smile. "My maester told me stories of meek Southron ladies who hid their steel behind a smile," he said, motioning for her to sit. "But only a lady of the North would be so brazen as you."

Rhaenyra would have laughed at the compliment, as anyone else might, but her time here had taught her to be a bit less naive. "My Lord has never met a woman of the Blood of Old Valyria."

Cregan sat on the edge of his desk, his hands clasped in front of him as he inspected the woman before him. "I received a letter from King’s Landing, addressed to you and your husband."

She frowned slightly. "A summon from the King?"

Cregan shook his head, extending the already open parchment. "I believe you should deliver the news."

Rhaenyra took the parchment and noted that the seal was not the three-headed dragon, but the Hightower of Oldtown. She felt her breath come out as a hiss as she opened the letter.

The handwriting bore the familiar diligence of a Maester, but the voice behind it was Alicent’s. Rhaenyra's heart skipped a beat as the awful news fell upon her.

It is with a heart burdened by sorrow that I must convey the tragic news of the death of your father, Prince Valerion Steelfyre. Prince Valerion journeyed under a banner of peace, under a sacred charge as an ambassador of King Aemon Targaryen. His noble mission was to engage in peaceful negotiations with the false king, Daemon Skyfyre…

She stopped reading and looked at Cregan, who offered a subtle nod of sympathy. The weight of the news settled heavily in her chest, and she felt a wave of nausea rise within her.

She had known all her life how much her uncle disliked her goodfather. He had made a show of it during the tournament at her wedding, but she couldn’t fathom… no, he couldn’t have! He was restless and a rogue, but he was no kinslayer! It must be foul play, a lie to shift the blame to Daemon. Otherwise, how could she explain this? How could she justify that her dearest uncle could have been behind the hand that ended Prince Valerion’s life?

She took a deep breath, eyes looking down. “The last time I saw him, we quarreled fiercely.”

Lord Cregan remained quiet. “I wouldn’t wish to be in your place.”

“My Lord should have waited to give this news to my husband personally,” she argued, looking up at him.

This seemed to bother Cregan, who arched an eyebrow. “I would think it best for a wife to share such tidings. So you may support each other in your grief.”

She wanted to agree to his words but simply shook her head. “You lay a heavy burden atop my shoulders.”

Cregan scoffed. “Had Prince Valerion been slain by the hand of a common bandit, the news wouldn’t be so hard to share, would it?” She felt rage rising. “But as it was by Ser Daemon’s actions—”

“We don’t know that.”

“It seems plain to see that at the very least his hand was behind it.”

Rhaenyra’s fists clenched as she stood up. “Is this all my Lord wished to tell me?”

Lord Cregan gave her a long look. “If given the chance to pass judgement on your unruly kin, would it be your hand that swings the sword?”

She stared at Cregan for a moment before turning around and abandoning his solar. The cold corridor outside offered little comfort, the harsh reality of the situation settling in her mind. She walked briskly, her mind racing with conflicting thoughts.

As she reached the privacy of her chambers, she sank onto her bed, the weight of her burden crashing down. The memory of her uncle’s smile, his laughter, and his fierce loyalty to their family haunted her. Could she stand by her family, or would the demands of duty and honor force her hand against her beloved uncle? The thought twisted her heart, and she knew the days ahead would test her like never before.

She stood at the outskirts of Winterfell, Lord Cregan by her side atop his horse. The chilly wind colored both their faces, and she hadn’t spoken a word to Lord Stark since their last tense exchange. He seemed almost relieved to have her at a distance, and the anger and frustration she felt made her dismiss her mission there. She didn’t want to engage further in this conflict; she wanted to go home and let the others rot in their awful war, far away from her and her family.

On the horizon, she saw the shape of her husband’s dragon, Seasmoke. His screech made the horses beneath them pace anxiously, but Rhaenyra’s eyes were fixed on the growing silhouette. She still had no idea how to break the news to her husband. She had prayed and wished for someone else to inform him on his way here so she could simply hold him as he cried and grieved. But the gods mocked her, and she knew there was no way she would be spared from delivering the awful news.

Seasmoke finally landed, his body making the ground beneath them shake. She mustered the courage to smile as her husband dismounted, removing his helmet and making his way to them. Seasmoke carefully lay against the ground, eyes closing as if ready to nap.

“My Lord!” Aemon greeted, bowing respectfully before Lord Cregan, who, for the first time, offered a semblance of warmth on his face. She felt like punching him.

“Be welcome, Lord Aemon,” Cregan said. “Will it bother you to share your mount with your lady wife?”

“Not at all,” Aemon laughed, approaching Rhaenyra. She saw the happiness and love of an ignorant fool in his face and wanted to weep. “I have certainly missed my wife.”

“Then I will let you take advantage of that,” Lord Cregan said, moving his horse aside. Aemon quickly mounted behind Rhaenyra, and she felt her husband’s body heat against her, making her smile falter.

As she felt Aemon’s warmth against her back, Rhaenyra’s thoughts raced. He wrapped his arms around her, and she could feel his steady heartbeat.

“I’ve missed you, my love,” Aemon whispered, his voice full of affection. “Winterfell seems to have agreed with you. You look as radiant as ever.”

Rhaenyra forced a smile, though it felt like her heart was breaking. “I’ve missed you too,” she replied, her voice tight. She knew she couldn’t delay the inevitable, but the thought of shattering his happiness made her stomach churn.

Aemon chuckled against her ear as their horse followed Lord Cregan back to Winterfell, and she prayed for the road to be the longest of her life, dreading what was to come.

Her husband spoke about his trip, his time at King’s Landing, and the reasons why he ended up losing a couple of days. Rhaenyra made an effort to listen attentively, but the weight of the news she had to share pressed heavily on her mind. As the gates of Winterfell finally opened before them, she knew her time had run out, and she couldn't continue hiding the truth any longer.

Aemon quickly dismounted and offered a helping hand to Rhaenyra. She saw Lord Cregan handing his horse to a stable hand.

“My Lord, I beg your forgiveness for my lateness,” Aemon began, but Cregan cut him off with a short movement of his hand.

“Circumstances have changed, my Lord,” Cregan said, shooting a glance in Rhaenyra’s direction that she fought hard to avoid. “Please, take the time to rest, and we shall reconvene tomorrow.”

If Aemon noticed this was the second time Lord Stark called him “Lord” instead of “Ser,” he did not comment. Instead, he turned to Rhaenyra, his eyes full of love and she spoke: "Shall we go to our rooms, my love? You must be tired."

However, Aemon added with a smile, “First, I wish to visit the Godswood. It’s been too long since I’ve paid my respects.”

She hesitated, wanting desperately to delay the inevitable, but she couldn’t refuse him. “Of course,” she said, forcing a smile. “Let’s go to the Godswood.”

As they walked through the castle grounds towards the ancient grove, Aemon continued to speak animatedly about his journey. “Queen Alicent sends her regards,” he said. “She mentioned she had a message for you, but I told her I’d deliver it in person. It seems she misses you.”

Rhaenyra’s heart pounded in her chest, the mention of Alicent’s name adding to her anxiety. She clenched her fists to keep her composure, nodding along to his words.

The Godswood was serene and beautiful, the heart tree standing tall and imposing. Aemon knelt before it, his eyes closed in silent prayer. Rhaenyra watched him, her own heart heavy with the secret she carried.

After a few moments, Aemon rose and turned to her. “I’ve missed this place,” he said softly.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, knowing she couldn’t delay any longer. “Aemon,” she said, her voice trembling. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Hearing her tone, his expression shifted from contentment to concern. “What is it, Rhae?”

She struggled to find the right words, her throat tight with emotion. “It’s about your father,” she began, tears welling in her eyes. “There’s been... terrible news.”

Aemon’s face paled. “What news?”

She took another deep breath, trying to steady herself. “He’s dead, Aemon. Your father is dead.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. She could see the shock, the disbelief, and then the overwhelming grief wash over him. He staggered back, his eyes wide with pain.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “That’s not possible. I just saw him scarcely a fortnight ago… How?”

She hesitated, knowing the next part would be even harder. “Alicent writes he was murdered at the parley with my uncle.” She said quietly.

Aemon’s shock turned to anger, his fists clenching. Yet he didn’t speak, his eyes fixed on the ground. Rhaenyra felt his silence was worse than his anger or grief.

“It could very well be a lie,” Rhaenyra said softly.

“Rhaenyra,” he growled, looking at her with a rage she had never seen before. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I am not lying to you,” she begged, tears welling up in her eyes. “We don’t know—”

“We have always known, Rhaenyra, how much Daemon despised my father,” he said, seeming defeated. “And yet you defend him?”

“What? No! I just—”

“You just what?” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “You want to believe he’s innocent because he’s your uncle. But you know as well as I do that he’s capable of anything.”

Rhaenyra’s tears flowed freely now. “I don’t want to believe it,” she whispered. “But I can’t ignore the possibility. Please, Aemon, understand that I’m trying to find the truth just as you are.”

Aemon turned away, his shoulders tense. The silence between them stretched. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and strained. “I need to be alone,” he said. “I need to think.”

Rhaenyra reached out, but he pulled away, walking deeper into the Godswood. She watched him go, her heart breaking for the pain she had caused and the storm that lay ahead. She sank to her knees beneath the heart tree, praying for the strength to face whatever came next.

It was the hour of the wolf when Aemon finally came to her room. She was half awake, lying atop the covers. The last candle had been extinguished a long time ago when she felt Aemon’s presence in the room and his body against hers.

“Rhaenyra,” he whispered against her hair. She turned slowly, trying to make out his face in the darkness.

“Yes?” she replied, her voice cracked by sleep. He was silent, and she lifted her body slightly towards his, searching for his eyes.

“I don’t know what happened there,” she began, touching her husband’s face. “A part of me wishes not to believe it, but please, I beg you, know that I could never forgive the one who murdered your father.”

He seemed to hesitate. “Even if it was Daemon?”

“Especially if it was Daemon.”

Silence enveloped the room once more before Aemon’s lips found hers. She surrendered to the love she felt for her husband and pushed away, once more, all those thoughts that hurt her.

“My condolences, Lord Steelfyre,” Lord Cregan said, his voice heavy with sympathy. “Losing a father is…” He shook his head. “I share your pain. He was a good man.”

Perhaps feeling a measure of sympathy for the grief-stricken couple, Lord Stark invited them to a small gathering in his solar, to break bread together and offer his condolences.

Aemon was withdrawn, and Rhaenyra found herself trying to keep her husband from sinking into his grief while doing her best to dispel any suspicion towards her family’s involvement in this sordid affair. And yet, deep inside, she knew...

Aemon took the wine being offered, his hand trembling slightly as he drank. “My father bid me apologize for any offense given. Calling the Wintermoot without your leave was an overstep,” he said, his voice strained as Rhaenyra looked at him, worried.

Cregan sighed, nodding. “A handful of lords have taken it upon themselves to ignore or bypass Winterfell ever since the passing of my father,” Aemon winced at his words. “Yet, I recall my father was fond of yours and considered him a loyal man. The slight has long been forgiven.”

Rhaenyra felt a sharp pang of sorrow. She remembered the overwhelming grief and disorientation she had felt after her own father’s death, and she couldn't understand how Aemon could seem so detached, as if he was already moving ahead without pausing to mourn. She knew his calm exterior masked a storm of emotions, but seeing him so composed was both a relief and a heartache. She reached for his hand under the table, squeezing it gently, hoping to offer some comfort.

"My good father’s death should count for something for the Stark of Winterfell," she began, her voice steady. Both men looked at her: Aemon as if she had gone mad, and Cregan as if he had been waiting for this moment.

“Winter is Coming, Lady Steelfyre, and although Prince Valerion’s death was tragic, the North will not rally behind it. Forgive me, my Lord, but there are doubtless some celebrating this turn of events.”

“If the queen is correct, he did not die; he was murdered!” Rhaenyra's voice rose, her fists clenching with anger.

“By your kin, if I understand correctly,” Cregan replied, his tone calm but firm. Rhaenyra felt the sting of his words but refused to back down.

“You are Warden of the North. Sworn to the Iron Throne.”

“What does it matter to our people which dragon sits the Iron Throne?” He laughed without mirth, gesturing at his desk, “I have missives here from both alleged kings - each commanding I affirm my fealty and summon my banners in their name.”

Aemon sat forward, jaw clenched. “My Lord, my father was one of your most loyal bannermen. He fought side by side with your father, and I believe we are owed at least a reaction to his murder.” Cregan's eyes hardened to steel, but Aemon did not back down. "Prince Valerion was a man of honor, seeking peace, and a sworn member of King Aemon’s Small Council. His death cannot go unanswered."

Cregan sighed, his expression softening slightly. "I understand your grief and anger, but the North cannot be swayed by emotions alone. We have our own to protect, and our people look to us for wisdom and strength. A rash decision could lead to greater losses."

Rhaenyra moved closer, almost climbing the table, close to pleading. "We are not asking for rashness, but for justice. If Prince Valerion's death is ignored, what message does that send? That peace and honor mean nothing to House Stark?"

Cregan leaned back in his chair, contemplating her words. "Justice, Lady Steelfyre, is a delicate matter. The North remembers, but we also understand the cost of war. Not long ago, you may well have asked me to rally behind your uncle."

Rhaenyra felt her cheeks color, but before she could respond, Aemon took her hand. He took a deep breath, his voice more measured now. "We do not seek to plunge the North into unnecessary conflict. House Steelfyre cannot let this go unanswered and we seek allies who value honor and justice as much as we do. Will Winterfell stand with us in this pursuit?"

Cregan studied them both, his gaze piercing. "The North will always stand for what is right. I will consider your request, but understand that my first duty is to my people. Winter is coming, and I mean to call a true Wintermoot. We will discuss this further then.”

Rhaenyra felt anger bubbling up in her, but the look from her husband’s defeated frame was enough to calm her down. She bowed her head. "Thank you, Lord Stark."

The early morning light filtered softly through the heavy curtains of their chamber. Rhaenyra had just slipped out from under the warm covers, where Aemon lay half-naked, his body still wrapped in sleep. She pulled on a simple gown, the fabric cool against her skin as she prepared to visit the ravenry of Winterfell.

“Where are you going?” Aemon's voice was hoarse from sleep. Rhaenyra laid a hand atop his, smiling sweetly.

“I must send a missive to the Ironkeep and King’s Landing.” She kissed her husband’s fingers and noticed a spark returning to his eyes.

“You’ll write to the Queen?” he slowly sat down on the bed.

She hated the thought but knew she had to at least thank Alicent for sending the news so quickly. And perhaps see if there was any chance of her good father’s bones being recovered. “It’s the least I can do.”

Aemon’s gaze softened as he looked at her. “I appreciate your strength, Rhaenyra. Even when it’s hard.”

She gave him a tender smile, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “We must do what is necessary, my love.”

Aemon stood up from the bed, his movements deliberate and determined. “I will come with you.”

She panicked slightly, her heart racing as she considered the other letter in her possession. “You ought to rest; you had a long trip, and…”

He brushed her off with a dismissive wave. “I am perfectly capable of taking an early morning walk.”

She sighed but managed to muster a smile. “Then let us. We can break our fast together.”

As they made their way to the ravenry, the early morning air was brisk, and the stone floors were cold beneath their feet. The castle was quiet, with only the soft rustle of her gown, the distant cawing of animals, and the whisper of the wind breaking the silence.

“I am amazed by you finding your way so quickly,” Aemon jested lightly as they walked side by side.

“I spent a fortnight here,” she chuckled. “It is hard not to familiarize oneself with the grounds.”

Their soft laughter echoed through the corridors until they abruptly crossed paths with Lord Stark, who walked with a small retinue of maids, or rather, wet nurses. She assumed the bundle being cradled by one of them was Cregan’s heir, the young Lord Rickon Stark.

“My Lord,” Aemon stopped as the man approached them. He looked equally perplexed by their presence.

“My Lord, Lady,” he greeted them. “An early morning walk?”

“We had some messages to dispatch back home and to King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra said, her eyes drifting to the bundle. “Is Lord Rickon being moved to new chambers?”

Cregan’s face hardened before softening as his eyes fell on the infant in the wet nurse's arms. “My son is quickly outgrowing his nursery.”

They nodded, and the silence stretched uncomfortably. Rhaenyra tried hard to avoid looking at Stark, still feeling slighted by his brusque manners. But suddenly, the man spoke.

“I thought about what we discussed last night,” Lord Stark said, his voice measured. “My father respected yours and his courage.” There was a pause, and Rhaenyra felt her patience wearing thin, but Aemon’s hand on her wrist stopped her. “I’ll send word to Barrow Hall. Lord Dustin will be charged with gathering as many men as he can to leave with you as fast as possible.”

Aemon looked taken aback but bowed deeply. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Lord Stark gave him a long, hard look. “We have one more harvest to bring in before winter is truly upon us. Dustin is apt to send you greybeards, but they will be well-seasoned. I will call at the Wintermoot for what men can be spared to follow in your path while men can still move freely. Before the snows truly fall.”

With that, he left, walking in a different direction, maids trailing in his wake. Rhaenyra almost couldn’t believe what had just happened. She searched for Aemon’s eyes, and he mirrored her astonishment.

“I assume we’ll have to review that missive to the Ironkeep,” she said softly.

Rhaenyra stood in the courtyard of Winterfell, the early morning light casting a soft glow over the ancient stone walls. The air was crisp, and the smell of pine and distant fires filled her senses. Her breath formed small clouds in the cold air as she held Aemon’s hands, feeling the warmth of his skin against the chill.

“Be safe out there,” she said, her voice filled with a tender concern.

Around them, a small part of her retinue was preparing to accompany Aemon for the first leg of his journey. Horses were being saddled, and men were making final adjustments to their gear. The sounds of preparation filled the courtyard, a stark contrast to the quiet, intimate moment they shared. The men of the Ironkeep and their allies from the Manderly lands should have already received the news to begin making their way to Moat Cailin, to meet with Aemon and Lord Rodrick Dustin’s greybeards. Already she heard talk calling them the Winter Wolves.

She disliked the idea of parting ways so suddenly, after just a handful of days together, but she knew he was capable and strong, and she had faith in his safe return.

“Aemon,” Rhaenyra hesitated, her voice faltering. “If you cross Daemon on the battlefield…” He gently placed a finger against her lips, silencing her, but she pressed further. “If Aemon Targaryen gets to him first, I will accept his fate, no matter how much it pains me,” she whispered. “But Aemon, I beg you, do not put his blood on your hands…”

He gave her a bewildered look, as if ready to argue. “Rhaenyra, he killed my father.”

She sighed, a heavy sadness settling in her chest. “I don’t want you to carry his death on your conscience. Vengeance is… a poisonous thing, Aemon.”

There was a pregnant pause between them, the silence thick with unspoken fears. Aemon finally lifted her face, looking at her attentively. “I swore an oath for you, Rhaenyra. You have my life in your hands, don’t forget that.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she nodded, her voice barely a whisper, uttering the words she had never quite said out loud before. “I love you, Aemon.”

The seriousness of the moment seemed to break apart after those three simple words, and a smile blossomed on his face, as he fought to keep a serious demeanor. “You…” he laughed, kissing her. “I love you, Rhae.”

As they stood together, she took in every detail of the moment, committing it to memory. The way his hair fell over his brow, the familiar lines of his face, the warmth of his hands. She felt a surge of gratitude for the man who had become her rock and partner in this unpredictable world.

The horses were ready, and the men were mounting up. Aemon gently squeezed her hands before letting go. “Take care of yourself, Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice filled with love and confidence. “I’ll return to you as soon as I can.”

She nodded, a bright smile lighting up her face. “And I’ll be here, waiting for you. Always.”

With a final, lingering look, Aemon mounted his horse, and Rhaenyra stepped back, watching as he joined the others. The courtyard echoed with the sounds of hooves and the creak of leather as they rode out, the banner of House Steelfyre fluttering in the cold breeze.

As Aemon disappeared from view, Rhaenyra felt a sense of hope. She knew they would be reunited soon. She turned and made her way back into the keep, her heart warmed by the love she felt for her husband and the surety that he would return to her.

Chapter Text

She would never forget the sight of her husband and the troops as they returned to Storm’s End from Bitterbridge.

Laena stood amidst the women of Queen Aemma’s court, a tapestry of anxious faces and elegant gowns, their collective anticipation hanging heavy in the air. They had gathered to welcome back their brave heroes, the soldiers who had ventured out for what Laena had believed would be a straightforward peace negotiation. Yet, the undercurrent of tension was palpable, a shadow cast long before the men appeared on the horizon.

The rumors had started as a trickle, snippets of overheard conversations and hurried whispers that quickly swelled into a tide of dread. News had traveled fast, borne on the wings of ravens and the lips of messengers, painting a picture far removed from the peaceful resolution Laena had hoped for.

As she scanned the distant horizon, the sea breeze tugging at her veil, Laena's mind churned with unease. The latest reports suggested a different story, one where negotiations had devolved into a massacre. Had things gone awry? Or, a more unsettling thought gnawed at her – had events unfolded precisely as intended, a darker design cloaked beneath the guise of diplomacy?

The first sign of their return was the flutter of banners, a ripple of color against the sky. Then came the faint but growing sound of hooves and marching feet, the clank of armor, and the low murmur of voices. Laena’s heart quickened. She strained to see, to catch a glimpse of her husband, to read in his posture and expression the truth of what had transpired. Her daughter, Calla, was with her.

“Do you see father?” she had asked her, trying to stand on her tiptoes.

“Not yet, darling,” she whispered, hoping to get a glimpse of her husband amongst the backdrop of armored knights and faceless men-at-arms.

When the party finally came into view, a hush fell over the assembled women. They moved as one, a disciplined column, and they looked radiant. Wide smiles, although their armor looked dirty, and more than one carried the signs of battle, however, she hadn’t seen such a vibrant parade of blooded chivalry since the War for the Stepstones.

And then there was her husband, at the forefront of the returning force. His armor was sullied, not only with the glory of battle but with the residue of something far more troubling. His gaze met hers, and in that instant, Laena saw the burden he carried. The weight that troubled him. There was a haunted quality to his expression as if he had seen the Stranger himself.

Laena's stomach twisted. The celebration she had imagined now felt inappropriate, almost grotesque. As the men marched past, the women’s cheers grew louder, their applause a cascade of forced merriment. It was a pleasant welcome for their victors, but it felt hollow to her.

The Queen stepped forward, her smile ever present. She greeted the knight in front of her, now Lord Commander of the Dragonsguard, Ser Criston Cole.

“Lord Commander," Aemma spoke naturally. "Where is my husband, the King?"

Ser Criston lifted the visor of his helmet and looked down from his warhorse at the Queen. “The King flies with the rear guard. He ensures that none will fall upon us so close to home.”

His triumphant and proud demeanor contrasted heavily with her husband’s haunted look. Laena tried to step forward, but Lady Baratheon's hand stopped her. She looked sidelong at the woman, who simply shook her head.

"We were ambushed during the peace talks by the false King," Aegon said mechanically, as he reined in beside Ser Criston Cole. His voice carried a muted question, looking around at the men behind them, and his voice rose to that of a battlefield commander. "We took Bitterbridge, and although we suffered from their treachery, we came out victorious! To the king!"

The soldiers behind him cheered, throwing their arms up in the air and chanting Aegon and Daemon’s names.

Aemma’s face remained fixed in that ethereal smile. "Be welcome, then, champions! Lady Baratheon, tonight we are to feast in their honor."

The woman bowed deeply as she nodded and finally released Laena from her grip. The men’s cheers grew louder as commanders barked orders to move inside the castle to rest.

Laena stepped forward, her eyes never leaving her husband’s face. He dismounted, moving toward her with a slow, deliberate pace, as if every step was an effort. When he finally stood before her, Laena saw the truth in his eyes: whatever had happened at Bitterbridge, peace would never have been the outcome.

She felt a profound sense of unease. The celebration around her seemed a mockery, a bright facade that hid the darkness they all now carried.

"Aegon," she began, caressing his face. He simply kissed the palm of her hand.

"Not here, not now," he murmured, pulling her closer. He kissed her deeply, drawing cheers and hoorays from his men. Her husband was putting on quite the spectacle, yet, the kiss tasted bittersweet. As quickly as he embraced her, he lifted their daughter, and she saw traces of the joy of a man who hadn’t quite believed he would survive until now.

Then the world went quiet once more before the roar of dragons filled the air. She looked up at the sky and saw the crimson shade of Caraxes, his distinctive screech echoing across the courtyard.

But what surprised her most was the arrival of another dragon. Lithe and graceful, the color of the sky in a storm and the ash of the hearth, she recognized it as her Uncle Valerion’s dragon. Grey Ghost.

Confusion seized Laena as she watched the distant dragon grow larger in the sky. Had Daemon's plan succeeded? Had her uncle truly agreed to join their cause and rally House Steelfyre to their side?

But as the dragon drew closer, her hope wavered. The rider atop the beast was not the imposing figure of Prince Valerion, but someone smaller, leaner. The realization began to dawn on her, but she couldn’t quite grasp it yet.

Aegon stood nearby, holding Calla in his arms as she eagerly pointed skyward. "Is that Uncle Laenor?" the girl asked, her innocent excitement bringing a fleeting smile to Laena’s lips.

She glanced at Aegon, expecting to see shared amusement, but instead caught the grimace that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Her smile faded as she lifted her gaze back to the approaching dragon. As it circled lower, the truth became evident: it wasn’t Valerion who rode Grey Ghost, but her brother, Laenor.

“We have a new rider,” Aegon said softly, his voice tinged with sadness. He turned to Calla, who beamed with delight.

“He’s beautiful! What’s his name?”

“Grey Ghost,” Aegon replied, his smile strained.

Queen Aemma had quietly approached them, her eyes alight with curiosity. She exchanged a glance with Aegon, a subtle tension passing between them. As she reached out to stroke Calla’s hair, her expression softened, though a flicker of something darker lingered in her gaze.

“The Gods have blessed us with a new and formidable rider, don’t you think, Calla?” Aemma’s voice was gentle, but her words carried an undertone of significance.

Calla nodded eagerly, her wide eyes still fixed on the sky. “Do you think I will soon get to claim a dragon of my own?”

“Perhaps sooner than you think, little one,” Aemma replied, her tone warm but distant. She turned to the gathered soldiers and courtiers. “Come, brave soldiers, let us go inside and celebrate while my husband makes his way to us.”

Aemma walked with a regal grace, Ser Criston Cole shadowing her like a silent sentinel. The jubilant parade of soldiers and courtiers followed their cheers echoing against the stone walls of Storm’s End as they made their way toward the great hall.

Laena stood apart, a storm of questions brewing in her mind. She glanced at Aegon, who caught her look and shook his head, a silent plea for patience.

“Let’s go inside,” he said quietly, setting Calla down.

“I want to receive my brother,” Laena replied, her voice carefully measured to hide the turmoil within.

Aegon hesitated, then nodded firmly. “As you wish.”

As Calla tugged at his hand, guiding him back inside, Laena remained where she was, her eyes fixed on the approaching dragon and his new rider.

Grey Ghost descended with an eerie grace, his ashen form landing with a heavy thud that shook the ground beneath him. Laena watched as Laenor fumbled with the belts, his hands trembling as he unchained himself from the saddle. A shiver ran down her spine as she caught the glance exchanged between dragon and rider—a fleeting connection that unsettled her. Though she had come to understand the bond between dragons and their riders, there was something off-putting about seeing her brother casually pat the beast, as if Grey Ghost were merely a horse and not a creature of untamed power.

“You have a dragon,” Laena said, surprise lacing her words as Laenor approached within earshot. He blinked at her, his initial confusion quickly giving way to a broad smile of pride.

“Now there are two dragon riders in the family,” Laenor responded, his voice brimming with newfound confidence. “I think I can finally understand what Aenys and Aemon meant all those years ago…”

Laena’s brow furrowed, her thoughts turning dark as she abruptly cut him off. “What happened to Prince Valerion, our uncle?”

Laenor’s posture stiffened at the sharpness in her tone. His expression soured as he crossed his arms defensively, his earlier joy fading.

“He was killed. He died a traitor’s death.” Laenor replied, his voice firm with anger, but tinged with shame. “I wasn’t at the bridge when Valerion fell. By then, I was already racing for Grey Ghost, following the King’s command.”

“So this was Daemon’s doing?” Laena pressed her voice tight with accusation.

“Laena, this is war,” Laenor shot back, his annoyance growing. “Will you judge me as they did you at Dragonstone when you claimed Vhagar?”

“That’s different!” she retorted, her voice filled with indignation.

“How is it different?” Laenor demanded, his voice rising.

“She was unclaimed for at least twenty years,” Laena replied, motioning to the hesitant dragon that seemed torn between taking flight or staying grounded. “You acted worse than a vulture, swooping in to claim what wasn’t yours not even waiting for Valerion’s blood to run cold!”

“Stop it!” Laenor snapped, brushing past her with an air of finality. “I will not have you say those things to me, your brother!” He shook his head, disbelief evident in his eyes as he processed her harsh words. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll celebrate with those who are actually happy about this outcome.”

Laena watched him walk away, her anger simmering beneath the surface. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides, the tension between them lingering in the air like a storm on the horizon.

The main hall of Storm's End was a vast and imposing space, its high stone walls draped with the banners of House Baratheon, now joined by the intertwined dragons of House Skyfyre. The room teemed with people, their laughter and the strains of music filling every corner, echoing off the cold, ancient walls. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and the heady aroma of celebration.

As the feast progressed, Aegon remained unusually tight-lipped, his demeanor guarded. Every time Laena tried to broach the subject of what had transpired earlier, he skillfully diverted the conversation, introducing her to another knight or drawing her deeper into the festivities. It wasn’t long before she allowed herself to be swept up in the merriment, the infectious joy of the crowd dulling her concerns, at least for the moment.

Despite the revelry around them, she couldn’t help but notice Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Dragonsguard, standing watchful near the dais. Clad in deep crimson armor with his pristine white cloak flowing behind him, his posture was as rigid as a drawn bowstring. His eyes darted between the gathered lords and his king, vigilance written in every line of his face. While others reveled in the victory, Ser Criston remained a silent sentinel, seemingly untouched by the festivities.

At the heart of it all was Daemon, draped casually on the ancient throne once belonging to the Storm Kings, the Conqueror’s crown resting upon his brow as if it had always been his. To his left stood his Hand, Lord Unwin Peake, a man who exuded pride from every pore, his expression one of self-satisfied triumph. On Daemon’s right, Queen Aemma maintained her regal composure, her face set in the serene mask that Laena had come to recognize as her public persona. Her hand rested gently atop Daemon’s shoulder, a gesture of both support and silent command.

As the music gradually faded, the hall's boisterous energy shifted to a more expectant hush. The lords and ladies turned their attention toward their king and queen, their faces flushed with drink and cheer, eager for what would come next. Even Ser Erryk Cargyll, usually so stern, wore a rare smile as he joined in the general atmosphere of contentment.

Laena felt Aegon’s hand warm beneath hers, and he raised her fingers to his lips in a brief, tender gesture. The moment was interrupted as Lord Unwin Peake slowly rose from his seat, drawing the eyes of the assembly. The room fell into a near silence, all attention now focused on the Hand of the King. The festivities, it seemed, were about to take on a more serious tone.

“Wars are not won by mere chance,” Lord Unwin Peake began. He stood tall and proud next to Daemon, his words laced with conviction. “But by the hard toil and courage of valiant and exceptional men. Today, we celebrate the first victory over the false King, but tomorrow, we must bring him to heel and remove his whore and the bastard that he names a prince!”

The gathered men roared their approval, lifting their cups high, the clatter of metal and the roar of voices echoing through the hall.

Daemon then rose from his throne, commanding immediate attention. The hall seemed to hold its breath as they watched their king stand tall, despite the toll battle had taken on him. His movements were deliberate, the weight of his injuries evident in the way he shifted his stance. Yet, a fierce, determined smile played on his lips, undiminished by the pain.

"When offered fair terms, he spat in my face. When challenged to an honorable duel, he answered with treachery. And when he was outmatched, he fled like a coward," Daemon's voice was cold as steel, and he lifted his goblet high. "To our stalwart foe, Aemon Targaryen—the King Who Ran."

"The King Who Ran!" The jeer echoed through the hall, and the men erupted into wild cheers, drowning themselves in wine and ale as they celebrated their king's defiance. The air was thick with the fervor of loyalty, the room pulsing with the energy of men ready to follow Daemon to the very gates of hell.

The next morning, Daemon summoned them to his Small Council. Laena had been expressly invited, a rare acknowledgment of her status that carried as much weight as it did suspicion. Aegon, however, seemed to have been included as an afterthought, a fact that did little to soothe the simmering resentment she felt. Each time Daemon's trusted men were mentioned, that familiar anger flared up, and while Laena did her best to maintain an amiable smile and mask her outrage, the effort was becoming increasingly difficult with each passing day.

As she and Aegon made their way up the winding staircase of the tower, the ancient stones of Storm’s End seemed to echo her inner turmoil. The narrow windows allowed slivers of dawn light to pierce through, casting long, angular shadows along the walls. They arrived at the door to the solar, where two members of the Dragonsguard, Ser Erryk Cargyll, and Ser Rickard Thorne, stood as silent sentinels. Their crimson armor glinted in the dim light, and they offered curt nods of acknowledgment as Laena and Aegon approached.

The heavy wooden doors creaked open, and they stepped into the solar. The air was thick with tension, a silent, oppressive weight that seemed to hang over the room. Despite his injury, Daemon exuded a restless energy, his sharp gaze flicking from one face to another as if he were already several moves ahead in a game only he knew the rules to. Aemma, by contrast, was the picture of composed grace, her expression unreadable, a mask she wore as naturally as a second skin.

At Daemon’s right sat Lord Unwin Peake, his narrow eyes betraying the calculating mind behind them. Next to him was Ser Criston Cole, she found him serious to a fault almost as if trying to overcompensate for whatever fault he thought he had. Lord Borros Baratheon filled his seat with an air of barely concealed annoyance as if he found the entire affair a tiresome necessity. Laenor, representing their father, sat near the end of the table, his expression both prideful and tense as he cast a glance toward Laena. And finally, Grand Maester Orwyle sat with his eyes glued to the table, his gaunt face a study in resignation. She truly pitied the man.

Laena took a seat beside Aegon, her gaze briefly meeting Daemon’s. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—acknowledgment, perhaps, or a challenge—but it passed as quickly as it came. Aegon settled into his chair with forced nonchalance, but Laena could sense the unease beneath his calm exterior.

Daemon was the first to speak, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "We have much to discuss," he began, his tone brooking no delay. "The victory at Bitterbridge was but the first step. Now, we must consolidate our gains and prepare for the next phase of our campaign."

“Of course, Your Grace,” Unwin nodded, tapping the table with his fingers. "I bring good tidings! Lord Greyjoy has agreed to our terms, so his men will soon join us in battle."

The room seemed to collectively exhale, a murmur of approval rippling through the gathered lords and knights. Unwin snapped his fingers at the Grand Maester who procured a parchment from his sleeve.

“As for Lord Jasper Wylde, he has gracefully accepted your request, Your Grace,” he passed the parchment to Daemon who gave a quick glance and then gave it to Aemma. “He’ll arrive here within a fortnight if the winds favor him.”

“Excellent job, Peake. This means our small council is complete at last!”

Laena glanced at Aegon, catching the small, exasperated sigh that escaped him.

“He has still not named you to a seat?” she whispered, as Daemon directed the Grand Maester to bring forth the map of the Seven Kingdoms.

Aegon leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “He did not,” he muttered, watching as the Grand Maester and Storm’s End Maester struggled to position the heavy table in the center of the room. “The open positions were given to Aelor and Lord Wylde.”

“Aelor?” Laena echoed, surprise coloring her tone. “For what purpose?”

“Master of Whispers,” Aegon replied with a grimace. Laena scoffed, unable to hide her disdain as they moved closer to the table. Aegon caught her eye, his expression urging caution, but the tension between them was undeniable.

“And what about you?” Aegon shook his head, giving her a warning glance.

Daemon continued, his voice commanding as Laena’s gaze returned to the map before them.

"With the Ironborn supporting us in the West, we must move swiftly to prepare our fleet for the East," Daemon’s eyes shifted to Laenor, his tone sharpening with purpose. "Laenor, you will return to High Tide and inform your father to rally the ships that will join the Skyfyre fleet at the Stepstones. From there, they will strike westward at the Reach, while the Ironborn unleash their fury upon the Westerlands and Riverlands."

He traced a path on the map with his finger, and Laena followed it with keen interest, the strategy unfolding before her.

“I suggest we impose a blockade on King’s Landing,” Aegon interjected casually. Daemon didn’t bother to look at his brother. “Your Grace,” Aegon added, more firmly.

"Yes, yes, that too," Daemon waved him off dismissively. "Corlys knows what he’s doing."

Laenor nodded firmly, his expression resolute. "It will be done, Your Grace."

Daemon’s gaze then settled on Borros Baratheon, who seemed to be battling the pull of sleep. "Lord Borros, you will take a contingent of your men to the Northern border. We must keep any loyalist sympathies in check and prevent their forces from joining the false king."

Borros snapped back to attention, his chest puffing up with pride. "Hah! They don’t have near enough men to challenge the might of House Baratheon! We’ll crush them before they even think of joining Aemon," he spat on the floor to punctuate his words.

Finally, Daemon’s eyes landed on Laena. "Laena, you will lead the vanguard. Your presence will remind them of the power we wield and the price of defiance."

Laena narrowed her eyes, suspicion lacing her voice. “Just to fly over their castles?”

Daemon let out a snort of amusement. "If you wish to burn them to the ground, I won't stop you."

She shook her head, her gaze shifting to Aegon, who gave her a slight nod of encouragement. "No," she said, her voice steady.

"As for those who are absent,” Daemon smiled, ignoring her. “Lord Aelor Dragonfyre has already started raising the banners at the Riverlands so that our allies prepare to stop Prince Aenys and the Tullys before they can pose a problem," Daemon continued. "Eventually he will move to the Westerlands and if the tidings are good,” he looked at Aegon. “We shall see Casterly Rock fall to his Rivermen and the Ironborn led by my brother.”

“It’ll take me time to reach them from here,” he began, pointing at the map.

Daemon rolled his eyes. “You won’t start at the Iron Islands. No, I need you first to rally the fleet from the Stepstones and move along the Dornish coast.”

“It sounds dangerous,” Aegon looked at his brother.

“The Dornish won’t bother you,” Unwin spoke confidently. “They are embroiled in their own conflict in the West. And we will draw their attention further still to the Marches.”

Aegon still seemed unsure but nodded. “As Your Grace commands.”

Daemon's eyes settled on Ser Criston Cole, who stood at attention, his expression unreadable. "Ser Criston, you and I will march south to deal with the loyalists Selmy and Dondarrion. Afterward, we will link up with House Tarly and House Peake’s banners.”

"At your command, Your Grace," Criston said, his voice steady.

Unwin Peake cleared his throat. "My uncle, Ser Gedmund, remains at Bitterbridge, Your Grace. House Merryweather troops have joined us fully and are moving down the Mander as we speak."

Daemon nodded approvingly. "Good. We’ll need their strength in the coming days."

"And as for my Northern friends," Daemon continued, his tone rich with confident ease, "they stand ready to march south at my command. When the time is right, we’ll call them down like a hammer upon the anvil. The North will crush our enemies wherever they stand."

Laena, her brow furrowed with concern, broke the silence. “What about King’s Landing? You speak of heading West, but House Targaryen still sits comfortably in the Red Keep as we speak.”

Daemon’s fingers drummed against the wood of the table, a half-smile playing on his lips. “The boy won’t stay holed up there forever. He’s green and untested, and I will draw him out. He’ll move where I want him to.”

Aegon’s voice, though neutral, carried a hint of skepticism. “You sound certain.”

Unwin Peake chuckled, his laughter filling the room. “There’s a reason we’ve appointed Lord Dragonfyre as our Master of Whispers,” he said, his smile smug. “He has provided us with very accurate reports of the movements of our enemies.”

Laena exchanged a wary glance with Aegon, who simply nodded, though his expression remained guarded.

Laenor leaned forward, his tone more urgent. “And the other dragon riders? I’ve heard no word from Lady Rhaena, and House Steelfyre may seek retribution.”

Daemon sighed, a sound of weariness tinged with impatience. “Rhaena is exactly where she needs to be. As for the new Lord of the Ironkeep and Rhaenyra,” he allowed himself a small, cryptic smile before retrieving a parchment from within his doublet, “our niece sends her greetings and good tidings. She’ll remain neutral and open the gates of her Keep to our allies.”

Laena frowned, a flicker of doubt crossing her face, but Aegon spoke before she could voice her concerns. “Will she join the fight?”

“When the time is right, she will,” Daemon assured.

“And her husband? Prince Valerion wasn’t just any Prince…”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened, but before he could respond, Peake intervened. “The lad may seek revenge, yes, but we rely on his lady wife to keep him in check. Besides,” Peake waved a dismissive hand, “Northerners rarely venture beyond their swamp. Lord Stark will bend the knee the moment opposition arises. You worry too much, Ser Aegon.”

“I worry just enough,” Aegon replied, his words clipped and tense.

“Enough,” Queen Aemma interjected, her voice cutting through the rising tension as she stood. “The King knows what he is doing, and you owe him your trust.”

The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with unspoken words. Aegon shifted uneasily beside Laena, his fingers tightening around the armrest as he sought to regain composure. “There’s still the Dowager Queen’s dragon,” he finally said, his voice quieter now but resolute, “and Aenys is but a sparrow’s flight from the Red Keep.”

Daemon’s smile deepened as he met Laena’s gaze, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "We still have three more dragons at our disposal," he said, his tone almost playful.

"Daemon," Aegon interjected, his voice carrying a note of warning.

Daemon waved him off with a casual flick of his hand, his focus shifting to Laena. “Fly with me, Laena. It is a command."

Laena’s eyes narrowed at the command, her posture straightening as she met Daemon's challenge head-on. "Is my lord husband being considered for a position in this council?" she asked, her voice steady, though the underlying challenge was unmistakable.

The room seemed to hold its breath. Queen Aemma’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line, her gaze darting between her husband and Laena. Daemon, however, chuckled, the sound low and almost indulgent. "Always to the rescue, Laena," he mused, his eyes shifting to Aegon. "My dearest brother knows his role in this war, don’t you, Aegon?"

Aegon stiffened beside her, his jaw clenched. "I do."

Daemon’s smile took on a sharper edge. "Do you wish to forsake that mission and keep a seat warm inside the walls of Storm’s End?"

"No, Your Grace," Aegon replied, his voice tense as he took Laena’s hand, squeezing it just enough to keep her grounded. Laena felt the simmering anger rise within her, the urge to stand and wipe that smug grin off Daemon’s face nearly overwhelming. "Forgive my wife."

"There is nothing to forgive, brother," Daemon said with a smile that felt more like a barbed wire. He turned his gaze to Laena, his eyes gleaming with condescension. "I am glad you married a formidable woman, ready to defend your honor, even when it’s not necessary."

Laena’s jaw tightened, her rage simmering just beneath the surface as she witnessed the blatant disrespect toward her husband. The room felt stifling, the air heavy with unspoken tensions and unvoiced resentments. She was not one to sit quietly and accept such slights, but she also knew that this was not the moment to lash out.

Instead, she held Daemon's gaze, refusing to look away, letting him know that while she would play along for now, she was no meek wife to be trifled with.

“What say you, Lady Laena?”

She felt her jaw stiffen as she mustered a forced smile. “His Grace has given me much to reflect upon. I’ll bring you forth an answer sooner rather than later.”

Daemon’s eyes twinkled with malice. “I expect sooner, dearest good sister. Now, let us continue.”

The council resumed, but Laena's mind was far from the strategies and plans being discussed.

She heard the anger through the door. Once more, as it had always been, Aegon and Daemon quarreled bitterly behind closed doors. The familiar cacophony of raised voices was a grating symphony, each discordant note a fresh wound. She couldn’t quite catch what was being said, but the undercurrent of rage was palpable, thick as the smoke that curled lazily from the hearth. A shiver ran down her spine as she imagined the heated exchange within, the words like daggers, the emotions raw and exposed.

The door creaked open abruptly, and Daemon emerged, his face flushed with fury. His eyes, usually so bright with mischief, were now dark and stormy. Without a glance in her direction, he stormed past her, his footsteps echoing through the hall.

Aegon followed a moment later, his face a mask of simmering rage. His eyes, however, held a different kind of storm, one brewing beneath a calmer surface. He closed the door softly behind him, his movements slow and deliberate. His hands clenched into fists, his jaw was tight, and his breathing was labored.

A heavy silence fell over the room. The air was thick with tension, a palpable weight pressing down on them both. Laena watched him, her heart aching as she tried to decipher the storm raging within him.

Aegon finally broke the silence, his voice rough. "What did you hear?"

Laena sighed, her gaze steady. "Enough to know this isn't healthy. For either of you." Her voice was gentle, but her words carried a firm undertone.

"Spare me the lecture, Laena," he retorted, his voice edged with bitterness. Slumping in his chair, his shoulders sagged as though under a weight only he could feel. "I… deserved his anger."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Deserved? Are you even listening to yourself?"

"You weren't there, Laena. I acted a craven, and it almost…." His voice faltered as he ran a hand over his exhausted face. "Daemon’s anger is justified."

She pressed her lips into a thin line and sighed, frustration mingling with sadness. No matter how often she tried, Aegon wouldn’t let go of this strange guilt. “What happened at Bitterbridge? What really happened?”

Aegon glanced at the hearth, then back at her. "It was a trap. It had always been."

"Did you know?"

He shook his head. "I started to suspect once we arrived, but not before… I truly believe Daemon wants peace. His offer to Aemon Targaryen was not entirely without merit.”

Laena sat at his feet, her hands resting on his knees, gently massaging the tension from his legs. "You always expect the best from him."

Aegon offered a sad smile. "You don’t know him like I do, Laena. His anger… I understand it. I share it."

"Even at the cost of Prince Valerion’s life? Otto Hightower’s? Ser Harrold Westerling’s?" she looked at him, trying to see if he would try and shield Daemon once more.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling fire beside them.

"Yes," he finally whispered.

She lowered her eyes and rested her head on his lap, feeling his fingers gently stroke her hair. My haunted man, she thought sadly. “What will you do now?”

“I’m to join the fleet making its way to the Stepstones and rendezvous with the ships Dalton Greyjoy has already sent to Stormwatch. From there, I will sail the Summer Sea around Dorne to take command of our forces in the Reach.”

“What about me?” she whispered. “And the girls?”

Aegon gently lifted her face, his gaze softening. “Baela will be safe at High Tide, with your father. Calla will stay here as a companion to the Queen, and you…” He trailed off, uncertainty in his voice.

“I have to make a decision,” she said, her voice tinged with resignation. “If you tell me this is the right thing to do, I’ll do it, Aegon. Not for your brother and his senseless war. But for you.”

Aegon nodded. “If we can end this war without more bloodshed… I know Vhagar and you will be key to that,” he said, a small smile finally breaking through. “And you’ll get your chance to chase the skies.”

Laena’s smile blossomed in return, a melodious laugh escaping her lips. “Queen Visenya come again?”

“Don’t say that to your good sister,” Aegon jested, and for a fleeting moment, all thoughts of war, fear, and anger faded away.

Chapter Text

House Targaryen: A three-headed dragon breathing flames, red on black.

• "Fire and Blood"

Seat(s): Dragonstone, the Red Keep

Founder(s): Aenar Targaryen.

House Targaryen by the end of 125 AC

• King Aerys I (74 AC - 125 AC) - married to his cousin Queen Dowager Rhaenys Targaryen. Fell from his dragon.
  • King Aemon I (94 AC) - married in 119 AC to Queen Alicent Hightower.
    • Prince Aegon (120 AC) of Dragonstone. Betrothed to Lady Alleria Dayne.
  • Prince Aenys (99 AC) - married in 122 AC to Lady Ellyn Tully.
    • Princess Daenerys (123 AC)
    • Princess Alysanne (124 AC)
  • Princess Aelyx (101 AC - 125 AC) married Ser Davos Swann by the end of 124 AC and drowned in a shipwreck.
• Prince Daeron (77 AC) - married to Lady Rhea Royce. Childless.
• Princess Vaella (78 AC) - married to her cousin Lord Viserys Skyfyre*
  • House Skyfyre*
• Prince Maegor, a.k.a. Ser Aegor (81 AC) - Member of the Kingsguard.

Children of the Good Kings

• Prince Vaegon (63 AC) Archmaester.
• Princess Saera (67 AC) - married Corlys Velaryon, separated in 94 AC, and owner of a pleasure house in Lys.
  • House Velaryon*
• Princess Viserra (71 AC) - married to her brother husband Gaemon Targaryen*
  • House Dragonfyre*
• Prince Valerion (77 AC - 125 AC) - married to Lady Tessa Manderly. Killed at Bitterbridge.
  • House Steelfyre*

Dragonriders:

• Queen Dowager Rhaenys: Meleys.
• Prince Daeron: Arrax.
• King Aemon: Vermithor.
• Prince Aenys: Sunfyre.
• Princess Daenerys: Hatchling, nameless.

The Small Council

Hand of the King: Vacant since the death of Ser Otto Hightower in 125 AC.

Grand Maester: Vacant since the capture of Grand Maester Orwyle.

Master of ships: Ser Tyland Lannister (appointed since 114 AC)

Master of laws: Vacant since the death of Lord Viserys Skyfyre and Prince Valerion in 125 AC.

Master of the coin: Prince Daeron Targaryen (appointed in 120 AC)

Master of whispers: Maryros Ostys (appointed since 105 AC)

Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Maegor a.k.a. Aegor Targaryen (appointed in 125 AC)

Mistress of Dragons: Vacant since the death of Princess Aelyx in 125 AC.

Their Cadet Houses:

House Skyfyre: Two dragons, crimson and bronze face to face, intertwined tails, over a black field.

• "We soar above"

Seat: Stormwatch Castle, located in the Stepstones, where it can watch the stormy seas and the Dornish coast.

Founder(s): Prince Baelon ‘the Brave’ Targaryen and his sister-wife Princess Alyssa Targaryen.

• Lord Viserys Skyfyre (77 AC - 125 AC) - married Princess Vaella Targaryen, sister of King Aerys I. Died in a shipwreck.
  • Ser Vaelon (93 AC - 113 AC) died childless and unmarried during one of the skirmishes of the Triarchy.
  • Lady Rhaenyra (98 AC) - married her cousin Aemon Steelfyre in 119 AC.
    • House Steelfyre*
• King Daemon Skyfyre I (81 AC) - married in 109 AC to Queen Aemma Arryn.
  • Prince Aegon ‘the Younger’ Skyfyre (112 AC) is a squire under Lord Aelor Dragonfyre’s tutelage.
  • Prince Viserys Skyfyre (115 AC) is a squire under Lord Borros Baratheon’s tutelage.
• Ser Aegon 'the Elder' Skyfyre (84 AC) - married in 109 AC Lady Laena Velaryon. Castellan of Stormwatch Keep.
  • Lady Baela Skyfyre/of Pentos (115 AC) - betrothed to Jacaerys Velaryon.
  • Lady Calla Skyfyre/of Pentos (115 AC)

The Small Council

Hand of the King: Lord Unwin Peake.

Grand Maester: Maester Orwyle (against his will)

Master of ships: Lord Corlys Velaryon

Master of laws: Lord Jasper Wylde

Master of the coin: Lord Borros Baratheon

Master of whispers: Lord Aelor Dragonfyre

Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Criston Cole

Mistress of Dragons: Formally Vacant.

Dragonriders:

• King Daemon: Caraxes.
• Lady Laena Velaryon: Vhagar.
• Aegon: Young dragon, Stormcloud.
• Baela: Young dragon, Moondancer.

House Steelfyre: A steel-gray dragon with silver claws, surrounded by seven red flames on a white field with a black border.

• "Iron will, iron heart"

Keep: Ironkeep Castle, located near Moat Cailin, around the bifurcation of the White Knife, is a formidable fortress made of ironwood that resists both enemies and the harsh winters.

Founder(s): Prince Valerion Targaryen and his wife Lady Tessa Manderly.

• Lord Aemon Steelfyre (103 AC) - married his cousin Rhaenyra Skyfyre in 119 AC.
  • Alyssa Steelfyre (121 AC)
  • Daenyra Steelfyre (123 AC)
  • Baelor Steelfyre (124 AC)
• Lady Daenys Steelfyre (105 AC) - married Byam Flint in 123 AC.
  • House Flint of Widow’s Watch.

Dragonriders:

• Ser Aemon: Seasmoke.
• Lady Rhaenyra: Syrax.
• Lady Alyssa: Hatchling, nameless.
• Lord Baelor: Hatchling, nameless.

House Dragonfyre: A violet dragon with golden eyes, surrounded by seven white stars on a field of orange and red flames.

• "Dragonfire purifies"

Keep Dragon’s Rest Castle (formerly), located near the ruins of Harrenhal, where dragons once roosted and rested; Harrenhal (current).

Founder(s): Prince Gaemon Targaryen and his sister-wife Viserra Targaryen.

• Lord Aelor Dragonfyre (93 AC) - married in 109 AC to his sister-wife Rhaena Dragonfyre.
  • Aenar Dragonfyre (110 AC) is a squire of his father at Harrenhal.
  • Maelys Dragonfyre (115 AC) is under house arrest at King’s Landing.
• Lady Rhaena Dragonfyre (95 AC) - married to her husband-brother Aelor Dragonfyre.
• Lady Visenya Drangofyre (98 AC) - married Ser Laenor Velaryon in 113 AC.
  • House Velaryon*

Dragonriders:

• Lady Rhaena: Tessarion.

House Velaryon: A silver seahorse on sea green

• "The Old, the True, the Brave"

Keep High Tide (current) Castle Driftmark (formerly).

Founder(s): Unknown.

• Corlys Velaryon (53 AC) - married to Princess Saera Targaryen. They separated in 94 AC. Never remarried.
  • Laena Velaryon (92 AC) - married Prince Aegon 'the Younger' Skyfyre in 109 AC. Dragonrider of Vhagar.
    • House Skyfyre*
  • Ser Laenor Velaryon (94 AC) - married Lady Visenya Dragonfyre in 113 AC. Their children are rumored to be bastards of Ser Harwin Strong.
    • Jacaerys Velaryon (114 AC) - betrothed to his cousin Baela Skyfyre. A squire under the tutelage of Ser Daeron Velaryon.
    • Lucerys Velaryon (115 AC) is a squire under the tutelage of Ser Aegon Skyfyre.
    • Joffrey Velaryon (121 AC)
  • Addam of Hull (97 AC) - bastard of Lord Corlys.
  • Alyn of Hull (98 AC) - bastard of Lord Corlys.
• Vaemond Velaryon (55 AC) - Unknown wife.
  • Daeron Velaryon (90 AC) - married to Hazel Harthe in 125 AC.
  • Daemion Velaryon (93 AC) - unmarried.

Dragonrider:

• Ser Laenor: Grey Ghost.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over the port of High Tide, casting long shadows across the bustling harbor. The salty tang of the sea mingled with the sounds of clattering armor, shouted orders, and the creaking of ships swaying gently at anchor. Men-at-arms and sailors hurried across the docks, their movements purposeful, driven by the urgency of the coming campaign. Sails were hoisted, crates of provisions were loaded, and blades were sharpened in anticipation of the battles ahead.

Visenya stood beneath the shade of a large sail, her silver hair catching the light breeze, her violet eyes narrowing as she observed the Velaryon men working with practiced precision. Every fiber of her being ached to be among them, to lend her hand to the preparations, to prove her worth beyond the gaze of a commander. Yet, she remained where she was, a silent sentinel, watching the controlled chaos unfold before her.

She had no right to be there, or so they said. The men whispered that women were a bad omen, especially when war had been declared, and their superstition held as much weight as any strategy. But to Visenya, it was just another of the many failings of men. They were blind to her worth and dismissive of her achievements.

These same men who now toiled before her, preparing for the campaign, seemed to forget that she had built a ship from nothing, shaping timber and iron into a vessel worthy of the sea. She had sailed from Braavos to the Summer Islands, from Stormwatch to Pyke, and braved storms with a crew who believed her cursed yet kissed her feet the moment she took them unscattered to the safety of Pentos. Yet, despite her accomplishments, she was relegated to the shade of a hastily erected gazebo beside the shipyard, her presence tolerated but not exactly welcomed.

The only ones who truly saw her worth were the sons of Lord Corlys - her husband Laenor and his half-brothers Alyn and Addam of Hull. But among them, only Addam fully supported her ambitions. Earlier that day, he had tried to lift her spirits with a jest, his tone light but the truth in his words undeniable.

“If you had heard what they say about bastards,” he had laughed, “you’d think I was cursed. It took me time to be allowed aboard a ship. They say I carry the sins of my forebears, and I must cleanse myself before I can set foot on deck.”

She had scoffed at that. “Yet they do not question your right to sail. Only Corlys’ support grants me a position in the fleet.”

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself,” he had urged, but the words rang hollow in her ears.

She had huffed in frustration as Addam left to attend to his duties, leaving her alone beneath the shade. Her eyes followed the men at work, but her thoughts were far from the shore.

Her husband had returned from Storm’s End just two days ago, and though she had felt a flicker of relief at seeing him unscathed, that brief happiness had quickly been overshadowed by the sight of his dragon. Even now, the memory of the beast sent a chill through her. The creature was a dreadful addition to House Velaryon, which she could hardly bear to look at, let alone trust. And the circumstances of his arrival left her a sour taste.

Visenya had never shared the fascination others had with dragons. She had grown to distrust the beasts, seeing them as unpredictable and dangerous, too bound to the skies and the fire within them. With a certain satisfaction, she remembered the day King Aerys had refused her parents' pleas to let her claim a dragon at the Dragonpit. The rejection had driven her father to a fury and exacerbated her mother’s cold disappointment, but Visenya had felt only relief. The heavens were not her domain; the sea and its relentless foam were.

“My Lady,” a hurried young sailor came running to her side. “Lord Corlys summons you.”

“Tell him I’ll see him later,” she replied, dismissing the boy with a wave of her hand. But his pleading eyes made her pause.

“It is an urgent matter, my Lady.”

She sighed, exasperation evident in her voice, but after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “Lead the way, then.”

The path from the shipyard to High Tide was one she knew well. She walked briskly, her steps quickened by annoyance at the sudden distraction and anxiety about whatever urgency had summoned her. Everything seemed to be an urgent matter these days, and it weighed on her. With Laena’s absence, Visenya had taken on more responsibilities within the castle, a role that was both unwelcome and tedious. The duties of the Lady of Driftmark were a poor substitute for the freedom of the sea and the satisfaction of working at the shipyard, and she chafed under the expectations that came with the title.

As she ascended the stone steps leading to the castle, her thoughts wandered. Perhaps, she mused, this summons might involve the upcoming discussions about the naval campaign. A position of honor among those who would decide the fate of the fleet might finally be within her grasp. And there was still the promise Laenor had made—a tour of the Free Cities, a chance to see the world beyond the Narrow Sea. She was still owed that much.

High Tide rose before her, an imposing fortress of pale stone, its towers reaching toward the sky like the masts of a great ship. The castle had always reminded her of the sea, with its weathered walls and narrow windows that overlooked the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs below. Inside, the corridors were cool and dimly lit, the air filled with the scent of salt and aged wood. Tapestries depicting the history of House Velaryon and the Sea Snake’s adventures across the Narrow Sea and beyond lined the walls.

As she walked through the halls, Visenya passed servants and retainers who bowed respectfully, their whispers trailing in her wake. She barely noticed them, her mind focused on the unknown matter that awaited her. The echoes of her footsteps on the stone floor seemed louder than usual, the silence of the castle unsettling in its intensity.

Finally, she reached the main hall, where the Driftwood Throne stood, carved from the bleached bones of old ships. The throne was a symbol of the Velaryons’ dominion over the seas, a reminder of their ancient and unyielding power. The heavy wooden doors leading to the hall were closed, but even from this side, she could hear the faint sounds of raised voices—a heated discussion, it seemed.

The two soldiers who stood guard pushed open the door, and Visenya immediately felt the tension that filled the room. The air was thick with frustration, the kind that crackled like the calm before a storm. As she stepped inside, it became clear that whatever was unfolding had driven the four men within to the brink of their tempers.

Corlys sat on the Driftwood Throne, his face a mask of hardened resolve. The usually composed Sea Snake looked as if he had been worn thin by whatever discussion had taken place before her arrival. His knuckles were white where he gripped the arms of the throne, a clear sign of the effort it took to remain seated instead of lashing out.

Nearby, Addam and Alyn stood over a large map spread across a table, their expressions a mixture of concentration and simmering anger. Alyn’s brow was furrowed in deep thought, his eyes tracing the lines and markers on the map as if trying to find a solution to whatever problem had them all so on edge. Addam, however, was less controlled—his hand hovered over the hilt of his sword, the muscles in his jaw tight as he struggled to keep his emotions in check.

Laenor stood apart from the others, his back to them as he faced one of the narrow windows that overlooked the churning sea below. His shoulders were tense, his posture stiff with frustration. He did not turn when Visenya entered, but she could see the set of his jaw reflected faintly in the glass.

“Visenya,” Corlys greeted her, his tone cold and clipped. “You’ve arrived at a difficult moment.”

Her gaze swept the room, taking in the tense atmosphere before settling on her husband. “You summoned me, good father. What is this about?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with authority as she stepped further into the room.

Laenor turned to face her, frustration etched on his face. “Vaemond is refusing to move his fleet.”

She frowned, her impatience barely concealed. “Is that all? We don’t need the old man—”

“We do,” Corlys interjected, rising from the Driftwood Throne with surprising agility for his age. His eyes were sharp, his movements deliberate. “If we’re to meet Daemon’s expectations, we need every ship at our disposal.”

Visenya crossed her arms, her gaze narrowing. “And what, exactly, are those expectations?”

Alyn stepped forward, the frustration clear in his voice. “We’re to blockade King’s Landing and join the remainder of Stormwatch’s fleet at the Stepstones. But without Vaemond’s fleet, we cannot effectively do both.”

“At first, we thought he was just being stubborn - jockeying for a greater command,” Addam added, his tone grim. “But it has become clear Vaemond refuses to contribute to the war in any fashion. And many captains have heeded his call.”

“He’s inciting mutiny among our men?” Visenya scoffed, incredulous. “I knew he was stubborn, but this?”

Corlys and Laenor exchanged a tense look, and Visenya’s eyes narrowed in understanding. “Daeron is with the fleet at Stormwatch. Does his father care so little for the precarious position this puts him in?”

Corlys waved off her concern. “It’s pointless to dwell on that now. We’ll deal with Vaemond when the time comes.”

Visenya wasn’t convinced. “And what if he truly turns cloak? What’s to stop him from sabotaging our blockade from within, stirring up more mutinies among the fleet? Or, gods forbid, taking his fleet to King’s Landing?”

Laenor’s smile was sharp and confident. “He won’t get the chance. I won’t let him.”

Visenya’s retort died on her lips as she remembered the new weapon at their disposal—the dragon that now served House Velaryon. “You’ve been a dragon rider for scarcely a full moon’s turn.” She reminded him gently. “Are you so eager to face the Red Queen or the Bronze Fury?”

Laenor shrugged, unbothered. “I welcome the challenge.”

“Enough,” Corlys cut in, his voice brooking no argument. “Grey Ghost’s presence may deter action from King’s Landing, but our problem remains: we have too few ships to secure the Stepstones.”

“This sounds like a problem for Daemon…”

“This is our problem, Visenya,” Corlys said, his tone stern, leaving no room for defiance. “I called you here to help find solutions, not to undermine our position.”

Visenya lowered her head, chastened. “I’m sorry, good father.” She glanced at Addam, who shook his head slightly. “Perhaps… Dark Sister is ready for the seas—”

Alyn cut her off, his voice blunt. “Your ship is more suited for leisure than battle. She’s not equipped for the treacherous waters of the Stepstones, and we are apt to face the Redwyne fleet sooner rather than later.”

A flush of anger rose to Visenya’s cheeks as she turned to face the young commander. “Dark Sister is a warship, Ser Alyn, and I have braved the Stepstones before. With my husband’s… dragon, we can secure the Stepstones with a smaller fleet. That will leave you with more than enough ships to maintain the blockade, at least until we deal with Redwyne and return.” She turned back to Corlys, her eyes steely. “What say you, my lord?”

The room fell into a heavy silence as her words hung in the air. Visenya held her breath, her heart pounding as she waited for Corlys’s judgment.

Laenor stepped forward quickly, eager to bolster her argument. “Laena will also fight.”

Corlys arched an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “When?”

Laenor’s excitement was palpable, his words tumbling out in a rush. “She will support Lord Borros’s army on the Northern border, and when the time is right, the two of us could lay siege to King’s Landing—by land and sea!”

Visenya could see the allure of the plan, the boldness of it. But Corlys’s response was as cold and calculating as the sea he commanded.

“You are a new dragon rider, Laenor,” Corlys said, his tone stern, dampening his son’s enthusiasm. “Untested and untrained. A dragon is no horse or ship you can master with mere determination. It is a creature beyond our control. We are not dragon riders by nature—we are sailors.”

Laenor’s face fell, his earlier excitement fading into frustration. His words, however, were sharp with defiance. “Maybe this is why King Aerys didn’t grant you a place at his table,” he retorted, puffing his chest in pride. “Because you think too small, too limited.”

“To his detriment. And I serve a new king now.” Corlys’s expression remained unchanged, though a slight chuckle escaped him. “Your overconfidence will be your undoing, boy,” he said, the last word laced with condescension. He then turned his gaze to Visenya. “If you and Laenor can prove your worth at the Stepstones, I will grant you a command when you return to the Blackwater. But if you fail, do not expect me to come to your rescue, good daughter.”

The way Corlys spoke made it sound less like a possibility and more like an inevitability, yet Visenya clung to his words like a lifeline. “We won’t fail you, good father.”

Corlys nodded in approval, though his expression remained stern. “Alyn, bring forth the map.”

Alyn exchanged a brief glance with his brother before unfolding the map on the table.

“Alyn, you and Addam will remain with the bulk of our fleet to ensure the blockade,” Corlys moved a piece to the center of the map. “Visenya and Laenor, I’ll grant you twenty ships, with Dark Sister as the commanding vessel.”

“What about the blockade?” Addam asked. “Who’ll be in command?”

“Who do you think?” Corlys responded with a raised eyebrow as if the answer was obvious. “I’ll lead it myself. But I’ll need you both to ensure that no ship, big or small, escapes the Blackwater.”

The three nodded in agreement. Alyn spoke up, “May I suggest, my Lord, that Addam remain at High Tide? We need someone we trust to keep an eye on things here, especially if Vaemond tries anything.”

Corlys shook his head. “No, I’ll handle Vaemond personally. I need my best commanders on the blockade, especially with Rhaenys a stone’s throw away.”

“What do you intend to do about Vaemond?” Laenor asked. “Reason with him?”

Corlys shot him a sharp look. “My brother’s driven by pride. I’ll remind him what’s at stake if he lets that cloud his judgment.”

With that, the five of them leaned in closer, setting aside their previous tensions as they focused on the critical task ahead.

Laenor had excused himself shortly after their reunion, leaving Visenya behind to continue discussing the logistics with Corlys. They talked at length about the men she could take with her, the purported strength of Lord Redwyne’s fleet, and how best to handle Vaemond’s son Daeron when she arrived in the Stepstones.

As she turned to leave, Corlys’s voice halted her.

“Visenya, a word.” She stopped and approached him. “What do you think of Laenor’s new mount?”

Visenya had to stifle a laugh, carefully composing herself before she responded. “I dislike it, good father, but it’s advantageous given our situation.”

Corlys nodded, studying her closely. “Will this be a problem?”

“As long as he doesn’t torch our fleet, it should be fine,” she attempted a bit of humor, but Corlys’s expression remained stony.

“I’m not pleased with these changes,” he admitted, his voice heavy with concern. “And Vaemond’s decision… It doesn’t surprise me. He’s always been easily influenced.”

Visenya frowned, sensing the underlying tension. “So, you believe this could be the Targaryens’ doing?”

Corlys shrugged, his gaze distant. “The sooner you return from the Stepstones, the safer I’ll feel about Vaemond’s fleet. Refusing to move is one thing, but when they finally do…”

“We can stop them,” she interjected with a confident smile. “Maybe even reclaim the fleet before they can cause any real harm. There’s no need to worry—we’ve got everything covered.”

For a moment, Corlys remained silent, then finally, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You two are too confident for your own good. Be careful out there, Visenya.”

She made her way to the nursery, where only Joffrey remained. Baela had long outgrown it, proudly declaring her independence to the entire castle, leaving her youngest son alone, pampered like a prince. Visenya disliked it, but these were Laenor’s orders.

Their son.

She loved Joffrey just as fiercely as his older brothers, but it had become increasingly clear over the years that Joffrey was not simply hers—he was Laenor’s in a way that the others were not.

As she opened the door, she found Laenor inside, unsurprisingly. He was playing with the boy, his smile wide, lavishing Joffrey with all the attention he could desire. Visenya felt a rueful smile tug at her lips but quickly composed herself as Joffrey noticed her.

“Mother!” he shouted, running into her arms and jumping up as he always did. She caught him and held him against her chest. “Father said I can fly with him and Grey Ghost! Will you let me?”

She exchanged a glance with Laenor, who sheepishly looked down. It was a well-laid trap, designed to force her hand. “If you’re good in your lessons,” she said, “because Maester Jon told me you got distracted by the seagulls outside the window.”

“The lesson was boring, Mother,” he pouted, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. “And Father said it was fine.”

“Did he?”

Laenor stepped closer, a playful grin on his face. “I got distracted during my lessons too, and look where it led me—heir to the Sea Snake and a dragon rider.”

Visenya struggled to keep her expression neutral, her tone firm. “I still expect better from you, Joffrey.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“It’s time for bed, little one,” Laenor said, scooping the boy up into his arms with practiced ease. Visenya’s heart ached as she watched them. “Say goodnight to your mother.”

“Goodnight!” Joffrey giggled, blowing her a kiss as Laenor carried him out of the nursery. The moment the door closed behind them, Visenya’s facade crumbled. She turned and made her way to her chambers, her mind heavy with thoughts she had tried so hard to avoid.

She had always avoided the subject of dragons, pushing away thoughts of her sister and the drastic change that bonding with a dragon had brought. But now, she was witnessing similar changes in her husband—her closest friend. Had Laenor always been like this, and she had simply been too blind to see it? Or was this a new reality she needed to embrace?

She sat down in front of the small table in her chamber, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls. Pouring herself a cup of wine, she tried to focus on the things that mattered—her ship, the forthcoming battles—anything to drown out the tumultuous thoughts swirling in her mind. She took a slow sip, hoping it would help silence the other noises that threatened to overwhelm her.

As she stared into the dark liquid, lost in thought, the door creaked open. Laenor entered with a lightness in his step, a smile playing on his lips. He seemed oblivious to the tension that gripped her. Humming softly to himself, he closed the door behind him and made his way over, his cheerful demeanor in stark contrast to the storm raging inside her.

He pulled out a chair and sat down across from her, still smiling as if the weight of the world hadn’t touched him. “Things have been better than expected,” he said cheerfully, pouring himself a cup of wine.

Visenya lifted her gaze, her expression tight. “Have they, now?”

Laenor looked at her as if she were missing something obvious. “Of course! You finally get to prove your worth at sea, and I get to show my father that I’m more than just a modest sailor.”

The nonchalance in his voice was the final straw. Visenya’s composure shattered, and her voice trembled with barely suppressed fury as she leaned forward. “What has gotten into you?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing. “You killed—”

“I killed no one,” Laenor interrupted, his tone firm as he drank. “Valerion could have died at any time, but the gods preserved him till that moment. Grey Ghost chose me.”

Visenya exhaled, feeling a headache coming. “You’ve never spoken like this before, Laenor. How am I supposed to understand this sudden…” she gestured at him, searching for the right word, “change? What do I tell our children?”

“Nothing,” he replied, a slight shrug accompanying his words. “Had my mother not fled to Essos, both Laena and I would have been granted dragon eggs—allowed to be who we were meant to be! Our children…” His voice softened as he ran a hand through his hair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No one, not even Vaemond, would dare call them bastards if they were dragonriders.”

Visenya frowned, crossing her arms. The logic in Laenor’s words unsettled her, but she couldn’t deny the truth in them. “Our children don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” she said, her tone firm, though a hint of uncertainty lingered.

Laenor nodded, his expression softening. “Daemon promised that once we take Dragonstone, our children will be among the first to claim dragons.”

Visenya studied him for a moment before letting out a breath, releasing the tension in her shoulders. “We will see if he is a man of his word,” she said quietly. “Are we to take Dragonstone while we enforce the blockade?”

Laenor shook his head. “The blockade will surely encompass the island, but a ground assault is too costly at this stage, so we will leave them be. Besides, you heard my father. Without Vaemond we barely have enough ships to maintain an effective blockade.”

Visenya’s gaze fell to the floor. “He chose a fine time to turn his cloak,” she muttered. After a pause, she looked up, concerned. “What about the boys?”

Laenor hesitated, considering her question. “Jacaerys should certainly return to High Tide, but Lucerys will continue his service to Ser Aegon for the time being.”

Visenya hummed, exhaling. “Jace will be safe here with your Father and as the heir of the heir…” she trailed off, looking at Laenor. “Aegon is due to sail west. I do not think it wise for Luke to accompany him to war.”

“Eventually, Luke will have to face war,” Laenor replied in a tone that was sweet but unmistakably condescending. “You can’t shield him forever. I’ll be taking Joffrey with us as well,” Visenya's eyes widened in shock.

“Why? He’s just a child!” Visenya protested.

“He’s begun his martial training, and I am in need of a new page,” he argued, voice falsely nonchalant. “I believe he’ll be safer by our side.”

“He’s barely five,” she said, her frustration mounting. “He can stay here with your father.”

“No,” Laenor said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “Joffrey will stay with me, and he’ll learn the ways of knighthood at sea.”

Visenya frowned, something in his words struck her as off. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she studied her husband. Joffrey, her youngest, was unmistakably Laenor’s son, from that drunken, heartbroken tryst so many years ago. No one could deny that the boy was of his blood; he had the same silver hair and the same piercing eyes. This had quieted some of Vaemond’s simmering resentment, but it had also created a strange, unspoken tension within their household. Laenor had never shown a lack of affection for their eldest sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, but there was something different in the way he treated Joffrey—something more possessive, more protective.

She hesitated, weighing her words carefully. “Are you sure this is the best course for Joffrey?” she began, trying to keep her tone neutral. “He’s still so young, Laenor. Perhaps it would be better for him to stay here, where it’s safe.”

Laenor’s expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before his features softened into an almost boyish grin. “You worry too much, Vi. It is time for him to start his path. He misses his brothers, and once we reach Stormwatch we’ll all be together again.”

She wanted to press him further, to ask if he was choosing Joffrey because he was truly ready, or if it was because he was the one child Laenor could undeniably call his own. The question hung on the tip of her tongue, but before she could voice it, Laenor’s excitement disarmed her.

“Think of it this way,” he said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. “This will be our chance to prove ourselves to the whole world. Don’t you want that? Isn’t this what you’ve always desired?”

Despite the storm inside her, a smile blossomed on Visenya’s lips, and she nodded. “Just don’t touch my ships, or I’ll hang you myself!”

Laenor grinned, pouring more wine into her cup. “If you can manage to catch me on Grey Ghost, that is. Just imagine the songs they’ll sing about us!”

“The hapless dragon rider and his sailor wife?” she teased, and Laenor’s laughter filled the chamber, rich and full of life.

As the night wore on, the dark clouds that had loomed over Visenya’s thoughts began to lift. For the first time in years, she felt a sense of certainty about her future, buoyed by the warmth of their shared dreams and the hope that, together, they could conquer whatever lay ahead.

Chapter Text

“Your efforts were for naught.” Aemon’s voice sliced through the air with cold finality, each word landing like a slap to Aenys’ face.

“Brother, I swear, I have no idea how this—” Aenys began, but Aemon’s raised hand cut him off. His brother’s gaze raked over him, head to toe, as if searching for any sign of competence, any reason to believe that Aenys wasn’t the fool everyone seemed to think he was. Aenys straightened his back, but the weight of Aemon’s judgment bore down on him, heavy and unyielding.

“Clean up your mess, Aenys. Secure me the Riverlands.” Aemon commanded, his tone icy and unforgiving.

And just like that, Aenys was dismissed, his brother’s cold indifference stinging more than he cared to admit.

Aenys stewed in the memory of that encounter. How dare they? How dare Aemon, how dare anyone look at him with such disdain? It wasn’t his fault that the rumors had spread like wildfire, nor was it his fault that Daemon had decided to pen that damned letter. People were always eager to believe the worst, especially when it concerned someone of his standing. Aenys clenched his jaw, trying to shake off the shame that gnawed at the edges of his pride. He’d tried to dismiss the accusations as lies, spun from the same malicious gossip that always surrounded his brother and good sister. But instead of sympathy or understanding, he was met with coldness and suspicion.

Yes, he’d confessed his dalliances to Aemon—had even promised to keep them in check for the good of the realm—but did that mean he deserved this kind of treatment? Aenys told himself he had been wronged. It wasn’t his actions that had caused this mess; it was the people who spread the rumors and the family who refused to stand by him.

But despite his defiance, Riverrun no longer felt like the sanctuary it once was. His good brother, Ser Elmo Tully, heir to Riverrun, avoided him as if he were a leper, and Lady Ellyn, his wife, was cold and distant, her words clipped and her manner icy. Where once there had been respect, now there was only contempt. But that contempt, Aenys decided, was not a reflection of him—it was a reflection of their own narrow-mindedness. They were the ones who had failed to rise above petty rumors and false accusations.

Entering the council chamber, Aenys found the castellan, the maester, and Ser Elmo waiting for him. He could feel the weight of their judgment pressing down on him, but he refused to be crushed by it. This situation wasn’t of his making, and if anyone doubted his ability to lead the Riverlands forces, that was their mistake, not his. Aenys sat down, lifting his chin as if daring anyone to question his authority. He would prove himself here, not because he needed to atone for any supposed wrongdoing, but because he was Prince Aenys Targaryen, and he was not the fool they all thought him to be.

“Is Lord Grover not coming?” Aenys asked, his gaze sweeping over the three men before him. Like it or not, Grover Tully remained the Lord of Riverrun—the old, gout-ridden trout. Even if the man could no longer set foot on the battlefield, his voice still carried weight, and Aenys needed it.

The maester and Ser Elmo exchanged a glance before Elmo spoke up. “Lord Grover is indisposed. I am acting according to his wishes, Prince Aenys.”

Aenys nearly scoffed at the careful tone with which Elmo addressed him. Just a few moons ago, they had been close— as one would expect from good brothers. But now? Now Elmo treated him with this infuriatingly polite, hollow decorum. It was as if they were strangers, or worse, enemies. Aenys could hardly stand it.

He sighed, the sound dripping with exasperation. “Fine, then let’s see where we currently stand.”

The maester pulled out a set of parchments, and Aenys recognized the seals: the Bracken stallion, the Raventree of Blackwood, the Mallister eagle, and the twin towers of Frey. He frowned, expecting more. He had sent those ravens the moment he returned from King’s Landing, and after the bloody disaster at Bitterbridge, he expected these Lords to have called their damned banners by now. Where were the rest? Did they think they had the luxury of time, or was this another silent judgment passed on him?

“Your Grace, we’ve sent word to the Riverlords to raise their banners and converge at Stone Mill,” the Maester of Riverrun announced, spreading the parchments before Aenys, Ser Elmo, and the Castellan. “Lord Bracken suggests meeting the opposition head-on at Harrenhal to confront Lord Dragonfyre before he can fully assemble his forces.”

Aenys skimmed the parchment, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “So, Bracken has some strategic sense after all. He’s close enough to mobilize quickly. Have him prioritize gathering his men and coordinating with Lord Blackwood. They should consolidate their forces and make for Harrenhal without delay.”

Ser Elmo’s expression turned skeptical. “With respect, Your Grace, Bracken and Blackwood have a long-standing enmity. Their combined command could be… problematic. It might be wiser for Lord Blackwood to rendezvous with us as we await the arrival of the Westerlands.”

Aenys traced a finger along the map, considering the terrain. “Perhaps. Blackwood could deal with Lord Darry’s influence and then join the siege at the Bloody Gate.”

The Castellan leaned closer, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “Would it not be more advantageous for you to accompany Lord Bracken to Harrenhal, my Prince? Your presence could ensure better coordination and help smooth over any potential friction between the two lords.”

Aenys sighed, rubbing his temples in frustration. “I’m no nursemaid for squabbling lords,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the map. Strategy had always been Aemon’s strength, not his. He’d never cared much for the lessons, and now, with Aemon absent, the burden of command over the Riverlands fell squarely on his shoulders. “We’ll proceed as Ser Elmo suggests. Lord Blackwood will join forces with Riverrun, and I’ll support Lord Bracken if necessary.”

The decision wasn’t one Aenys took lightly, but the last thing he wanted was to get entangled in the petty rivalries of lesser lords. His focus had to remain on the bigger picture—proving he could lead, despite the doubts that seemed to follow him everywhere.

“What of Mallister and Frey?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation toward more pressing matters.

“Lord Mallister reports sightings of Ironborn ships prowling the coast,” the maester replied. “It seems Lord Greyjoy has declared for Daemon.”

Aenys sighed, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “I suppose he plans to stay behind and defend his lands when the Ironborn inevitably fall upon him?”

The maester nodded.

“Fantastic,” Aenys muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And what of Lord Frey?”

Ser Elmo handed him a parchment, a hint of their former camaraderie flickering behind his eyes. “Lord Steelfyre will be on his way to cross the Neck within a fortnight, assuming all goes as planned.”

Aenys glanced at the parchment, his brow furrowing. “Greybeards? What is this?”

“It’s a common term in the North, Your Grace,” the maester explained with careful precision. “The Stark of Winterfell gathers old warriors at the onset of winter to preserve the younger men for other duties.”

“So, they’re men going to their deaths?” Aenys chuckled, the idea amusing him. “I bet they’ll be ferocious, then. According to his letter, Lord Frey will join us once these men have arrived at his castle. Well, that’s something to be grateful for, at least.”

Aenys clapped his hands, feeling a rare surge of lightness after the weighty discussions. Ser Elmo flinched slightly beside him, offering a small cough to mask his discomfort.

“How long until the men of Riverrun are ready to march?” Aenys asked, his fingers drumming with barely contained excitement.

“Another few days at least, maybe ten if the rain slows us down,” the castellan replied. “The march to Harrenhal should be straightforward. Once we join forces with Lord Blackwood, we’ll have a strong enough host to engage Lord Dragonfyre.”

The maester hesitated, scratching his beard. “Your Grace, we could bypass Harrenhal entirely and focus on aiding our allies in the Westerlands. It might be the safer course.”

Aenys hummed thoughtfully but quickly dismissed the idea. He needed a decisive victory, something to erase the memory of his recent failures and satisfy Aemon. Harrenhal was the key. If he could take it swiftly, he’d not only cripple Daemon’s support in the Riverlands but also prove his worth to his brother, the king. Aelor lacked a dragon, his wife was held hostage in King’s Landing. Rooting him out and forcing his men to bend the knee would weaken Daemon’s position significantly.

“Make it five days, Elmo,” Aenys said, a determined smile curling his lips. Harrenhal would be his, and with it, perhaps a measure of redemption.

“I’ll try my best, Your Grace.”

Aenys wasn’t entirely satisfied with the response, but it was better than open defiance. “Once the men of Riverrun are fully assembled, I want the entire garrison to meet Lord Blackwood at Pinkmaiden Castle. We’ll split the forces—one contingent will remain with Blackwood to march West, while the other will join me and Lord Bracken at Harroway Tower. Together, we’ll lay siege to Harrenhal and deal with Aelor once and for all.”

In his mind, this plan allowed him to leave the brunt of the work to Bracken and his forces, giving him the freedom to march East and join his uncle. A swift, decisive campaign in the Riverlands would surely appease Aemon’s stern heart and perhaps allow Aenys to rest on his laurels for the remainder of the war.

Elmo and the castellan studied the map as Aenys outlined his strategy, nodding in agreement.

“You ought to be cautious once you move beyond Bracken’s lands,” the castellan remarked, pointing to a small keep in the Horsehead province. Aenys frowned, unimpressed.

“Petty lords and landed knights,” Aenys said dismissively. “What can they muster? Five hundred men at best?”

“Perhaps,” Elmo replied calmly, “but they have the advantage of the rivers.”

Aenys scoffed, waving off the concern. “And I have a dragon. By the time they try to set any trap, I can descend upon them from the skies.”

Elmo’s expression darkened. “I’d rather we avoid causing unnecessary chaos. Winter is almost upon us, and the smallfolk will suffer greatly if we start torching the land.”

Aenys rolled his eyes but gave a curt nod. “Sunfyre is a powerful beast, but he’s precise in his attacks. You needn’t worry, good brother.”

He attempted a reassuring smile, but it was clear Elmo and the castellan were not easily swayed. Shrugging, Aenys turned back to the map. “One more thing,” the castellan added, pointing to the territories near the Vale Mountains. “We’ve received no word from Wayleroot Castle or any strongholds along the Vale passage. We should consider them hostile for now.”

Aenys leaned in, studying the map. He knew House Darry had aligned with Aelor, but he doubted Lord Ryger would simply accept his fate. “I wouldn’t be too concerned. Once Lord Steelfyre’s forces march South, any rebellious lord will be swiftly dealt with. Our primary focus should be on taking Harrenhal. Is that clear?”

The Castellan and Elmo tried their best to mask their disapproval, but eventually, they nodded in agreement. Aenys believed he knew what he was doing, even if it didn’t always appear that way. They would have to trust him and make the best of a less-than-ideal situation.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Elmo said, casting one last glance at the map. “Maester, send ravens to Lords Bracken and Blackwood and follow up with the lords who have yet to respond to our call. If necessary, remind them that their loyalty lies with Lord Tully, not Lord Dragonfyre.”

“It will be done, Ser,” the maester replied with a bow, carefully gathering the parchments and maps.

“I consider this meeting adjourned,” Aenys said with a confident smile. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow for any new developments and finalize our preparations for war.”

As the men stood up to leave, each with their tasks clear, Aenys lingered behind, his gaze settling on Ser Elmo.

“Ser Elmo, a word, please.” Aenys noticed a flicker of hesitation in the knight’s eyes, and he had to suppress a sigh.

The rumors circulated in the court were vicious, painting him as a man who had taken his brother-in-law as a lover, along with other young knights and sons of lords. While Aenys acknowledged that he had dallied with a knight or two—second or third sons of minor lords—it was far from what people whispered. He would never disrespect his wife by taking Elmo as a lover. Besides, Elmo wasn’t his type.

Once the room emptied, leaving them alone, Aenys spoke, his tone measured. “Elmo, I know things have been… strained between us since that damned letter made its rounds.”

Elmo shifted uncomfortably, not meeting Aenys’ gaze. “Your Grace, I—”

Aenys cut him off gently. “You’re my good brother, and I would never dishonor our friendship—or your sister—in such a manner.”

Elmo’s eyes finally met his, uncertainty mingled with relief. “I appreciate your words, Your Grace. But with everything that’s been said, it’s… difficult.”

“I understand,” Aenys replied, softening his tone. “But I need to know I can trust you, Elmo. The situation we’re in requires unity. Whatever else the realm may believe, I need you by my side. Can I count on you?”

Elmo hesitated only a moment before nodding. “You know our words, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Aenys said, feeling some of the tension lift. “People are fickle, and rumors eventually die.”

Elmo offered a small, tentative smile. “I hope so… Aenys.”

Aenys returned the gesture, though his own smile was laced with the weight of the challenges ahead. “So do I, Elmo. So do I.”

He entered the nursery, expecting to find his wife, but instead was greeted by the sight of the nursemaid and his two daughters playing together.

Daenerys was the image of Valyrian heritage, with her silver hair and sharp features, but her eyes were a striking blue, deep and vivid like the Blue Fork. Her cheeks were dotted with a few dimples, giving her a doll-like appearance whenever she smiled. Alysanne, in contrast, bore more of the Tully look, with her auburn hair and softer features, though she had inherited his lilac eyes. She was a shy child, less striking than her sister, but the nurses, perhaps hoping to win his favor, often spoke of her latent cleverness. He laughed, for he swore he had heard those things before between Aemon and himself when they were children.

And I proved to be the clever one, he self congratulated himself.

Both girls were absorbed in play, their attention focused on Daenerys’ hatchling—a slender, turquoise creature that seemed to have more of a cat’s temperament than a dragon’s. It moved gracefully around them, its eyes watching with a curious intelligence that made it seem as much a part of the family as the girls themselves.

“Leave us,” Aenys dismissed the nursemaids who quickly bowed.

Daenerys turned around and looked at her father, a smile blossoming on her young face. “Father!”

The two girls ran to him, but before jumping they did poorly rehearsed bows, as the proper ladies they were supposed to be. He laughed.

“I believe your Mother has forbidden River from being here,” he pointed at the hatchling that had resorted to lazily napping atop a bundle of soft covers.

“You won’t tell,” Daenerys ventured, as Alysanne also pleaded softly, grabbing her father’s arm.

Aenys’ heart twisted. Since his sister’s death, there was something that always made him sad about his daughters. Neither of them had inherited his mother’s raven locks, and thus he couldn’t see a trace of Aelyx. They were beautiful, he couldn’t deny that, but it saddened him to only see himself in their features.

Maybe if we have a third one, he thought. That is if Ellyn ever allows me back into her bed.

“I promise,” he smiled at them and they quickly went back to the hatchling, talking nonsense and hoping Aenys would understand whatever they were saying.

He had recently received Daenys’ letter regarding hatchlings and dragon bonds, and the importance of nurturing them. She suggested that once Daenerys reached her sixth nameday to spend some time with the dragon keepers and whoever one day was chosen as Mistress of Dragons. Aenys suspected that, given the time, perhaps Aemon would offer it to her: she seemed like the most sensible choice.

As Aenys sat watching his daughters play, the nursery door creaked open, and Ellyn Tully stepped inside. Her vibrant smile, which usually lit up the room, faltered the moment she spotted her wayward husband. He caught her gaze and smiled, though the warmth didn’t reach her eyes.

“Husband,” Ellyn greeted him, her voice cold and formal, as if addressing a stranger.

Aenys leaned back, resting his head against his fist, both amused and frustrated by her icy demeanor. “Will you ever address me as more than that?”

“Does His Grace deserve it?” she retorted, her tone sharp and unyielding.

“Ellyn,” he said, a hint of warning in his voice, but she wasn’t one to back down easily.

Her eyes narrowed, the simmering anger beneath the surface finally breaking through. “Your dalliances are your business, Aenys. But you’ve embarrassed me—embarrassed us. You flaunted your indiscretions, and now we all suffer the consequences.”

Aenys shifted uncomfortably, the truth of her words hitting harder than he wanted to admit. He knew he’d erred, but acknowledging that—let alone apologizing—wasn’t something he was ready to do. “I never intended for things to spiral like this,” he said, but the words felt hollow even to him.

Ellyn’s eyes flashed with anger. “Your intentions matter little when the damage is already done. You’ve put me in an impossible position, Aenys, and all you can offer is excuses.”

Aenys clenched his jaw, refusing to let her words pierce the armor of his pride. “I’m doing what I can to manage this. It’s not as simple as you make it out to be.”

“Manage it?” she echoed bitterly. “You think this is something you can just manage? You’ve shattered our lives and our reputations, and you still act as if it’s merely an inconvenience.”

Her words stung, but Aenys dismissed them, convincing himself that she was overreacting, that her emotions were clouding her judgment. “I won’t apologize for what I did,” he said flatly, looking away from her. “You know nothing of the pressures I’m under.”

Ellyn’s expression turned colder if that was even possible. “And you know nothing of the humiliation I endure every day because of you.”

Aenys glanced at their daughters, still playing innocently in the corner, blissfully unaware of the tension between their parents. He sighed, letting some of his frustration slip away as his voice softened. “Not in front of the children, Ellyn.”

Ellyn’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes still blazing with unresolved anger. “Very well,” she conceded, though the edge in her voice remained. “Let’s put them to bed, and then we can finish this conversation.”

She turned her attention to their daughters, her expression softening as she knelt to embrace them, planting gentle kisses on their heads. “What is this little dragon doing here?” she asked, noticing the hatchling nestled among the toys.

Daenerys glanced at her father, her eyes wide with pleading.

“Lady Daenys mentioned it’s important for Daenerys to bond with her hatchling,” Aenys explained, stepping in to defend his daughter’s unspoken request. “If I recall correctly, Sunfyre and I were inseparable at this age.”

Ellyn suppressed a sigh but nodded, her resolve softening slightly. “The dragon may stay, but he’s not allowed to sleep in your beds, understood?”

“Yes, Mother,” the girls whispered, their voices drowsy as yawns began to escape.

“It’s time to rest, little princesses,” Aenys said, lifting Daenerys into his arms while Ellyn did the same with Alysanne. He carefully picked up the tiny hatchling, intending to take it to Sunfyre’s nest for the night.

The couple moved in unspoken coordination, each gently guiding their daughters to their small beds. Aenys kissed Daenerys on the forehead, smoothing her silver-gold hair, while Ellyn tucked Alysanne in with practiced care. They lingered for a moment, watching their daughters’ eyelids grow heavy with sleep, the tension between them momentarily eased by the innocence of their children.

Once the girls were asleep, Aenys followed Ellyn to her chambers. She sat at her vanity, her back to him, as she began brushing her hair in slow, deliberate strokes.

“I must leave soon,” Aenys announced, breaking the silence as he entered the room. “I’ll be gone to the front, and I don’t want this—” he gestured vaguely between them, “—to be the last thing we share before I go.”

Ellyn’s eyes met his in the mirror, her expression unreadable. “Farewell, Your Grace,” she said, her tone as cold as before. She didn’t stand, didn’t offer him the warmth he sought. Aenys frowned, frustrated by her continued distance.

“You know that I could very well die, and you will simply send me off as if I were some page?” he pressed, trying to evoke some reaction from her, anything other than this chilling indifference.

Ellyn sighed and set her brush down, turning to face him fully. “I believe you once told me you were untouchable in battle. Why should I worry?”

Aenys felt a pang of frustration, but also a sense of defeat. He threw his arms up in exasperation. “Do as you please, then. I simply request a favor from my lady. Then I may go and die in peace.”

Something seemed to snap in Ellyn at his words. She stood up and closed the distance between them, her gaze hard and unyielding. Without a word, she pulled a handkerchief from her bodice, one she had embroidered herself. She took his arm with surprising force, tying the fabric on his wrist with a deftness that spoke of both anger and care.

“Do you remember my House’s words?” he started to prepare a sly remark, but Ellyn silenced him with a look. “What you do behind closed doors is your problem, and until this day, I have turned a blind eye to your needs, for I was grateful you would not stain our marriage bed by bringing forth a bastard.”

“Ellyn—”

“So I will defend you for the sake of our family and because it is my duty as your wedded wife and the mother of your children,” her voice wavered slightly, and he saw the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, sparking a rare pang of guilt in his chest. “But I don’t think I can simply forgive and forget the stain you have marred over my honor, Aenys Targaryen.”

He felt the apology forming in his throat, but it caught there, tangled with his pride. He looked down at the piece of fabric she had tied on his arm as the silence stretched between them. “I truly meant you no dishonor, Ellyn,” he finally managed, though the words felt inadequate.

Ellyn met his eyes with a piercing stare, her expression reminiscent of the first time they had truly seen each other. “You and your sister always saw me as some foolish, hapless idiot,” she said, her voice steady but laced with hurt. She shook her head, disappointment evident.

“That’s not true!” he protested, though the conviction in his voice wavered under the weight of her gaze. The defense he wanted to muster died on his lips.

He knew Aelyx had made offhand remarks about Ellyn’s supposed naivete, and deep down, he couldn’t excuse it. The memory of those careless words hung in the air, leaving him feeling small and ashamed. Unable to meet her eyes any longer, he looked down again, the silence between them thick with unspoken truths.

She sighed, the sound full of resignation. “You pretend to understand very little, Aenys, but you can do us all a favor and start acting a prince, instead of playing the fool’s part you seem so attached to.”

He lingered by the door as she hugged herself, her back now turned to him. “For the sake of our children,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “please return to us safe and sound.”

Aenys bowed deeply, a gesture more out of habit than true sentiment, and left without another word.

Chapter Text

To My Lady Wife, Queen Alicent,

I departed before dawn, wishing not to rouse you from your rest. It is better this way; I must secure the Reach, and I prefer to leave without extended farewells.

I trust you will manage the affairs of the Red Keep with your usual competence. Aegon will need your steady hand in my absence. Teach him what is necessary, and shield him from what he need not know. He is young yet, and there will be time enough for burdens when he is older.

Fear not for my safety; Ser Aegor and Ser Lorent travel with me, and Vermithor is fiercer than even Vhagar. I expect to return once the realm is put to rights, though I will not make promises about what I can ensure. The realm demands much of us, and I will do what is required.

Be mindful of our son. His safety and his future are of paramount importance. You know what must be done in all things—trust your judgment, as I do. I leave Ser Arryk to safeguard you and our son and give you leave to present a white cloak to a knight of your choosing.

In my absence, remember that you are Queen, and I expect you to act as such. Protect what is ours and do not falter. I will send word when I am able.

Faithfully,

Your husband, Aemon.

Alicent kept her husband's letter tucked inside her bodice, a talisman of sorts, grounding her amidst the storm of duties that never ceased. There was little time to dwell on Aemon's parting words or the final moments they had shared before he left. Her responsibilities pressed in on her from all sides, leaving scant room for reflection.

The realm doesn’t stop moving just because things change, her father had said when her mother passed, words that had been a lifeline then and now resonated with renewed urgency.

With that same unyielding resolve, Alicent stood in the heart of the Tower of the Hand, ready to face whatever came next.

The chambers of the Hand of the King were a flurry of activity, with servants creeping through the space, dusting shelves, polishing furniture, and sweeping away the remnants of a life now ended. Sunlight streamed through tall, narrow windows, casting long shadows across the room, and illuminating the fine woodwork and rich tapestries that adorned the walls. Alicent stood still amid the bustle, her gaze fixed on her father’s desk—a large, imposing piece of furniture made of dark oak, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Here, he had made decisions that shaped the realm, and now it was empty of his presence.

Her father’s steward, Ser Tommen Cuy, had narrowly escaped sharing her father’s grim fate by the simple fortune of being elsewhere at the time. He approached a series of shelves that lined one wall, reaching up to retrieve the numerous volumes her father had painstakingly compiled. Each book was bound in leather, with titles embossed in gold, and as the steward lifted them down, the subtle scent of old parchment filled the air. He arranged the books carefully on the desk, lining them up in perfect order—by the reign of each king her father had served, and within those, by the precise date each entry was made.

"Your father was a meticulous man," the steward remarked, his voice soft but steady as he positioned the last of the volumes before her. His hands lingered over the books, almost reverently. "He intended for these to be preserved, organized by the Grand Maester, or sent to the Citadel as a comprehensive record of his time as Hand. A legacy of his service to the realm."

Alicent nodded absently, her fingers grazing the spines of the volumes, feeling the raised letters under her touch. Each book represented countless hours of work, the distillation of her father’s knowledge, decisions, and strategies. There was a cold comfort in knowing that his efforts would not be lost to time and that the history he had helped shape would be recorded for future generations.

But there was also a weight in that knowledge, a realization that the words within could be as dangerous as they were informative. Her thoughts drifted, and then she turned to the steward. "Did he leave any further instructions?"

The steward hesitated, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features as he met her gaze. His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. "He requested that you or your brother... censor anything that might be misinterpreted." He paused, letting the gravity of the words settle. "Anything that could be taken out of context or used against the family or the realm."

"I'll see to it myself, then," she murmured, feeling the weight of the task settle heavily on her shoulders.

"Your Grace," a servant approached, bowing respectfully. "Ser Gwayne Hightower has arrived at the gates of King’s Landing."

Alicent’s heart quickened. "How long ago?"

"Less than an hour, Your Grace. He should be reaching the Red Keep as we speak."

Relief and anxiety mingled within her as she turned to the steward. "Please, have him meet me here as soon as possible."

For days, she had paced the ravenry, desperate for any word of her younger brother’s whereabouts. The news of his safe arrival brought a flicker of relief, yet it was tempered by frustration. How could he have kept them all in the dark for so long?

Ser Tommen’s voice interrupted her thoughts. "What would you like me to do with the diaries, Your Grace?"

Alicent paused, gathering her resolve. "Send them to my chambers. I’ll go through them in private."

She sighed, knowing that rest would continue to elude her. The long nights ahead would be filled with her father’s words, his wisdom her only comfort as she navigated the endless duties before her.

The servants carefully gathered the books, placing them in a chest as though they were preparing a body for burial. As they moved to take them to her chambers, a wave of grief washed over Alicent, the sadness she had held at bay since learning of her father’s death threatening to overwhelm her.

Around her, the servants moved with quiet efficiency, erasing every trace of her father’s presence from the room. The rich green banners, the towers of books, and even the small trinkets he had placed with care vanished one by one, leaving the chamber cold and barren. Three decades of service were wiped away in the span of a morning. The Hand is dead, long live the new Hand, she thought bitterly, her gaze drifting to the now-empty window of the tower.

“Sister,” Gwayne’s familiar voice called softly from the doorway. He stood there, a figure both reassuring and burdened by the same weight she carried. Alicent felt a sudden urge to rush to him, to seek the comfort of his embrace as she had when they were children, but she held herself back, offering instead a tentative smile. Gwayne returned it with the same uncertain warmth, stepping forward, his arms slightly extended in a gesture that was both welcoming and cautious.

“Welcome, brother. I trust your journey was uneventful?” she began, her voice steady despite the emotions roiling within her, as she walked to meet him.

“Uneventful, save for the Merryweather men lurking on the edges of the crownlands,” he murmured as he drew closer, lowering his arms when they were just a breath apart. “I reached Tumbleton just before Seven Hells broke loose in the Reach.”

An uneasy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken fears and lingering reproaches. Alicent reached out, clasping her brother’s hands, the touch expressing what words could not. "Thank you for coming."

Gwayne’s smile was faint, but his eyes conveyed a deep understanding. "I couldn’t leave you to face this alone. It was Father’s wish, after all."

Alicent exhaled, her breath trembling as she spoke. "Father wished for many things."

"He was a man of great ambition," Gwayne agreed, his gaze following hers as it wandered over the now-empty room. "Did he leave you any instructions?”

She hesitated. “Nothing that he didn’t insist on previously.” Gwayne smiled. "It’s no easy thing, ruling in times of war," she continued, a wry smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Did you pass through Lord Caswell’s lands?"

"Don’t dwell on it, Alicent," Gwayne interjected gently but firmly. "My presence would have made no difference in what happened. A surprise attack is called that for a reason."

She sighed, the frustration evident in her voice. “And why did you never send word of your location?”

Gwayne offered her a boyish grin. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?” He walked over to the window and leaned against the cold stone, his gaze distant. “I had to move quickly and thought it best to keep my whereabouts secret until I was sure my men and I were safe. On the way here, I even caught sight of Vermithor patrolling the skies.”

She chuckled softly. “He wasn’t patrolling—he goes to rally the Reach to war.”

Gwayne’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as he looked at her. “Am I to assume you have been named regent in his absence?”

She shrugged, glancing around the room. “Yes, and you’ve arrived at the perfect time.”

“Seems there was no need for you to worry, then,” he remarked, scanning the room as the last of the servants quietly departed. Turning back to Alicent, his expression grew serious. “What does my Queen command of me?”

“I want you to serve on the Small Council,” Alicent began, as she met her brother’s eyes.

Gwayne raised an eyebrow. “In what capacity, sister?”

“Would that I could name you Hand of the King,” she murmured, her voice laced with a hint of longing.

Gwayne chuckled softly, shaking his head. “The King likely has a more suitable candidate in mind. Appointing the son of the previous Hand might raise too many eyebrows—and questions.”

“I need someone I can trust implicitly,” Alicent pressed, her gaze steady and unyielding.

“You don’t trust the King’s choice?” Gwayne asked, his tone curious.

“I do,” she conceded, “but trust isn’t enough. I need an ally in those chambers, someone who will stand by me, no matter what.”

“You speak as though you’re surrounded by enemies,” Gwayne observed, his expression growing serious once more.

Alicent exhaled sharply, frustration edging into her voice. “The Queen Dowager still wields considerable influence, at my expense. With Prince Daeron being sent away and Ser Tyland gone as well, I find myself with few allies on the Council.”

Gwayne’s eyes narrowed as he listened to her. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, sister. Father had a solid working relationship with the Queen Dowager. Why should things be different for you?”

Alicent's gaze sharpened. “I am not our father, and she has made it clear from the start that I was never her first, or even second, choice for her son’s wife.”

Gwayne let out a chuckle, but Alicent’s glare remained steely. “I’m sorry, sister, but it’s too late for you to cower as if you were a novice facing your mother’s disapproval. You are Aemon’s wife, the mother of his heir, and a queen in your own right. You have the crown, and with it, you have the authority.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any less daunting,” she replied, a note of weariness creeping into her voice. “Power means nothing if it’s constantly challenged if every decision is met with scrutiny and doubt.”

Gwayne’s expression softened as he saw the weight of her burden. “Alright, Alicent. Give me some time to adjust to the changes here, and I will serve in whatever role you need me to take on.”

Relief washed over her, and she managed a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, Gwayne.”

He returned her smile with reassuring warmth. “Of course, sister. If Her Grace would permit me, I’d like to clean myself up from the journey.”

Alicent nodded with a friendly smile. “Certainly. Meet me outside my chambers; I want you to join the Small Council meeting later today.”

“As my Queen wishes,” he said, and they shared a brief, lighthearted laugh that seemed to fill the room with echoes of their shared past. Together, they walked toward the door, which closed softly behind them, sealing away the quiet space that had witnessed their growth.

“You could have given me a day to freshen up,” Gwayne muttered as they made their way through the winding halls toward the Small Council chamber. Alicent resisted the urge to sigh, her mind too preoccupied with the matters ahead.

Ser Arryk followed closely behind them, his presence steady and vigilant. With King Aemon gone to war alongside Ser Aegor, he had left Ser Arryk behind as the senior member of the Kingsguard.

“Ser Arryk, have you heard from Maester Larys?” Alicent asked, her voice calm but firm, as they continued their brisk pace.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Arryk replied. “He will meet you directly at the council chambers.”

Alicent nodded in acknowledgment, a small sense of satisfaction blooming within her. If she could gather her own trusted circle, her own power base, she might just be able to exert the control she so desperately needed. If Rhaenys would acquiesce to her rule as Regent—even grudgingly—it would buy her enough time to navigate this perilous war without constant resistance.

“Alicent,” Gwayne spoke up, his tone uncertain. “Are you sure I’ll be allowed to sit at the council?”

Alicent turned to meet his gaze. “I will make sure you don’t leave that room,” she said firmly. “It’s high time some things change, and this is the best opportunity we will have.”

Gwayne gave her a curious look as if not quite understanding her full intentions, but after a moment, he nodded. He trusted her, though perhaps he didn’t fully grasp the depth of the power struggle she was about to face.

As they neared the heavy oak doors of the council chamber, the air around them seemed to thicken. Alicent’s heart quickened. The closer they came to the council room, the heavier the weight on Alicent’s shoulders grew. She straightened her back, squaring her shoulders as they reached the doors. The game of politics was no less dangerous than the battlefield, and she was about to walk into her first skirmish.

Whatever happens in there, she thought, I will not be outmaneuvered.

As she entered the chamber, her eyes immediately fell upon two familiar figures standing beside the King's seat: the Queen Dowager, her presence commanding as ever, and Lord Bartimos Celtigar, his weathered face creased with lines of age and experience.

“Your Grace,” Lord Bartimos greeted her, turning with an apologetic smile that softened his stern features. “It’s been quite some time since we last met, hasn’t it?”

Alicent returned his smile warmly, reaching out to clasp his aged hand in a gesture that spoke of their shared history. “Indeed, not since we left Dragonstone. The King has missed your counsel dearly.”

Lord Bartimos nodded, his eyes reflecting gratitude. “I came as quickly as I could. My dear Clemence wrote to me the moment the news spread,” he said, nervously moistening his lips. “Your father was a great man, Your Grace. I can hardly imagine how I—”

Before he could continue, Rhaenys, the Queen Dowager, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her touch both reassuring and authoritative. “There’s no need for concern, Lord Bartimos,” she interjected smoothly. “Our meeting today will be brief, but I assure you, it will be enlightening.”

Alicent watched the exchange, bristling at the way Rhaenys commanded the room, as though she were still Queen.

Alicent noticed Rhaenys’s gaze shift toward the door, reminding her that she had left her brother standing forgotten at the room’s entrance. Quickly, she composed herself and stepped forward to make the proper introduction.

“Your Grace, Lord Bartimos,” Alicent began smoothly, “allow me to introduce my brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower.”

Gwayne advanced toward them, bowing with the respectful air befitting his station. “Your Grace, Lord Bartimos.”

Rhaenys clasped her hands together, her eyes narrowing slightly as they fell on Gwayne. “We were concerned about your whereabouts, Ser Gwayne,” she remarked coolly.

“Unexpected events delayed my arrival, Your Grace,” he replied evenly. “But I am grateful to find myself back under the crown’s protection.”

Rhaenys gave a slow nod, her gaze sliding back to Alicent with a questioning look. “Has Ser Gwayne been shown to his chambers?”

The question felt more like a slight than an actual inquiry. Alicent took a moment to steady herself before responding. “Yes, he has. Gwayne has been granted rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast. All the better for his work revitalizing the City Watch.” Rhaenys’s lips thinned, her expression tightening ever so slightly.

“Yes, Aemon has been concerned about the Watch for some time now,” Rhaenys said, her sharp, amethyst eyes studying Gwayne closely as if weighing his worth. “Your father spoke highly of your service in Oldtown.”

Lord Bartimos, who had remained quiet until now, leaned forward with a broad smile. “Indeed, Ser Gwayne. It must be a great honor to assume such a role. You’ll have carte blanche to shape the City Watch as you see fit.”

Gwayne chuckled lightly. “Of course, under the watchful eye of the crown. My father once told me of the struggles the late King endured with the City Watch. I believe my appointment was intended to remedy those very issues.”

Rhaenys nodded absentmindedly, her mind seemingly elsewhere as her gaze drifted over the room. “Well, congratulations in advance. I see no reason why you shouldn't begin your duties at once.”

It was clear Rhaenys expected Gwayne to bow and take his leave, but instead, he remained firmly at Alicent’s side. Alicent took the opportunity to speak again, placing a gentle hand on her brother’s forearm.

“Traditionally, the Commander of the City Watch has reported to the Master of Laws,” she said voice steady. “But in these troubling times, I believe we need a new approach. Ser Gwayne will sit on this counsel independent of any such restriction.” Her tone carried a weight of finality that hung in the air, and she didn’t miss the flicker of tension in Rhaneys’s eyes.

The room seemed to tighten with unspoken conflict, but Alicent stood firm, her brother at her side. This was her moment to assert her influence, and she would not let it slip away.

“Good morning,” came a smooth voice that sliced through the uneasy silence, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. The Braavosi Master of Whispers entered with a feline grace, a faint smile on his lips. Behind him, Maester Larys followed with measured steps, his cane tapping rhythmically against the stone floor. “I happened to cross this man of letters,” the Braavosi continued with a glint of amusement, “who claims he had been invited to our meeting.”

The young maester bowed slightly, his sharp eyes taking in the room as he moved forward. “I hope I am not an intruder today,” he said, his tone soft but unmistakably assertive.

“Not at all, Maester,” Rhaenys replied, her voice syrupy with a thin veneer of civility. But the tightness around her eyes betrayed the tension still simmering from earlier. “We are merely waiting for Ser Tyland’s steward, then we may begin.”

Alicent observed the room as she took her seat, her mind quietly assessing the power dynamics. Rhaenys sat at the head of the table, in the King’s chair—an assertion of dominance, subtle but unmistakable. To her right was Lord Bartimos Celtigar, ever the staunch ally of her husband’s. Opposite Rhaenys, Alicent sat with quiet composure, though her mind was racing.

To her right sat Maester Larys. His cane rested by his chair as he folded his hands over his lap, his gaze inscrutable as always. He was a man who listened more than he spoke, and that suited Alicent just fine. To her left sat her brother, Gwayne, steadfast and dutiful, and beside him sat Ser Arryk, his watchful eyes scanning the room as a silent guardian.

Just then, the steward of Ser Tyland, Martyn Crakehall entered, a solidly built knight with the bearing of a man accustomed to service. He offered a brief bow to the assembled council. “Apologies for my lateness, Your Grace, Lords,” he said, his voice deep and clear.

Rhaenys nodded. “Now that we are all here,” she said, her voice carrying the authority of her station, “we may begin.”

Alicent’s gaze flicked to Rhaenys, watching the woman closely. She knew Rhaenys’s influence was vast, not just as a former queen but as someone deeply rooted in the politics of the court. Still, Alicent had no intention of remaining in her shadow.

As everyone settled into their seats, Alicent allowed herself a deep breath, feeling the weight of the room’s attention subtly shift between the two queens. On one side of the table sat the old guard, the remnants of her father’s era, and those who had long followed Rhaenys’s lead. On the other side was the future—her side—the Queen Regent, her brother, and her most trusted allies. It was not yet clear who would bend to whose will, but the lines had been drawn.

The Braavosi Master of Whispers leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement as if he, too, could sense the unspoken contest unfolding before him. “Well then,” he said smoothly, “it seems we are in for quite an illuminating discussion.”

Alicent offered a controlled smile, her mind already racing. “I believe it is proper to begin by addressing the Grand Maester’s current situation,” she began, but before she could continue, Lord Bartimos Celtigar interjected.

“If I may, Your Grace,” Lord Bartimos said, his tone carrying a deliberate weight, “before we delve into such matters, I believe it is necessary to establish the positions of the new members seated at this table, should we not?”

Alicent felt a faint tremor in her jaw, but she nodded, fighting back the rising frustration. Across from her, Rhaenys wore a knowing smile, as though savoring the small victory. “Certainly, Lord Bartimos,” Alicent replied, her voice steady. “Many things have indeed shifted since the grievous losses we’ve endured.”

Rhaenys took up the conversation with a regal ease, her voice calm and authoritative. “My son, King Aemon, has requested Lord Bartimos Celtigar remain in King’s Landing to assume the mantle of Hand of the King.” She extended her hand toward Lord Bartimos, who rose with dignity, offering a respectful bow to the gathered council. “Prince Daeron has stepped down from his post to conduct the war in the Vale, and Ser Tyland has stepped into the role of Master of Coin. As he is currently en route to Tyrosh, he has entrusted his steward, Ser Martyn Crakehall to act in his stead.”

Crakehall stood and offered a brief, deferential bow to the room. His presence was solid, unremarkable but dutiful—just the kind of man who would serve as a faithful steward. Alicent seized the opportunity to assert her own influence, her voice firm but measured.

“I have asked Maester Larys,” she said, turning toward the maester who sat quietly to her right, “a loyal and trusted friend of the Royal Family, to fill the position of Grand Maester until his situation is clarified.” Larys, ever composed, offered a humble nod to the assembly.

Alicent pressed on, her tone becoming more authoritative. “Furthermore, given the current state of unrest within the city, I have appointed my brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower, to the position of Lord Commander of the City Watch. He will also serve in an honored capacity here, at this table.”

Ser Gwayne bowed deeply, his posture straight and unyielding, and the room acknowledged his new station. Alicent prayed silently that this appointment would pass without challenge. “And lastly,” she added, “Ser Arryk was instructed by the newly appointed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to take his place at this council.”

The murmurs of acceptance that rippled through the room brought Alicent a brief sense of relief, though she knew the battle for influence had only just begun.

Rhaenys, however, was not finished. Her gaze swept the room, resting briefly on Alicent before she spoke. “Excellent,” she said, though there was a tautness to her tone. “And let us not forget that Queen Alicent serves as Queen Regent during this time.” The title seemed to slip from Rhaenys’ mouth with a trace of reluctance, though she maintained her graceful composure. “As for myself, I shall be acting as Mistress of Law for the duration of the King’s absence.”

For what it’s worth given half the realm is in rebellion, Alicent’s eyes narrowed slightly as Rhaenys continued. “Lord Maryros Ostys remains our vigilant Master of Whispers,” Rhaenys gestured toward the Braavosi, whose eyes glittered with quiet amusement. “And the role of Master of Ships will be filled upon the arrival of Lord Redwyne.”

“With that settled, let us continue,” Lord Bartimos said, his fingers wrapping around the marble egg before him, a familiar ritual of the Small Council. He smiled courteously, glancing around the room as others followed suit, placing their own tokens on the table. “Queen Alicent, you were about to speak on the Grand Maester Orwyle’s situation, correct?”

Alicent cleared her throat, her gaze steady. “Yes. The latest reports indicate that Grand Maester Orwyle remains captive at Storm’s End.”

Lord Bartimos nodded thoughtfully, his attention shifting to the Braavosi. “Lord Maryros, what is your assessment?”

Maryros’s lips curled in a vague smile, his fingers steepling as he leaned back in his chair. “A captive or a guest—it is difficult to say,” he said with a shrug, his voice dripping with the ambiguity he was known for.

“Do you suspect he has turned cloak?” Lord Bartimos pressed, his brow furrowed.

Before Maryros could reply, Maester Larys interjected, his tone as calm and measured as ever. “A Maester is bound by his vows to the realm, not to a particular lord. I would not be surprised if the Grand Maester is there under duress, forced to stay against his will.”

“A Maester is still but a man,” Maryros observed, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. “And a man’s loyalty can be swayed, regardless of the weight of his vows.”

Lord Bartimos considered this, shaking his head slightly. “It’s all speculation until we can secure his release. But while he remains there, we cannot know if he has changed loyalties. Maester Larys,” he turned his sharp gaze toward the younger maester, “we are living through unprecedented times. Can we trust that you, in Orwyle’s absence, will fulfill the duties of the Grand Maester? Are we not violating Citadel protocol by having you act in his stead?”

A tense silence fell over the room as Maester Larys paused, contemplating his response. His eyes briefly flicked to the table before meeting Lord Bartimos’s gaze. “I have written to the Citadel, as is custom, and their reply is as ambiguous as the times we live in. Unprecedented times, as you say, call for unprecedented decisions. However,” he added with quiet confidence, “they have granted me leave to continue serving as the royal family sees fit, as I have since my arrival until the Grand Maester’s situation is resolved.”

Rhaenys sighed softly, her eyes narrowing in consideration. “Very well. As long as you do not overstep your duties, I see no reason to challenge this.”

Larys bowed his head respectfully. “Indeed, Your Grace. I remain your humble servant.”

Alicent offered him a small, genuine smile, grateful for his unwavering loyalty. Larys had proven himself time and again, not only because of the Citadel’s vows but because of his steadfast dedication to her and her family. He was someone she could rely on in these uncertain times, and in this room full of power plays and shifting alliances, that was worth more than gold.

"Ser Arryk," Rhaenys continued, her voice steady, "did Lord Commander Aegor leave you any instructions before his departure?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Arryk responded, pulling a small parchment from within his tunic and handing it to the Queen Dowager. "I am tasked with filling the vacancies left by the traitors."

Rhaenys passed the parchment to Lord Celtigar, who examined it with careful consideration. “Have you thought of any knights to fill these vacancies?”

Before Ser Arryk could respond, Alicent leaned forward, her voice calm but assertive. “Before he left, the King and I discussed knights from houses loyal to the Crown—Houses Bracken, Royce, and even Manderly have been outspoken in their support.”

Bartimos and Rhaenys exchanged a glance, and Lord Celtigar responded cautiously. “All excellent choices, Your Grace. However…” He hesitated, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. “With the situation as it stands, perhaps it would be wiser to choose someone more... immediate to the capital. Someone close at hand.”

Alicent raised an eyebrow, keeping her expression neutral. “The Kingsguard has always been filled by knights based on merit and loyalty, not proximity to the Red Keep.”

Rhaenys, ever the strategist, turned her gaze to Ser Arryk. “Ser Arryk, what say you?”

Ser Arryk hesitated, clearly torn between the two women. His eyes flickered between Rhaenys and Alicent, struggling to balance diplomacy. “Both views have merit, Your Grace,” he replied carefully, offering no strong preference. Alicent felt a twinge of disappointment at his neutral response.

The tension thickened in the room until Maester Larys cleared his throat, cutting through the unease. “If I may, Your Grace,” he said, addressing both queens, “the late Ser Harrold Westerling once spoke highly of Ser Steffon from House Darklyn. He believed the man to be of exceptional promise.”

Rhaenys and Lord Celtigar exchanged another knowing glance.

“A fine suggestion,” Celtigar said, nodding slowly. “Darklyn is a well-regarded name and would shore up our support along the Narrow Sea. We could summon him for examination, though it would likely be a mere formality.”

Rhaenys pressed on, her voice calm but determined. “And the other three vacancies, Ser Arryk? What has been discussed?”

Ser Arryk shook his head. “No final decisions have been made, Your Grace. Lord Commander Aegor suggested leaving at least one position open. He hopes to find a worthy knight during the campaign—someone who can prove their valor on the battlefield.”

Rhaenys shifted her gaze toward Alicent, her eyes keen and calculating. “And you, Queen Alicent? Do you have anyone specific in mind for the remaining seats?”

Alicent met her gaze evenly, the subtle undercurrent of challenge not lost on her. “Prince Daeron has spoken favorably of his wife’s nephew Ser Willam. I have asked Prince Daeron to ascertain his willingness to accept a white cloak and send him to King’s Landing if he was found to be agreeable.”

Rhaenys allowed a brief, genuine smile to cross her lips. “I thought the same. We shall see. At least two Kingsguard must remain to ensure the protection of the Queen and the Prince of Dragonstone.”

Ser Arryk straightened, clearly proud. “I have already increased the number of patrols within the Red Keep to compensate for the vacancies. We are doing everything we can to maintain security.”

Rhaenys gave him a nod of approval. “Very well. Continue this good work, Ser Arryk. We must ensure the safety of all.”

Alicent's fingers tightened around the marble in her hand as the realization settled in. Though Bartimos Celtigar had shown no outward hostility, his true loyalties lay not with her, or even Aemon, but with the Queen Dowager. Every glance he exchanged with Rhaenys, every measured word he offered in response to her suggestions, revealed a quiet but undeniable allegiance.

Alicent felt a cold unease creep through her. Bartimos, though polite and agreeable, was another of Rhaenys’ pawns. The small council wasn’t hers, it belonged to the Queen Dowager. Every decision made, every knight appointed, and every conversation was carefully curated to maintain Rhaenys’ hold over the throne while Aemon was away. Even the presence of Maester Larys, her own trusted confidant, seemed muted under the weight of Rhaenys’ dominance.

The council session was dragging on, with discussions now centering on mundane reports from the Crownlands, but Alicent could barely focus. She studied Rhaenys closely, the older woman sitting with serene authority at the head of the table—the seat meant for the King, or at least his appointed regent.

Rhaenys knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t overtly challenging Alicent’s authority, but her every action, every word, subtly undermined it. By the time Aemon returned, Alicent feared she would be left with little more than a ceremonial title and a hollow claim to power.

When the council finally adjourned, Alicent rose from her seat, her mind swirling with half-formed strategies and the bitter sting of frustration. As the other council members trickled out, she noticed Rhaenys lingering behind, deep in conversation with Lord Bartimos Celtigar. Their exchange, though quiet, felt like the final nail in the coffin of the day's carefully orchestrated moves.

Alicent stayed back as well, watching them, lost in thought. Gwayne approached, his steady presence beside her offering little comfort.

“Do you need me to stay?” he asked quietly, his voice low.

She shook her head, offering him a small, practiced smile. “No, brother. We’ll break fast together tomorrow. You ought to rest.”

Gwayne mirrored her smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He gave her a respectful bow and slipped out of the room, leaving her to face what remained.

As if sensing Alicent’s lingering presence, Rhaenys glanced her way, her expression unreadable. Before Alicent could speak, Lord Bartimos approached once more, all polite smiles and formal gestures.

"Lord Bartimos," Alicent greeted him with a smile that barely touched her eyes. "I trust you are more than capable of serving as Hand of the King. My husband will be relieved to know the realm is in such steady hands."

The lord returned her smile with a deep bow. "Thank you, Your Grace. I share your confidence and hope this marks the beginning of a prosperous tenure."

With those courteous words, he excused himself, leaving Alicent and Rhaenys alone. The silence stretched taut between them, thick with unspoken tension, until Rhaenys finally broke it.

"Is there something troubling you, Alicent?" The question was delivered with a practiced sweetness, but the steel underneath it was unmistakable.

Alicent hesitated for only a heartbeat, then spoke softly. "I have one last item of discussion."

Rhaenys’ eyes narrowed slightly, sharp and assessing.

"The position of Mistress of Dragons," Alicent continued, her voice steady but firm as she raised her gaze to meet Rhaenys’ unblinking stare.

Rhaenys paused, her brow furrowing slightly as she settled back into her chair. "There’s no one suitable to fill that position at present."

"There is Princess Viserra," Alicent suggested cautiously.

Rhaenys’ expression darkened, her lips tightening into a thin line. "No."

"She meets every criteria," Alicent continued, her tone carefully measured, "and has proven herself worthy—"

"Her son is actively rebelling in the Riverlands," Rhaenys interrupted coldly, crossing her arms. "I will not even entertain the thought of her name being raised here. She remains under house arrest until her son bends the knee."

Alicent caught the implicit threat in her words—or dies. She steadied herself. "Then is the position to simply fade away?"

"War is no time to make such decisions," Rhaenys shook her head, her voice cool and unyielding. "The Mistress of Dragons is not essential now."

Alicent leaned forward slightly, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "We need someone to oversee the future of dragon riders. The next generation depends on it."

Rhaenys’ lips remained tight, though her voice took on an almost saccharine tone. "Aegon is still but a child. By the time this war concludes, we can revisit the matter. Until then, there's no rush."

Alicent's fingers clenched around the marble, her displeasure simmering just beneath the surface. She knew she could not push further—Rhaenys was unyielding, and continuing would only risk more tension. Yet, the matter of the dragons could not be ignored forever.

With a slight nod, Alicent relented. "Very well, Your Grace. But when the time comes, I trust we will be prepared for what the future demands."

Rhaenys paused, turning to fix Alicent with a long, piercing stare. “Alicent, I respected your father. Though we seldom agreed, he was a loyal, diligent man. Clever.”

Alicent held her posture straight, her back rigid like a drawn bow, tension coiled beneath her composed exterior.

“You may not be him,” Rhaenys continued, her tone sharp, “but you must rise to the task of ruling.”

Alicent felt a sigh threatening to escape but stifled it, keeping her face steady. “If you would allow me—”

“Power is not given freely, Alicent,” Rhaenys interrupted coldly. “I have helped rule this kingdom since you were a child. There is too much at stake right now for me to spend my days sewing with the gossiping hens of the court. Aemon saw something in you that I have yet to witness, but he is no fool. Show me why you have so earned his trust.”

Without waiting for a response, Rhaenys turned on her heel and strode out of the room, leaving Alicent standing alone, the weight of the exchange settling over her as she reeled from the Queen Dowager’s cutting words.

The afternoon sun filtered through the high windows of Princess Viserra’s chambers, casting a soft glow on the polished wood and delicate tapestries. The scent of freshly brewed tea mingled with the faint perfume of lavender, creating an atmosphere of quiet intimacy. Alicent’s nerves still frayed from the tension of the Small Council meeting, welcomed the moment of respite. She sat at the elegantly set table, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her teacup, awaiting her host.

Princess Viserra arrived promptly, her presence as poised and regal as ever. Draped in pale silks that shimmered with each graceful step, she moved through the room with the ease of someone accustomed to command, her sharp eyes betraying nothing but warmth. Alicent had grown to depend on Viserra’s counsel over the past few months—her advice always seemed shrewd, her support unwavering. In these troubled times, she had become a figure Alicent could trust.

"Your Grace," Viserra greeted with a soft, knowing smile as she gracefully took her seat. Her sharp gaze swept over Alicent, lingering with a touch of concern. "It seems the weight of the realm has doubled since this morning’s meeting."

Alicent managed a smile, though it felt thin, barely concealing her frustration. "The council was… taxing. But nothing a quiet afternoon in good company can’t remedy."

Viserra’s movements were calm and measured as she poured herself a cup of tea, her eyes never leaving Alicent. "Then let us soothe those burdens, even if only for a little while. I am here, as always, to listen."

Alicent felt a flicker of gratitude for the princess's presence, though she remained cautious. “Rhaenys is making every effort to render me useless as Regent.”

Viserra’s lips curved slightly as she sipped her tea, considering Alicent’s words. "After so many years as Queen, it must be difficult for her to relinquish control. But surely, she believes she’s acting in the best interest of the realm."

Alicent sighed, her frustration slipping through. "Perhaps, but it feels more like a deliberate effort to undermine me. Today’s council meeting was nothing short of humiliating."

"Oh, sweet Alicent," Viserra murmured, her long, delicate hand—beginning to show the marks of age—extended toward her. "What have they done to you?"

Encouraged by the sympathy in Viserra’s voice, Alicent let the dam break. For what felt like hours, she poured out her grievances—the constant battle for control with Rhaenys, the hollow support from her supposed allies, the creeping sense of inadequacy gnawing at her with each passing day.

Viserra listened patiently, her expression carefully neutral, her eyes gleaming with something just beneath the surface. Now and then, she nodded or offered a quiet word of understanding, but mostly she let Alicent speak, encouraging her to unburden her heart fully.

When Alicent finally fell silent, spent from her confession, Viserra placed her teacup down with deliberate care and leaned forward, her voice soft but steady. “It seems the council is forgetting who you are, my dear. Perhaps it is time to remind them that the Queen Regent holds the reins—whether they like it or not.”

“And how am I supposed to do that, short of dismissing them all?” Alicent leaned back into the cushioned chair, her frustration evident. “Aemon has barely been gone a fortnight, and already I feel so… powerless.”

Viserra’s gaze softened as she studied Alicent. “Did you not place your men of trust?”

“I did what I could,” Alicent muttered, her lip caught between her teeth. “I even suggested a position for you.”

Viserra’s expression remained neutral, though there was a flicker of hunger in her eyes. “Oh, Alicent, darling, I’m far too old for such responsibilities.”

Alicent chuckled despite herself. “Did Princess Daenerys ever complain about her age?”

Viserra’s laughter rang through the room, warm and genuine. “Ah, my dearest sister… no, she never did. She was as tireless as our parents. It’s a shame she’s no longer with us.”

A reflective silence fell over them, the weight of lost family and past burdens hanging in the air like a fog.

Viserra broke the quiet, her tone casual but pointed as she drizzled honey onto her toast. “What Rhaenys seems to forget,” she said, her voice as sweet as honey, “is that it was she and her husband who got us into this mess in the first place.”

Alicent’s brow furrowed, intrigued but hesitant. “What do you mean?”

Viserra took a slow, deliberate bite of her toast, savoring the moment before continuing. “Think about it. The choices made by Rhaenys and Aerys—pushing for the Dornish betrothal, constantly shaming the Skyfyre brothers—none of us would be here if not for their ambition.” She set her toast down, eyes meeting Alicent’s with quiet intensity. “Even my dear boy has had to deal with their condescension. Rhaenys plays the part of the wise dowager now, but she was one of the architects of this chaos.”

Alicent’s mind raced. Could Viserra be right? Was Rhaenys unintentionally steering the realm toward further strife? As regent, was it not Alicent’s duty to stop her?

Viserra leaned back, her expression calm but knowing. “You have more power than you realize, Alicent. The question is whether you’ll use it before Rhaenys tightens her grip.”

Alicent nodded slowly. The tea sat between them, cooling in the forgotten cups, as Alicent's thoughts swirled inside her mind.

“Ah,” Viserra sighed as she sipped her tea. “But let’s stop talking about these somber affairs. You came here to relax, after all.”

Alicent blinked, momentarily pulled from the whirlwind of political scheming that had clouded her mind. Viserra’s tone had softened, it was comforting, and Alicent felt a sense of relief wash over her. If there was one person she could rely on for genuine counsel, it was Viserra.

“Yes, you’re right,” Alicent said softly, easing into a more relaxed mood. “We’ve discussed enough heavy matters for one day.”

Viserra smiled warmly. “Exactly, dear. Let’s turn to happier things. I hear you’ve been spending quite a bit on charitable works—visits to the Sept, tending to the poor in Flea Bottom. You’re becoming quite beloved among the smallfolk, I hear.”

Alicent smiled, the compliment settling warmly within her. “I do what I can. The realm is in turmoil, and the smallfolk bear the worst of it. Offering them help feels like the only thing within my control.”

“Such a noble heart,” Viserra cooed, pouring herself a fresh cup of tea. “Your kindness and devotion don’t go unnoticed, Alicent. You’re doing more than your duty—giving hope to those with none.”

Alicent’s cheeks flushed slightly, feeling the sincerity in Viserra’s words. “I only wish I could do more.”

Viserra tilted her head thoughtfully. “You’re already doing so much. I was wondering… if you might allow my sweet Rhaena to accompany you on one of your charitable visits.”

Alicent’s brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard by the request. “Rhaena?”

Viserra nodded, her expression soft and maternal. “She’s been so isolated lately, confined to the Red Keep with little to occupy her. It would do her good to see what you’re doing—learn from your example. The poor girl needs to feel she has a place in the world, especially now.”

Alicent hesitated, though not out of suspicion toward Viserra. She trusted the woman implicitly. No, it was Rhaena who gave her pause—a quiet, withdrawn woman who rarely left her chambers. Allowing her to accompany the Queen Regent into the city felt risky, and she could almost hear the disappointment in Rhaenys’ voice the moment she heard about it.

“I… suppose that could be arranged,” Alicent said slowly. “Rhaena could benefit from some fresh air and purpose. And the smallfolk may take comfort in seeing another member of the royal family engaged in their wellbeing.”

Viserra’s face lit up with genuine delight. “Oh, that would mean the world to her, Alicent. I’ve tried to guide her as best I can, but I believe she could learn so much from you. You’re a beacon of strength—an example she should aspire to.”

Alicent’s heart warmed at the praise. It wasn’t often she felt truly seen or understood within the court, but Viserra always had a way of lifting her spirits, of making her feel capable and supported. The older woman’s presence had been a source of stability ever since her arrival at court after Aelyx’s passing.

“I’ll make sure she’s properly prepared,” Alicent agreed. “It’ll be good for her.”

Viserra’s smile was soft and reassuring. “You’re too kind, Alicent. Truly. And together, you and Rhaena will make a formidable pair—two queens guiding the realm through these troubled times.”

Alicent chuckled lightly. “She’s hardly a queen, Viserra.”

“Perhaps not,” Viserra replied with a gentle laugh, “but the people will see her as part of the royal family, nonetheless. And with you by her side, who better than the Queen to guide her into something greater? The Lady of Harrenhal will be a formidable ally, especially in these troubled times.”

Alicent couldn’t argue with that. Rhaena was rather aloof and seemed to struggle with the court at large, and Viserra seemed genuinely eager to see her daughter thrive. As the conversation drifted back to lighter topics, Alicent felt a sense of peace settle over her. Viserra was more than just an ally—she was a friend, a guiding hand in these turbulent times.

By the time their tea had cooled and the conversation wound down, Alicent felt a renewed sense of clarity. She would take Rhaena under her wing, as Viserra had asked. Perhaps it would even solidify her own standing, showing that she was more than a placeholder in Aemon’s absence—she was a mentor, a leader, a Queen in her own right.

As Alicent prepared to take her leave, Viserra gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Remember, dear, you have more power than you think. Don’t let anyone—Rhaenys or otherwise—convince you otherwise.”

Alicent nodded, feeling a surge of determination. “Thank you, Princess. I won’t forget that.”

With a final smile, Alicent left Viserra’s chambers, her heart lighter and her resolve stronger. She felt ready to face whatever came next.

Chapter Text

Vermithor was a beast of legend, and the stories of his ferocity were etched into Maegor's memory. It was said the dragon had tolerated few men after the passing of his grandsire, King Jaehaerys. Even now, the soldiers kept a respectful distance, wary of the creature's temper, though he seemed calm enough. Vermithor’s massive eye barely registered their arrival, a passing glance toward Maegor and Ser Lorent Marbrand as they approached with their small entourage. Maegor’s gaze lingered on the bronze behemoth, and he remembered the first time he had seen the dragon with King Jaehaerys after their return from Essos, the coldness in the old king’s eyes matching that of his mount.

Aemon’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Vermithor can carry a few of us on his back,” the King explained to the assembled men, drawing their attention away from the dragon’s looming presence.

“The rest of you will travel by foot through the Reach,” Aemon continued, his tone measured. “It will give us a clearer view of the enemy’s movements. And you’ll be able to slip through unnoticed in smaller numbers.”

One of the knights hesitated, glancing between Vermithor and the King. “But, Your Grace, wouldn’t it be too dangerous to travel through these lands on foot?”

Aemon gave a nod of acknowledgment. “It will be dangerous. But the fewer men we send, the easier it is to pass through the cracks undetected. And we need eyes and ears where a dragon cannot tread.”

Maegor wasn’t particularly thrilled with the idea of making the journey atop dragonback, but he kept his reluctance to himself. Admitting such a thing to the King—his nephew, no less—was out of the question. And so their journey began, filled with the rush of wind, the dizzying heights, and the unsettling mix of exhilaration and unease that came with riding a dragon, especially for those not born of the blood of the dragon.

Ser Lorent Marbrand, on the other hand, relished every moment of it—at least, until they landed. Each time Vermithor touched down for rest, Ser Lorent would promptly spill his guts with a startling lack of decorum. By the third night, even the King had taken notice.

“Ser Lorent,” Aemon remarked, unable to hide his amusement, “perhaps it would be best if you continued your travels on horseback.”

Lorent, pale but defiant, shook his head. “No, Your Grace. I may not be as accustomed as you, but allow me to continue serving you in this manner. I’ll just be sure to eat a bit less before we take to the skies.”

Aemon exchanged a bemused look with Maegor, who merely shrugged.

“I would not be opposed to completing our journey on horseback.” Maegor offered, mostly for his own sake. “It would give us a chance to gather information on the ground and offer Ser Lorent’s stomach some respite.”

The King had agreed, despite Marbrand’s insistence that he was perfectly fine, and so they had completed the last leg of their journey on horseback. They had come across an inn where, either out of loyalty or fear they had agreed to sell them four horses. The ride had been uneventful, quiet enough that Maegor couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment. Even bandits, who might have otherwise been a threat, seemed to stay well away, deterred by the looming presence of Vermithor overhead.

By their fifth day of riding, as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon Maegor and Ser Lorent crested the final hill leading toward Uplands, the seat of House Mullendore. The smoke rising from the valley below was their first sign that something was amiss.

As they rode closer, the sounds of clashing steel and shouts filled the air. Mullendore soldiers were locked in a skirmish with men bearing the sigil of House Roxton, the black ring of Roxton standing stark against their banners. The clash was brutal and disordered, the ground littered with bodies and the wounded, but the tide of the battle shifted the moment Vermithor’s shadow swept across the field.

The bronze beast roared from above, shaking the earth with its cry, and every head on the battlefield turned toward the sky. Maegor tightened his grip on the reins, feeling the familiar pulse of anticipation thrumming in his chest as Vermithor descended behind him.

Aemon and his dragon circled once overhead, the King’s presence commanding instant attention. The Roxton men faltered, their earlier confidence dissolving into fear. As soon as they saw the dragon’s bronze wings cut through the smoke-filled air and heard the King’s voice calling out commands from above, the fight drained from them. Panic rippled through their ranks. They scattered, dropping their weapons and fleeing into the woods and hills, disappearing as fast as they had arrived.

Maegor dismounted quickly, his eyes scanning the scene. The Mullendore forces, though battered, were rallying, rallying around their King.

Ser Lorent Marbrand slid off his horse beside him, looking after the retreating soldiers with a faint smile. “I suppose that was easier than I expected,” he remarked idly, brushing the dirt from his cloak.

“Vermithor has that effect,” Maegor muttered, watching as the last of the Roxton men disappeared into the distance.

Aemon brought Vermithor down gently, the massive dragon settling with a low growl as the King dismounted. Mullendore men gathered quickly, bowing deeply to Aemon as he strode forward, his presence commanding the field.

Lord Mullendore himself approached, his face weary from the fight but full of relief. “Your Grace,” he began, bowing low. “We weren’t expecting them so soon. Roxton has been growing bold, testing our borders. If you hadn’t arrived when you did—”

“They scattered like rats the moment they saw Vermithor,” Maegor cut in.

Aemon raised a hand, silencing further talk. “We’ll discuss it inside. For now, tend to the wounded.”

The aftermath of the skirmish still lingered in the air—smoke rising from scattered fires, the smell of blood mixing with the evening breeze.

They continued walking amongst the men, helping with the injured and trying to gather a sense of the battle that had briefly happened here. However, Lorent felt talkative.

“That was something,” Lorent smiled, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes kept drifting back to the sky, where the great bronze dragon had flown, awe still etched on his face.

Maegor let out a low scoff, the sound rumbling from his chest. Lorent turned to him, grinning, the thrill still evident in his expression. “Ser Aegor, you can’t tell me you’ve never dreamt of claiming one for yourself—soaring above the Seven Kingdoms on dragonback.”

Maegor shrugged, his expression hardening. He had flown before, once, on the back of the Cannibal, with his father gripping him tightly. It was a memory he couldn’t shake—the vastness of the world below, and the cold, sick terror that had gripped him. The Cannibal was no ordinary dragon; it was a creature of nightmares, ferocious and wild. He had been just a boy, no older than six, terrified, begging for release as they climbed higher and higher until the air grew too thin to scream. His father had believed he had finally calmed, but Maegor had been too breathless to utter a sound.

“It was never meant for me,” Maegor muttered, his gaze shifting toward the Mullendore soldiers now moving their wounded and dead back to the Keep. They worked swiftly, securing tents and tightening the perimeter, their sigils of orange and white butterflies flickering in the fading light.

“I heard the Queen Dowager wished to have more dragon riders,” he ventured, looking at Maegor. “You could be the first Kingsguard to be granted such an honor.”

Maegor struggled to keep his face neutral. “I know my place, Ser Lorent.”

Lorent opened his mouth to speak again, but Maegor had already turned his attention elsewhere. His sharp eyes found Aemon, standing with Lord Mullendore by the command tent, deep in conversation. The King stood tall, his posture radiating calm authority, while Lord Mullendore nodded gravely, his hand resting on his sword as if bracing for whatever news the King imparted.

Maegor knew his duty as Lord Commander was to remain close to the King during such strategic talks, but for now, he allowed the King his space. He glanced at Lorent, ready to distract him from his dragon-riding dreams.

“Ser Lorent, make sure the men are ready to ride at dawn,” Maegor said curtly, casting a glance over the soldiers settling in for the night. “And don’t overindulge with your meal.”

Lorent snorted, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Lord Commander.”

With a nod, Lorent strode off toward the men, his armored boots crunching against the dry grass as he went. Soldiers nearby made way for his white cloak, nodding in respect as he passed. Maegor watched him for a moment, his thoughts already shifting to the growing tensions in the Reach and the battles that surely awaited them.

As Maegor approached the king, fragments of the conversation drifted to him.

“…Skirmishes along the Roseroad,” Lord Mullendore was saying, his voice tense with frustration. “The attacks are growing bolder. Peake, Merryweather… their men have grown more aggressive with each passing week. But it’s Roxton that’s most troubling. They’ve been oddly quiet until today. Lord Hightower has been trying to get word from them for weeks, but no word ever came from the Ring. Then, without warning, they attacked. I’d just begun mustering the last of my men to march for Oldtown when Roxton’s forces struck. It was as though they were waiting for the moment we let our guard down.”

“And House Tarly?” Aemon asked, his tone steady, but his eyes sharp.

Mullendore shook his head grimly. “Tarly’s with the Reds, Your Grace. Now our forces are split between defending Oldtown and holding the Mander.”

Aemon's brow furrowed. “And how many more men can you raise here, Lord Mullendore?”

“Eight hundred, at best,” the man replied, shaking his head. “Most of my men have already been summoned by Lord Hightower and what I have left is a small garrison to protect my lands. We’re stretched thin, Your Grace. Thinner than we can afford.”

Maegor lingered just at the edge of the conversation, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he listened. He knew the Crownlands couldn’t send enough men to make a difference, and as powerful as Vermithor was, there were limits to how many the dragon could intimidate. Aemon had focused his efforts on rallying the Reachmen for the battles to come, but it was a risky gamble, one with little room for error.

“I understand,” Aemon said quietly. “Our allies are too far north, and I won’t risk calling them here for a fight that may be for nothing. I’ll have a clearer picture once I meet with Lord Hightower.”

Lord Mullendore nodded. “I can send a small garrison to join you. My orders are to hold position and wait for reinforcements. I wish I could ride with you myself, Your Grace.”

Aemon touched the man’s arm briefly in acknowledgment, then turned to Maegor. “With Vermithor, we can scatter any force that dares challenge us on the way to Oldtown.”

Mullendore gave a wry smile. “I wouldn’t want to face you on an open field, Your Grace.” He bowed. “Please, join us at the keep for rest. You must be weary from the road.”

Aemon nodded but remained thoughtful. “Thank you, Lord Arlan. I’ll consider it once the camp is fully settled.”

Mullendore bowed deeply to both of them and departed. Aemon clasped his hands behind his back.

Maegor stepped forward, clearing his throat to announce his presence. Aemon turned, acknowledging him with a nod. "What do you make of it, Lord Commander?"

“We’ll need to act swiftly,” Maegor replied, his tone measured but firm. “Oldtown is our bastion in the south. From there we can strike out in force. But we can’t afford to overextend ourselves—leaving the Roseroad unprotected would spell disaster.”

Aemon exhaled sharply, a hint of frustration in his voice. “Our priority should be pacifying the Marcher lords before the Stormlords make their way here.”

Maegor inclined his head. “Is Highgarden at risk of being besieged?”

Aemon’s frown deepened as he stared into the distance, clearly weighing his thoughts. “Lord Mullendore hinted that Lord Tyrell has been gathering his forces but has so far made no move to quash his treasonous bannermen.”

Maegor chuckled darkly, a low sound. “That sounds about right for Lord Tyrell.”

Aemon offered a faint, tired smile before his expression turned serious again. "Once we reach Oldtown, things will become clearer," he said. "There, we’ll have a better sense of where our enemies are and how we can strike. Lord Hightower has kept the city secure, but the longer we wait, the more uncertain our position becomes. Oldtown must hold, and once we’re there, we can assess the situation in the Reach.”

Maegor nodded, Aemon was right—they needed clarity before any decisive action could be taken.

"Make sure everything is ready to depart at dawn," Aemon instructed, his voice firm. “We cannot afford delays. If the Marcher lords stir, we’ll need to be ready to move quickly.”

“I’ll see to it, Your Grace,” Maegor replied.

As Aemon dismissed him with a nod, Maegor turned back toward the camp. His mind was already sorting through what needed to be done: ensuring the men were well-rested, the supplies packed, and Vermithor prepared for the journey ahead. He relished the structure of it, the order and discipline that came with command.

But beneath that, a simmering excitement grew. War was here—inevitable now. And Maegor felt a familiar thrill at the thought. The air had a certain tension, a sharpness that he could almost taste.

As the camp bustled around him, Maegor’s thoughts drifted to the dawn and the promise of war on the horizon.

The towering walls of Oldtown loomed ahead as Aemon, Maegor, and Ser Lorent Marbrand rode through the wide cobbled streets, the bustle of the city muted by the tension in the air. The smell of salt and fish drifted in from the harbor, mingling with the smoke from countless hearths and the scent of herbs from the bustling markets. Oldtown was a city rich in history, its ancient spires casting long shadows over the narrow alleys, and its thick walls standing as a silent reminder of the threats that once came from sea and land.

As they approached the Hightower, its imposing height dominating the skyline, the whispers of the citizens reached their ears—speculation, rumor, and worry about the instability of the realm. Maegor’s eyes swept over the crowds that gathered along the streets, some offering quiet bows, while others glanced anxiously at the King and his entourage, their nervousness clear.

Ser Lorent, who had been unusually quiet during the ride, broke the silence. “It’s strange to see the people so subdued. I remember Oldtown as a place of endless activity, always lively. Now, it feels like the city itself is holding its breath.”

Aemon nodded, his expression grim. “They know what’s coming. War touches everyone, whether by sword or by fear.”

They continued toward the towering keep where Lord Hightower awaited them. The banners of House Hightower fluttered in the sea breeze, and a contingent of armored guards greeted them as they reached the massive gates. High above, Maegor noticed the green flames atop the tower, an evident call for war.

Maegor’s hand instinctively tightened around the pommel of his sword as they dismounted, his eyes sweeping the surroundings. The usual fanfare that accompanied royal visits was notably absent, but given the circumstances, Maegor could hardly fault Lord Hightower. The Reach was in turmoil, and the usual pomp would have been a luxury.

As Aemon dismounted beside him, his gaze met Maegor’s, sharp and focused. "Once we meet with Hightower, we’ll know our next move. Stay sharp, Lord Commander."

Maegor gave a brisk nod. He could sense it—the tension that lingered in the air, the quiet unease before chaos erupted. The calm before the storm.

Lord Hobert Hightower approached with his bannermen in tow, a far cry from the imposing figure of his late brother. Where Otto Hightower had been sharp and calculating, Hobert was short and portly, his white hair a stark contrast to Otto’s greying auburn locks. His clean-shaven face looked softer, less severe, yet the more Maegor observed him, the more he saw traces of Otto in the man’s mannerisms—the way his eyes darted quickly over his guests, the slight frown that never left his brow.

Maegor wondered briefly if people looked at him and saw his father, or compared him to his brother Daeron. Or, gods forbid, even Aerys.

“Your Grace,” Hobert greeted the King with a low bow, his voice steady despite the undercurrent of tension. He quickly motioned to the men beside him. “Oldown is yours. Allow me to introduce my heir, Ser Ormund, and my nephew, Ser Bryndon, my late brother’s eldest. And my lords Cuy, Costayne, and Bulwer.”

Maegor’s eyes shifted to the two young men. Ormund stood tall, but his youth was evident in the uncertainty that flickered in his gaze. Ser Bryndon, on the other hand, bore a striking resemblance to his late father. There was something in the sharpness of his jawline, the set of his eyes, that brought to memory a young Otto Hightower. Yet, Bryndon lacked the cunning that Otto had once wielded so effortlessly. The memory of his brother with his childhood friend came and he felt a coldness creeping in.

The gathered lords stepped forward, their expressions solemn as they bent their knees to their king. Lords Cuy, Costayne, and Bulwer, each bearing the sigil of their respective houses, knelt in unison.

“Your Grace,” they intoned together, voices low yet certain.

“I see you met Lord Mullendore,” Lord Hobert sighed as he eyed their horses and the mounted cavalry behind them.

“Indeed, he remained behind,” Aemon said plainly. “He awaits your further instruction to come join us.”

Hightower nodded. “No. He shall remain there. At least he sent the men I requested.”

Aemon’s expression remained impassive, though there was a flicker of irritation in his gaze. “How many men will you send to reinforce him?” the king asked dryly.

“I’ll see to it once our discussions are done, Your Grace.” Lord Hobert shifted slightly, sensing Aemon’s displeasure, but quickly moved to the next issue. “There is something else you must know, Your Grace,” he said, his tone dropping. “Lord Beesbury has openly declared for Daemon. He’s raising men in Honeyholt, and it’s only a matter of time before his banners march.”

The ripple of unease at this revelation was immediate. Beesbury was an old but minor house, yet their defection was another sign of how deep Daemon’s influence had spread. And they were close.

Aemon’s brow furrowed slightly, though he remained composed. “The Beesburys will regret that choice,” he said quietly.

As the weight of the news settled over them, Lord Hobert motioned toward the towering structure behind them, the Hightower casting long shadows over the city below.

“Please, Your Grace,” Hobert continued, bowing his head slightly, “come inside. We have much to discuss. The situation is more dire than anticipated, and we must plan our path. I also received word from King’s Landing.”

Together, the group moved toward the grand entrance of the Hightower, the lords trailing behind the king and his Lord Commander. As they crossed the threshold into the stone fortress, Maegor took in the surroundings. The room they entered was imposing yet understated, a large hall with high, vaulted ceilings that echoed with their footsteps. Thick tapestries bearing the Hightower sigil lined the stone walls, and a single, massive hearth at the far end of the room blazed, casting flickering shadows over the polished marble floors. The long, oak table in the center was already set for their war council, maps and scrolls spread across it, detailing the fracturing alliances and looming battles ahead.

“I’ve received reports from King’s Landing, Riverrun, and Runestone.” Maegor stood behind Aemon as Lord Hightower signaled his maester to deliver the parchments to Aemon. “My niece informed us that, although it’s still too early to make any definitive moves, your Small Council is prepared.”

Maegor couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief at being away from the tangled web of King’s Landing politics. Rhaenys and Alicent were locked in their endless game of manipulation, each probing for weakness, and the court was a snake pit. Despite his supposed indiscretions, Ser Arryk had been the best choice to stay behind, ensuring the Queen’s safety while avoiding the battlefield's chaos.

Aemon nodded as he quickly scanned the documents. “It seems there’s mostly good news.” He looked at Maegor “Any updates on the Kingsguard?” Aemon extended a parchment to Maegor as he finished reading it and gave a brief look to those assembled.

“Ser Steffon Darklyn has been summoned to the Red Keep,” Maegor noted. “A sensible choice. Ser Arryk is doing as commanded.”

“Let’s hope he continues to,” Aemon remarked dryly, and then he addressed himself to the room. “My brother, Prince Aenys reports the Brackens and Blackwoods are moving east and north of the Riverlands. The Brackens will rendezvous with Aenys’ host to crush Lord Aelor’s forces before joining Prince Daeron.”

“And the Blackwoods?” asked Lord Cuy.

“They’ll march west with Riverrun’s men,” Aemon replied, his gaze sharpening. “The Ironborn have declared for Daemon. Lord Lannister will have to split his forces between defending his lands and securing the seas.”

Maegor’s mind was already calculating the implications.

“That’ll stretch the Lannisters thin. It could leave them vulnerable.” Lord Bulwer spoke.

Aemon nodded, sharing the unspoken thought. “It’s a delicate balance. We can’t afford any mistakes but they have the support of a dragon rider,” he paused. “Mayhaps two,” he worked his mouth and Maegor wondered if the other heard him.

Maegor had little faith in the Lannister siblings. Tyland might have been clever, but he was both overcautious and overeager to prove himself. As for Jason, the rumors painted a grim picture—a whoremonger with a slew of bastard children, more interested in his jewels and finery than ruling.

“And Ser Tyland?” Maegor asked.

“He sailed for Tyrosh not long ago,” Aemon sighed. “No word from him yet, and I don’t expect any for at least two more moons.”

As long as the fool doesn’t drown in the Narrow Sea, Maegor thought darkly.

“And what of Prince Daeron?” Lord Bulwer pressed further. “The rumors say his dragon is no bigger than a warhorse and if he is attacked by Lord Dragonfyre’s wife—”

Aemon shot a glance at the fumbling man. “Do not stress yourself regarding those matters, Lord Bulwer. Lady Dragonfyre and her mother are guests in the Red Keep. Prince Daeron has reached Runestone safely. Lady Rhea Royce had already called the banners, waiting for him to lead the siege on the Eyrie before Lady Jeyne tries to descend for the winter.”

Maegor thought of Queen Visenya’s legendary conquest of the Vale, wondering why Daeron wasn’t following a similar path. Aemon seemed to sense his thoughts. “Arrax is too small, true,” he explained. “One well-aimed bolt or volley of arrows would be enough to end him. If he’d claimed Dreamfyre or another larger dragon, we’d already be celebrating the fall of the Vale. However, he won’t be alone nor reckless to be met by such ignominious end.”

Maegor noticed how the King’s words did little to ease the minds of the Reacher Lords. Lord Hightower had sat down, drumming his fingers against the oak table, a dark look on his face as he listened to the King. Was he judging Aemon? Finding him lacking or rather somber? Maegor didn’t care what the other thought: his nephew and King was a capable man and his honesty, plain and grey as it may seem, was their greatest strength.

“Very well, Your Grace,” Lord Horbert stopped his drumming and left the palm of his hand atop the table, resting. “We, of course, support your decisions, and do not mean to question you.” He exchanged a dark look with the other men who nodded, sitting down.

“Any news from Highgarden?” Aemon quickly brushed over the subject.

Lord Hobert’s face flushed with sudden anger, the frustration he had been holding back now spilling forth. “Oh yes, quite the news,” he spat, his usually composed demeanor shattered. “Lord Tyrell advises we sit prettily on our hands and wait until spring before marching to war. How does he expect me to calmly oversee the end of the harvest and prepare for Winter when my own brother was murdered in cold blood?”

His voice had risen, filling the hall with an unexpected intensity. Maegor, standing at Aemon’s side, observed the rare display of raw emotion from the usually measured lord. The King, for his part, gave Hobert the space to vent, his expression calm as the outburst played itself out. Slowly, Lord Hobert regained his composure after a deep frustrated sigh.

“We cannot count on Lord Tyrell,” Ser Ormund Hightower, Hobert’s son, said evenly, stepping forward to add a cooler perspective. “By the time he realizes the gravity of the situation, it may already be too late and Daemon’s forces would’ve taken over the Roseroad.”

“Do you believe he could be waiting to declare for a particular king?” Lord Costayne asked, his voice sharp, cutting through the brief silence. Maegor noted the tension in Aemon’s posture at the question.

Lord Cuy, sensing the undercurrent, quickly responded. “His wife is a cousin of the Queen,” he said, offering a reassuring glance toward Aemon. “We do not hesitate for a second about Lord Matthos’ loyalties, Your Grace.”

“Lord Matthos’ sisters are married to Lord Peake, the new Hand of the Daemon, and Lord Crane, another suspected Red,” Lord Bulwer snickered. “He is as compromised as anyone could be!”

“He holds little love for his sisters,” Lord Costayne shrugged. “This changes nothing—”

Aemon’s expression tightened, and though his face remained composed, Maegor could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. “It matters little,” Aemon said, his tone clipped but controlled. "We cannot afford to wait for Highgarden to stir itself. The Reach teeters on the edge, and we must act now."

“Oldtown is yours,” Ser Ormund spoke proudly. “Our men are ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

Aemon nodded, looking at the map in front of him. “Have you received news from Dorne?”

Hobert exchanged an irritated look with his son, and the boy hesitated. “Beyond the skirmishes happening along the Marcher lands, nothing.”

Aemon moved his head slowly, as he was deep in thought. As he pointed at Western Dorne. At Starfall. “Nothing from them?”

The men in the room looked at Aemon. The King sighed, as his finger tapped over Starfall.

Aerys’ Dornish plan had touched the Reach and the Stormlands in equal measure. Young Lords had been promised to young Ladies on both sides, if he recalled correctly Ormund Hightower was amongst those promising matches with a Fowler Lady or a Qorgyle. But the silence coming from the West was deafening and worrisome.

“We’ve sent word to Lord Dayne,” the maester spoke. “We only received word of his passing three moons ago and ever since the Lady of Starfall has kept to herself. We can press further with a letter from you.”

Aemon’s face was stone-like, and he took a moment to reply as if he had been weighing his options. “We have bigger concerns. I’ll recall their loyalty when the time is right.”

Aemon gestured to the large map spread across the table, eyes scanning the positions marked out across the Reach. "We’ll divide our forces," he said. "Ser Ormund, you’ll lead your men up the Roseroad. Take command there and push back the rebels. Lord Hobert will remain here, ensuring Oldtown is prepared for any assault by land or sea. Vermithor and I will join you to meet any resistance on the road north. If we can break the rebels on the way to Highgarden, we can cripple any momentum south of the Mander. ”

The lords exchanged glances. Lord Hobert, his earlier frustration now tempered, gave a resolute nod. “Oldtown will hold, Your Grace. No matter what comes, this city will not fall.”

Aemon’s gaze was steady, his voice measured but edged with urgency. “I trust you on that, Lord Hobert. But we must be swift. Every hour we delay gives Daemon more time to strengthen his position.”

“How soon can your forces be ready to march?” Aemon asked.

“At a moment’s notice, Your Grace,” Ser Ormund replied confidently.

“Good,” Aemon said, his eyes narrowing with focus. “We move at dawn.”

Ser Ormund hesitated briefly before speaking. “Your Grace, perhaps you should rest? It’s been a long journey from King’s Landing, and a few hours could—”

Aemon chuckled, cutting him off. “Do I look in need of rest, Ser Ormund?” His tone was light, but his meaning was clear.

The young man flushed, laughing awkwardly as he bowed his head. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Maegor watched the exchange, sensing the eagerness in Ormund’s voice and the steady resolve in Aemon’s.

As the conversation about war and strategy deepened, Maegor found himself drifting between the exchanges, mentally noting key details about troop movements and supply lines. Lord Hightower and his bannermen seemed determined to hold the city, but Maegor couldn’t shake the feeling that their resolve might soon be tested.

The lords began to rise, preparing to leave and ready their men for the dawn march. Lord Hobert gave Aemon a final nod, promising that the city’s defenses would be bolstered by morning. One by one, the lords excused themselves, but as the room began to empty, Ser Bryndon stepped forward, his eyes locked on the King.

“Your Grace,” Ser Bryndon said, his voice low but steady. “May I have a word?”

"Is something on your mind, Ser Bryndon?" Aemon asked, his tone inquisitive yet calm.

Bryndon straightened his posture, his expression serious but controlled. "Your Grace, I would like to ask for the privilege of joining your company. This war... my father’s death weighs on me, and I feel I must stand where he could not.”

Aemon regarded him closely, weighing the words. Unlike many younger knights driven by impulsive notions of honor, Bryndon’s request carried the weight of a man who had seen enough of life to understand what war truly cost.

"You seek to prove yourself," Aemon said slowly. "But is it for honor or vengeance?"

Bryndon held Aemon’s gaze, his voice firm but measured. "Neither vengeance nor glory for their own sake, Your Grace. My father always said a knight must earn his place. I seek to earn mine now, not through words or birthright, but through action. And yes, to avenge him—because it was his wish for me to stand for our house. If I am to carry the Hightower name, I must fight for it."

Aemon’s expression remained unreadable for a moment, his eyes flicking over to Maegor, who stood quietly observing the exchange. Bryndon’s request, though heartfelt, was a heavy one.

“You are my wife's brother,” Aemon said at last, his voice softening slightly. “That alone earns you my respect. But in war, respect is earned anew every day. Riding with me will not be an easy path. The burdens are immense, and once taken up, there is no turning back.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” Bryndon replied, his voice steady. “I’ve lived through enough to know that nothing is promised. But I would rather meet that burden head-on than sit idle in Oldtown, watching others bear it.”

Aemon considered him for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. “Very well. You may join my company. Prove yourself as you say, and you will have a place at my side.”

Bryndon gave a sharp nod of thanks. “I won’t let you down, Your Grace.”

Before the conversation could continue, Bryndon hesitated, then added, “There’s something else, Your Grace.”

Aemon’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“You’ve been summoned to the Citadel,” Ser Bryndon said, his tone cautious. “Or rather, Archmaester Vaegon requests your presence. He sent word claiming it’s urgent.”

Aemon’s brow arched slightly, and he exchanged a glance with Maegor, a flicker of tension shifting the tone in the room. “Summoned?” he repeated, his voice edged with a cool skepticism.

Maegor’s hand flexed subtly near the hilt of his sword. Who was this Archmaester to summon the King as though he were some mere hedge knight? “Does he presume his ‘request’ takes precedence?” he asked, barely masking his irritation. “The King has far more pressing matters.”

Ser Bryndon nodded, a flash of worry in his eyes. “I told him as much, yet he insisted. Says it cannot wait… or,” he hesitated, his voice lowering, “or he may withdraw his cooperation.”

Aemon’s lip twitched, his patience thinning as he crossed his arms. “Withdraw his cooperation, will he? As if ignoring my ravens for the past three years wasn’t evidence enough.” His expression softened slightly, a touch of amusement breaking through the frustration. “If he’s so eager, let him step out of the Citadel for once.”

Bryndon shifted, casting an uneasy glance at the King. “The Archmaester was vague, Your Grace. I am simply the messenger here.”

Aemon exhaled, his fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “The Archmaester can wait. I have a war to fight.”