Chapter Text
The Ladies’ Hall was transformed into a sanctuary of gentle luxury, its atmosphere tinged with the fragrant blend of soothing oils, sweet smell of incense and the soft murmur of feminine conversation. The great oak doors had been barred, ensuring privacy for this intimate gathering. Attendants moved like whispers among the ladies, their practiced hands working with Essosi ointments and tinctures. Everywhere, the ladies of court were clad in light shifts, their laughter and chatter unrestrained, save for the occasional modest adjustment of fabric to preserve some semblance of decorum.
Nearby, Lady Anella was more preoccupied with quizzing the two attendants tending to her arms and legs. “What is this?” she demanded, holding up a vial of golden liquid. She sniffed delicately before nodding, her tone sharp with determination. “Saffron, yes? And perhaps... elderflower? No? Hmm, I must guess again.”
One of the attendants stammered something about the specific origins of the oil, but Anella waved her off, already reaching for another vial. “And this one? It smells of almonds but something sweeter... perhaps honeyed peaches?” She seemed wholly absorbed, her curiosity boundless.
Lady Elinda, on the other hand, was basking in blissful indulgence. An attendant massaged her scalp with nimble fingers, while two others delicately worked on her hands, smoothing oils into her fingers and palms with care. Her eyes were closed, a serene smile curving her lips as though she had never known a moment of strife.
Lady Selene and Lady Nila reclined near one another, their feet soaking in shallow basins of rose-scented water as attendants kneaded their toes and heels with expert precision. The two were deep in conversation about the impending nuptials of Lady Selene, her betrothal to a Tyrell lord being the chief subject of interest.
“He will be arriving in King’s Landing within the next moon.” Selene mused, her voice a mix of excitement and trepidation. “But he comes only with his uncle on his mother’s side and his old mother herself. Lord Tyrell was said to be quiet sickly so he cannot travel himself and his grandmother—is well into her twilight.”
Lady Nila frowned slightly, her hands folded demurely as an attendant massaged lavender-scented cream into her calves. “How disappointing not to meet more of his kin. A family is as much a part of a marriage as the match itself.”
Selene laughed softly, shaking her head. “Perhaps, but truthfully, I have more than enough family of my own to make up for it. The poor man will likely be overwhelmed by my many cousins, uncles, and aunts before we’ve even taken our vows.”
From her massage table, Lady Amanda spoke, her voice muffled slightly as she lay face down, her curls tumbling over the edge. Two attendants worked diligently on her back, their hands moving in rhythmic circles across her shoulders. “The Celtigars are certainly a fruitful bunch.” she said with a chuckle, her amusement carrying across the room.
Beside her raised bed, Lady Celtigar, Lady Caswell, Lady Redwyne, and Lady Fell were also being attended to. Each of these older ladies lay upon their own narrow beds, their eyes closed, their faces calm with the comfort of being pampered. Lady Celtigar, her hair silvered with age but her posture regal, had her legs gently massaged by two attendants, who worked with such care that the rich lady barely flinched. Lady Caswell’s hands were wrapped in thin cloths soaked in soothing oils, the attendants working expertly to ease the tiredness of a lifetime spent in the court.
But it was Lady Redwyne who seemed to truly surrender to the pleasure of the experience. As the attendant’s hands kneaded her muscles, her contented moans slipped from her lips, growing louder with every movement. Her breath hitched as one woman worked particularly deep into her lower back, the sound unmistakable and undignified.
Alicent, who sat near Rhaenyra, stiff and composed in her chair, watched in horror as the noise broke the otherwise serene atmosphere. Her eyes widened slightly at the raw pleasure Lady Redwyne was clearly experiencing, her mouth opening in an unguarded exhalation of relief. Each of her moans seemed to echo in the quiet room, and the Queen, so accustomed to a careful, controlled demeanor, looked away, her face flushed with an unspoken embarrassment.
Rhaenyra, on the other hand, was far less affected by the scene. She glanced over at the Queen, noting the horror in her eyes, but made no comment. Her smile was tight and polite, an artifice she wore well. As Lady Redwyne’s moans continued, Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked between the older lady and her stepmother. The Queen's discomfort was palpable—her fingers twitched at the collar of her thin gown, as though trying to pull it higher, to shield herself from the sounds that were so unbefitting of a lady of the court.
"Ahhh," Lady Redwyne sighed again, her voice positively breathless as the attendant’s hands moved down her back. “That's it, just there... I swear it feels like I am floating, girls.”
Lady Fell, beside her, let out a soft chuckle at her fellow lady’s audible enjoyment but remained silent otherwise, her own attendants focused on the intricate work of massaging her back and legs.
Rhaenyra, by contrast, is at ease, reclining on a cushioned chaise as Healer Helene herself attended to her. Her face was adorned with an Essosi beauty treatment—a thin cloth soaked in an exotic tonic that promised to rejuvenate the skin. The healer’s hands moved deftly, applying a cooling cream to Rhaenyra’s temples as she murmured softly about its origins in Volantis.
Across the room, Rhaenyra’s eyes wandered to where her daughters, Baela and Rhaena, were seated beside Helaena. All three girls wore similar cloth treatments on their faces, their features obscured save for their bright, glimmering eyes. They spoke to one another in hushed, muffled tones, careful not to dislodge the delicate cloths.
“You’ll tear it if you laugh too much.” Baela teased her sister, her voice coming out oddly through the barrier.
Rhaena giggled despite the warning, raising a finger to steady the edges of her treatment. “I can’t help it. You’re the one who said Helaena’s favorite embroidery looks like a spider caught in a net.”
Helaena blinked, her head tilted slightly as though she hadn’t entirely caught the jest, but her lips curved into a faint smile. “It is a spider caught in a net.” she replied, her tone as dreamlike as ever.
Rhaenyra couldn’t help but watch the interaction with interest. There was something almost tender in the way her daughters included Helaena, speaking to her with gentle care as though they feared she might shatter like glass. It was a marked contrast to the stiffness she’d grown used to seeing in the Queen.
She returned her focus to the scene unfolding before her. Alicent’s lips thinned as she looked pointedly away from Lady Redwyne, her breath shallow and measured. She tugged once more at the collar of her gown, clearly unsettled by the sounds, by the abandon with which the older lady enjoyed her treatment.
Rhaenyra, ever the picture of composure, chose this moment to finally address the Queen, they are seated far enough from the other Ladies that they will not hear their words unless they raised their voices. “I trust you are finding this time most beneficial, Lady Stepmother?” Her voice was smooth, as if nothing untoward had occurred, though the faintest edge of amusement lingered beneath her words.
Alicent stiffened, her eyes flicking briefly to Lady Redwyne before returning to Rhaenyra. Her face was pale, her discomfort unmistakable. “I... I am certain this is quite pleasant for the others.” she murmured, her tone tight as she tried to regain some semblance of control over her own composure.
Rhaenyra nodded, her expression softening ever so slightly. “Indeed. One can never be too indulgent in such trying times. We all deserve a moment of reprieve.” she said, her voice full of diplomatic grace.
The Queen barely nodded in response, her gaze once more fixed firmly on her lap as the attendants continued to work, unknowing and uncaring of the delicate balance between comfort and humiliation in the eyes of her stepmother.
Across the room, Lady Redwyne’s next audible sigh broke the silence once again, but the Queen's attention had already shifted, her discomfort growing more profound with each passing moment. She turned to Rhaenyra, her gaze sharp and unyielding, and asked the question that had clearly been festering within her.
“Why are you doing this?” The Queen’s tone, though soft, carried an edge that would have turned every head in the room if they were not placed too far from the others.
Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing on her lips. “What do you mean, Lady Stepmother?” she asked, her voice as coy as a maiden feigning ignorance of her suitor's intentions.
Alicent’s lips tightened into a thin line, and a glint of anger flickered in her common brown eyes. Her face transformed with the familiar frown that so often preceded her tirades, the perpetual pout of her mouth reasserting itself. “Do not act innocent, Rhaenyra,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a whisper, though the venom in it was no less potent. “You and I both know you tried to kill me—pushing me down those stairs.”
Rhaenyra blinked, the accusation so absurd that, for a moment, she could do nothing but stare at her stepmother. Her gaze flickered to the other women in the hall, each engrossed in their own ministrations. Lady Amanda murmured blissfully as her shoulders were kneaded, while Lady Selene laughed softly at something Lady Nila had said. None of them were paying attention.
The Princess turned back to Alicent, composing her features into a look of wounded innocence. She allowed her lips to tremble ever so slightly, her lashes lowering in a way that had melted her father’s heart more times than she could count. “You truly believe that?” she whispered, her voice a study in hurt disbelief. “That I would harm you?”
The Queen faltered, her anger momentarily replaced with something softer, something uncertain. Her eyes wavered, and she turned her head away, staring at the fire roaring in the hearth. Rhaenyra watched her closely, a faint smile curling at the edges of her lips as she concealed her triumph.
This Alicent was so far removed from the woman of her own time—the imperious queen who had wielded her faith and family like weapons, the woman who had wished Rhaenyra dead even as she labored to bring her sons into the world. That woman had no such pretensions of virtue. She was a woman who desired power for power’s sake, whose every move was calculated to secure the Iron Throne for her son. There had been no hesitation, no pangs of conscience, when she whispered venom into Viserys’s ear or rallied the lords of the realm to usurp Rhaenyra’s birthright. The Alicent of her time was a cold, calloused creature, untroubled by notions of morality.
While this woman, who had even once been Rhaenyra’s closest friend, was someone who cloaked herself in the belief that she was righteous, that her actions were for the good of the realm, even as they left destruction in their wake. She had not thought herself cruel when she demanded that Rhaenyra present sons to her mere moments after their birth, the cord barely cut, so she could inspect the color of their hair. No, this Alicent had justified it as her duty, never mind the pain it caused. The Queen wielded religion like a cudgel, convincing herself she was doing the will of the gods even as she plotted the downfall of her stepdaughter.
The fire crackled merrily in its hearth, its warmth incongruous with the cold tension that simmered between the two women seated just a few paces apart. Alicent Hightower, her stiff posture barely softened by the gentle ministrations of an attendant rubbing her hands with lavender oil, sat like a statue carved of ice, her gaze flickered subtly, never settling on Rhaenyra but lingering just enough at the edges of her vision to suggest careful observation
It was almost laughable to Rhaenyra, this pretense of strength from a woman who had been so thoroughly broken by her own ambition. At least the Alicent of my time had the dignity to acknowledge her desire for power, Rhaenyra thought, watching her stepmother’s trembling hands and the faint furrow of her brow. This Alicent speaks of gods and virtue, yet every prayer she utters is a dagger aimed at my back. There is no cruelty greater than that committed in the name of holiness.
Rhaenyra tilted her head, allowing her lips to curve into a faint, unreadable smile as Alicent finally spoke, her voice hesitant but no less accusatory.
“You pushed me.”
The accusation hung in the air between them, a taut string threatening to snap.
Rhaenyra let out a soft laugh, low and rich, like the purr of a satisfied cat. “Pushed you?” she repeated, her tone one of faint incredulity, as though Alicent had accused her of something as absurd as summoning dragons to dance. “Surely you do not mean—”
“Do not play coy with me, Rhaenyra.” Alicent’s voice sharpened, but the tremor in it betrayed her. “We both know what happened. You pushed me down those stairs.”
Rhaenyra’s expression shifted into one of practiced shock, her eyes widening as though the accusation had struck her like a blow. “I would never—” she began, her voice breaking just enough to sound convincingly pained. “Alicent, you cannot believe that of me.”
The Queen faltered, her eyes darting away from Rhaenyra’s face as though searching the room for answers. She found none, of course—the other ladies were far too engrossed in their own conversations, the air filled with laughter and the occasional moan of pleasure as muscles were kneaded and aches relieved.
Rhaenyra leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper meant only for Alicent’s ears. “You truly think I would hurt you?” she asked, her tone soft, almost mournful. She allowed a trace of vulnerability to creep into her expression, her lips trembling ever so slightly. “After everything… after all that lies between us?”
Alicent’s hand, resting on the arm of her chair, began to shake, the tremor so faint it might have been missed by a less observant eye. But Rhaenyra saw it, and she knew she had struck her mark.
“I…” Alicent began, her voice unsteady. “I remember falling. The stairs. I… I’m sure it was you I saw…”
“You must rest more, Lady Stepmother.” Rhaenyra interrupted gently, reaching out to place a cool hand atop Alicent’s trembling one. “It pains me to see you so unwell. The strain of your duties is taking its toll, I fear.”
Alicent blinked, her breath quickening as Rhaenyra’s words took root in her mind. “But I—”
“Hush now,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice soothing, as though speaking to a skittish horse. “You are overtired, Alicent. And overtired minds often play tricks on us.” She smiled then, a soft, pitying smile that she knew would unsettle the Queen more than any sneer. “I could never harm you. Surely you know that.”
The Queen’s eyes flickered with doubt, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I… I don’t know.”
Rhaenyra squeezed Alicent’s hand, her grip firm but not unkind. “You need care,” she said softly, her tone laced with concern. “Allow my healers to see to you. Their methods are… unconventional, but they have done wonders for others. Let them examine you, Alicent. For my sake, if not your own.”
Alicent looked up at her, her face a mask of uncertainty. Her breathing was shallow now, her chest rising and falling with the effort of maintaining composure.
Rhaenyra’s smile widened ever so slightly, though she kept her tone tender, almost sisterly. “You have carried so much, for so long,” she said, brushing her thumb lightly over Alicent’s knuckles. “It is no wonder your body cries out for rest. Let me help you.”
Alicent swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as she struggled to form a coherent response. For a moment, Rhaenyra thought she might protest, might dig in her heels and cling to the sliver of suspicion that remained. But then the Queen nodded, her head bowing like a flower too heavy for its stem.
“Perhaps…” Alicent murmured, her voice barely audible. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Rhaenyra’s heart swelled with triumph, though she kept her expression composed. So easy, she thought, watching as Alicent’s resolve crumbled before her. This Alicent is so easy to read, so easy to manipulate. Were I crueler—had I the stomach for such games—I might have bent her entirely to my will.
The thought lingered, dark and delicious, as Rhaenyra allowed herself to imagine the pious Queen writhing beneath her touch, her lips parting in ecstasy only to tremble with guilt the next morning. How delightful it would be, she mused, to see her blush prettily when our eyes met in public, to watch her squirm with the weight of a sin she could never confess.
But the thought turned her stomach, and she dismissed it as quickly as it came. There were better ways to break Alicent Hightower, ways that would not leave Rhaenyra feeling sullied by the effort.
As Alicent’s breathing steadied and her hand grew still beneath Rhaenyra’s, the Princess leaned back, her expression soft but unreadable. “You will feel better soon.” she said, her voice gentle, though her eyes gleamed with quiet triumph. “I will see to it.”
And as the Queen turned her gaze back to the fire, Rhaenyra allowed herself the smallest of smiles, knowing that the seeds of doubt had been sown. For all Alicent’s prayers and piety, her holiness was nothing more than a brittle shield—and Rhaenyra had every intention of shattering it.
The room was fragrant with the subtle, soothing scent of Volantene oils, their citrus and floral notes mingling in the warm air. Rhaenyra leaned on the day bed as Healer Helene removed the fine sheet of cloth that had been pressed to her face. With deft fingers, Helene patted the oils into her skin, her touch firm yet gentle, ensuring the luxurious creams were absorbed.
“Truly, Helene,” Rhaenyra said, her voice soft with contentment, “your oils and creams are nothing short of miraculous. My skin has always been well-tended, yet under your care, I practically glow.”
“Your Grace flatters me.” Helene replied with a modest smile, though the pride in her work was evident.
And indeed, Rhaenyra could not argue. Her arms, her legs, even the delicate skin of her hands felt as soft as silk, a testament to the healer's meticulous methods. She flexed her fingers lightly, marveling at the smoothness.
A commotion drew her attention, and her serenity was interrupted by the unmistakable voice of Baela. The girl was arguing spiritedly with one of the attendants, her voice carrying a note of stubborn defiance.
“No, not my hands!” Baela declared, her arms crossed and her brows furrowed in frustration.
Rhaena, already reclining with her hands and feet wrapped in similar cloths, looked up from her position and sighed. On her other side, Helaena lay on a daybed, her expression distant but serene, her hands and feet swathed as well.
Rhaenyra rose, her thin shift sweeping behind her as she approached the source of the quarrel. The attendant looked up at her with a helpless expression before glancing back at Baela, clearly unsure how to proceed.
“What is the matter here?” Rhaenyra asked, her tone calm but commanding.
The attendant curtsied quickly, then gestured to the basin where cloths were being soaked in oils. “Your Grace, Lady Baela refuses to have her hands tended.”
Rhaenyra nodded, a signal for the attendant to step aside. The woman did so with evident relief, leaving the cloths behind. Baela, however, frowned up at her, arms still crossed.
“And why do you refuse?” Rhaenyra asked gently, her gaze falling to Baela’s feet, which were already wrapped. “Your feet seem to have endured this treatment without protest. Why not your hands?”
Baela scowled, her stubborn pout firmly in place. “I don’t want my hands to be slippery.” she said, her voice firm. “It will hinder me in the training yard.”
Rhaenyra arched a brow, suppressing a smile at the girl’s resoluteness. She gestured toward the daybed. “Come and lay down comfortably.”
Baela hesitated but eventually complied, leaning on the raised back of the narrow bed. Rhaenyra sat beside her, lifting one of her daughter’s smaller hands with care. “The oils will soak into your skin.” she explained, her voice soothing. “Once absorbed, they will be washed away. It will not hinder your feats in the yard, I promise.”
Baela’s lips pressed into a pout, her gaze filled with quiet distrust. “You’re sure?”
“I am.”
Baela hesitated a moment longer before holding out her hands, her reluctance still apparent. Rhaenyra smiled, taking one small hand in her own and carefully wrapping it in the oiled cloths designed specifically for Baela and Rhaena. These were smaller, daintier than the ones used for the grown ladies—a thoughtful adjustment that Rhaenyra herself had ensured.
As she worked, she glanced at Baela, her tone light with curiosity. “Tell me, Baela, why is it that you practice only with a sword in the yard when I know you have a particular fondness for crossbows?”
Baela’s wide eyes met hers for a brief moment before her shoulders sagged, the bravado she so often wore like armor slipping away. “Because,” she said softly, “I want to be a great swordsman like Father. I want to inherit Dark Sister.”
Rhaenyra’s heart swelled at the conviction in her daughter’s voice, and she smiled warmly. She could already picture it: Jace upon the Iron Throne, the Crown of the Conciliator on his brow and Blackfyre in his hand, while Baela stood at his side, Dark Sister gleaming at her hip. It would be a sight to inspire bards for centuries! Oh it would be glorious!
But her curiosity lingered. “And why do you wish to be a swordswoman like Daemon?”
Baela hesitated, her gaze falling to her lap. When she spoke, her voice was small, vulnerable. “Because then… he would spend time with me.”
Rhaenyra’s smile dimmed, her hands pausing in their careful work. She glanced at her daughter, her heart aching at the quiet confession. “What do you mean?” she asked softly. “Daemon spends time with you now.”
Baela nodded, though her expression remained downcast. “He does now.” she admitted. “But before, in Pentos… he only spent time with us when he was teaching us High Valyrian or histories. The rest of the time, he was always shut away in the library.”
Rhaenyra inhaled sharply, the ache in her chest deepening. She resumed her work, wrapping Baela’s other hand with the same gentle care, though her thoughts were far from the task.
When she spoke again, her voice was tender, though a trace of steel lay beneath. “Your father loves you, Baela. In his own way, he always has. But if you ever feel overlooked, you must speak. Do not wait for swords or history to bridge the distance.”
Baela’s voice softened, barely above a whisper. “I always thought Kepa was just… serious. If a bit sarcastic.” She paused, glancing at her hands as Rhaenyra gently secured the cloth around her wrists. “But since we came back here, he’s always smiling. He wants to go out to the yard or walk in the garden. He brought us to explore the Dragonmont together or dine on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.” Her tone brightened for a moment, then dimmed just as quickly. “He even said, once the city is cleaned, he’d take us to the taverns and the theater.”
Baela’s lips pursed in contemplation as she added, almost to herself, “I don’t know why he was so sad with us in Pentos.”
Rhaenyra carefully adjusted the cloth at Baela’s wrist, ensuring it was snug but comfortable, then directed her small hands to rest on the arm of the daybed, her delicate fingers positioned to allow the oils to seep into her skin. “Your father…” Rhaenyra began, her voice soothing yet measured, “had quarreled with the King before he left to stay so long in Essos. I think it pained him deeply to be away from his brother.”
Baela’s wide eyes fixed on her in surprise. “Truly?”
Rhaenyra smiled warmly, brushing a strand of Baela’s silver hair behind her ear. “Imagine yourself apart from Rhaena. Wouldn’t you be sad, too?”
Baela’s jaw dropped slightly, and she nodded with fervor. “I’ve never been apart from Rhaena. Not even for a day!”
Rhaenyra chuckled softly. “Exactly. We who share the blood of dragons often seek out others of our kind. We nest together, Baela. It’s our nature.” She paused, her expression turning thoughtful. “Even before your father left with your mother, he and the King often fell out, though never for more than a year or two. Four years at the most. But this time, he was away for almost a decade. Such a long separation would affect anyone.”
Baela nodded again, her expression pensive. “I like Kepa better now.” she said with a small smile, her voice still hushed, as though voicing such a sentiment was a secret she dared not share too loudly. “But I wish Mama could see him like this.”
Rhaenyra’s heart softened at the child’s quiet vulnerability. She leaned in slightly, resting a comforting hand on Baela’s shoulder. “I wish for that, too. But you know,” she said gently, “your mother would be happiest seeing all of us this way. Seeing us happy.”
Baela’s face lit up with a wide, beaming smile. “She loved seeing everyone happy!" she agreed fervently, her little hands curling slightly against the cloths as she relaxed.
Rhaenyra tilted her head, her voice soft yet firm. “Then let us honor her by being happy. Always.”
Baela’s smile grew impossibly wider, and she nodded, the tension in her shoulders melting away.
Satisfied, Rhaenyra pressed a light kiss to Baela’s head before rising gracefully. She returned to her own daybed, where Healer Helene stood waiting, fidgeting slightly as though trying not to glance too obviously at the Queen. Rhaenyra raised an amused brow at the Queen, catching sight of a pointed glare directed on the Volantene Healer’s way.
With a serene yet knowing smile, Rhaenyra reclined against the cushions, the weight of the moment settling into her mind and heart, a quiet joy blossoming within her as she watched Baela relax at last.
Betrothals.
It seemed that while Rhaenyra and Daemon, along with their children, were endeavoring to heal and reclaim their strength upon the tranquil shores of Dragonstone, the Velaryons had been hard at work alongside the King, scheming over matches for her sons and daughters. Rhaenyra bit the inside of her cheek to suppress the ire that flared at the thought of her father and Lord Corlys presuming to orchestrate the futures of her children without consulting her. But she could not deny the wisdom of their choices—nor the benefit these alliances might bring to their family and, most importantly, to the children themselves.
Still, it galled her to remain silent as her father beamed with triumph. “So, it is settled, then?” the King said with unbridled glee. “Baela with Lucerys and Rhaena with Jacaerys?”
Daemon snorted, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual defiance that made the flames in the hearth seem to dance in sympathy. “It should be the other way around,” he drawled, his tone deceptively mild. “Baela and Luke would drive one another to madness—and possibly to swords—before they’d see their first anniversary as man and wife. And Jace and Rhaena would bore each other to death.”
Lord Corlys leaned forward, his hands clasped before him in a rare display of unease. “Baela is… spirited.” he admitted, though his eyes shone with the fierce pride of a grandsire who loved her dearly. “But the court would devour her. She is too brash for the demands of such a station. A Queen must be beloved by both the nobility and the smallfolk, and Rhaena—” he paused, as if tasting the name on his tongue—“Rhaena has the grace and temperament for such a role.”
Rhaenyra saw the frown forming on Daemon’s brow, the unmistakable tightening of his jaw as he prepared a retort sharp enough to flay steel. She stepped in swiftly, her voice calm yet commanding, before the gathering could dissolve into a clash of tempers.
“Jacaerys is already a figure of admiration and respect.” she said, her tone measured and deliberate. “He is steady, reserved, and wise beyond his years—qualities that have endeared him to both the nobility and the common folk alike. But such a nature as his, while invaluable, would also weigh heavily upon him in the years to come.”
Her gaze flickered to Daemon, then to Lord Corlys, as she continued. “Jace will need a partner of strength and passion, someone who will challenge him and lighten the burdens of the crown. Someone to ensure he does not lose himself in duty. Baela, with her fire and determination, is precisely the partner he requires.”
Daemon’s frown softened, though his expression remained inscrutable. Lord Corlys studied her, contemplative, as though weighing her words like gold upon a merchant’s scale.
“And Lucerys?” her father prompted, clearly eager to see the matter settled.
Rhaenyra smiled faintly, turning her attention to her second son. “Luke is charming, carefree, and trusting,” she said, though there was no malice in her voice—only the affection of a mother who knew her child’s every strength and flaw. “These are qualities that serve him well, but they could lead him astray without a steadying influence. Rhaena, even at her young age, has already shown remarkable wisdom and grace. She would offer him the grounding he needs, while her gentle nature would ensure his happiness.”
Her father nodded, visibly pleased. Lord Corlys allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips, a rare sign of approval. “You have thought this through.” the Sea Snake said at last, his tone admiring.
“I always do,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice as steady as her gaze. “And I spent time with them longer, I think I have better insight on how the children interact with each other.”
The King turned with a decisive nod toward the Grand Maester. “Prepare the initial contracts.” he commanded, his tone brooking no dissent. “They must be reviewed without delay.”
Lord Jasper, seated just a few chairs away, cleared his throat in a manner that suggested more hesitation than certainty. “Your Grace,” he began, his words careful, “what of the dowries? Surely—”
Viserys waved a hand dismissively, his patience wearing thin. “They are marrying within the family, Lord Jasper. What need is there for a dowry in such an arrangement?”
Daemon’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade. “I can provide dowries for my own daughters.” he said, his tone low and brimming with irritation.
Lord Corlys, ever the tactician, leaned forward, his voice a calm yet firm counterpoint to the growing tension. “Dowries are not merely a tradition, Your Grace. They ensure the bride’s financial security and well-being in the years to come.”
Daemon inclined his head toward the Sea Snake, his expression softening ever so slightly in appreciation. “Precisely. I own a mine in Runestone—part of the price paid to me when Lady Jeyne denied my rightful claim to the ancient seat of my dead Bronze Bitch.” He said with a gleeful sneer which made the Council uneasy. “Though the mine has been neglected, it would thrive under the Crown’s purview.” He gestured with a casual wave of his hand, as though casting off any notion of scarcity. “In addition, I own manors and mansions scattered across Essos. Those could easily be set aside for the second or third child when the time comes.”
Viserys scoffed, his expression tinged with mockery. “A prince of the realm residing in Essos? Absurd. What would people say?”
Daemon leaned back in his chair, a sardonic smile playing at his lips. “Just because you’ve never left this fetid hovel of a city does not mean there aren’t finer places in the world, brother,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Perhaps you ought to expand your horizons—or at least open a window.”
Rhaenyra sighed softly, her fingers tracing idle patterns along the stem of her goblet as her father and uncle traded barbs. It had been nearly two weeks since their return, and she had yet to see a moment’s peace between the two brothers. It was a delicate balance: they seemed to miss each other desperately, yet they could not bear to spend an hour in the other’s presence without tearing into one another.
Her mind drifted toward her children, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Jace and Luke, Baela and Rhaena—they might bicker and squabble over trifling matters, as children often did, but at their core, they genuinely liked one another. And liking one another, Rhaenyra mused, was as important as loving each other. Perhaps even more so. Love alone was not enough. Without respect, trust, and affection, even the deepest bonds could wither and fall apart as evidence by Viserys and Daemon.
Her musings were interrupted as her eyes caught on Queen Alicent, seated stiffly at the far end of the table. The Queen’s expression was a study in tension, her mouth pinched and her fingers worrying at her nailbeds until they were raw and bloody. Rhaenyra hid her amusement behind a sip of wine, the edge of her goblet just barely disguising the smirk that threatened to appear.
It was clear that Alicent and Lord Jasper had hoped to address the council on another matter entirely, their whispered exchanges earlier in the day betraying their urgency. Yet Lord Corlys’ unexpected presence had derailed their plans, and the ensuing discussion of the betrothals—introduced, of course, by the Hand—had consumed the better part of the afternoon.
The first hour had been devoted entirely to Daemon’s outrage over being excluded from the decision-making process, his grievances voiced with a vehemence that left little room for interruption. The next hour had been claimed by Lord Corlys and the King, who had taken turns extolling the virtues and advantages of the proposed matches, their arguments growing increasingly impassioned as they sought to outdo one another.
Daemon had retaliated with his characteristic flair, threatening to take his daughters and quit the realm entirely. That had necessitated yet another hour of carefully worded placations from the Hand, who seemed to be rapidly running out of patience—and options.
Now, with the sun already setting down, Daemon had only just begun to entertain the idea of allowing the betrothals to proceed. Meanwhile, the King and Lord Corlys were already behaving as though the contracts had been signed, sealed, and delivered.
Rhaenyra glanced between the brothers, their expressions locked in familiar battle, and shook her head with quiet exasperation. Perhaps they loved each other in their own peculiar way, but if this was the reality of siblinghood, she was deeply grateful to have no relationship with her own.
It took two more hours before some semblance of agreement on the dowries was reached. The mine in Runestone would form a key part of Baela’s dowry, though Lord Corlys insisted it be assessed immediately to ensure its productivity by the time the children wed. This, of course, sparked yet another dispute over who would bear the cost of the assessment.
“I’ll handle it.” Daemon declared with a sharpness that brooked no argument.
Corlys raised an eyebrow, his tone cool but firm. “With respect, my prince, your presence in the Vale may complicate matters more than resolve them.”
Daemon’s expression darkened. “And why is that, Lord Corlys?”
“Because,” Corlys replied, his voice measured, “you are not well-liked there. Lady Jeyne has little reason to cooperate with you, given your history with her bannermen. I suspect my involvement would smooth the process considerably.”
A muscle in Daemon’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing. The silence in the room thickened as Corlys continued. “This is for Baela’s benefit, after all. It would serve us poorly to have tensions flare over something as vital as her dowry.”
Daemon exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair with a grudging nod. “And you are so well liked in Vale, are you, Sea snake? You’re just itching to get your greedy hands on the mine.”
The Sea Snake leaned back in his chair, unruffled. “Absurd,” he said with a dismissive wave. “My interests lie in ensuring this mine is a fitting gift for Baela—not in claiming it for myself.”
Daemon’s laugh was low and bitter. “Oh, please. Leeches are never content, Corlys. They suck blood from their hosts until there’s nothing left.”
The room erupted into chaos, both men shouting over one another. Viserys, for his part, seemed almost entertained by the spectacle, reclining in his chair with a bemused smile, he was sure indulging in Dameon antagonizing someone else. “Perhaps,” the King said loudly, his voice cutting through the din, “we wouldn’t need to endure this exhausting debate if the two of you weren’t so insistent on these ridiculous dowries.”
Daemon spun toward his brother, his eyes alight with fury. “Ridiculous? Everytihng had always been served to you on a silver platter that you have no notion of what it’s like to be a second son with nothing to his name. I will not allow my future grandchildren to be left at the mercy of the Crown’s so-called ‘generosity,’ especially if it’s anything like the ‘mercies’ you extended to me.”
Viserys’s face darkened, and he pushed himself upright. “And I suppose your rebellions, your reckless adventures, and your outright insubordination were acts of gratitude?” he shot back. “Shall I enumerate the ways you’ve insulted me, undermined me, and endangered the realm?”
“Please do,” Daemon said coolly, folding his arms across his chest. “While you’re at it, perhaps you could acknowledge how every one of those accusations stems from the fevered imagination of Otto Hightower. You’ve never once bothered to validate his claims, have you? You simply assumed the worst.”
The argument raged on, each man throwing sharper barbs than the last, until Rhaenyra could feel the beginnings of a headache blooming behind her temples. When the King finally rose, his face a thundercloud, she released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“I’m retiring to my chambers. Alone.” Viserys announced, his tone pointed, before storming out of the room.
Daemon lingered only a moment longer, slipping into one of the hidden passages with the ease of long practice. There was no doubt in Rhaenyra’s mind that he would spend the night drinking himself into oblivion with his Gold Cloaks.
The room fell into a merciful silence, broken only by the scrape of Lord Corlys’s chair as he stood. His expression, unusually, was one of satisfaction. “I’ll dine with the boys this evening, Your Grace.” he informed her with a bow, his voice warm before he too departed.
Rhaenyra watched as Lord Corlys strode confidently from the chamber, his gait purposeful and his satisfaction evident in every step. She couldn’t help the sneer that curled her lips as he disappeared through the door. Blatant favoritism, she thought with disdain. For every one meal he took with her daughters, he seemed to take two with her sons, and one jovial excursions to the docks.
Oh, how he dotes on the boys, she mused, her gaze lingering on the now-empty doorway. Jace, Luke, even little Joffrey—all were showered with stories of grand naval battles, tales of adventure, and the promise of future voyages. The Sea Snake’s booming laughter echoed through the halls whenever the boys were near, his pride in them as tangible as the waves crashing against Driftmark's shores.
And the girls?
Baela and Rhaena, though lavished with jewels, perfumes, and dolls fit for princesses, were treated almost as an afterthought. Gifts, no matter how extravagant, could not replace time, nor could they compensate for his lack of presence in their lives. Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet as she imagined the girls’ disappointment, hidden behind practiced smiles.
‘My dear girls deserve more than baubles,’ she thought, the words forming unbidden in her mind. ‘A grandfather’s love cannot be measured in gold or silk—it must be felt, seen, given freely without condition.’
Rhaenyra rose from her seat with deliberate grace, not sparing a glance for the councilors who remained seated, their movements slower and more uncertain. She smoothed her gown with practiced ease, her fingers light against the rich fabric. The chamber was heavy with the tension of unresolved matters, but she had no desire to linger.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Queen Alicent approaching, her steps quick, her expression taut. Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked downward, catching the telltale crimson beneath the Queen’s fingernails—a habit Alicent had never managed to suppress.
“Princess,” Alicent said, her voice pitched low, an attempt at calm that failed to mask her urgency. “Perhaps we might sup together this evening.”
Rhaenyra turned her head slightly, catching the subtle movement of Lord Jasper’s head as he leaned ever so slightly closer, his efforts at discretion entirely unconvincing. She allowed herself the faintest of smiles, for she knew the game they all played.
“Ah, how gracious of you,” Rhaenyra replied, her tone light, her smile charming. “But alas, my evening is already spoken for. I shall be dining with the girls tonight.”
A flicker of something—panic, perhaps—crossed Alicent’s eyes before she smoothed her features into placid neutrality. “Surely, we could find another time.” Alicent pressed, her hands folding tightly before her.
“Another time, Lady Stepmother.” Rhaenyra replied, her voice as sweet as honey and just as unyielding. With a slight nod of her head, she swept past Alicent, leaving the Queen standing amidst the lingering councilors, her composure fraying.
Rhaenyra made her way toward Maegor’s Holdfast, choosing to traverse the gardens and the godswood rather than pass through the sept. The evening air was cool, the scents of fresh blossoms and damp earth mingling as the sunlight began to wane. She paused near the towering heart tree, its red leaves rustling softly, before addressing the knight at her side.
“Ser Steffon,” she said, her tone casual but probing, “how fares the Gold Cloak?”
The knight, ever loyal and watchful, inclined his head. “My Princess, theLord Commander, Ser Luthor Largent, has expressed his willingness to step down should Prince Daemon wish to resume the post. However, the prince has already declined the King’s offer.”
Rhaenyra arched a brow, curiosity alight in her violet eyes. “Declined? And why, pray tell, would my uncle refuse a position he once held with such vigor?”
Ser Steffon hesitated, his unease palpable. “It is not for me to speculate on the prince’s mind, Princess,” he said cautiously, “but it may be that the position no longer suits him. Prince Daemon’s influence over the City Watch remains strong. His mere presence has already tightened patrols and roused the men from complacency. He has no need of the title to command their loyalty.”
Her lips curved into a contemplative smile. “And what, then, could my father possibly offer him now?”
Ser Steffon cleared his throat, glancing around as though the very trees might overhear. He was a Kingsguard first, bound by oath, but he had watched Rhaenyra grow from a spirited girl into the resolute woman she was now, and he had always been partial to her.
“In truth, Princess,” he began in a low voice, “Ser Harrold suggested the prince be granted a new position—one that would oversee not only the City Watch but also the Household Guards and your very own Dragonguards.”
Rhaenyra’s smile deepened, her eyes alight with intrigue. “How inspired.”
“Such a role,” Ser Steffon ventured, “would centralize command, ensuring consistency across the forces. It would bring coordination to the City Watch, the Household Guards, and your very own Dragonguards, preventing inefficiencies or conflicting orders.”
“And who better to lead such an effort than my dear uncle?” Rhaenyra said, her tone lilting with amusement. “The man who forged the Gold Cloaks into what they are today, who understands the strength of unity and discipline.”
She paused beneath the sprawling branches of the heart tree, her gaze sharp and calculating. “One more thing Prince Daemon would oversee,” she continued, her voice dropping, “is the training of an army of dragonriders.”
This time Rhaenyra will ensure that all dragons survive. She will not allow a mob of unwashed peasants to destroy the greatest military weapon the world has ever known, her families own bonded dragons. Her uncle will see to that.
Rhaenyra met her children in the hall as they made their way toward Lord Corlys’ private dining room. She paused to press a soft kiss to both of their cheeks. Jace gave Luke a gentle tug on his arm, urging him along with a familiar urgency, eager to be seated and perhaps share in a meal that will undoubtedly be filled with tales of voyages in dangerous seas and bold adventures at exotic lands. Luke reluctantly released her, though not without first extracting a solemn promise that two stories would be read to him before bed.
She smiled after them, then made her way to the twins’ rooms. The room arrangements were unusual, even by royal standards, but it worked for them. The three rooms, each part of a small suite, were positioned side by side, the middle one being where they slept. The two rooms on either side were intended to be private spaces, each meant for the twin it was assigned. However, the twins had quietly decided to make things their own.
Rhaena’s room had become a soft, welcoming sitting room, where delicate furniture in shades of sea green and cream gave the space a sense of calm. Shelves full of books lined the walls, many filled with well-loved volumes. One of the arched windows in the sitting room had been designed with comfort in mind, a padded bench below it with bookshelves lining the walls. It was the perfect place for a quiet moment, whether reading when the sun was out or resting on a rainy day, for the windows were equipped with glass that could close tightly against the weather.
Princess Rhaenys had insisted on this feature in all of the children's rooms, something even Rhaenyra finds excessive. She had argued it was an unnecessary expense, believing the rooms would be just as well with open windows that can be barred by the servants in the night. But, as with many of her ideas, Rrincess Rhaenys had insisted, and the glass had been installed in all the children’s rooms, including the nursery.
The expense had made Cregan Stark, with his northern sensibilities, scoff, though he could not help but express awe when he first saw the glass walls at Hightide. “In the North, we have glass gardens, you know,” he had told Rhaenyra once, shaking his head in disbelief. “The glass is precious there, but you would never see it used like this.”
It seemed that Rhaenyra would have to mediate another meeting—one between young Lord Stark and Lord Corlys—about the purchase of more glass for the North. A curious sort of negotiation for a princess, but she had learned to balance such matters in the grand dance of politics.
Baela, on the other hand, had turned her own room into something quite different—a study, where the twins often finished their required works from their tutors. One side of the wall Baela’s collection of crossbows and arrows, neatly arranged like weapons of both pride and function. The space was not as soft as Rhaena’s room; instead, it was filled with the marks of her active nature. The furniture was more functional, but still comfortable enough for a quiet hour spent planning her next target or studying her work.
The small round table was set beneath another arched window, this one overlooking the lush gardens below. Rhaenyra took her seat, the soft murmur of the breeze a gentle backdrop to the evening’s meal. As the servants placed dishes before her, Rhaenyra could already sense the familiar tension in the room. Baela, ever the active one, needed something hearty. Rhaenyra chose a succulent cut of roasted meat, while Rhaena, always more delicate, received a fresh salad with sweet, honeyed sauce, balanced by soft cheeses and sliced fruits. A selection of cakes, pastries, and delicate treats—of course, prepared just in time for Baela’s particular preferences—sat at the ready, their sugary scent already filling the air.
The moment she settled into her seat, Rhaena spoke, her voice soft with curiosity. “Where are the boys?”
Rhaenyra hesitated before answering, not wanting to dampen the mood. “They’re having dinner with Lord Corlys.” she said reluctantly.
Baela’s expression twisted slightly, the mention of her grandfather’s influence not entirely lost on her. “Grandfather gave us gifts today,” she said with a small huff. “A new crossbow and five arrows made of glass. He got them from a ship just returned from Essos. I don’t know why he bought something so useless.”
Rhaenyra smiled, amused by her daughter’s practicality. “At least they are pretty to admire.” she said lightly.
Baela wrinkled her nose, her lips curling into a small scowl. “Pretty doesn’t make them useful.”
Rhaena, more reserved than her sister, hesitated before speaking. “I have a basketful of perfumes.” she said quietly, lifting her gaze to meet her hers.
Rhaenyra’s heart softened at the wistful tone in her voice. Her daughters had always been thoughtful, but sometimes it was hard to discern what weighed on their hearts.
Rhaena’s voice, so tentative in its questioning, made Rhaenyra pause. “Do you think he loves us any less?”
The question hit Rhaenyra’s heart, but she quickly composed herself. She cupped Rhaena’s cheek gently. “No, sweetling,” she said, her voice filled with warmth. “He loves you very much. Men, however, are often blind to what matters most. It’s a flaw they carry from the cradle.”
Baela snorted at the thought. “Boys are stupid.”
Rhaenyra laughed, a light sound that filled the room with warmth. “They are, my dear,” she agreed, her smile reaching her eyes. “They certainly are.”
Baela seemed satisfied with the answer, her focus shifting back to the meal before her, while Rhaena looked momentarily pensive, clearly mulling over the exchange. Rhaenyra, for her part, smiled, watching her daughters as they settled into their own quiet worlds, content for the moment in the company of one another.
supper unfolded with a pleasant ease, the table illuminated by the soft glow of candles and the faint moonlight filtering through the glass-paned windows. The evening meal was accompanied by cheerful chatter, a blend of the girls’ studies and the snippets of courtly gossip they had gleaned. It amused Rhaenyra to no end how much the smallest members of court seemed privy to, simply because adults failed to guard their tongues around them.
Baela, ever bold, leaned forward with an impish grin. “Lady Redwyne is refusing to return to the Arbor.”
Rhaenyra paused, her fork poised mid-air. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Because Lord Redwyne keeps a girl beside him,” Baela said matter-of-factly, her tone betraying neither judgment nor shame. “She’s already given him three children!”
Rhaenyra stared at her daughter in astonishment. “And how, pray tell, do you know this?”
Baela shrugged, her expression the very picture of innocence. “Lady Redwyne said so herself. She was very talkative after her massage. She said she’s had more satisfaction there than in forty years of marriage to her lord husband.”
At this, Rhaenyra choked on her sip of wine, her eyes widening in a mixture of horror and hilarity. She pressed a napkin to her lips, grateful that Baela, for all her keen ears, seemed entirely oblivious to the true meaning behind the remark.
Rhaena, sitting with perfect poise, used the momentary lull to steer the conversation elsewhere. “Princess, may I have more gowns made? This time with an over robe of lace? Grandfather had given us bolts of Myrish lace.”
Rhaenyra’s delight was immediate, her enthusiasm lighting up her face as she leaned closer. “Of course, my sweetling! Shall we adorn them with pearls, or do you prefer other gems?”
“Perhaps other gems,” Rhaena said thoughtfully, her lips curving into a small smile. “Luke is the Pearl of Driftmark, after all. I wouldn’t want to steal his title.”
The table erupted into laughter. Even Baela, who often found such discussions tiresome, couldn’t suppress a grin. Rhaenyra dabbed her eyes with her napkin, her mirth spilling over. “Lord Corlys despises that nickname, he said it make Luke feminine.” she said through her laughter, “Though I know he secretly adores it. The buttons made of pearls on all of Luke’s doublet were his own doing, after all.”
Baela, leaning back in her chair, crossed her arms with a bemused expression. “I prefer gowns I can move in,” she declared. “There were ones in Essos that have slits on both sides. They’re perfect for reaching a weapon or moving freely.”
Rhaenyra, still chuckling, regarded her eldest daughter with fondness. “Perhaps you should sketch your design, darling. The royal tailors can make it for you. But,” she added with a playful arch of her brow, “you must know such an unconventional dress will undoubtedly ruffle the court. Especially the Queen—she has always been rather traditional.”
Baela huffed, her lilac eyes flashing. “I’m a Targaryen. I’ll wear what I please. It isn’t my fault the Queen is so uncultured.”
“Baela!” Rhaena scolded, her tone a perfect imitation of propriety.
But Rhaenyra threw her head back and laughed, her joy filling the room. “Oh, my dears,” she said at last, still smiling, “you are a delight.”
After the meal, Rhaenyra stayed with her daughters, their evening ritual unfolding in the quiet intimacy of their chambers. While Baela was in the bathing room, Rhaenyra helped Rhaena prepare for bed. She sat behind her youngest daughter, combing fragrant oils into her tight, curly hair. Rhaena closed her eyes, her face serene, as Rhaenyra’s gentle hands worked the oil through each strand, the soft scent of lavender filling the air.
When Baela returned, her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the bath, Rhaenyra turned her attention to her eldest. Baela sat on a cushioned stool, holding out her hands as she applied a soothing cream to them, the balm easing the roughness left by hours spent in the training yard. Baela watched her work, her expression a curious blend of affection and impatience, while Rhaena nestled into the bed they shared, already half-asleep.
“There,” Rhaenyra said softly, pressing a kiss to Baela’s knuckles. “All done. Now, off to bed with you.”
Baela yawned, though she tried to hide it, and joined her sister beneath the covers. Rhaenyra tucked the blankets around them, pausing to brush a stray curl from Rhaena’s face. For a moment, she lingered, her heart full as she gazed down at her daughters, their faces peaceful in the flickering candlelight.
As Rhaenyra made her way back to her chambers, the evening’s contentment began to wane, replaced by the familiar ache of loss and longing. The twins were nothing like her daughters of another life—neither in appearance nor in temperament. And yet, they were entirely lovely in their own right. They are Daemon’s daughters, after all, with his fire in their veins and a hint of his mischief in their smiles. It was not difficult to love them, even if they still regarded her with cautious eyes, their affections tempered by reservation.
Sometimes, she cursed the gods for this cruel twist of fate, for giving her back a semblance of her children but not all of them. Her heart ached for what was missing, even as it swelled with affection for what remained. The thought of the girls learning of Lord Corlys’ campaign to see her wed to Daemon only deepened her turmoil. It had been Princess Rhaenys, with her unyielding pragmatism, who had pressed the matter, declaring that she would not endanger her grandchildren’s inheritance as Viserys had once endangered hers by having her marry some other ambitious Lord.
Lost in thought, Rhaenyra pushed open the door to her sitting room, only to stop short at the sight before her.
Daemon lounged in her chair by the hearth, the firelight casting flickering shadows over his face. He held a goblet of wine, his expression unreadable, though a slight smile curved his lips as he regarded her.
“I must say, Uncle,” she began, closing the door behind her, “I am surprised to find you here instead of deep in your cups with your companions in Flea Bottom.”
His smile turned wry. “Perhaps I sought better company this evening.”
Rhaenyra arched a brow, crossing the room to sink into the chair beside him. She stretched her legs out before her with a soft sigh, grateful when he poured her a goblet of wine without a word.
“To what do I owe this honor, then?” she asked, taking a sip.
“I wished to speak with you,” Daemon said, his tone unusually measured. “About the betrothals.”
Rhaenyra tilted her head, studying him. “And what do you think of it?”
He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the fire then returned her question. “What do you think of it?”
A small smile tugged at her lips as she settled back into her chair. “It is, undoubtedly, a most politically astute pairings.” she replied. “The children get along well, and we could always stop it if one of them objected.”
Daemon’s frown deepened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I do not want my daughters to feel trapped here in Westeros.”
Rhaenyra raised a single, elegant brow. “I was not aware you were so close to your daughters.”
His head turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. “And what, precisely, do you mean by that?”
She swirled the wine in her goblet, taking a slow sip as she watched the dark emotion flicker across his face. “I mean only that I have noticed certain... distnace. For instance, you do not bid them goodnight or speak with them much at all.”
Daemon’s jaw tightened. “I personally train Baela in the yard and assist her with Moondance.” he said curtly.
“Indeed,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice soft but pointed. “And have you not considered that the only reason Baela strives so fiercely in the yard is to win more of your time and attention? Meanwhile, you barely spare a glance for Rhaena.”
His scowl deepened, his knuckles whitening around the stem of his goblet. “Are you calling me a bad father?”
“Of course not,” she said gently, setting her wine aside and leaning forward. “If you were a bad father, those two little girls would not adore you as they do. But you are neglectful, Daemon, and that can be just as harmful as being a poor father.”
His expression faltered, the sharp edges of his defiance giving way to something far more vulnerable.
Rhaenyra hesitated for a moment, then added, her voice soft with memory, “I would know, Uncle. I was raised by one.”
The words lingered between them, heavy with unspoken truths and shared wounds. For once, Daemon had no sharp retort, his gaze dropping to the flickering flames as silence enveloped them. In the quiet, Rhaenyra reached for her goblet again, taking a small sip as she waited, her heart heavy but resolute.
Daemon’s silence stretched as the fire crackled, its golden glow painting the sharp planes of his face. He finally set his goblet down with a quiet thud, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple as if the weight of his thoughts had become unbearable.
“I’m not a good father,” he murmured, his voice rough but subdued. “I wasn’t a good husband either.”
Rhaenyra’s breath hitched, though she said nothing, allowing the confession to unfold.
“I’m not the man I was ten years ago.” Daemon continued, his gaze fixed on the flames. “That man... the Rogue Prince, as they called me, he was reckless and unrelenting. And Laena—” His voice cracked slightly, and he raked a hand aggressively over his face, as if trying to banish the memories. “She used to look at me with such disappointment. She married a man of fire, but all she got was... ashes. A husband who lost his spark.”
Rhaenyra watched him with quiet sadness, the weight of his words pressing heavily against her heart. The Daemon described by his daughters and the man she that was described by the people who knew him before seemed worlds apart. He was supposed to be fiery, impetuous, and stubborn, caring for no one but himself. But the Daemon they described was withdrawn, melancholic, and—above all—lost.
His hand trembled slightly as he wiped it over his face again. When he finally looked at her, his voice was uncharacteristically small, almost boyish in its uncertainty. “Do you think they hate me?”
Rhaenyra’s expression softened, and she set her goblet aside to lean closer, her tone gentle but firm. “Far from it, Daemon. They love you so deeply that they only want to know you better.”
Daemon’s eyes returned to the fire, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the world pressed against them. “I don’t know how to do this without Laena,” he admitted. “I can only talk to Baela when it’s about her dragon or our Valyrian ancestry. And Rhaena...” He shook his head. “I have even less in common with her. I’m afraid. Afraid of raising daughters who’ll be subjected to the cruel eyes of the court. Afraid they’ll resent me for it.”
The vulnerability in his voice cut through her. Rhaenyra reached across the space between them, taking his hand in hers. She felt the calluses on his palm, a warrior’s hands, but they trembled now as if stripped of their usual strength. Gently, she tilted his chin upward so their eyes could meet.
“It is not too late, Daemon.” she said softly, her voice steady but warm. “Baela doesn’t love training with the sword as much as you think. Try teaching her the crossbow instead—it might just intrigue her, and it would give you both something new to share.” She smiled faintly. “And Rhaena... she loves histories and books, just as you do. You need only show her that you care about what she loves, what she dreams of, what she thinks. Once they see that, they’ll open their hearts to you.”
Daemon’s eyes searched hers, uncertain but hopeful. “What if I fail? What if I’m not good enough?”
Rhaenyra gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You won’t fail,” she said firmly. “You’re their father, Daemon. And while you may falter, what matters is that you try. Show them your heart. It is far better to be imperfect but present than to hold back out of fear. They don’t need the Rogue Prince or the warrior—they need their father.”
For a moment, Daemon said nothing, the flickering firelight dancing in his violet eyes. Then, with a deep breath, he nodded, as if summoning the courage to do what he had always thought beyond his reach. Rhaenyra smiled, a soft, private expression meant only for him, and for the first time that evening, she saw a glimmer of something familiar in him—not the man she once knew, but the man he could yet become.
Daemon leaned back in his chair, a faint, grateful smile curling his lips. Rhaenyra mirrored his movement, her own smile softer, tinged with unspoken understanding. For a moment, the crackling fire filled the silence between them, warm and intimate.
Then, with a glint of mischief in his eyes, Daemon broke the quiet. “You know, there was another matter Lord Corlys wished to discuss with the council,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “But Viserys made such a spectacle over the children’s betrothal that it never came up.”
Rhaenyra arched a brow, intrigue gleaming in her gaze. “Oh? And what matter would that be?”
Daemon’s smirk deepened, and he leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “According to the Sea Snake, it was Rhaenys who was most adamant for another match.”
“Ours?” she asked, a ripple of amusement lacing her words.
He nodded, his smirk turning sly. “The first night we returned, Viserys summoned me to his chambers. He accused me of manipulating Rhaenys into doing my bidding.”
At that, Rhaenyra let out a snort, her mirth irrepressible. “The gods themselves would struggle to manipulate Rhaenys into anything she did not wish to do.” she said with a grin.
“Exactly,” Daemon agreed, his tone dry. “But we both know Viserys has never been the most intelligent of men.”
Rhaenyra tilted her head, her amusement fading into curiosity. “And what do you think of it?”
Daemon’s expression shifted, the playful mask slipping away. His gaze turned molten, heated and unyielding, locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. The weight of his longing settled between them, heavy and undeniable. A flush crept up her neck, and she looked away, but the moment lingered, potent and unspoken.
“I think,” Daemon began, his voice low, “that you knew how I felt for you ten years ago. And no matter how hard I’ve tried to bury it, that feeling has never changed.” He leaned forward, his words striking her like the gentle but relentless tide. “I asked your father for your hand once before, and he refused me. Even with the might of the Velaryon fleet and Meleys behind us, I doubt anything could change his mind even now.”
Rhaenyra blinked rapidly, willing the sting of tears from her eyes. She had not expected such honesty, such raw vulnerability.
Rhaenyra had taken great care in piecing together the delicate threads of the relationship between the Princess and her uncle. Her inquiries were crafted with subtlety, but the court’s natural penchant for gossip ensured her efforts bore fruit. Lady Redwyne had been scathing in her judgment, remarking on how the young princess was indulged and coddled under her uncle’s influence. Lady Caswell were more nostalgic in her reminisce, pointing out that many of the fine fabrics stored in the royal wardrobes, along with an impressive collection of books and jewels, were gifts from Daemon himself. Yet, it was Lady Anella who had laid the matter bare with unvarnished clarity: the king’s refusal of Daemon’s suit had been a grave misstep, for it was plain to all that the Rogue Prince’s devotion to the princess was undeniable.
The court’s whispers painted a portrait not only of indulgence but also of an affection that, while deeply scandalous, was unmistakably profound.
Even Harwin, loyal and ever steadfast, had told her time and again that Rhaenyra’s heart had always belonged to Daemon, no matter the years or distance between them. And now, seeing him look at her like this, with unshakable devotion, her heart ached with a longing that was not her own.
The love between her and her Daemon was not one of fiery infatuation but rather an enduring bond forged in trust and loyalty. It was the love of equals who understood one another deeply, flaws and all. Their union was not without conflict or hardship, but it was marked by a shared purpose and an unyielding commitment to each other. It was a love that could withstand the storms of ambition and the cruelties of fate—a great love, one that made them stronger together than they were apart.
The love of Princess Rhaenyra and this Daemon, in contrast, was a tempestuous storm. It burned brightly and dangerously, consuming all in its path. It was raw, passionate, and magnetic, a love that defied logic and thrived on their shared hunger for each other. It was the kind of love that made the world blur at the edges, leaving only the two of them at its center. Yet, in its intensity, it could be isolating—a fire that warmed them but also threatened to engulf them whole.
It was no wonder the King had feared them together. Their bond, electric and unyielding, was a force that could not be contained, a tempest that threatened the fragile balance of his rule. And so, even knowing it would wound them both, he had sought to break them apart. To deny them was, in his mind, the lesser evil.
And yet, against all odds, here they were. Daemon, now conveniently a widower, and Rhaenyra, bereft of a husband, both adrift and yet inexorably drawn to one another once more.
Rhaenyra could scarcely think of the Princess Rhaenyra—the woman whose body she’s inhibiting—without her heart breaking anew. That Rhaenyra had endured nearly a decade of solitude, robbed of any semblance of peace, even within the confines of her own chambers. And now, the one man she had loved most, the one whose support might have bolstered her against the relentless tide of misfortune, had returned. Yet she was gone, vanished like morning mist under the heat of the sun.
For months now, Rhaenyra had racked her mind, questioning the impossible. Where had Princess Rhaenyra gone? Could she have taken her place in some cruel twist of fate? That thought haunted her, but she knew it was not so. The Rhaenyra of this time—the true princess—would never have survived dragonfire, let alone being fed to a dragon.
Still, the questions gnawed at her. What would the Princess have done, had she been here to witness Daemon’s return? Would she have welcomed him back with open arms, her love undimmed by time and distance? Or, like herself, would she have been cautious, wary of trusting again after years of pain and betrayal?
It seemed a cruel irony that just as help had finally arrived, the one who needed it most had disappeared. Rhaenyra’s heart ached with the weight of it all—the loss, the longing, the relentless unfairness of their intertwined fates.
She had been grateful, at first, for this chance to correct the mistakes of the past, to shield her children from the perils she had failed to foresee. But there were moments, quiet and stolen, when the burden became too heavy. When all she wished for was rest, to lay down her arms and cease the endless fight. Yet she could not.
For her children, she pressed on, finding strength in their laughter and their hope. And for Princess Rhaenyra—the woman who had been robbed of her life and her love—she fought with renewed resolve. This was not merely her story to rewrite; it was theirs.
And so, Rhaenyra squared her shoulders and faced each day anew. She would carry this weight, not because it was easy, but because it was right. For the children who depended on her. For the Princess who deserved her peace. And for Daemon, who, against all odds, had come back to them.
Rhaenyra’s heart twisted painfully as Daemon leaned forward, taking her hands in his. His thumb traced gentle circles over her knuckles, a gesture that was at once tender and intimate. The ache in her chest deepened. She missed her husband—the man who had given her the world without hesitation, who would have burned it all to ashes for her. The man who had died for her.
This Daemon, sitting before her now, was not the same. Yet his eyes—those intense amethyst eyes—were unmistakable, filled with a devotion so fierce it threatened to undo her resolve. His chin held the same proud tilt, his mouth the same stubborn set, and the way he looked at her was so achingly familiar that it made her want to weep. But no matter how much others spoke of his love for the Princess she now embodied, and no matter how desperately she wanted to trust him with her whole heart, but she could not. Not yet.
Her children came first. They would always come first.
Daemon’s voice broke through her thoughts, low and filled with quiet intensity. “I’ve already tried once to let you go.” His words were laden with a sorrow that felt almost unbearable. “It was the only unselfish thing I think I’ve ever done in my life, and it stripped me of everything that made me me. I was a shell of myself, Rhaenyra. Miserable. Empty. I cannot—will not—do it again.”
His words pierced through her, sharp and raw, leaving her bereft. Rhaenyra swallowed hard, her voice trembling when she finally spoke. “You just said yourself that the King is opposed to us.”
Daemon snorted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Viserys cannot even stand on his own two feet without help. Do you truly think I fear his wrath?”
A soft chuckle escaped her despite herself. “We would be banished." she murmured, her lips curving into a reluctant smile.
“Good,” Daemon replied with a teasing glint in his eye. “The children like it better on Dragonstone anyway.”
His casual defiance was so quintessentially Daemon that Rhaenyra could not help but laugh. Her fingers tightened on his hand, and she lifted it to her lips, pressing a kiss to his calloused knuckles. “It has been almost a decade since you’ve set foot in Westeros,” she said quietly, her laughter fading. “Much has changed. You must know what people say of the Princess. How the Queen disparages her at every turn. How I’ve alienated myself so thoroughly that I have no allies in court. They say I am not fit to rule.”
Daemon’s expression darkened, his grip on her hand tightening, but she pressed on. “And the worst part, Daemon, is that… it’s true.” Her voice faltered, but she forced herself to continue. “If you had asked me to marry you a few months ago, I would have said yes without hesitation. But it would have been out of desperation. Because I needed your protection, not because…” Her voice broke, and she looked away, her throat constricting.
Daemon’s eyes dimmed, disappointment etched into every line of his face. He began to pull his hands away, but Rhaenyra clung to them, her grip desperate. “Please,” she whispered, her eyes pleading with him. “Hear me out.”
He stilled, his gaze searching hers.
"For months, I have been forced to compromise my principles and tread a darker path, all to safeguard my position as heir." she admitted. “Marrying again will be the most consequential decision I make. And right now… you are a stranger to me, as much as I am a stranger to you. We are not the people we once were, Daemon.”
He studied her for a long moment, the tension in his jaw easing ever so slightly. A smile, slow and deliberate, curved his lips. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted her hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to each one, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down her spine.
“Then, my dearest niece,” he said softly, his voice a velvety caress, “I look forward to getting to know you.”
Rhaenyra could not help but smile back at him, her heart aching and hopeful all at once. They were not the people they once were, but perhaps, together, they could find the strength to become something new—something better.