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Rhaenyra POV

The dragon’s maw loomed before her, a great yawning void filled with flame and death, and yet, Rhaenyra Targaryen did not tremble. The end had come, and she welcomed it like an old friend. She stood on the precipice of fate, her breath steady, her heart calm. For years, she had fought—through wars, through betrayals, through unimaginable losses—but now, at last, the fighting would cease. Her long, weary battle was over, and her fate, it seemed, would be decided in fire.

As the flames surged toward her, she did not flinch. She watched them come with a strange, almost curious serenity, the heat licking at her skin before it claimed her. The sensation was quick at first—a gentle warmth, like the sun kissing her cheeks on Dragonstone—but then the fire grew ravenous. It devoured her. She felt the skin of her arms split and crackle, the blistering heat seeping through her body, as though it sought to consume her from the inside out. Her flesh sizzled, peeling back in layers as the fire laid its claim.

But there was no terror. No scream tore from her lips. She had screamed enough in her life—in anger, in grief, in despair. She had screamed for her lost children, for her stolen love, for her shattered throne. She had no voice left for fear, no energy left to rage. Only the fire remained, and with it, a slow, agonizing release. Her body bubbled and blackened, her flesh melting away, but there was no panic, only a painful acceptance of what she had known from the moment she was cast into the jaws of betrayal. Her end would come, and it would be in fire, as the gods had always intended. She was born only to die.

And still, the flames ravaged her. Her skin, her bones, her very being crumbled beneath their might. She could feel her meat scorching, the unbearable pain of her own body burning from within, but even this pain was a strange kind of relief. She had carried so much pain already—emotional, searing, gut-wrenching pain—and this, this inferno, was simply another kind of release. Her body was breaking, crumbling to ash, but her spirit remained steady, anchored in the calm certainty of her end.

The dragon’s teeth clamped down, sharp as steel, and for a fleeting moment, she felt the bite, the sheer force of the beast cleaving through her. Her bones snapped like brittle wood, and her spine gave way with a sickening crunch. The dragon tore her in half, her body sheared apart, but even in that final moment of destruction, there was no fear—only a quiet resignation.

At long last, the pain would end.

Yet, just as the darkness should have consumed her, a strange voice pierced through the haze of fire and ruin. It was a woman’s voice—firm, insistent. Push. The word echoed in her mind, strange and foreign, tugging her back from the brink of death.

The world around her shifted. The flames flickered out, the burning agony fading, replaced by something else entirely. She felt pressure, deep and unrelenting, coursing through her body as though she were being torn asunder all over again. The pain was sharp, unbearable—but familiar.

Push.

She growled low in her throat, her voice raspy. “I’m trying, you cunt!” she snapped, her old fire returning for just a moment, ignited by the white-hot agony tearing through her body. It was as if she was being wrenched apart, her very insides straining against her will. The pain was brutal, relentless, but she knew it well—this was the agony of birth, the excruciating pain of life breaking free from within.

With one final, mighty effort, she pushed, her body screaming in protest, and then—suddenly—the pressure released. A sharp cry split the air, not of pain, but of life. A babe’s wail, high and piercing, filled her ears. Rhaenyra gasped, her chest heaving, the world around her softening into a blur of shadows and light. She blinked, dazed, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

A voice broke through the haze—gentle, soothing. “A boy, Princess. A little prince.”

A boy. Rhaenyra’s breath caught, her chest constricting as her hand reached out instinctively, though she could barely lift it. “Healthy?” she rasped, her voice as fragile as glass.

The woman’s hands were gentle as she placed the babe in Rhaenyra’s arms. His small body, warm and wriggling, settled against her chest, and Rhaenyra blinked, peering down at him. What she saw made her heart stop.

It was Joffrey. Her sweet, beloved Joffrey.

Tears welled in her eyes as she gazed down at the familiar face. How many nights had she wept for him, her brave boy who had mounted Syrax to defend his dragon Tyraxes, only to be torn apart by a mob? She had seen his body presented to her in pieces, his once vibrant, youthful form reduced to mangled limbs and broken flesh. And yet, here he was, whole, warm, and alive in her arms.

She pressed her lips to his brow, her tears mingling with the soft down of his hair. “Joffrey.” she whispered, her voice trembling. She held him close, the weight of him both a comfort and a heartache, for she knew—somewhere deep in her soul—that this moment could not last. But for now, for just this fleeting heartbeat of time, she had her son back.

Lady Elinda, her familiar face bathed in soft light coming from the arched window, knelt beside her.

“Jace and Luke?” Rhaenyra croaked, her heart aching to see them, to hold them once more.

“They’re fetching a dragon egg for the prince, Your Grace.” Elinda said, smiling kindly.

Rhaenyra’s tears spilled anew. She kissed Joffrey’s forehead once more, her lips trembling against his warm skin. Her brave boy, who had died so young, now nestled in her arms. The gods had returned him to her, if only for a moment. She would cherish every second.

But the door creaked open, and a maid stood in the doorway. Her hands trembled as she delivered her message, but she held her head high. “The Queen has requested that the child be brought to her." she said, her voice soft but steady. "Immediately."

She glared at the girl, recalling the plain-faced creature before her—a mousy thing, with unsightly freckles dotting her cheeks. She remembered her well, one of Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting, scurrying about the court like a shadow, always eager to serve.

Rhaenyra turned her gaze to Elinda. “Who guards my door?”

“Ser Steffon, Your Grace.”

Her heart clenched remembering her protector who died trying to claim a dragon for her cause. She called him inside.

The Kingsguard appeared, his gaze averted in deference. “You called, Princess?”

Rhaenyra’s voice was a razor-edged whisper. “Remove this girl from my presence.”

Ser Steffon frowned looking at the Lady. “Has she offended you, Your Grace?”

"Her very breath offends me.” Rhaenyra said, her voice laced with venom.

The maid’s breath hitched, but she did not back down. “Princess, I am only relaying the Queen’s command.”

“Drag her out of my rooms before I feed her to the dogs.” She said, her voice dripping with disdain, as she cast a cold glance at the girl.

Without another word, Ser Steffon bowed and gripped the girl by the arm, dragging her from the room as she stammered her protests. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Rhaenyra alone with Joffrey once more.

She gazed down at her son, her tears falling freely as she pressed her lips to his brow. Whatever this place was—this dream, this afterlife—it had granted her this one mercy. She had her child again, if only for a little while. The flames, the pain, the dragon’s teeth—they no longer mattered. All that remained was her son.

Rhaenyra watched as Lady Elinda shuddered beside her, her hands wringing anxiously. “What is it?” she asked, her voice cool yet curious, knowing that the tension in the room was not her own.

Elinda’s eyes darted toward the door. “The Queen will not like that her command was disobeyed.”

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “I care not what the Queen likes or dislikes.” she replied with a light scoff, as though the matter was entirely trivial.

Her ever-gentle lady smiled softly and said, “It does not seem proper, does it, that the Queen insists upon seeing all of your children at once, forcing you to carry your newborn across the castle to her chambers?”

Rhaenyra blinked in shock, the indignity of it settling like a stone in her chest. Where had Alicent found the audacity to command her, still bloodied and weary from birth, to parade her child through the Keep simply for her pleasure? The thought stirred a mixture of outrage and disbelief within her, the insult all the more galling for its brazenness.

Lady Anella Strong approached and gently took Joffrey from her arms, offering a warm bath for the newborn. Rhaenyra hesitated, reluctant to part from her son, but her body ached for its own cleansing. The blood, sweat, and exhaustion clung to her like a shroud so she let her take him.

“Lady Nila,” she called softly to her other Lady Strong, “go to the King. Tell him I have given birth to another son of House Targaryen and that I would like to present him to His Grace.”

Her lady dipped into a curtsey and hurried off, leaving Rhaenyra to lean upon Elinda’s steady arm as she was guided to the bathing room. the maids were efficient, the bath was quick, far too brisk to truly relax her sore muscles, but enough to restore some semblance of dignity. The Maesters had always disapproved of her frequent bathing, especially while pregnant or immediately after birth, but Rhaenyra had long since ceased to care for the opinions of old men who smelled of wet soil and had never known the pain of childbirth.

As warm water sloughed away the remnants of her labor, she felt, for the first time in what seems like a lifetime, like herself—a princess, not a mere vessel for birth. The attendants helped her into a heavier sleeping shift than the sheer one she’d worn before, warding against the chill, and Elinda carefully draped a black overdress across her shoulders. Rhaenyra glanced toward the wardrobe, her gaze catching on a glimpse of blue fabric.

“Bring me the Arryn blue.” she said softly, nodding toward the dress that peeked from within. Elinda quickly retrieved it and placed it gently over her shoulders.

In the soft light coming from the high windows, Rhaenyra caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. For a fleeting moment, her reflection startled her. She looked so much like her mother. A sigh escaped her lips, soft and sorrowful, as Elinda braided her silver hair into a loose plait, falling gently over her shoulder.

Once ready, they returned her to her chamber, where a fresh mattress with clean, crisp sheets awaited. With a dismissive wave of her hand, the midwives and their attendants finally left, carrying with them the bloodied sheets, remnants of the day’s ordeal.

She was finally left alone with her son. Eagerly, she reached for Joffrey, freshly bathed and swaddled. She kissed his soft brow, whispering sweet words of love and promises of protection as her ladies tidied the room in hushed tones as they too left her in peace.

The door creaked open again, and Rhaenyra looked up, startled by the figure that appeared—a man with dark skin and silver hair, smiling broadly. “Another boy! I was told I have another son!” His voice was filled with joy, as though this birth were a miracle.

Rhaenyra blinked in disbelief. “Laenor?” she asked, incredulity thick in her voice as she stared at him. This man, though undeniably handsome, was not her Laenor. Her Laenor had the oale skin, aquiline nose, silver-white hair, and lilac eyes of pure Valyrian blood. This man was different—entirely. Her heart pounded in confusion. What in the Seven Hells is going on? she thought.

He strode forward with all the confidence of a husband, taking Joffrey from her arms and bouncing him gently in his grasp. “Was it still terribly painful?” he asked, his expression sincere as he gazed at her with concern.

She blinked again, utterly bewildered. “My labor?” she asked, her tone dripping with incredulity.

He nodded seriously, as if this were a reasonable question. Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, her patience thinning. “Yes, it was terribly painful, Laenor.” she said flatly, her voice devoid of its usual warmth.

He grimaced, sympathy flickering across his features. “I once took a lance in the shoulder.” he offered, as though this comparison would bridge the chasm between their experiences.

Rhaenyra stared at him in disbelief, the sheer audacity of the remark stealing her breath. She tilted her head, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “How terribly awful for you.”

Just as the room settled into an uncomfortable silence, a sharp, arrogant knock echoed through the chamber. Rhaenyra had not even called for them to enter when Ser Criston Cole burst in, his gleaming armor catching the sun light, his white cloak trailing behind him. His eyes blazed with fury and contempt, locking onto her with a hatred that seemed to burn brighter than the sun shining out.

“The Queen will see the child.” he demanded, his voice sharp and biting, as if he were issuing a royal decree.

Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile, her eyes narrowing. “Where is she then?” she said, her voice soft but laced with iron.

“I will take the child to the Queen.” Criston Cole declared, stepping forward with an air of authority that thickened the atmosphere around them.

But Rhaenyra’s voice rang out, loud and unyielding, halting him in his tracks. “And how do you intend to accomplish that? Will the mighty knight wrench my son from his mother’s arms?”

Her words sliced through the tension, sharp as the daggers hidden beneath the fine silks of her gown. She regarded him with a mixture of disdain and amusement. “It must make you feel quite powerful, doesn’t it? Terrorizing a babe and his feeble mother.” She turned her gaze to Laenor, who frowned, clutching their son to his chest with a protective instinct that shone through the weariness in his eyes. Rhaenyra offered him a conspiratorial smile. “Look at this little man! He thinks he’s suddenly powerful just because he hides beneath the Queen’s skirts.”

A laugh escaped her, laced with derision, and Criston’s face flushed with indignation—whether from anger or embarrassment, she could hardly be bothered to discern.

Laenor looked down at her in surprise, his face splitting into a grin that mirrored her own mischief and venom. “Men like him only feel powerful when they terrorize those weaker than themselves.” he said, a note of amusement threading through his voice.

Rhaenyra giggled and leaned closer to Laenor, whispering loudly for Criston to hear, “He’s still hurt that I did not run away with him to live in poverty in the Free Cities.” Laenor’s laughter rang out, startling Joffrey, who squawked in protest.

“Shh,” Rhaenyra admonished playfully, taking her son back in her arms, undeterred by the intruder’s unwelcome presence. Rhaenyra turned back to her husband, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Imagine me as a tavern wench!”

Laenor chuckled heartily, “Serving ale? Washing the dishes? Why, all your wages would surely go to splendid fabrics for your dresses!”

“And oils for my hair!” She joined him in laughter, the warmth between them palpable.

 But then, Ser Criston interjected, his tone dripping with disdain. “Aye, you’d fit better as a whore!” he spat, venom lacing his words.

Rhaenyra glared at him, her brow furrowing in indignation. “I do not recall you paying for my services all those years ago.” she shot back sharply, leaving both men momentarily speechless with surprise.

“You tarnish my honor! My white cloak!” Criston whispered loudly, nearly vibrating with rage.

She arched an eyebrow at him, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Oh? The Cloak which I put on your shoulder? Did I force you to bed me?” she asked innocently, her voice lilting with feigned sweetness. “Were you truly frightened, Ser? The young princess, intoxicated on ale, threatened you at knife point, didn’t she? Were you sobbing and begging me to stop as I deftly removed your armor?”

“Do you even know the first thing about removing an armor?” Laenor snorted, unable to contain his disdainful laughter as he regarded the knight.

“I am quite capable in many things apparently.” she declared haughtily, exchanging scathing looks with her husband, the bond between them palpable and fierce. Turning her gaze back to Criston, she continued with glee, “Oh, poor, poor weak man, so taken advantage of by a mere girl of six-and-ten! I daresay you must still have nightmares of that fateful night, returning to your chambers in tears after I took your precious maidenhead.”

Her laughter bubbled forth, infectious and joyous, as Laenor nearly gasped for breath, caught between laughter and disbelief at the audacity of her words.

Yet, Criston remained relentless in the face of their disdain, he straightened his back and glared at her.

“This is a royal command that the prince be brought to the Queen immediately.” he asserted, his voice taut with authority, “and refusing it is treason.”

Danger flickered in Rhaenyra’s eyes, a tempest barely restrained as she met Criston’s contemptuous glare. Just as the heat of her ire began to boil over, she caught sight of Lady Nila lingering uncertainly behind him, her gaze flitting back to the corridor worriedly.

Rhaenyra softened, her features easing into an expression of quiet resolve. “If it is a royal command,” she said, her voice smooth and gentle, “then I shall present my son to the Queen immediately.”

Laenor regarded her with concern as she struggled to rise, her body still heavy with pain. She didn’t need to feign the way she nearly doubled over, a reminder of the trials she had just endured. “Forgive me, Ser Criston,” she breathed, “it’s just that I am in terrible pain, but I will go to the Queen.”

The knight’s sneer only deepened, the corners of his mouth twisting with disdain. "I'm glad that the Princess still remember whose authority reigns in the Red Keep."

“That's my authority!!” The booming voice of her father echoed from the corridor, sharp and thunderous, cutting through the tension like a bolt of lightning. Criston’s eyes widened in panic, and he bowed his head in a flurry of contrition, his fists balled tightly at his sides.

Criston Cole’s eyes narrowed, a tempest of loathing swirling within their depths as they locked onto Rhaenyra. But she met his glare with the smallest, most insultingly sweet smile, one that spoke volumes of her disdain. She could almost hear the grinding of his teeth, a sound born of frustration and humiliation.

In that charged moment, the King entered her chamber, leaning heavily on his cane, the very embodiment of paternal authority. His visage was flushed, but not with fatigue; it was a vibrant, righteous anger. “I am the King! There is no other authority in the Seven Kingdom greater than my daughter's but me! How dare you enter my daughter’s room, demanding that she trek across the castle after just giving birth!” His voice rang out like a clarion call, prompting Joffrey to whimper softly in her embrace.

Instinctively, Rhaenyra pressed a gentle kiss to her son’s forehead, bouncing him lightly as she glanced between her father and the unfolding discord. “Father, it’s perfectly fine,” she began, adopting a simpering tone and infusing her expression with faux concern. “I have done it before with Jace and Luke. Surely, the Queen merely desires to meet my children. If my mother, Queen Aemma, was still alive, she would have done the same.”

King Viserys regarded her with a mix of incredulity and irritation. “My Aemma would never be so cruel as to force you from your bed immediately after childbirth!” he retorted, the anger in his voice a protective shield.

Criston, in his folly, attempted to salvage the Queen’s honor. “The Queen merely wishes to see the Prince, the princess does not have to go.” he interjected, his tone dripping with barely concealed condescension.

Yet, in a rare display of paternal ferocity, the King raised his cane and delivered a sharp blow to Criston’s head, the crack reverberating through the chamber as the knight’s head snapped aside,  crimson beads dampening the side of his head where the wood met flesh. Rather than falter, Criston kneeled humbly, a stark contrast to the arrogance he had displayed moments before. Rhaenyra gasped, a mixture of shock and barely contained delight bubbling within her as she witnessed the scene unfold.

“Ser Harrold,” her father commanded, “remove this mongrel from my sight and summon the Queen at once.” It was Ser Steffon who stepped forward, dragging the disgraced knight from her room. As he departed, Rhaenyra could not stifle a smile, one that Laenor readily noticed. He returned her expression with a warm grin, their shared amusement a moment of solace amidst the turmoil.

“Father,” she called softly, her voice gentle as she looked upon him, her heart swelling with affection for her sire. “Come, meet your grandson.”

King Viserys, still winded from his passionate outburst yet visibly calming, sank heavily into the chair beside her bed. The ire that had ignited his features began to ebb, replaced by a tender glimmer of pride and love that warmed the room. With delicate precision, Rhaenyra transferred Joffrey into her father’s one remaining arm, her hands hovering protectively around him as he nestled against the King’s chest.

The sight of the small child cradled in his grandfather’s embrace seemed to soften the King’s demeanor, allowing the anger that had once consumed him to dissolve into a warmth that enveloped them all. Rhaenyra watched as a new bond began to flourish.

Rhaenyra felt the sting of unshed tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she gazed at her father, almost whole again—frail, yes, but present, alive. After all this time, she had wondered if she would ever see him like this. She had been gone for so long, practically exiled from the Red Keep since her hurried marriage to Daemon. Reflecting on it now, she wasn't entirely sure it had been her father's choice to banish her. He had been so weak, so sickly, already at the mercy of the Greens by the time she had settled permanently at Dragonstone.

Daemon may had been right all afterall. Perhaps her father had been slowly poisoned, kept alive but weakened, so that Otto and Alicent Hightower could reign supreme in the Red Keep, wielding Viserys’ fading power as their own. The thought twisted her stomach, but the truth would forever elude her. She would never know.

Steeling herself, Rhaenyra turned to Laenor, her voice soft yet determined. "Husband, I beg you to go to the children in the Dragonpit. Bring them back to the Red Keep. I want them close." She felt the ache in her heart grow stronger, the need to hold her sweet boys again, to remind herself that despite all the venomous intrigue swirling around them, her sons were safe.

Then, with a graceful step, she closed the space between her and Laenor until she was just a whisper away, her lips near his ear. “But first, stop at a tavern. Buy drinks for everyone in celebration of the new prince,” she said with a playful, dangerous glint in her eyes. "Tell your most gossipy knight about how Queen Alicent commanded her mad dog guard to drag me across the Keep's stairs to see my child while I was still bleeding."

Laenor’s eyes widened, catching the gravity of her words. “You want them to know?” he asked, his voice hushed but tinged with excitement.

Rhaenyra nodded, her smile cold and calculating. "By nightfall, I want all of King’s Landing to know. I want them whispering at every corner about how the Queen tried to summon me in my weakest state. I want her known as Alicent the Cruel."

A slow, predatory smile spread across Laenor’s face. "I’ll pay every tavern in King’s Landing if I have to." he replied, his tone brimming with mischief.

Rhaenyra smiled back at him, a secret shared between allies. Perhaps this Laenor—a schemer and protector in his own right—was not so different from her Laenor. Together, they would plant the seeds of whispers and rumors, stoking the flames of scandal and ensuring that the city would be theirs by dawn. With the vague flashes of another separate life she had when she was laboring, Alicent had did it to her for years now. It is time to return the favor.

Rhaenyra stood before the mirror, not minding as the maids flutter about, preparing her chambers for the night. The flicker of candlelight cast soft shadows on her face, but her eyes were drawn downward—to her body, a body that felt so foreign now. Her breasts, heavy with milk, were nothing compared to what they had once been. She sighed, recalling how Daemon had adored them, holding them as if they were treasures in his hands, his large palms barely able to contain them. Her breasts had spilled over, full and enticing. Now they felt...diminished.

Turning slightly, she studied her reflection. Her waist—tiny, almost girlish—was more fitting for a maid of eight-and-ten summers, not for a mother of three. Her thighs, too, were disappointingly slender, lacking the fullness she once carried with pride. Rhaenyra did not look bad, of course; in fact, she supposed she looked quite the part of a courtly lady. But the figure she had loved, the figure that made her feel powerful, desired and envied was gone.

"Oh, how I miss my bosom." she lamented internally, running her fingers along the neckline of her gown, which now felt woefully empty. She glanced at her face—unchanged, beautiful as ever—but her body had deflated, as if the fullness of her pregnancies had taken all the strength and life from it, leaving only the shell of a woman who once carried herself with such voluptuous confidence. The court would no doubt approve of her thinness. Fashionable, yes. Pleasing to her eyes, no.

Her mind wandered to Alicent. How that woman used to mock her for her figure, teasing that she looked more like a milkmaid than a princess, while Alicent herself resembled a pale, slender reed—curveless and delicate. Alicent looked so unappealing, like a child whose growth was stunted by hunger. And now? Rhaenyra’s thoughts stilled at the memory of Alicent's recent visit. The woman looked a decade younger, impossibly rejuvenated. It was unsettling.

The words echoed in her thoughts, the scene replaying itself like a story she could not set aside.

"I will remind you that you are just my Consort." her father had said, his voice low and dangerous. "You are not my daughter’s mother. This will be the last time you will command her."

Rhaenyra had stood there, stunned into silence. It was as if the very air in the room had stilled, her heart thudding heavily in her chest. She had never heard her father speak so harshly to Alicent—never seen him cast such disdain in her direction. Always, Viserys had been lenient, his fondness for Alicent softening even her most grievous trespasses. But now... now, his patience had worn thin.

And Alicent, her once-steady voice now trembling with desperation, had responded. "I am your Queen, Viserys!" she had pleaded, her eyes wide with disbelief, as if begging him to recall the vows he had made.

Rhaenyra smiled bitterly at the memory as she smoothed a hand over her sleeping gown, the silken fabric whispering beneath her touch. She remembered the way her father’s lips had curled then, a sneer so unlike the man she had known.

"Aye, I made you Queen," he had said, each word a slow, deliberate strike. "I can unmake you."

The sight of Alicent had been something out of a sweet dream—her face blanching, her body trembling as if the weight of his words had sapped her of all strength. Slowly, achingly, the Queen had dropped to her knees before him, her eyes downcast, her voice small and broken. “I overstepped,” she had whispered, barely audible. “I will never do it again. Please… forgive me.”

Rhaenyra’s grip on the edge of the dressing table tightened as she remembered the moment her father had turned his gaze towards her. With a single gesture, he had commanded Alicent to apologize to her—the one woman the Queen despised most. The daughter she could never replace.

Alicent, still kneeling, had turned to her, lips trembling as she uttered her apologies. The words had tasted of ash in the Queen’s mouth; Rhaenyra had seen it in her eyes. Her humiliation had been palpable, a bitter thing that Alicent had swallowed down as best she could.

Rhaenyra, for all her strength, had been struck dumb by it. Her father had always been protective of her, yes, but never had he so much as chastised Alicent—not even when it had been for her sake. She had always been too much her father’s dutiful consort to suffer his displeasure, no matter the wrong she had done to Rhaenyra. But now... now the tides had shifted, and it was as though her mother’s shadow loomed ever larger over the court.

Her gaze lingered on her reflection, her thoughts deep and faraway. Perhaps invoking her mother’s name more often would be wise. If her father could still summon the memory of his beloved Aemma, still feel the wound of her loss, then perhaps Rhaenyra could wield that memory, that grief, to her advantage.

She remembered seeing Criston’s face outside her door, his head was bowed but she knows he was seething seeing the Queen he served humbled so much.

Vague, troubling flashes danced in the back of Rhaenyra's mind, shadows of memories that weren’t entirely her own. They came unbidden, slippery and impossible to grasp fully. But when she confronted Ser Criston earlier, speaking of a night she didn’t recall living through, she had done so with absolute certainty. As if the memories belonged to her, yet didn’t. The shock on his face told her it was true—this body, her body, had once shared something so scandalous, so beneath her station, with her once Sworn Shield.

‘A guard.’ she thought, barely suppressing a shudder of disgust. A man of low birth, no less. What a foolish decision, one unworthy of a Targaryen princess. Rhaenyra's lips curled in disdain.

But had she not been fond of Ser Criston once? She could still remember the glances they exchanged, the warmth of their shared moments. But even in her fondness, she had never considered acting on it—such a thing would have been beneath her. No, she had her dignity. That was why she laughed in his face when he foolishly asked her to run away with him. And that laughter, that rejection, had scarred him deeply. It had turned him into the bitter, hateful man who now cowered behind Alicent's skirts like a beaten dog.

Her thoughts crystallized, her expression hardening with the weight of her pride. She was not some foolish girl who pined after men beneath her station. She was Rhaenyra Targaryen, and she would never lower herself so.

But this girl… whose body she now inhibits obviously did so and she wanted to shake her shoulder of how utterly foolish that decision was.

The maids finished their tasks, bustling around her room. "Leave us." she commanded, her voice cold and imperious. The room stilled instantly, save for the rustle of skirts and the soft murmur of "Yes, my princess." from the departing women. All save for Lady Elinda, whom Rhaenyra beckoned to stay with a languid wave of her hand.

Lady Elinda was the youngest of her ladies-in-waiting, one of the few who had remained steadfastly by her side, even when Rhaenyra was run out of King’s Landing—when lords and ladies alike closed their gates to her and her son. Elinda had been there, tending to her, loyal when all others faltered. Rhaenyra’s memories flickered back to a time when she had sent this brave girl to King’s Landing during the war, while the city was still held by the Greens as she work in secret for her cause. She blinked rapidly, that certainly did not happen in her lifetime but perhaps in this one it will. Elinda had risked her life for her, both in that past and now, in this strange second chance. There was no one else Rhaenyra could trust so implicitly.

“Sit with me.” Rhaenyra said softly, gesturing toward the chair beside her. Lady Elinda obeyed without hesitation, her wide eyes full of worry and devotion. Once Elinda was settled, Rhaenyra allowed her voice to drop to a confessional whisper. “When I was in labor, I dreamt. I dreamt of death…” she told her the deaths of her children, the fall of the dragons… all the betrayals, the tragedies and eventually, her own death. “I did not expect to wake up here, in the past, alive once more.” She let the words hang heavy in the air, feeling the weight of them settle between them.

Elinda’s breath caught, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “You... you died, Princess?” she asked in a tremulous whisper. “In this dream of yours, you died? And... and the children too?” Her hand reached out instinctively, trembling as she grasped Rhaenyra’s, squeezing it as if she needed to be certain that the princess was still in front of her, still real.

“I did.” Rhaenyra confirmed, her voice steady despite the tremors running through her thoughts.

Elinda trembled visibly, her face paling. “It was just a dream, Princess,” she said, her voice shaking as she tried to reassure herself more than her mistress. “None of it happened. It... it was just a nightmare.”

Rhaenyra sighed, leaning back in her chair. It was foolish to expect anyone to believe her. She was fortunate, at least, that her lady didn’t think her mad. Still, a burden had lifted from her heart, lightening her soul now that she had shared this secret with someone. She looked at Elinda again, her expression softer. “Yes... perhaps it was just a dream,” she conceded. Then, in a quieter voice, she added, “But Targaryen dreams are not something to be easily brushed aside. Daenys the Dreamer can attest to that.”

Lady Elinda straightened, a newfound resolve in her voice. “We will prevent it, Princess,” she declared with unexpected strength. “We shall strive to make sure it never comes to pass.”

A small smile curved Rhaenyra’s lip. “I knew I could trust you, my lady.” She gave her hand a gentle squeeze, though her gaze sharpened in warning. “But no one must know of this.”

Elinda nodded fervently, her expression earnest. “No one shall know, Princess. Your secret is safe with me.”

Rhaenyra smiled at her again, though her gaze soon drifted downward, taking in the sight of Lady Elinda’s gown. Her expression twisted into a grimace. “What are you wearing?” she asked, her voice laced with barely concealed disgust.

Elinda startled, glancing down at herself in confusion. “My gown?” she asked, smoothing the fabric self-consciously.

“A gown?” Rhaenyra scoffed, raising an imperious brow. “That is not a gown—that is a maid’s dress.” she snapped, then exhaled to calm herself as the younger woman almost jumped in fright. “You are a lady of noble birth, from House Massey,” Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone sharp but not unkind. “You will no longer wear that rag in front of me again, am I understood?”

Elinda’s cheeks flushed deeper as she nodded, mortified. “Y-yes, Princess.”

Rhaenyra stood, pulling Elinda to her feet with her and guiding her toward the wardrobe. “Come, I shall not have my lady looking like a servant.” She opened the door and went towards the back where she knows her old dresses are stored and pulled out a resplendent red gown, the very one she herself had worn as a maiden. “This,” she said with a smile, handing it to Elinda, “shall be yours now.”

Elinda looked at the gown with wide eyes, astonishment and fear swirling in her gaze. “I couldn’t possibly wear your royal gown, Princess.”

Rhaenyra huffed, her smile softening. “I will not allow you to continue wearing such rags. You are my lady, and you will look the part. Now, try it on.”

With much cajoling, Rhaenyra managed to convince Elinda to choose three gowns to her liking, each more splendid than the last. As Elinda hesitated, marveling at her newfound finery, the door to the chamber creaked open.

In bounded Rhaenyra’s sons, their faces lit with excitement. She immediately knelt down, her arms wide open, and the boys rushed to her, their smiles bright and full of joy. She enveloped them in her embrace, her heart swelling with the warmth of their presence. At least in this moment, all felt right once again.

Luke’s curls bounced wildly as he fidgeted in place, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Muña, is it true? Can we sleep here tonight with you?" His feet barely touched the ground as he hopped in place, anticipation bubbling in his young voice.

Rhaenyra’s heart swelled with affection as she reached out to smooth the stray curls from his eager face. "Of course, my sweet boy." she murmured with a soft smile, her fingers gentle as they brushed his cheek.

"Yehey!" Luke exclaimed, his joy spilling out as he launched himself onto the grand bed, his arms spread wide as he landed face-first on the covers. His laughter filled the room, bright and uncontainable.

Jace, more measured than his younger brother, stood by her side, a frown creasing his forehead. "Are you sure, Muña?" he asked softly, his eyes filled with concern. "I know you need to rest after the birth of Joffrey. You should not strain yourself."

With a tender smile, Rhaenyra cupped his face, her thumb tracing the line of his brow before pressing a kiss to his head. "I am sure," she whispered, her voice warm and steady. "I want both of you near me tonight."

At that, her eldest son finally let the worry melt away, a small smile tugging at his lips. He moved to the bed and began arranging the pillows, ensuring there was ample space for all of them. The bed was vast, easily large enough to accommodate her and her boys, with room to spare.

She exhaled softly, glancing at her children, her heart aching with unspoken thoughts.

What really is happening? she wondered. She could not dismiss the life she had lived, the one filled with loss and heartbreak. It was too vivid, too real to be brushed aside as mere fantasy. She had lived it, breathed it, wept and loved in it—it was not a dream, no matter how impossible it now seemed. Yet here she was, with her children, safe and sound. That is all that matters, she reminded herself.

The nursemaid entered the room, cradling little Joffrey, swaddled in soft silks. Rhaenyra took him into her arms, the weight of him grounding her in the present. “You and your companion will stay in the sitting room,” she instructed the nurse, her tone gentle but firm. “so that I can call upon you easily when Joffrey needs tending in the night.”

They look uneasy, not sure if it will be proper to stay in the Royal rooms but the maid curtseyed deeply and nodded before retreating.

Rhaenyra placed Joffrey in his cradle, her fingers lingering on the dragon egg beside him. The pale gold shell shimmered in the candlelight, its amber veins glowing warmly. She traced the surface with a tender reverence, knowing that one day it would hatch into Tyraxes, her son’s fierce companion. Her heart ached at the memory of the future—of Tyraxes, chained and alone, killed during the storming of the Dragonpit. Syrax, too, her beloved golden lady, had met her end there, valiantly fighting off the mob despite being able to just fly away.

It hurts that in her frail state now she cannot yet go to her Golden Lady, her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she pushed them away, focusing on the warmth she still felt in her chest, a connection to her dragon that burned deep within her soul. Syrax is not gone. She just cannot go to her yet but she can feel her in her very being.

Turning to her sons, she asked, “What did you do today after your visit with me and Joffrey?” Her voice was light, inviting them to share their day with her.

Jace straightened up from the pillows, his expression thoughtful. “We had lessons with Maester Munkun about the Houses of the Westerlands.” he said dutifully.

Luke, however, was less pleased. His lips jutted into a pout as he crossed his arms. “He screamed at me when I got something wrong.” he grumbled.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened instantly as she fixed her second-born with a steady look. “Does he always scream at you, my sweet?”

Luke shook his head. “Only when I get things wrong,” he admitted, his small face scrunching in frustration. “But he never screams at Aegon, and Aegon barely gets things right! It’s not fair!” His voice was indignant, the injustice of it weighing heavily on his young heart.

Rhaenyra’s eyes softened, though the spark of anger on behalf of her child remained. "No, it is not fair, my sweet." she agreed, her voice gentle but firm. "And you should never have allowed it to continue." She glanced at Jace, whose expression was troubled, but she smiled in reassurance. "You should have told me, sweetling.”

Jace looked down, guilt flickering in his eyes. “Aegon would tease us,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’d call us babies if we complained.”

Her heart hardened at the mention of her half-brother, but she forced herself to soften her tone. “Aegon’s words mean nothing,” she said firmly. “You are not babies for confiding in me. I want to know if someone mistreats you—whether it’s a Maester or a maid or the Queen. It does not make you weak; it shows how much you trust me. And I want that trust, always.”

Jace’s face brightened at her words, nodding solemnly. “I will always tell you everything, Muña.”

Luke, ever eager to follow his brother’s lead, chimed in with a beaming smile. “I’ll tell you everything too, Muña!”

Rhaenyra rewarded them both with a tender smile, her heart swelling with pride. “Good. I cannot protect you if I do not know what’s happening, and I will always protect you, my sweet boys.”

Their small, eager nods reassured her, though the moment was short-lived as the door to the chamber creaked open. Laenor stepped inside, freshly bathed, though the faint scent of ale still clung to him. The boys’ faces lit up as they bounded off the bed and ran to him, wrapping their arms around his legs.

“Father!” Luke called eagerly, tugging at the hem of Laenor’s doublet to capture his attention. “Muña said we can sleep here with her tonight!”

Laenor raised his brows in surprise, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he ruffled Luke’s unruly curls. His gaze shifted toward Rhaenyra, who had already made herself comfortable on the bed near Joffrey’s cradle. “Are you certain, Rhaenyra?” he asked, his tone gentle but laced with concern. “You need your rest, especially after the labor.”

With a serene smile, Rhaenyra nodded. “I have two night nurses stationed in the sitting room.” she reassured him, her voice calm and composed. “These two will sleep soundly through the night, and I will hardly need to lift a finger.”

Laenor seemed satisfied by her answer, though still slightly apprehensive, as he settled into a padded chair beside the bed. He gave a soft tug on the cradle to rock it gently, his eyes softening as he watched Joffrey stir.

Meanwhile, Jace and Luke clambered onto the bed beside their mother, pulling the bedding snugly around their shoulders. Rhaenyra turned toward them, her heart swelling with affection as Luke burrowed his small head into her still-soft stomach. She stroked his arm with one hand, while the other moved to gently comb Jace’s curls away from his face, her touch tender and soothing.

As the room quieted, Rhaenyra began to hum, her voice soft and lilting as she sang an ancient Valyrian lullaby. Her melody floated through the chamber like a gentle breeze, each word woven with love and longing.

In the tower, high and cold,
She gazes out, her heart grown old,
A sea of flames, the world below,
Where once her children used to go.

She calls their names upon the breeze,
But silence answers, no reprieve,
Her arms are empty, heart undone,
Her grief a weight that blocks the sun.

Her voice softened, rich with emotion, as her fingers idly traced circles on Luke’s arm.

“O come to me,” she whispers low,
“My children, where did you all go?
I’d give my breath, my very soul,
To hold you close, to make you whole.”

Jace’s eyes fluttered shut, lulled by the familiar warmth of his mother’s presence, while Luke clung tighter to her side. Rhaenyra’s voice rose slightly, the lullaby taking on a wistful, almost haunting tone.

The flames dance wild across the shore,
Like memories lost, forevermore,
Yet in her mind, she sees them still,
Playing free on yonder hill.

Laenor glanced over at her, his gaze softening further as he watched the tenderness with which she tended to their sons. He rocked Joffrey’s cradle gently, the soft creaking a faint accompaniment to her song.

But what is that, upon the sky?
A dragon’s roar, a distant cry,
With wings of dusk and eyes aglow,
It rises from the fire below.

Rhaenyra’s voice wavered slightly, her thoughts drifting to the dragons of their blood—creatures of fire and strength, like the family they had built. She continued to sing, her voice now more of a gentle whisper as she imagined the comfort of such creatures carrying her away from grief.

It soars to her, with mighty grace,
A savior from this lonely place,
The tower fades, the flames retreat,
As she’s lifted on its wings so fleet.

Jace stirred but remained still, his breaths deep and slow as he began to drift into slumber. Rhaenyra kissed his brow before turning her attention to Luke, whose eyes, heavy with sleep, blinked up at her.

They fly across the fiery sea,
To fields of fire daisies, free,
And there, beneath the sky’s embrace,
She sees her children’s laughing face.

The song lulled to its final verses, her voice gentle and cradling, like the arms she had wrapped around her boys.

No longer bound by grief or pain,
She calls their names, they come again,
Their hands in hers, her heart alight,
Together in eternal flight.

As the last note fell from her lips, Rhaenyra let out a soft sigh, her heart full of both sorrow and love. She glanced down at her sons, now soundly asleep beside her, their small bodies nestled close.

Laenor’s gaze softened as he looked at her, but then, with a whisper, he remarked, "That was rather depressing."

Rhaenyra let out a light chuckle, her eyes warm as they drifted to their sleeping children. “Effective, though.” she replied, gesturing toward the two boys, now soundly asleep.

"How was your venture into the city?" she asked, switching to Valyrian, her tone curious but relaxed.

Laenor’s lips curled into a playful grin. "Well," he began, his voice low but brimming with mischief, although his words were slow as if he was unsure of their own mother tongue "I bought all the taverns in the capital for an entire day and night. The people will drink to the new prince’s health until their bellies burst."

Rhaenyra raised a brow, a smile playing at her lips. "And what of the other thing?" she inquired, leaning forward with interest.

Laenor's grin widened, eyes twinkling with excitement. He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "Ah, my love, I found something even better."

Rhaenyra’s curiosity piqued, and she edged closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "And what might that be?"

With a dramatic flair, Laenor puffed out his chest and declared, "Did you know I possess a hidden talent for composing songs?"

Rhaenyra's brows shot up in disbelief. "Songs?" she echoed, her tone both amused and skeptical.

Laenor huffed, feigning offense. "I’ll have you know," he began, crossing his arms, "nearly five of the shanties sung by the men at Driftmark are my own creations!"

"So you wrote a song, then?" she asked, still unconvinced but thoroughly entertained by his enthusiasm.

Laenor nodded proudly. "Not just one—two!" he boasted, leaning closer as if sharing a great secret. "One about a cruel stepmother who dragged her poor stepdaughter from her bed right after she’d given birth, leaving her to bleed all over their castle."

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

"And the second," Laenor continued, voice lowering for dramatic effect, "is about a monstrous white knight with dark eyes, darker hair, and an even darker soul. He terrorized squires and young knights alike, all while lusting after a gentle princess. And when she refused to run away with him, he slashed her with his sword."

Rhaenyra let out a soft giggle, her hand quickly rising to cover her mouth as not to disturb their slumbering children. "Gods, I would love to see their faces when they hear that!"

Laenor leaned back in his chair, chest puffed with pride. "Well, my dear, you shall soon have the pleasure. I found a bard—one with a voice to make even the gods weep—and paid him handsomely to sing these songs throughout the Riverlands and Crownlands. He’ll spread them far and wide."

Rhaenyra’s smile faltered ever so slightly. "Wouldn’t it be wiser to have the songs circulate in the capital first?" she asked, her tone thoughtful.

Laenor shook his head. "No, no. If the bard stays here, the Queen will silence him in an instant. The songs would die before they had the chance to be heard." His voice dropped to a whisper, full of intrigue. "It’s better this way. Let them spread in places where the Queen’s reach cannot snuff them out. By the time the tales reach her ears, they’ll already have taken root."

They exchanged a mischievous glance, their shared amusement bubbling up, though they both stifled their laughter for fear of disturbing their sleeping sons.

After a quiet moment, Rhaenyra’s voice turned thoughtful again. "The King has insisted on a tourney and feast in Joffrey’s honor, ravens will fly inviting the Lords to be present here in two months’ time."

Laenor nodded approvingly. "Joffrey deserves to be celebrated, just like his brothers." Then, with a gleam in his eye, he added with a grin, "None of the Queen’s children received such an honor, did they? Only Aegon, whose name day was marked by a meager three-day hunt. Nothing compared to the grand feasts and weeklong tourneys our children have enjoyed."

Rhaenyra huffed, her tone laced with irritation. “Why would Alicent’s children be celebrated when they are merely spares?” she said, her voice tinged with disdain. "They should be grateful they even receive a feast. Coin is wasted on their clothes and food when the Crown is already secure. They ought to have been fostered off to other houses, to seek their own fortunes elsewhere. I certainly won’t have them lingering in the Red Keep when I ascend the throne."

Her expression turned serious as she shifted her gaze to Laenor. "Husband, I need you to go to Driftmark and speak with my uncle. I require changes in my staff and instructors for the children."

Laenor frowned, his brow creasing with concern. "What changes?" he asked, his voice low with suspicion.

Rhaenyra blinked, momentarily searching for a plausible explanation. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth—that when she married Daemon, he had uncovered a nest of spies within her household. Not only those employed by Otto and Alicent Hightower, but even by Lord Corlys himself. She understood her father by law’s intentions—after all, he wanted information on his own grandchildren—but the others? Treasonous. And she knew every face, every name. But she couldn’t share all of that with Laenor.

"Lucerys confided in me," she began instead, her voice quieter, "about how the Maester screamed at him when he got his lessons wrong."

Laenor’s eyes flared, anger lighting in them like a match struck against stone. "He’s five!" he exclaimed, indignation in every word. "He’s bound to make mistakes!"

Rhaenyra leaned into his fury, fanning it further. "Worse still, the Maester barely scolds Aegon when he falters, even though the children say Aegon makes more errors than any of them."

Laenor shot up from his chair, pacing back and forth across the room, his hands threading through his hair in frustrated sweeps. His movements were sharp, restless, muttering beneath his breath. After a tense silence, he turned back to her, eyes burning with resolve.

"I don’t want that man near my sons again." he declared, his voice firm, almost trembling with restrained rage.

Rhaenyra sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "The children cannot miss their lessons, Laenor. They will fall behind, and they need all the knowledge and advantage they can muster."

Laenor shook his head stubbornly, his pacing pausing. "Then one of your ladies-in-waiting should be present. The intimidating one—the daughter of the Hand."

"Lady Anella?" Rhaenyra asked, raising a brow.

Laenor nodded emphatically. "Yes, her. She’s more than capable. She’s tall as a tower, yet graceful as a swan. And her tongue? Sharper than her brother’s sword. She’ll handle the Maester, even if he protests her presence in the schoolroom."

Rhaenyra smiled at the image of Lady Anella standing imperiously over the fussy Maester, silencing any objections with one icy glance. She nodded in agreement, which seemed to satisfy Laenor, who sank back into his chair, still bristling with residual tension.

After a moment, he asked, "But why would I ask Daemon for instructors?"

"Daemon is likely the most well-traveled of us all," Rhaenyra explained, her voice softening. "More so than even Lord Corlys, perhaps. With his dragon, he has freedom most men only dream of. He will undoubtedly know learned men from far and wide—men capable of teaching the future King of the Seven Kingdoms and the future Lord of the Tides."

Laenor shook his head, sighing. "But you know that Daemon isn’t on Driftmark. He’s been living in Pentos since he married Laena."

Rhaenyra raised a brow in curiosity.

"Well, they were in Pentos," Laenor continued, "according to Laena’s last message. They were in Volantis before that."

That gave Rhaenyra pause. Volantis? How very different this lifetime seemed. Daemon and Laena had always loved to travel, but they never stayed away for too long in her other life. The Laena she had known had been a true companion, a dear goodsister she cherished. Losing her had been one of the most devastating moments of her previous existence. Gods, how she wanted to mount Syrax and fly straight to Laena, unburden her heart to her. Unlike Elinda, who had been horrified by her visions and could never quite grasp their truth, Laena would have understood. She was blood of the dragon and raised on the history of their people.

But her priority now lay with her children. She couldn’t even be certain this Laena was the same as the one she once knew. Laenor certainly was very different from the one in her other life.

Laenor frowned, his tone cautious. "Getting learned men from Essos to teach our children is all well and good, Rhaenyra, but it will be frowned upon by the lords and ladies at court."

Rhaenyra grimaced, her lip curling in defiance. "Who cares about the court? I am more concerned with my children's education."

Laenor sighed, shaking his head. "And that’s precisely why we need teachers who understand the Seven Kingdoms, not foreigners."

Rhaenyra exhaled deeply, exasperation clouding her features. "I don’t trust the Citadel," she muttered. "I am certain they are in league with the Hightowers."

Laenor tilted his head thoughtfully. "There is one in the Citadel, though—someone who may be better than any other teacher or instructor. Someone with intimate knowledge of our family’s history."

Intrigued, Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened. "And who might that be?"

"Archmaester Vaegon." Laenor answered with a satisfied smile.

Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, searching her memory. Vaegon Targaryen... He was her great-uncle, yes, the one who had suggested the Great Council that ultimately chose King Viserys. But beyond that, she knew little of him. "Is he even still alive?" she asked, skeptical.

Laenor nodded. "He is. My mother, Princess Rhaenys, has ranted about him often enough, calling him unbending and bullheaded."

Rhaenyra deadpanned. "And you would have him teach our children?"

"He’s one of the best," Laenor assured her. "He has a gold mask and rod, which means he specializes in economy. That represents knowledge of royal economies, trade routes, the wealth of empires. But from what mother tells me, he’s also short-tempered and often belligerent."

Rhaenyra raised a brow. "Charming."

Laenor smiled faintly but pressed on. "Despite his temper, he knows our roots better than anyone. Having another Valyrian around would only make this place better."

"And how do you propose we convince the Citadel to send him?" Rhaenyra asked.

Laenor shrugged casually. "You could have the King write a royal decree, recalling him to the Red Keep. The King would do anything you asked of him especially if you come to him in tears fearing your children is being mistreated."

Rhaenyra nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Perhaps... But I still want other instructors from Essos, as well as healers and sworn shields for Jace and Luke.”

"Of course," Laenor agreed. "I can go to Pentos and ask Daemon for recommendations. Having more household knights would be prudent, but their sworn shields should be Kingsguard to further solidify our standing at Court—at least for Jace's."

Rhaenyra will nod in agreement. "I have neglected their safety for too long…" Rhaenyra said thoughtfully, her voice softer. "Grandfather Baelon assigned Ser Harrold as my sworn shield when I was but four name days old."

Laenor snapped his fingers in realization. "Exactly! My father will likely want his own men to guard Luke, though."

Rhaenyra nodded. "The more knights in our Household the better. I want two sworn shields for both boys—one to guard them while the other rests. I won’t have them unprotected, not even at night."

Laenor nodded in agreement, but his gaze softened as he spoke. "I’ll make the arrangements, but I’d like to spend a week with Joffrey first before I fly to Driftmark to speak with my father about the guards. And afterward, I’ll go to Pentos to speak with Daemon and Laena. By the time I return, the Royal Decree should have reach the Citadel and I could then escort the Archmaester here on dragonback."

Rhaenyra nodded but raised a finger in caution. "Just make sure you’re back in time for the tourney."

Laenor grinned, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world."

Rhaenyra's breath caught as the hidden door to her chambers groaned open, the sound jarring in the quiet room. Her arms instinctively tightened around her children as a large figure stepped into view. He was immense—broad-shouldered, towering, with a mane of unruly curls and a beard framing his strong jaw. His sheer size filled the doorway, casting long shadows across the floor. Rhaenyra’s eyes widened in shock, her heart thundering in her chest.

But instead of alarm, she saw Laenor smile. He rose from his seat, his demeanor entirely at ease, and greeted the intruder with a warmth that only deepened her confusion.

“I went to the nursery, but the boys weren’t there.” the man said in a low, hushed voice as if sharing a secret. His smile was broad and familiar, and there was a softness in his eyes as they landed on her.

“Ser Harwin!” Laenor stood, clapping the man on the shoulder, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “The nursemaids are in the sitting room.” he said, before casting a quick wink in Rhaenyra’s direction. Without hesitation, and with an unsettling amount of confidence, Laenor left the room, leaving her alone with this towering stranger.

Rhaenyra’s heart raced. She couldn’t understand why her husband would so casually leave her in the presence of a man she barely knew—alone with her children no less. But as her gaze shifted from Laenor’s retreating form to the man now standing near her, a different kind of dread began to seep into her bones.

The man approached her slowly, his movements steady and deliberate. When he bent down, Rhaenyra flinched, her body tense, yet his touch was unexpectedly gentle. His lips brushed her forehead, and his deep voice, though soft, seemed to vibrate in her chest.

“Princess, forgive me for not visiting you sooner,” he murmured, his words warm and intimate. “I tried, but the King was here, and I thought it best not to risk being seen.”

Rhaenyra stared up at him, her pulse pounding in her ears. His face was so familiar, yet she couldn’t place why. Her mind raced, trying to understand this man’s boldness, his apparent closeness to her.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the cradle, his voice filled with a tender reverence.

She nodded absentmindedly.And then, as her gaze shifted towards Jace, sleeping peacefully, a creeping realization began to settle over her.

Rhaenyra’s wide eyes flickered between the man’s strong features and her sleeping child. Slowly, agonizingly, the pieces began to fall into place. His curls—those thick, unruly curls—were the same dark brown as Jace’s. His jawline, the strong set of his chin, the shape of his eyes… all mirrored in the face of the boy who lay nestled besides her.

Her breath hitched, and her chest tightened in disbelief. She turned, her gaze locking onto Jace, and her heart sank further. The resemblance was undeniable—overwhelming, even. Jace’s features, the ones she had once thought were her own, now stared back at her from Harwin’s face with cruel clarity.

Harwin Strong. The name echoed in her mind, now heavy with meaning. The father of these children. A wave of horror and fury crashed over her as the truth solidified. This was the man. This was the one. The father of Jace—and gods, Lucerys as well and even Joffrey.

Her hands trembled as she clutched her sons closer, her mind reeling from the revelation. If she hadn’t been bound to this body, she would have cursed the foolishness of the girl she now inhabited. What had this foolish girl done?

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV

Rhaenyra let out a shaky sigh of relief as Ser Harwin finally disappeared back into the tunnel, the hidden door groaning shut behind him. Her chest felt tight, as if she had been holding her breath the entire time. She wasted no time in calling for the nursemaids, her voice tight as she instructed them to push a heavy chest in front of the hidden door. She thanked them afterward with a strained smile, watching as one of the nurses checked on Joffrey, nodding in satisfaction when she saw the babe still sleeping soundly.

The tension lingered, gnawing at her insides as Rhaenyra crossed the room and stood before her dressing table. It was a grand thing, adorned with a large, ornate mirror framed in gold, set in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that let the moonlight spill in like liquid silver. She sat down heavily, her body brimming with an anger she couldn’t shake. Her trembling hands reached for the items before her, and though everything was already in perfect order, she began to rearrange them mindlessly.

She picked up a delicate perfume bottle, its crystal surface shimmering in the light as her fingers moved it to another spot on the table. Then her hand slid to a golden hairbrush, its handle inlaid with jewels, each gem reflecting her frustration. She smoothed its bristles unnecessarily, her fingers trailing over the intricate designs. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her chest rising and falling as though she were fighting to contain herself. She placed the brush down and moved a small silver box filled with intricate combs, her hands shaking as her anger simmered just below the surface.

If her children were not sleeping peacefully mere feet away, she would have swept every last item off the table in one furious motion, the sound of crashing glass and metal echoing through the room. But she held back, barely. Instead, she raised her gaze to the mirror and found herself staring at her own reflection.

Her eyes, those lilac eyes—so distinct, so unmistakably Valyrian—stared back at her, burning with rage. Her face was ethereal, as though crafted by the gods themselves: a high nose, delicate but proud, with full, pouty lips that could shift from seduction to fury in an instant. Her hair, pale as moonlight and cascading down her back, framed her face like a crown. She looked like a queen—she was a queen—but at that moment, she felt anything but.

“You stupid, reckless fool,” she spat, her voice seething as her reflection glared back at her. “To sire children with a man without a single trace of Valyrian blood? Blind, senseless, utterly witless. Did you think no one would notice? And after the insult your firstborn endured, you had the audacity to bring two more into the world? You’ve turned yourself into a laughingstock—a simpleton pretending at being a queen, too naive to see the cost of your own idiocy. I would never have been so careless!”

Her words lashed out, the venom in them aimed at herself as much as the foolish girl she now inhabited. Her hands clenched the edge of the table, knuckles white with fury. Her breath was ragged, her body trembling with the weight of the truth that now pressed down on her.

But then she froze.

From the reflection of the mirror, she saw Jace stir. His small form shifted under the blanket, the fabric slipping from his tiny shoulder. Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she feared he had heard her tirade. Slowly, she stood, every movement deliberate as if even the air around her were fragile. She crossed the room with shaking fingers and gently brushed the dark hair from Jace’s forehead, her heart pounding. He was still fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in her heart.

She tucked the blanket back around him, her fingers lingering on his soft skin as she bent down to press a kiss to his forehead. Her chest tightened painfully as she gazed at him, her heart torn between love and despair. These were her children, of that she had no doubt. They had the same sweet faces they always had, the same innocence she had known in her other life. But Harwin… this Harwin that obviously fathered her children wasn’t the same man. His hair wasn’t the reddish-brown she remembered, and though he was large, he was not as towering as the man she once knew.

Everything was different here. Even Alicent was different—this Alicent, with her brown hair and calculating nature, bore little resemblance to the woman from her time. The Alicent she had known had been blonde. It had been said that when she read to King Jaehaerys in his sickbed, he often mistook her for his own daughter, Saera. Who else was different in this world? And why?

She let out another sigh, the weight of it heavy with frustration and confusion, and returned to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, ethereal and untouchable, as though mocking her. She was beautiful—there was no denying that—but what use was beauty when it had led her into such foolishness?

“What have you done, you foolish girl?” she whispered to her reflection, her voice hoarse with regret.

But then she sighed, her mind drifting back to those early days with Laenor. They had tried everything to conceive a child. From wild, drunken nights to partaking in strange herbs, each attempt ending in nothing but frustration. Only Princess Rhaenys, with her cunning schemes, had found a way that worked. Rhaenys had summoned a healer from Volantis, a woman who dealt in strange arts. Laenor had paid a fortune for a small glass bottle, which they had boiled for cleanliness, where he deposited his seed. And using a thin, delicate tube, they had transferred his seed into her womb during her most fertile time, just as the healer instructed—as if she were no more than soil to be plowed.

She had lain there for what felt like an eternity, a pillow propped under her hips, willing the seed to take root in her womb. And it had worked, hadn’t it? She had borne Laenor three children, each more beautiful than the last. She had believed it a triumph. She could still remember Lucerys’ birthmark, shaped like Driftmark Island, a mark he shared with Lord Corlys. But now… now she didn’t even need to look to know that the mark wouldn’t be there.

‘If she had truly been desperate for an heir, her uncle was right there, willing and more than capable. Just a short flight away in Driftmark.’ she mused, her brow furrowing in thought. ‘Why, then, would she risk everything by seeking out someone so lacking in Valyrian blood, jeopardizing the very lineage they so fiercely guarded?’ Rhaenyra shook her head at the absurdity of it all. "No, she could never betray Laena in such a way. Laena’s heart had always belonged to her uncle. Even if Daemon had never fully returned her affection, he was fond of her and his respect for her ran deep enough to ensure his faithfulness. Always."

Rhaenyra sighed again, for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, shaking her head in quiet resignation. What did it matter anymore? Even if Laenor had fathered her children, they still came into the world with brown hair and dark eyes—features that had stirred whispers from the very first moment. She had been horrified, petrified by the implications, until Princess Rhaenys, ever the voice of reason, reminded her of their shared blood. Rhaenys’ own hair was dark, courtesy of her Baratheon lineage, and the Arryns, too, often sported brown hair and large, expressive eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what others think,” Rhaenys had said with the wisdom of experience. “As long as the ones who matter know the truth.”

And Rhaenyra had clung to those words, using them as armor against the vile rumors of bastardy. She had silenced those talks swiftly, mercilessly, by taking the tongues of any who dared disparage her children. The traitors had met a grim fate, their bodies fed to Syrax as a warning to others. If Rhaenyra had to choose between her reputation and her sons, she would choose her children every time.

But now, with this new and strange life laid before her, the truth seemed all the more fragile. If she remained here, in this twisted reality, she knew she would have to fight twice as hard to protect her boys. The world was never kind to mothers with power—especially not those whose children bore the weight of suspicion.

Steeling herself, Rhaenyra rose from the cahir, the fabric of her nightgown whispering against the floor as she crossed the room. She slipped into the bed beside her children, the soft sheets offering no comfort to her troubled heart. Little Lucerys, always seeking warmth, burrowed his small face into her side with a soft, contented murmur. His presence anchored her, but it wasn’t enough to still her restless thoughts.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep, though her mind remained plagued by uncertainty. Tomorrow, if she’s still here, would bring new challenges—new dangers—but for now, she had her sons by her side. And if the gods were merciful, that would be enough.

Still, her sleep, when it came, was fitful. Each breath felt heavy with the weight of unspoken fears, and her dreams were haunted by the shadow of the past and the unknown path ahead.

“Mother, flee!”

Rhaenyra jolted awake, a scream tearing from her lips as Aegon’s desperate cry rang in her ears.

Her heart pounded wildly, breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Sweat clung to her skin, the dampness settling along her neck where strands of silver-gold hair stuck uncomfortably. She sat up abruptly, her eyes darting around the room, frantic. Where was her son? Where was her Aegon?

But the room was empty.

The soft morning light filtered through the high, arched windows, casting golden rays that danced upon the stone floor. The room itself seemed plucked from a tale, a princess’s haven—a sanctuary of elegance and peace. The sheer drapes fluttered in the gentle breeze, their translucence catching the sunlight like gossamer wings, while the carved wooden bedposts rose majestically towards the ceiling. Fiery Red and gold adorned the furniture, a reflection of her house’s colors and her own Syrax, and an ornate dressing table sat against the far wall, its surface scattered with delicate perfumes and trinkets. But despite its beauty, the room felt hollow, empty, like a cage.

She pressed trembling hands to her face, stifling the sob that threatened to break free. Her shoulders shook as quiet tears slipped through her fingers. Aegon had faced too much—far too much for one so young. He had endured the deaths of all his brothers, his father, and now she had left him behind, alone and vulnerable to the whims of the usurper. The thought of him, her last boy, being raised as a hostage, tormented and broken, made her stomach turn. Gods, she prayed that if they killed him, they would at least grant him a swift death. She couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering, of him enduring torture and agony at the hands of their enemies.

This world she found herself in—this twisted, impossible version of reality—was maddening. Nothing made sense. Jace was already seven, far older than he should be. In her time, Aegon had been born when Jace was six and Joffrey only three. But here, the timeline was skewed, disjointed, and wrong in ways that left her reeling. Even her relationship with Daemon had been erased, as though their bond had never existed. They were strangers in this world, no interaction for the past years, not even a short letter. That more than anything felt like a betrayal of all she had known.

The door to her chambers creaked open, and she quickly wiped her tears, forcing a smile to her lips as she heard the patter of small feet on the stone floor.

“Muña!” Lucerys’s voice rang out brightly, full of excitement as he bounded into the room, a grin spread wide across his cherubic face. “Grandsire Corlys let me steer the ship!” he exclaimed, all but leaping onto her bed.

Rhaenyra gasped in delight, playing her part as the ever-adoring mother. “Did you really? You didn’t bump into the other ships, did you?” She feigned worry, raising a brow.

Luke shook his head vigorously, his curls bouncing with the motion. “No! Grandsire said I did... spelldidly!”

“Splendidly!” she corrected softly, her smile genuine this time. “Of course you did. I’m so proud of you, my little captain. And look at you, awake so early! I’m certain Grandsire was most impressed.”

Luke beamed, showing a toothy smile. “He said a captain has to be the first to wake up on his ship.”

Rhaenyra chuckled lightly, knowing full well that was likely a tale Corlys had spun to encourage her son, but she nodded all the same. “Wise advice from the Sea Snake. Perhaps next time, you’ll steer the wheel again, and I shall have to see this prowess with my own eyes.”

“I will, Muña!” Luke declared, puffing his chest proudly. “I’ll be the greatest captain ever!”

She couldn’t help but laugh, pulling him into her arms and peppering his soft cheeks and neck with playful kisses. Luke squealed in delight, squirming to escape her affection, but Rhaenyra held firm until he begged for mercy, his giggles filling the room.

“Alright, alright,” she relented, finally releasing him. “But first, my little captain, you must bathe. You smell like you’ve spent the night in a fish market.”

Luke wrinkled his nose and laughed, nodding eagerly before planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek. “Yes, Muña!”

He jumped off the bed with boundless energy, taking the nursemaid’s hand as they left the room, his laughter trailing behind him.

Rhaenyra watched him go, her smile fading as the door closed softly behind them. For a brief moment, joy had returned to her heart, but now the weight of her reality settled back in. This world—this mad, twisted version of her life—still threatened to unravel everything she held dear.

The maids were soon bustling about her chambers, their hands deft as they prepared her bath and stripped away the linens from her bed, replacing them with fresh sheets scented faintly of lavender. The water was hot and inviting, steam curling softly in the cool morning air as they undressed her with quiet efficiency.

For the past moon, Rhaenyra had reveled in the joys of motherhood, basking in the love of her children and ensuring that little Joffrey thrived. It had been a peaceful time, an indulgence she had granted herself after the trials of childbirth. In her time, she had always taken at least two moons to recover in seclusion, giving her body and spirit time to heal, to restore. But here—here, she discovered that the Princess resumed her duties after merely a sennight. A sennight! Rhaenyra had attended Council meetings as though nothing had happened, as though the trials of labor could be brushed aside like a wrinkle in a gown.

This girl, this version of herself, seemed utterly unprepared for the courtly maneuverings and intrigue that required not just strength but strategy, she does not understand why she would subject herself thus when she does nothing anyway. Why did she torture herself so? Rhaenyra could hardly understand. In her time, she would never have rushed back to the political fray so soon. Instead, she had spent these quiet weeks enjoying her children, watching Joffrey grow stronger, and nurturing Luke and Jace as they thrived under her care. Her father, King Viserys, had often visited in the afternoons, taking tea with her and listening fondly as the children prattled on about their lessons.

Laenor had been right, when she had tearfully confided in her father about the maester’s questionable treatment of Luke, King Viserys had acted swiftly. The offending maester had been sent back to the Citadel, and a royal decree was issued, summoning Archmaester Vaegon Targaryen himself to the Red Keep. They received a raven when Vaegon left the citadel a sennight past, accompanied by an entourage of six maesters and twice as many acolytes, much to the chagrin of the Grand Maester and Queen Alicent, who had protested vehemently. But though Viserys was often gentle and easily swayed, once his mind was made up, he was as unyielding as steel. The Archmaester will be residing in Maegor’s Holdfast, a floor below Rhaenyra’s own rooms as befitting his station of a Targaryen Prince, while his retinue had been assigned to the Vault, as the Rookery could not accommodate them all—or so the smelly old cunt of a Grand Maester had claimed.

For a moon now, Rhaenyra had been content to stay in her own wing, taking solace in the lush gardens of Maegor’s Holdfast, a private paradise where she could escape the burdens of courtly life. But she knew the time had come to reenter the fray, not at the Small Council, but amongst the ladies of the court. Tea with the ladies—a small thing, but a significant one. It was something, she had been informed, that this girl had never done. A slight roll of the eyes almost escaped her. How could this girl, with all the advantages of her birthright, have created so many problems for herself? Bearing children with a non-Valyrian man and then hiding away from the consequences—where was the strength in that?

Well, today, things would change. She had no intention of skulking in the shadows, wringing her hands in fear of what the court might say. No, the Realm’s Delight would make her presence known. She would remind them all of who she truly was.

Rhaenyra swept from her chambers, her children darting ahead like bright little hatchlings, their laughter filling the corridors as they led her to their newly appointed study rooms. Lady Celia Celtigar awaited them—sent by Lord Corlys the moment Laenor relayed Rhaenyra’s concerns. Lady Celia had once been her own governess, and a comforting wave of nostalgia rose as she thought of the older woman. She remembered vividly how her uncle Daemon had severed the hand of a septa who dared strike her with a rod. The replacement septa had met a similar fate, not for any wrongdoing but because young Rhaenyra had told her uncle that she looked at her funny.

Her grandfather, Baelon, had been exasperated beyond measure, and it was Lord Bartimos who suggested his widowed niece, Lady Celia, a Valyrian woman only a few years older than her mother. She had tolerated Lady Celia far better than the septas. Firm, yet kind, the lady knew how to encourage and guide without cruelty. Her sons adored her lessons—Courtly manners, history, and the art of diplomacy—all imparted with a gentle firmness.

As they entered the study, filled with sunlight pouring through tall, arched windows, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but feel a rush of solace. The room was airy and bright, a stark contrast to the dreary, cramped chambers the maester had previously inflicted upon her boys. Luke and Jace greeted Lady Celia with perfect courtesy, bowing deeply like the little princes they were, their manners impeccable. Her heart swelled as she watched them, so proud of the way they carried themselves. They were the very image of noble breeding.

But her pride dimmed, her smile faltering slightly, as her gaze swept across the room to the others—the children of her father, who shared lessons with her own. She had loathed the arrangement from the beginning, resenting that her boys had to endure the company of her half-siblings. But her father, ever determined to foster unity, had insisted upon it. For the good of the family, he’d said.

Rhaenyra’s expression soured as her eyes fell on Aegon, slumped at his desk, the stench of wine already clinging to the boy despite his tender years. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, unable to remember the Usurper starting his descent into drunkenness so young. Then again, she had scarcely paid him any mind in her own time—he had been little more than a nuisance, a figure whispered about by maids and servants. Until, of course, he had stolen her throne.

Joffrey wriggled in her arms as she held him close, and her stomach twisted when she saw Luke chatting with the boy who would one day be the kinslayer. Her hand clenched instinctively around Joffrey’s small frame, the urge to snatch her children away from this disgusting future traitor overwhelming her. But Aemond hadn’t done anything yet, and she knew all eyes would turn to her if she lashed out. People would whisper, call her mad—mad, like her half-sister, who now sat across the room, whispering to her cupped palms with an eerie intensity.

Rhaenyra cast Helaena a dismissive glance, lifting her chin in silent disdain at the simple girl. No, she would not let herself be drawn into the madness of this side of the family. With one last wave to her boys, a tender smile still playing on her lips, she left the study room, her footsteps soft as she made her way towards the gardens.

The Ladies of the Court were gathered under the shade of a grand oak, delicate teacups balanced in their hands as they exchanged idle gossip. And there, at the center of them all, was the Queen herself. Rhaenyra took a deep breath, plastering a radiant smile on her face as she approached the group. The Realm’s Delight would grace them with her presence, and today—today, she would show them that Rhaenyra Targaryen had not lost her place.

As Rhaenyra approached, the ladies rose in a graceful chorus, their faces lighting up with genuine warmth at her presence. Lady Caswell, her auburn curls cascading in soft waves, was the first to speak, a bright smile illuminating her features. “Princess, how lovely it is to see you!”

“Indeed,” chimed in Lady Fell, her elegant hands clasped together in delight. “We’ve missed you! How is your health, and the babe?”

Rhaenyra beamed at them, her heart swelling at their kindness. “I am well, thank you, and my little Joffrey thrives, just as his brothers do.”

“I hope you ladies don’t mind that I joined you,” she continued, her tone sweet and inviting. “I was walking with Joffrey when I spied you all brightening the gardens.”

From her seat, the Queen remained seated, an air of indifference cloaking her as she remarked, “You never did bother attending tea with the ladies before, so your presence is a surprise but very welcome.”

At that, Rhaenyra’s smile faltered slightly, her gaze sharpening as she met the Queen’s eyes. Quickly regaining her composure, she replied, “You never extended an invitation to me, Lady Stepmother, perhaps you forgot?” A light laugh escaped her lips, though the words bore an edge.

The Queen shot her a sharp glance. “I did not know you needed to be invited.”

With a soft yet knowing smile, Rhaenyra replied, “Well, I never expected you to know all the courtly protocols, Lady Stepmother. After all, you were my maid before you became Queen. Unlike these ladies of high standing, you never did have a proper education.”

A flicker of embarrassment crossed Alicent's face as she sputtered, searching for an adequate response. The tension hung thick in the air until Lady Redwyne took it upon herself to compliment Rhaenyra. “Your gown is exquisite, my dear princess. You look radiant!”

As Lady Redwyne’s compliment floated through the air, Rhaenyra cast her gaze downward, taking in the elegant sight of her gown. The inner layer hugged her form just beneath her bust, its square neckline accentuating her collarbones and highlighting the delicate curve of her shoulders. The soft lavender silk shimmered subtly, catching the light with every movement.

Her eyes traced the line of the gown’s flowing fabric, appreciating how it cascaded down in gentle waves, each fold an echo of grace. The contrast of the rich, heavier outer dress drew more attention to the gown, elegantly framing the inner layer with its sturdy silhouette. A golden belt cinched her waist, fastening with pearl buttons that sparkled like tiny constellations against the deep fabric. The outer dress opened to reveal the softer inner gown, a portrait of elegance and nobility that could hardly be denied.

 With the sun filtering through the leaves overhead, illuminating the beauty of the garden, Rhaenyra settled gracefully into a padded chair that the servants had quickly produced for her, inviting her companions to relax into conversation once more.

Rhaenyra turned to Lady Redwyne, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she spoke. “I have commissioned some new pieces in lighter fabrics, as summer is beginning to reveal its heat. I thought pastels would suit the season beautifully; the Court has been unbearably dreary the past few years.”

Her gaze grew distant, nostalgia weaving through her words. “I remember when my mother was alive, how fascinated I was by the different colors of the dresses worn by the women at court. Lady Redwyne, you always adorned yourself in the bright blue and burgundy of House Redwyne, and I recall how you loved to wear the lighter blue of your father’s house as well, House Florent.”

Lady Redwyne’s eyes glimmered with warmth as she regarded Rhaenyra through her glassy gaze. A gentle smile danced on her lips, revealing the lines that adorned her saggy cheeks. “Ah, you are correct, my princess. Court was far more colorful then.”

“Indeed,” chimed Lady Fell, a fondness lighting her expression. “Only after Queen Aemma's death did the colors fade. It seems as though court has been draped in mourning ever since.”

Rhaenyra offered Lady Fell a tender smile, recalling how kind she had always been to her mother. “With Joffrey’s birth, I have decided to bring color back to the court,” she declared. “I’m thinking pastels. What do you think?”

“Oh, I would adore a peach gown!” piped up Lady Selene, seated beside Rhaenyra, her newest LAdy-in -Waiting.

“Peach would look absolutely fetching on you, Lady Selene.” Rhaenyra responded, her enthusiasm brightening the moment. “We’ll have that gown made, I assure you.”

Lady Buckwell giggled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Pastels are lovely, but I fear they may not be as flattering for older ladies such as ourselves.”

But then the Queen interjected, her tone haughty as she declared, “The ladies of Court would be better served with more mature colors that speak to their elegance.”

She turned her gaze upon Alicent, scrutinizing her from head to toe. “Well, I wouldn’t ask you about gowns, Lady Stepmother; you only ever wear one.”

 The Queen regarded her with incredulity, a flicker of disbelief crossing her features as she retorted sharply, “I possess a veritable abundance of gowns!”

Rhaenyra feigned surprise, her laughter ringing out like silver bells. “Oh my gosh! I am so sorry; I thought you only had one gown! You have so many? I had simply assumed because you only ever wore one color for years!”

The other ladies chuckled, a ripple of mirth washing over the group as they shared in the lighthearted banter. “Green suits you rather well, I must confess,” Rhaenyra continued, her tone sweetly mischievous. “You never were very suited to House Targaryen’s colors, the red clash horrifically with your hair!’ she said and she noticed the uneasy glances of the Ladies, clearly aware of her implications. “One might wonder why you are so fond of that color when Hightower colors are grey and white. Why green, my dear stepmother?”

Alicent Hightower’s cheeks flushed, and she averted her gaze, murmuring softly, “It’s as you say, the color looks good on me.”

Rhaenyra took a sip of her tea, carefully positioning the cup away from Joffrey’s grasping hands. Setting it down, she added with a conspiratorial tone, “That shade of green flatters you remarkably well. It glimmers with an elegance that commands attention, suggesting both wealth and sophistication, yet it also carries an air of mystery, drawing one in with its depth. How fitting, then, that you adorn yourself in such a color—so captivating and beguiling, concealing the jealousy and envy that simmer just beneath the surface.” Alicent was looking at her with wide  eyes, not believing she will be so bold to say such things directly, but she continued. “Green is the color of—"

“PUKE!” came a high-pitched voice, interrupting the moment.

Rhaenyra turned around just in time to see Luke running fast toward her, with Jace following more sedately behind, accompanied by Helaena and Aemond beside him.

“Dear gods,” Rhaenyra exclaimed, a mixture of amusement and exasperation flooding her. “What is it now?”

As her sons approached, the laughter and warmth of the garden fell into a delightful chaos, the air buzzing with the innocence and exuberance of childhood.

Luke rushed to Rhaenyra, planting a quick kiss on her cheeks before turning his attention to Joffrey, his face contorting into a series of amusing expressions meant to elicit laughter from his little brother. Jace followed suit, bestowing a kiss upon her brow and then  greeting the Queen and the Ladies gallantly before perching himself comfortably on the arm of her chair, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“What brings you two here?” Rhaenyra began, her inquiry cut short by the sharp, commanding voice of the Queen.

“Aemond!” she snapped, directing her attention to her half-brother. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have lessons?”

Aemond, caught off guard, stuttered defensively, “Aegon... he—he puked on the floor, and Lady Celtigar let us out early.”

The Queen’s expression shifted to one of concern. “Is Aegon ill?”

“Drunk, actually,” Jace interjected nonchalantly. “He just returned from the Street of Silk.”

“Prince Jacaerys,” the Queen reprimanded, her tone biting, “it is hardly princely to disparage someone who is not here to defend himself.”

Rhaenyra felt the heat rise within her, prepared to deliver a retort when Aemond chimed in, “It’s true! Aegon always goes to the Street of Silk, and he brought us presents!” He proudly held up a scented sachet, its delicate fabric catching the sunlight. Helaena, too, admired her own sachet, which was expertly tied to her gown, the vibrant colors bright against her attire.

Jace joined in, showcasing his own gift, while Luke had abandoned his sachet on the ground, fully engrossed in a playful encounter with Joffrey.

“Aegon said the whores gave it to him,” Helaena declared innocently, “but it’s useless, so he gave it to us.”

Alicent’s face paled, and she shot to her feet, snatching the sachet from Helaena’s hand, ripping her gown in the process, before flinging the offending object away with great indignation. Helaena’s silent tears flowed freely as Aemond stood by her, helplessly looking at his sister in her distress.

Wide-eyed, Luke stared at the Queen in fright. Rhaenyra took his hand gently, offering comfort.

“What’s a whore, Mother?” Jace asked, his voice low but still audible. “Aegon said he enjoyed the whores. Is it food?”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth, searching for the right words, yet it was Lady Fell who gracefully intervened. “You are far too young to understand that, dear Prince. And you must promise never to repeat the word again.”

Jace looked perplexed but nodded, his innocence intact, and Rhaenyra smiled gratefully at Lady Fell for her kindness.

But the Queen, not yet finished, commanded one of her attendants to escort Princess Helaena back to her rooms, declaring, “She is overcome.” Then, turning sharply to Aemond, she insisted, “Go to your brother and take care of him. It is your duty.”

Aemond glanced at Rhaenyra’s sons, a mixture of frustration and embarrassment flickering across his face. “But we were let out early! I want to play!”

The Queen grasped his hand firmly. “Your duty is to your brother first, not to play.”

With a heavy sigh, Aemond relented, retreating reluctantly to fulfill his mother’s command. Once he was gone, Alicent took a moment to compose herself, smoothing her gown and plastering a smile back onto her face. “I’m sure there was some misunderstanding,” she declared, addressing the room with newfound composure. “Prince Aegon is simply unwell, but Aemond will take care of him.”

Rhaenyra beamed, her tone laced with mischief. “It is comforting to know that you have a young child who will look after your older one in your stead,Lady Stepmother.”

The Queen tried hard not to glare at her but the sharpness of her eyes is unmistakable.

She does not care, she turned her eyes to her children and said "Run along now, but do try not to dirty your clothes too much." she instructed them, her tone light with amusement.

Luke, ever the enthusiastic one, threw his arms around his baby brother, who promptly drooled on his fine doublet. “Please, Mother, can I bring Joffrey?” he pleaded with wide, hopeful eyes.

Rhaenyra chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Your brother can barely hold his head up, sweetling. He’ll join you when he’s a bit bigger.”

Luke pouted dramatically, his lip trembling in exaggerated disappointment. “But that will take forever!”

Jace, ever the responsible elder brother, took Luke’s hand with a grin. “Come, Luke. Let’s find Grandsire Corlys. I bet he has more of those Dragon’s Breath Sugar Gems from Volantis.”

At this, Luke’s face lit up, his previous complaint forgotten. “The last one to Grandsire’s room is stupid!” he declared, already darting away.

Jace paused just long enough to kiss his mother on the cheek before chasing after his brother, their laughter echoing through the garden.

Rhaenyra plucked Jace’s sachet that he left on the arm of her chair and throw it unceremoniously on the table, discreetly wiping her palm against her gown

Rhaenyra smiled as she watched her boys run off, followed closely by their sworn shields. Her father had personally assigned Ser Erryk of the Kingsguard to be Jace's sworn protector, but she had also written to Lady Jeyne for a recommendation, seeking another knight to bolster her son's protection. Lady Jeyne had written back, sharing that she was organizing a tourney, from which she would send her finest knights to Rhaenyra. The letter had been a balm to her soul, even in her other life Lady Jeyne had always shown unwavering loyalty.

Lord Corlys, too, had ensured her sons' safety, selecting a Summer Islander and a Velaryon knight to guard Luke. The sight of the towering Kofi, the Summer Islander, trailing after little Lucerys was amusing in its contrast, yet Rhaenyra found comfort in knowing how devoted he was to her son's protection.

Kofi stood at a towering seven feet tall—his height so imposing that it seemed as though he could touch the sky with ease. Weighing fifteen stones, his presence was even more overwhelming, every inch of him rippling with muscle built through years of brutal training and survival in the fighting pits of Mereen. Instead of a sword, he carried a massive steel staff, so heavy that no ordinary man could even lift it, let alone swing it. But in Kofi's hands, a single blow could crush whatever—or whoever—was unfortunate enough to be in its path. His dark skin was a patchwork of scars, a testament to countless battles, with burns marking his time as a slave. His face, sharp and severe, was marred by an X-shaped scar on his cheek, and his bald head gleamed under the sun. Clad in a sleeveless leather vest and matching breeches, his presence was terrifying, a living reminder of the violence he had endured—and triumphed over.

It was then that Lady Redwyne leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially, her gaze flickering nervously towards the edge of the garden where young Lucerys ran, his path closely shadowed by Kofi, the Summer. His imposing frame stood in stark contrast to the delicate garden surroundings—tall, dark, and powerfully built, his presence was as formidable as it was protective.

“Princess,” Lady Redwyne began delicately, “forgive me for speaking so plainly, but... is it truly necessary for such a large man to follow young Prince Lucerys so closely? He’s quite... intimidating, don’t you think?”

There was a murmur of agreement from the other ladies, their delicate teacups clinking softly as they cast furtive glances at Kofi, their apprehension apparent.

Rhaenyra smiled, her eyes dancing with amusement as she observed the scene. “He does seem rather a contrast to little Luke, doesn’t he?” she mused lightly, her voice warm and calm.

“Indeed,” Lady Redwyne pressed, fidgeting with the lace on her sleeve. “It’s just... he seems more suited to the battlefield than the garden. Surely young Lucerys must find it a bit... overwhelming?”

Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly, as though sharing a secret with her companions, her voice dropping to a gentle, confidential tone. “Let me tell you about Kofi,” she began, her words laced with an undeniable authority. “He was once trained as an Unsullied, though his path changed after he was sold to the fighting pits. It was there that Lord Corlys found him. Seeing his worth, the Sea Snake bought his freedom and gave him a place at his side.”

There was a collective intake of breath among the ladies as Rhaenyra continued. “Since then, Kofi has served Lord Corlys faithfully—guarding his ships, protecting his ventures, and earning his trust. When I requested guards for my son, it was Kofi whom Lord Corlys sent. His size may be intimidating, but he is gentle, especially with children. And his loyalty... well, there are few who match it.”

Lady Redwyne blinked, visibly taken aback by the story, but still hesitant. “But... his size—surely young Lucerys must feel dwarfed by him?”

Rhaenyra’s laughter was soft, her eyes bright with affection. “Oh, it is rather amusing, isn’t it? Seeing this towering warrior following my son, who barely reaches his waist. But I assure you, Luke adores him. Kofi tell stories like a seasoned story teller and Luke quiet likes his tales of faraway lands. There’s comfort in knowing that Kofi’s strength is there, protecting him.”

The tension around the table eased as the ladies absorbed Rhaenyra’s words. A soft chuckle escaped Lady Caswell. “I suppose we’ll grow accustomed to it in time. It is quite the sight, though—a giant guarding such a small prince.”

Rhaenyra smiled serenely, her expression one of quiet satisfaction. “Indeed, my ladies. But I would have no one else watching over my son.”

The Queen sniffed disdainfully, her gaze sharp as she addressed Rhaenyra, “Having so many guards around children in the Red Keep is simply unnecessary. This castle is fortified beyond measure.”

A smile crept onto her lips, revealing all her teeth in a predatory manner. “I have lived in the Red Keep my whole life, Lady Stepmother,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice steady yet laced with a hint of defiance. “I must tell you, it is the most dangerous place in the Seven Kingdoms. I will not play with my children's safety. As Crown Princess, I was not even safe in the privacy of my own birthing chamber.”

Lady Fell huffed, her expression shifting to one of sympathy. “I understand your concern, Princess. A mother should never be threatened with violence immediately after giving birth. If it can happen to you, the Heir to the Throne, it can happen to anyone.” She regarded Rhaenyra with an encouraging look.

The Queen averted her eyes, a flush creeping up her neck. “There were not really any threats made.” she insisted, turning back to Rhaenyra, her tone defensive.

“It’s because you are the one who made the threats that you do not see it.” Rhaenyra retorted, her voice sharp. “What would you do if I had my guards barge into your chambers and drag you out immediately after your labor?” The question hung in the air, making the Queen pale, caught off guard by such a direct confrontation.

In that moment, Rhaenyra recognized the true nature of Alicent Hightower. She relied on veiled insults and whispered gossips behind the King’s back, a coward's game. She turned to the ladies, who watched with a mix of caution and pride. “For too long, I allowed myself to be abused by outsiders who encroached upon my father's generosity, but no more. I shall answer violence with violence.”

Turning her piercing gaze back to the Queen, Rhaenyra continued, “It is my fault that people at court have forgotten to fear me. I will correct that now and remind everyone who the dragon truly is in King’s Landing.”

Lady Buckwell interjected, “The swelling of the knights in your household has not gone unnoticed, Princess and mine own husband fully support it. Princess Alyssa and Prince Baelon had double the number of your personal knights when they were alive.”

Rhaenyra nodded, resolute. “More guards are indeed needed, especially when surrounded by violent men and murderers in the Red Keep.”

Lady Redwyne gasped, her eyes wide. “Murderer in the Red Keep?” she whispered, her hands on her chest.

Rhaenyra’s gaze darted to Ser Criston Cole, who stood a distance behind the Queen, his fists clenched tightly. She turned back to Lady Redwyne. “Have you forgotten the murder of Ser Joffrey Lonmouth on my wedding day, Lady Redwyne? That is why I dismissed my previous sworn shield from my service. I do not understand how my Lady Stepmother could stomach being so close to a violent man.”

The Queen grew even redder, her composure faltering as she murmured, “Ser Criston has already atoned for his sins.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow and called over one of the knights behind her. “Ser Ronnel, did your family receive a sincere act of contrition from the murderer of your brother?” The ladies gasped, and Ser Ronnel Lonmouth approached, his expression disdainful as he met the Queen's gaze.

“No, Princess. The only apologies my family received were from you and Lord Laenor.” he replied, his voice cold.

Rhaenyra turned to the Queen, who now looked at Ser Ronnel with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Perhaps the Faith has altered its many rules. I was not aware that the Queen offers atonement for murder now. How fascinating! Do you think the High Septon would find it so?” She turned to Lady Redwyne, a smirk playing on her lips. “Remind me again, how is atonement for heinous crimes done in the Faith? I am not quite familiar.”

Lady Redwyne glanced at the Queen in horror before responding, “In the Faith of the Seven, atonement for serious sins such as murder requires sincere confession, repentance, public penance, and acts of service. The process is typically overseen by a septon or another spiritual leader of the Faith.”

“Ah,” Rhaenyra mused, her tone light, yet her words sharp. “It seems the Queen operates under a different set of rules than the rest of us.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle in the air, before continuing, “How intriguing.” JOfrey then let out  a cry thta she knows indicates that he is hungry.

She rose gracefully from her seat, feeling the need to close the tumultuous chapter of their gathering.

“Enough excitement for us today, I think Joffrey is quite ready to rest.” she proclaimed as she hefted Joffrey higher on her arms bouncing him gently. 

Turning to Lady Redwyne, she added, “Please recommend a good seamstress in the City. I adored the colors of your gowns when I was younger.”

Lady Redwyne’s face brightened, her delight palpable. “I shall send my attendant with a note, my princess.”

The ladies curtseyed as Rhaenyra departed, her Lady-in-waitng and Knights falling behind her automatically. Not once did Rhaenyra glance back at the Queen, her mind already dancing with the possibilities of color and fabric, reveling in the joyous anticipation of summer’s return.

In her sitting room, Rhaenyra sat with a serene air, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of a goblet as the soft murmur of her ladies drifted from her dressing chamber. They busied themselves with arranging her newly commissioned gowns, each one more exquisite than the last. The gentle rustle of fabric and the excited chatter of her ladies filled the air, a symphony of delight as they admired the collection she had so thoughtfully curated.

Rhaenyra had chosen light, airy dresses, garments that captured the essence of Old Valyria—flowing and elegant, befitting her heritage. She had heard that the Queen, predictably, had turned to the King, expecting him to chastise the Princess for her indulgence. But the King, with his usual warmth, had merely smiled and said, “If the Heir to the Iron Throne cannot indulge in dresses, who else can?”

A wry smile tugged at Rhaenyra's lips. The Queen, no doubt, had been incensed.

The state of Rhaenyra’s her previous wardrobe had been a matter of quiet frustration for some time. While the fabrics were undoubtedly of the highest quality, the styles had been terribly dull—gowns that belonged in the privacy of one’s chambers, not to be worn in public. The new gowns, however, were entirely different: inspired by bold styles of Old Valyria, a subtle homage to her ancestors.

In the heat of Valyria, dresses had been designed with both grace and practicality in mind. Crafted from the finest light fabrics, they were sleeveless with low necklines, cinched at the waist to highlight the figure. The skirts flowed with ease, open at the seams to allow glimpses of the legs with every step—reminiscent of the lava that once poured from the volcanoes of their homeland. And the colors! Vibrant hues that echoed the fiery landscape—crimson, gold, and burnt orange.

Of course, she could not scandalize the court too much. She had included inner gowns, sleeveless or with the thinnest of straps, allowing for the outer layers to be heavier, more ornate, and far more palatable for the Red Keep. The outer dresses, rich in embroidery and embellished with gems, had sleeves that nearly swept the ground, but once she retired to her chambers, she need only slip off the outer layer to be left in something more comfortable. It was far less exhausting than constantly changing between gowns, and Rhaenyra found herself far more at ease in this newfound freedom.

Her gaze shifted to the letter resting beside her, her thoughts turning to the contents within. Her uncle had written, sending not only his words but a group of healers and sellswords as well. The name "Black Trombo" had caught her eye—an infamous figure, one she had heard of during the war. He had led the sellswords Lord Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest had hired for her cause, and his reputation preceded him. It was said he had been present during the ambush of Ser Criston Cole at Crossed Elms, where dozens of Greens had been cut down. That ambush had paved the way for the Butcher’s Ball, where Cole’s dwindling and exhausted army met its gruesome end.

Rhaenyra smiled to herself, pleased that such a man was now in her employ. Their talk the day he arrived was very informative, he told her directly that he was sent here not to be a mere guard as she alredy have plenty of those. No, the Rogue Prince had sent him to deal with the less savory things she wanted to be done in secret. How fortunate, she mused, that her uncle always seemed to know precisely what—or who—she needed.

HE had given him the name of the five spies she has on her household, told him he wanted them taken cared of discreetly and so far already three had been reported missing. She was impressed with him indeed.

Rhaenyra cast a glance to the side, where a Volantene healer and a Qohorik lifesmith were carefully examining her sons. An older Pentoshi herbalist was seating on the side writing vigorously in his book. Jace and Luke stood before the healers, stripped down to their breeches, their faces alight with curiosity as they endured the thorough assessments. They had examined her and Joffrey first while the boys were in their lessons and she was told she need to sleep better. She huffed at that for how can she sleep well when nightmares about her previous life continues to haunt her. At least the Pentoshi herbalist promised to brew her a tonic that will help her sleep but will not make her wake up with heavy tongue and clouds in her eyes.

When the healers finished, they assisted the boys back into their tunics, and, as expected, her sons hurried back to her, eager for her approval and comfort. Rhaenyra draped an arm across each of their shoulders, her fingers brushing their hair as she listened intently to the healers’ reports.

The first to speak was the Volantene healer, a striking woman with golden-blonde hair that cascaded in waves down her back, her eyes the vibrant blue of summer skies. She carried herself with an air of elegance, her pale grey robes flowing as she bowed gracefully before Rhaenyra. She could not have been much younger than Rhaenyra’s own mother had been, a thought that stirred a fleeting sense of loss in the princess’s heart.

“Your Grace,” the healer began, her voice soft yet precise, every word carefully measured. “Prince Jacaerys is in excellent health. His growth is steady, though I have noticed he favors his left arm slightly. It’s a minor imbalance that can be easily corrected with targeted exercises during his training. There is no cause for concern.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her expression calm though she couldn't help the flicker of anxiety that passed through her as the healer shifted her gaze toward Luke.

“Prince Lucerys,” the healer continued, her tone more cautious now, “is also in good health. However, I have detected a slight issue with his teeth. A few show early signs of decay.”

At this, Luke’s face paled, his wide eyes betraying his alarm. “Decay?” he muttered in disbelief, glancing up at his mother. “But I have the maids clean them twice a day!”

Jace, ever the older brother, chuckled softly beside him, his amusement barely contained. “That's what you get for pilfering Grandfather Corlys' sugar gems, little brother. All those sweet treats catching up to you."”

Rhaenyra allowed herself a small smile at their exchange, though her gaze remained steady on the healers. The next to speak was the Qohorik lifesmith, a man whose sheer size seemed better suited for a battlefield than the quiet art of healing. His muscular frame was almost comically disproportionate to the delicate instruments he handled, and a long scar that ran across his brow only added to his imposing presence. Yet when he spoke, his voice was deep but gentle, full of an unexpected tenderness.

“Your Grace,” the Qohorik said, bowing low, his dark robes swirling around his feet. “The Prince’s teeth are strong, but they will need some attention to prevent further decay. I can craft a special paste, one mixed with iron and herbs to strengthen his teeth and halt the damage. But he must be cautious with sweets from now on, for the sake of his health.”

Rhaenyra offered a small nod of appreciation, but she could feel Luke shifting nervously beside her, his discomfort growing. The last healer, an elderly Pentoshi herbalist with a flowing silver beard, approached with slow, deliberate steps. “Princess,” he croaked, his words raspy but filled with ancient wisdom, “the young prince’s teeth can still be mended. I shall prepare a poultice of cleansing herbs and offer you advice on how best to care for them in the future. But you must heed this warning—his fondness for sweets must be curbed, or more serious troubles will follow.”

Rhaenyra glanced down at Luke, who flushed a deep crimson, clearly mortified by the scrutiny. Jace, meanwhile, wore a smirk that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying his brother’s embarrassment.

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra said, her tone warm yet authoritative as she addressed the trio of foreign healers. “My sons are precious to me, and I trust that your remedies will ensure their continued well-being.”

The healers bowed deeply in unison and quietly took their leave. As they disappeared through the chamber doors, Luke leaned toward Jace and muttered under his breath, “I’ll never touch those sugar gems again.”

Jace grinned, mischief glinting in his eyes. “I highly doubt that, little brother.”

Rhaenyra kissed both of her sons on their heads, her heart swelling with the quiet joy that motherhood often brought her. "Off you go now," she said with a warm smile. "Rest in your chambers, and once you've had your nap, we’ll visit the gardens."

Luke, ever the defiant one, scrunched his nose. "I’m not tired, Muña! I don’t need a nap."

Jace, always the elder brother with a knowing look, took Luke’s hand in his and gave an exaggerated tsk. "You’ll be asleep the moment your head touches the pillow, little brother. Muña knows best."

Luke protested with a huff, but went with him, Rhaenyra smiled and watched as her sons walked away, Jace leading Luke with the mischief of an elder sibling in his step.

As they disappeared from view, Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted to the tall figure standing just outside her rooms—Black Trombo. With a single questioning glance, the grizzled sellsword nodded slightly, a silent understanding passing between them. His loyalty, though recently earned, brought her a sense of comfort. She smiled at him before turning her attention back to the matter at hand.

Rising gracefully from her seat, she addressed her ladies-in-waiting on the other room. "I shall rest in my sleeping chamber," she said, her voice soft but commanding. "Once you’ve finished with the dresses and gowns, you may rest as well, or take time to arrange your own new gowns."

Her ladies, all smiles, curtsied in unison, their gratitude plain in their eyes. "Thank you, Your Grace," Lady Nila said, her voice brimming with excitement. "You’ve given us twelve new dresses each. We are truly honored."

Rhaenyra waved a hand with a graceful flourish, her lips curving into a gentle smile. "You are my ladies. You will look the part."

With another round of curtsies, the room filled with quiet, bubbling joy as they went back to their tasks. Rhaenyra excused herself and entered her sleeping chamber, but her mind was far from rest. Closing the door behind her, she moved with purpose, pushing against a hidden panel in the wall. The soft scrape of stone revealed the secret door, and beyond it, the torch she always kept blazing.

Taking the torch in hand, she hurried through the dusty, hidden passageways. She familiarized herself again to the hidden corridors as soon as she was strong enough to walk long distances.

But a simmering fury burned within her. She had noticed something troubling, something that made her blood run hot. The passages leading to her own chambers—the ones Ser Harwin had once used—were kept impeccably cleans as someone had been using them regularly. Not just those, but even the ones leading to the King and Queen’s chambers had been devoid of dust. Someone else knew of these passages, someone who did not belong.

White-hot rage surged through her veins. These passages were meant for the blood of Old Valyria, for true Targaryens . How had another learned of them?

She had acted swiftly upon this discovery, instructing Ser Harwin to install new mechanisms to guard against unwanted guests mainly in the Queen's apartment. A simple, clever addition—a small stone that slid into place, blocking the hidden doors from opening unless the mechanism was properly manipulated. The stone, crafted to match the red stone of the Keep perfectly, would go unnoticed by any casual observer. Only those who knew where to look would see the subtle difference.

To open it, one had to pull an almost invisible string hidden within the seam of the door—an elegant and invisible solution that would confound any who attempted to breach  any of the private quarters. the opening in her room and the ones in the nursery were altered as well, this time it was done from the inside so one can enter the room without their permission. She had also instructed him to install iron bars on any opening that leads outside of the castle to make sure no outsiders can use them.

Rhaenyra had also given Harwin a far more ominous order. He was to hunt down whoever dared use the passages without permission. If they were not a Targaryen or from their trusted household, he was to kill them on sight. No mercy.

The gentle giant had bowed to her, his expression serious but unwavering. "I shall do as you command, Your Grace." he had said in that deep, calm voice of his.

Now, as she moved swiftly through the dark corridors, the torchlight flickering against the stone walls, her anger pulsed with every step. This betrayal, this breach of trust in her own Keep, would be dealt with swiftly and decisively. No one threatened the sanctity of her family or her rightful place in the Red Keep.

As Rhaenyra reach the corridor near the Queen’s apartment, her hurried steps began to slow, her breath settling as her eyes traced the familiar raised carvings on the walls, it was made in such a way that whoever is in the hidden passages can see easily to the room. The depictions of Valyrian history, once revered, now served a more delicious purpose—etched scenes of lovers entwined in moments of passion, immortalized in stone. They always rankled Alicent’s delicate sensibilities, which, of course, delighted Rhaenyra. The carvings were positioned just so, allowing her a perfect view into the Queen’s chambers, all while keeping herself safely out of sight. Her lips curled into a sly smile as she pressed closer, peering into the room.

The Alicent of this time is even more insufferable in her piety. Lady Elinda had once told her how every decision the Queen made was now based on the Book of the Seven. Rhaenyra almost huffed aloud at the thought. The Book of the Seven, was it? She could hardly keep from rolling her eyes. ‘Oh yes, I’m sure she was clinging to those holy verses when she climbed into the King’s bed on the night of Queen Aemma’s funeral.’ she thought with a quiet snort. The nerve of the girl! The little bitch had spread whispers about Rhaenyra’s supposed licentiousness, even daring to call her a whore. Yet here was Alicent, no better herself. Rhaenyra would find a way to reveal her duplicity, one way or another.

She was just about to turn away, the bitter taste of resentment still fresh on her tongue, when she heard faint footsteps and murmurs approaching. Rhaenyra straightened immediately, her heart quickening in her chest. Peeking through the carvings, she saw Alicent enter the room, whispering to her maids before dismissing them. Alone, the Queen moved toward her little shrine, lighting a candle—was it to the Maiden, or the Mother? Rhaenyra couldn’t be bothered to care. Her interest was piqued by what followed next.

Behind Alicent, Lord Larys Strong limped into the room, dragging his twisted foot behind him. Rhaenyra's brows arched in delight. How very scandalous, she mused, biting back a smirk. The Queen, alone in her chambers with a man who was neither her father nor her husband? What would the Faith say about that?

A shiver ran down her spine as her eyes fell on Lord Larys’s grotesque figure. There was something unsettling about him—the way his twisted foot moved, the way he skulk in the shadows, the way he stared at people as if calculating how best to kill them. Larys Strong had always made the hairs of her arms raise.

Rhaenyra strained to hear their conversation, but Larys spoke too softly, his words lost in the murmur. However, her ears pricked when Alicent spoke—her tone laced with frustration. "Princess Rhaenyra is becoming bolder," Alicent said, her words dripping with resentment. "Always speaking out of turn, always seeking conflict. And the King refuses to punish her. I need someone who will support me openly in court. I need my father back."

Rhaenyra's hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a laugh. Oh, poor Alicent, always the victim, she thought mockingly. Before she could hear more, something even more interesting happened. Alicent, in a move that made Rhaenyra's eyes widen, removed her shoes and placed her stockinged feet on the table before Larys.

 What was this? She leaned closer, unable to look away despite herself. Alicent spoke again, her voice laced with disdain, but Rhaenyra wasn’t listening anymore. Her eyes were locked on the scene unfolding before her—Alicent removed her stockings, and to Rhaenyra’s utter horror, Lord Larys untied his breeches and slipped his hand inside. The Princess nearly gagged in disgust.

Rhaenyra recoiled, her stomach twisting in revulsion. What filth! She turned away sharply, her hand brushing against a discarded torch. Grasping it, she struck the wall with a sudden, sharp crack.

The reaction was immediate and delicious. Both Alicent and Larys jumped, startled out of their sordid little moment. Rhaenyra, hiding her silent laughter, watched as Larys hurriedly tucked himself back into his breeches and hobbled out of the room, his awkward limp even more pronounced. Alicent scrambled to put her stockings back on, her chest heaving, her hands trembling. The Queen paced frantically, clearly waiting for someone to appear, but when no one came, she collapsed into a chair, her hands covering her face as she began to sob quietly.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. Dramatic, she thought with a disdainful curl of her lip. As if she were some innocent maiden taken by force. Pathetic.

But then, something truly curious happened. Alicent rose, her movements jittery and desperate, and approached a small box on a table. Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. The moment the Queen opened the box, a bloodcurdling scream tore through the room. Alicent staggered backward, flinging the box away as she crashed into the table, sending herself sprawling to the ground.

And there, on the cold floor, lay the grisly contents of the box—severed tongues, twisted and grotesque. Alicent scrambled back, her body shaking with terror, another scream wrenching from her throat as she pushed herself away from the horrifying sight.

Finally, Ser Criston burst into the room, his hand on his sword, shouting about an invasion. "The Queen’s chambers have been compromised!" he yelled, gathering Alicent in his arms as he hurried her out of the room, calling for guards.

Rhaenyra chuckled to herself, the sound bubbling up in her chest like forbidden laughter in the midst of a game. She watched them flee, her heart alight with wicked glee. The tongues—they were the remains of the spies Alicent had placed within Rhaenyra’s household.

Oh, Alicent would figure it out soon enough when her little informants failed to report to her, but for now? For now, Rhaenyra would savor her small, delicious victory.

Rhaenyra leaned against the cold stone of the hidden passage, the flickering torchlight casting shadows that danced wickedly along the walls. The thought of ordering Alicent’s death had crossed her mind more than once—hells, she could do it herself if she wished. Slitting her throat as she lay sleeping, fragile and unprotected, would be simplicity itself. But where was the satisfaction in that? No, death would be too swift, too kind for the likes of Alicent Hightower.

Rhaenyra wanted more than a fleeting moment of victory. She wanted Alicent to suffer, to taste the bitter anguish that had poisoned her own life for so long. She wanted her to feel the sharp, unrelenting sting of loss—true loss, the kind that hollowed out your heart and left nothing but darkness in its place.

She could already imagine it, the way Alicent's world would crumble, piece by piece, until nothing remained. Rhaenyra would let her watch as one by one, her children fell before her, the light in their eyes extinguished while their mother stood helpless. She would orchestrate every moment, ensuring that Alicent’s every breath was laced with dread, her every heartbeat a reminder of her own powerlessness.

But it would not end there. Oh no, Rhaenyra wanted more. She wanted to see the Queen—the woman who had whispered so sweetly into the ears of men, turning them against their rightful ruler—vilified by the very people she had once counted on. Rhaenyra would take pleasure in watching as those who had championed Alicent turned their backs on her, recoiling from the ruin she had brought upon them.

And when the whispers grew louder, when Alicent was no longer the pious queen but a pariah in her own court, Rhaenyra would revel in her downfall. She would watch as the weight of her ambitions crushed her, as her once-careful plans crumbled to dust.

Most delicious of all, she wanted Alicent to slowly lose her mind. To see her sanity slip through her fingers as the last remnants of her world shattered around her. Every single fear, every nightmare that haunted Rhaenyra for years, would visit Alicent in turn. Rhaenyra wanted her to feel every ounce of pain, betrayal, and heartbreak that she herself had endured.

This was not a desire for mere vengeance—it was justice. Justice for every slight, every humiliation, every stolen moment. And Rhaenyra would be there to witness it all, to drink in Alicent’s despair as if it were the finest wine.

She straightened, a wicked smile playing on her lips. No, she would not grant Alicent the mercy of a swift death. That would be far too easy. Instead, she would break her, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra stood on the wind-swept dragonpit, her eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and affection as she watched Laenor strap little Joffrey securely to his chest. The boy’s wide eyes, barely visible beneath the brim of the soft fur cap she'd insisted he wear, sparkled with excitement. She had ensured he was protected from the fierce gusts of wind, his tiny ears and tender head shielded against the elements.

Laenor smiled at her, his expression one of easy confidence, a father’s joy at being reunited with his son. Rhaenyra gave a slight nod, knowing that this moment was as much for Laenor as it was for Joffrey. She had taken their child on his very first flight, barely a month after giving birth, and now it was Laenor’s turn to guide their boy through the open skies. It was a tradition, a sacred rite, for the heirs of the Dragon. And Joffrey, with his newly hatched hatchling perched awkwardly on the back of Seasmoke, was part of that long, unbroken legacy.

The tiny dragonet was not yet able to fly, its wings still too weak, but it clung to Seasmoke with a determination that made her smile. Rhaenyra huffed slightly, remembering how Alicent had demanded that the hatchling be sent immediately to the Dragonpit. The queen had been beside herself with worry, fearful that the creature might cause an incident in the Keep. How utterly absurd. Rhaenyra’s own  Syrax had spent her early days curled in her cradles, so did all of her children’s dragons, not in some dank pit. How dare Alicent, an outsider, presume to dictate how a Targaryen raised her children's dragon?

Her lip curled as she thought of the Queen’s bitterness. None of Alicent’s children had been blessed with a hatched egg in their cradles, and the queen was still clearly smarting from it. Rhaenyra had told her father as much, and King Viserys, always eager to smooth things over, had been apologetic, eventually declaring that all matters concerning the dragons and their eggs, both at Dragonstone and in the pit, would be under her control. A small victory, perhaps, but a satisfying and important one.

It had come too late to prevent Aegon and Helaena from claiming Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, but it was not too late to keep the younger ones from securing their bonds. Laenor had personally escorted young Tessarion to Dragonstone, ensuring that Daeron—sweet, forgettable Daeron—would never lay claim to him. And Vhagar... she would rather die than see Vhagar fall into the hands of the kinslayer again.

Her gaze softened as she watched Laenor lift Joffrey into the saddle, the boy's little body snug against his father's chest. She could hear his giggles over the roar of the wind, and a part of her heart soared with them.

Laenor had returned from Essos beaming with news of Laena’s pregnancy.

She had wept then, in her heart, she knew the truth—this pregnancy would cost Laena her life. Rhaenyra had sobbed herself to sleep that night, torn between her joy for her friend and the aching knowledge of what was to come.

She wanted to write to Daemon and Laena, to urge them to employ more healers—better healers—but she also longed to meet her own children, her little Aegon and Viserys, and her unborn daughter, Visenya. Oh, Visenya, she thought with a quiet, fierce determination. You will come into this world safely, and you will thrive, my fierce little girl, just like your brothers.

And that wouldn’t happen while Laena is still alive.

There are things in this life she cannot afford to change. People she cannot save.

A sound brought her back to the present, and she turned to see Meleys, the Red Queen, being led from her cavernous shelter. The sight of the great she-dragon, prepared for flight, sent a shiver through her. It was still jarring to see this world’s Rhaenys, so physically changed from the woman she had known and loved. Rhaenys had arrived last night, just in time for the tourney, but they hadn’t yet had the chance to speak.

Rhaenyra watched as Jace fidgeted nearby, his gaze flicking up to Rhaenys and then quickly back down. Her smile faltered. Her son had never been shy—just this morning, he had been seated on Lord Corlys’ lap, poring over a newly acquired spice map. Yet now, in front of his grandmother, he was hesitant.

Luke, always the bold one, stepped forward and asked, “Can I fly with you, Grandmother?”

Rhaenys, regal and serious, looked down at the little prince with the weight of a thousand stories in her gaze. “Another time, little prince.” she replied with gentle authority, before turning toward her dragon without a backward glance.

Rhaenyra’s smile completely vanished as she watched Rhaenys turn away, her sons left standing there, their little faces clouded with disappointment. The slight, though unspoken, was as sharp as any sword. She set her jaw, casting a quick glance towards her boys, both of them sulking in that quiet, resigned way children do when they try not to show they’ve been hurt. Her heart squeezed, but she did not let it show. Instead, she straightened, casting off the weight of that moment, and stepped towards them, her tone light as she spoke.

“Come, my sweet boys,” she called out, beckoning them with a wave of her hand. “Shall we take to the skies ourselves? Syrax is waiting, and I think she’s eager to stretch her wings.”

Luke’s face brightened immediately, his wide eyes full of wonder as he gazed up at her. “Both of us?” he asked, almost breathless with hope.

Rhaenyra chuckled softly and nodded, her smile now genuine. “Both of you, of course. There’s room enough for the three of us, I promise.”

Luke could barely contain his excitement, darting towards one of the dragonkeepers with unbridled enthusiasm. “Muña is flying with us on Syrax!” he declared, his little voice ringing with joy.

Jace, ever the more cautious, stayed behind, his brow furrowed with concern. “Can Syrax really carry all of us?” he asked, his voice full of the seriousness that always seemed too grown for his years.

Feigning mock offense, Rhaenyra placed a hand over her heart, looking down at him with a teasing arch of her brow. “Of course Syrax can carry all of us,” she said, her voice playful. “You and Luke weigh no more than a pair of socks.”

Jace giggled at that, the sound of his laughter easing some of the tension between them. But soon his gaze wandered skyward again, following the silhouettes of Sea smoke and Meleys as they soared overhead. His smile faded, replaced with something quieter, more forlorn. “Grandmother doesn’t like us.” he murmured, his words barely above a whisper.

The weight of his sadness was too much to ignore, and Rhaenyra knelt down, bringing herself to his level. She cupped his face gently in her hands, her touch soft but steady. “Why would you think that, sweet boy?” she asked, her voice low, coaxing him to meet her eyes.

Jace shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the ground as he shrugged. “I just do.” he mumbled, clearly unwilling to voice his hurt.

Rhaenyra sighed, brushing a thumb over his cheek before speaking softly. “Not all people are the same, Jace. Some don’t show their affection as openly as others. Your grandmother… she was raised as a proper Targaryen princess in the court of King Jaehaerys, who was far stricter than your grandsire, King Viserys.” She paused, watching the words sink in before continuing. “You mustn’t take her demeanor to heart. It’s simply the way she was taught to be.”

Jace looked up at her for a long moment, his young mind working through her words. After a pause, he nodded, though the movement was reluctant, his heart not quite fully convinced. Rhaenyra kissed his forehead tenderly, then rose to her feet, keeping her arm around him as they walked toward Luke, who was now thoroughly pestering the dragonkeepers with endless questions.

As they approached Syrax, Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, biting back the quiet guilt that gnawed at her. She wanted to berate this girl for alienating the Velaryon matriarch by bearing children not sired by her husband. But had she truly had any other choice? From what she observed this Rhaenyra had been so isolated for years, her alliances fragile, her support within the court dwindling. She had made decisions—difficult decisions—ones that had led her here, and though she regretted the strain it had caused, she knew this Rhaenyra had no other choice.

She left her boys with the dragonkeepers and approached Syrax, who was already waiting, her massive golden form agitated as she roared softly, tail flicking impatiently. Rhaenyra smiled gently, stepping closer to the dragon’s snout, her voice low and soothing as she cooed to her.

“Be calm, my lady…” she murmured, pressing her forehead against the warm scales of Syrax’s snout. “Today we shall soar up in the sky, I know you had missed the open skies terribly…"

Syrax’s great eyes blinked slowly, her agitation fading as Rhaenyra continued to whisper sweet nothings to her, praising her loyalty, her strength, her beauty. The bond between them was unbreakable, forged in fire and blood, and Syrax soon settled, the tension leaving her coiled muscles.

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, giving the dragon’s snout an affectionate pat. “We’ll be joined by some hatchlings today.” she said, her tone light. She gestured for Jace and Luke to approach, both boys moving cautiously, fully aware of the gravity of standing before a dragon not their own.

Syrax snorted smoke curling out of her nose, her strong neck pulling back slightly as her amber eyes narrowed suspiciously at the boys. Rhaenyra’s voice was quick to soothe her again. “You know them already, I have flown with them on you countless times. They are my own hatchlings, bound to yours.”

Once Syrax stilled, Rhaenyra gently guided each of her sons’ hands to the dragon’s warm, scaled hide. Jace and Luke stood in awe, their hands trembling slightly as they felt the powerful beast beneath their fingers. Rhaenyra’s gaze softened as she watched Syrax’s eyes flick from one boy to the other, still watchful but, for now, accepting.

Rhaenyra ran her hand over Syrax’s warm golden scales, whispering softly in Valyrian to calm the dragon before she helped Luke into the saddle, lifting him gently and securing him in the front. His small face was bright with excitement as he settled, and she smiled warmly at him.

Next came Jace, and Rhaenyra made sure he was seated properly behind his brother. She took great care to fasten the chains securely around both boys.

Syrax shifted, her powerful muscles rippling under golden scales, eager to take flight. Rhaenyra moved closer to her head once again, her fingers brushing over the warm, smooth hide as she murmured soft praises. "My sweet girl," she whispered, "The boys atop you...  are precious. They are mine, and because they are mine, they are yours too. You will protect them as you protect me. This time, I promise, you will know them better than you did in the life before." Her voice trembled with resolve, the weight of her past failures pressing against her heart. Never again will she allow her children to be thrown from her back.

As if in understanding, Syrax’s great head turned toward her, those fierce eyes softening. A plume of smoke billowed from her nostrils, enveloping Rhaenyra in a warm, familiar embrace. She smiled, relief washing over her, and placed a tender kiss on her dragon’s snout.

With that final gesture of affection, Rhaenyra mounted Syrax, her heart lighter than it had been in years. This time, she vowed, nothing will be the same.

Once satisfied, Rhaenyra swung into the saddle behind them, her hands resting gently on their shoulders as she called the command to fly.

Syrax began with a steady, rumbling run, her massive claws thudding against the ground. The boys gripped the saddle tightly, their giggles bubbling up as the wind began to rush past their faces. With four powerful flaps of her great wings, Syrax launched them into the air, and the shouts of joy from Luke and Jace echoed through the skies.

As they soared above King’s Landing, Luke let out a gleeful cry. “Look, look, Jace! There’s the street we pass when we go to the dragonpit!” His arm stretched out, pointing to the winding streets below.

Jace leaned forward excitedly, peering over his brother’s shoulder. “And there! See that tower by the foot of Visenya’s Hill? That’s the Alchemist’s Guild Hall!” He shouted with the authority of someone who knew every corner of the city.

Rhaenyra smiled as she basked in their shared joy, the morning sun warming her face, its golden light dancing across the bay as they left the city behind. Syrax’s wings beat steadily beneath them, and Rhaenyra felt herself relax into the rhythm of flight. The air was crisp and cool, and she took in the sight of the wide expanse of Blackwater Bay, memories stirring in her mind.

The last time she had flown over these waters had been a moment of triumph. They had taken the city, and she had been welcomed back by the Gold Cloaks and the starving people, desperate for the rightful queen. She had rejoiced as she watched Otto Hightower’s treacherous head be hoisted on a spike, his betrayal finally paid in blood. But that victory had been short-lived, a fleeting moment in the grander tragedy of her reign. The royal vaults had been near-empty, the city coffers bled dry by the Greens. Raising funds had become a dire necessity, and that had been the beginning of her downfall.

Betrayals came swiftly. The deaths of her children shattered her mind, twisting her into a paranoid shadow of the woman she once was. Every shadow hid a blade. Every whispered word was a threat. She had even turned from Daemon, her own husband, pushed away by her fear and mistrust. Now, as she flew over the bay, she could see it all so clearly—how they had used her, how her paranoia had been stoked and manipulated. Sometimes she still felt like the Black Queen, seeing daggers in the dark, her mind sharp with suspicions.

When she looked at Alicent, the old anger sometimes rose, the temptation to stab her with a fork and end whatever schemes she still harbor was strong. But holding her children close kept her tethered to the present, kept her sane.

But here, in the sky, with her sons’ laughter filling the air, that darkness seemed far away.

A high-pitched squeal broke through her thoughts. “Seasmoke!” Luke cried, pointing excitedly at the pale dragon flying beside them. Laenor sat atop Seasmoke, waving at them, his grin broad and carefree.

Jace's eyes lit up with excitement as he leaned forward. “Race!” he shouted, the challenge clear in his voice.

Rhaenyra chuckled, and without a moment’s hesitation, Syrax surged forward, answering her rider’s silent command. The wind whipped through their hair as they raced through the sky, the boys' laughter growing louder with every beat of Syrax’s wings. Laenor tried to keep pace, but Sea smoke, burdened with the still-fragile babe strapped to his chest, could not match Syrax’s speed.

With a final, victorious swoop, Syrax pulled ahead, and Rhaenyra’s heart swelled as Luke and Jace shouted in triumph. “Syrax won!” they cheered, their voices carrying across the sky.

When they landed, the dragonkeepers were swift to help. Rhaenyra dismounted first, then assisted as the keepers helped Jace and Luke down from the saddle. The boys wasted no time, running toward the edge of the sandpit, still buzzing with excitement as they recounted every moment of their race.

“Syrax was faster!” Luke exclaimed, bouncing on his toes. “We won!”

Jace nodded eagerly. “Seasmoke couldn’t keep up—Syrax was like a streak of gold!”

Rhaenyra turned, smiling indulgently, but her breath caught when she saw whom her sons had run to. Standing at the side of the platform, watching the boys with an unreadable expression, were her half-brothers. Aegon and Aemond stood there, their presence unexpected, their faces shadowed by more than just the morning sun.

Rhaenyra’s gaze swept over her half-brothers with a calculating air, her expression carefully guarded. Aegon’s eyes were glassy, his steps unsteady, but he wore a mischievous smile as he bent his head low to Jace and Luke, whispering something that had the boys nodding eagerly in response. It was clear that Aegon was basking in their attention, his demeanor loose and carefree.

Aemond, however, stood to the side, his face a mask of jealousy, his eyes burning with the sting of being left behind. Were he anyone else, she might have felt a twinge of sympathy, might have gently intervened and told her sons to include him. But it was Aemond, the future Kinslayer. He had taken so much from her already. I would not spit on him if he were on fire, she thought coldly.

Rhaenyra turned from them, embracing Syrax one last time, resting her cheek against her dragon’s warm scales. She whispered her affection, feeling Syrax’s breath rumble in response, before the dragonkeepers led her back to her cave. With a final glance at her golden companion, Rhaenyra composed herself and turned back toward the children, forcing a bright smile to her face just as Sea smoke landed with a soft thud behind her.

Her eyes drifted back to her half-brothers, her tone feigning pleasant surprise. “Are you here for lessons?”

Jace nodded eagerly, his face lighting up at the mention. Before Rhaenyra could say more, one of the dragonkeepers stepped forward. “We’ll bring Vermax out first, Princess.” he informed them.

Jace’s face glowed with excitement, and Rhaenyra’s heart swelled at his joy. But she swiftly shifted her attention to Aegon, mustering her best performance. “And you, Aegon,” she asked with deliberate cheer, “do you often visit Sunfyre?”

Aegon blinked, visibly startled by her question, as if unused to being addressed directly—especially with any genuine interest. He hesitated, then shook his head. “Only when we have lessons,” he muttered, his voice strangely subdued. “Mother doesn’t want me around him for long.”

Rhaenyra kept the grimace off her face, though her distaste flared. She let out a gentle tsk, as if chiding some well-meaning fool. “Those not of House Targaryen will never understand the bond we share with our dragons.” she said with a sigh, her tone rich with meaning, each word laced with a quiet, possessive pride.

Her gaze shifted smoothly to Aemond, who stood stiff and awkward, still lingering on the sidelines. She arched an eyebrow, her voice dripping with innocence. “And why are you here, dear brother, when you do not have a dragon?”

Aemond’s face flushed a deep shade of embarrassment as the three boys—Jace, Luke, and especially Aegon—snickered in that boyish derision that seemed so cutting at their age. His gaze fell to the ground, his words mumbled, barely audible. “I wanted to observe.”

Rhaenyra let out a soft hum, neither approving nor disapproving, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer. Then, with a gentle turn, she looked to her sons, her voice slipping into the soft cadence of Valyrian.

"I expect you to listen to the dragonkeepers carefully and to respect your dragons. Remember, they are not pets—they are an extension of you."

Luke's hand instinctively moved to his chest, as though remembering the lesson she had taught him—how to feel the connection with his dragon, the warmth that bloomed deep within his heart. Rhaenyra smiled warmly, proud of him, and reached out to brush a hand over his dark curls. Jace stood tall beside him, soaking in her words with an air of determined maturity. They were still boys, but they were learning. She would make sure they knew their true heritage, their Valyrian blood.

Turning back to her half-brothers, she found them both staring at her, their expressions unreadable. The blankness in their eyes was a stark contrast to the light she saw in her sons. She regarded them for a moment, then tilted her head slightly. “Do you not understand me?”

Jace, ever the dutiful son, was quick to respond, casting a glance toward uncles. “Aegon only knows dragon commands.” he explained, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “And Aemond’s trying to learn from the Maester, but the Maester’s accent is horrible. We sometimes help them.”

Rhaenyra nodded in understanding, though a flicker of disappointment touched her heart. She had been dismayed when she first realized her children spoke Valyrian as a second language—when their words came slowly, the meanings first translated in their heads before they could answer her. Too often, when she spoke to them in their ancestral tongue, they replied in the Common. But they were improving. She had made a point to speak Valyrian to them as often as possible, guiding them gently toward fluency. Daemon, of course, had spoken to all their children exclusively in Valyrian, and she had followed his lead.

It will be their mother tongue, she vowed silently. It must be.

The soft hum of conversation filled the room as Rhaenyra watched her sons animatedly discussing knots with Lord Corlys. Luke, his face alight with concentration, held a braided rope as long as his arms, attempting to loop it into one of the intricate knots his grandfather had taught him. The sight brought a smile to her lips. Lord Corlys had been a constant presence these past weeks, having personally delivered the household guards she requested, and he seemed content to remain until the tourney. Almost daily, he took Luke—and sometimes Jace—to his ship, the Sea Snake.

Rhaenyra glanced at Luke, whose small fingers fumbled slightly with the rope, trying to recreate a knot he had no doubt seen aboard the ship. He had already been introduced to all of Corlys’s crew, and to Rhaenyra’s dismay, had developed a habit of singing bawdy shanties he'd picked up from the sailors much to her dismay.

Her eyes softened, though, remembering when Corlys had insisted they visit the Sea Snake after Joffrey’s first flight.

“He must know the sea as he knows the sky," Corlys had said with a twinkle in his eye. "He is a Velaryon after all”.

And so, they had spent the rest of that afternoon gently gliding across Blackwater Bay, the ship rocking them in a serene rhythm. When they returned, the children had been exhausted but happy, their faces flushed with excitement, while the King had been visibly annoyed, having expected to share dinner with them.

That subtle rivalry between her father and Corlys—on who would be the favored grandfather—never ceased to amuse her. The King had sulked at being trapped in his small council meetings while Corlys spent nearly the entire day aboard his ship with his grandchildren. The Sea Snake had been so smug about it, his pride evident in every knowing glance exchanged with her father.

The soft clink of dishes broke her reverie. The maids entered the room, their trays laden with delicate plates of desserts. They set them down gently before the children, the first dish causing Jace and Luke to cheer in unison. Smooth, creamy swirls adorned with vibrant berries appeared, their colors bright and reminiscent of summer’s warmth. A light drizzle of golden honey gleamed across the surface, inviting eager spoons.

Next, a small platter of thinly sliced fruit dusted with fragrant spices was set before them. The slices shimmered slightly, their crisp edges beckoning to be bitten into, the sweetness balanced by a hint of warmth. Lastly, a chilled tray arrived, filled with small frozen squares, sparkling with flecks of nuts and fruit, their coolness tempting even the adults.

Lord Corlys, watching their delight, chuckled. "I had the cook ensure every dish is a bit kinder to young Luke’s teeth," he remarked with a satisfied nod, as Luke’s eyes widened in playful horror while Jace snickered.

As the room filled with laughter, the air warm and light, Laenor rose abruptly from his seat. His expression, though kind, was distant. "I’ll need to take my leave now," he announced, his tone casual, "I’ve arranged to meet some friends in the city."

The light in the room dimmed ever so slightly. Rhaenyra’s smile faltered, but she quickly masked it, accustomed to this routine. She knew Laenor loved her children—there was no denying the affection in the way he spoke to them, the warmth in his eyes when he was present. But she found out that his absences are more frequent. Too often, he was in the city, surrounded by his knights, squires, and the friends he had made outside their walls.

Lord Corlys’s jaw tensed, though he said nothing. His disappointment was palpable, but he withheld any protest, allowing his son the space he had always demanded. Jace and Luke, unaware of the tension, hurried to kiss their father goodbye, their innocent joy shielding them from the undercurrent that rippled through the room.

Princess Rhaenys left as well to retire to the side room. Her children both bade her goodnight but the Princess did not even acknowledge them.

Rhaenyra picked up her spoon with deliberate care, her expression controlled though a hint of annoyance flickered in her eyes. As the boys cheered and dug into their desserts with infectious enthusiasm, she scooped a bite of the chilled treat and placed it slowly in her mouth, savoring it in a measured way.

Every so often, she glanced at Jace as he teased his younger brother, her lips curving into a faint smile despite herself. Luke, momentarily indignant, defended his choice of sweets, causing her to raise an eyebrow in amused reproach. She shot a knowing look at Lord Corlys, who offered her a chuckle in return.

After finishing her dessert, Rhaenyra rose from her seat, placing her napkin beside her plate with deliberate grace. "I shall excuse myself," she said, her tone steady as she addressed the table, "I’m going to speak with Princess Rhaenys."

Lord Corlys looked up, giving her a respectful bow of acknowledgment before turning his attention back to Jace, who was recounting with exaggerated drama, "The King sat me on his lap while hearing petitions, and I swear, it was the most boring day of my life."

With a deep, warm chuckle, Corlys replied, "After Joffrey’s tourney, perhaps we shall all go to High Tide, and I might sit Luke on my lap while hearing petitions too."

Luke, his eyes wide with curiosity, asked, "Will it be boring too?"

Lord Corlys laughed heartily at that, ruffling Luke’s hair. "Most likely, my boy, but as Lord of the Tides, it's something you’ll have to endure."

Smiling to herself at the sight of her sons, Rhaenyra slipped from the room and made her way toward the adjoining solar. The warmth of the fire greeted her as she entered, the scent of burning wood mingling with the subtle richness of wine. Princess Rhaenys sat before the hearth, a goblet cradled in her hand, the flickering flames casting a soft glow on her regal features. Even in quiet repose, she exuded a majesty that had always unsettled Rhaenyra.

"Princess Rhaenys," she began softly, her voice betraying none of the trepidation simmering beneath her skin, "forgive the intrusion, but I hoped to speak with you. Conversations about ships and knots with Lord Corlys and the children tend to make my mind go blank."

Rhaenys turned her head slightly, her expression one of mild curiosity. She did not respond at first, but after a brief pause, she gestured toward the chair opposite her. Rhaenyra took it, the silence between them stretching long and tense, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Rhaenys’s gaze remained fixed on the flames, but Rhaenyra could feel her eyes flicking towards her, watching her, judging her. It had always been this way with Rhaenys. She was an imposing figure, tall and stately, her regal bearing always in place. She was never one to wear her emotions on her face—so unlike herself and Daemon, whose every feeling, every flicker of passion, always seemed to show.

Clearing her throat, Rhaenyra finally broke the silence. "I regret not speaking with you sooner, truly. I had thought to write you letters, but with Joffrey and the important need to bolster my household knights..." She trailed off, unsure how to finish.

"It’s quite alright, Princess Rhaenyra," Rhaenys replied, her tone cool, every syllable measured. "You’ve never bothered to send letters before."

The words, though spoken calmly, hit their mark with the precision of a well-aimed arrow. Rhaenyra winced inwardly, biting back the irritation that threatened to rise. She forced herself to smile pleasantly, despite the fact that all she wanted was to shake the girl she’s inhabiting until her mind works.

"I hope to change that," she said instead, keeping her voice light. "Lord Corlys’s invitation to spend a moon at High Tide after the tourney is a perfect opportunity for us to get to know each other better."

Rhaenys looked at her blankly, the silence between them thickening once more. After a long pause, she said, "I don’t see why we need to become closer, Princess. We are fine as we are now."

Rhaenyra could feel a vein throb in her temple, her patience fraying. She managed to keep her smile in place, but it felt tight, forced. "I believe we have three reasons to be closer: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey," she said, her tone more pointed than before.

Rhaenys visibly scoffed, leaning forward slightly as her eyes locked with Rhaenyra’s. "Let us be frank, Princess Rhaenyra, we both know we do not have a reason to be close." she said in sharp High Valyrian, the words slicing through the air like the crack of a whip.

Rhaenyra’s smile vanished entirely, replaced by an icy calm. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice low, dangerous.

Rhaenys didn’t hesitate. "Lord Corlys has accepted the children with all his heart, and Laenor—well, he loves them. I will support my husband and my son, as I always have. But it will stop there."

The tension snapped, Rhaenyra’s temper rising. "Say exactly what you mean, Princess." she demanded, her voice hard, the mask of pleasantry dropping entirely.

Rhaenys, just as fed up, leaned back in her chair, her own patience clearly worn thin. "You know full well," she said coldly, "that I have only two grandchildren. And they are across the Narrow Sea."

The finality of her words hung in the air, suffocating the room in a silence that felt as thick and oppressive as the heat from the fire. Rhaenyra stared at Rhaenys, her heart pounding in her chest, her anger barely contained. Whatever fragile peace she had hoped to maintain between them now seemed as distant as the lands across the sea where Rhaenys’s true grandchildren resided.

Rhaenyra leaned back, her gaze steely as she looked down her nose at the older woman. She could feel her pulse quicken, the goblet in her hand trembling slightly with the force of her restrained anger. Every muscle in her body longed to hurl it across the room, but she steadied herself, trying—desperately—to maintain a calm exterior.

"Ahhh..." she began, voice deceptively soft, yet barbed. "I've often wondered if your bitterness at being passed over for the Crown—the sting of that rejection—has been the reason you worked with Otto Hightower to make my path to the throne so much harder."

Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, scoffed, leaning back in her chair with an amused, almost dangerous smile playing on her lips. "The idea of me working with Otto Hightower is highly laughable, Princess," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "Perhaps you should have your healers check your mind."

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, and she returned the derisive smile. "Then why, pray tell, would the Velaryons see fit to give me a broken man for a husband? A man so damaged, he was all but useless to me—unless, of course, you wanted to make my life more difficult." Her words were delivered with venom, the bitterness clear in every syllable.

Rhaenys’s eyes flashed dangerously as she leaned forward, her tone sharp. "Be very careful how you speak of my son."

But Rhaenyra was quicker, cutting her off with the kind of precision that only years of frustration could hone. "No, I will speak of my husband however I like," she snapped. "I am more qualified to do so than you. Where were you during the first year of my marriage, when Laenor drowned himself in wine and ale? When he was forced into a marriage he didn’t want, his lover’s blood still fresh on his hands?" Her voice rose with each word, raw emotion seeping into her every breath.

Rhaenys went silent, visibly gulping, her hand gripping her goblet so tightly that her knuckles whitened. Her eyes, for the first time, flickered with something like guilt—hesitation, even.

"It was I who stayed awake, who soothed him as he cried himself to sleep night after night, after yet another failed attempt to consummate our marriage. I was the one who comforted him while the tongues at court devoured him whole. You weren’t there, Rhaenys. You didn’t care enough to come and visit your own son until we presented you with an heir. And then, you left immediately, recoiling at the sight of my child—shocked that he didn’t resemble Laenor, when you knew full well you had handed me rotten goods!"

Rhaenys’s face paled, her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. She looked lost, haunted by the sharpness of Rhaenyra’s words as if only now realizing the weight of what Laenor had endured.

Rhaenyra stood, her voice calmer now but no less sharp. "Thank you, Princess Rhaenys," she said, voice cold. "Thank you for showing me so early that I—and my children—are alone in this fight for the throne. For our very lives. Alone, as I have always been." She turned on her heel, moving toward the door, her heart pounding in her chest.

Rhaenys remained stunned, staring at the fire, her face as rigid as stone.

Rhaenyra paused at the threshold, her hand resting on the doorframe, and without turning back, she added coldly, "You should leave."

Rhaenys turned to her, confusion flickering in her eyes. "We are in the rooms assigned to us." she replied, her voice faltering slightly.

Rhaenyra shook her head, casting a glance over her shoulder, her voice sharp as a blade. "Leave King’s Landing," she clarified, her words cutting through the air like the snap of a whip. "I have no need for people who clearly do not wish to be here—least of all at my son’s tourney. Take your useless son with you. Perhaps then, he will finally be free of the Crown, and truly happy."

Without waiting for a response, Rhaenyra swept out of the room, her anger radiating like the heat of the sun. Her children, who had been playing nearby, looked up at her in confusion. She waved her hand, summoning the maids. "Take them back to the nursery." she commanded, her voice clipped.

"Princess, it is still early." Lord Corlys interjected, rising from his seat with a frown of confusion.

Rhaenyra didn’t even spare him a glance, her command absolute. "Do as I say." The children, although baffled, mumbled their goodbyes, casting questioning looks at their mother.

The room was tense, the air thick with the weight of what had just transpired. Lord Corlys, now standing fully, stared at her, bewildered. "Princess...?"

“You should leave Lord Corlys, bring Laenor with you, I will have the High Septon declare our divorce shortly. We will all be free of each other finally.” She said, her anger very palpable now.

"Divorce?" Lord Corlys's voice rose in shock, his disbelief painted clearly across his face. "Princess, please enlighten me—where does this sudden talk of divorce spring from?" His voice held an edge of incredulity as he cast a glance at his wife, Princess Rhaenys, who stood rooted by the door, her expression equally stunned.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered with fire, her eyes narrowing as she nodded toward Rhaenys. "Ask your wife," she said icily. "She can explain in detail."

She made to leave the room when Lord Corlys’s voice thundered after her, deeper and louder now. "This nonsense talk of divorce is highly inappropriate!" His tone dripped with the sharpness of underlying threats, fury barely restrained. "If you believe the King will agree to it, you are sorely mistaken, Princess."

Rhaenyra paused, turning slowly, her gaze hardening as she met the Lord of the Tides’ eyes, unyielding. "My father," she began with dangerous calm, "will do whatever I tell him to do. Especially as I will have the support of the High Septon." She watched as Corlys’s confidence faltered, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. "His Holiness will not stand for me remaining shackled to a deviant. A pillow-biter, a sword-swallower—whatever it is they call the likes of Laenor these days."

The blow landed, and she could see the faint tremble of Lord Corlys’s hand, though his voice did not waver when he answered.

"Disparaging my son will not help you," Princess Rhaenys interrupted sternly, her tone laden with warning. "It will only turn the focus to your bastards."

Lord Corlys snapped his head toward his wife, visibly bristling at her words, but Rhaenyra simply raised an eyebrow, the slightest hint of mockery in her expression. "The Crown is no stranger to scandal, Princess. The court is well acquainted with the sight of Laenor fondling his knights in taverns and training yards alike." She leaned forward, voice sharpened to a point. "I have no doubt my reputation will survive it, as it had survived countless other."

Lord Corlys's voice turned desperate, a hint of pleading now behind his carefully chosen words. "And what of the children? They will be exposed to further vitriol…"

"They are already exposed to it," Rhaenyra countered swiftly. "My father will no doubt legitimize them."

"There will be war, Princess." Princess Rhaenys interjected, her voice low and severe, laced with undeniable threat.

"Yes," Rhaenyra replied evenly, her voice as cold as steel. "You’ve made that perfectly clear, haven’t you? How I shall find no support from House Velaryon." Her voice held a calm confidence, unfazed. "But the Crown will stand behind me. The Faith will seek to punish the deviant who has sought to weaken the royal line. The lords of Westeros will rally to protect the princess who is once again in need of a husband."

Lord Corlys moved closer, attempting to soften the tension, his hands raised in placation. "I understand your anger, Princess," he began, his tone pleading. "But let us discuss this—"

Before he could finish, Rhaenys cut in, her tone biting. "Soldiers are no match for dragons."

Rhaenyra turned fully toward the older woman now, her lips curling into a derisive smile. "Then let the dragons dance, Princess Rhaenys." Her voice dripped with challenge. "I am a dragonrider, too, and I will go to war for my children if I must."

Rhaenys scoffed, her own confidence swelling. "The Velaryons have more dragons than the Crown." she retorted, her voice a sharp blade.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, amusement flashing in her eyes as she looked at Rhaenys with a sort of pity. "Do you truly believe my uncle will ride against me?" she asked, her voice a silken drawl laced with confidence. "Just because your daughter bore him two girls, do you think that will turn him away from his family?" She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Those girls are Targaryens, Princess. My uncle has surely raised them to be loyal to their true house." Her voice lowered, a dagger hidden in velvet. "Laena will do nothing for the mother she escaped from the very first chance she had."

Rhaenys’s mouth opened, but no words came. Her face paled as her throat worked silently.

Rhaenyra shook her head, almost sadly. "This is precisely why King Jaehaerys never made you Queen."

Rhaenys’s eyes flared with anger, her fingers clenching around the edges of her gown as she struggled to hold her composure. But Rhaenyra continued, relentless. "The Conciliator always knew your loyalty was to your husband’s house first and foremost. To place the crown on your head would have meant the end of House Targaryen."

With that, Rhaenyra moved to the door, pausing just before she crossed the threshold. She turned one last time, her eyes glinting as she looked between Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. "Leave," she commanded coolly, her voice as unyielding as dragonfire. "Take the household guard you brought with you, for I wouldn’t feel safe with them here." Her words were cutting, final. "By tomorrow, my children will shed the name Velaryon and will be raised as Targaryens—true heirs to the Iron Throne."

She left with a flourish, her skirts whispering against the floor as she swept out, leaving a stunned silence in her wake. The sound of her footsteps echoed long after she had gone.

Rhaenyra walked briskly through the dimly lit corridor, her voice crisp and steady as she addressed Ser Steffon, her sworn shield. "Lock down the Heir’s Wing. No one is to enter or leave without my express permission. Turn away Ser Laenor when he returns—escort him to Lord Corlys’s rooms instead." Her words left no room for question, and Ser Steffon’s audible, "Yes, Princess," echoed behind her as she swept through the corridor.

Once she reached her own wing, Rhaenyra made her way to the nursery. The flickering light of candles played softly against the walls, casting long shadows over her hildren already dressed for rest. Jace was holding a book while Luke was lining up nuerous ropes tied in different knots in front of him she sat down beside them.

"Listen to me, my sweet boys," she began, her voice tender but firm. "You are not to leave our wing for the time being. You are not to go with Laenor, Lord Corlys, or Princess Rhaenys—or anyone from the Velaryon retinue."

Luke frowned slightly, his bright eyes blinking up at her. "But we were supposed to watch as the mast of Sea snake is lowered and changed tomorrow." he protested, his small voice carrying a hint of disappointment.

Rhaenyra’s heart clenched, but she kept her voice soothing. "I know, my sweet. I’m sorry, but I promise we’ll do it another time." She brushed the curls from his forehead once more, and after a moment of reluctance, Luke nodded.

Jace, always more perceptive, watched his mother closely. "Has something happened?"

Rhaenyra offered him a warm, reassuring smile. "Just some adult disagreements, Jace. You needn’t worry about it. But you both must promise me that you’ll do as I’ve said."

Both boys nodded solemnly. She kissed each of them on the forehead before they returned to their play, her heart softening as she watched them.

Rhaenyra then turned her attention to baby Joffrey, pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek, careful to avoid the tiny claws and teeth of Teraxes, the dragon curled protectively at the foot of his future rider's cradle.

From there, she made her way to her solar, where Ser Harwin awaited her alongside her ladies-in-waiting. She ushered them in, closing the door softly behind her, her composure unwavering. Her tone was firm as she repeated her command to Ser Harwin regarding the Heir’s Wing, ensuring no one could disturb her or her children.

"Lady Anella I need you to please fetch the High Septon. I wish to speak with him in private." she instructed.

It was two candlemarks later when the High Septon finally took his leave, and Rhaenyra received word that Laenor was at the entrance, asking for an audience. She didn’t hesitate.

"Ser Steffon, take him to Lord Corlys’s rooms," she ordered with icy calm. "Drag him if you must."

By the time Laenor had tried—and failed—to gain entry to her chambers, Rhaenyra had already retired for the night. The hidden door groaned faintly as he tried to open it, but she smiled knowingly when the newly installed latch held fast. She could hear him struggling for a few minutes longer before he gave up, leaving in frustration. Her smile grew as she continued brushing her hair, the rhythmic strokes calming her.

A few moments later, one of her trusted maids entered the room quietly, a small smile playing on her lips. She had been paid handsomely for her information, and she did not disappoint.

"The Sea Snake and Ser Laenor were overheard having a shouting match earlier, Princess," the maid reported. "Ser Laenor was crying—he threw some vases against the walls in his chambers. After the High Septon left, he was intercepted by one of Lord Corlys’s pages, and they spoke briefly in the solar. Lord Corlys tried to gain an audience with the King, but he was informed that His Grace is already resting for the night."

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed slightly as she processed the information, her mind whirring with possibilities. She pressed a cold coin into the maid’s palm. "Bring me more news if anything changes."

The maid curtsied, eyes glinting with ambition, before slipping out of the room. Rhaenyra turned to Lady Selene, her newest lady-in-waiting, who stood attentively nearby.

"Inform the Royal Groom that I shall break my fast with the King tomorrow." she instructed. "And then you may rest."

With a graceful curtsy, Lady Selene left to fulfill her orders, leaving Rhaenyra in the quiet solitude of her chambers. She resumed brushing her hair, her fingers moving methodically through the thick silver strands as a soft Valyrian song escaped her lips. The tune floated gently on the air, her thoughts already ahead, plotting her next move as she hummed softly in the dim light.

Rhaenyra could not, in good conscience, lay all the blame at the feet of the girl whose body she now inhabited. This poor soul had been abandoned, left with no support and a father too willfully blind to see the suffering he had caused. She sighed softly, her heart heavy with the realization that in any lifetime, it seemed, she was destined to stumble upon failure. In her own time, she had borne trueborn children, and yet the whispers of scandal and illegitimacy never ceased. And in this life, this girl, this other Rhaenyra, had been forced into seeking solace with another because her husband was nothing short of a disaster.

Elinda had spoken to her on more than one occasion, recounting the many times Laenor had been found in some unsavory part of the city and had to be dragged back to the castle under cover of secrecy. Rhaenyra appreciated her husband; she knew he loved their children—but his carelessness, his disregard for his own reputation and in turn hers, had wounded her long before these beautiful brown-eyed boys ever came into the world.

It was no wonder, then, that this Rhaenyra had found herself drawn to Ser Harwin Strong. A man so different from her absent, reckless husband. Ser Harwin was gentle but a true soldier with the quiet strength that commanded respect without even needing to speak. He obeyed without question, moved with purpose, and never once, in all the time she had observed him these past two moons, had he done anything to compromise her or the children. For that, she was grateful—grateful that this other version of her had found some small measure of comfort, of security, in his arms.

Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her, a flicker of understanding dancing in her eyes. Perhaps there was a way to find peace in this life, even if it meant leaning into the parts of this Rhaenyra that differed so much from her own.

With a soft breath, she set the brush down on her vanity, the strands of silver hair neatly arranged. Her mind buzzed with thoughts of schemes and strategies, of the many letters she had already penned to her allies. One, in particular, stood out—a letter addressed to her uncle Daemon. She could already envision the sly smile that would curve his lips when he read it, the plans that would unfold from her carefully chosen words.

But for now, she let the thoughts settle. She rose from her seat, her gown rustling softly in the quiet of the room, and made her way to bed, slipping beneath the covers. Even as her body settled into the warmth, her mind remained sharp, already planning the next move. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for tonight, she allowed herself the luxury of rest, knowing that her ambitions, her desires, were steadily falling into place while also unraveling more chaos unto her path.

The Velaryons intercepted her just as she was returning from breaking her fast with the King, their regal bearing almost laughable beneath the shadow of weariness that hung heavily upon them. Their formal attire could not conceal the bloodshot eyes, nor the darkened circles beneath them. Laenor stepped forward, looking every bit the part of the dutiful son, and formally requested an audience. Rhaenyra barely concealed the roll of her eyes, but she nodded, agreeing reluctantly.

She led them towards her wing of the castle, the air between them tense. As they passed by a closed room, she noted Laenor and Lord Corlys deliberately slowing their pace, straining to catch a glimpse of the children within. But the door remained firmly shut. From inside, Luke’s loud, exuberant voice echoed through the corridor as he recited a Valyrian poem:

The dragon soared, to his nest he flew,
But his eggs were stolen, gone from view,
With a roar he searched the skies so wide,
Only empty winds to be his guide.

Jace’s gentle voice followed, correcting Luke’s pronunciation in the way only an older brother could. The sound of them made her heart ache, but she pressed on, leading the Velaryons into her solar. Once inside, she took her seat behind the large ironwood table, making no offer for them to sit. She had no intention of this discussion lasting long.

Laenor wasted no time. “Why have I been barred from entering our wing? From seeing my children?” His voice trembled slightly, betraying his frustration.

Rhaenyra met his gaze with an icy calm. “Princess Rhaenys will be more than glad to discuss the details with you." she then turned to the Sea snake "I made my command clear, Lord Corlys—you are to leave for Hightide.” She glanced toward the older man, her tone clipped. “I know Princess Rhaenys has no love or respect for me, but I had thought my position as Crown Princess still afforded me the authority to remove those I do not want within the Red Keep.”

Laenor stepped forward, desperation creeping into his voice. “Princess Rhaenys has no power in Driftmark.” he said, his tone earnest, almost pleading, she noticed how princess Rhaenys closed her eyes in resignation. “My father is Lord, and I am his heir. Any grievances my mother may have do not reflect the stance of House Velaryon. You know this.”

“We’ve lived contentedly far removed from my mother’s presence, I had not met my mother for years. ” Laenor insisted, almost begging now. “Please, don’t let her meddling change that. We—” He hesitated. “I—care for you. And for our children. Don’t push me away now.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. “I do not want allies whose loyalties I cannot trust.”

Lord Corlys stepped in, his voice a steady rumble. “The might of House Velaryon stands behind you, Princess, and behind my grandchildren. You need not question our loyalty.”

Her lips curled into a mirthless smile. “And what will happen if you die suddenly, my lord?” she asked switching to Valyrian, her voice soft yet sharp as a blade, making sure no epies can relay her words to the traitors at Court. “Will I then have to contend not only with your annoying and entitled brother, but also your wife, whose hatred for me knows no bounds? What stops her from petitioning for Laena’s daughter to inherit instead of my son?”

Lord Corlys stiffened at the accusation, but Rhaenyra pressed on. “I would rather cut our ties now than risk the future of my children on uncertainties.”

Lord Corlys answered immediately, his voice steady and deliberate, the weight of his years of experience evident. "I am willing to make a formal proclamation," he began, his tone measured but resolute. "After Laenor, it will be Luke who takes Driftmark. We shall send it to the Citadel and to all the Great and Major Houses, and once we return to Hightide, I will formally name him as my heir's heir." His eyes locked with hers, unwavering. "I give you my word, Princess. House Velaryon will always support you—and my grandchildren."

Laenor, sensing the weight of the moment, stepped closer. “We were not present when you were proclaimed heir, but we shall make our pledge now,” he said softly, determination in his voice. As if on cue, both Laenor and Lord Corlys knelt before her, and she caught the sharp glance Lord Corlys shot towards Rhaenys, who stood silent in the corner.

But Rhaenyra’s gaze was cold as she spoke. “I do not care for Princess Rhaenys’ oath,” she said, her tone dismissive. “For I know it will not be truthful.”

At that, Lord Corlys, undeterred, began his oath. His voice carried the weight of tradition and loyalty as he spoke the words she longed to hear:

"By salt and sea, I swear my loyalty to you, Rhaenyra Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Driftmark's ships and swords are yours. In war and in peace, I shall stand by your side, defending your claim and your blood, as I would my own. My house is bound to yours, our futures intertwined. As long as I draw breath, no harm shall come to you or your children. By the wind and the waves, by the blood of Old Valyria, I pledge this to you, my future Queen."

Laenor did the same and only then did Rhaenyra’s lips curl into a small smile, accepting their pledge. “Rise.” she commanded, her voice firm yet gracious.

As if summoned by her words, the door to her solar suddenly burst open. Jace and Luke came barreling into the room, their voices ringing with gleeful shouts as they spotted their father and grandfather. Laenor’s expression softened instantly, and he knelt down, arms wide, tears glistening in his eyes. The boys ran to him without hesitation, their innocent smiles lighting up the room as they embraced him.

Rhaenyra watched as Laenor’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, his face buried in their heads. Jace looked up at him in confusion, while Luke, ever the innocent, wiped his father’s tears with his small hands.

“Does your stomach ache?” Luke asked, his brow furrowed. “Sometimes I cry when my stomach hurts from eating too much.” His earnest question was enough to break the tension, and Laenor let out a heartfelt laugh, pulling both boys closer.

Lord Corlys, ever the figure of authority, gently took Jace and Luke’s hands. “Come, I'll have food prepared in my solar, and I shall mind you while your parents discuss matters.” Rhaenyra, though reluctant, nodded in agreement, allowing him to take the children.

Once they were alone, Laenor slumped into a chair, his hand covering his eyes as he continued to quietly sob. His voice, hoarse with emotion, barely reached her ears. “Please… don’t do this again without speaking to me first. Those boys… they’re my life.”

She almost scoffed at his words. The children may be his life now, but it wasn’t as if they were the only things he cared about. Laenor spent most of his time with his knights and squires, more devoted to his comrades than to his family. Daemon, on the other hand, had no such distractions. Her uncle had no friends and he chose to spend his days with their children, fully immersed in the world of family life, while Laenor seemed the typical noble father—present, but distant. Yet, perhaps the mere thought of losing his children had shaken him more than she’d imagined.

Laenor’s voice broke the silence again, this time tinged with uncertainty. “What about the High Septon? And the King?”

Rhaenyra raised a brow, her expression cool. “What about them?”

Laenor hesitated, his words faltering. “Did you… did you not speak to them? About… me?”

Her fingers absently sorted through the papers on her desk as she answered casually, “No. I spoke to the High Septon about the donation I’m making for the Mother’s Festival in a few moons. And I just broke my fast with my father.”

She glanced back at Laenor, only to find him staring at her in disbelief, his jaw hanging open. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he seemed utterly speechless. Then, with a deep breath, he leaned heavily back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at her.

“You bitch.” he muttered, though there was no venom in his words, only shock.

Her laughter echoed through the room, rich and unbothered, as if she held the world in the palm of her hand.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra POV

The Small Hall, despite its modest name, was a grand and imposing space, soaring ceilings reaching high above, their height accentuated by a series of elegant arches. Tall, arched windows framed the room, letting in cool summer breeze. Tonight, in celebration of her son’s birth, the hall was no less than splendid, adorned with a dizzying display of candles that cast a golden glow upon the assembly and many assortment of flowers and fabrics fluttering in the winds. Every inch of the hall whispered festivity and opulence, the sort that bespoke not only royalty but also the indulgence of a grandfather who seemed eager to endear himself to her children—an irony not lost on her.

Rich, embroidered banners representing noble houses draped the walls, yet none was more resplendent than the emblematic red-and-black Targaryen dragon, wings unfurled beside the silver seahorse of Velaryon, united as one. Everywhere her eye drifted, she was met with lavish arrangements of fresh flowers, each cluster a vibrant tapestry of colors—blooms from across the Reach, she suspected, and her father had spared no expense.

She mused on this strange, doting father. In her own time, he had favored her and Helaena tenderly but had never failed to extend his warmth to all his children. She could still recall him on the balcony, watching her sons and brothers spar in the yard below, eyes watchful yet patient. He had always longed for them to grow close, but her discord with Alicent had seeped into their children, settling like a poisoned veil over any harmony he might have hoped for. In this time, however, it was clear that he do not harbored the same affections for his younger children. The glance he directed at his other offspring was fleeting at best, if it appeared at all. She does not understand why he even married a second time when he clearly does not have any lingering affections to the children from this marriage.

Helaena’s mind, fragile as it had grown in this reality, must have felt distant and difficult to reach, Rhaenyra thought, a barrier that perhaps even her father’s benevolence couldn’t breach. Aegon, meanwhile, lacked any hint of discipline, and though her father was known for his boundless patience, she couldn’t imagine him tolerating Aegon’s lecherous glances and excessive appetite for wine. Aemond, too, with his penetrating, unblinking gaze and unnervingly cool demeanor, seemed altogether too unyielding for Viserys’s warmth. And Daeron—well, he had been sent to the Hightower mere weeks after she had given birth to Joffrey,  she doubts he had any kind of relationship with the boy. She made sure that this time Tessarion is safely in Dragonstone to prevent him from bonding with her, one less dragon for the Greens to command.

In Rhaenyra’s mind, her father’s distance from his other children could only be because of their flaws, each one bearing traits that tested his patience and kindness in ways she never did. She knew her own worth in her father’s eyes and felt certain that these differences marked her as his chosen successor. It was this—his refusal to rebuke her, his loyalty to her as his daughter and heir—that assured her, again and again, of her place in his heart and in the realm.

As she allowed herself a small, triumphant smile, a troupe of Lysene dancers glided into the center of the room. Their arrival was marked by the gentle hum of instruments tuning, and in an instant, their provocative beauty had captivated every gaze. They moved with a fluid elegance, each step precise and delicate, their skirts voluminous and beautifully crafted to flare around them as they spun. When the music began, it was as if they glided over water, skipping and twirling with graceful abandon.

Alicent’s frown deepened, her lips a tight line, as she whispered furiously to Viserys. Her father merely nodded absentmindedly, his gaze riveted upon the dancers. There was an undeniable allure in their movements, in the soft rustling of their sheer, vibrant silks, which hugged their figures like whispers, their shoulders and collarbones bare and shimmering in the candlelight. With each step, each turn, the fabric flowed like water, flashing glimpses of skin beneath—scandalous, no doubt, in Alicent’s restrained gaze.

The lead dancer was particularly enchanting. She twirled in place, spinning so long and with such precision that Rhaenyra grew dizzy merely watching her. And when, with flawless timing, the dancer sank to her knees in graceful surrender to the music’s end, her skirts bloomed around her in a soft, silken halo, her gaze lowered as if to present herself to the high dais. The king clapped with delighted fervor, his eyes bright with wonder, and Rhaenyra, unable to suppress a laugh, indulged him with a smile, sharing in his mirth. In that moment, she nearly forgot the weight of courtly intrigue and rivalries, though she suspected Alicent’s narrowed gaze would not allow her to forget for long.

The hall thundereed with applause, the sound swelling in waves as King Viserys rose, his hands clapping with genuine delight. His eyes sparkled, and with a grand sweep of his arm, he beckoned for the dancers to approach. The girls giggled, each holding the other’s hand as they moved forward, their cheeks flushed from the dance. They were followed by another figure, a woman as striking as she was enigmatic. She moved like a shadow come to life, swathed in a shimmering black gown that seemed to hold the very night sky upon it, stars gleaming in delicate patterns across her figure. Rhaenyra couldn't help but admire her attire, mentally noting to ask later where one might acquire such a fabric.

The King showered the dancers with praise, his voice warm as he commended them on their grace, their beauty, their elegance—"qualities the women of Lys have perfected, it seems!" he jested. Someone from the crowd called out, “Ah, but we Westerosi have the finer bards! The most magnificent voices!” Laughter rippled through the hall, and the King joined in, turning his attention back to the woman cloaked in starlight. Her bearing suggested she was not merely an attendant but their leader, perhaps even their owner. There was something commanding about her presence, a silent authority that intrigued Rhaenyra.

The woman inclined her head, her voice smooth as she replied, “It is the highest praise my sisters and I have ever received, Your Grace.”

The King smiled, a touch bemused, before asking her name. Rhaenyra watched closely, catching an unplaceable flicker in the woman’s gaze—a glint of something cold and bitter. It was a look Rhaenyra recognized all too well, sometimes when she looks in the mirror all she can see was the broken Queen who lost all her children and she see the same hatred looking back at her.

Just then, Laenor leaned over, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “They call her the Black Swan. She owns the grandest salon in Lys, and they say the First Magister and the Gonfaloniere alike vie for her favor. Some even call her Lys’ ruler in all but name.”

Intrigued, Rhaenyra let her gaze drift back to the woman, this Black Swan, her admiration tempered with fascination. As her father asked for the woman’s name, the room fell still. The woman hesitated, a faint, almost mocking smile on her lips as she replied, “Your Grace, I am originally from Westeros. Perhaps you have already heard my name?”

The Queen shifted beside the King, a faint huff escaping her lips. “And how, pray tell, would the King know a whore from Lys?”

The woman’s dark eyes flashed dangerously, her expression unchanging save for a glint of steel that had not been there before. “My name is Johanna Swann, Your Grace. Nearly five and ten years ago, my ship was taken by Triarchy pirates, and I was sold to a pillow house. A child then, barely old enough to understand my fate.”

A hush swept the hall, every eye fixed on Johanna, though none more appalled than the King’s. Queen Alicent looked as if she had swallowed sour vinegar, her face pale and taut. Johanna’s words, steady and unforgiving, cut through the silence like a blade. “I, along with twenty other noble-born women and children, was sold to the same pleasure house. Only I remain alive today.”

The King’s eyes bulged, and he stammered, horrified, “Children?”

Johanna lifted her chin, her voice dropping to a softer, bitter note. “I waited to be rescued. I thought surely, when my uncle, the late Lord Swann, refused to pay ransom for me, that the Crown would not abandon Westerosi women and children to slavery. But, alas, I was just the daughter of my Lord Uncle’s dead brother, I was merely a minor lady of a lesser house. Just like our Queen here once was.”

The Queen's expression froze, her mouth a tight line. Rhaenyra noted, with silent satisfaction, the shock rippling through the hall as Johanna continued. “Yet, unlike our good Queen, no one rescued me from my shame.”

Rhaenyra sipped from her goblet, hiding the faintest smirk as she stole a glance at Alicent, savoring the astonished horror that lingered on the Queen’s face.

Viserys's face drained of color as he stammered, "Was… was this during the war?”

Lady Johanna shook her head, her voice calm yet firm. "Long before, Your Grace."

Her gaze shifted toward Laenor. "I wished to thank you personally, my lord. I was informed that the ship that carried me was destroyed—burned by you during the war.”

Laenor inclined his head, a wry smile on his lips. “I’m certain they died screaming, my lady.”

At this, Lord Corlys puffed his chest, voice carrying a hint of pride as he added, “My men and I did all we could to clear the Stepstones of those brigands, yet they always return, greedier than before. They’ll be after our gold first, and then, in time, our women and children.”

The murmurs that erupted from the crowd were a mixture of shock and disbelief. Westerosi sold into slavery? And worse yet, such matters hidden from the very Crown?

Rhaenyra stood up, inclining her head in apology. “Forgive us, Lady Swann. We were unaware matters had grown so dire. Had the Crown known, I assure you, decisive action would have been taken. Regrettably, many issues—particularly those of grave importance—were willfully neglected by the King’s former Hand, which is why he was removed from office.”

At this, Alicent’s head snapped in Rhaenyra’s direction, her mouth poised to protest. But Rhaenyra merely arched an eyebrow, daring her stepmother to defend her father in the face of a woman who had suffered in slavery for years due to his willful negligence. Alicent averted her gaze, lips pressed into a thin line.

Lady Johanna offered a gracious nod. “Prince Daemon was kind enough to give me the coin I required to purchase the pillow house where I worked upon the owner’s death. I owe much to House Targaryen; they have extended aid however they could.”

The King, visibly unsettled, cleared his throat. “I am… I am glad you are safe now to grace us with such artistry, Lady Swann. I would very much like to speak with you further in the coming days.”

Lady Swann dipped into a respectful bow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

The herald struck his staff against the floor with a loud thud, announcing the next performers—a troupe of fire dancers from Volantis. With one final curtsy, Johanna’s girls departed, and Viserys sank back into his seat, his hand reaching for his goblet as he dabbed beads of perspiration from his brow. His hand shook as he lifted the goblet to his lips, and Rhaenyra, watching, took his hand in hers, offering the comfort of her touch. He looked at her, a weary smile attempting to mask the strain in his eyes.

Sometimes she wished to despise this man, the father who now seemed so unlike the one she had known. The King Viserys of her time never looked this weak. She thought of how he’d silenced Vaemond Velaryon’s kin who dared challenge her son’s claim to Driftmark; how swiftly he had their tongues removed and banished them to defend her. Her father had never been considered a man of force, yet when he’d made a choice, he’d stood firm and unwavering. This shadow of a man beside her, however, could hardly hold his own peace.

Her father would never have permitted Alicent’s growing demands on Rhaenyra, demands so outrageous that it was unfathomable they’d gone unanswered. She knows it was not a secret how the Queen had ordered Rhaenyra to bring her babes to her side mere hours after birth—a cruelty her father would never have permitted. But the man seated beside her now was oblivious, all too willing to turn a blind eye in the pursuit of harmony under his own roof, no matter how fractured.

A part of her seethed with bitterness, her heart wanting to lay blame on the father who should have protected her in their own home. But in their conversations of late, Rhaenyra had come to realize the truth: her father was gravely ill, terribly isolated, and left to the mercy of those around him. He scarcely attended Small Council meetings, his health too fragile to contend with even the slightest exertion. The men who now whispered counsel in his ear were self-serving, and the Queen herself hid what she could, casting a veil over the daily misdeeds festering within the Keep.

Rhaenyra have equal parts disgust for this weak King and pity for an ailing old man who do not have support in a pit of vipers. Frail and unsure, he was lost in the Court of the red Keep—advisors who shielded him from the truth, a wife who cloaked her intentions in piety, and a daughter who felt equal parts ashamed and helpless as she watched him slip into isolation. Yet, as the pallor began to leave his face, his eyes brightened with the fiery spectacle before them, she could not help but smile. In every lifetime her father loved her and she will make sure that this time he will not be left without family at his side to truly care for him.

The Volantene fire dancers began their act with a single beat of the drum that reverberated through the hall, an electric charge rippling through the audience. The dancers stepped forward, their attire strikingly bold—a thin piece of fabric across their chests backs fully exposed, skirts hung low on their hips, each skirt, held only by a flimsy brooch at one side, opened with every step to reveal long, bronzed thighs. These women moved with unrestrained passion, their faces alight with fierce focus. Unlike the graceful sway of the Lyseni dancers, these women were untamed flame personified.

One dancer took up a stringed contraption with blazing ends, spinning it first in wide, slow arcs as if to lure the flames. Jace and Luke gasped, their eyes wide with awe, and Rhaenyra leaned down toward Jace with a gentle smile. “She is good, isn’t she?”

Jace nodded, transfixed, never once looking away. The crowd murmured with hushed admiration as the dancer's movements grew bolder and the drum beats went faster; she leaned back so far that her head was nearly touching the ground, all while the fire spun in tight, fiery circles above her face. She seemed to conjure the flames at will, as if they were an extension of her body, and even from a distance, Rhaenyra could feel the heat. Luke gave a delighted shout, kneeling up on his chair for a better view.

“Muna, look!” he exclaimed.

Before them, a man in equally provocative attire lifted his arms, taking in a great breath before exhaling a cloud of fire that leapt toward the ceiling. It was grander than any fire-breathing she’d seen on the streets of King’s Landing, and for an instant, it seemed as though the hall itself were alight with the dancers’ fire. Rhaenyra laughed, clapping with her children as they squealed with delight. It felt as though the entire court was bound in that moment, captivated by the fierce beauty and audacity of these dancers. In contrast, court life had been bleak, awash in tea ceremonies and orchestrated walks in the gardens led by Alicent, with little in the way of amusement for the children.

The thought crossed her mind that they lacked even a single royal bard—no Mushroom to liven their days with his stories, crude as they were. For all his nonsense, Mushroom had been entertaining, a beloved nuisance, and Rhaenyra suddenly missed the laughter he’d brought to her own childhood. Perhaps she’d ask the Lyseni dancers to extend their stay. She could imagine the vibrant life they would bring to the Keep, breaking the stifling monotony that threatened to smother her boys.

Turning to her sons, she grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. “Would you like to meet the fire dancers privately tomorrow?”

Jace and Luke looked at her, expressions of pure amazement lighting their young faces, as if she’d conjured the very stars themselves.

“Do you think they’d teach us?” Jace asked eagerly. “Maybe…how to control those little fires like they do?”

Luke’s eyes sparkled with the same excitement. “I’m not afraid of a little fire!” he added proudly.

Gently, she brushed back the stray curls hanging in his eyes. “Of course you’re not, my sweet. You’ve cuddled with a dragon, after all.”

For a brief moment, Rhaenyra felt her heart swell with the warmth of their joy. Her sons deserved this, the delight and innocence of youth, untainted by the bitterness and grief that had hollowed her own heart. She prayed they would always remain as they were now—full of life, wide-eyed, and blissfully unburdened by the struggles and strife that came with power. They should never know the broken woman she feared she’d become, a woman who had allowed fear and hate to shadow her soul. Aegon, she thought with a pang, would remember her only as the bitter creature she had become, all love buried beneath fear and mistrust.

But she was given another chance…for her children, she would be more. She would be the mother they deserved, the one they would remember fondly. She made a silent vow to them both, that they would grow to know peace, yet be strong enough to face war. And she would not hesitate to sacrifice whatever was necessary to make that possible.

The moment the floor cleared for dancing, Rhaenyra found herself swept up in a familiar whirl with Laenor, their smiles poised yet polite. Her husband led her gracefully through the steps, his laughter light, but it didn’t take long for his gaze to drift to the side, where his paramour waited with an all-too-eager look. Suppressing a sigh, Rhaenyra offered Laenor an indulgent smile and, with a nod of understanding, released him.

With a bright laugh, Rhaenyra whisked Luke into her arms, spinning him around the floor. His giggles filled the air, lighting up the hall as he twirled beneath her hand, his smile wide and radiant, as if he were the very heart of the celebration. It was infectious—pure, unbridled joy. She could feel her own heart soar in response, a deep happiness that made the rest of the court, the burdens of the throne, and even her husband's fleeting attention, melt away.

Jace soon joined them, and with one son on each side, Rhaenyra felt more alive than she had in years. Jace, usually so serious, so proper in his role as heir to the heir, had cast aside his formalities. His face was lit with a grin so wide it made her heart ache with pride. The three of them laughed as they linked hands, spinning around and around in circles, the hems of their clothes brushing the floor as they twirled.

She looked down at them both, her boys, no longer the shy, hesitant children who had clung to her side when she first woke up her in this strange court. Now, they were thriving, full of confidence and light, utterly at ease in a place that once felt so foreign. Their happiness made her heart swell to bursting. This—this was what she fought for, what she would always fight for. To see her sons smile so freely, to see them bold and sure in a world that could be so cruel—nothing was more important.

From the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra caught sight of her father, his laughter rich and full as he watched them from his seat. Lord Corlys sat beside him, equally amused by the scene, while Queen Alicent glanced toward the king, her lips pressed thin, waiting, perhaps hoping, to be asked for a dance herself. Rhaenyra felt a twinge of confusion—why should Alicent not dance with her own sons as she had? Aemond sat there on the dais, looking positively bereft as he watched them from afar, his longing clear in his pale, shadowed gaze. But Rhaenyra had no time to dwell on it; her joy was too great, her love for her children too fierce.

When the music slowed and the dance came to a close, she gathered her boys and led them to a long table laden with the finest Essosi delicacies that she knows Lord Corlys had insisted they put up. Rhaenyra carefully placed dates, dipped in honey and lightly roasted until chewy and caramel-like, onto their plates. Luke reached for small pastries filled with spiced apples, his eyes lighting up with glee as he bit into one.

“Promise me you’ll let the maids clean your teeth before bed, sweetling,” she teased, her fingers gently brushing a stray crumb from his cheek.

Luke grinned, his head nodding with exuberance. “I promise, Muña!”

Satisfied, she let him enjoy the treat, watching with a smile as he savored each bite. Jace, already half-asleep on his feet, picked at his food in a dreamy haze, and Rhaenyra couldn’t help but laugh softly, kissing the top of his head.

The evening soon erupted in the side room, the sound of raucous laughter and cheers mixing with the clatter of fists—some Stormlands knight ending a drinking game in a fit of drunken pride. Rhaenyra shook her head, her focus now on bidding her sons goodnight.

Luke, still buzzing with excitement, made her promise—again and again—that they would meet with the fire dancers tomorrow and indulge in more of the Braavosi apple puffs he so adored. She kissed him on the forehead, assuring him with soft words, while Jace barely managed to stay upright, his exhaustion pulling him toward slumber. Lady Elinda arrived just in time, taking charge of the boys as Rhaenyra kissed her sons one final time before they were ushered off to the Holdfast for the night.

With her heart full from the evening, Rhaenyra made her way back to the dais. Her father sat there, flushed and glassy-eyed, lost in his cups, a content smile lingering on his face. She sat beside him, feeling the warmth of the night’s joy settle around her like a comforting embrace.

Her father’s gaze softened as he turned to her. “Where are the boys?” he asked, with a faint wistfulness that made her heart ache just a little.

“I’ve sent them to bed, father. The crowd is getting rowdy.” she replied gently, smiling at the fondness in his voice.

A trace of regret passed over his face, and he sighed. “Ah, my precious grandsons, you should have let them say goodnight to me.” The King said looking longingly at the side doors as if he could glimpse at her children.

There was a pause before she leaned closer, her voice softening conspiratorially. “Well, I have plans to meet with the fire dancers tomorrow afternoon—with the boys. You’re very welcome to join us.” She grinned as his eyes lit up with boyish delight at the prospect.

“Yes! But”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“don’t invite Corlys, eh?” he added with a laugh.

Rhaenyra couldn’t help but chuckle. The friendly rivalry between her father and Lord Corlys amused her endlessly, especially since her father hadn’t yet learned of Corlys’s plans to host another grand feast at Hightide following the tourney. That event would be, as Corlys put it, a formal introduction of Luke to the court at Driftmark, an affair sealed with great fanfare, as well as the matter of formalizing Luke in his written will. Corlys was adamant, of course, that it would be his affair—a declaration of his legacy. He certainly did not want the King present, for it would overshadow what Corlys meant to be the strongest assertion of his house’s succession.

Rhaenyra suppressed a smile, for she knew how contentious this announcement would be, given Corlys’s ambitious relative, Vaemond, who was here a brother—not merely a nephew—eagerly waiting to seize the slightest opportunity to further his own cause. And Rhaenyra wondered how the Sea snake would manage the delicate diplomacy among such hungry wolves, even as Corlys himself would not let any doubt linger on who would inherit his seat.

Reflecting on the burdens of this place, she marveled at how unyielding it was in its demands on this Rhaenyra. As if it were not enough to contend with the King's reluctance to see his own daughter’s plight, her sons’ bastardy was met with relentless scrutiny, and the Velaryons, including Rhaenys herself, were none too eager in their support. The gods of this world seemed intent on seeing the Princess suffer.

At least, she consoled herself, Alicent was hardly a shadow of the adversary she had once been. This Queen, barely out of her youth, lacked the steel of  the Alicent in her time—the one whose ambitions were as sharp as a blade. Alicent was younger here, driven by a warped sense of duty rather than a consuming hunger for power. It made her reckless and naive, endlessly manipulating her children, though she was not cunning enough to see the weakness in that very tactic. If anything, her rigid sense of propriety and unshakeable belief that she was protecting the realm were her most dangerous attributes.

Rhaenyra had to stifle a laugh, but any fleeting sense of merriment left her as she noticed a shift in the room's energy. Hobert Hightower approached the dais, a self-assured figure with an air of purpose. Alicent’s eyes turned fondly to her uncle, her head held high, confidence evident in her expression. Rhaenyra settled back in her seat, watching the exchange with an arched brow. The warmth she’d shared with her father a moment ago dissipated, replaced by a faint, lingering tension in the air as the Hightowers drew near.

Lord Hobert stepped forward with all the practiced grace of a seasoned courtier, offering the King and Queen a deep bow, but when he turned to Rhaenyra, his nod was barely polite. He adjusted the front of his voluminous doublet, his mouth stretching into a smile that did not reach his eyes, a wart casting a shadow on the side of his lip. "What a marvelous spectacle this has been, Your Graces,” he proclaimed, his voice dripping with feigned charm. “And only the beginning, I daresay! With your anniversary a few moons away, I do wonder—how shall we ever top tonight’s festivities?”

Rhaenyra’s smile vanished, her gaze cooling as she took in the rotund man before her. How dare he, she thought, to take her son’s night and reduce it to a discussion of Alicent’s celebration. For all the Hightowers’ talk of propriety, they seemed to care precious little for courtly protocol.

As Hobert and Alicent chatted over last year’s lavish anniversary banquet, Rhaenyra felt her husband sit beside her. She glanced over, finding Laenor equally perturbed as he watched the two Hightowers, a faint grimace tugging at his mouth. She leaned closer to her father, who was already swaying slightly in his chair, his half-lidded eyes struggling to focus. "You must be excited for your anniversary feast,” she whispered, her voice soft yet pointed. The Queen's head snapped towards her, suspicion etched across her face, but she quickly turned back as her uncle let out a jolly laugh, drawing the attention of those nearby.

Rhaenyra shifted closer to her father, her voice just above a whisper. “Father, perhaps you should share with the court how it was decided Lady Alicent would be Queen,” she suggested, an innocent smile tugging at her lips. "Surely, there were many here who would appreciate the tale of their “love story.”

The King, bleary-eyed and teetering with enthusiasm, rose from his seat. Goblet in hand, he lifted it high, though the movement sloshed half its contents onto his doublet. "Yes, yes," he began, his voice thick and slurred with drink. "I do look forward to seeing you all at the grand feast… our anniversary feast!” His glassy eyes found Alicent, but Rhaenyra was quite certain he could barely see her, let alone appreciate her expression of growing admiration. “My Queen,” he continued with an unsteady smile, “is beauty, grace… duty itself.”

Rhaenyra caught sight of Aegon, sitting further down the dais, wrinkling his nose in distaste, while Aemond looked equally bewildered, his wide eyes fixed on his father as though he had never before heard him speak of the Queen with such earnest praise.

The King turned back to the court, his gaze unfocused yet triumphant. “It was… the night of Queen Aemma’s funeral... I still remember clearly. It was the blackest noght of my life, my love taken away from me— Lady Alicent visited me in my chambers—” he paused, his face a curious mixture of fondness and hazy recollection—“she came to me, wearing a green gown much like the one she wears tonight. She offered… her companionship, her comfort.”

The court fell into a stunned silence. Alicent froze, her hand clutching at the Seven-Pointed Star around her neck as she gazed at the King, horror widening her eyes. Rhaenyra felt a surge of fury pulse through her veins as she observed the so-called pious Queen, the same woman who’d cast judgment on her and her children for their birth. This girl, she thought with disdain, who has clung to virtue like a banner, and yet she had no qualms about creeping into a grieving king’s chamber.

She swallowed the sharp words that threatened to spill out, turning instead to the King, whose smile grew almost sentimental. “Lady Alicent…” he continued in a low, reverent tone, “she was innocence itself. In my darkest hour, her voice had calmed me... reading me tales of old, was a balm to my broken heart.”

The King’s words drifted over the court, and in the hush that followed, Lord Corlys’s voice rang out from where he stood with a Triarch of Volantis. “Then it seems my Laena never stood a chance… not with Lady Alicent comforting the King so swiftly after his loss.”

Rhaenyra stifled a gasp, barely containing the thrill of triumph at Corlys’s remark. From across the hall, Lady Redfort shared a biting glance with her husband, her own voice carrying just loud enough to be heard: “They have strange customs this far south, it seems, if young maidens visit grieving kings so late in the evening.”

The King, oblivious to the murmurs rippling through the hall, continued, his tone mournful as he spoke of Queen Aemma. “Aemma… sweet Aemma. None could ever replace her.” His voice faltered, his emotions unsteady as he swayed once more, nearly buckling under the weight of his drink and grief.

Rhaenyra rose immediately, slipping an arm under her father’s to steady him, as his groom and attendants rushed forward. “Please, continue with the night’s festivities,” she announced to the court, offering them an easy, diplomatic smile. “The King is simply indulging in tonight’s merry spirit—surely you understand.” She turned to those in attendance, a playful glint in her eye as she added, “And perhaps refrain from drinking too deeply, lest half the melee’s contestants fall asleep on the field tomorrow!”

A ripple of laughter echoed through the hall, and the guests returned to their chatter, though now there was a bite to their whispered exchanges, glances cast in the Queen’s direction, who still sat motionless, her face ashen.

Rhaenyra barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the sight before her—Alicent, ashen and wide-eyed, clasping the Seven-Pointed Star at her neck as if some pious amulet might absolve her of her sins. Oh, she was horrified, was she? As if it hadn’t been her own calculated actions that had paved the way to this moment. If she’d truly followed the teachings of the Seven, she would have shown respect, not only for the King but for the memory of Rhaenyra's late mother. But instead, Alicent Hightower had climbed into her father’s bed the very night they’d laid poor Queen Aemma to rest. How utterly typical of the Hightowers, Rhaenyra thought, their ambition knowing no bounds, nor propriety.

Just then, Lady Waynwood approached the dais and offered a respectful curtsy to Rhaenyra, a single brow raised as she spared not so much as a glance for the Queen, who still sat frozen in her chair, clawing her fingers into her nailbed until they bled, it looks like she was not even breathing. Wouldn't it be glorious, Rhaenyra mused, if she simply keeled over and expired on the spot?

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Lady Waynwood began smoothly, her voice pitched just so that only those nearest could hear. “It must have been so hard for you, being left alone at court like that. To think, what lengths some might go to for the companionship of a King. They do say even the most devout hearts are often drawn to…unorthodox paths in times of… need.”

A laugh broke out, low and mean, from the end of the dais where Aegon had clearly missed the implication. “What does that even mean?” he snorted, his voice thick with amusement.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Rhaenyra turned a smoldering gaze on him and hissed, “It means, your mother is a whore.”

The entire table fell silent. Alicent’s vacant stare snapped to Rhaenyra, her face turning an alarming shade of green, almost matching the fabric of her gown. Before anyone could react further, she rose from her seat in a rush, her chair clattering to the floor behind her, and left the room with quick, desperate steps that echoed through the hall. The courtiers' whispers crescendo as she fled, every gaze locked onto her retreating form.

Aegon’s look of smug satisfaction soured, turning to one of pure resentment and a flicker of fear. He stared daggers at Rhaenyra before storming from the dais as well, leaving his siblings, Helaena and Aemond, alone. The two children exchanged helpless glances, neither daring to raise their eyes. Heads bowed, they remained at the table, small and silent, as though they might somehow disappear.

She smiled at Lady Waynwood and spent a few minutes talking to the woman who is one of her cousin Jeyne’s biggest supporters, the older woman left after making an appointment for tea where they will discuss her youngest son staying in King’s Landing to be part of her own household. She smiled in satisfaction as the woman left with another respectful curtsy.

Rhaenyra leaned in toward Laenor, a wicked glint in her eye as she spoke in low, smooth tones. “You’ll need to acquire some green fabrics, and plenty of it.”

Laenor looked at her curiously, though the edge of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Green? For what purpose?”

“For the Street of Silk. From now on, I want every whore in King’s Landing to wear green. Who knows—” she arched a brow with a sardonic smile, “they might even find themselves a kingly benefactor.”

Laenor chuckled, his eyes alight with understanding. “It will be done.”

When Rhaenyra first heard about the pig incident in the Dragonpit, her lips curved ever so slightly—it was quite inspired. She was sad that she did not have a sibling she can play with and pull pranks to until she realized she would need to address it. Not that she disapproved entirely. After all, the prank had been played on Aemond, who, if she were honest, could often do with a good humbling. But discipline was a duty, and Aegon was another matter. If Aegon was able to egged them on, they’d need more guidance than she had supposed.

Later, she summoned Jace and Luke, who arrived wide-eyed but trying to mask it with nonchalance. She regarded them with a raised brow.

“I’ve heard of this little trick you played on your second Uncle,” she began, her tone light but her gaze sharp. “A pig for a dragon? I do hope this isn’t how you intend to treat all our guests.”

“I’m sorry, Muña.” Jace said properly chastened then nudged his brother, who looked down, remorse already edging his expression.

“Aegon said it would be fun.” Luke mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rhaenyra shook her head, “Would you leap into a dragon’s maw if Aegon asked it?”

Neither of them answered, and she let out a gentle sigh. “Aegon is not… a kind boy. What he suggests is often meant for his own amusement, not yours. But you two—you must be careful. Think on your actions before committing to them. If what you do might hurt or humiliate another, ask yourself if it’s truly worth it. Because, the Seven Kingdoms won’t accept ‘we didn’t know’ as an excuse. Either you did it because it genuinely what you wanted to do, despite its harshness, or you don’t do it at all. But choose with understanding.”

Jace, taking this to heart, met her gaze with the earnest promise, “We’ll be more thoughtful, Muña.”

“Yes, Muña,” Luke added quietly, “I’ll consider it more.”

Satisfied, Rhaenyra gave a nod. “Good. Now, I have news. Lord Cregan Stark will be fostering with us for the next three years until he reaches his majority and take his own seat  .” She paused, meeting their surprised expressions, she had already introduced the boys when the Lord of Winetrfell arrived with a limited retinue and they seemed to get a long quiet fine. She remembers how Jace and Lord Cregan had hammered such a strong friendship with Jace only staying in the North for a few weeks, she would foster that friendship earlier and also make sure that this time Lord Cregan will have an easier path to his own seat. “And if I find that you two attempt any such antics with him… well, I shall have to bring in a whipping boy.”

Luke’s eyes went wide. “A whipping boy? What’s a whipping boy?”

Rhaenyra bit back a smile. "It means that if you were to misbehave, the whipping boy would take your punishment, they will be whipped or canned—on your behalf.”

Luke’s eyes filled with a pitiful look. “That sounds awful! I promise, Muña, we won’t misbehave. It won’t happen again.”

Rhaenyra chuckled, reaching over to muss his hair. “Well, I hope not. And I’m sure you’ll befriend Lord Cregan instead. Speaking of which…”

At that moment, the doors opened, and Cregan was brought forward. Tall for his age, with a silent, brooding look and eyes like the dark forests of the North, he stood watching her sons carefully.

“Jace, Luke,” Rhaenyra said with a hint of pride, “meet Lord Cregan Stark.”

After a polite exchange of greetings, Jace and Luke glanced at each other, visibly intrigued by their new companion. “Would you like to come with us to the Dragonpit, Lord Cregan?” Jace asked, glancing at his mother for approval.

The hint of a smile touched Cregan’s face, and his eyes, usually guarded, gleamed with a spark of interest. For the first time since his arrival, he looked less the brooding northerner and more a young boy full of curiosity and adventure.

The journey from the Dragonpit to the tourney grounds was filled with energy, Jace and Luke peppering Lord Cregan with questions about the North just like he asked them various questions about their dragon, their voices lively against the brisk morning air. When they arrived, they found King Viserys already seated, squinting at the bright sun and rubbing his temples, no doubt still wrestling with the aftermath of his overindulgence the previous night. The Queen, however, was conspicuously absent, sparking whispers throughout the gathered nobles and spectators. Rhaenyra took note with an arch smile as her sharp gaze caught the sight of women in scandalously sheer green dresses—some wearing the Seven-Pointed Star pendants dangling low between their breasts, a statement as brazen as the smiles they cast at the knights.

She nearly laughed aloud when she overheard one of these “ladies”—no doubt a woman of the Street of Silk—say in a playful drawl to a hedge knight, “Shall I read you the Seven Pointed Star, ser, while you acquaint yourself with my other virtues?” She watched the hedge knight’s eyes light up with keen interest,

Someone had mistake Lady Bethany Hightower for one of these faux green-clad courtesans, offering her a sickle if he suck his cock behind the bushes much to Lady Bethany’s scandalized horror. When Rhaenyra caught Laenor’s eye, he was grinning at the scene, barely concealing his mirth. Even Ser Criston Cole was nowhere to be seen; she k ows he signed up to participate in the Melee and the Joust but he had reportedly been forced to stay with his Queen in the Keep, where she will stay for the rest of the festivities.

But it was the tourney itself, with its vibrant crowd and jubilant atmosphere, that captivated Rhaenyra’s children and their new friend, young Lord Cregan. They cheered eagerly for the knights competing in the lists, then trailed along as Rhaenyra led them to explore the bustling streets of King’s Landing, alive with merchants selling delicacies and wares in celebration of the tourney.

Yet, while her children skipped and laughed, playing alongside the smallfolk children who proudly showed them each new stall, Rhaenyra’s heart remained weighted, her cheer but a thin veneer over the seething turmoil within. The streets where they walked, the very stones beneath her feet—she couldn’t help but see it all through the veil of grief, each face a possible enemy. An impulsive choice to descend into the streets, perhaps, yet one that she deemed necessary.

A butcher with blood-stained hands caught her eye, and a dark thought slipped into her mind: Was it you? she wondered. Were you one of the people who tore my Joffrey to pieces, stripping his finery from his broken body? It took every ounce of self-restraint not to pull her children back, to shield them from this city that had taken so much from her. The sound of a lute drifted from a nearby musician, his tune charming yet hollow, and she watched his hands with a quiet horror, wondering if he would one day turn those same hands against her dragons, her legacy, her family.

How easily I could set this city alight, she thought, her pulse racing at the notion, every dark alley and unsuspecting face a reminder of all she had lost. But as fiercely as the thought burned, she knew the city needed to see her, needed to see her children. Her time spent tucked away in Dragonstone, hidden in the shadows of the Red Keep, had left them strangers to her. To most, she was only “Viserys’ little girl.” Yes, the Riverlands had risen for her, but only because they thought they were defending the daughter of their beloved King. They never really knew her. 

If she wanted to ensure her family’s safety, her presence would have to become as familiar as Daemon’s had been. He had wandered these streets, his mere existence a promise and a threat to the people of King’s Landing. She did not possess the same freedom he had to be seen, to inspire loyalty, but she would need to forge her own connection to the city—one that could command both love and fear. She would make them see her not just as the heir, but as their Queen, someone for whom they would fight, someone they would protect—and never dare harm her children again.

Upon returning to the Red Keep, Rhaenyra could not help but smile as she watched her sons, Jace and Luke, brimming with excitement, their pockets stuffed with an assortment of small trinkets collected from the city’s lively market. Kofi and Ser Erryk, are even carrying the numerous bags filled with keepsakes the boys had insisted on bringing back. Even Lord Cregan, though usually so reserved, bore a bright flush from the day’s excitement. She bid them all to bathe and have their supper, for later the fire dancers would be performing privately in the garden—a thrilling display she had arranged to delight their young hearts.

Rhaenyra retreated to her chambers, shedding the weight of her outer gown and sinking into the softness of her day bed, letting her feet rest. She held her youngest, Joffrey, close, feeling the comforting warmth of his tiny body. He lay on his stomach across her chest, and she pressed gentle kisses to the top of his head, humming a sweet High Valyrian lullaby. In time, the nurses would take him to be fed and bathed, but for now, she wanted only to savor his baby scent, that soft, innocent fragrance, so dear to her heart. She had missed him throughout the day, having been away from the castle, from his side, for far longer than she liked. Laenor had suggested bringing him to the tourney grounds but she’d swiftly declined. The city was no place for a babe of Joffrey’s age; he belonged within the shelter of these walls, protected from the city’s grime and clamor.

She had done all she could to ensure her children’s safety. She had fortified her household guard, chosen sworn shields with the utmost care, and even arranged for healers dedicated solely to their well-being. For her children, no precaution was too small, no measure too extreme. They would live safe lives, fulfilling lives, untouched by the brutalities she herself had known. One day, Jace would wear the crown and take his place as king. He would marry, cradle a child of his own in his arms, as she now held Joffrey. Luke would be a legendary captain, one who might even rival the Sea Snake himself, and he would bring joy to his nieces and nephews with his boundless heart and laughter.

Joffrey, he would grow to be a knight, a protector, embodying all the virtues she held dear. And Aegon and Viserys—her Aegon and her Viserys—they would be raised in love and security, shielded from the scars of war, not ferried between Vale and Pentos to escape its horrors. Visenya would flourish, strong and radiant. She would see to it that each one of her children lived without the specter of violence haunting their every step. They would know peace, know joy. Rhaenyra would see to it, and her heart swelled with resolve.

They would never know the darkness of war as her children did. She would do better for them than she did her children, she would see to that herself.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra sidestepped quickly to avoid a young maid staggering under the weight of a towering stack of fabrics, nearly obscuring her view. The maid muttered an apology, and Rhaenyra waved her off with a slight smile, her thoughts already wandering. Her chambers, alive with the bustling energy of ladies and maids folding gowns, stacking books, and packing trunks, had become an increasingly crowded and chaotic haven. They will be leaving in a week to Hightide. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had departed straight after the tourney to prepare for the feast, leaving Laenor behind under his father’s insistence to remain with his family. Although he had grumbled, he hardly seemed displeased, his recent venture to the Free Cities having soothed some of his old restlessness.

She understood the constraints her husband must have felt. This Laenor, however, was quite the contrast to the one she remembered from her time. Her Laenor was almost always away in Hightide, fueling rumors with his absence, while this Laenor, confined and chafing, flaunted his escapades in plain view. She was unsure which was more unsettling.

In a sense, Rhaenyra now saw why her counterpart had preferred the cloistered safety of the Red Keep. But times were changing, and Rhaenyra would need to be present at Dragonstone, establishing a stronghold without relinquishing her influence over the Red Keep. Particularly now, as the Queen languished in her quarters, mortified and shamed by the murmurs of her indiscretions. Laenor’s contribution to these whispers—a bawdy tune, “The Girl in the Green Dress”—had already become a popular tavern ballad, with patrons clamoring for whores to read them the Seven-Pointed Star as they entertained. Sales of star-pendant necklaces had surged in the street of silk, while women of the court, formerly fond of the color green that the Queen had made into her personal banenr, seemed to shed the color in haste. Lady Bethany Hightower, once clad in green, had taken to wearing white and silver, her family’s House color, a timid attempt to escape her family’s scandalous shadow.

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the two trunks already brimming with heavier gowns, her brows knitting slightly. “I think we will need to bring more gowns.” she said, a hint of thoughtful dissatisfaction in her tone.

Lady Anella’s sigh was immediate, her lips pursing in mild disapproval as she glanced at the overflowing trunks. “Another trunk for heavy gowns, Your Grace?” she murmured, scarcely disguising her vexation. “Surely, we’ve packed enough to clothe half the court twice over.”

Unmoved, Rhaenyra only smiled, giving a serene nod. “I’d rather be prepared, Anella. The winds at Driftmark and Dragonstone can be… chillier than King’s Landing. A few more heavy gowns should do nicely.”

Anella rolled her eyes but summoned another empty chest with a snap of her fingers, surrendering to her wishes. “Very well, one more trunk it is.” she said, though her voice held a trace of humor.

Lady Nila, observing with a glimmer of amusement, let out a soft giggle. “And don’t forget the boots, Your Grace. You’ll find far more stones than polished floors there!”

“Ah, you’re right,” Rhaenyra replied, sharing a fond glance with Nila before looking back to Anella with a warm, grateful smile. “Thank you, Anella. I’ll be sure to make good use of them.”

Anella simply sighed again, though a faint smile betrayed her indulgent affection. “Anything for a Targaryen Princess.” she said, before directing the maids with a touch more urgency to make room for yet another trunk.

Quietly, Rhaenyra excused herself from the flurry of preparation and slipped away toward the nursery. There, she read a note: Jace and Luke were currently with the Archmaester, a recent arrival at court who had endured Joffrey’s closing feast with barely concealed discomfort. Upon his arrival, he had set about securing his retinue and students in the Vaults, and now, with just a week remaining before their journey, he’d begun assessing the boys’ education. The Archmaester had a thorough mind and an exacting approach, administering evaluations in Economics, Law, and Administration—his own specializations at the Citadel. He insisted on establishing a sound baseline so he could teach the children precisely what was necessary for the weighty responsibilities they’d bear.

To ensure their training was comprehensive, he’d brought other Maesters, experts in History, Foreign Policy, Coin Management and Distribution, and  Military Tactics, each a respected scholar in their discipline. Such a rounded education, the Archmaester explained, would prepare the children to govern and defend the realm.

Rhaenyra had emphasized to Archmaester Vaegon that the education of her sons, especially the Heir to the Iron Throne and the future Lord of Driftmark, was of paramount importance. Their studies were not to be hindered by her half-siblings, whom she held in little regard academically. Helaena was sweet but exceedingly simple, while Aegon—barely literate—had apparently frustrated his own tutors into resigning. It seemed Alicent herself had attempted to instruct him but was met with empty chairs, as Aegon slipped off to revel in the city with his friends. At this, Vaegon had merely raised a brow, murmuring that he had no use for foolish students.

Upon entering the nursery, Rhaenyra’s heart lifted as Joffrey’s cooing reached her ears, a chubby arm reaching toward her. She moved to the little prince, taking him from his nursemaid, who informed her that he had just been fed and bathed. Nodding, she gently dismissed the nursemaid, promising to spend the rest of the day with her youngest son. Settling on the couch, Rhaenyra tested Joffrey’s grip by offering him her finger. When he grasped it firmly, she laughed with delight, gently lifting him until his little legs kicked the air in triumph.

However, her attention shifted as she noticed the nursemaid still lingering, a look of anxiety darkening her face. Rhaenyra frowned slightly, holding Joffrey close. “Do you wish to say something?” she asked with mild impatience.

The maid fidgeted, her hands trembling. “Your Grace… forgive me, but… please, help me.” She knelt, her voice wavering.

“What help do you seek?” Rhaenyra said, seating herself more comfortably as she positioned Joffrey against her knee.

The maid hesitated, visibly uneasy, her eyes darting toward the door. At last, she whispered, “My sister works in the Queen’s wing… there was an incident, and—she needs help, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra suppressed a flash of irritation. The girl beating around the bush was wearing on her patience. “If your sister needs my help, it would seem best to hear from her directl.,” she said curtly.

The maid nodded, managing a nervous curtsey. “I will bring her here in secret, Princess.” she said, hastily withdrawing.

Rhaenyra sighed, raising Joffrey into the air and delighting in his bright, inquisitive gaze. His eyes, she noticed, were of the deepest brown with a hint of violet glinting through whenever the light struck them, a striking mark of his Valyrian blood. Jace had this same shade; and with Luke, she’d noted a faint, dark violet rim around the brown of his eyes, a fascinating depth. She lowered Joffrey to her knee and watched his hand curl around her finger, unfolding each tiny digit only to watch him close his fist once more. A perfect little prince, unspoiled by the troubled world surrounding him.

After learning that Ser Criston Cole oversaw her sons’ sparring practices, she’d developed a habit of inspecting their small bodies nightly, vigilant for any sign of bruising or injury. She had even pleaded with her father to appoint another instructor, but he’d refused, fixated on fostering unity among his heirs. She resisted the urge to scoff at the thought; if her father truly valued unity among the Targaryens, he would never have allowed his Queen to rear her children as Hightowers rather than dragons. Rhaenyra shifted her gaze to Joffrey, stroking his velvety cheek as he blinked up at her, blissfully unaware of the intrigue circling his family.

A mischievous glint in her eye, Rhaenyra picked up the long, bejeweled necklace resting upon the side table, its sapphire pendant catching the midday sun and sparkling enticingly. She dangled it in front of her son, who gazed up with widening eyes. Joffrey reached his chubby arms toward the gemstone, fingers splayed as he tracked its every movement. She moved the pendant from side to side, chuckling as he eagerly followed it, his gaze never wavering. The Volantene healer who specialized in the care of women and children had recently assured her that Joffrey was already showing signs of early development, holding his head up for longer stretches than most babes of his age. With a smile of pride, Rhaenyra murmured softly to him, “A true dragon, already so strong and curious. You’ll grow to be brave and wise, my darling boy.”

From the corner of the room, a tiny figure rose—a hatchling, small as a cat but fierce in spirit. Tyraxes spread his too-large wings and took an awkward step forward, attempting to appear fearsome despite his gangly frame and kitten-sized stature. His wings flapped clumsily as he attempted to join them, yet he only succeeded in toppling forward, earning a fond laugh from Rhaenyra. She extended an arm toward him, and Tyraxes responded with a defiant hiss, but soon relented, ambling over before climbing up her arm to settle on her shoulder. His tiny claws pricked her skin lightly as he claimed his perch, satisfied to oversee his young prince.

She rose gracefully, carrying both Joffrey and Tyraxes to the sunlit daybed, arranging her son on his belly, safely cushioned by pillows. Tyraxes perched nearby, letting out little hisses and puffs of smoke as if guarding his charge, while Joffrey cooed delightedly at his dragon’s antics. Every so often, Rhaenyra nudged Tyraxes back, wary of the little claws and horns inching too close to her son. The memory of Jace’s early days flashed through her mind, when Vermax had first scratched him, and she’d been so distraught she’d nearly sent the dragonling to the pit for fear he’d hurt her child. It was Princess Rhaenys who had reminded her that hatching a dragon egg in the cradle was a rarity even among Targaryens, a bond worth nurturing, not fearing.

A wistful sigh escaped her as she thought of her dear Rhaenys, the princess who had been her pillar, her steady guide. Rhaenys and Lord Corlys had all but taken command of her council in those early days, when the grief of her losses had consumed her, leaving her too shattered to stand alone. Rhaenys’s death had been a blow she had barely managed to recover from. Yet here, in this strange time, it seemed even Rhaenys herself had turned from ally to adversary. Perhaps the gods themselves despised me, she thought bitterly, for they’ve stripped away every true friend, every loyal flame, and left me with naught but ashes and woe.

Even as her heart darkened, her gaze softened as she watched Joffrey, his cherubic little face and dark eyes a comfort, grounding her in the present. Her sons were her light, a warmth in her cold, grim world. And if not for them…well, the urge to burn this world to ash was never far from her mind.

Just then, a quiet knock broke the moment as Ser Steffon entered, his expression one of mild apprehension. “Your Grace, the maid has returned, and she’s brought another with her.” His voice held a hint of disapproval, though he wisely held his tongue.

Rhaenyra gave him a nod, her mouth curving in a faint smile as she instructed him to let them in. Though he looked reluctant, Ser Steffon inclined his head, stepping aside to admit the two maids, who entered with hurried, timid curtsies. Rhaenyra settled herself back into her seat, Joffrey safely nestled beside  her, and waited for them to speak.

The two women knelt before Rhaenyra, their heads bowed low. The elder of the two, a woman with a drawn, weary face lined deeply with fatigue, lifted her head just enough to murmur, “Princess, thank you for seeing me.” Despite being only a few years older than Rhaenyra, this woman—Dianne, as she introduced herself—looked a decade beyond her years. Rhaenyra could only imagine the toll that endless labor and struggle must have taken on her.

Straightening, Rhaenyra fixed her with a steady gaze. “Della has spoken highly of you and begged me to meet with you, I never do this however, ” she explained, allowing a small nod in Della’s direction. “She is a valuable member of my household, so I’ve made an exception.”

Della flushed with a quiet pride, her small smile barely concealing her relief. Meanwhile, Dianne lowered her head once more. “Thank you, Princess,” she murmured, her voice thick with worry. “Forgive me for taking your time, but I… I’ve nowhere else to turn.” Her hands trembled in her lap as she struggled to maintain her composure.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, urging her gently, “Please, go on. What is the matter?”

Dianne took a steadying breath, her gaze falling to the floor. “I’ve been responsible for the sheets in the princes’ chambers for many years now, my lady,” she began, her tone low and cautious. “I’ve always done my duties quietly, drawing no attention to myself, and serving faithfully… until a week ago.” Her voice faltered, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, suppressing a tremor. “My daughter came down with a fever, so I was delayed in changing Prince Aegon’s sheets. I thought it no trouble, since he is often out late with… his friends.”

Her voice caught, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Rhaenyra’s heart sank, sensing the horror that lay beneath those words. Dianne seemed to shrink as she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “The prince returned unexpectedly early… he was in a dreadful mood—he’d lost at gambling, I heard. I was… I was still in his chambers when he entered.”

Dianne’s voice broke, and she shuddered as the memories poured forth. “I tried to leave, but he… he held me back.” Her fingers gripped each other tightly, knuckles white. “I didn’t… I tried to fight, but he… struck me, told me to be silent. I did not… I did not want any of it to happen.” Her shoulders shook as she choked on her words, her pain and humiliation laid bare.

Rhaenyra’s own heart stilled, the shock settling in like ice. She reached for Dianne’s hand, clasping it with tender assurance. “This was not your doing, Dianne,” she said gently, her voice laced with sorrow. “You must never blame yourself. You were wronged most grievously.” The woman looked at her with gratitude in her eyes. “Have you reported this to the Queen?”

Dianne took a steadying breath, and a flicker of resolve passed over her face. “I reported it to the Queen… she had already given me moon tea, said it would prevent ‘complications,’ and sent me away to Princess Helaena’s quarters. I…” Her voice faltered again, and she shook her head.

A simmering anger surged in Rhaenyra’s chest at the callousness of Alicent’s response. How could she be so indifferent, to brush off such a vile act as though it were nothing more than an inconvenience? Her father, the King, should have been informed, yet she feared that Aegon’s mother would shield him from justice. Rhaenyra knew all too well the way noble blood could silence even the gravest of sins, leaving those without protection abandoned and betrayed.

After a long, tense silence, Rhaenyra squeezed Dianne’s hand, her expression softening. “If it would bring you any peace, I could help arrange for you to leave the Red Keep, somewhere far from Aegon’s reach.”

Dianne’s eyes widened in horror, and she shook her head fervently. “Your Grace, I dare not! Two maids before me… they took the Queen’s coin and left after… after suffering a similar fate.” Her voice shook, her face pale with terror. “Their families came to the Red Keep seeking news, but neither they nor the coin promised by the Queen was ever seen again. No, Your Grace, I am safer remaining under her employ, only…” She looked up, her eyes bright with desperation, as if the weight of her plea could force Rhaenyra’s heart to open wider.

“…only I have a daughter. Dyanna, Your Grace—she is but nine name days. She helps the princess bathe and…” Dianne broke off, bowing so low that her forehead nearly brushed the cold stone floor. “Please, Your Grace, would you take her into your household? I… I can bear what I must, but I could not bear it happening to my child. My daughter…”

Rhaenyra’s heart wrenched as she took in the woman’s plight. Gently, she inclined her head. “You may rest assured, Dianne. Dyanna may work within the Holdfast kitchens, well apart from those of the Queen’s household, and far from the servants’ influence in that wing. In fact,” Rhaenyra added, considering her words with measured care, “she will be removed entirely from the presence of the Queen’s staff. She’ll have her place amongst those who tend to the kitchens for my children and I alone, where no one may lay a finger upon her.”

Dianne’s head lifted, a glimmer of hope daring to cross her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Rhaenyra continued, “I’ll grant her this, but tell me, Dianne, are you quite sure you would not prefer a clean break? We leave for Hightide within three weeks, and I could take you and your daughter with me. If we depart under the protection of Lord Corlys Velaryon, no one would force you to return to this keep or this life.”

But Dianne shuddered, shaking her head with a finality that left little room for question. “The Queen has powerful friends, Your Grace. I fear I would be in greater danger should I try to flee.”

Rhaenyra sighed, a resigned look in her eyes. “If that is your wish, Dianne. I shall take your daughter into my employ. However, let it be known, nothing in my household is given freely.”

Dianne dipped her head once more, gratitude and reverence shining in her eyes. “Whatever you ask of me, Princess, if it is within my power, it will be done.”

A pleased smile flickered across Rhaenyra’s lips, though she masked it quickly. She has a spy in Alicent's household now. 

After putting Joffrey for a nap, Rhaenyra heard her elder sons approaching, their hurried footsteps just outside the nursery. Luke, with his usual enthusiasm, burst in first and practically collapsed into her arms, all wide eyes and sighs. “Muña I don’t think I like the Archmaester one bit." he moaned, his voice muffled as he buried his face into her chest.

She was very glad that with her continued use of High Valyrian whenever she talks to them Luke and Jace are more comfortable with the language now. It should have been their mother tongue but it is not to late to correct them.

Rhaenyra hid a smile, shifting Luke fully onto her lap and wrapping her arms around his small frame. “Oh, my poor sea dragon,” she soothed, rocking him softly, “it’s only for a few days. The Archmaester needs to know what you already know so he can plan your studies.”

“Days?” Luke exclaimed, lifting his head to stare at her in disbelief. “We’re not done yet?” His face scrunched in pure exasperation as he groaned, which only made Rhaenyra laugh softly, stroking his back to calm him.

Meanwhile, Jace stood nearby, a faintly sheepish grin on his face. “I quite like the tests.” he admitted, ever the serious one. “The Maesters are kind when they ask questions, and I enjoy seeing if I have the right answers.”

Rhaenyra smiled, reaching out to smooth his hair. “Well, then, you’ll both be splendid scholars by the end of it. Just a few more days, I promise.”

At that, Luke slumped in resigned misery, though his interest piqued the moment he spotted the table laid with plump grapes and slices of blood oranges on a platter. “Ohhh, snacks!” he declared, slipping from her lap and diving into the pillows surrounding the low table, helping himself to two blood oranges he devoured with the enthusiasm only a hungry child could muster.

Jace joined his brother, more composed as he knelt on the cushions, delicately plucking grapes and dipping them in honey before popping them into his mouth with all the decorum of a prince. Rhaenyra, still chuckling, settled beside them on the floor, reaching out for her own share of grapes, though she kept a hand around Luke’s shoulders, pressing him to her side as he ate.

Their nursemaids soon arrived, doting and efficient, bustling about as they thoroughly wiped away the sticky remnants of fruit from the boys’ faces and hands. When it was time for their nap, Jace willingly shed his doublet, his sleepy face showing no resistance. But Luke, of course, required a bit more coaxing, even though his eyes drooped with exhaustion. With soft laughter, Rhaenyra finally ushered them both into their bedchamber, watching as they were tucked in, murmuring her own gentle words of farewell until they drifted off.

Rhaenyra sank onto the daybed, plucking grapes one by one as she savored the quiet. She hadn’t taken but a few bites when Laenor entered, a fond yet exasperated look on his face. “Have the boys gone down?” he asked, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

“Only just,” Rhaenyra replied, unable to hide a smirk as Laenor slumped to the floor beside her daybed, leaning back with a soft groan.

“Thirty knights and guards will remain here to make sure our Household is secure when we leave,” he informed her, resting his head against the cushion. “the rest will be travelling with us.”

Rhaenyra leaned closer, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “There’s more than enough trouble in the Keep to secure from within,” she said, glancing to ensure the doors were shut. “What I’ve just learned, Laenor… Aegon has been…” She shook her head, disgust evident. “He’s been assaulting the maids, and when they seek help from the Queen, do you know what Alicent does? She offers them a gold dragon and moon tea, the one she sends away has not been seen again.”

Laenor’s eyebrows shot up, his expression a mixture of anger and disbelief. “Alicent… and she claims to be the model of virtue? Her hypocrisy is astounding!” he sneered. “So that’s her way of maintaining a quiet court. She’s using the treasury to silence the women her precious son has harmed.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed with determination. “I want the city to know. I just don’t want here known as ‘Alicent the Cruel’ because of what she did to me. Let them see her for what she truly is—a woman who brings young maids to her son’s bed and pays them off to save face. The most pious of Queens turning the Red Keep into a brothel under the guise of motherly devotion.” she scoffed, fire burning in her gaze.

Laenor let out a low cackle, the scandalous irony clearly amusing him. “Oh, but won’t that unsettle the court further! Not only is she a whore she’s whoring maids to her son now!” he whispered, though his laughter grew loud enough that Rhaenyra gave him a light kick to quiet him.

“Shh! You’ll wake the boys.” she warned, but her own laughter bubbled up as Laenor chuckled again, quieter this time, still shaking his head in disbelief.

“Alicent the Cruel,” he mused, smirking. “Perhaps a broadsheet could be penned on such a tale. I know just the lads to spread it about. The Queen and Moontea, sound good, right?”

“You’re the secret bard between the two of us.” Rhaenyra teased, smiling wryly as she settled back against the cushions. Though her heart still burned with anger, she found some comfort in knowing that she and Laenor were united, ready to face whatever schemes the Queen conjured next.

Rhaenyra looked back at Laenor, a faint smile slipping from her lips as she noticed his unusually contemplative expression. “What?” she asked.

Laenor shifted his gaze to meet hers, his eyes softer than she remembered. “You’re… different, Rhaenyra,” he said quietly, a bittersweet smile curving his mouth. “Ever since Joffrey was born.”

Her heart skipped, her voice emerging barely above a whisper. “What do you mean, different?” She kept her tone light, though a rising dread twisted her insides. Her heart was thrumming at the look in his eyes, half-wondering if he somehow knew her secret. Could he know? Since Joffrey’s birth, she’d felt her soul almost cracking beneath the weight of what she carried—knowledge of a life lived, yet not her own, her consciousness in unfamiliar skin, flashes of life not her own. Would he think her mad if she confessed it all? Or worse… might he use it against her, as she had used his secret against him?

“The Rhaenyra I married… she was always so kind,” he explained. “Not that you aren’t—but you had this kindness that was almost foolish. You’d forgive anything, even if it hurt you, and you were… supportive of me,” he added, a touch of wonder in his voice. “Despite… well, all I bring to this marriage.”

Rhaenyra’s heart twisted with guilt and empathy as she shook her head, speaking with a sincerity she did not wholly feel, though she longed to comfort him. “You were never a problem, Laenor.” she murmured, her voice almost tender.

But he gave a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, I know what I am,” he replied bitterly. “I hate the gods for making me this way. Useless—not just to my father, but to my wife, and even to my children.”

Her heart went out to him, and after a hesitant pause, she switched to Valyrian. “In Valyria, it shouldn’t have mattered,” she whispered, her words soft yet earnest. “People could love who they wanted, and no one would bat an eye.”

Laenor shook his head, his voice low and weary. “Valyria is no more.”

She held his gaze with quiet defiance. “The place may be gone, but we are still here,” she insisted. “We are Valyria. The first mistake our ancestors made was abandoning our culture completely, capitulating to old men who deemed anything different to be devilry. For all we know, they imposed these rules because they feared their own inclinations.”

A surprised laugh escaped Laenor, breaking through his melancholy. “Do you think the first Septon secretly longed for other men?” he asked, raising his brows, amusement mingling with curiosity.

Rhaenyra shrugged, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “If you read the Book of the Seven closely, there are many passages that could only be written by men desperately suppressing their own desires—or else fearing the power of women. It’s why they created so many rules to keep us weak and dependent on them.”

Laenor shook his head, still chuckling, but a more serious glint in his eye as he looked down at the low table between them. “You see, that’s what I mean by different. The Rhaenyra I knew was always so prim and proper,” he admitted, glancing back up at her. “I’d never heard you criticize the Seven, or your father, or anyone, really.”

Rhaenyra’s lips parted, searching for an answer, but he continued, a wistful look on his face. “My father once told me you’d have to change when the children were born. That you couldn’t be the same brash, spoiled princess. You had children to protect, and perhaps that is why you dulled your fire. You let Alicent Hightower practically bully you at court.” He sighed, a faint smile of sadness on his face. “But now, I see the Rhaenyra I met before our marriage, the one with fire. The Dragon Princess.”

Rhaenyra’s smile trembled, and she felt a surge of sympathy for the other Rhaenyra—this girl, who must have been so afraid, raising a brown-eyed, brown-haired son with no one to guide or reassure her. No wonder she’d turned inward, allowing herself to be tamped down by a world that judged her every move. It was a foolish decision but one she can understand.

She reached out, placing her hand over his with quiet assurance, hoping her warmth might convey what words could not.

Laenor studied her with a mixture of approval and bewilderment. “I’m glad to see you fighting back, truly,” he admitted, “but it’s still… jarring, Rhaenyra. For so long, I thought you clung to peace because you still thought of Alicent as your best friend.”

Rhaenyra’s face hardened, a flicker of irritation sparking in her eyes. “Best friends don’t crawl into their friend’s father’s bed the night her mother dies,” she snapped, her voice steely. She took a steadying breath before continuing. “And best friends certainly don’t actively try to see their friend and her children removed from the world. I can no longer ignore what she’s doing.”

Laenor shifted uncomfortably, brow creasing as he chose his words with care. “But… surely you don’t mean that she’d seek harm to the children?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze grew sharp as tempered steel. “If my father weren’t so agreeable, there’s little doubt she’d have already seen to it that none of us still drew breath. Jaehaerys cast Saera to the Faith for indulging in lovers—what would ‘the Conciliator’ do to a princess who has borne three boys whose paternity is under constant scrutiny?”

The sharp crack of Laenor’s hand slamming onto the table cut through the tension. “It’s not only on us!” he said, voice low but fierce. “The King and Lord Corlys… they carry their share of the blame for why we’re in this position now.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head in agreement, though her tone remained cold. “Perhaps they do, but it’s always been me—and now, our children—who’ll bear the brunt of it. I don’t have time to mourn some lost, childish friendship with Alicent Hightower,” she said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “She’s more than willing to cast shadows over me; I’ve every right to throw one back, especially when every rumor about her and her son is rooted in truth.”

Laenor’s expression flickered, an amused glint in his eye. “Truth, you say? I may have heard that Aegon frequents a certain brothel,” he added, a sly smile spreading across his lips, “one I visit now and then. Word is, he prefers his women young… and untouched.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “Then perhaps we ought to ensure the realm witnesses their princely heir at his most… authentic.”

Laenor returned her smirk with a conspiratorial gleam. “A few tankards of ale, maybe a goblet of wine or two, and dear Aegon will be quite at ease. We’ll arrange for the proper audience, of course.”

She took a grape, raising it with a slight incline of her head as if toasting him. “To my half-brother, then,” she said with a wry smile, “may his true nature be well-known by all.”

Laenor matched her with a wicked grin, reaching for his own grape to join in her toast.

Rhaenyra watched her children with quiet amusement as they each gravitated toward one of the miniature towers in her father’s grand Valyrian model. Little Luke’s eyes lit up as he pointed eagerly at a tower with a finely carved dragon perched at its peak. He turned to the King, his young voice bursting with excitement. “What is this one, Grandsire?”

Viserys smiled, his eyes twinkling with indulgent warmth. “Ah, the temple of Draco, the god who gifted our ancestors their dragons.” The King gifted the small temple to Luke, whose smile stretched so wide that Rhaenyra feared his cheeks might split.

Jace, who had already selected his own tower, leaned over the model with a serious expression, reaching for a small dragon figure. Without hesitation, he set the dragon atop a roofless temple, as though it was meant to survey the realm from its lofty post. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride; Jace’s focus and creativity were evident, even in this small act.

On the opposite side of the room, her brothers lingered. Aemond clutched a tower of his own, gaze shifting longingly toward the King, yet Viserys seemed engrossed in Jace and Luke’s enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Aegon, already tipping deeply into his wine, declined with a wave, declaring that he was far too old for such childish games. Helaena sat apart, as was her way, whispering softly to her cupped hands. Rhaenyra had recently learned of her sister’s peculiar fondness for bugs—a habit that, despite the Queen’s reproach, Helaena seemed unwilling to abandon.

Beside her, Laenor shifted in his seat, his restlessness unmistakable. The King’s apartments were stifling, where courtly decorum needs to be observed always and Rhaenyra suspected Laenor longed for the easy comradery of his companions. But Viserys was insistent about monthly family dinners, a tradition she knew she must humor if she wished to secure his favor. She knew he adored her children, treating them with open affection and tenderness and she made sure aside from this monthly dinner that she and the children break their fast with him at least twice a week, and if the Queen had any qualms about Rhaenyra’s increasing presence in her father’s life, she could hardly raise them without appearing unreasonable.

Luke suddenly dashed over, practically spilling his newfound knowledge in one breath. “The temple of Draco, Muña!” he squeaked excitedly, eyes sparkling. “The temple where they prayed for dragons! And then—”

She chuckled, holding up a hand to slow him. “One thing at a time, Luke, my love,” she chided gently, rewarded with a wide grin.

Nearby, Jace was helping his grandsire back to his cushioned chair by the fire. Viserys, settling comfortably, turned to the Archmaester, who had been reluctantly summoned for this family affair. “Now, Archmaester,” he began with cheerful expectation, “tell us—how fares the children’s education?”

The Archmaester, who wore the dry and slightly bored look of one seldom interrupted in his routines, cleared his throat. “Well, Your Grace, Prince Jacaerys is quite remarkable. The boy needs to read something but once, and it stays with him—memorized, even, I've only ever seen one just like him.”

"Who?" the king asked excitedly, his eyes shining in pride. 

"Me ." The Archmaester answered dryly which made Laenor laugh beside her

Jace flushed, clearly embarrassed by the praise. “I do enjoy learning,” he murmured, averting his eyes.

“Then there is young Prince Lucerys,” the Archmaester continued, his tone flattening. “More focus would not go amiss.”

Luke wrinkled his nose in protest. “History is dreadfully boring.” he muttered.

The Archmaester raised an eyebrow, his expression one of practiced solemnity. “History, young Prince, is our safeguard against the folly of our ancestors. If we ignore it, we are fated to repeat their blunders.” Luke blinked, looking more awed than chastened.

Rhaenyra stepped in, smiling fondly at her son. “He’s six, Archmaester. Surely a bit of restlessness is forgivable.”

The Archmaester gave her a curt nod. “Indeed. Perhaps we may find ways to make his lessons more… interactive.” His lips pressed together in what Rhaenyra suspected was the closest the man ever came to a smile.

A sharp sigh cut across the room as Queen Alicent shifted in her seat, brows furrowing in thinly veiled disapproval. “Lessons are not meant to entertain. They’re meant to instill discipline, not to be mistaken for play.”

The Archmaester straightened, glancing at her with a wry twist of his mouth. “Ah, Your Grace. If only all young minds held that notion dear,” he drawled, fixing his gaze on Aegon, who lounged beside his wine goblet. “Prince Aegon here graces us with his presence so rarely that I’m often startled to see him in my classrooms at all.”

Aegon raised his cup in a lazy, mocking toast to the Archmaester, and Rhaenyra bit back a laugh at Alicent’s horrified face.

Aemond’s face fell, disappointment clouding his young features, as his mother’s gaze, sharpened as she turned to berate Aegon in a harsh whisper instead of asking about his progress. Meanwhile, Viserys merely chuckled, entirely untroubled by the disquiet among his younger children, and returned his attention to Luke and Jace.

“Do you know,” he said, his voice warm with reminiscence as he glanced at Jace, “that the topless tower you’ve chosen was the first thing I ever carved for this model?”

Jace’s eyes widened as he looked down at the model with newfound awe. “Oh! But, Grandsire, perhaps I ought to return it to you, then?”

The King chuckled, waving away the boy’s concern with a tender smile. “No, my boy,” he said, placing a hand on Jace’s shoulder, “it is a gift—from one king to a future king.”

Rhaenyra watched the scene unfold, a mixture of pride and perplexity filling her heart. Viserys was utterly besotted with her children, showering them with the kind of attention she only faintly recalled also receiving as a girl. Yet there, just outside his gaze, stood Aemond, sulking in the shadow, his small hands still clutching his chosen tower, while Aegon drowned his disappointment in his cup, and Helaena drifted as always in her own mysterious world.

What had been the point, she thought with a pang of irritation, in his remarrying and siring more children if he did not seem to truly like them? She could hardly see the purpose of of begetting unwanted children who uses funding for their garments and fine dinners when the children were ignored more often than not. The funds to take care of these useless and unwanted children could have gone to other more meaningful projects. If she had her way, they would have been sent to other keeps by now, assigned more useful tasks than aimless days in the Keep.

She considered, not for the first time, how fortunate this Rhaenyra had been in her spending more years with her mother than she did her own, a mother who no doubt loved her fiercely. Had Aemma not been there, she might have turned out a drunk like Aegon, or worse yet, like Helaena, who seemed to drift through life untethered.

The evening lingered on for an hour more until a loud clap of thunder shook the very walls, followed by lightning that painted the windows in brief, eerie light. Rhaenyra rose, brushing her hands down her skirts. “I think it best I see the children to bed before the storm frightens them.”

Laenor rose, stretching, his gaze flickering to the rumbling sky outside. “And as it looks to be a full storm, perhaps we should all sleep in Princess Rhaenyra’s chambers tonight.”

Luke and Jace exchanged gleeful glances. “Can we bring Joffrey, too?” Luke asked, bouncing on his toes.

Laenor chuckled, giving an affectionate ruffle to his hair. “Of course, you can—why, you could carry him yourselves.”

Both boys hurried to bid their grandsire a hasty kiss goodnight, racing each other to the nursery, and Rhaenyra would have followed when her father uneasily cleared his throat, halting her in place. She turned, noting his suddenly serious expression.

“Rhaenyra, one last thing.” Viserys shifted, seeming almost embarrassed. “Lady Bethany Hightower will be staying at the Red Keep for an extended time, and it would please me greatly if you took her in as one of your ladies-in-waiting.”

She felt the color rise to her cheeks and barely bit back a retort. “But, Father, I don’t know her.”

“That is why you must get to know her, my dear,” Viserys insisted, his tone growing firm.

Her lips pressed tightly together, and a spark of anger lit in her chest. The truth of this arrangement was as clear as daylight; this was Alicent’s latest machination, sending her kin to spy under the guise of friendship. “I hardly see why Oldtown’s influence needs strengthening in my household,” she replied tightly. “After all, the Queen herself is a Hightower.”

But Viserys only shook his head with an indulgent smile. “All the same, it’s a wise alliance for our family.”

Her patience frayed, and she snapped, “Then why can she not serve in the Queen’s employ? Why should I suffer a girl I’ve no inclination toward?”

Viserys frowned, his usual cheer dampened. “It is my wish, Rhaenyra. You’ll find Bethany quite… unobtrusive, I’m sure.”

She nodded, but a bitter taste lingered in her mouth as she took her leave looking on as her father withdaw to his own bed chamber, barely noting the smug gleam in Alicent’s eye as she passed. The Queen’s smugness had her pausing, fire rekindling in her heart. She stopped in her tracks, turning back to Alicent with a gleam in her own eye.

“You must think very little of Lady Bethany to send her into my household,” she murmured, her voice low and cool, though a smirk tugged at her lips. “You know, of course, how I treat spies in my midst. Perhaps you remember the tongues in the box I had delivered to your room.” Her smirk widened. “Then again, perhaps this time I’ll forgo the box and send you the girl’s head in a platter.”

Alicent’s eyes went wide, her face paling to a shade akin to milk. She took a trembling step backward, and Rhaenyra gave a huff of satisfaction, sweeping down the corridor and leaving the Queen alone. Behind her, Ser Steffon followed silently, the echo of their footsteps carrying down the hall like an  empty victory.

The following morning, Rhaenyra awoke to find that, despite her venomous threats from the night before, Lady Bethany’s belongings had been quietly transferred into the Ladies’ Tower. Her ladies-in-waiting once called the Vault their home but since she had expanded her household, she had them transferred to an empty Tower she repurposed to accommodate their more sensitive needs.

The Vault is now home to her ever expanding household. The first three levels housed her knights—loyal men who, in jest and affection, had begun calling themselves the Dragonguard. The fourth and fifth levels were dedicated to her Essosi healers, alongside the Archmaester’s appointed maesters and his acolytes. The highest level was reserved for her servants, who kept the tower running smoothly.

When the hour struck, Rhaenyra gathered her household in the Ladies’ Hall, a magnificent chamber boasting vaulted ceilings that soared above, adorned with carvings of dragons and tapestries woven with scenes from House Targaryen’s fabled past. Padded seats and chairs lined the hall, though only her noblest attendants were given the luxury of sitting, while others stood respectfully behind them. Her ladies-in-waiting occupied seats closest to her, their expressions composed and alert, their eyes glancing discreetly around the hall. Opposite them sat the royal tutor—the Archmaester himself—flanked by his maester and a circle of diligent young acolytes as well as the Royal Governess, Lady Celia Celtigar, and her scribes and attendants.

Rhaenyra entered with the dignified grace of a queen, little Joffrey nestled in her arms, his bright eyes round with curiosity. Jace and Luke walked just behind her, solemn yet wide-eyed, glancing about as if searching for clues to this sudden assembly. Their nursemaids and guards followed with Ser Erryk steadfast by Jace’s side. Kofi, the towering Summer Islander who served as Luke’s sworn shield, cast an almost comical figure beside the small prince, his towering form a contrast to Luke’s slender frame. Not far off stood Ser Harwin Strong, his dark eyes observing with pride and intensity as he stood among a small contingent of Goldcloaks, loyal as ever.

Nearby, a formation of knights and guards maintained their quiet vigil, their armor gleaming and postures rigid. There were attendants of every rank and duty—seamstresses, stable hands, and kitchen servants, all waiting attentively. The household messengers, grooms, and a flock of eager pages lingered, poised to carry out any instruction, while her Essosi healers, with their herb-filled satchels and attentive gaze, watched for any sign of that their services will be required.

As Rhaenyra took her place, her gaze swept over the gathered assembly, her household standing before her with a palpable buzz of curiosity threading through the air. She inclined her head, acknowledging each group in turn before addressing them.

“Thank you, each of you, for coming,” she began, her voice carrying the weight of command and warmth.

Rhaenyra glanced over her household, allowing the assembled attendants, guards, and servants a moment to settle into silence before she addressed them. With measured grace, she announced, “May I introduce to you Lady Bethany Hightower, who joins us now as my new lady-in-waiting.”

All eyes turned to the young lady as she curtsied deeply, a serene but haughty smile on her face basking at the honor of being personally presented and introduced to the whole household. A quiet murmur rippled through the room; the notion of a Hightower—a relative of the Queen—standing within Rhaenyra’s inner circle was unexpected. Servants exchanged glances, the underlying tension unmistakable.

Rhaenyra raised a brow, addressing the assembly with an imperious tone. “Lady Bethany Hightower has been sent to my household by the Queen herself, on a mission to spy upon us.” The declaration struck a cold hush over the room, and Bethany’s serene mask slipped as her eyes went wide, her pale face draining of color. The girl had not anticipated so public a rebuke, and it showed.

Fixing Lady Bethany with an unyielding gaze, Rhaenyra continued, her voice as smooth as it was unrelenting. “I will not abide spies in my midst. Yet, the King has made it his wish that I accept this arrangement.” She paused, scanning the faces of her attendants, her words laced with purpose. “Therefore, you all must be vigilant—for there is a snake amongst us.”

Lady Bethany opened her mouth to protest, but Rhaenyra cut her off with a sharp glance, her voice unwavering. “In my household, Lady Bethany, you will speak only when you have been given permission to do so.” Lady Bethany’s face flushed, and she looked down, her hands trembling. She managed a choked, “Forgive me, Princess.” her voice barely a whisper as she clasped her hands together, visibly shaken.

Turning her gaze back to her attendants, Rhaenyra addressed them with authority. “None of you are to speak to Lady Bethany outside your duties—and no one, especially those beyond our household, may converse with her without permission. Should anyone ignore this rule, they will answer to Ser Steffon, my Steward Lord Guncer Sunglass, or Marya, the head maid.” The air in the hall thickened as she gave this order, making her position clear. “As for the servants that Lady Bethany brought with her, they have already been sent back from whence they came.”

With a glance at her sons, she addressed Jace and Luke. “You both are not to be alone with Lady Bethany—should she attempt any mischief, I expect you to alert the household.” Jace nodded with wide eyes, while Luke glanced at Lady Bethany with a hesitant frown. “If you find yourself alone with her,” Rhaenyra continued, “you are to call out to your guards at once. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Muña.” Jace replied quickly. Luke nodded, though he cast an uncertain look in Lady Bethany’s direction. Rhaenyra’s stern expression softened briefly as she smiled at her sons, and bade them to leave. Lady Elinda stepped forward, taking each boy by the hand and gently leading them from the hall. “Have you both completed your reading for the Archmaester?” she asked brightly.

Jace nodded. “I have, yes.” he replied with a grin.

Luke, however, scowled. “I think so?” he said, not quite meeting her gaze. Elinda’s laughter echoed lightly through the corridor as they departed.

Once they were gone, Rhaenyra turned back to her household, casting a lingering gaze over the assembly. “Remain cautious, all of you. Should anyone be foolish enough to join Lady Bethany in her… pursuits, I will see to it that the Dragonpit offers them a suitable punishment.” The warning hung in the air, settling among the attendants with the weight of stone. An unspoken resolve passed through them, steeling their determination to protect the sanctity of the household.

At last, she dismissed the gathering, though Lady Bethany was conspicuously left standing alone. The young woman seemed on the verge of tears, her composure shattered. Rhaenyra allowed herself a flicker of satisfaction, relishing the Hightower girl’s helplessness before her. It was a bitter irony, watching the Queen’s handpicked spy tremble like a lamb.

Rhaenyra glanced toward Lady Bethany with a placid smile, gesturing toward the tea set between them. “Come forward, Lady Bethany. I’ll pour you some tea as a welcome to our household.”

Bethany hesitated, her nerves evident as she stepped forward, taking up the cup and saucer with trembling hands.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered over her with amusement. “Now, do try not to shake, Lady Bethany, or you might spill.” Her tone was soft, almost indulgent, as she began to pour, filling the cup with hot tea. Bethany watched, eyes wide, as Rhaenyra’s hand remained steady, allowing the tea to rise almost to the rim of the cup.

“My household,” Rhaenyra began, her tone like silk laced with steel, “is sacred to me, and I do not tolerate disloyalty.” Bethany opened her mouth, a nervous apology forming on her lips, but Rhaenyra held up a hand, silencing her. “I expect nothing from you but obedience, Lady Bethany. You signed the same contract as my other ladies-in-waiting.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze never wavered as she poured, allowing the hot tea to flow steadily into the delicate porcelain cup, filling it almost to the brim. The liquid began to crest over the edge, trickling down and searing Bethany’s fingers. Bethany bit her lip, her face flushing with discomfort as the hot tea pooled over her knuckles, spilling in scalding rivulets along her pale skin. She clung to the cup with stubborn desperation, even as her hands grew red, the skin prickling under the relentless heat.

Rhaenyra continued pouring, the stream slow and steady, as though she had all the time in the world to watch this girl’s resolve crumble. The tea continued to spill, tracing a path down Bethany’s wrist and along her forearm, leaving her skin flushed and angry, the tender skin smarting with the burn. The silence in the room grew heavier, each drip seeming to echo as it spattered onto the saucer.

Finally, as the tea pitcher emptied, Rhaenyra set it down with a quiet, satisfied sigh, letting her gaze rest on Bethany as the girl quickly, almost frantically, pulled the cup and saucer back to cradle her arm. Bethany’s fingers, reddened and trembling, gripped her sleeve tightly as if seeking some relief from the lingering sting. Her discomfort was plain in the way she held her arm close, a faint, involuntary hiss of pain escaping her.

Rhaenyra’s mouth curved upward ever so slightly, her eyes alight with a dark satisfaction. This was the cousin of Alicent Hightower, kin to the family determined to tear down her own. To cause even a fraction of the pain they’d visited upon her was something she relished, if only for this moment. Let her feel it, Rhaenyra thought, a spark of bitter triumph flaring within her. Let her know that in this household, obedience and quite resolve are the only paths to safety.

Rhaenyra barely concealed her disdain, her gaze appraising Bethany as if she were something trivial, of little consequence. She was aware, of course, that Bethany was Alicent’s cousin, though she’d never bothered to spare much thought on the girl. Did you help your father supply armies to oppose my rule? Will you be married off to add yet another army to the Hightower’s forces? she wondered, with a quiet, steely curiosity.

Rhaenura gestured for her to drink and she looked on as Bethany lifted the scalding cup to her lips. Bethany’s hands and arms were flushed a deep red from the heat, though she forced herself to drink, her face contorted with a mixture of pain and defiance.

She settled back, a deceptively warm smile softening her expression. “Since you’ve accepted the task of being a spy, Lady Bethany, I trust you are prepared for any challenges that may arise. As one of my ladies, you’ll receive every necessity. Your dowry will be well managed—an additional two thousand gold dragons, to be precise—enough to settle you well in marriage. My Household will pay for everything you will ever need as long as you're in my service including new dresses, jewels, fine food, and everything in between.” Her gaze was cool and unrelenting as she observed Bethany struggling to hold the cup. “I will alos be the one to arrange your marriage. " she said with a predatory smile as the Hightower girl looked at her with wide eyes. "Perhaps a knight in the City Watch would suit you—two thousand dragons would build a fair keep. A man of the Gold Cloak would surely be satisfied with such a match.”

Lady Bethany’s cheeks colored as she whispered, “My father would never allow that.”

Rhaenyra laughed, a low and mocking sound. “He’ll have no choice, not if you dishonor yourself with one of the knights. There will be no king to shield you from scandal as one shielded your cousin.”

Bethany’s voice trembled, but her words were bold. “My father would not stand by if any harm came to me,” she managed, trying to summon her courage. “He would declare war.”

“Oh, please,” Rhaenyra replied with a languid smile, a hint of something dangerous glinting in her eyes. “I am positively dying for an excuse to burn the Hightower.”

Bethany paled, her defiance crumbling as Rhaenyra’s words settled over her like a heavy cloak.

Rhaenyra’s smile deepened, almost sweet, her tone deceptively light as she added, “Be good, Lady Bethany, and perhaps I will not have you slaughtered in your sleep.”

With that, she left the girl standing alone, helpless and trembling, a fleeting look of satisfaction glimmering on her face as she swept from the room, leaving Lady Bethany to grapple with her fear.

Chapter Text

The King’s eyes narrowed in silent fury, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. "What is the meaning of this disgrace?"

The venom in his tone caught Rhaenyra off-guard, as though the King had already assumed Aegon’s hand in this disruption without a second thought. Had Aegon done something similarly disgraceful before? She had heard no such whispers from the maids loyal to her.

One of the Gold Cloaks—hesitating under the weight of both Aegon’s thrashing and the King’s ire—bowed quickly. “Your Grace, we were tasked with returning the prince to the Holdfast, but… he evaded us.” he admitted, looking sheepish yet resolute in his duty.

Before the King could respond, Queen Alicent swept down from her place, her gaze a mixture of indignation and fierce protectiveness. “Unhand the prince!” she ordered, her voice echoing through the hall, “Why on earth are you parading him through the Red Keep like a common criminal?”

Aegon trashed again spitting on one of the Gold Cloak's face. "I’m not done with my drinks yet!" he cried, his words slurred and stumbling. "I paid for them! You hear me? I already paid!"

After a moment’s hesitation, they loosened their hold on Aegon, only for him to stumble forward, sprawling across the floor. His curses rang out, startlingly crass. "Unhand me! Take me back to the tavern—I paid for a fine lass waiting on me, and I was generous!”

Alicent’s face paled, her mouth opening in horror at her son’s vulgar outburst. “Pick him up,” she commanded sharply, “and escort him to his chambers—now.” The Gold Cloaks’ confusion was palpable as they hesitated, unsure about the conflicting orders.

Rhaenyra almost rolled her eyes at the absurdity. Alicent, the woman Lady Elinda claimed married the King only from dutiful resolve, seemed all too used in wielding her Queenly authority, particularly over those she deemed inferior. That she would be so quick to indulge her son’s every whim, regardless of decorum or duty, was almost laughable.

The King’s voice thundered again, demanding clarity in the growing discord. “Enough. What, precisely, occurred here?”

One of the guards stepped forward again, his face a careful mask of contrition. “Your Grace, the prince was found asleep in the Street of Silk… along with his… companions. They were robbed of coin and jewels, though, save for a few bruises, they appear unharmed. It seems the thieves struck after they were unconscious, taking their pick of valuables.”

Alicent looked as though she might faint. “Then find the robbers at once!”

But the King’s expression turned darker as he addressed the Gold Cloak. “Tell me, what reason could Prince Aegon have for being in the city at this early hour?”

The guard hesitated again, glancing between the King’s hardened gaze and the Queen’s pleading expression. “Your Grace… it is not uncommon for Prince Aegon to frequent the city’s taverns. He… often stays the night in such establishments.”

The King’s face hardened, his jaw tightening. “Then his guard shall be questioned—thoroughly.”

The hall fell silent as he fixed his gaze upon his son, just as Aegon, with all the indignant arrogance of drunken youth, snarled, “Suck my cock! I pay you to suck my cock! And yet here I am, untouched!”

The King's face twisted in fury, and his voice, though quiet, echoed throughout the throne room. “Get this degenerate out of my sight!”

He turned sharply, gesturing for court to be dismissed, his strides purposeful as he stormed from the throne room, leaving a wake of stunned silence behind him. Alicent hovered over Aegon, her face etched with both maternal concern and dread as she watched her son sway in drunken stupor. She hastily instructed the Gold Cloaks to be mindful with him—though she did not linger, swiftly turning to follow her husband, her skirts sweeping after her as she hurried to cathc up to the King's angry steps.

In the silence that followed, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but let a smirk touch her lips. For all Alicent’s proclamations of duty and propriety, it was her own son who had so spectacularly shattered it in one fell swoop.

Lord Corlys’ displeasure was a force unto itself when he learned of Bethany Hightower’s uninvited presence at High Tide. He made no attempt to disguise his ire, muttering his thoughts with that deep, rumbling voice of his, dark eyes gleaming with distrust every time they fell upon the girl. Indeed, he’d half a mind to ship her back to King’s Landing himself were it not for Princess Rhaenys’ gentle intervention, urging him to remember that sending the girl back would, after all, be an affront to the king’s wishes.

Yet Lord Corlys took it upon himself to make her stay as uncomfortable as possible. The girl was under no illusion of welcome; the Sea Snake did not trouble himself to hide his distaste, often scowling at her, loudly instructing his servants to “keep a sharp eye, as there’s a snake in the house.” With Bethany so thoroughly branded, even the household at High Tide gave her a wide berth. And when they ventured out, introducing young Lucerys to the docks and the sailors, the murmurs about her presence spread quickly. Even the smallfolk had felt the chill in the air and, emboldened by the atmosphere, some took to openly taunting her, while others simply snickered as she passed. Soon, Bethany found herself bound to the castle walls, more a caged creature than an honored guest.

Rhaenyra remembered with amusement how Lord Corlys had huffed and puffed, ensuring the Hightower girl had not one but two guards at all times, as though she might otherwise poison the wine at supper or slit throats in the dead of night. So protective was he of his family that the very idea of a Hightower in their midst turned him into a man on edge.

At the welcoming feast, Rhaenyra took her opportunity, leaning close to the Lord of the Tides and lowering her voice. “There is but one solution, my lord, if you truly wish to be rid of her—marry her off without delay.”

Lord Corlys raised a dark eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, to whom? A Qartheen merchant who’ll have her locked up in the hold of his ship? Or perhaps a Braavosi swordsman who’ll lose her in a wager?”

Rhaenyra tilted her head thoughtfully, her gaze lingering on his first mate across the hall—a tall, ruggedly handsome man with a reputation for charm. “What of your own first mate?” she murmured, half-smiling. “He’s the only one who’s shown her a kindness. And he does love to flirt. he's a widower, right”

Corlys let out a rich laugh, shaking his head. “That rascal? My dear, he’s a sailor with a woman in every port from Driftmark to Yiti. Three legitimate sons already, and no shortage of bastards, I daresay.”

“But would he say no to two thousand gold dragons?” she replied, arching an eyebrow, “and her dowry besides?”

Corlys chuckled again, though a little warily. “I doubt the Hightowers would agree to such an arrangement, my princess.”

“Ah, but if she were ruined in front of many witnesses… and if your first mate were gallant enough to marry her regardless?” Her voice was honeyed, and the mischievous gleam in her eye only deepened as she watched Lord Corlys’ expression shift.

For a moment, he looked thoroughly scandalized, but when his gaze drifted to young Luke, who was darting about, breathless and merry, his heart softened. The boy skidded to a halt when he saw Bethany, his little face paling before he bolted off, shouting to his friend Kofi, “We have to get away! The snake is here!” Rhaenyra caught Corlys’ sigh, the slight twitch in his expression as he weighed Luke’s safety against any moral reservations he might have harbored. She suppressed a smirk; she had since learned that Lord Corlys had a weakness, and it was Luke.

Satisfied, she moved the conversation on, allowing the Lord of the Tides time to ruminate. “I’ve just penned a letter to Lord Tully,” she continued lightly, “suggesting a match between Lady Nila Strong and his second son."

Reflecting on her recent, rather confounding conversation with Elinda, Rhaenyra couldn’t shake the thought of Riverrun’s uncertain future. The Elmo Tully of this time had already passed, leaving the Riverlands with a child for an Heir—a boy of only six name days. She knew that Lord Tully’s health had begun to decline even before the onset of war, and Oscar Tully would soon require a firm hand to guide him through his lordship. Who better than his very own Uncle?

"It's an excellent match." Lord Corlys said, his voice measured.

“Oh, quite,” she agreed. “Lord Tully is already old and barely has control over his Lords, with his Heir just a child he will need a strong Regent in place, and I will ensure that regent will be loyal to me.”

She moved on, discussing a similar plan for Lady Selene. “I’m hopeful House Tyrell will receive Lady Selene well.”

The Tyrells were all but useless in the war, blaming it on their lord’s infancy. But the current Lord Tyrell has another unmarried son better suited to act as regent when the time comes. Truly The Riverland and The Reach has the same problem. 

Corlys regarded her, folding his arms as he nodded with a hint of admiration. “You’re clever to secure allegiances now, while so many of them are young and impressionable. Even House Celtigar?”

She nodded with a quiet smile. “Though they may not wield the greatest power, only House Velaryon and the Lannisters outstrip them in wealth. Every noble family can play its part.”

Lord Corlys watched her, the faintest of smiles playing at the corner of his mouth as he considered her maneuverings. Rhaenyra returned his look, her gaze lingering on the hall where Luke and Jace still laughed with their new found friends, safe and happy.

The days that followed were filled with the typical bustle of court life at High Tide, swelled to ten times its usual fervor, though Rhaenyra’s attention was never far from Luke. Her son, the future Lord of the Tides, was paraded before the Driftmark lords and courtiers but it wasn’t just the nobility who sought his attention. Merchants, leaders of the merchant guilds, sailors, shipwrights, and even smallfolk all clamored for a moment with her boy, who seemed to have captivated them all. Luke played his part with cheerful, wide-eyed innocence, and Rhaenyra, ever watchful, ensured that no one dared offer a snide remark about his coloring.

Of course, there was one exception—Vaemond Velaryon, the bitter fool. True to his nature, he couldn't resist a sneering comment, veiled in drunken humor. It was not long after that he stumbled on his way back to Castle Driftmark, breaking both his arm and leg in the fall. And what if Black Trombo might have had a hand in the unfortunate accident? The days had become infinitely more peaceful without Vaemond’s complaining presence. Had it not been for the risk of ruining Luke’s celebration, Vaemond might have ended up with a broken neck instead of just broken limbs.

During this, word had reached her that Bethany Hightower had been spending her time with the Sea Snake’s first mate—the older, dashing sailor with a charming smile that could melt hearts as easily as it sailed ships. In normal circumstances, Rhaenyra knew Bethany would have never deigned to look twice at a mere sailor, but isolation could play tricks on the mind, and the man was devilishly handsome. Even better, he seemed to be the only one not casting Bethany withering glances.

Rhaenyra could see the allure. She herself had no patience for Bethany Hightower’s presence, nor any desire to worry about the girl hovering about her children. Whatever it was Lord Corlys had told his first mate, Rhaenyra trusted he’d do his job well. With Bethany otherwise occupied, she allowed herself a brief respite from concern over the girl.

Her attention, however, returned sharply to Luke as she saw him bend down in the muddy, grimy stretch of land they were currently traversing. He was grinning widely, picking up something that made Rhaenyra wrinkle her nose in distaste. What on earth could that be? It looked as though Luke had found some treasure from the dirt—perhaps shells, or something worse—and he presented his find to Lord Corlys, who nodded approvingly before Luke gleefully dropped it into a bucket.

Trailing behind, Jace dutifully followed his younger brother, carrying the bucket and—thank the gods—not getting his hands dirty, though his boots and breeches had already suffered greatly. Rhaenyra held her tongue, maintaining a smile on her face, though it was beginning to feel brittle.

“Why are we here?” she asked Laenor with the faintest edge of exasperation.

She glanced back toward her ladies-in-waiting, who were safely ensconced in a tent nearby, clean and far from the harsh winds and glaring sun. The spoiled chits had refused to join the family, fearing for their dresses and hair. Rhaenyra couldn’t blame them for that.

“Laenor?” she pressed, her smile still in place but barely.

Her husband rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Luke needs to see how the people of Driftmark live, how they gather their food. It's important he understands the land and its people.”

“Food?” she asked, her voice rising slightly with horror as her gaze swept over the muddy expanse. “From this… place?”

The revulsion on her face was impossible to hide. She didn’t care to mask it either. Laenor, for his part, only chuckled.

“The smallfolk often collect mollusks here,” he explained, waving a hand at the mudflats. “Clams, oysters, mussels. Crabs and shrimp, even seaweed. Many get their food in places like this.”

She shuddered, her stomach turning at the thought. “Luke will not be eating anything from here, thank you very much.” she said haughtily, her voice sharp as a blade.

Laenor only smiled, shaking his head. “No, no, our boy won’t be eating it. He’s going to give what he gathers to the children with him.” His tone was patient, as though she were a child herself. “But Father wants Luke to learn about all aspects of Driftmark—how the smallfolk survive, not just the bustling markets and shipyards, but this as well.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze narrowed as she watched her son, muddy boots sinking into the wet ground, collecting more of whatever it was he’d found. “This is madness,” she muttered under her breath, but louder, she said, “You’re telling me Corlys wants to raise our son in the muck?”

Laenor laughed, though it was a bit strained now. “Father thinks it might be time for Luke to foster at High Tide. Not now, of course,” he added quickly, seeing the flash of anger in her eyes. “He’s still practically a babe.”

“N.,” Rhaenyra snapped, her voice firm. “Absolutely not. We will visit often, of course, so he can learn from your father. But I will not have Luke here alone—not with your mother.” Her voice was ice, the bitterness clear in her eyes.

Laenor's expression shifted, and she could see the hurt flash through him, though he tried to hide it. The laugh he’d been holding onto died on his lips. He cleared his throat, the tension palpable between them now. “My mother has no ill will toward Luke—”

“I do not trust her,” Rhaenyra interrupted, her voice low, fierce. “Not with my child.”

That silenced him. For a long moment, Laenor said nothing, his eyes dark and stormy. He knew, as she did, that her mistrust of Princess Rhaenys was not unfounded. The tension between the two women was no secret and she would not have Princess Rhaenys have unlimited access to her child that she knows the old woman loathes.

She watched Luke in the distance, unaware of the storm raging between his parents. The boy bent down again, scooping up yet another muddy treasure, laughing as he ran toward his grandfather. Rhaenyra held her ground, unwilling to let go. She’d lost Luke once before; she would not lose him again especially to the Velaryons who’s loyalty is shifty.

The weeks at High Tide passed in a whirl of courtly games and veiled ambition, with far too many nobles vying for her favor—and for that of young Luke. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smirk at the parade of sycophants, all trying to ingratiate themselves with her son. Though tedious, it provided her with endless amusement, and it seemed the Velaryon vaults had felt the impact of their stay. She had spared no expense in acquiring swathes of the finest silks and lace, adorning herself and her ladies in the most opulent fabrics available. Why shouldn’t she? What was the use of being wed to the son of the richest man in Westeros if she could not indulge?

Luke and Jace, too, had taken full advantage of their time in Driftmark’s bustling Spice Town. Each visit had yielded a small treasure—trinkets or toys, no doubt, from one of the many vibrant stalls. If her boys were not spoiled, they certainly were on the verge, and she saw no reason to deny them these little luxuries. Lord Corlys, for his part, seemed content—perhaps even amused—by it all, doting on his grandchildren without the slightest hint of displeasure.

That was something Rhaenyra found perplexing. Truly, she didn’t understand this man. By all rights, Lord Corlys Velaryon had every reason to rebuke her sons. They were not his blood—at least, not in any way that mattered. The world knew this; even Princess Rhaenys had made her disdain known. And yet, Lord Corlys treated Luke and Jace—and even little Joffrey—as if they were his own. She had been watching him carefully, studying his every move, expecting to catch a glimpse of resentment or reluctance. But there was none.

It was most curious.

With Jace and Joffrey—there was a natural warmth there, and the Sea Snake had always been fond of Jace, who carried himself with the poise and strength of a future king and is already showing his affinity to Joffrey. But Luke? There was something more. A softness, a tenderness, that Corlys reserved solely for her second son. Perhaps it was because Luke would one day be Lord of Driftmark, destined to take Corlys’s place, and the Sea Snake was grooming him for it. Yet, even that didn’t quite explain the bond between them. There was genuine affection, something that went beyond duty and legacy. Dare she say it, she thinks Lord Corlys genuine loves Luke.

In her own time, Rhaenyra remembered how staunchly Lord Corlys had supported her, even when the realm had turned against her. He had been her fiercest ally, her unwavering champion—until Luke’s death. That was when everything had unraveled. After Rhaenys had fallen, everything had gone to ruin, as if the heart had been torn from the Velaryon house. The alliance between their families had withered, and Rhaenyra had been too weary to fight him. She had agreed to legitimize Laenor’s bastards, a concession that had gnawed at her pride, but she had been too drained to do otherwise.

Even if it meant letting Driftmark slip through her fingers.

It should have gone to Joffrey—by rights, by blood—but she had surrendered the claim. It hadn’t mattered, not then. Not when everything had fallen apart. When Jace and Joffrey were taken from her, Lord Corlys had betrayed her too, his loyalty shifting like the tides, leaving her adrift in her grief.

And now? Now she was left to wonder what tethered him so strongly to Luke, a boy who wasn’t truly his grandson, not by blood. Was it simply the mantle of heirship, or was it something deeper? Rhaenyra wasn’t sure, and the confusion gnawed at her. But in the end, she found that she didn’t care.

She would not lose Luke. Not this time. And if Lord Corlys's loyalty was bound to her son, then that was enough. Driftmark would remain tied to her cause, and so would the Sea Snake, fickle as his loyalty may be.

Let him dote on Luke, let him pour his affection into a child who would never truly be his blood. As long as it kept Driftmark secure in her grasp, she would allow it. She had learned, painfully, that loyalty in Westeros was as fleeting as the wind, and she would not make the same mistakes again.

Not with Luke. Not with her son.

Driftmark, and everything tied to it, would be his. Forever.

Three weeks into their stay at Driftmark, the noble visitors and sycophants had finally departed, leaving the castle in a blissful, if fleeting, peace. Rhaenyra found herself momentarily grateful for the quiet—until, of course, a page informed her that Lord Corlys Velaryon had requested her presence in his solar. She nearly retorted, suggesting that the Sea Snake schedule an appointment like any other common noble instead of summoning her as if she were one of his sailors. But instead, she merely waved the boy off with a graceful flick of her hand.

“Lady Selene,” she called, turning toward her closest attendant, “assist me with my outerrobe.”

In King’s Landing, Rhaenyra was accustomed to lighter, more revealing gowns—sleeveless, with thin straps, and robes made of airy silks that allowed for the sweltering southern heat. But High Tide was different. The salt-tinged breeze that swept over the island carried a biting chill, even in summer. Here, she was thankful for the heavy fabrics she had insisted on packing for herself and her ladies.

Jace and Luke, mercifully, were occupied with Archmaester Vaegon and his acolytes. The Archmaester had traveled with them to ensure their education was not neglected, and with Vaegon’s stern presence, Rhaenyra had no doubt her sons were focused on their lessons. Alicnet had demanded the Archmaester stay to teach her own son and she happily informed her that the Archmaester were brough to the Capital to teach the Heirs of the Blood of the Dragon not some Prince who is so far down the line of succession to be of any importance. That had shut her up but it did not temper the bitterness in her eyes.

She smiled softly at Joffrey, who babbled happily in her arms, planting a few gentle kisses along his neck, relishing the sound of his giggles. With a final glance at him, she handed the child off to Lady Elinda, who cooed at the boy as she took him.

With Lady Selene and Anella by her side, Rhaenyra made her way to the Sea Snake’s solar, her outer robe swaying with each step. The halls of High Tide were a marvel, a testament to Lord Corlys’s wealth and grandeur. The castle itself was a masterpiece of white stone, its walls bright and pristine, but it was the artwork that truly astonished her. Each wall was adorned with vibrant murals painted in striking colors that seemed to shimmer under the candlelight, as though crushed pearls had been mixed into the paint. Rhaenyra wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case—Lord Corlys was rich enough for such extravagances.

Everywhere she looked, there were carvings of sea creatures—whales, dolphins, and seahorses, the latter of which featured prominently, as was to be expected. And there, in pride of place, were treasures from the Sea Snake’s travels: an intricate Lysene tapestry depicting a fleet of ships caught in a storm, the sea churned into a frenzy by some unseen force, and a dazzling orb from Qarth made of stained glass, said to show the constellations in the night sky when the light hit it just right.

High Tide, with its wealth and artistry, was one of the most beautiful castles Rhaenyra had ever seen. It was a fitting home for a man who is one of the greatest sailor in the world.

When they finally arrived at Lord Corlys’s solar, Rhaenyra’s brow arched as she took in the scene before her. Lady Bethany Hightower and the Sea Snake’s first mate were already present—and both in a state of utter disarray. Lady Bethany looked as though she had been crying, her eyes red and puffy, and her gown was a disgrace. The bodice hadn’t been laced properly, and one of the straps had slipped off her shoulder, revealing far more than was appropriate for a lady of her station. Meanwhile, the first mate was clearly nursing a hangover, his glassy eyes squinting at them as though the sunlight were too harsh, and the unmistakable stench of wine clung to him like a second skin.

Rhaenyra could hear the exaggerated gasps from Lady Selene and Anella, their heads dipping together as they whispered furiously, no doubt exchanging scandalized remarks about the disheveled pair before them. They threw furtive glances at Lady Bethany, their whispers growing more rapid, until Rhaenyra shot them a sharp look that silenced their gossiping at once.

“Lord Corlys,” she began, her voice cool as her eyes swept over the room, “why have I been summoned?”

She was irritated, her patience already wearing thin. Lord Corlys had summoned her from her peace and quiet for this? A weeping Lady Bethany and a drunken sailor? It hardly seemed worth her time.

The Lord of the Tides, seated behind his great wooden desk, rose to meet her. His expression was uncharacteristically solemn, a sign that whatever this was, it was not a matter he took lightly.

“My apologies, Princess,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of his many years at sea. “But this matter is both sensitive and urgent.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest as she studied him. She did not like being summoned like this, and she liked it even less when the reason for it was cloaked in mystery. Still, she inclined her head slightly, signaling for him to continue.

“Very well,” she said, her tone still laced with irritation. “Speak. What is this urgent matter you wish to discuss?”

As Lord Corlys began recounting the events that led to this rather disheveled assembly, Rhaenyra could barely contain her disdain. His nephews, it seemed, had discovered Lady Bethany and Nero, his first mate, asleep in the stables—in a most compromising position. To make matters worse, the scene had gathered the attention of several knights and servants in the courtyard, before a more sensible servant had the mind to usher the pair into Lord Corlys’s solar, away from further scandal.

Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a mocking smile as she glanced over at the tear-streaked face of Lady Bethany, who looked entirely undone. Her gown remained improperly laced, one shoulder still bared, a stark contrast to her usual prim appearance. With a slow, deliberate drawl, Rhaenyra spoke, her words cutting through the air like a blade.

“Well, I cannot say I’m surprised. Hightower women have always been known to be rather… loose with their affections,” she said, her tone dripping with disdain. “Always so eager to capture the attention of widowers, no matter the means.” Her eyes flicked to Nero, whose wife, Rhaenyra recalled, had passed in childbirth only recently. She raised a brow, letting the insinuation linger. “Not that it seems to have grieved him much.”

Lady Bethany stammered, her voice barely a whisper as she tried to explain. “I-I don’t remember what happened. We were drunk, yes, but I am not a loose woman.”

Before Rhaenyra could respond, Lord Corlys snapped, his patience evidently fraying. “Were you taken advantage of, Lady Bethany?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp, as if daring her to say yes.

At that, Nero seemed to shake off the fog of his hangover, sitting up straighter. “Taken advantage of?” he scoffed, his Lysene accent still thick despite his years in Westeros. “The lady came willingly. I don’t need to force myself on anyone, least of all someone as plain-looking as her.”

Rhaenyra arched a brow at the man’s brazenness. Nero, with his striking silver hair and piercing blue eyes, was undoubtedly handsome in that exotic Lysene way, but his words were crude. Lady Bethany let out a fresh sob, clutching her gown, looking thoroughly mortified.

“I... I don’t remember.” she whimpered, her voice trembling as more tears fell.

Rhaenyra, utterly unimpressed, rolled her eyes. With a sigh, she sank into one of the plush chairs, its padding enveloping her in comfort as she crossed her legs elegantly. She eyed Lady Bethany with barely concealed contempt.

“You are not only useless as a lady-in-waiting, failing to assist with even the most basic tasks in my household,” Rhaenyra began, her voice as sharp as the winter winds, “but now you’ve managed to disgrace yourself entirely. Perhaps I should send you back to the Red Keep. I’m certain the Queen would be delighted to hear of your transgressions.” Her lips curved into a vicious smile. “Perhaps she’ll even send you to the Silent Sisters—your newfound piety would suit their company, I think.”

Lady Bethany’s face drained of color, her eyes wide with panic. “No! Please, Princess, not the Silent Sisters!” she cried, her voice breaking as she clasped her hands in front of her, pleading.

Rhaenyra raised an imperious brow, watching the girl scramble before continuing, her tone as cold as the halls of Winterfell. “I will not tolerate a loose woman in my service. I shall send you to Oldtown, to your father. He can sort you out. I imagine there are a few aging lords eager to get their hands on your dowry. Or perhaps your father can marry you off to some hedge knight—he could gift him a small keep as a reward for taking you off his hands.”

Lady Bethany paled further, her breath coming in short gasps as she realized the gravity of her situation. But then, in a moment of desperation, she blurted out, “I love him! I... I want to marry him!”

The room fell silent, save for the faint crackle of the fire. Rhaenyra blinked, astonished by the absurdity of the girl's words. Love? Surely, Lady Bethany could not be so naive as to believe Nero—a man twice her age and more worldly than she could ever imagine—was in love with her. The very thought was laughable.

Lord Corlys, ever the pragmatist, looked to his first mate. “Nero,” he began, his voice heavy with both authority and resignation, “do you wish to marry the girl?”

Nero shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a nonchalance that bordered on cruel. “S'alright, I guess.” he said, as though agreeing to marry her was as casual as accepting a drink at a tavern.

Lady Bethany’s face lit up, her eyes shining with hope as she reached for Nero’s hand, grasping it as though he had just offered her the stars themselves. Her expression—scrunched up in disbelief, relief, and adoration—was nothing short of tragic. Rhaenyra watched her with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. This girl truly believes that an older, well-traveled man like Nero would love her?

Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head ever so slightly. She could hardly believe it. But then again, Lady Bethany’s naivety was no different from the foolishness Alicent had displayed in her youth. Though time and experience had hardened Alicent, turning her from naive to poisonous, Rhaenyra supposed Bethany had been raised in the same southern courtly ideals of chivalry and romance, shielded by her brothers from the harsher realities of the world. It was little wonder the foolish girl was so hopelessly blind to the situation she had found herself in.

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed as she considered the girl's fate. Oh, she would make certain that Lady Bethany’s downfall was seen as a product of Alicent’s influence. After all, isn't she just following her cousin's fate of climbing a widower's bed? Although this one is no King, he certainly has the looks for it if one will disregard his uncouth manners. 

With a cold smile, Rhaenyra settled back in her chair, already plotting how this scandal could be used to her advantage. Lady Bethany’s fate was sealed, and it was only a matter of time before the court would see this as yet another failure of Alicent Hightower.

The wedding of Lady Bethany Hightower and Nero of Lys was a rushed affair, hastened by the urgency of salvaging what little dignity remained after the scandal that had engulfed High Tide. As soon as Rhaenyra had penned the letters to the Red Keep and the Hightower, the wheels were set in motion.

The letter to Lord Hightower had been couched in politeness, as delicate as a lace doily. Rhaenyra had spun a tale of love—Lady Bethany had fallen hopelessly in love with Nero, the man of her dreams, and had insisted on wedding him with all the fervor of a romantic heroine. The missive spoke of how the young lady was determined to follow her heart, even if it led her far from home. She even included a personal letter from Lady Bethany who waxed poetics about how handsome her new husband is. A diplomatic touch, one designed to soothe the proud sensibilities of Oldtown.

But the letter to Queen Alicent was anything but cordial. It was sharp, almost venomous, with Rhaenyra scarcely hiding her disdain. She wasted no time in accusing the Queen of placing a spy in High Tide. The thinly veiled suggestion that Lady Bethany’s presence had been a deliberate intrusion into her household, with the intention of reporting back to Alicent, dripped from every word. ‘You shall be pleased to know,’ Rhaenyra had written, ‘that your cousin will soon be shipped off to a city in Essos, far from Driftmark, and far from my sight. You should be more careful with your pawns, lest they lose themselves in scandals'. The final insult, designed to sting.

Lord Corlys, ever the tactician, had informed her soon after that Nero had requested leave to sail for Lys immediately after the wedding. He intended to deposit his new bride at his keep there before returning to his duties. Rhaenyra could not have been more delighted by the prospect—Lys was far, and the sooner Lady Bethany was out of her sight, the better.

Rhaenyra wasted no time in sending another letter, this one to her father, the King. She knew precisely how to wield her words to sting and guilt him in equal measure. ‘I cannot express how mortified I am,’ she wrote, her tone laden with reproach, ‘that the lady you shackled to my household has disgraced herself so thoroughly before the Court of High Tide. The entire isle bears witness to her shame. I trust you will refrain from further meddling in my household affairs on behalf of your Queen, for I will not be taking any more of your suggestions in the future.’ The message was clear—his meddling had caused this embarrassment, and she would not tolerate it again.

The ceremony itself was a far cry from the grand affair Lady Bethany had undoubtedly envisioned for herself. High Tide’s castellan had summoned a septon to perform the rites, and the wedding took place in a small, cold chamber within the castle. The bride had tried to decline at first, teary-eyed and desperate. She had dreamed of a large wedding, with her family present and the splendor she had always been promised. But one sharp comment from Rhaenyra—that her family would likely refuse the match, sending her back to Oldtown to be pawned off to some aging lord in need of a young wife—was enough to change her mind. With that, Lady Bethany had resigned herself to her fate, her dreams of a grand wedding dashed, and the small ceremony went ahead.

Rhaenyra took no small pleasure in watching the newlywed couple sail away from High Tide. Bethany’s face had held a look of naïve joy as she clung to Nero’s arm, utterly blind to the fact that her new husband regarded her as little more than a burden. Nero, with his silver hair glinting in the sunlight, was cool and detached, the picture of Lysene beauty and indifference.

Her part of Bethany’s dowry—two thousand gold dragons—had been provided by Lord Corlys himself, a sum Rhaenyra had promised to repay upon her return to the Red Keep. But Corlys had only waved her off, as if the money were inconsequential. The Sea Snake, for all his wealth and titles, was simply pleased to have rid his household of the girl, especially since Luke had never warmed to her presence. Luke had even been delighted when told that the Lady will be going away, he sighed in relief as if he was really burdened with her presence which only cemented the righteousness of Lord Corlys’ part in Bethany Hightower’s downfall in his mind.

As for Princess Rhaenys, her expression had been a mask of tight-lipped disapproval throughout the entire affair. Her mouth pinched into a thin line, she had offered no comment, though her lack of interest in Lady Bethany was plain to see. In truth, none of them cared about the girl—except, perhaps, for Rhaenyra, but only in that she cared deeply for the opportunity to rid herself of another Hightower thorn in her side.

With Lady Bethany gone, the halls of High Tide felt lighter, the air clearer. It was a fitting conclusion to a sordid tale, and Rhaenyra could not have been more pleased with how things had turned out.

Rhaenyra kept a sharp eye on Jace and Luke as they flitted from one stall to the next, their youthful energy far more suited to the crowded chaos of Spicetown than her own mood. She did not understand the boys' fascination with these merchant fairs, especially since they had already attended a handful since arriving at High Tide. Merchants from all corners of the world set up their colorful stalls, showing off wares and treasures to entice potential buyers, and from what she had gathered, this was how they courted Lord Corlys’ favor. Each merchant hoped to persuade the Sea Snake to buy from their guild, offering the finest goods in exchange for his patronage. How that worked in detail, Rhaenyra did not know, nor did she care to. It was an annoyance, having to walk through the bustle of Spicetown alongside commonfolk, feeling the press of the crowd and the dust underfoot.

She smiled at her sons, though it was not a genuine smile. It was the sort of smile one wore out of duty, all grace and no warmth. They were enthralled by the rows of leathers at one of the booths, exclaiming over the various textures and finishes. Jace reached for a sleek, glossy hide and asked the merchant about seal skins. “Water repellent, my prince,” the man said with an eager bow. Jace’s eyes lit up as he turned to his mother. “It’ll be good to wear when we fly in the rain.”

Luke, not to be outdone, tugged at another piece of leather—a supple, dark brown hide that felt almost like silk to the touch. “I’ll take one too,” he said with a grin. “I’m always surrounded by water, after all.”

Their excitement brought a small flicker of amusement to Rhaenyra’s face, though her gaze soon shifted back to Laenor and Ser Qarl, whose raucous laughter cut through the market’s din. She glanced toward a stall selling roasted nuts, where Laenor had one arm draped lazily around Qarl’s shoulder, while the knight’s hand rested comfortably on Laenor’s hip. They looked utterly carefree, as if the world around them did not exist, their mirth shared only between themselves. Rhaenyra’s lips thinned into a line of disdain as she rolled her eyes. How public they were, how careless in displaying their affections for all to see.

Lord Corlys, not far from them, did not appear pleased either. He paid for the boys’ leathers, his expression drawn tight with the same pinched look he had worn when Ser Harwin Strong had stepped off the ship with them. He was no fool—he knew well enough the whispers surrounding Ser Harwin, even if from what she knows Rhaenyra herself had always kept her distance in public. At least she had the sense not to allow Harwin to paw at her in full view of the court, unlike Laenor, who paraded his paramour shamelessly around High Tide.

The Velaryons, for all their grandeur and wealth, had raised their heir to be so politically inept, Rhaenyra mused, with more than a touch of bitterness. And yet they had the audacity to be bitter themselves, over being passed over for the Crown. As if the Great Council’s decision could have solved their problems. Had Rhaenys been chosen as queen, she doubted things would be much different. Laena, with her difficulties in childbirth, and Laenor, with his preferences, would have led to the same succession crisis. In the end, it would still be her children sitting upon the Iron Throne, if not as monarchs, then certainly as consorts.

She turned back to her sons just in time to see Luke reaching out toward something particularly unsavory. His small hand was poised to poke at a jellied octopus eye—a wobbling, translucent thing from the markets of Mereen, preserved in thick jelly. Before he could make contact, she gently tugged his hand away. “Perhaps you might choose something less… gross.” she suggested, her voice soft but firm. She did not release his hand as they moved on, keeping a steady hold of him while her other arm draped protectively around Jace’s shoulders.

As they continued through the marketplace, Rhaenyra kept her sons close, the future of their House walking beside her while the past loomed behind her, caught in the tangled web of Velaryon pride and Targaryen ambition.

Lord Corlys led them through the vibrant market, his sharp eyes ever watchful as he guided them towards a stall that caught his attention. It was a bright and inviting little stand, where colorful fruits—melons, pomegranates, and figs—were neatly threaded on skewers. The merchant, with a broad smile and eager hands, held one out as an example, explaining, “These are fruit skewers, my Princes—fresh, healthy, and popular in Braavos and Myr. Perfect for a light snack, especially for children with a sweet tooth, and a treat that’s as fun to eat as it is refreshing.”

Jace’s eyes lit up with excitement as he eagerly reached for one of the skewers. “May I try it?” he asked, his enthusiasm bubbling over. He bit into the juicy melon, the sweetness making him grin.

Luke, however, seemed far more captivated by another delicacy. His attention had been drawn to the nearby stall, where the aroma of fried dough filled the air. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the light, golden dough balls sprinkled with powdered sugar.

“Ah,” Lord Corlys said, a smile tugging at his lips, “those are fried dough balls—light and fluffy, fried until golden and dusted with sugar. They’re quite popular in Qohor, sold in market squares there.” He chuckled as Luke’s eyes widened, his interest clearly piqued.

Luke wasted no time, tearing a piece off one of the dough balls and offering it to Rhaenyra. She accepted it gratefully, the sweet warmth of it melting on her tongue. “Mmm,” she praised, smiling down at her youngest son. “I’ll make sure our cook learns how to make these.” she added, and Luke’s face lit up with joy, clearly proud of his discovery.

Lord Corlys raised a brow, his tone playfully indulgent. “If you’d like, Princess, I could hire a cook from the Free Cities to expand the young Princes' palate. There’s much more the world has to offer than what we’ve here. I hear the King’s other children can’t even tolerate spices.”

Jace laughed, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Oh, once we had grilled sausages with fiery peppers from Dorne, and Uncle Aegon was in the privy the whole day!” he recalled with a grin.

Luke snickered, clearly remembering the event fondly. “I want to eat that again!” he declared.

Lord Corlys smirked. “Then I’ll make sure the cook knows exactly how to prepare it, my little Princes.”

The afternoon passed in a whirl of chatter, laughter, and the clamor of the market. They talked to merchants, bought small trinkets and goods, and sampled more foods, the sun slowly sinking towards the horizon. When the day began to wane, Lord Corlys called for their carriage to take them back to High Tide.

By the time they climbed into the carriage, the sunset painted the sky in hues of gold and purple. Princess Rhaenys had joined them for the ride back, though Rhaenyra had all but forgotten she was there, so adept was Rhaenys at keeping herself out of their way. Rhaenyra appreciated it, if she were being honest. She had no desire to spend more time than necessary around Rhaenys’ perpetually pinched expression—lest she be tempted to claw the older woman's eyes out entirely.

They settled in for the ride, the carriage creaking as it set off. Luke, exhausted from the day’s excitement, leaned heavily against Lord Corlys, his small head resting on the Sea Snake’s chest, while Jace sat beside Rhaenyra, his eyes drooping. She gently put his head onto her shoulder, letting him know it was all right to relax.

Laenor had wanted to stay behind in Spicetown with his companions, but a single bark from Lord Corlys had sent him riding alongside them, his friends following in reluctant silence. The carriage groaned as Kofi, the giant of a man who served as their constant shadow, rode atop, keeping his vigilant watch. Rhaenyra had long since stopped questioning the way he managed to stay near his charges, his presence as constant as the tide itself.

The road from Spicetown to High Tide was short but rough and narrow. As the wheels jostled over the uneven path, Rhaenyra turned to Lord Corlys. “It might be worth improving the roads around High Tide,” she suggested lightly. “It would make it easier for merchants to move their wares.”

Princess Rhaenys scoffed from her seat. “The island is small,” she said, dismissively. “There’s hardly a need for larger roads.”

Rhaenyra shrugged, her lips curving in a faint smile. If this woman had become queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she mused silently, perhaps the realm would still be the same, with no improvements at all. For all her intelligence, Rhaenys did little with it. She was raised as her father’s heir, but all she seemed to do now was ensure that the wealth Lord Corlys brought home was stored properly. Rhaenyra had seen little evidence of any improvement in Driftmark—just another island, like so many others. But perhaps the reason for that is because she is not Queen, might be Princess Rhaenys had deliberately shrugged off all lessons from her father as it obviously would not serve her now.

The carriage came to a sudden, jarring stop, causing the horses to neigh and stomp in protest. The abrupt halt was enough to send Rhaenyra’s heart racing. She dug her foot into the floor in front of her, her right arm curling protectively around Jace’s shoulder, while her left hand pressed firmly against Luke’s chest. She held them close, preventing her children from being flung forward onto the floor.

Lord Corlys cursed under his breath, his palm slamming against the side of the carriage with a loud thud, clearly displeased at almost being thrown from his seat. Princess Rhaenys, ever composed, had steadied herself with both hands braced against the carriage walls, her sharp gaze already darting towards the source of the disturbance.

Outside, they heard the carter call out with authority, his voice clear and commanding. “The carriage carries Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Driftmark! Clear the road!”

But instead of a swift resolution, there were murmurs—dark, unsettling—and then the unmistakable sound of swords being drawn. The air crackled with tension, and in an instant, Luke launched himself into Rhaenyra’s arms, trembling as he buried his face in her gown. She hugged him tightly, whispering soothing words, though her own fear gnawed at the edges of her composure. Jace placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, pressing his face into Rhaenyra’s other side, seeking comfort just as much as offering it.

Lord Corlys moved swiftly, standing to his full height within the confines of the carriage and reaching for Princess Rhaenys, depositing her beside them with a firm hand. Then, without hesitation, he placed himself before the door, peering out through the small crack. But the sharp thud of arrows embedding themselves into the wooden sides of the carriage made him recoil.

Above them, the carriage shook as Kofi, their ever-watchful protector, moved atop it. The distinct whoosh of his staff slicing through the air could be heard, followed by the sickening sound of bodies hitting the ground. Rhaenyra flinched at each noise, her heart pounding in her chest. From outside, Ser Erryk and Ser Steffon’s voices rang out, commanding their men, their words drowned by the chaos of battle.

“Muña!” Luke whimpered, his voice small and fearful against her chest.

“Hush, sweetling,” Rhaenyra whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, trying to sound braver than she felt. “Everything will be fine, I promise.”

Suddenly, the sound of movement behind the carriage made her stiffen, her body going rigid with fear. She held her breath, unsure of what might come next. But then, the familiar voice of Black Trombo cut through the tension like a knife, his words stern. “Do not open the door or the windows. Keep them closed, Your Grace!.”

Rhaenyra exhaled in relief, turning back to her children. “You see? Our guards are excellent.” she reassured them, rocking Luke gently in her arms, her hand smoothing over Jace’s curls in a soothing rhythm.

The commotion outside grew louder as more men approached, their shouts rising above the din. “Protect Lord Corlys! Protect Lord Laenor! Protect Lord Lucerys!” It seemed men from Spicetown had arrived to their aid, though the clashing of steel and grunts of effort continued.

All the while, Rhaenyra held her boys close, her pulse racing, trying to remain calm as the sounds of fighting carried on just outside the carriage walls. Each shout, each clash of swords sent a fresh wave of terror through her. She focused on the weight of her children in her arms, the warmth of them, grounding herself in their presence. It was all she could do to keep her fear at bay, to keep her mind from imagining the worst.

The skirmish dragged on, each moment stretching out painfully. Then, finally, the chaos began to die down, the noise ebbing away into an eerie silence. For a brief moment, all that could be heard was the distant whimper of the horses and the heavy breathing of men.

A string of curses—both in the common tongue and Myrish—rang out from Black Trombo, breaking the stillness. Rhaenyra's grip on her children tightened, a knot of dread twisting in her stomach. From the silence emerged the sharp, heart-wrenching scream of a man, a sound so primal and filled with pain that it sent a chill down her spine.

Lord Corlys flung open the carriage door and stepped outside, his expression grim. Before Rhaenyra could ask what had happened, he shut the door firmly behind him. The carriage jerked once more as Kofi descended from the roof, his heavy footsteps thudding to the ground. And then, a cry of pain—this time from Lord Corlys himself.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat, and before she could process what was happening, Princess Rhaenys flung open the carriage door. She stood there for a moment, frozen, her usual calm façade slipping as shock registered on her face. Without another word, she climbed out, her steps unsteady as she moved towards the scene outside.

Rhaenyra’s heart pounded in her chest. Her children clung to her, their small bodies pressed close, trembling. She held them tighter, whispering quiet reassurances, though her mind raced with fear.

The moment Princess Rhaenys cried out a choked “Laenor!” the world seemed to shatter around them. Rhaenyra barely had time to process it before Luke, her sweet, innocent Luke, was bolting from the carriage.

“No, Luke! Come back!” she screamed, her voice breaking, her arm outstretched to snatch his hand, but he moved too quickly, too desperately. Jace was already after him, shouting his brother's name, his voice filled with panic.

Rhaenyra tried to stand, but her knees betrayed her, trembling so violently that she nearly collapsed back onto the seat. Fear coursed through her, turning her limbs to lead. Her children were running towards danger, and she felt utterly powerless. Ser Harwin appeared at her side, his strong arm slipping beneath hers to help her to her feet. As she steadied herself against him, her eyes fell to his left arm, blood dripping down from a deep wound.

“Ser HArwin, you’re hurt—”

“It’s nothing, Your Grace.” he grunted, his face grim as he led her from the carriage. “We must see to Lord Laenor.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. Laenor.

She stepped out into the chaos, and her heart sank. There, on the ground, lay Laenor—her husband, the father of her children—his body soaked in blood. A blade had slipped between his ribs, angled cruelly upwards, piercing deep into his abdomen. His armor had failed to protect him from such a blow.

Lord Corlys knelt beside him, cradling his son’s head in his lap, his face streaked with tears. The great Sea Snake, who had braved so many storms, was broken, his shoulders shaking with grief. Princess Rhaenys pressed her hands desperately against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but the blood continued to seep through her fingers. Her eyes were wide with panic, her lips trembling as she whispered pleas to the gods, her hands slipping on the slick crimson.

“Please, please, stay with us, Laenor.” Rhaenys murmured, her voice barely audible over the chaos.

Rhaenyra’s heart twisted painfully at the sight. Laenor—so full of life, so full of love for their children—now pale, his blood staining the earth beneath him. Her gaze swept over the scene, taking in the devastation. Not one of their guards was unscathed. Ser Erryk leaned heavily on his sword, blood trickling down his temple. Black Trombo had an arrow lodged in his shoulder, his face contorted in pain as he barked orders. Kofi stood nearby, his arms and legs covered in cuts, his blood mingling with the fallen. Even Ser Steffon, her ever-dependable protector, was bleeding from a head wound.

Luke was kneeling beside Laenor, his small hands trembling as he reached for his father’s arm, tears streaming down his cheeks. His voice, broken and desperate, echoed through the courtyard. “Papa, please! Please wake up!”

Jace stood beside him, his voice firm but frantic as he barked orders to the guards. “Get the maesters from High Tide! Now!”

Rhaenyra’s legs nearly gave out beneath her, but she forced herself to move. Slowly, as if in a dream, she walked towards them, her heart pounding so hard she could barely breathe. She knelt beside Laenor, her hands reaching for Luke, pulling him close. He collapsed into her embrace, his small body trembling with sobs. Jace, ever the protector, sat beside her, his face buried in her sleeve, his shoulders shaking as he fought to hold back his tears.

Rhaenyra looked at Laenor, his face growing paler by the second, his breath labored. She could see the desperation in his eyes, the realization that this might be the end.

Princess Rhaenys was frantically pressing her hands against the wound, her tears falling freely now. Lord Corlys demanded to know who had done this, his voice raw with grief and fury.

“Who were those men?” he growled, his eyes wild as he turned to Ser Harwin, who was struggling to remain upright.

“We subdued two of them.” Ser Harwin replied, his voice thick with exhaustion. “The rest are dead.”

“We will get to the bottom of this, my lord,” Ser Steffon added, despite the blood that ran down the side of his head.

But Rhaenyra could barely focus on their words. All she could hear was Laenor’s ragged breathing, the gurgling sound of blood filling his lungs. He tried to speak, his voice barely a whisper. “My children…” His eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as he struggled to get the words out. “My children…”

“Papa,” Luke cried, his small hands reaching for Laenor’s face. “Please, Papa, the bad men are all dead! You’ll be okay, the maesters are coming!”

Laenor’s hand trembled as he tried to lift it, reaching for his sons, but he was too weak. Jace took his father’s hand in his own, holding it tightly, his voice breaking as he whispered, “We’re here, Papa. We’re here.”

Laenor’s eyes, filled with pain and fear, flickered towards Princess Rhaenys. She was sobbing now, her hands slick with his blood, her face a mask of despair. His lips trembled as he whispered again, “My children… Jace, Luke… Joff… please protect them.”

Lord Corlys, his voice thick with emotion, bent closer to his son. “They will always be protected, Laenor. I swear it.”

But Laenor’s gaze never left his mother. “Mother… please…” he gasped, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. “Promise me… my children…”

Princess Rhaenys, her face streaked with tears, nodded, her voice breaking as she swore. “I will protect them, Laenor. I swear on Meleys, I will always protect them.”

Laenor’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, a look of peace washing over his face, though blood still dripped from the corner of his mouth. He coughed, the sound wet and terrible, and then… he closed his eyes.

He would never open them again.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Rhaenyra felt the weight of her son’s grief in her arms, felt Jace’s quiet sobs against her sleeve, and yet she could not cry. She was numb, frozen in a moment that she knew would haunt her forever.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra lay quietly beside her sons, her presence a protective cocoon around them as they huddled together in the center of the large bed. Jace and Luke had cried themselves to sleep, their small bodies wracked with sobs that seemed endless until, at last, they had settled into a fitful slumber. She had held them both close, whispering soft reassurances as she wiped their tear-streaked faces. The dreamwine had helped ease their anguish, but it was her warmth and the comfort of being together that had truly calmed them. Now, with their hands clasped tightly even in sleep, Rhaenyra watched over them, her own heart heavy with the day’s sorrows, yet grateful for this fragile moment of peace.

She leaned down and kissed Luke’s forehead gently, wiping away the tear tracks that still marred his cheeks. The weight of their grief hung heavy in the room, but for now, her boys were spared from it, if only in dreams.

Jace shifted slightly beside her, his breath soft and even. Rhaenyra brushed the dark curls from his face and kissed his brow, her lips lingering there, as if to shield him from the pain that would inevitably return with the morning light. Carefully, she untangled herself from their small, slumbering forms, moving with the softest of touches so as not to wake them. She watched their chests rise and fall, her heart aching, but she left them to their peaceful sleep, stepping away from the bed as quietly as a shadow.

Her gaze turned to Joff, nestled in his cradle, sleeping as peacefully as the dragons who slumbered at their feet. Tyraxes was curled protectively beneath Joff’s cradle, a small reassurance in the form of wings and claws. Rhaenyra’s heart clenched at the sight of her youngest, still untouched by the grief that had stolen the light from their home. She kissed his tiny forehead, her hand gently caressing his soft skin.

With a final look at her sleeping children, she turned to leave their chambers, drawing a deep breath to steady herself. Outside, Kofi was sat on an enormous chair, his injuries still visible, though he showed no sign of discomfort. Ser Erryk had been ordered to rest by the maesters but the stubborn man promised he would be ready enough to resume his duties on the morrow.

“Kofi.” she acknowledged softly, and he gave a respectful nod, his presence reassuring, a silent protector of her family.

As she stepped out of the family wing, Black Trombo appeared at her back, his steps falling in line with hers as they descended the cold stone stairs leading to the dungeons of High Tide. The air grew thick and oppressive the deeper they went, the weight of the place pressing down on them.

Ser Steffon was there to supervise the Questioning of the two assassins who still lived. Her Sworn Shield, ever loyal, tried to dissuade her. “Princess, the dungeon is no place for a Princess of your station.” he said, his tone careful but firm.

Rhaenyra’s eyes hardened as she turned to him. “These men killed my husband. They will see my face before they die.”

Ser Steffon bowed his head, offering no further argument.

In the flickering light of the dungeon, the air reeked of damp stone and old blood. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys stood before a cell, both still clad in their bloodstained, sand-caked clothes from earlier. Their grief was palpable, an unspoken weight between them. When Princess Rhaenys spotted Rhaenyra, she frowned.

“The children?” Rhaenys asked, her voice tight with concern.

“They are sleeping in my rooms for now.” Rhaenyra replied. “Kofi and half a dozen knights are stationed in their corridor alone.”

Rhaenys gave a small nod, though the worry did not leave her face.

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted to the cell, where one of the confessors was heating a blade over a brazier, its glow casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. She flinched when the confessor cut into the prisoner chained to the wall, though the man’s scream came out silent, his tongue having already been taken. Her stomach twisted at the sight, but she forced herself to remain still.

Ser Harwin stepped closer, his face grim as he spoke. “Both men, as well as the ones that were killed, had their tongues cut. It’s useless to try and get information from them.”

Rhaenyra sighed in frustration, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. She knew, deep down, who had ordered this attack, but she needed more than suspicions. She needed concrete evidence to bring before the king. As the firelight flickered across Ser Harwin’s face, she noticed a strange apprehension in his gaze, as if he were holding something back.

He had respected her distance since their return, never crossing the boundaries she had quietly set. He hadn’t tried to enter her chambers, hadn’t held her, hadn’t demanded to know why she had withdrawn from him. This Rhaenyra really chose the perfect man to father her children. Loyal, discreet, and knowing his place.

But now, his silence was unnerving. She met his gaze, her voice low but commanding. “Ser Harwin, is there something you wish to tell me?”

Harwin hesitated, his brow furrowed. “I recognized one of the dead men, my princess. I arrested him myself, he killed his wife, then raped his two children. He was sentenced to death three moons ago.”

Lord Corlys turned sharply, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Then how was he here, among the men who killed my son?”

“I don’t know, my lord.” Harwin answered, his head bowed.

Another guard stepped forward, his voice grave. “Two more of the men were criminals from King’s Landing. They were meant to be sent to the Wall.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened. “Who is in charge of the dungeons?”

“The head gaoler is from the Reach, my princess. Loyal to the king. The royal executioner is Ser Harron Darke,” Harwin replied. “Once a knight, he fell from grace after a scandal involving bloodshed in a duel at court. He earned a reputation for ruthlessness in his methods, particularly in dealing with enemies of the Crown. When his knighthood was stripped, he was spared execution and made Royal Executioner instead. Prince Daemon appointed him when he served as Master of Laws.”

Lord Corlys’s brow furrowed. “I do not trust anyone from the Reach.” he declared, his voice low and resolute, echoing slightly in the oppressive gloom.

Ser Harwin nodded, determination flickering in his eyes. “I will send a letter to one of my captains to investigate why criminals meant for Block and the Wall were still alive to kill the Prince Consort.” he said firmly. Rhaenyra gave him a resolute nod.

Ser Harwin still dlingered, his gaze steady yet troubled, as if reluctant to depart. Noting his unease, Rhaenyra raised a brow, her voice soft but insistent. “Ser Harwin, is there something more you wish to say?”

From his pocket, he retrieved a small pin—a brooch of sorts, fashioned in the delicate shape of an insect. Its finely crafted body gleamed in the dim light of the dungeon, capturing Rhaenyra’s curiosity. “This was found on the men, Princess.” he murmured, turning it in his palm. “It’s a firefly.”

Princess Rhaenys leaned forward, her face etched with worry. “A firefly?” she echoed, glancing between Harwin and Rhaenyra.

Black Trombo stiffened, recognition dawning. “It’s the same emblem that graces the Clubfoot’s cane.” he exclaimed, his voice full of insinuation.

 At this, Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys exchanged dark glances, each expression twisting with newfound suspicion. “Why would the Clubfoot seek harm against Laenor?” Princess Rhaenys demanded, her voice trembling, half in anger and half in the agony of grief.

Black Trombo’s gaze turned steely as he replied, “Because the Clubfoot is close with the Queen—visits her in her rooms at all hours of the day... and night, whispering in her ears.”

Ser Harwin’s face turned to stone, but his words were ice. “Mind your tongue about my brother!” he warned.

Black Trombo’s reply was laced with biting truth, his tone unrelenting. “Ser Harwin, I like you, truly, but you can be blind. The spies the Princess had me remove were all in your brother’s employ. He’s a web-spinner, with spies in the Red Keep and more in the city, and now, it seems, murderers under his command. And for what? Because Ser Laenor dared pen songs that struck the Queen’s pride?”

Lord Corlys turned his gaze upon Black Trombo, demanding more. “Songs?”

Rhaenyra, her voice filled with a bittersweet blend of pride and sorrow, elaborated. “Laenor wrote one ballad about Queen Alicent taking comfort in the King’s bed on the very night of Queen Aemma’s funeral.” Her words fell like stones in a well, leaving echoes of scandal that refused to settle.

Black Trombo snorted, shaking his head. “And another where she demanded Princess Rhaenyra’s presence right after her own child’s birth—while she was still bleeding from the birthing bed, no less.” he muttered, disgusted. “Nasty, that woman.”

Lord Corlys chuckled softly, the sound reverberating against the cold stone walls. “Ah, Laenor always had a talent for weaving words.” he remarked, a hint of nostalgia in his tone. “He could charm a serpent into surrendering its venom. It’s a gift, though perhaps not always a wise one.”

Rhaenyra allowed herself a brief smile, memories of Laenor's clever verses playing in her mind.

Princess Rhaenys’s rage was more muted, simmering under the surface with a silent, deadly intensity.

Rhaenyra doubted that a few songs were truly the reason they’d been attacked, or that Laenor had ever been the intended target, but she was not about to share those suspicions with Princess Rhaenys. Whether Rhaenys grieved her son as a casualty of some grander design mattered little to Rhaenyra, so long as it kept her firmly on Rhaenyra’s side. Let her see her son’s death as a righteous grievance, a call to loyalty and vengeance. After all, a mother’s sorrow could be as powerful a weapon as any sword, if one knew just how to wield it.

Ser Harwin took a step back, bowing slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, Princess,” he said solemnly, “I shall personally oversee this investigation. I assure you, whoever is responsible will pay. Justice will be served, as it should be.”

She inclined her head in gratitude, with no doubt that Ser Harwin would fulfill his duty. He was one of those rare men who held honor so close that he would choose the right path, even if it meant forsaking his own brother. In this, he reminded her keenly of his father, Lyonel Strong—a man as steadfast and just as any she had ever known, a true servant of the Realm. It was staggering, almost to the point of disbelief.

Rhaenyra's gaze hardened, turning back to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. “Will this evidence be enough to bring forth a trial?”

Lord Corlys gave a bitter laugh. “A trial? Even after noble Ser Joffrey was struck down cruelly before the very eyes of the court, his killer still dons a white cloak simply because Alicent Hightower beg your father for his forgiveness.” He trailed off, glancing apologetically at Rhaenyra before adding, “The Queen holds the King in her thrall. Forgive my language, Princess, but I have little doubt the King will again turn a blind eye.”

Rhaenyra’s voice rang out, laced with a fury that trembled in her every word. “Laenor is my husband, the father of the King’s own grandchildren! Surely, he will not let this slide!” Her hands clenched at her sides, her eyes bright with indignation as she sought reassurance from those around her.

But Lord Corlys met her gaze with a pained expression, and slowly shook his head. “I wish I could promise you otherwise, Princess,” he said softly, his tone heavy with sorrow. “But I do not trust the King to find justice even for his own blood. There is no justice in Viserys’ court so long as the serpent of King’s Landing keeps his bed warm.”

The harsh truth of his words cut through her anger, and Rhaenyra’s defiance crumbled, her shoulders sinking under the weight of resignation. She looked away, her pride giving way to despair, for she knew, deep down, that Corlys spoke only what she herself had feared all along: that King Viserys, her father, was too ensnared by Alicent’s charms and manipulations to ever give Laenor justice. She will have to take it herself.  

Princess Rhaenys, her expression one of distaste, shook her head slowly. “I cannot see the Club Foot being capable of orchestrating such attack.” she murmured.

Rhaenyra straightened, resolve hardening in her expression. “Then Larys Strong has been successful in ensuring that people underestimate him.” she said, leaving them to ponder this unsettling revelation.

As she moved away, she leaned close to Black Trombo, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do your people still have Otto Hightower in the dungeons?”

The Myrish man nodded, his expression grave. “Yes, we have the former Hand,” came the response, calm yet edged with a certain unease. “He was taken and travelled along with the Archmaester’s caravan, brought to the Capital under careful watch, and is now our most esteemed guest in the lowest depths of the Black Cells”

“Tell your men to bake Otto Hightower into a pie to be served to Alicent and her children.” she instructed, her tone unwavering. Black Trombo’s eyes widened in shock, and Rhaenyra raised a brow at his reaction.

“The former Hand has a distinct ring; I want it to be visible alongside a finger. Make sure they will know it is him they… consumed.” she continued, her voice steady and commanding. The man was quiet beside her making her doubt his capabilities. “Have you not been listening to Lord Cregan’s northern tales?” she asked, a glimmer of challenge in her gaze. “I believe it was called the tale of the Rat Cook.”

A slow smile spread across Black Trombo’s face, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “The Rat Cook? Huh, that’s inspired, Princess!” he said, his voice gleeful as he absorbed the dark humor of her plan.

Rhaenyra merely nodded, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips as she contemplated the twisted delight that might emerge from such a deed. In the depths of despair and uncertainty, the prospect of vengeance brought a spark of satisfaction, a reminder that power, even in the face of tragedy, still resided in her grasp. It’s just too bad she will not be there to witness the Alicent’s hysterics.

The chamber within High Tide exuded a quiet, sorrowful elegance, layered with the scents of Laenor’s favorite flowers. Soft lavender, golden marigold, and delicate white lilies framed the room, each petal a silent tribute placed with care by Ser Qarl. The flames of fourteen candles flickered in gentle, uneven rhythms, casting warm light on the carved urn holding Laenor’s ashes. Jace and Luke had lit them personally, invoking the Fourteen Flames, and now stood close by, silent sentinels to their father’s memory.

Rhaenyra barely took her eyes off her sons for the past week. She could feel their grief as if it were her own, each heartbeat a reminder of their loss, each sigh a weight pulling them all deeper into sorrow. She found herself constantly watching them, even as High Tide’s nobility filtered in to offer their solemn condolences, sharing in the family’s grief. It was good that Vaemond Velaryon, whose bitter words would have soured the air, was confined to bed with his broken limbs; she knew she’d feel no restraint in silencing his venom here even with many people bearing witness.

Across the room, Princess Rhaenys held little Joffrey in her arms, her expression grave as she sat beside the altar where Laenor’s urn rested. Rhaenyra’s gaze narrowed as she observed the scene. It was a sight she had not expected—Rhaenys, usually so indifferent, cradling her grandson, her expression softened. But even now, Rhaenyra found herself unable to trust the change, suspicion flickering beneath her sorrow. This show of concern felt too sudden, too well-timed. Laenor’s final plea for his children’s safety had seemingly stirred something within Rhaenys, yet it was difficult to believe that one promise could change so many years of distance.

She held her suspicions close, every glance, every gentle touch Rhaenys offered to her children filling her with bitter skepticism. Rhaenys' grief, real or not, could not erase the years she had spent removed from them; her involvement now felt more a matter of convenience than true care. Rhaenyra knew all too well how swiftly alliances could shift, and so, for now, she would let Rhaenys play her part as the grieving grandmother clinging desperately to her grandchildren—but the resentment and doubt nestled within Rhaenyra’s heart, steady and unyielding.

Jace, on the other hand, seemed to savor the attention of the Princess, his face often lighting up in quiet pleasure whenever her gaze fell upon him. The glances she offered, which had once been as scarce as a clear winter’s sky, now warmed him with their fleeting acknowledgment. To him, it was a recognition long overdue.

But Luke, ever wary, regarded her with unspoken suspicion, his young eyes often lingering on her with a bewildered frown, uncertain of her newfound affection. He much preferred the company of Lord Corlys, whose stories about Laenor's childhood had been a reliable anchor through this trial. When not at Rhaenyra's side, Luke could almost always be found beside the Sea Snake, who favored him with a warmth that did not falter.

Lord Corlys had sent word to Pentos of Laenor’s passing, though the response was both immediate and somber. It had shaken Laena so deeply that she collapsed upon receiving the news; the healers had warned against any strenuous travel until after her pregnancy. Her absence weighed heavily upon Rhaenyra—Laena, who might have offered a unique comfort in this loss, was confined to her own sorrow, far from High Tide.

Three days following Laenor’s death, a raven from the Hand of the King had arrived, bearing news of yet another delay. ‘The King expressed his sorrow for being delayed in King’s Landing due to unforeseen matters but will reach High Tide in time to witness the final rites.’ the message read. And though no further reason was provided, Rhaenyra knew the truth was tangled with Alicent’s unhinged outrage.

The personal letter sent by Ser Ronnel, who remained in King’s Landing to protect their household interests, was more entertaining. His report detailed the hysteria that had overtaken Queen Alicent upon discovering her father’s severed finger and ring baked into a pie served to her and her children. They had all vomited until they were spent, and in her madness, Alicent had demanded a search for her father, insisting she must stay in the capital to oversee the investigation. Yet King Viserys, unmoved, had confined her to her chambers until she promised to behave. Her confinement and protests were what had caused the King’s delay; he insisted on brimging his whole family in joining Rhaenyra and her children in their mourning.

She was made aware that during those three dreadful days, every meal served to the Queen and her children carried a grotesque memento of Otto Hightower. After the Queen’s horrified scream at discovering an ear floating in her soup, the maids took care to retrieve it swiftly, leaving only the faintest splash of broth on the rim. The following evening, Helaena’s stew arrived with a finger curled among the diced carrots, barely hidden beneath a few limp greens. Aegon’s wine was poured with grim ceremony, a bloodless piece of skin folded along the rim, just visible enough to turn his drink to bile. And in Aemond’s morning porridge, a knuckle bone had been lodged deep enough to scrape against his spoon, hidden until his hunger would reveal it. Each time, the maids swooped in to collect the offending pieces before the Kingsguard could answer Alicent’s desperate summons, leaving only shattered nerves and scattered remnants, hints of what could easily be dismissed as nothing more than the Queen’s growing paranoia.

She wanted to laugh at that. Her people in the Red Keep had gone beyond what she had initially ordered, their inventiveness delighting her far more than she’d expected. They had transformed a mere warning into a campaign of terror that rattled Alicent and her brood to their very cores. It pleased her to no end, and she resolved to ensure that each of them would be properly compensated for their excellent work—rewards fit for those who understood that loyalty, like fear, could be a powerful thing indeed.

Rhaenyra regretted not being there to witness the horror on Alicent’s face as she tasted the flesh of her own kin. It would have been delicious, to see the Queen convulse as she realized the depths of her own vulnerability, her own helplessness. Yet, such things could not be helped; she had learned well the treacherous art of court, where the open blade often left the wielder just as exposed. No, Alicent’s end was not yet upon her—Rhaenyra would take her time, savoring each tremor of fear she could wring from the woman who had inflicted so much on her own family. Let Alicent’s children know horror; let them eat the flesh of their grandsire. That horror was but a taste of the agony her own sons had suffered, bearing witness to the brutal and callous end of Laenor.

Rhaenyra recalled the raven’s message resting cold in her palm, the ink smudged where her fingers had gripped it too fiercely. She’d handed it to Lord Corlys, watching as his expression shifted from brief shock to a glint of satisfaction—though it was grim, edged with bitterness that ran deep. "A fitting end." he’d murmured, a steely spark in his gaze that could not conceal the darker fire simmering beneath. Otto Hightower’s death was no consolation for the life of Laenor; it was hardly a fraction of a price paid. For what was Otto, after all, but a second son, wielding no land, no true power—only the desperate hunger of a man who would cling to others' authority, never his own.

“A second son,” Corlys had muttered, the grief thickening his voice, “who holds neither title nor land. Not even Hobert Hightower dared trust him beyond the docks of Oldtown.” She’d raised her brow at that; even Hobert, it seemed, had sensed the ruinous ambition that smoldered within his brother. But this end did not satisfy Corlys. She could see it in the clenched set of his jaw, the cold light in his eyes that promised more blood yet unpaid. No, he wanted all the Hightowers brought low, their entire bloodline erased, the whole of Oldtown—stone and soul—left in ruin, and even then, he knew it would not mend the loss of his son and heir. His gaze told her plainly: vengeance was a debt not yet settled.

Her gaze shifted over to a low table where Lord Cregan Stark sat with her sons, his quiet, thoughtful presence a balm against the whispering hall. Jace’s head was turned intently as Cregan recounted a tale, his voice like the winds of the North, low and resonant. Luke, his face downcast, toyed absently with a small carved seahorse, its delicate curves and etched lines familiar—Laenor’s, she remembered, with a tightening in her chest. Princess Rhaenys had given it to him to comfort him, her sweet boy clutched it as though it anchored him, fingers wrapped protectively around the wooden piece as though he might shield himself from grief by holding close his father’s memory.

“Now, this Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Lord Cregan continued, his voice weaving the children’s attention back in with deft precision, “not only did he take an oath of lifelong vigilance, but he swore never to marry. And yet, he was enchanted…by a lady not of our realm, but of another altogether, fierce and otherworldly.” Luke’s little head rose at this, his eyes widening, while Jace leaned closer, captivated by every word. Lord Cregan continued, “They called her an ‘Other,’ and she held him spellbound. So deep was his love that he dared defy the gods and took her to wife.” The shadows on the wall flickered, and for a moment, even Luke’s eyes were bright with wonderment as he forgot his sadness, enraptured by Cregan’s words.

Joffrey Arryn, Lady Jeyne’s chosen heir, sat with them, listening with a quiet, discerning air. The Vale delegation had arrived mere days before, with a dozen knights in tow, bringing young Joffrey and her Aunt Amanda. Lady Elinda had remarked that Aunt Amanda had once served as her mother’s chief lady-in-waiting, a formidable presence by Queen Aemma’s side until her hasty return to the Vale in the wake of her queen’s passing. Lady Elinda said Rhaenyra always recall her lady mother’s fondness for Amanda’s sweet but uncompromising nature—strict in court yet always slipping her lemon cakes in secret, a small indulgence that brightened her days. Amanda’s sudden departure had marked yet another loss, leaving this Rhaenyra adrift in a court that had grown cold and friendless.

Now, with Joffrey Arryn under her fostering, Rhaenyra found herself resolved to strengthen her ties to the Vale. Amanda had swiftly assumed command of her household with an ease that astonished her; Rhaenyra felt a sense of relief, freed from the worry over every minor detail. And though Rhaenyra had felt so removed from her mother’s kin in her youth, she was determined to build a true kinship with the Vale—a bond as enduring as the mountains themselves.

Just as the tale reached its thrilling height, a soft knock on the door preceded a servant’s entrance. “Your Grace, my Lord,” he murmured, bowing low. “The King’s ship has been sighted. It shall dock within the hour.”

Lord Corlys rose, the muted silk of his attire catching the pale morning light. He looked down at her with the solemn air of one who knew too well the formalities that would follow. “I will greet His Grace at the docks, with the rest of the court,” he said, his voice a balm and a promise. “You and Princess Rhaenys, along with the children, may remain here.”

Rhaenyra nodded her gratitude. As Lord Corlys departed with the ladies-in-waiting, she remained seated, her back straight and unyielding. Half a candle stick later, the murmurs from beyond the room grew, echoing through the halls. The clink and chime of Kingsguard armor signaled her father’s approaching presence, and the hushed tones of courtiers flitted in like birdsong. Rhaenys rose with a silent grace, Joffrey still cradled against her chest, while Jace, Luke, Lord Cregan and young Joffrey Arryn came to stand behind her chair.

A hush fell, reverent and unbroken, as the herald cleared his throat, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Announcing His Grace, Viserys of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.”

Rhaenyra fought the pull of a smile as she noted the stiff demeanor of the Velaryon staff. A pointed snub, she thought, relishing the queen’s likely discomfort at being brushed aside, her children unheralded, mere shadows of the throne. She turned her gaze to her father just as he entered, weary and worn, yet carrying himself with the same paternal warmth as always.

“Oh, my love,” he murmured, his voice cracking with the sorrow only a father could carry. He reached her, arms open as though he might shield her from all the hurt of the world. “I am so sorry.”

Rhaenyra pressed herself into her father’s embrace, the warmth of his arms surrounding her with an aching familiarity. He wasn’t her Viserys, yet his face, his gentle eyes, the kindness in his gaze—they all belonged to the father she remembered. She could not recall the last time she’d felt her father’s arms around her. The memory of it had faded, and now, in this fleeting, bittersweet moment, the ache welled within her chest. Her eyes stung, and though she blinked rapidly, the tears escaped nonetheless, spilling over like raindrops breaking through a clouded sky.

Oh, how she longed for those untroubled days, when she could run to him with every scraped knee and worry. In those days, every sorrow seemed bearable, for her father would bend his world to chase her fears away. And yet, she recalled when that world began to fracture, the first time he refused her—her plea for Daemon, the husband she’d wanted more than any duty. She had begged him, but his refusal was resolute, an impenetrable wall. And then, with the threat of disinheritance looming should she refuse Laenor’s hand, she’d felt her father slipping further from her. Daemon had accepted the slight without question, bending his pride and his love to spare her from ruin. But her father had continued to drift, allowing new tensions to mar what should have been a bond unbroken.

Now, in this strange time, she understood there was yet more strain between them—a distance more palpable, more fractious. This King Viserys openly favored Rhaenyra and her sons, yet he turned a blind eye to his wife’s cruelties. Rhaenyra felt certain this Princess may have felt betrayed upon learning her best friend will wed her father even before the mourning period was over. But her? She felt no love, no sorrow for the queen she barely knew, a stranger with neither claim to her heart nor stake in her world. And yet, her heart still longed to please the man who had brought her such heartbreak—a cruel irony she could not shake, that the balm she craved might only come from the one who had caused her so much pain.

Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, she knew, held no illusions about her father’s flaws. She’d seen the disdain flash in their eyes, heard the pointed remarks on the many projects of Queen Alysanne left neglected in his reign. It was a peaceful rule, yes, yet one that left the smallfolk to falter. The thought of them brought forth an old, bitter fury. They were the same fickle masses who had cheered as her beloved Joffrey fell, who had slaughtered dragons in times past. She could easily burn them if it meant her children would be safe, their paths lit and unmarred. Yet she refused to leave Jace a kingdom of ashes. He would inherit, and he would reign, the finest king Westeros had known.

Her father held her close, whispering soft assurances, pressing kisses to her hair as though the world were watching. She knew the eyes of the court must be on them, tearful gazes from the loyalists, thinly veiled derision from those of Alicent’s ilk. They would scoff at her weakness, twist it into scorn. Yet she felt no shame. Let them watch; let them tremble. She harbored no intentions of sparing the vipers. None of them—Hightowers, Baratheons, Lannisters—would be left to raise arms against her children.

Rhaenyra took a deep, steadying breath, composing herself before whispering her thanks to her father. King Viserys’s gaze softened further, and he turned to his grandchildren, arm open in a warm invitation. Jace and Luke, already struggling to contain their tears, sprang into his embrace, burying their faces against him as silent sobs shook their shoulders. Viserys tightened his hold, whispering to them with quiet assurance, “It will never happen again. Those who dared harm you, those who took your Lord father from you, will pay in full.”

“Yes, they will.” Rhaenyra said icily, fixing Queen Alicent with a steely glare. “They already are.” Alicent’s face paled, her green gown now almost matching the sallow shade of her cheeks, her fists clenched in fury. An angry spark flared in her eyes, but Rhaenyra held her gaze with a cold, unyielding calm.

Viserys, oblivious to the brewing tension, then turned to Princess Rhaenys. “My sincerest apologies, Princess, for my delay. I am truly grieved for your loss.”

Rhaenys raised a regal brow, offering a faintly sardonic smile. “Oh, it’s quite understandable, Your Grace. After all, the Queen and her children ate Otto Hightower. I imagine such trauma required some time to recover.”

A stunned silence settled over the court as Viserys froze in place, his mouth parted in shock. Aegon and Helaena gagged, visibly recoiling at the memory while Alicent and Aemond turned nearly as green as their clothes, while a murmur of horrified laughter rippled through the room. Several courtiers turned away, grimacing in discomfort, and Lady Caswell actually dry-heaved at the suggestion.

Rhaenyra’s children, wide-eyed with confusion, looked to their mother, who gently took each of their hands. She signaled to Lady Anella and Lady Elinda, her voice composed as she said, “Please see my sons to their rooms. They need rest after keeping vigil for so long.”

As the children were escorted away, Alicent’s strained voice cut through the murmurs. “And how exactly would you know such things, Princess?” Her tone was sharp, but Rhaenys met it with calm indifference, merely lifting an eyebrow.

“Oh, the sailors and merchants who’ve come from King’s Landing have shared the tale quite freely,” Rhaenys replied, with feigned innocence. “Is it not true? If it isn’t, I do apologize.”

Alicent’s mouth opened in anger, but Viserys held up a hand, interjecting with a peculiar calm. “It is true,” he admitted, perhaps too oblivious in his good-naturedness. “Over the past days, certain…parts of my former Hand have appeared in the Queen’s meals. Eyeballs in soups, a nose in bacon sauce, an ear in stew.”

Lady Redwyne fainted dead away, while Lady Celtigar raised her fan with a dainty frown. “Would eating one’s own family be considered kinslaying?” she asked with a dry smile.

Lady Fell’s brow furrowed as she looked around the room, a trace of confusion lacing her smile. “What do you mean… you ate Otto Hightower?” she asked lightly, as if expecting some jest to be revealed. But as silence settled over the room, her smile faltered, and her face paled, eyes widening with dawning horror. “Seven save us.” she whispered, a hand lifting to her throat as though to ward off a chill that had suddenly crept over her. Her gaze darted from one face to another, desperate to find some sign that this was still some grim jest, but instead, the weight of what had been done began to sink in. She pressed her lips together, visibly shaken, trying to maintain her composure, but the terror was unmistakable.

Lord Cregan Stark, who had been quietly observing, leaned toward young Joffrey Arryn with an arched brow. “And how, precisely, did they identify Otto Hightower? Was his roasted head served on a platter?”

Viserys, still utterly oblivious, replied with surprising candor. “No, just his finger still wearing his favorite ring. That was seen on the Queen’s pie one evening.”

Lord Corlys’s loud sigh cut through the snickers and gasps of the crowd. “While I do so relish hearing of Otto Hightower’s misfortunes, I must ask that you all now allow our family the dignity of private mourning. We’ve lost one of our own.”

The court collectively groaned, some lingering in disappointment as they reluctantly turned to leave. Rhaenyra could already imagine how the rumors would swell, twisted into ever-grander tales by the time a single candle had burned down. She gave a meaningful glance to Lord Cregan and young Joffrey Arryn, both of whom appeared poised to remain despite her intent.

“Rest, both of you.” she instructed firmly. The young men exchanged a glance, opening their mouths as if to protest, but fell silent at her sharp, warning gaze. They bowed their heads, turning to follow their personal guards from the hall.

As she watched her young wards leave, Rhaenyra felt a swell of satisfaction. Brown-haired and with gentle curls, Joffrey Arryn’s resemblance to Jace was striking, a visual reminder of her House’s deep connection to the Arryn line. And though tongues would still wag about Ser Harwin’s presence, she could not bear to send him back to Harrenhal, where she knew only death awaited him. He was loyal to her, a steady anchor in turbulent seas, and she needed such allies close at hand.

With the hall finally cleared of all but her kin, she turned to her father, knowing the reprieve would be brief.

Rhaenyra watched with a silent satisfaction as her father beckoned the Queen and her children to offer their condolences to her and the Velaryons. Alicent wore an expression as sour as spoiled milk as she delivered a stilted, rehearsed speech on the tragic death of Laenor. Her children followed suit, mumbling half-hearted words that barely passed for sympathy, to which Rhaenyra merely nodded, neither inviting nor discouraging further talk.

King Viserys, in his earnest simplicity, seemed utterly pleased with their efforts. His smile softened as he reached to take little Joffrey from Rhaenys, who reluctantly surrendered the child to his care. Lord Corlys hovered closely, his attention as fixed on the King’s one-armed embrace as a falcon eyeing its nest, unwilling to let Joffrey slip for even a moment. Only when Viserys settled beside Rhaenyra, cradling the infant with unsteady gentleness, did Corlys finally ease.

Young Joffrey’s wide-eyed gaze roved over the many colorful flowers and flickering candles, his tiny fists reaching curiously towards the nearest blooms. Viserys chuckled, a pleased grandfather rocking his youngest grandchild, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. Yet his brow furrowed as he turned to Corlys. “Tell me, my lord, what happened on Driftmark? How could the Crown Princess be attacked in the very lands of our allies?”

Corlys’s expression hardened, offended at the implication. “Driftmark’s loyalty to the Princess is unquestionable,” he replied, his voice sharp as a drawn blade. “It is the Crown that should beware, for the men who dared this deed were from King’s Landing itself—criminals who were under your dungeons who should have been either executed or sent to the Wall. Instead, they were sent to Driftmark as assassins.”

Viserys’s face drained of color, his voice trembling with horror. “Criminals from the capital? Sent as assassins?”

Corlys nodded, his gaze cold. “That’s right, Your Grace. Driftmark may have suffered the violence, but the foul roots are closer to your home.”

As the conversation continued, Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted to Alicent, seated in a separate chair. The Queen’s complexion had grown ashen, her breathing shallow, almost ragged. Rhaenyra’s words, as well as the intensity of Corlys’s accusations, seemed to coil around her like a tightening noose. Alicent’s fingers moved unconsciously to her nails, dragging harshly at the skin beside them until tiny beads of blood dotted the flesh, her nails tearing against her own skin as if desperate to wake herself from a nightmare.

"I owuld like to personally lead the investigation surrounding my son's death, Your Grace." Lord Corlys said.

“Such an investigation ought to be led by someone without personal stake,” Viserys interjected, his discomfort plain as he met Corlys’s steely gaze. “The Master of Laws himself would be best suited to oversee this.”

Corlys’s response was instant and bitter, his voice a hard rasp of frustration. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I trust no one on your council. How could I, when it is the men of your capital—men supposedly under the Crown’s watch—who have murdered my son and nearly killed your own grandchildren?”

Rhaenyra watched as Alicent’s breath became more erratic, her fingers clutching at the arms of her chair. Her unfocused eyes stared at nothing, her movements slowed as if she were swimming through murky water. Rhaenyra’s satisfaction only grew, relishing the Queen’s disarray.

Viserys huffed, indignant. “Need I remind you, Lord Corlys, that my daughter and my grandchildren’s lives were also put at risk? I shall see to it that the ones responsible pay for their deeds.”

“Yes, they will,” Rhaenyra echoed, her voice a low, chilling whisper that held Alicent in its grasp like a vice. She did not break her gaze from the Queen’s paling face, her tone leaving no room for doubt. “The ones responsible will wish they were the ones who died.”

A subtle tremor shivered through Alicent’s frame, her shoulders hunched inward as though bracing against a storm, her nails still biting into her skin. Her face held the vacant glaze of one caught on the edge of a precipice, unable to move forward or retreat. Rhaenyra’s words hung heavily in the air, the final stones cast into a well of silence, leaving Alicent trapped in the turmoil of her own mind.

The cliff loomed high above the darkening sea, a bleak wind whipping around them as the priest intoned the funeral rites. His voice was a steady murmur, but the words hung heavy in the air, weighted with grief as he chanted to the Merling King:

“Oh Merling King, ruler of the sea,
Guide our loved one’s soul, set it free.
In thy depths, grant eternal rest,
Guardian of waters, be our blessed.

As waves return unto the shore,
And currents ebb forevermore,
So too shall souls find rest with thee,
In ocean’s embrace, eternally.”

Rhaenyra held her sons close to her, her arms wrapped around their shoulders as though she alone could shield them from the encroaching sorrow. Young Luke pressed his face into her side, refusing to look as if he could somehow close his eyes to the pain unfolding around them. His small hands clung tightly to her cloak, anchoring himself to her with a fierceness that nearly broke her heart. And Jace, her brave, steady Jace, stood by her side with somber strength, his gaze unwavering as he watched the ceremony with an intensity that belied his years. She held them both close, cocooning them in her cloak as the chilling wind swept around them, ensuring they felt the warmth of her presence despite the encroaching darkness.

Above them, the afternoon sun was nearly blotted out by a mass of clouds, casting shadows over the cliff and the sea below as if the world itself mourned the loss of Laenor. It was as though the light, so dim, could scarcely bear witness to this moment. Her boys felt so small in her embrace, and she drew them tighter still, the weight of the world pressing down on her as the knights stepped forward to release Laenor’s sarcophagus into the water.

Luke gave a soft, shuddering sniffle, and she held him closer, pressing a kiss to his head. She did the same for Jace, her brave one, who did not look away, his gaze fixed on the sarcophagus that held his father. Rhaenyra felt her heart twist as she looked at Jace, his solemnity cutting through her as surely as any blade. She had liked this Laenor, truly. She thought of his easy smile, his stories, his songs—or shanties, as he had so often corrected her. He had given them laughter, brightness, in this strange and unforgiving time, and now, he too was gone.

And with his death, a darker fear coiled within her—one she scarcely dared to admit to herself. She had come to this time with the knowledge of what was supposed to unfold, had tried to change it, to protect them all. But what if fate, stubborn and immutable, still lurked in the shadows, waiting for its time? She’d moved so carefully, taking every step to ensure her children’s safety first, building a strong household of knights, healers, and spies. Yet here she was, her husband dead in a time that should not have taken him. What if Laenor’s death was merely fate’s reminder that the past could not be rewritten, only repeated?

Her thoughts drifted to Laena. Her friend, her confidante, her sister in all but blood. She knew Laena’s end too; she could see it now, as clear as her own reflection. And the weight of it left her hollow. What if, no matter how she fought, every death, every heartache that haunted her memories would inevitably unfold here as well?

She felt Jace shift beside her, turning into her embrace, and she clutched both her sons tighter, burying her face into their dark hair, breathing them in as if they were her lifeline. No. She could not—she would not—allow it. The gods may have tried to break her before, but here she was, still breathing, still fighting. She had killed Otto Hightower, the wretched man who had ignited so much of the ruin in her life, ensuring he would never wield his poisonous influence again. And she would do more, be more, to protect her children from those who would harm them.

The Alicent of Rhaenyra’s time had been venomous, with a voice dripping in poisonous charm—a master at turning words into barbs, ever the calculating player in their endless game of intrigue. Yet this Alicent… this Alicent cloaked herself in meekness, shrouded in the pretense of faith and duty, her gentle facade concealing a dangerous resolve. And this Alicent, for all her piety and quiet submission, was ruthless enough to send assassins. Rhaenyra felt her fury sharpen—Alicent would come to regret the day she dared raise her hand, however covertly, against her children.

A storm of resolve roared within her, fierce and unyielding, and she softened her hold on Luke and Jace, breathing deeply to calm herself. They had lost so much, and she could not shelter them from all the pain the world held. But as long as she lived, she would shield them, guard them against any force that dared try and wrest them from her grasp.

For now, she held them close, allowing them to feel the love and strength she would continue to fight for, as their father slipped beneath the waves. And as the sea consumed his form, Rhaenyra closed her eyes, murmuring a final farewell, vowing that this would not be her children’s future. She would rewrite fate itself if she had to. For them, she would do it all.

As Lady Amanda settled into her chair, her gaze swept over the chamber with a discerning eye, as if already cataloging the countless details that Rhaenyra had never considered. There was a small pause before she looked to Rhaenyra, the faintest glint of a smile playing at her lips.

"Now, Princess," she began gently, "shall we start with the staff allocations? How many have you set to oversee the linen rooms, and do you rotate them by season?" Her tone was mild, though her eyes held a trace of expectation.

Rhaenyra blinked, caught momentarily off guard. "I… believe we have sufficient attendants there," she answered slowly. "The head maid manages such matters, I think."

Lady Amanda tilted her head, an amused but indulgent look on her face. “I see. may I ask about the kitchen arrangements? How many staff do you have for the morning preparations, and are they well-stocked for the demands of your guests?”

Rhaenyra hesitated, blinking. “The… the cooks, yes, they handle all that,” she said slowly. “And the pantry keeps a store… sufficient for the household’s needs.”

Lady Amanda’s lips pressed into a faint, knowing smile, though she didn’t press. “Ah, I see. And has anyone been assigned to oversee the daily purchases? The kitchens do tend to exhaust supplies rather quickly, especially with the steady stream of visitors that you are planning to invite in the Keep.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed, sensing her aunt’s point even before she finished. “I… I don’t believe so. I’ve trusted Lord Caswell to manage it.”

Amanda nodded, a quiet sigh escaping her. “Forgive me, dear. I know such matters can seem trivial when so many grander responsibilities rest upon you. But these little details—staffing, stores—can spiral if left unchecked. Lord Caswell is the Castellan of the Keep, he should not be overseeing your household stocks.”

Then, after a pause, her gaze softened, and she looked down, as if addressing a thought she’d carried for too long. “And forgive me, too, for having left you. I could not bear to remain here after my sister’s death, when every room felt a ghost of what was.” Her eyes met Rhaenyra’s with a steady resolve. “But I am here now, and I mean to relieve as many of your burdens as I can, however small. I hope you’ll let me.”

Feeling both chastened and grateful, Rhaenyra met her aunt’s gaze. “Thank you, Aunt. I see now how much my mother must have relied on you… in ways I hadn’t understood.”

Amanda’s smile warmed. “Indeed, my dear. And I would be honored if you would allow me to do the same for you.”

Rhaenyra gave her aunt a grateful smile, though her heart was heavy and her mind restless. Aunt Amanda had urged her to rest after the funeral, yet Rhaenyra couldn’t bring herself to be still. Too many thoughts churned within her—worries that needed answers, plans that needed action. After putting her children to bed, each with guards posted at their doors and more stationed in the corridor, she’d asked Aunt Amanda to join her in the solar. Tonight, she was to take up the role of Mistress of the Household, a position Rhaenyra had entrusted to her aunt with complete faith.

It was a humbling return for Amanda, who had once been the lady of her own keep in the Vale. After Queen Aemma’s passing, she had all but raised young Jeyne Arryn at the Eyrie, running the household there with a deft hand. Now her own son ruled, with a wife and children of his own, freeing her to answer Jeyne’s request to return to court in service to Rhaenyra. Though it was, in truth, a lesser title than she had held, she accepted it without complaint, bound by blood and duty. Rhaenyra’s respect for her only deepened with every thoughtful counsel Amanda offered.

Lady Amanda pulled out a small book, her notes already filled with names and plans. “I’ve spoken with Marya, your head maid, and with Ser Harwin,” she said, referring to the Commander of Rhaenyra’s personal guards, “though only in an unofficial capacity, as he still serves as Lord Commander of the City Watch.” She paused, eyes glancing over her notes. “You’ll need to appoint someone soon.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her gaze distant as she considered her options. But before they could continue, a loud, urgent knock echoed through the room. Startled, she looked up as Ser Steffon strode in without waiting to be announced, his face tight with concern.

“There has been an incident with the Princes, Your Grace.” he said, his voice low but firm.

Rhaenyra’s heart plummeted, her hands instantly turning clammy. Memories of Laena’s funeral flashed through her mind. Surely nothing like that could happen here—Joffrey was barely a babe; he couldn’t be the one to warn his brothers of some danger. She had ensured guards lined the corridors. Surely, they are safe.

A faintness came over her, her vision blurring as panic clutched at her heart. But Amanda, sensing her fear, steadied her, gripping her by the elbows and helping her to her feet. “Come, Rhaenyra,” she said softly, her hands gentle but firm as she draped a cloak over Rhaenyra’s shoulders. Together, they walked quickly toward the Hall of Nine, where muffled voices echoed in agitation. She could already make out Luke’s outraged cries, his young voice piercing through the air, mingled with Lord Corlys’ unmistakable thunder.

Barely waiting for the guards, she pushed the doors open herself. “Luke? Jace?” she called out, her heart pounding as she scanned the hall. She was relieved to see her sons—unharmed this time—standing near Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. A long sigh of relief escaped her, and she went to them, kneeling to embrace them both. She kissed the tops of their heads, inspecting them with a critical eye, searching for any sign of harm.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” she asked, her voice soft but urgent.

Luke shook his head, looking subdued, but Jace’s face was flushed with anger. “He tried to steal Seasmoke! He’s a thief!” Jace’s voice trembled with fury as he pointed across the hall.

“He said he will feed us to his new dragon!” Luke cried in both horror and anger. “He said we will die in vain like our father!”

Following his gaze, Rhaenyra turned to see Aemond, bloodied and defiant, sitting still as the Maester carefully stitched his eye closed. The boy’s glare was venomous as he looked back at them, defiant even in his pain.

“I didn’t do anything!” Aemond spat, his voice raw with indignation.

Luke’s small fists clenched at his sides as he pointed, his young face twisted with anger. “You’re a thief! A thief! A thief!” he cried, his voice rising with each word.

“Silence!” The King’s voice cut through the air, a command that stilled everyone, his gaze hard and fixed upon the scene before him.

The room fell into a tense quiet, and Rhaenyra, though shaken, held her sons close, drawing her strength from the warmth of their presence.

 "He called us bastards." Jace whispered.

The words struck Rhaenyra like a blow, igniting a fierce, maternal rage within her. She kissed her children one more time, a soft yet resolute reassurance, before rising and positioning herself protectively before them, a formidable shield between them and the room. She caught sight of Ser Erryk and Kofi in the corner of her eye—she was certain it was thanks to them that her sons bore no bruises or bloodied marks, unlike that terrible night when both had been left battered.

She looked at Black Trombo and inclined her head subtly, he went on her side without any sound.

The King turned his stern gaze upon his son, face mottled with barely suppressed anger. “Aemond,” he commanded, “we will have the truth of what happened—now.”

Alicent stepped forward, her voice sharp with indignation. “What more is there to say? My son has been maimed, and hers is responsible.”

“We did not touch him!” Jace spat the words with an anger that Rhaenyra had rarely seen in him. “He was nearly burned by Seasmoke. Kofi pulled him away just before he was scorched, but Seasmoke’s tail caught him!”

“Lies!” Alicent hissed, her face pale with fury.

But Ser Erryk stepped forward, calm and unwavering. “We were there, Your Grace. Kofi and I both. And we witnessed everything. Prince Jacaerys speaks the truth.”

The King’s gaze shifted to the Kingsguard. “Then tell me all that happened.” he commanded, his voice a low rumble.

The knight inclined his head. “Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys came to comfort Seasmoke, who has been singing a death song unceasingly since…” He hesitated, aware of his limited understanding of dragon ways, then resumed. “Prince Aemond was already there. He stated he would claim the dragon. Heated words were exchanged until Prince Aemond pushed Prince Lucerys down. Then, attempting to claim the dragon himself, Prince Aemond was nearly burned, and it was Kofi who pulled him back.”

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, controlling her fury. “It was a regrettable accident then.” she said, her tone steady yet unforgiving.

“Accident?” Alicent’s voice cracked. “My son was maimed!”

“Because he was an ignorant fool who disrespected a dragon in mourning!” Rhaenyra replied, her tone sharpened like steel. “In Old Valyria, attempting to steal a dragon was punishable by death.” She let the words hang, knowing well they were not strictly true, but doubting Alicent or her brood know anything about theri House's customs. “But then again why should I expect the Hightowers to know or respect the customs of Old Valyria?” Her gaze, blazing, met Alicent’s. “They are false dragons, after all.”

Rhaenyra then turned to her father, her eyes glinting with a dangerous light. “I beseech Your Grace to grant me justice. My sons are grieving, and Prince Aemond attempted to steal their father’s dragon. Then, vile insults were hurled upon them.”

“What insults?” The King’s voice was hoarse, his frown deepening as he looked at her.

Rhaenyra met his gaze evenly. “The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was loudly called into question.”

The King’s face darkened, his tone ice-cold. “What?”

Jace spoke again, this time with all the simmering hurt and anger that only a boy his age could feel. “He called us bastards.”

The words seemed to echo in the hall, a blow more potent than any blade. Rhaenyra’s voice, calm and unyielding, sliced through the silence. “My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This slander is the gravest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned, so we might learn where he heard such slanders .”

Alicent’s expression shifted to horror, her gaze snapping to Rhaenyra. “Over an insult?” she asked, voice trembling with disbelief. “My son has lost an eye!”

“Over his own stupidity,” Rhaenyra replied, rolling her eyes. Alicent bristled, but Rhaenyra ignored her, watching as her father, his patience stretched thin, fixed his anger on Aemond.

“You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?”

Alicent scrambled, her voice desperate. “The insult was merely bluster from the training yard. Just boys—nothing more!”

“Aemond!” The King’s voice rang through the hall, impatient. He limped toward his son, whose one remaining eye was wide with fear, fixing his gaze firmly upon him. “Look at me,” he commanded. “Your King demands an answer. Who told you these lies?”

Aemond hesitated, shrinking under his grandfather’s furious gaze, before he whispered, “It was Aegon.”

The hall stilled, and Aegon’s bewilderment was written plainly across his face. “Me?”

The King turned on him, his anger smoldering. “And you, boy—where did you hear these slanders?”

Aegon only looked more confused, his eyes glassy, the faint reek of wine about him suggesting he had likely been deep in his cups. The King’s fury escalated. “Aegon!” he barked. “Tell me the truth of it!”

Rhaenyra’s voice, cold and sharp as a blade, pierced through the tension that clung thickly in the air. “Father, we all know well who plants these honeyed poisons into your children’s ears.” She turned to Alicent, whose eyes widened in shock, a flicker of realization flaring behind them. “Laenor often noted your Queen’s…obsession with me, to our marriage bed to be precise .” she continued, each word searing, “For ten years instead of raising her children right, her gaze has been fixed upon my every move, and that is why her own children have grown into… such pitiable disappointments.” Her voice dripped with venom.

Lord Corlys, standing near behind her, nodded with grim agreement. “Indeed, Laenor spoke often of how the Queen watched the Princess, as if she were a spurned lover, as if in some fevered fixation.”

Aegon’s face twisted with dawning comprehension, while Alicent, visibly stricken, paled further, her lips parting in horrified disbelief. Rhaenyra observed Alicent’s reaction with a dark amusement. Ah, she mused, so the foolish girl is infatuated with me. No wonder her bitterness runs so deep.

“Enough!” King Viserys thundered, his tone weary, exasperated. “This interminable infighting must cease! All of you—we are family! Apologies must be made and goodwill restored. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!”

Rhaenyra’s mouth tightened, her eyes flashing with indignation. “No, Father. It is not enough.” Her voice was measured, each word dipped in quiet fury. “Her children came to my husband’s ancestral castle, attempted to claim his dragon barely a day after he was laid to rest, and then dared to hurl vile slander at my sons. My children, who stand as heirs to the Iron Throne and the Driftwood Throne, while hers are spares, with little to no significance in the realm.”

The King’s shoulders drooped as he moved toward her, reaching out to touch her arm, but she took a deliberate step back, forcing him to stop. “I have tried tirelessly to give you the peace in this family that you so desire, Father,” she said bitterly. “I’ve held my tongue each time your Queen has slandered me as a whore.” The King’s eyes flared with sudden anger and disbelief, darting toward Alicent, who looked ashen and trembling.

Her hands trembled as she clenched them, recalling moments that had left scars far deeper than wounds. “The Queen demanded my sons be brought before her the very hour they was born, knowing full well the toll the birth had taken on me. I could barely stand, blood still marking my gown as I carried my chldren to her, only to watch her scrutinize them, as if he were some beast in a cage.” She took a shuddering breath, her eyes flashing with a fierce anger. “And I endured that, out of respect for you.”

The King’s face twisted with remorse, his gaze lowering, but Rhaenyra’s words grew fiercer still. “And then, at council, when I came to discuss matters of the realm—the realm you said I would one day rule, Father—your Queen sat in my place, speaking of the kingdom’s affairs as if she were the one who’d been named your heir. I was dismissed, as if a mere consort, unworthy even of a seat at the table. You saw it. You allowed it.” Her voice was low, but her fury unmistakable.

Her eyes narrowed, the rawness of her grief melding with her fury. “So now, Father, I ask you to choose. Me, your daughter and rightful heir, or these vile spares you’ve allowed to trample over my birthright.”

The King’s face crumpled with the weight of her ultimatum, his eyes dimming with resignation. “What would you have me do?” he murmured.

Suppressing the smirk that threatened her lips, Rhaenyra replied with steely calm, “Aemond has displayed not only a profound disregard for the dragons but also for the sanctity of this family. Such recklessness proves him unworthy of their companionship.” She lifted a hand in an imperious gesture. “Forbid him from ever claiming an egg or a dragon henceforth, on pain of severe punishment.”

The young Prince Aemond cried out, his voice high and desperate. “Father, please, no! It is my birthright!”

But the King’s gaze hardened. “Bonding with a dragon is not a birthright, Aemond. It is a privilege,” he said firmly. “Given that two eggs have already grown cold in your care, and multiple dragons have turned you away, it would be foolish to risk another. Some Targaryens live without dragons; not all of us are chosen.” His voice softened, yet Aemond’s face crumpled, tears of frustration gathering in his one good eye.

A flicker of pity brushed against Rhaenyra’s heart, but it was gone as swiftly as it had come. She could not afford such sentiment now. Aemond had already shown his cruelty; the seeds of the future Kinslayer were sown.

She turned back to her father, her voice cutting the silence like a blade. “This boy’s slander against my children’s legitimacy is treason. Treason is punishable by death.”

Alicent gasped, her face awash with horror. “Viserys! He is your son!”

Rhaenyra scoffed, folding her arms. “It’s not as if my father likes him.” she sneered. The King glared at her, but she held her ground. “Strip him of his title and remove him from our family tree. Let him be Aemond Waters, for he has proven himself no true Targaryen. Let him be the true bastard.” The finality of her words hung heavy in the hall, and she saw her father’s shoulders sag, his spirit worn thin.

Aemond whimpered softly, his heart shattered before them all, and Alicent’s mouth opened in wordless despair.

As Alicent clasped her hands tightly, desperation stark in her wide, pleading eyes, she cried out, "Please, Viserys. Aemond is your son, your blood. This punishment is too harsh. He is but a boy!" Her voice trembled, hope flickering as she awaited his mercy.

King Viserys approached her with a sigh, the lines of worry etched deep into his face. “Alicent, he is my son, yes, but he has failed in caring for not one but two dragon eggs, which grew cold under his watch. He has been turned away by dragons more than once, and now, in pursuit of one, he has lost his eye. Perhaps," he continued softly, with a gentle, placating look, "not all Targaryens are destined to bond with dragons. This way, Aemond will be safe, no longer at risk.”

Alicent’s eyes hardened, the warmth and devotion in Viserys’s tone doing little to ease the grim set of her mouth. But the king, blind to her stiffening fury, went on. "However,” he said, his tone now firmer, “I cannot overlook the insult he cast at his young, grieving nephews. It is treasonous—words that could ignite hatred and unrest. And Rhaenyra…” he turned back to his daughter, an unsteady resolve in his gaze, “she could have demanded far more.”

With that, he straightened. "From this day, Aemond Targaryen will be known as Aemond Waters, stripped of all titles, and his name shall be struck from the lineage." He turned toward Archmaester Vaegon, who appeared from the shadows with parchment and quill at the ready, his cool gaze missing nothing of the tense exchange. “Archmaester, prepare and distribute the decree.” the king ordered.

Around them, the Hall of Nine was thick with tension. Rhaenyra took a breath, noting the Velaryon Seaguard surrounding them, vigilant and ready. Men on the balcony held bows drawn, she also noticed the Lord of the Vale present. Lord Waynwood, watched Alicent with disgust, and Lord Cobray eyed the Kingsguard warily, one hand on the pommel of his sword. Her Dragonguard formed a proud half-circle behind her sons, their stances steely.

“Thank you, Father.” she said gently, nodding to the king with quiet gratitude. But before she could even turn fully toward her sons, Luke’s voice tore through the air. “Muña! Behind you!” he screamed, eyes wide with terror.

Rhaenyra whirled, barely glimpsing the glint of steel before Alicent’s furious face was upon her. Instinct drove her to thrust up her hand up, halting Alicent’s arm mid-swing. Alicent’s teeth were bared, her eyes wild and alight with a venomous fire. Rhaenyra, though not delicate nor defenseless, matched her strength.

"You have gone too far!" she gritted out.

"I?" Alicent countered, incredulous, her voice steady and strong. “What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the Kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout all to do as you please.”

She heard her father’s voice, sharp and commanding. “Alicent, release her at once!” But Alicent was deaf to all but her own rage.

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?” Alicent hissed. “It is trampled under your pretty foot again!” Her voice was shrill, her restraint long gone.

Rhaenyra let out a dark laugh. “Did you call it duty when you warmed my father’s bed the very night Queen Aemma was laid to rest? I call it you being a disgusting opportunist! Were you upholding the law when you paid off the maids Aegon violated?” Her words landed like lashes. “What have you sacrificed, Alicent, except our friendship and my trust so you could call yourself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

"Release the blade, Alicent!" the king shouted, but Alicent’s eyes held no submission, only hollow fury.

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding under the cloak of your righteousness, but now they see you.” Rhaenyra’s voice was low but it echoed in the stunned silence. Alicent’s gaze swept the room, a dawning horror overtaking her face as she realized the solitude of her fury. Her father was dead; her children helplessly looked on. And Viserys, standing firm, showed no sign of shielding her.

Then, behind the Queen, Black Trombo closed in. He caught Alicent’s arm, twisting until her shriek of pain split the air and the dagger fell from her grip. Rhaenyra almost stumbled as she was pulled back, finding herself steadied by the firm hands of Ser Steffon, his grip protective yet unyielding. She caught her breath, her gaze shifting to Black Trombo, who now had an arm around the Queen’s neck, squeezing until her face went red. He slammed her to the floor, her head bouncing against the hard ground.

Another shout rang out as Criston Cole charged forward, only to meet the powerful sweep of Kofi’s enormous staff. Cole was hurled back with a resounding clang of armor, crashing into the stone wall, and Kofi brought his staff down on Cole’s sword hand, the sickening crack of bones audible even amid the gasps of the crowd.

For a moment, silence fell over the hall, only the sound of Alicent's cries and her children's shouts can be heard. Rhaenyra looked upon Alicent with a calm, relentless stare, triumphant and unmoved, her enemies scattered before her as witnesses to her resilience. The Queen, humbled and trembling, lay upon the cold floor, blood tickling from her head—her own fury now reduced to a smoldering ember, while Rhaenyra, head held high, stood victorious.

Lord Corlys’s furious shout echoed through the Hall of Nine, halting the residual tension and ringing with a steely, unyielding authority. “Enough!” he thundered, his gaze as cold as the sea. “The Velaryons have been insulted in our own hall for long enough.” He looked pointedly at King Viserys, then swept his arm toward Alicent, still trembling on the floor. “I want that woman out of Driftmark come morning, along with her vile, low- cunning brood—especially that dragon thief!” His voice softened only slightly as he addressed Viserys. “I respect you, King Viserys, and you may stay as long as you wish, but these Hightowers will no longer darken Driftmark with their presence. I do not know how you run your court, but on Driftmark, attempted murderers and thieves are never welcome.”

As he finished, Corlys pulled little Luke up his arms, and the boy burrowed his tear-streaked face into his grandfather’s neck. At the same time, Princess Rhaenys had Jace’s hand firmly clasped in hers, her knuckles white with indignation. Corlys turned to Rhaenyra, his gaze fierce yet tender. “We will escort you and the children to your rooms, Princess.”

Rhaenyra gave a nod of gratitude and, with one last look down at the Queen still sprawled on the floor, turned to go. She hugged her father goodnight, and he whispered a promise in her ear. “Punishment will be meted out, my daughter.” She kissed him in gratitude, a quiet “Thank you, Father.” escaping her lips before she allowed her family to guide her away from the scene.

As they walked down the corridor, Rhaenyra caught Black Trombo grinning like a rogue in the shadows. She lowered her voice as they passed, saying, “The Queen will be desperate tonight—she’ll likely seek out Larys Strong. Make certain Aegon finds them in the most compromising position possible.”

He chuckled, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Consider it done, Princess.” With a nod, he disappeared into the shadows, blending seamlessly into the darkness.

In her rooms, Rhaenyra found Lady Selene and Elinda waiting with warm water, soft cloths, and fresh nightgowns for the children. Lord Corlys kissed his grandchildren goodnight, their sleepy faces already showing exhaustion, before he departed. Princess Rhaenys stayed, her keen gaze flickering between the children as they nestled close to one another, finding peace in the cocoon of their mother’s embrace.

As the room fell silent save for the crackling of the fire, Rhaenyra sank into the chair opposite Rhaenys, exhaustion tugging at her every bone. She very much wanted to kick the Lady of Driftmark out of her room so she can rest but before she could speak, Rhaenys’s voice cut through the quiet, grave and resolute.

“The Greens will kill you and your children, Rhaenyra. Just as they killed Laenor.”

Rhaenyra felt a jolt of surprise at the unvarnished statement but reclined into the chair, accepting the reality with an understanding nod. “Yes, they will.”

Rhaenys’s mouth set into a firm line. “Then we must kill them first.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed in thought. “Otto Hightower is dead. He was the head of their entire operation.”

“Otto was nothing more than a figurehead these past ten years. It has been the Queen herself undermining you, step by step. We will need to rid ourselves of all the Hightowers if we want her truly powerless.” Rhaenys’s tone was crisp, each word sharp and clear as glass.

Rhaenyra’s frustration mounted. “But how?” she asked, nearly despairing. She knew well that, with Otto gone, Alicent would turn to Hobert Hightower. Even if they eliminated him, there were sons, cousins, endless allies in Oldtown.

Rhaenys leaned forward, her gaze sharpened with resolve. “I recently met a healer of sorts, a man from Qohor. Like the lifesmith you employ, this one is a scholar of the human body. He once sought knowledge at the Citadel but was cast out within three years. He waits here now for a ship back to Qohor, but one of my guards has discovered the reason for his expulsion.”

Although Rhaenyra’s interest was piqued, she tried her hardest to keep the irritation out of her voice for what does she care about some healer? “And what reason would that be?”

"The maesters discovered him drilling a hole in a man's skull to save his life.” Rhaenys explained, her tone part incredulous, part amused. “There are tales of him cutting men open, stitching their very insides, even removing a burst organ from one poor soul before sewing him back together.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth dropped open at the sheer audacity of such practices. “And they let him live?”

“They cast him out in horror. But here’s the twist, princess, every one of those men he cut open is still alive.”

Rhaenyra blinked, struggling to comprehend the madness of it. “How?”

Rhaenys gave a careless shrug. “Perhaps Qohor is simply more… advanced.”

Rhaenyra’s mind raced about everything she knows about Qohor—she remembered Daemon coming  back from his trip with a wide grin on his face. He brough home two Valyrian daggers to be given to Aegon and Viserys once they are of age but she’d given little thought to the place. But now, memories stirred of its reputation as the City of Sorcerers, the last bastion of dark arts powerful enough to reforge Valyrian steel. Is it sorcery, then?

Her musings were cut short as Rhaenys continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He wasn’t merely expelled from the Citadel, Rhaenyra; Hobert Hightower himself exiled him from Oldtown. The maesters paid his patients to claim they’d been unwilling, that his methods were nothing short of torture.”

“So, is it safe to even have a man like this here? He may very well be deranged, using hapless souls for his—experiments.” Rhaenyra replied, her brow knit with concern.

Rhaenys leaned forward, her eyes alight with intrigue. “He’s mad, yes, and far from discreet. He’s been stewing in the dungeons since last week after making a right spectacle at the Salty Maid. His rants, mind you, were nothing short of operatic. He threatened to set Oldtown aflame with an ‘imaginary dragon’ and claimed he could send the gods’ wrath upon it, even to sink it into the earth itself. He spoke of some ‘oil’ that would bring plague to the city.”

“A plague?” Rhaenyra murmured, uneasy.

Rhaenys’s gaze took on a gleam of mischief. “Yes—Midnight Ichor, he called it. A curious substance, apparently, derived from the resin of the Shadowbark tree found near the Bone Mountains, not far from Qohor. Corlys mentioned it once, years ago, when we were newly married. This ichor is dark, volatile, and ever so delicately potent, scarcely used outside the clandestine trades of Essos. In its rawest form, its fumes are rumored to play tricks on the mind.”

“And what sort of tricks, exactly?” Rhaenyra pressed.

“Oh, ghastly ones.” Rhaenys replied, her eyes narrowing with grim relish. “When burned, the fumes carry an unsettling, sickly-sweet scent, tinged with a bitterness that lingers. It induces hallucinations, you see—shadowy figures lurking, whispers in the dark. They say those afflicted begin to feel as though they’re being watched from just beyond the lantern’s light. By nightfall, it drives most to the brink of madness.”

Rhaenyra could feel her skin prickle as she pictured the eerie vision. “Surely such oil is forbidden?”

Rhaenys leaned back, casting a dark smile. “In Qohor, they are strictly regulated but there is nothing that cannot be obtained if you have the coin.”

She smiled at that then asked “What else does it do?”

“Oh, it does plenty.” Rhaenys continued, the cadence of her voice almost poetic. “The fumes irritate the lungs, leaving those exposed with a cough, wet and wheezy, the kind that lingers in the throat like a curse. They cough up blackened phlegm, their lungs scorched and shadowed by the substance. Their sight becomes clouded as if by shadows, and they stumble about as though veiled in mist. Fevers set in, followed by chills, and a creeping sense of dread. By the time it reaches its peak, madness has already set in.”

She paused, watching as Rhaenyra took it all in. “They grow gaunt and paranoid, too, dark circles lining their eyes, their bodies shadowed from exhaustion and fear. They become hollow, the darkness clinging to them even in the brightest day. Sleepless nights haunts them, for they feel as if they’re hunted by their own shadows.”

Rhaenyra inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening on the arm of her chair. “And you say Corlys knew of this?”

“Yes, though he dismissed it as sailor’s tales at the time. But I also talked with your Qohorik Lifesmith and he did confirm the truth of the tale. The Midnight ichor does exist.” Rhaenys replied, her voice dropping as she continued, “Wouldn’t it be something glorious," Rhaenys murmured, her eyes dark with a chilling light, "if the very heart of the Faith in Westeros twisted itself into a nightmare? The lords of Oldtown wasting away, one after another, their minds rotting like so much spoiled fruit—and not even the learned healers of the Citadel able to mend them. Imagine the Starry Sept, once so sanctified, transformed into a lair for monsters of the mind, a cursed beacon where even the holy dare not tread."

The ominous tone and restrained glee in Princess Rhaenys’ voice left no doubt: a darkness upon Oldtown was no longer a thing she feared—but perhaps hoped for.

Rhaenyra let a slow smile bloom as she met Rhaenys's determined gaze. “If anyone can see it done, it would be you, the rider of Meleys herself.” Her voice was rich with encouragement, a subtle goading that left Rhaenys visibly pleased, a gleam lighting the Lady of Driftmark’s eye.

Watching her, Rhaenyra felt a stirring of admiration mixed with caution. Though she did not fully trust this woman just yet—she could never forget the looks Rhaenys had once cast upon her children, the silent judgments that had lingered in the air like a chill. It mattered little that Rhaenys might rid her of one of her foes; Rhaenyra knew she would always remember those cold glances, etched forever in her heart. She could smile, and she could offer words of encouragement, but she would never forgive. Not fully. Rhaenys's loyalty was a strange creature, familiar yet foreign, capable of fierce allegiance yet bound to an old wariness.

With a satisfied smile, Rhaenys took her leave, a faint skip in her step—one she barely managed to restrain, her air of decorum still intact yet lighter, as though untethered from a secret she was eager to carry forth. Rhaenyra allowed herself a small, wry smile at that; even a woman of such steel could be invigorate by the promise of revenge.

Once alone, Rhaenyra made her way to the inner chamber, slipping off her outer robe with care and easing herself onto the bed beside them. Joffrey was still fast asleep, his dark curls peeking out from beneath the covers, his tiny form bundled in warmth. She reached over him, pulling the blanket more snugly around his shoulders and pressing a light kiss to his forehead before her attention was drawn to a playful hiss from Tyraxes. The small dragon, still a hatchling, eyed her toes with mischief, his tail curling as he prepared to nip.

“Stop that nonsense, you little fiend.” she chided with a soft laugh, giving him a gentle tsk. The creature snorted in reply, but seemed to heed her words, settling below Joffrey’s crib as though in quiet agreement to stand guard.

Rhaenyra finally sank into her place beside Luke, curling her arm around his sleeping form. The softness of his cheek against her shoulder was a balm, and as she adjusted the blanket around Jace’s shoulders, she could feel her heart swell. These moments were precious, fleeting as dreams themselves. She watched their peaceful faces, their breaths soft and even in the quiet of the room, and hoped they were lost to sweet dreams, safe and warm in the cocoon of night.

Rhaenyra let her head rest on the pillow, her gaze drifting from one beloved face to the next, a soft murmur escaping her lips. “Dream well, my sweet boys.” she whispered, and closed her eyes, cradled by the gentle warmth of her children.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra watched as little Luke merely pushed his food around on his plate, his small fork nudging bits of bacon he had carefully cut into tiny pieces. His brows were furrowed, his gaze cast down, the delightful breakfast all but forgotten under his distracted scowl. She leaned forward, her voice soft yet teasing. "Is it that you don't like your food, my love?"

Luke shrugged, saying nothing, as he shifted a piece of bacon to the side. Jace, seated across from him, kept glancing over in silent concern, though he continued to dip his freshly toasted bread into the thick, creamy broth beside his own plate. The breakfast table was a rich spread—a warm selection of thick-cut, honey-glazed bacon, steaming golden rolls with butter, and rich bowls of lentil-and-parsnip soup seasoned to perfection, its aroma mingling with the sharper scents of crisp apples and salted meats that had been laid out in abundance.

Rhaenyra exchanged a look with Lady Amanda, who sighed and gently shook her head, passing her Joffrey, who was babbling and cooing like any contented babe should, happy simply to be passed from arm to arm. Rhaenyra offered her youngest a smile, then beckoned to the maid to bring forth the dessert plates. Luke’s eyes lit up faintly, though he quickly masked his interest, and Rhaenyra seized the moment.

With an encouraging smile, she leaned closer to Luke. “I’ll make you a deal,” she murmured, taking his fork and spearing a slice of bacon, holding it before him. “Three bites of bacon, and then a bite of dessert.”

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips, and after a moment, he nodded, taking a small bite of the bacon with a look of genuine effort. Once he managed his three bites, he passed his empty plate to the maid with sudden determination, his small hand outstretched. "Could I have a honey cake, please?"

She gestured to the maid who obliged, and a generous serving of honey cake was put on his plate along with two more strips of bacon that he attacked immediately, chewing happily. Rhaenyra brushed a stray curl away from his brow, her fingers lingering in a gesture of affection. Beside him, Jace beamed, his concern for his brother now eased.

She turned to him, her tone warm. “Aren’t you going to try the bacon, my sweet? Your grandmother wished you to spend the day with the dragons, and for that, you’ll need all the energy you can muster.”

Jace grinned, accepting a slice of bacon for himself. “Will you come with us, Muña?” he asked, eyes hopeful.

Rhaenyra shook her head gently. “I must attend the King today,” she replied. “But in a week’s time, we’ll be off to Dragonstone together, to settle Seasmoke at the Dragonmont.”

Luke looked up from his honeyed bacon, curiosity bright in his eyes. “Will Aemond really be going back to King’s Landing today?”

“Yes,” she assured him. “Aemond Waters will not spend another day here at Hightide.”

Luke nodded, satisfaction settling over his young face. “Good,” he said firmly. “I don't even want him in King’s Landing.”

Her mouth quirked up in a small smile as she brushed his curls again, her heart swelling with pride. “I’ll speak to the King, sweetling. Aemond is no longer a prince, but a bastard, and as such, he has no right to remain in the Holdfast.”

Jace’s gaze lifted to her, a question in his quiet voice. “Is he truly a bastard now?”

Rhaenyra held his gaze and nodded. “Threatening both you and Luke is treason, my s.weet If he weren’t the King’s son, I would have demanded his head.” She glanced meaningfully at Lady Amanda, who nodded in agreement.

“Remember, young Princes,” Lady Amanda intoned gently, her voice carrying a wise and measured weight, “you are among the most important people in the Seven Kingdoms. Save for the King and your mother, you are second to none. With power comes both respect and responsibility. Many will show you deference, yet others will harbor envy. Be cautious, for your words and actions carry weight beyond your years.”

Jace and Luke shared a glance, their eyes wide yet filled with a newfound understanding. They nodded solemnly, each boy sitting a touch taller in his seat, and resumed eating with a quiet focus.

More desserts were brought out, Luke’s eyes sparkled in pure delight as a platter of treats was set before him. The first was a cluster of baked figs stuffed with almonds and lightly drizzled with honey, the natural sweetness balanced by a hint of lemon zest. The second offering was a fresh berry compote with delicate slices of pear, each bite bursting with flavor, served in a bowl made of crisp, flaky pastry.

Luke eagerly spooned a bite of the compote, his cheeks dimpling in a smile, and Rhaenyra couldn’t help but share his joy. She stroked his curls, tenderly tucking them away from his face, then watched as he alternated bites of dessert with his bacon, his small form glowing with satisfaction.

“Perfect, my little sea dragon.” she murmured as she settled back, content to see her boys enjoy the morning, their worries set aside for a moment of simple delight.

Shortly after breaking their fast, Princess Rhaenys arrived with a resolute gleam in her eye and a purpose clear as daylight. She had come to instruct her grandsons in their dragon commands, personally ensuring they learned the delicate nuances of bonding and control. Only a scarce handful of Dragonkeepers had yet found their way to High Tide—a situation that she does not understand when at one point the Velaryons had more dragons than the Royal Family. The castle, magnificent though it was, lacked its own Dragonpit, a need that had not gone unnoticed by Lord Corlys. He was already speaking of building one, a place not merely of confinement but of protection, suited to the unique nature of their lineage.

Meleys had claimed a cavern in a nearby hill, a retreat fitting for the Red Queen. Seasmoke, however, had always preferred the salt-tinged air by the shore—a proximity that had proved costly, as it allowed Aemond’s bold intrusion. Lord Corlys is adamant in his intention for Luke to spend more time in Hightide and he wanted to make sure that Arrax will be protected because although endearing and spirited, he is still no larger than a stout hunting hound. His vulnerability stirred Rhaenyra's heart, underscoring the need for a fortified sanctuary.

Rhaenyra resolved to take charge of the Dragonpit in King’s landing herself, ensuring it would never become a tomb for the dragons like what happened in her time. It would be a place of care and reverence, not confinement. She’d be watchful, too, over the bond between Sunfyre and Aegon and Dreamfyre and Helaena,she does not want their bond deepening at all. She considered that perhaps a stricter study schedule would keep Helaena’s focus steady. She remembered how swiftly Alicent married her two eldest children to each other after the High Tide incident, Helaena would surely need stricter instruction on how to be a wife. As for Aegon, well, his love of strong drink and merriment would make distractions readily available.

Rhaenyra could scarcely conceal her bewilderment as she observed the workings of her father’s court. The lack of structure was baffling; ladies-in-waiting flitted about as though they were no more than glorified maids, without the distinctive roles and responsibilities that should have granted them a sense of purpose and dignity. Even Alicent—despite her lofty position as Queen—was served by only a handful of ladies, and they, too, seemed far from any semblance of refinement or organization.

Security, likewise, appeared laughably lax. It seemed the only protection afforded to the royal family was the Kingsguard, each member so frequently occupied with competing duties that even the most basic levels of defense felt stretched thin. Rhaenyra couldn’t fathom how such a state of affairs could be considered acceptable for the ruling household of the Seven Kingdoms.

She silently counted her blessings for managing to secure a retinue of seasoned knights to bolster her own household’s defenses. Lady Jeyne Arryn’s gift had been timely, sending a commendable number of knights for her service, and Rhaenyra knew she still owed her a letter of gratitude, if only to reassure the Lady of the Vale that the men she’d sent had been put to proper use.

That’s why she’s so thankful that Lady Amanda had undertaken the noble yet intricate task of organizing her household, assigning each lady a specific title, a position crafted to their strengths. She smiled as she watch them discuss their new tasks.

“Lady Selene,” Amanda began, her voice warm yet firm “you, of course, shall take up the mantle of Mistress of Robes. With your eye for the finer things and rich family heritage, I can hardly think of anyone better suited.”

Lady Selene, a striking Celtigar with an undeniable elegance, clasped her hands together, her eyes gleaming. “Oh, I can hardly wait! I already have designs in mind—gowns in lush sapphire and deep crimsons. And perhaps, for formal occasions, we might consider embellishing them with gold accents… it would be striking against the Targaryen colors.” She smiled at Rhaenyra. “Your Highness, I’ll make certain you are the finest-dressed in all the realm.”

Rhaenyra chuckled, nodding with approval. “I have no doubt, Lady Selene. But remember we are still in mourning so it will have to be muted and respectful.” Aside from Laenor’s passing she lamented that her newly curated colorful gowns will have to be put in storage for at least a year. But at least she has an excuse to procure more gowns.

Amanda then turned her attention to Lady Elinda, whose calm demeanor contrasted with her diligent nature. “Lady Elinda, you’ll serve as Keeper of Accounts. Your meticulous touch is exactly what we need to ensure that every coin and letter is accounted for.”

Elinda gave a satisfied nod. “Thank you, Lady Amanda. I will see to it that nothing escapes our ledgers. The Princess’s correspondences alone could fill a chest, but I’ve already organized a system that will bring some sense to it.”

Rhaenyra raised her brows in amusement. “No small task, Elinda. But I trust you completely.”

Amanda’s gaze shifted to Lady Nila, who could barely contain her enthusiasm. “Lady Nila, you are Mistress of the Bedchamber. I trust that the Princess’s chambers and, indeed, the entire Heir’s Wing, will be nothing short of splendid under your watch.”

Nila lit up. “Oh, thank you, Lady Amanda! I’ve already started taking notes for a few changes. The wing has so much potential—I’d love to add a parlor for afternoon teas, perhaps with tapestries from the Free Cities to brighten it up. And the bedchamber itself… perhaps silk drapes in silver or deep purple?”

She glanced eagerly at Rhaenyra. “Your Highness, I want to make certain that every space reflects your dignity and comfort.”

Rhaenyra gave her an encouraging smile. “I’m eager to see your vision come to life, Nila.”

Finally, Lady Amanda addressed Lady Anella. “And Anella, you will serve as Lady of the Table. From daily meals to grand feasts, the dining experience will be in your hands.”

Anella’s cheeks flushed with pride. “I have some ideas already—perhaps we might introduce more seasonal fruits from the Reach, even arrange the platters to match the theme of each feast.”

Amanda’s gaze softened. “I know you’ll ensure every meal is a feast, and your presence at the Princess’s side will be invaluable.”

Rhaenyra listened to each woman’s words, a smile of satisfaction spreading across her face. This was her household—skilled, devoted, and already planning for a future filled with elegance and order.

Rhaenyra felt an unfamiliar wave of relief as she watched her household take shape, each role in Lady Amanda’s care bringing her one step closer to a proper royal establishment. No longer did it feel like an ordinary family occupying a grand castle; it was evolving into a true household befitting her station, one that would finally reflect the respect and order of her claim.

However, there was still much to be done. While High Tide and the Red Keep were now becoming steady havens for her sons, Dragonstone remained as yet a distant task on the horizon. The ancient seat of House Targaryen had been passed to her in name, but in practice, it lacked her rule, her hand in its affairs. She needed to establish her full household there, to fill its corridors with staff and servants loyal to her—and to her sons, who would soon require their own dedicated attendants as they grew into their roles.

Luke, especially, would need comfort on his travels between High Tide, the Red Keep, and eventually Dragonstone. It would no longer do to have him trailing back and forth without certainty in his lodgings or consistency in his staff. He, too, deserved the privilege of familiarity and comfort in all three locations, a taste of the royal privilege she intended to secure for him.

As for her own relationship with Dragonstone, it puzzled her that she hadn’t yet put her own stamp on it. Dragonstone was far more than a title; it was the foundation upon which she was meant to build her rule. It had been bestowed upon the heirs of House Targaryen for generations, preparing each future ruler to govern. If she could not establish order and loyalty on that singular, storied isle, how could she hope to claim the Seven Kingdoms as her own?

She looked up as Ser Steffon knocked twice loudly and then announced the King, as the doors opened, the room fell silent, and Lady Amanda and her ladies-in-waiting rose from their seats, a wave of elegant curtsies cascading around Rhaenyra’s chambers. Rhaenyra lowered the list she’d been reading, her eyes lighting up as her father, King Viserys, entered with a warm smile.

"Father!" she greeted, leaning in to press a kiss on each cheek.

The King’s hands rose to cup her face gently, his gaze filled with the tender weariness of a man shouldering far too many burdens. “Did you sleep well, my dearest?”

Rhaenyra gave him a faint smile in reply, and Viserys sighed, his face clouding momentarily before he clasped her hand tightly in his.

Then, regaining his composure, he turned to Lady Amanda and the assembled ladies, offering a a polite greeting. Lady Amanda, with her customary grace, bid the King a respectful goodbye on behalf of the ladies-in-waiting and swept them out, closing the door to leave them in privacy.

“Please, sit by the fire, Father.” Rhaenyra said, guiding him to one of the chairs near the hearth. She poured a cup of tea, handing it to him. “Lady Amanda is setting my household in fine order.” she explained as he took a grateful sip. “Each of my ladies has been given tasks befitting her talents.”

The King’s eyes warmed with approval. “It’s good that you have such fine women about you. Your Aunt Amanda has always known how to craft order from chaos.”

Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, though her expression softened as he asked, “And where are my grandchildren today?”

“They’re with Princess Rhaenys, visiting the dragons,” she replied. “Joffrey, however, is still fast asleep.”

Viserys chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, then I must share them now with Rhaenys too—not only Lord Corlys but his wife as well.”

Rhaenyra’s smiled slightly at that then looked at her father seriously. “And Alicent? Has she left with her children?”

Viserys sighed, his amusement fading. “Yes, they’ve only just departed. Some delay, I’m afraid—Aegon decided this morning was the perfect time to… attack Lord Larys.”

Rhaenyra’s brows rose in pretend shock. “Lord Larys? He attacked the Clubfoot?” she asked, a gleam of mischief in her eyes that didn’t go unnoticed by her father.

“Rhaenyra,” the King chastised gently, though he couldn’t entirely hide his own chagrin. “We do not call him that. No one knows why Aegon lashed out, as he refuses to explain himself. Lord Larys has a broken leg, a split lip, and both eyes swollen. It was highly improper… and embarrassing.” He sighed. “I’ll need to extend a personal apology to the Lord Hand.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a barely concealed smirk. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that, Father.”

Black Trombo had proven himself to be highly competent and she will have to reward his dedication. The only favor Black Trombo had ever asked of her was to permit his troupe of performers to accompany him to King’s Landing. Ser Harwin had once confided to her that Trombo had been a mummer before turning his talents to the blade, first under Daemon’s banner and now hers. His troupe, she’d discovered, was a clever asset, skilled at gathering whispers and sowing the seeds of her cause with artful subtlety. Their performances—so charming, so seemingly innocent—held an undeniable power to influence, making them invaluable in her quiet campaign against the Greens.

 Viserys’s face softened again, this time with regret. “I’m deeply sorry for what happened last night,” he murmured, his tone somber. “There will be consequences. Proper punishment…”

“Proper punishment, Father?” she interrupted, her tone sharpening. “For your wife, who sought to kill me?”

The color drained from Viserys’s face, his eyes widening, and he glanced away, his fists clenching. “Alicent was… distraught, Rhaenyra. Aemond lost his eye. You must understand—”

“Aemond lost his eye,” she snapped back, “because of his own stupidity.”

Viserys’s shoulders drooped, the strength leaving him as his head dropped. “I know,” he said, his voice hollow. “That’s why he has been punished. He is no longer a prince. I have stripped him of that title… and in name, he is no longer my son.”

As the king fell silent, his familiar weakness churned an old bitterness in Rhaenyra, and she felt the words slip out, laced with a cold frustration. “This punishment is good only in paper, Father. Aemond will still haunt the Red Keep, be educated like a prince, treated as such, while my children are forced to live with the memory of the Queen nearly cutting me down before their eyes. They are afraid of her—of the blade she may yet use to strike again. Luke barely sleeps, insisting that Aemond will feed him to a dragon.”

Viserys looked up, stricken, his face lined with a growing shame that turned slowly to resignation, for even he knew the truth in her words. He opened his mouth to respond, but she pressed on, her voice unwavering, resolute. “So we are leaving for Dragonstone permanently. I should have gone the moment I wed, or years before, when I turned six-and-ten.”

The king’s face blanched. “What do you mean to live in Dragonstone permanently, Rhaenyra?” He grasped her hand, his expression pleading. “The Red Keep is your home. You were born here; it is where you belong.”

“Father,” she began, her tone softened only by pity, “the Red Keep ceased being my home when my mother left this world. I will not let it become a prison for my children like it did me—a place where they look over their shoulders, never safe under its roof.”

Viserys’s jaw clenched as he rose, pacing the room with mounting agitation, muttering incoherently to himself, the words “Lord Hand” and “discuss arrangements” slipping from his lips in fragments. She sank back into her chair, watching him, an urge to seize him by the shoulders and shake him gripping her with such force she nearly acted on it. The King could command Alicent to a quiet life with the Silent Sisters, send Aemond to the Wall, and no one would object. It was not as if he loved them—or even liked them. She’d overheard him call Alicent “Aemma” more than once, and she doubted if he could tell Aegon and Aemond apart if pressed. Helaena and Daeron, she was certain, had drifted from his mind altogether.

Yet he wouldn’t act for her or her children, even now.

At last, he sat beside her, his hand reaching out to clasp hers, squeezing her fingers as though the act alone could patch the rift between them. “Yes,” he conceded, his voice softened, “go to Dragonstone. See to it, restore it to rights, give the children time to heal.” He smiled faintly, as if willing his words to ring true. “But you’ll return here before Joffrey’s first nameday, and all will be well once more.”

She managed a smile in return, thin and cold as winter glass, holding his gaze as he met it with blind optimism. “Yes, I will stay on Dragonstone for now.” Let Alicent face the consequences of her actions. Did the woman truly think she could ever live in peace again, after what she’d nearly done? Rhaenyra would ensure Alicent felt the strain of her own machinations with every passing day, a weight that would shadow her no matter where Rhaenyra herself resided.

Rhaenyra’s smirk deepened as Ser Alfred Broome dropped to the ground like a severed branch, his dying scream echoing through the cavernous darkness of the Dragonmont. His once-gleaming armor melted in rivulets over him, hissing as it seared into his flesh. Behind him, ten more men were engulfed in the blaze, their desperate attempts to quench dragonfire pitiful in the face of its relentless hunger. Dragonfire was no ordinary flame—it devoured, long and merciless, leaving only charred husks behind. And it felt all too right to her.

In her moon spent at Dragonstone, she had transformed it piece by piece, room by room, stitching in new tapestries, restoring furnishings, and, importantly, gathering her household to make this place her own. But beneath this order lay an older task: her vengeance. Black Trombo had been diligent in tracking down those treacherous men who had gleefully led her to her doom alongside her young son, her precious Aegon. That her supposed refuge had harbored such snakes had been a cruel blow. She had counted on Dragonstone to be her sanctuary, a cradle of Targaryen strength and history. Instead, it had become her graveyard.

The men’s death throes gradually faded, their charred remains littering the blackened ground. Her hand drifted to Syrax’s warm hide, patting her faithful dragon in pride. Syrax lashed her tail and struck the stragglers with deadly force, and Rhaenyra watched with a dark satisfaction as the last of them fell. Each snap of bone and fading scream were reminders that those who made her uneasy in her own home would never threaten her peace again. Syrax stepped firmly on the last fallen man, crushing him with a merciless, deadly elegance. A gentle creature by nature, Syrax had no taste for human flesh—no, she was far too refined for that. But Rhaenyra savored every moment of the fire and ruin that her draconic companion so effortlessly wrought.

When the flames had left only smoldering silence behind, she turned away, Black Trombo falling in step with her. His expression was a curious mixture of revulsion and satisfaction, and she saw both an odd disquiet and thrill in his eyes.

“Have you found Hugh Hammer, Ulf White and Nettles yet?” she asked sharply, her voice edged with disappointment.

“We’ve questioned everyone on the island, Princess.” Trombo replied, shaking his head. “No one seems to know those names.”

Rhaenyra sighed, her frustration mounting. In the past week alone, Dragonstone had been one vexation after another. When she’d first set foot upon its docks—sailing there after Laenor’s funeral—she had been nothing less than appalled at the sight of the castle. At first, she had demanded the crew take her to the true Dragonstone, certain there had been some mistake. And when they had looked at her in utter confusion and assured her that, yes, this was Dragonstone, her disbelief turned quickly to fury.

The castle rose before her, grand in its austerity, yet it struck her heart with a pang of disappointment. Though impressive to any less discerning eye, this Dragonstone was but a ghostly shadow of the magnificent citadel she had once called her home, a diluted likeness of the fortress her ancestors had wrought with fire and spellwork. Where were the towering dragons that should have been shaped to be towering towers, their bodies appearing to writhe with a life imbued by flame? Here, in place of stone crafted to pulse with ancient magic, stood mere walls of rock, imposing yet devoid of the intricate vitality that once defined her heritage.

Gone were the statues the creatures of their house, the grand, silent sentinels that should have lined the hallways, their gazes fierce and eternal, filled with the fiery pride of her Valyrian blood. The bare stone passages she walked through were stark, almost painfully ordinary, lacking the penetrating gaze of old beasts that should have watched over her. Their shadows, which should have haunted the halls like whispered reminders of her lineage, were nothing more than muted, empty arches and lifeless walls.

There was no sign of the dragons whose tails and claws should have framed doorways and archways, whose wings ought to have soared over the armory and smithy. The torches, set in brackets rather than dragon claws, flickered like faint remnants of a once-blazing heritage. Stone gargoyles scowled from the crenellations, but they were dull, crude imitations of the intricate, dark creatures her forebears had set upon the castle walls—basilisks, manticores, wyverns—all now faded to a dim echo of their once-mystical presence.

Every detail, every shadow, seemed to mock her expectations, each corner of the castle robbed of its former life and sorcery, leaving her aching with a sense of loss. This Dragonstone, severe and resolute as it was, was merely a fortress, nothing more, nothing like the living legacy her family had left. It was as though magic itself had drained from her ancestral home, its very essence faded to a weary shadow, a mere castle in place of what once was a monument to her blood’s fiery glory.

No, this would not do. Dragonstone would need to bend to her will, and if it took a lifetime, she would see it restored to its rightful majesty—one that honored her lineage and her claim. It may have been diminished in this time, but by the gods, Rhaenyra Targaryen would see her home restored to a realm worthy of dragons.

Rhaenyra halted in her tracks and turned, fixing Black Trombo with a glare sharp enough to cleave steel. The Myrish man, who had just witnessed the ferocity of her wrath as ten men burned beneath dragonfire, wisely bowed his head. He understood her temperament well enough by now and, given the charred bodies behind them, rightly feared her ire.

"Then you cannot possibly be looking hard enough," she spat. “Find them.” she commanded, her voice cool yet edged with danger

Trombo shifted uncomfortably but nodded. “They may not be here, Princess,” he ventured carefully. “Though I recall a man named Ulf in King’s Landing—a loudmouthed tavern regular. He boasted to anyone who’d listen that he was none other than Prince Baelon’s son.”

Rhaenyra’s laugh was laced with sharp indignation. “Baelon’s son?” she scoffed. “Viserra Targaryen, the Old King’s most beautiful daughter, once attempted to seduce the Spring Prince, and even she could not sway his loyalty to his lost wife.” She shook her head, amused at the ridiculousness of such a claim. “To think that Baelon the Brave would stray for some tavern wench is laughable. Kill him, too,” she said coldly, continuing her stride. “And search for Hugh Hammer, this time in King’s Landing.”

Trombo nodded again, dutifully accepting her orders. As they walked, Rhaenyra asked, “And the Hull brothers? What of them?”

“Addam of Hull has been brought into the Dragonkeepers’ ranks,” Trombo reported, “and his brother is now serving aboard Prince Lucerys’s new ship, the Sea Dragon.”

Rhaenyra hummed in satisfaction. That was another peculiarity of this time: Laenor’s supposed bastards were practically his age, or nearly so. Certainly old enough to cast doubts on the tale that they were sired by her husband. More likely, she surmised, they were the Sea Snake’s sons, given the circumstances. As for Addam and Seasmoke…well, they would see if he had enough dragon blood to claim a dragon. But, at least for now, he was settled within her household—a wise move, she mused.

Her eyes traveled over the stone corridors, a gleam of pride flickering in her gaze. Dragonstone, at last, bore the regal stamp of Targaryen supremacy. She had appointed a new Castellan, Ser Quince, with precise instructions to retrieve the Valyrian sculptures and tapestries from storage. The castle’s vaults had been brimming with relics—rich tapestries and imposing statues that were now displayed proudly, restoring the fortress to its storied grandeur. In the hallway that led to the Painted Table, busts of Targaryen Freeholder lords lined the corridor: Aenar Targaryen, Daenys the Dreamer up to Queen Visenya Targaryen, each carving more magnificent than the last.

Along the corridor leading to the throne room, she had arranged the busts of her royal predecessors—Aenys I, Aegon the Uncrowned, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, Aemon, Baelon, and her father, Viserys I. Newly added among them, however, was a more recent likeness—her own. The sculptor had, she had to admit, done a masterful job of capturing her features with near-perfection: the proud lift of her chin, the soft yet determined shape of her eyes, the subtle arch of her lips, and even the delicate curl in her hair, rendered in stone as if it might catch the light in the next breath.

The circlet she wore as Princess of Dragonstone now adorned the bust as well, courtesy of Jace’s insistence on a second revision, so that it fully embodied her stature. She’d often noticed Jace and Luke pausing before her likeness as they passed, admiring it with a mixture of reverence and pride. Luke, ever observant, had even suggested it should be painted to bring it fully to life—though, of course, if she were to have her likeness so treated, all her predecessors' bust would need to be treated the same, and maintaining such vividness in the corridor’s array would be an annoyingly tedious task.

Now she had sent word across the realm, seeking painters of the finest skill. She intended to commission a series of portraits: herself and her children, resplendent and unmistakable in Targaryen finery, to grace the gallery of the Red Keep. There, among the ancestors of House Targaryen, her likeness would join a line that would gleam as if new—older portraits, worn with time, would be restored to their former brilliance.

One portrait in particular, however, was to be given a place of prominence. She had decided her mother and father’s likenesses would be hung along the corridor leading to the King’s bedchamber, where their unwavering gaze might serve as a quiet but pointed reminder to Alicent. For the Red Keep was the Targaryen's castle, after all, and it ought to reflect their grandeur, steeped in the majesty of dragons—an unyielding reminder of the legacy that Alicent could neither erase nor outshine.

Rhaenyra’s chin lifted proudly as she glanced around her transformed Dragonstone. Yes, she thought, it was only the beginning, and already, both Dragonstone and the Red Keep would bear the unmistakable touch of the dragon’s blood.

Rhaenyra entered her chambers to the warm fragrance of lavender and vanilla, her bath already steaming, filling the room with the promise of heat against Dragonstone’s chill. Lady Selene had carefully laid out a rich maroon velvet gown with long, snug sleeves and a sleek black overdress, adorned with intricate dragon embroidery that curled along the sweeping cuffs. The heavy fabric and intricate detailing were as practical as they were grand—perfect for the island’s brisk winds. She smiled after finishing her bath, feeling a thrill of warmth as she settled into her seat, and her maid Valaena began weaving her hair into elaborate Valyrian braids.

Just then, the door opened, and Lady Amanda entered, cradling a squirming, rosy-cheeked Joffrey. Rhaenyra’s eyes lit up as she stood and reached for her son, his tiny arms and legs kicking with the gleeful abandon of infancy. His chubby little arms were famously described by Luke as “rolls of bread” a moniker he’d earned because his older brother could hardly resist giving his baby brother’s arms a playful pinch. More than once, she’d tapped Luke’s hand gently, reminding him that poor Joffrey’s round arms were not, in fact, bread to be devoured. With a soft laugh, she warned the nursemaids to watch Luke closely; he’d become quite the miniature showman, carrying Joffrey around as his prize—though his slender arms weren’t nearly strong enough to support his chunky little brother for long.

With Joffrey now safely nestled into the mountain of pillows on her bed, Rhaenyra summoned his meal and turned back, only to find her baby with his face pressed adorably into the bedding, his plump bottom lifted high in the air. She let out a delighted laugh and rolled him onto his back, only for the determined little soul to flip himself over onto his stomach. She chuckled, leaning close and tickling under his chin, which rewarded her with a series of gleeful, toothless giggles.

Just as she settled in beside Joffrey, a hurried set of footsteps echoed outside, quickly followed by a tremendous crash as the door burst open. The loud sound startled poor Joffrey, who immediately began to wail. Rhaenyra gathered him up at once, kissing his forehead and cooing softly until his cries softened to whimpers. She had just about soothed him when Luke and Jace came bounding in, Luke reaching her bedside first. Rhaenyra arched an eyebrow, folding her arms.

“Luke, how many times have I told you not to fling the door open like that?” she scolded, her voice gentle yet firm.

A slightly sheepish grin crossed Luke’s face as he mumbled an apology, though his eyes quickly drifted to Joffrey, who was holding his head up to gaze at his older brothers, his gummy smile as wide as ever. Luke leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss on Rhaenyra’s cheek, then turned his attention to Joffrey, offering his chubby little hand a playful squeeze.

Jace followed more slowly, and Rhaenyra noticed his slight limp. Concerned, she rose immediately, crossing to him with an expression of maternal worry. “What happened?” she asked, fussing over him, reaching to examine his leg.

Jace gave a casual shrug. “I wasn’t paying attention in the yard. It’s nothing, truly.”

Luke, always quick to chime in, added with a little too much enthusiasm, “He got bested by Lord Cregan! He tripped on a stone and landed all wrong.”

Rhaenyra’s expression tightened as her maternal ire flared. “I shall have Syrax torch that training yard until every offending stone is nothing but molten rubble!”

Jace chuckled, shaking his head. “Muña, then it’d be slippery as glass!”

She opened her mouth to protest, only to cry out in alarm as she noticed Luke had lifted Joffrey into his arms, holding him at a jaunty angle with Joffrey’s head lolling precariously backward. Rhaenyra darted forward, gently lifting Joffrey from his brother, though Luke’s indignant “I can carry him now!” did not go unnoticed.

“Oh, truly? I can hardly carry him myself; he’s getting quite fat!” she teased, adjusting Joffrey on her hip.

As if on cue, Joffrey let out a tiny, disgruntled huff—and promptly spat up in what seemed like protest. Rhaenyra laughed, calling for a towel from one of the nearby maids, while Jace and Luke giggled, watching their baby brother with mischievous amusement. Her chambers filled with the lighthearted sounds of their laughter, and Rhaenyra felt her heart lift with contentment, her family happily gathered around her.

The arrival of lunch was met with enthusiastic shouts from Luke and Jace, whose faces lit up with delight as servants announced the midday meal. Luke dashed ahead, already halfway to the dining room, while Jace followed at a slower pace, his limping stride barely dampening his own excitement. Rhaenyra lingered behind, holding Joffrey in her arms, a smile gracing her lips as she savored the sight of her children brimming with energy and spirit.

As they settled into their places, Rhaenyra took her seat, Joffrey nestled in a cradle of pillows by her side. She cherished these meals together she made sure to eat at least a meal everyday with them, despite the many responsibilities and lessons that demanded their attention throughout the day. Their mornings were spent under the sun in the training yard or with the dragonkeepers. Afternoons were dedicated to studies, each of them steeped in knowledge that would prepare them for the unique paths awaiting them.

Young Joffrey Arryn, the future of the Vale, was taught with an eye toward the rugged lands and proud, independent people he would one day call his own. His lessons delved into the heart of Vale loyalty, where mountain clans and noble houses held fast to traditions and the fierce independence of their ancient ancestry. He was instructed in defensive strategy—the art of guarding high passes and deploying troops over the unforgiving terrain, where every stone and shadow could become an ally. To lead the Eyrie required a firm grasp of defensive warfare, a subtle understanding of fortification, and a sense of diplomacy that could sway even the proudest of mountain clansmen. Indeed, Joffrey’s education was as intricate as the mountain passes he would defend.

Meanwhile, Lord Cregan Stark’s tutelage embraced the austere and unforgiving demands of the North. His education was shaped by a land accustomed to harsh winters and a people bound to a code of loyalty and resilience. Practicality was the heart of his lessons—how to provision an army against the deadliest of winters, to maintain the stores of food and weaponry that would see his people through any threat. His education emphasized logistics and the strategy required to muster thousands of men across frozen leagues, to support them on southern campaigns, and to hold their loyalty in the absence of southern courtly customs. Lord Cregan’s training bespoke a realm where loyalty was both a duty and a bond, forged in fire and ice alike.

Luke's future lay not in stone walls nor frozen plains, but upon the ever-changing tides. As Driftmark’s heir, he was schooled in naval warfare, navigation, and the unique complexities of commanding the formidable Velaryon fleet. His tutors impressed upon him the necessity of precise navigation, the rhythms of shipboard life, and the art of keeping a fleet supplied and spirits high at sea. Luke learned the delicate balance of naval diplomacy, how to navigate foreign ports, and to lead with courage in the face of tempestuous seas. He was trained to recognize every inlet and coastline of Westeros as strategic points, each one essential to maintaining Driftmark’s maritime strength. His path was to be one with the sea, his role intricately tied to Westeros’s coastlines and the iron tides beyond.

Then there was Jace, whose lessons encompassed not only the trials of lordship but the weight of the crown itself. As Rhaenyra’s heir, his studies encompassed the breadth and intricacies of Westeros—from the frozen North to the arid sands of Dorne, his knowledge was meant to be as vast as the realm he would one day rule. His tutors taught him alliances and the delicate dance of diplomacy, drilling him in negotiation, persuasion, and the understanding of each great house’s pride and purpose. While his brothers mastered their distinct realms—mountain, sea, and frost—Jace was groomed to wield the realm’s unity, to command not only with the strength of his sword but with the wisdom to bind Westeros together. His destiny required mastery over peace and war, over the hearts of his future bannermen and the trust of his people.

And so, though each son was trained to lead his own future, they were woven together in purpose—a tapestry that Rhaenyra herself had begun to craft.

Lunch was a lively, if unruly affair, brimming with laughter, chatter, and the occasional clash of opinions. Luke was inhaling his meal with such gusto that Lady Celia would have likely fainted on the spot if she sees him, her delicate heart entirely unsuited to such unrestrained table manners. Across from him, Jace animatedly recounted his most recent spar with Lord Cregan Stark.

“Muña Lord Cregan and Lord Joffrey is so much bigger than me.” Jace exclaimed, a mixture of frustration and resolve lighting his face. “Ser Harwin says I’ll have to keep up if I want to stand a chance in future bouts. He suggested running to build my strength—may I run the Dragon Tail at dawn? Or maybe around Dragonmont itself!”

Luke looked up, nose wrinkled with distaste. “I don’t want to run in the mornings, not even a little bit!” he declared, shaking his head firmly.

“You don’t have to, Luke.” Jace assured him with a grin. “You’re still so little, you have time.”

But Luke was undeterred. “But we’re supposed to do things together! And I’m not little!”

The playful exchange shifted, both boys narrowing their gazes in that stubborn, familiar way. Luke’s small fist slammed down on the table, and he raised his voice, “If you run, I’m running too, even if it’s awful!”

Jace reached across the table, his hand resting on Luke’s forearm. “You don’t have to, truly.” he said, gentle but firm tug with an unmistakable smile on his face, trying to soothe his younger brother’s evident irritation.

Rhaenyra could only smile as she placed another spoonful of cheesy mashed potatoes into Joffrey’s perpetually open mouth, laughing softly as it took but five heartbeat before he clapped his little hands together, mouth wide open stretching across his chubby face, wordlessly asking for more. She savored these simple, tender moments. How dearly she clung to them now, especially in light of all she had gone through.

When the war ignited and grief laid its heavy hand on her, Rhaenyra found herself slipping into a darkness that seemed inescapable, and in that haze, her children became neglected shadows on the edges of her broken heart. Her gentle, steadfast Rhaena was the one who quietly took charge, stepping in where her mother could not, gathering her younger brothers close, soothing them with her calm presence, a balm against the chaos swirling around them.

But then came the agonizing decision to send them away—to keep them from the war’s reach, a choice Rhaenyra would come to regret more deeply than she could have foreseen. That night, the shadows grew darker as she lost both Jace and little Viserys in a single, harrowing blow. And, as the tides of war swallowed everything she held dear, the losses continued until all her children, each beloved in ways she had not been able to show, were taken from her. What remained was an ache deeper than any sword cut, an emptiness that the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms could not fill.

And yet here she was now, spooning soft food into Joffrey’s mouth as he banged the table impatiently, her lips pressing a soft kiss to his soft, unmarked brow. She blinked hard, willing herself to banish the image of his broken and shattered body from her memory.

Rhaenyra’s heart ached for them all—her dutiful Rhaena, ever the gentle caretaker; Baela, fierce and indomitable, with fire in her veins; her steadfast Aegon, so eager to prove himself, even as the weight of lost and war pressed down upon his young shoulders; sweet little Viserys, so innocent, his laughter a balm in darker days; and even her youngest, baby Visenya, far too precious to be taken away so cruelly.

The yearning was almost unbearable, yet gods, she hated herself for daring to imagine such a reunion, for conjuring the warmth of her children gathered around her again. Such a vision could only be made real by losing Laena, a cruel trade that twisted her heart with guilt and grief. She could not allow herself to desire it, not when the cost was so devastating. Yet, the longing lingered, and she was left to carry it in silence.

It was fate that had bound her to this path, she reminded herself. She needed to do nothing; fate had aligned the pieces effortlessly, in this time too, she knew Laena will die.

Princess Rhaenys had taken it upon herself to accompany them to Dragonstone, filling the journey with stories of old and personally guiding the children through lessons with their dragons. She had taken her task with solemn devotion, all but throwing herself into guiding Rhaenyra’s children in the ways of their House, attempting to make up for all the years she had not been present for them. Yet, even as Rhaenyra watched her find closeness with her children, a feeling of urgency settled in her heart. She knew Laena was laboring in Pentos, alone but for her husband and two small children, and she needed her mother far more than Rhaenys seemed willing to realize. It had only come to light recently that Laena had not set foot in Westeros since she’d wed Daemon. The realization unsettled her, raising questions she dared not ask aloud.

Rhaenyra’s own time had made such bonds sacred. It was almost unfathomable to imagine Rhaenys, the indomitable Queen Who Never Was, as anything but the doting mother she had come to know. Yet here, in this confusing world, even that bond appeared… fractured. Rhaenys does not seem close to either of her children, they do not even look like they have any kind of relationship. How had it come to be that Laenor himself seemed to harbor a measure of resentment, his smile always a touch too wry when he spoke of his mother? How had her proud and loyal Rhaenys so easily turned her back on her children? And for Laena, too, to have harbored such a distance that she had never returned to Westeros, not even with the ease her dragon afforded her, not even to introduce her twins to their family. Rhaenyra’s mind reeled, unable to find logic in it all.

This world she found herself in was a cruel mockery. The values she had known—family, loyalty, the enduring power of blood—they were twisted here, as if the gods had discarded them out of spite. Her own father had wanted little more than peace for his family yet the King did not even glance at his other children, dismissing them as if they barely existed. Daemon, who had been a force of relentless pride and family devotion, seemed in this world to be a man who had cast them and all his legacy aside. Even Rhaenys’s fierce love for her children, once unshakable, appeared more as a formal duty here, empty of warmth and devotion.

It was a cruel jest, an irony that made Rhaenyra’s heart ache. Everything her time had held dear was reduced to hollow gestures here, as if only she remembered what truly mattered. This world simply did not make sense, its very fabric a confusion of empty values and forgotten love. It was as if the gods had taken every noble instinct, every cherished bond, and replaced them with shadows—things that merely looked like love, like family, while holding no substance at all.

As they demolish their lunch, Jace looked up at her, a glimmer of earnestness in his eyes. “Muña,” he began, his voice soft yet hopeful, “do you think the King might allow us to stay here a while longer? There’s nowhere in the Red Keep for me to run as freely as I do here on the Dragontail cliffs or around Dragonmont.”

Before Rhaenyra could respond, Luke chimed in with a smirk. “You could always run up and down the serpentine steps,” he suggested, his voice thick with irony, “but that sounds like more torture than the Dragontail.”

Rhaenyra couldn’t help but laugh softly before letting out a reluctant sigh. “The King has already allowed us the gift of two moons here,” she said, her tone warm but resolute. “I’m afraid we cannot delay our return any longer, my sweets.”

Luke let out a small sound of disappointment, his expression turning wistful. “I like it here better.” he murmured, almost to himself. And she knew well the reason why.

Her heart swelled with fierce resolve as she met his gaze, determination etched upon her face. She would see to it that Luke—and each of her children—would feel the same comfort and safety within the walls of the Red Keep as they did here at Dragonstone. No dread would mar their home, nor would fear hold any dominion over their young hearts. She would not allow them to grow up haunted by shadows in the very place meant to shelter them.

It was precisely for this reason that their return to the Red Keep was paramount. She needed it under her command, firmly secured and safeguarded from the ambitions of those who would so easily upend the peace she was determined to protect. Never again would she allow the Greens the chance to seize what was rightfully theirs.

Rhaenyra waited for her father to take his seat at the head of the council table, giving him a warm smile before settling into the finely carved chair beside him. It was only her fifth day back from Dragonstone, heralded by a grand, if somewhat restrained, welcome at her father’s bidding. The feast had been simple, more muted than her father might have preferred, given the court’s mourning, yet he’d spared no effort in its preparation.

News had quickly reached her about the scandalous relocation of Queen Alicent to one of the lesser towers, along with her children, while the notorious Aemond had been dispatched to Oldtown to squire for his uncle, Ser Gwayne, and Daeron had been recalled. Murmurs of the Queen’s fall from grace laced the corridors, and Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile inwardly at the satisfying shift of power.

Her new quarters in the Queen’s Wing were spacious, sunlit, and at last free of Alicent’s looming influence. Lord Caswell had overseen the move with commendable speed before they sailed back, while Aunt Amanda made sure the rooms felt like home, filling them with pieces from Queen Aemma’s beloved furnishings. Rhaenyra had not objected, knowing how much her aunt missed her sister, and the familiarity of the old furniture brought a certain warmth and peace to her chambers. Jace and Luke, thrilled with their new proximity to the King’s chambers, had already made a daily ritual of greeting their grandsire each morning, lending a touch of newfound joy to her father’s days.

Now, at her first council meeting in this altered court, Rhaenyra surveyed the room. She offered a slight smile to the Lord Hand, who looked as if he had aged a decade from the accumulated burdens of his sons’ rumored scandals—one son embroiled in whispers of siring bastards with a princess, the other entangled as the Queen’s supposed lover. The Hand’s careworn face and taut shoulders betrayed his inner turmoil as he spoke.

"Your Grace," he began, his voice carefully measured, “it seems Lord Borros of Storm’s End suffered a tragic accident while on a hunt… he has passed.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Lord Borros was a renowned huntsman,” she remarked lightly. “How did such an accident befall him?”

The Lord Hand hesitated, glancing between her and her father, clearly weighing the words before him. “Lord Borros took a fall from his horse, Princess. And… wolves set upon him. His remains were only recovered the next morning.”

A murmur of shock fluttered through the council, and her father looked genuinely mournful. “A letter of condolence should be sent.” he said solemnly, nodding to the Hand. Rhaenyra, meanwhile, concealed a satisfied glimmer.

And she would send a heavy pouch of gold dragons to Black Trombo’s performing troupe, she might even go so far as to gift them a proper theater—a place worthy of their talents and suited to rouse the hearts of the city's folk. After all, the people of King’s Landing lived such grim, gray lives, shrouded in hardship and routine. Perhaps, in the fleeting lights and laughter of a well-placed stage, she could offer them a spark of warmth and joy—a reminder that life could hold more than mere survival.

Across the table, Queen Alicent leaned forward, her expression mournful. “It’s a terrible tragedy, indeed. The Baratheon line must be preserved. Lord Boremund will have to marry again—he has no male heir.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth curled in a small smile, and she turned to Alicent, masking her amusement beneath a look of mild incredulity. “A marriage at Lord Boremund's advance age, lady Stepmother? Not everyone shares such dim views of a lady’s ability to lead, I assure you.” Her voice softened, taking on a lilting tone as she looked around at the other council members. “Lord Boremund stood firmly for Princess Rhaenys at the Great Council of 101, and I daresay he was quite proud of his granddaughters. In fact,” she continued, relishing the growing embarrassment in Alicent’s eyes, “his eldest granddaughter is betrothed to Ser Ronnel Lonmouth, a man I can personally vouch for. I believe the future of Storm’s End is quite secure. You needn’t trouble your pretty little head with the matter.”

Alicent’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, though she maintained her composure, jaw clenched, no doubt seething at the slight. But Rhaenyra turned back to the council, satisfied, letting the Queen’s irritation simmer in silence.

A ripple of surprise flitted across the council table, each lord responding in their own way to Rhaenyra's pointed words. Lord Beesbury fought to hide a grin, his mouth twitching with what could only be described as approval. Lord Strong appeared to look at her anew, as though finally seeing the steel beneath her poise. Meanwhile, Lord Wylde’s brows furrowed in visible displeasure, while Lord Tyland kept his gaze fixed on the council’s sphere, as though willing himself to vanish in the midst of this undeniable tension. Indeed, the Rhaenyra they knew had been one who once allowed herself to be quietly set aside, especially by the Queen. Bully for them, Rhaenyra thought with a touch of satisfaction—they’d soon discover she was not that same woman.

The King cleared his throat, breaking the uneasy silence. “The inheritance of Storm’s End,” he declared, his voice taking on an air of finality, “is the business of House Baratheon. The Crown has never meddled in matters of succession unless a request is expressly made, I will not start doing it now.”

Lord Hand, ever prompt to divert attention, leaned forward and spoke of another pressing matter—an outbreak of rash that had spread across King’s Landing. “It appears to be a skin ailment, Your Grace, marked by an itchy, scaly rash that quickly leads to redness and sores. The risk of contagion is high in the crowded streets and markets, spreading not only discomfort but unsightly sores among the populace.”

The King turned to the Grand Maester, his face lined with concern. “What is to be done, Grand Maester?”

The Grand Maester cleared his throat, responding with the measured calm of one delivering a well-practiced remedy. “I recommend boiling all cloths, Your Grace, and frequently washing affected skin with a tonic of rosemary and white vinegar. With proper care, the outbreak can be contained.”

Queen Alicent lifted her gaze with a flicker of bored disinterest. “Then the servants must take extra caution, especially those who often leave the castle for supplies. The last thing we want,” she drawled, “is for whatever ails the city to be brought back here.”

Rhaenyra resisted the urge to roll her eyes. There was a note of cold dismissal in the Queen’s voice that made it clear she saw no relevance in the plight of the common people—a few thousand smallfolk with rashes, indeed, hardly worth a moment’s thought. But Rhaenyra had seen the streets and knew the reality. She felt her own sense of urgency bubble up, refusing to let the matter drop so easily.

“Your Grace,” she began looking at her father, her voice laced with purpose, “our healers tell me that ailments like these are bound to recur if conditions in the city remain as they are. Rash this year, lice the next, and perhaps a far graver illness the year after. King’s Landing is ripe for disease, and if we don’t take care, it could lead to another plague like the Shivers.”

Queen Alicent let out an impatient huff, lifting her chin as if Rhaenyra’s words were a personal affront. “There has been no such outbreak since the reign of the Old King.” she replied icily.

Rhaenyra’s patience snapped. “Because the Good Queen Alysanne took care to prevent it.” she retorted, her tone gaining an edge. “King’s Landing now is little more than a sty, where men, women, and children live, eat, and sleep in their own filth. It would hardly be surprising if such a calamity were to strike again.”

The King looked at her in mild astonishment. “Is it truly as bad as you say?” he asked, as though the notion had simply never occurred to him.

Rhaenyra studied her father’s face, caught between disbelief and resignation. The flaw of the monarch, she thought bitterly, was that they were too far removed from their people, too sheltered within their gilded walls. It was easy to believe all was well when one rarely ventured beyond the comforts of a golden carriage.

Sighing, she turned to the Lord Hand, whose face had taken on a solemn expression. He cleared his throat and, with uncharacteristic heaviness, confirmed, “It is indeed a grave situation, Your Grace. The people of King’s Landing are in need of aid, and soon.”

The King’s brows knitted as he asked, incredulous, “How has this come to pass with offices dedicated solely to the cleanliness of the city? We do, indeed, have those, don’t we?”

Rhaenyra sat a bit straighter, her voice steady as she placed both hands firmly on the table. “Those offices, Your Grace, were closed nearly five and ten years ago. Their work—halted, their purpose—forgotten.”

He blinked at her, disbelief shadowing his face. “Nonsense! The Good Queen herself established those offices,” he sputtered, “along with the Water Fountain, the orphanage, the poorhouses—she laid the very foundations of those programs herself!”

Rhaenyra leaned back, folding her hands in her lap, casting a glance at Queen Alicent, who had turned an ashen shade of pale. The Master of Coin cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “In truth, Your Grace, the coin for those programs was redirected years ag,—to the Faith.” he explained carefully, “as they now shoulder the Crown’s charitable endeavors.”

The King’s expression shifted from shock to unmistakable anger. “I would never have approved this—abandoning the Good Queen’s legacy for our people!”

“Surely,” Lord Tyland began, “the Faith has a—stronger program for it? More capable of—”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Lord Beesbury interrupted dryly, with a faint smile playing on his lips, “why, I’ve seen the High Septon’s robes—jeweled head to toe. Clearly, the funds are put to exceptional use.”

Lord Strong scowled at the exchange, his patience thinning. “The Faith has elected to serve soup to the unfortunate—twice a week.” he added, his voice steeped in barely concealed contempt.

“Twice a week?” The King thundered, his fingers curling into fists upon the table. “And what, exactly, do these so-called ‘charitable’ efforts cost our coffers?”

The Master of Coin hesitated, then reluctantly said, “Twenty thousand gold dragons each month, Your Grace.”

The revelation left the councilmen in stunned silence. Even Lord Wylde, who had been frowning thoughtfully, seemed taken aback by the sheer extravagance.

The Grand Maester, however, interjected with a placid tone. “If I may, Your Grace, it can be argued that the Faith’s charity not only aids the less fortunate but also strengthens the kingdom’s devotion.”

Queen Alicent quickly nodded in agreement. “Indeed, Your Grace. Such charity brings about piety and loyalty.”

The King’s gaze was unrelenting. “And how, precisely, were these funds withdrawn from the Queen’s charities without my knowledge?”

There was an uncomfortable silence before the Master of Coin cleared his throat, his voice tinged with indignant defensiveness. “Your Grace, this reallocation was made when the management of these charities was transferred to the Queen upon her coronation.”

All eyes turned to Queen Alicent, whose face had taken on a faint sheen of panic. Her wide eyes darted about the room, searching for words. “When I became Queen,” she began, faltering, “it was discovered that these establishments had been… hemorrhaging funds. The orphanages and shelters were… lavishly mismanaged, and so, with my father’s counsel, the Honorable Otto Hightower, we decided it best to entrust the Faith with these responsibilities.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved ever so slightly as she held the Queen’s gaze, a spark of challenge flickering in her eyes. “Are you calling a few more beds for the orphanage lavish? These charities,” she replied coolly, “are a duty of the Queen. How… generous of you to relinquish them so freely.”

The King’s face flushed, his gaze snapping to his wife. “Henceforth, all funds earmarked for the Faith are to be cut immediately,” he decreed, his voice sharp and unwavering. He turned to Rhaenyra, warmth softening his tone. “Princess Rhaenyra shall resume the responsibility of these charities, for it seems that my Queen finds them… trivial.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head demurely, a small smile touching her lips as she replied, “Thank you, Father. I shall not disappoint you.”

The King reached over, his hand covering hers in a gesture of affection. “I know you shan’t,” he murmured, his eyes soft with pride.

Lord Beesbury leaned forward with a conspiratorial smirk. “An excellent decision, Your Grace—our good people shall know they have a Princess who cares for them.”

Lord Tyland, ever one to curry favor, nodded in agreement. “Indeed, Your Grace. The Princess’s diligence and care will surely restore King’s Landing to the standards the Good Queen herself envisioned.”

“Though I daresay it may take more than twice-weekly soup ladlings to repair it,” Lord Strong added with a dry smile.

The Grand Maester frowned, smoothing his robes with a self-important air. “If the people are fed, they remain content,” he intoned, as though it were a lecture. “Faith is a strong balm to quiet many sufferings.”

“NOt many people will survive on free soup given twice a week and faith is poor nourishment for those who are hungry.” Rhaenyra shot back smoothly, her gaze unwavering.

“I have high hope,” said the King, his voice rising above the council, “that the princess’s hand shall bring true charity back to my city.”

"Of course, Father," she said smoothly, her voice a sweet melody with just the faintest touch of solemnity. "For some, the lives of the people of King's Landing are a mere task—another box to tick, another duty to discharge. They forget that we Targaryens raised this city from stone and soil, laid every pillar, each street, with our own hands and dreams. To us, it is more than stone and mortar; it’s the heartbeat of the realm." She let her gaze sweep across the hall, pausing for effect before continuing. "Only we know how vital it is to keep its heart beating strong and secure, just as we alone protect the Seven Kingdoms—lands we forged from fire and blood."

As she finished, her father’s smile spread wide and warm, pride glowing in his eyes. Rhaenyra could tell there were tears there, too, barely held at bay. Gods, she thought with faint amusement, the entire performing troupe would weep if they saw her now.

Queen Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line as she held herself stiffly, casting her gaze downward.

Rhaenyra relaxed into her seat, the picture of ease, a soft smile gracing her lips. She’d already accomplished what she’d come for—the Hand of the King, practically indebted to her, had been all too willing to raise the matter of Flea Bottom’s plight.

It was amusing, really, how pliant he had been; he might as well have been a pawn.

Content to watch from her seat as they argued over trivialities, Rhaenyra stifled an inward sigh as they delved into increasingly inane matters. A report surfaced about a wolf pack troubling farmers, each council member voicing opinions on whether to send guards, offer a bounty, or simply urge the farmers to deal with it themselves. The debate seemed endless. When discussion turned to an Arbor wine tax, she could barely mask her impatience as they debated raising it by a single coin per barrel. All this bluster for a mere trifle that wouldn’t make the slightest difference to the treasury.

The Council, as usual, danced about the issues, too accustomed to shielding her father from anything that might mar his view of the realm. Rhaenyra often wondered when her father’s reputation had turned to one of needing constant shelter. Perhaps Otto Hightower had started the practice—an overreaching Hand trying to rule from the shadows. And after him, Alicent had simply continued the legacy, with Lord Strong maintaining the illusion, bound as he was by his unwavering principles but also his loyalty to the Queen.

Well, no more. Rhaenyra had no intention of letting Alicent’s manipulation taint the council.

Finally, after hours of such tedium, the Hand announced that all items on his agenda had been addressed. Rhaenyra prepared to rise, only to freeze when she noticed her father’s hesitation. Viserys’s eyes flitted to her, then to the Queen, then to the Lord Hand, and back to her. He cleared his throat, nervousness cracking his usually steady voice.

"I am glad to have the guidance of this council,” he began, his tone heavy with something far weightier than the usual formalities. “For it is my greatest desire to secure the Seven Kingdoms for generations to come.” His words grew cautious, his gaze settling on Rhaenyra. “To that end, I propose a betrothal… between Prince Jacaerys and Princess Helaena.”

Rhaenyra’s blood chilled. It was as if her heart had stumbled in her chest, then raced to make up for it. A betrothal? To Helaena? An arranged union of this nature would bind her line to the Greens—a peace-keeping measure, perhaps, but one fraught with peril. She could almost feel the Crown slipping from her reach, see her son’s life entwined with Alicent’s ambitions.

Before she could gather her composure, a harsh, cutting sound split the air. “No!” Alicent’s voice rang out, rigid and cold, with a finality that left no room for debate.

The council went silent, every eye darting between the King, Queen, and Rhaenyra.

The Queen’s face betrayed her—a mix of panic and simmering anger as she struggled to compose herself, finally mustering enough calm to speak. "Helaena was blessed by the Holy Oils," she began, her voice taut with self-control. “Such near relations are frowned upon by the Faith.”

Rhaenyra smirked, seizing the moment to retort. “The Faith frowns upon many things, including women flaunting their collarbones,” she drawled, gaze drifting dismissively over Alicent’s neckline, which was perfectly respectable yet suddenly scrutinized by all. “But alas, you have always flouted them, haven’t you?” The councilmen’s gazes shifted awkwardly between the two women, unsure whether to interfere in the sharp-edged exchange.

Viserys shifted uncomfortably but spoke firmly, attempting to steer the council’s attention back to his point. “The match would bring stability, Alicent. Jacaerys and Helaena together would be a powerful symbol of harmony.”

The Hand nodded gravely, and even Lord Beesbury inclined his head in contemplation. Alicent, her jaw clenched, looked around and realized she was alone in her dissent. “I will not let my only daughter marry Rhaenyra’s plain-featured son!” The words escaped her lips in a near shout, her face immediately flushing as she realized her outburst.

A dangerous silence blanketed the room. Viserys’s expression hardened, his eyes flashing with a long-buried fierceness that made him look, if only for a moment, like a dragon himself. Before he could speak, Rhaenyra interjected, “Nor would I wish Jacaerys to wed Helaena, Father.” Her voice held a cutting edge. “While I love my sister, Jacaerys is to be king, and he deserves a partner fit to rule. Helaena… is sweet, but some whisper that she is… touched. Just last night at dinner, she rambled on about looms of green and looms of black or some such nonsense and proceeded to only speak to her spider.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “You’ve already married an incompetent queen who handed her responsibilities over to someone else bringing poverty and chaos to the City, I will not subject my son to the same.”

Her biting remarks hung in the air, and while Alicent’s face burned with rage and humiliation, Viserys stayed silent, seemingly contemplating her words.

Taking a breath, Rhaenyra went on, softer but unyielding. “Besides, Princess Rhaenys and I are already in discussion about future matches. Baela will wed Jacaerys, and Rhaena will be betrothed to Lucerys.”

A choked sound escaped Alicent, her eyes blazing as she fought to regain her composure. “Another one of Prince Daemon’s schemes to put his blood on the throne no doubt!” she snapped, her voice taut with fury.

Rhaenyra let out a loud, mocking laugh, causing Alicent to pale further, her mouth tightening in anger as the councilmen exchanged awkward glances. Rhaenyra looked at each of them with a cool gaze before landing on the Queen. “Not only are you irresponsible, you’re also pathetically stupid.”

A shocked silence fell, all eyes widening as Rhaenyra’s words sliced through the room. She continued, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Daemon doesn’t need to debase himself for his blood to be on the throne, unlike you, who crawled into my father’s bed the night my mother’s body was turned to ash.”

Alicent’s face blanched as a horrified silence followed, and her fingers curled tightly around the fabric of her gown. Rhaenyra turned to Viserys, her voice softening but no less cutting. “Daemon’s blood is already on the throne, Father. He is your brother—lest you’ve forgotten.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra sat in the corner of her father’s chambers, watching intently as Healer Helaene went about her work with a meticulous, practiced grace. She took in the sight of the healer carefully cleansing and wrapping the wounds that marred the King’s skin. Each bruise, each gash seemed a cruel revelation, a testament to the hidden suffering he’d kept from her for so long. It had been Jace who had unwittingly opened her eyes to it, his innocent confession that he and Luke had found the King and Grand Maester in the early morning, the Maester applying fresh salves to wounds they’d not been allowed to see before. Confronting her father had led to screaming and tears, her own pleas finally breaking through his stubborn silence.

Now, though, he lay still and compliant beneath Healer Helaene’s touch, the stubbornness that had almost severed him from her fading in the face of her resolve.

The healer’s slender hands moved deftly, her fingers precise and steady as she worked. She held each tool with a reverence Rhaenyra had rarely seen in a healer—each needle, each salve brush was carefully sanitized, boiled over a small flame until the metal gleamed hotly in the dim candlelight. She tended to the wounds with quiet intensity, as if each motion were part of an ancient ritual. At times, she murmured a few words of assurance to the King, her voice soft and soothing.

"Your Grace," Helaene said gently, holding a clean strip of cloth in one hand, "this technique is derived from Old Valyria, passed down among the most learned healers who served our ancestors. We believe it prevents… corruption in the blood," she explained as she dipped a cloth into warm water and dabbed the remnants of a salve along the edge of a deep wound.

The King, to Rhaenyra’s surprise, seemed genuinely captivated. He managed a small smile as he listened, watching the healer work with something like delight in his weary eyes.

"From Valyria, you say?" he asked, wincing only slightly as Helaene applied the healing herbs with expert care. "Then I am tended to by the wisdom of my ancestors… how fortunate indeed."

Helaene offered a soft smile, her gaze never leaving her work as she continued to explain. “The Valyrians valued not only strength but resilience, Your Grace. This technique, while uncommon, is believed to encourage faster healing, as the skin is allowed to breathe while the herbs work beneath. And I daresay,” she added softly, dabbing at his arm, “the Valyrians did not lack for effective remedies.”

Rhaenyra noted how her father chuckled at this, the lines of pain on his face easing, if only a little. It was a comfort she hadn’t seen him embrace in years, and in that moment, she saw something both endearing and heartbreaking—her father captivated by these ancient, nearly-forgotten practices that had likely been denied to him under the Grand Maester’s watch.

She shifted her gaze back to Helaene, observing as the healer worked her way up his arm with deft, reverent strokes. “The herbs, your Grace,” Helaene continued, “are crushed in the old way, by stone, never metal, as metal taints their potency. They are then bound in honeyed cloth and laid to rest upon the wound, encouraging the blood to close and new flesh to grow in harmony.”

The King’s smile deepened, as if each bit of knowledge transported him somewhere beyond the pain and the struggles of rule. “You sound as though you have seen Valyria itself, dear healer,” he remarked.

Helaene merely bowed her head in acknowledgment, her smile modest. "Alas, my feet have not wandered beyond these shores, but the wisdom of Valyria lives on in its legacy. I am but a humble keeper of its lore, tending as I may.”

As she continued her meticulous work, Rhaenyra found her heart settling, a reassurance blossoming in her chest. Helaene’s quiet skill, her soft words, her precision—all of it felt like a balm over her own soul. Her father had been right to resist for so long, but she’d been more right to fight for him. At last, here was someone who tended him with the care he’d so desperately needed, a healer who saw the man behind the crown.

As Helaene moved to begin binding another wound, her gaze briefly met Rhaenyra’s, offering a subtle nod of assurance, as if to say, He will mend. Let the old hurts fall away. Rhaenyra managed a small, grateful smile, clutching the promise tightly as she watched her father’s burdens lighten, if only for this quiet, precious moment.

Rhaenyra lingered a moment longer by her father’s side, resting a gentle hand on his as she prepared to leave. “I’ll give you some time to chat with Healer Helaene, Father,” she murmured, her voice warm. At her words, he turned and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, his face alight with a spark she had not seen in ages.

“Thank you, my sweet girl,” he said, his eyes gleaming with anticipation as he turned back to Helaene. “There is something I’ve been meaning to show you, Healer,” he said, eager as a young boy with a secret. “A model I constructed of Old Valyria herself—every tower, every spire crafted with my own hand. I dare say you will appreciate the finer details.”

Helaene, with the serene patience of a woman who had seen the world through fire and shadow, smiled softly. “I should be honored, Your Grace. I imagine the model must be a marvel.” Her gaze was calm and steady, and Rhaenyra knew she could leave them to their conversations, trusting that Helaene would listen and indulge every one of his stories with genuine attentiveness. She gave her father’s hand a final squeeze before stepping out of the chamber.

As she exited, Lady Amanda followed her, her pace brisk, and Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile as she caught the sharp huff of indignation Amanda released behind her. With a slight smirk, Rhaenyra slowed her pace, allowing her aunt to catch up and walk beside her.

“Aunt,” she said, her tone teasing, “what could possibly trouble you so?”

Lady Amanda’s gaze flicked back to the King’s chamber, her lips pressed in a thin line, and then she turned her gaze upon Rhaenyra, her eyes narrowing. “I only hope,” she began with a hint of severity, “that you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Rhaenyra chuckled and, with a reassuring smile, slipped her arm through her aunt’s, gently guiding her along. “Oh, Amanda, my father is already growing frail, and he needs companionship—true companionship. Someone who understands his interests, who shares his love of Valyrian history, not merely someone feigning affection for it in pursuit of a crown.”

Lady Amanda raised her brows, giving a skeptical shake of her head. “Well, I certainly hope you’re not trading one incompetent whore for a competent one.”

Rhaenyra nearly snorted at that, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Healer Helaene is a foreigner, Aunt. She has no family ties to claim support at court. And she is no mere healer; she was once a novice priestess of the Lord of Light, sworn to her faith before she trained in the healing arts.”

Lady Amanda paused, intrigue flickering across her features. “A priestess?” she asked, her brow furrowing slightly.

Rhaenyra nodded, lowering her voice. “All priestesses were sterilized when they were just a novice… she said they must be pure, untouched before they are fully sworn. But Helaene… well, she was violated by a priest. They cast her out of the temple, calling her unworthy. And so she turned her talents to healing instead.” Her voice softened. “And besides, my father is old, Aunt Amanda. He will have no more children.”

At this, Amanda let out a deep, irreverent snort. The moment stretched, their eyes meeting, and Rhaenyra leaned closer, a wicked smile on her lips as she whispered, “But just imagine, Aunt—imagine Alicent’s face when she finds she has completely fallen from the King’s favor.”

For a beat, Amanda held Rhaenyra’s gaze, eyes twinkling with that same spirit of mischief Rhaenyra remembered from her own girlhood. Then, to Rhaenyra’s delight, Lady Amanda broke into a light, infectious giggle—a rare indulgence that made her appear, if only for a moment, as girlish as Rhaenyra herself. They shared that laughter, a private, deliciously scandalous sound that echoed softly through the corridor, two women delighting in the delicious turns of courtly intrigue.

Rhaenyra handed little Joffrey to his nursemaid with a soft, amused sigh, flexing her fingers to shake off the slight ache—her youngest was growing, and he seemed to grow heavier each day. She watched with delight as Luke, full of boundless energy, scampered forward, immediately poking and prodding at his baby brother’s tiny feet. With mischievous glee, he tried to nibble on Joffrey’s toes, only to be met with a solid kick to the nose. Joffrey laughed, a bubbly, uninhibited sound that filled the air, while Luke rubbed his nose with a dramatic pout. But the boy’s disappointment didn’t last long; he was soon laughing right along with his brother and pestering the nursemaid to let him carry Joffrey himself.

“Oh, Prince Joffrey is much too heavy for your young arms,” she said kindly, but her gentle amusement didn’t escape Luke’s shrewd gaze. He narrowed his eyes at her, sensing that she was humoring him. After a beat, however, he nodded with exaggerated reluctance, agreeing to “hold the feet” as they walked, though he continued to eye the nursemaid with an adorable suspicion.

Ahead of them, Rhaenyra could hear Jace, Lord Cregan, and young Lord Joffrey Arryn engaged in a lively discussion, voices carrying bits of their conversation back to her. The boys were deep in conversation over footwork techniques they’d been practicing under Ser Steffon’s watchful eye, each one debating the merits of stance and balance with all the seriousness of seasoned knights. Their shared enthusiasm brought a gentle warmth to her heart. She made it a point to bring all her boys on these weekly walks, a cherished time to free them from the strain of studies and hear out any grievances that might be weighing on their young hearts.

Jace and his friends often took this time to discuss topics they wished to delve into further, and she found their dedication endearing. Cregan had a way of bringing his thoughtful, steadfast nature to every conversation, while Joffrey Arryn’s spirited enthusiasm buoyed Jace’s disposition, coaxing out a lighter side of her eldest that she treasured.

As for Luke, he seemed blissfully unaware of the deeper purposes of these outings, seeing them as his own delightful excursions where he could run and play freely. Since Cregan and Joffrey’s arrival, both he and Jace had blossomed in ways she hadn’t expected. They had welcomed the boys as true companions, a sign, she supposed, of how deeply they missed the presence of Aegon and Aemond. Despite everything, the Hightower boys had been constants in their lives, brothers by bond if not by affection. It amazed her, in fact, that her children’s bonds with their uncles had flourished—those bonds that in her own time had been elusive no matter how earnestly their father had tried to foster them.

With a thoughtful smile, Rhaenyra considered how fortunate they were now, with the arrival of Cregan and Joffrey, both of whom had brought new joy and camaraderie. She’d observed the way Cregan’s studiousness rubbed off on Luke, who now did his best to apply himself with a little more focus, while Joffrey’s exuberant nature had coaxed Jace’s own bright humor forward. Her boys were growing, each influenced by these bonds of loyalty and friendship, and with every laugh, every conversation, she knew that their hearts grew stronger, tempered by the steadiness of good friends and the warmth of family.

The children raced ahead, their eager laughter mingling with the flutter of silk curtains as they approached the pavilion where her ladies had arranged a sumptuous spread. Cakes dusted with powdered sugar, platters of vibrant cut fruits, and pitchers of iced juices in delicate glassware sat awaiting eager hands, all set before an elegant array of velvet-cushioned sofas and plush daybeds. Positioned to overlook the shimmering stretch of Blackwater Bay, the pavilion welcomed a cooling breeze that wafted through the space, a refreshing respite from the season’s heavy heat.

Nestled within one of the Red Keep’s more secluded gardens, this particular pavilion lay hidden among artfully arranged hedges and fragrant flower beds, creating an idyllic retreat. Rhaenyra had taken special care to breathe life back into these forgotten corners of the keep, each pavilion a once-overlooked gem. She had instructed the builders to restore every single one with its own unique charm: some were now bordered by flowering vines in pale purple, winding up stone columns, while others were draped with sheer curtains that billowed like clouds in the afternoon breeze.

One especially delightful addition was a small, circular pavilion surrounded by low-lying stone walls, fitted with an intricate trellis of pink jasmine that bloomed at dusk, its perfume filling the evening air. It had become a favorite spot for quiet reflections and lively conversations alike, casting a serene glow over the scene as twilight approached.

The gardeners, too, had been thrilled with her attention to the grounds, eagerly planting the rare seeds she had acquired as gifts from the Reach and the Vale. The Tyrells, pleased with the recent arrangement of Lady Selene’s betrothal to their second son, had sent an abundance of fine seeds to complement her vision. Now, flourishing amongst the older blooms, these new varieties would transform the grounds over the coming months, creating a cascade of colors and scents to rival even the grandest gardens in Westeros. Her touch reached beyond mere luxury—it sought to enhance every view from the castle, to weave beauty and elegance into every corner of their world.

Her Ladies had already settled into their seats, industriously stitching garments for the orphans—gifts for one Faith of the Seven festival or another. Three Septas in their modest robes hovered nearby, each busy with a needle and thread, while the High Septon himself, plump and rosy-cheeked, presided while sitting on a big chair to accommodate his great girth with great satisfaction. Her children of the household scampered around them, quick to greet the High Septon with reverent little bows and curtsies. Beaming, the High Septon traced the star of the Seven on each forehead with his thumb, chortling as his double chins wobbled with each blessing.

Luke and Jace made their way toward her ladies, eyes wide with curiosity. Luke wrinkled his nose at the coarse fabrics stacked on the table. “Why are the clothes so… stiff?”

Jace frowned as well, catching a piece of cloth in his fingers. “Yes, why do they feel like—” he searched for the right comparison, “like Grand Maester’s old robe?”

Lady Selene glanced over, her tone just a touch lofty. “Because, my prince, these garments are for the children of the orphanage. The fabric is perfectly acceptable for them.”

Jace cocked his head, unfazed. “Will we be getting clothes as well?”

Lady Elinda nearly gasped, her delicate hand at her chest as though he’d suggested wearing burlap. “Not with these clothes, my prince. Absolutely not.”

Before Luke could continue his interrogation, Lady Anella distracted him with a promised bribe of lemon cakes and play clothes made of far softer fabrics.

Meanwhile, the High Septon turned his attention to Rhaenyra, eyes glittering as he inclined his head approvingly. “You’ve taken such excellent initiatives in the city, Your Grace,” he intoned. “Why, it’s truly a shame that certain… ah… funds were curtailed from the Faith.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was sweet as honey but sharp as a blade. “A pity, indeed, but the King himself was most unhappy with how the Queen neglected her duties. Alas, it had to be done.”

At her words, a subtle indignation crept into the High Septon’s expression, masked under decorum. “It is most unfortunate,” he sighed, though his tone hinted at more than a passing resentment toward the Queen. “The city, however, thrives under your guidance. Why, the streets are cleaner than they have been in years, now that the Office of the Commons has been reinstated. Such an improvement in the betterment of our people’s lives cannot be overstated.”

Rhaenyra offered him a gracious nod, her gaze sharp with a subtle gleam. “King’s Landing is, after all, the very heart of the Seven Kingdoms. It would hardly do to let it fall into squalor. Though, one wonders what the Most Devout in Oldtown might say now. They’ve always been quick to comment on the state of our capital—even with their own city lacking quite so many souls to tend to.”

The High Septon let out a dismissive huff, his shoulders drawing back in a show of indignation. “Quite so! Let them speak as they may, but the truth is plain: here in King’s Landing, we manage a vast population with but a handful of septons and septas. Oldtown may boast more among their ranks, yet still lacks the responsibilities we shoulder here. If the Most Devout saw the work we take on, they’d be more inclined to consider their own modest efforts first.”

Rhaenyra’s smile widened, and she leaned in conspiratorially. “That is why we must continue our improvements, ensuring that not a word of reproach can be uttered about King’s Landing. In fact, I’ve plans to open four public bathhouses across the city soon. The people would look… less embarrassing, I think, if given the opportunity to be clean.”

At the mention of the bathhouses, the High Septon clapped his hands, his eyes gleaming with delight. “Oh, and I would be most honored to bless their openings!”

“Of course, it must be you, Your Holiness.” Her voice dripped with agreeable charm, as though he alone held the power to sanctify such endeavors. The High Septon chuckled, his laughter bubbling up like a pleased child’s, utterly unaware that he was already so securely wrapped around her finger.

She took JOff from her nursemaid and asked for his food. Rhaenyra cradled Joff in her arms, smiling as Luke, with all the seriousness of a young knight on a quest, looked up at her and pleaded, “Mother, just a taste of strawberry. I’ll cut it so very small he’ll barely notice!”

Her smile grew as she looked down at him, humor in her gaze. “Luke, my sweet, our baby Joff isn’t quite ready for such indulgences yet. He’s still learning the art of simpler meals.”

Luke furrowed his brow in genuine concern. “But if I cut it into halves… no, quarters! Just one little piece?”

Her laughter sparkled as she shook her head. “Not even quarters, he might choke on it. Perhaps, one day, when he’s as grand and grown as you are.”

Luke nodded, undeterred, and glanced around the platter. With newfound resolve, he pointed to a soft-boiled egg in broth. “Then I’ll feed him this instead. It’s soft—he’ll like it!”

“Very well, but gently now.” She watched with affectionate amusement as Luke carefully spooned the broth toward Joffrey’s mouth. Most of it dribbled down his little brother’s gown, yet Joff’s wide, delighted smile was matched by Luke’s own proud grin.

Rhaenyra chuckled softly. “You make a fine caregiver, Luke.”

Luke looked up, grinning, his pride shining as brightly as the summer sun, undaunted by the mess he’d made. “I intend to be the best big brother for Joff like Jace is to me! I shall make him the happiest prince in all the realms, Muña.”

She smiled and caressed his head gently and then turned her attention to Jace who was absorbed in a sewing lesson with Lady Caswell, his expression one of determined concentration, even if his young fingers struggled with the needle.

“Is it truly proper for a young boy to be taught such things?” Lady Redwyne remarked, her brow raised in mild disapproval as she watched Jace try, and fail, to form a decent stitch.

“Oh, but it’s practical, Lady Redwyne.” Lady Celtigar interjected with a knowing smile. “A prince should understand every aspect of life’s toils, so he may one day rule wisely.”

Lady Buckwell gave a small laugh. “Besides, when soldiers are in the field, there’s no seamstress to mend torn clothing.”

Lady Nila looked thoughtful. “But surely there are cooks in a war camp? Why not a seamstress?”

Rhaenyra, smiling indulgently at her son’s industrious effort, held back a laugh when Jace suddenly gave a small yelp, pulling his pricked thumb to his mouth with an adorably indignant expression. The peaceful afternoon was exactly what they all needed.

Yet the calm shattered with a sudden cry from the garden path. Rhaenyra’s guards were alert at once, moving to shield the royal family as a figure staggered into view—a man thrown unceremoniously from the rose bushes. His cloak was tangled in the branches, and he scrambled on the ground with a desperation that bordered on absurdity.

“Gods!” muttered Lady Anella under her breath, as several ladies gasped in shock.

It was Lord Larys Strong, the Clubfoot, crawling backward, eyes wide with terror. And behind him, like a storm ready to break, came Aegon, his eyes ablaze with a fury that was half-wild. He launched himself at Larys, fists swinging in aimless, furious punches.

“You cretinous beast!” Aegon snarled, his face contorted with rage. “Filthy, crawling, disgusting beast!”

“Aegon!” Alicent rushed forward, trying to restrain her son. “Aegon, stop this at once!”

But Aegon was lost to his anger. His elbow flew back, hitting Alicent sharply across the cheek, and she stumbled, her hand instinctively rising to her face in stunned disbelief. She regained her footing and, with a flash of wounded pride, slapped him hard across the face.

“You will respect me!” she hissed, her voice trembling.

Aegon staggered, his face red and eyes narrowing. “Respect you?” he spat. “You slag! Lantern! A lowly strumpet who beds beasts!”

“Aegon!” Alicent gasped, scandalized, her voice barely a whisper. “Stop this vile talk!”

“Why should I?” he shot back, his voice ragged. “You’re nothing but a whore—” His last word barely left his lips before Ser Criston Cole pulled him back, wrestling him away from the stunned assembly. Aegon twisted, still wild, still shouting obscenities, kicking at Larys and even biting at Cole’s hand, his profane insults echoing in the pavilion.

The High Septon, sitting at the center, looked on with a disbelieving expression, his face nearly purple as he took in the scene. Alicent’s cheeks flamed as she reached out, helping Larys to his feet as the noblewomen around her exchanged furtive, scandalized glances.

“Your Grace,” the High Septon called sharply, his voice tremulous with controlled anger.

Alicent straightened, her face pale as she turned to find not only Rhaenyra’s court but her own staring in shocked silence. With a shaky breath, she steadied herself, forcing a composed smile and stepping toward the pavilion with what little dignity remained.

“Forgive this… display, Your Holiness,” she murmured to the High Septon, her voice low and contrite. “The boy is overwrought.”

The High Septon’s gaze was unyielding. “A queen would do well to distance herself from those whose presence invites such chaos, Your Grace. Especially when rumors taint their reputations,” he said with clipped precision.

Alicent’s face turned pale as she stammered, “Oh, those… those are but vile rumors, conjured by those who wish to do me harm.”

Rhaenyra, watching the scene with cool amusement, inclined her head, a glint of mischief in her eyes as she finally spoke. “But, dear stepmother,” she began, voice silken, “is it not Aegon himself who began spreading such rumors, after he happened upon Lord Strong in your chambers?”

A gasp ran through the pavilion as Alicent’s face drained of color. Lady Redwyne’s eyes widened as she hid a smile behind her hand, while Lady Buckwell’s mouth formed a scandalized ‘o’. Lady Caswell’s cheeks turned pink as she quickly bent to hide her expression, though her shoulders shook with repressed laughter. Rhaenyra’s expression remained politely placid, her gaze unrelenting.

The High Septon’s face darkened. “Surely you do not allow such… individuals such proximity, Queen Alicent. Such company risks tarnishing the very dignity of your station.”

Alicent’s lips parted, her composure visibly faltering as her hands trembled. She glanced away, her eyes darting to the ground as she muttered, “Lord Larys and I… we are devoted servants to the realm, nothing more.”

Rhaenyra, shifting Joffrey in her lap with a serene smile, let out a faint chuckle. “And yet,” she mused aloud, “the whispers began the very night Aegon found them together. It seems such… ardent devotion is difficult to contain.”

Her voice cut through the stillness with sharp clarity, and the High Septon’s displeasure was palpable. Alicent’s cheeks flamed, and she stammered a quiet denial, her mortification a stark contrast to Rhaenyra’s cool poise.

The High Septon turned to Alicent, his expression grim. “The dignity of our Faith is not a matter to be trifled with, nor should it be risked so carelessly, Your Grace,” he said with gravity. “And I fear the Most Devout in Oldtown will only find fresh fodder for their judgments.”

The High Septon shifted in his seat, his eyes sweeping over the gathering with an air of quiet authority. Finally, he inclined his head toward Queen Alicent, beckoning her with an unspoken command. “Your Grace,” he murmured, “would you honor us by taking this seat?” He gestured to the vacant chair beside him. Alicent’s eyes flickered with a brief, startled hesitation before she nodded and moved to his side, settling gracefully on the offered seat. Rhaenyra hid a sly smile behind her hand as Alicent’s trembling fingers reached out to accept the large, weathered Book of the Seven. The Queen’s hand quivered as she opened it, her eyes scanning the text until the High Septon’s wrinkled finger pointed to a particular passage. Alicent swallowed, her voice soft and unsteady as she began to read aloud, her gaze never lifting from the words.

Around them, the ladies continued their work with feigned disinterest, though Rhaenyra noticed the subtle glances, the slight curls of lips betraying their judgment. The septas in attendance, dutiful yet unflinching in their gaze, watched Queen Alicent with a silent reproach that needed no words.

Just then, Ser Erryk Cargyll approached with a courteous bow, his voice calm as he addressed the princes. “My Prince, my lords, the Master-at-Arms awaits you in the training yard.”

Rhaenyra received kisses from Jace and Luke, her fingers lingering for a moment on each of their cheeks. “Be careful, my sweet boys,” she murmured. She turned to Cregan and Joffrey, a playful sparkle in her gaze. “Learn well and try not to hurt each other, hm?”

As the boys departed, one of the maids took Joff from her as she personally feed Joff with another spoonful, his little mouth opening with an enthusiastic coo, as he gurgled and kicked his feet. She wiped his chin delicately with a linen cloth, her movements tender, ensuring he had eaten his fill before setting aside the silver spoon. Time passed leisurely as she finished feeding him, content to be lost in the simple joys of motherhood, the ladies around her half-whispering among themselves.

By then, the High Septon had drifted into a peaceful slumber, his head nodding slightly as it slumped toward his broad chest. The murmurs softened in deference to his rest, and Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at his gentle snores.

As Joff reached out to pat her hand enthusiastically as if telling her she did a good job feeding him, a pair of maids approached, arms laden with fresh linens. They moved efficiently, taking the little prince from to change him into clean attire. Rhaenyra kept him entertained, her fingers weaving through his chubby hands, coaxing a delighted giggle as the maids worked quickly to ensure he didn’t roll over onto his stomach—something he was well known to do the moment their attentions wavered.

Across the table, Lady Redwyne observed the scene with a hint of disdain, her voice lilting with condescension as she remarked, “Your Grace, such tasks could easily be left to the maids. It’s hardly necessary for you to lower yourself in such ways.”

Rhaenyra raised her chin, casting Lady Redwyne a smile so practiced and polished that it concealed her growing irritation. “I find joy in spending time with my children, Lady Redwyne,” she replied sweetly. “True, I don’t dress or bathe them myself, but I savor quiet moments like this. I enjoy reading to them, sharing meals with them. They’re so fond of coming to my chambers every night before bed and early in the mornings and all the times in between that they are free.”

Lady Redwyne’s lips pinched slightly, her own sense of decorum challenged by Rhaenyra’s response.

Alicent, seated nearby, nodded with silent approval toward Lady Redwyne, the faintest frown creasing her brow. “Lady Redwyne is correct, it’s beneath a Lady of Your standing.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand, dear stepmother,” Rhaenyra said smoothly, a dangerous glint flashing in her gaze. “I’m not sure I’d seek your counsel on parenting, considering how your children have turned out.”

Alicent's head whipped around, her gaze sharp and offended. "What are you implying, Princess Rhaenyra?" she demanded, her voice barely concealing her anger.

Rhaenyra lifted Joff onto her lap, nuzzling his curls as he peered innocently up at the Queen. “Well,” she began, her voice as smooth as silk, “your firstborn is a whoremonger who takes what he wants, forcing himself on innocents maids. He even went as far as have relations with a five year old—”

Alicent’s face paled as she interjected sharply, “She was eight!”

Rhaenyra arched an eyebrow. “Ah, so that makes it better, does it?” A soft chuckle from one of her ladies rippled through the air, though they quickly masked their expressions, exchanging sidelong glances of mock amusement. Rhaenyra’s voice continued, now laced with pointed mirth. “And then there is Aemond, your second-born—Maegor come again, if I may say so. He seems to think kin-slaying a fine sport so long as it helps him get what he wants.”

Alicent’s lips parted in protest, her words faltering. “He’s only a boy…”

“Precisely what makes it worse,” Rhaenyra replied, her tone dripping with feigned sympathy. “A boy so full of malice at such a tender age.” Rhaenyra took a breath, her gaze drifting over the Queen’s face. “And then, of course, there is your only daughter. A kind soul, they say, but… quiet mad, wouldn’t you agree?” She let the words hang, savoring the flash of pain that flitted across Alicent’s eyes. “And Daeron, well…” she trailed off with a faint smirk, “so utterly unremarkable that one might forget his existence entirely unless one pointed him out.”

Alicent spluttered, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled for words, her face a vivid shade of red.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, though her tone was laced with a dangerous sweetness. “I remember when we were just young girls, all you ever wanted was to be a mother, Alicent. So, tell me,” she leaned forward slightly, her gaze piercing, “how does it feel to be such a resounding failure?”

The words hit their mark, and Alicent’s face contorted with rage. Alicent’s hands shook, and in a fit of fury, she seized the Book of the Seven and flung it to the ground. The loud thud shattered the quiet, and her chair scraped harshly against the stone as she stormed from the pavilion. The High Septon awoke, startled by the clamor, his eyes falling on the sacred book lying upon the floor. Horror flared across his face as he registered the sight.

Rhaenyra, her face a mask of innocence, bent to retrieve the book, brushing its cover with reverent hands. “Your Holiness,” she murmured with a soft, contrite smile, “I must apologize on behalf of the Queen. It seems she was… overcome.”

The High Septon gave her a grave nod, his gaze somber as he looked toward the path through which Alicent had fled. “Her Grace indeed has many burdens,” he replied in a low voice, “but perhaps it is time she is shown back to the proper path.”

Rhaenyra rocked Joff in her arms softly as she hummed a quiet agreement, she mused with a gleeful malice, How does the High Septon intend to reform our darling Queen? Do they still take canes to the royal backside in the Faith of the Seven? Or perhaps the good Queen will do her own humble walk of atonement through the city, though she’ll likely insist on a dozen silken veils for modesty’s sake.

The thought brought a glint to her eye, one she had to hide as she cast a demure look at her son. No, she decided, that would never happen. Her father—my foolish, doting father—would sooner throw himself off the Tower of the Hand than let any shame fall upon his perfect little Alicent. The King’s pet, ever so pious and blameless.

Rhaenyra stifled a chuckle as she thought of Alicent’s furious face just moments earlier, her lips drawn taut, trembling with rage. And to think, Rhaenyra mused, she’s so pitifully easy to rile. Honestly, it’s become a sport, and one scarcely worth the effort. She flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve, savoring the moment. The Queen is as thin-skinned as she is sanctimonious—a sanctified little statue with no warmth and no wit. The High Septon could preach at her till the sun sets and rises again, and it wouldn’t drive a whisper of sense into that brain of hers.

As she turned to face her ladies once more, Rhaenyra let a sly smile tug at her lips, knowing full well that today’s amusement had cost her rival dearly.

Rhaenyra stood by the long windows, her hands gripping the edge of the sill, watching the healers hover over her sons with a simmering fury beneath her otherwise composed expression. Her eldest, Jace, bit back a wince as Maester Marlow prodded his ankle, which had been bruised in Dragonstone and, barely healed, was now swollen and thoroughly sprained from yet another reckless incident caused by Aegon. Beside him, Luke sat with an air of determined resilience, though the raw scratch down his left cheek betrayed the extent of his pain.

Rhaenyra’s heart twisted as she observed her herbalist, Old Man Matarys, deftly applying a soothing, mint-scented paste to Luke’s cheek, his hands gentle and precise to ensure the wound would not scar. Each movement was careful, respectful, and every touch from the aged healer’s steady hands seemed to bring a hint of relief to her boy, even as her own ire flared anew.

Qylaras, her Myrish lifesmith, knelt beside Jace, expertly demonstrating how to heal a sprain with careful precision. “The ankle mustn’t bear any weight,” he instructed, his words smooth yet firm as he wound tight strips of bandage around Jace’s bruised skin. “And it must remain elevated,” he added, instructing him on a series of small motions to keep the muscles flexible. Jace nodded, though it was clear that every movement sent a jolt of pain through him. Finally, Healer Helene wrapped an ice cloth around the injury, her hands moving gently, her face radiating motherly care.

Watching her children in such pain, Rhaenyra could scarcely contain her anger, her fingers curling tightly against the sill. She lifted her chin, her gaze flashing to the shadowy figure of Black Trombo near the doorway. With a subtle tilt of her head, she gestured for him to approach. Her voice, though low, was icy as she asked, “Where were you?”

Black Trombo bowed his head, his eyes flickering with contrition. “In the city, Your Grace,” he murmured. “With Ulf already dispatched I have been hunting for Nettles and Hugh Hammer. But the trail’s been elusive. I don’t even think Nettles exist here, in Dragonstone or anywhere else really”

Her eyes narrowed, her tone barely a whisper, yet laced with a simmering fury. “Then let me give you a new directive. If Aegon dares step foot in the city again, ensure he faces an… unkind welcome. Send brigands—have him battered, humiliated, but do not let him die. I want the people to loathe him, to loathe him so deeply they’d take justice into their own hands if given the chance.”

The corner of Black Trombo’s mouth turned upward as he gave a nod, understanding the weight of her command.

She allowed herself a slight exhale, her gaze returning to her boys. “And Ser Harwin?” she asked.

“Just bruised knuckles,” Black Trombo replied. “The guards said it was Cole who instigated it, though he offered no resistance.”

Her lips pressed into a firm line, a slight nod dismissing him. When she returned to her sons, she found Luke nearly asleep, his small head resting in his hands, eyelids drooping with the quiet surrender of slumber.

“Come, my sweet,” she murmured, smoothing Luke's hair and coaxing him to stir. “Let us take you both to your beds; it's a bit early for a nap, but you’ve had enough excitement for one morning, haven’t you?”

With a small, understanding smile, she beckoned to Ser Erryk, who moved forward and lifted Jace with care, supporting his leg as he carried him to the adjoining sleeping chamber. Luke was asleep as soon as his head touched his pillow, he barely stirred as  she brushed his hair out of his face and gave him a kiss to his forehead, watching as his breathing evened, soft and steady.

Once Luke had fully surrendered to sleep, Rhaenyra turned her attention to Jace, still restless despite Ser Erryk’s careful efforts. His brow pinched as he tried to find a comfortable position, his ankle stiff and sore despite the pillow propping it. Rhaenyra slipped beside him, smoothing his hair and gathering him into her arms with a mother’s gentle embrace.

“There now, my brave boy.” she whispered, cradling him close and humming a soft Valyrian lullaby. It was an old, soothing tune—a dragon’s first flight with its mother—that her own mother had once sung to her. Slowly, she felt the tension ease from Jace’s small frame, his breathing falling in time with the melody, lashes finally settling closed as sleep claimed him.

She remained there for a moment longer, holding him in the quiet peace of the room, her voice a gentle murmur until even the last hint of discomfort faded from his face, leaving only the soft, contented expression of her sleeping child.

Carefully, Rhaenyra untangled herself, pulling a blanket over his shoulders. She kissed each of their foreheads, brushing stray curls from their brows, and instructed the maids to watch over them before she slipped quietly out of the room.

Moments later, Rhaenyra entered her private chamber and found the hidden passage to the Tower of the Hand, her steps swift and silent. From halfway down the corridor, she could hear raised voices—Lord Lyonel’s deep, commanding tone mingled with another, rougher one. She flattened herself against the cool stone, heart racing as she listened.

“Your hotheadedness has laid us open to accusations of a far uglier treachery.” Lyonel’s voice was low and tired, yet each word held a world of resignation, a familiar strain of defeat.

“Who cares about him?!” Harwin replied, his voice rough, charged with indignation. “That man is nothing but the son of a steward!”

“Be that as it may, he is now a knight of the Kingsguard,” Lord Lyonel retorted, his tone edged with patience strained to the limit. “Your outburst has left us vulnerable, Harwin. You must understand this—our family cannot afford a single misstep.”

For a moment, there was silence, and Rhaenyra, pressed against the stone wall, could feel the weight of it. She had never seen Harwin so furious; in all the time she had known him he had always been so gentle, so controlled, a bastion of calm even in the fiercest storms. Now, to hear him speak with such barely concealed rage… it stirred something deep within her, a fierce blend of admiration and sorrow.

Rhaenyra held her breath as she listened, heart pounding as Ser Harwin Strong’s voice broke with uncharacteristic defiance. “No, Father,” he said, his tone fierce and unwavering. “My place is here, with the Princess. With the children. I am sworn to protect them, and I shall—no matter what it costs me.”

There was a pause, and Rhaenyra could practically feel Lord Lyonel’s heavy gaze. “Do you not see?” Lyonel’s voice was weighted with frustration. “You staying here threatens them. Were the King of a harsher mettle, that first brown-haired boy would have been drowned into the Blackwater Bay, no questions asked, and you would have been fed to the crows!”

Rhaenyra’s pulse quickened, a fierce, seething agreement rising within her. If her father bore the spine of King Jaehaerys, she would have been packed off to Oldtown, handed over to the Faith like an unruly maiden. This Rhaenyra, though—she was brave, bolder than most, defying society’s constraints with startling ease. Her sheer audacity was as exhilarating as it was terrifying; it would be a lie to say she didn’t admire it. King Viserys’ indulgence sheltered her, granting her liberties few could even dream of, and she’d claimed each one without remorse. Yet, she’d never considered how to fortify her own claim to stand independently of his protection—a blindness that was not solely hers, but one inflicted by the world’s relentless desire to see her fail.

A quiet urgency filled the air as Harwin’s voice broke through again. “Please, Father,” he pleaded, a note of desperation cracking through his calm. “Ser Laenor is gone, and there’s no one else who can guard them. I am the only one.”

Lord Lyonel let out a weary sigh, frustration coloring his words. “The Princess,” he replied slowly, each word deliberate, “is more than capable of guarding herself. And her children.”

Harwin’s voice softened, yet there was an edge to it, a glimmer of yearning. “I could offer her my hand, Father. I would, in a heartbeat, if—”

Lord Lyonel’s reply thundered through the chamber, his tone like iron against stone. “You overstep yourself, boy! We are Strongs, not some lowborn opportunists clawing for a rung on the ladder to court favor. I’ll not let you sully our honor to become a second Hightower—grasping at crowns through bedsheets!”

The words echoed, and Rhaenyra felt the weight of them. Lyonel’s voice, tired yet resolute, was enough to shake even her resolve, and she slipped away, leaving Harwin to the silence his father imposed. Gathering her skirts, she made her way through the narrow, winding corridors leading to her father’s chambers. The stone was chill beneath her fingers as she ascended stair after stair, her determination unwavering.

At the King’s door, she paused, catching fragments of the conversation within. The Queen’s voice rose, trembling with carefully concealed panic. “Please, Your Grace—allow Aegon some rest, he had been kneeling in the outer yard for hours now under the harsh glare of the sun.” she begged, her tone fraying around the edges. “He is your son!

King Viserys’s response came measured, though resolute. “This is not the first time Aegon has unleashed his rage upon someone in this court, Alicent. I will not be remembered as the King who turned a blind eye to his own son’s cruelty—especially now that it is his own nephews who bear the brunt of his temper.”

A tense silence followed before the Queen’s voice snapped, a shade sharper. “And yet you tolerate your daughter’s indiscretions?”

Rhaenyra had to stifle a smirk at Alicent’s boldness; for all her lack of power, the Queen still clung to her illusions of influence with desperate tenacity. That she even dared make such a demand showed her obstinacy—a part of Alicent she begrudgingly respected. Yet, it was also laughable, her belief that Viserys still valued her counsel with the same reverence he once had. Alicent’s illusions were her only weapon, and she clutched them with both hands.

As Rhaenyra pressed herself against the cold stone of the passageway, her gaze steady and her breath held, she listened intently to the heated conversation unraveling in her father’s chambers.

Alicent’s voice, sharp and dripping with barely contained resentment, sliced through the quiet. “Your Grace, have you ever stopped to consider the message this sends?” she demanded, the tone of her words both accusation and plea. “You turn a blind eye to her every indiscretion. Does it not concern you how the realm views this? Or how our other children are affected by your indulgence?”

Viserys’s voice came measured, almost exhausted, yet firm. “Alicent, I will not condemn my daughter, not when she has done her utmost for this family—”

“Utmost?” Alicent’s words were a whip crack of incredulity. “Rhaenyra tramples on every value you ought to uphold. By having these… these bastards, she spits on House Targaryen’s legacy.” She paused, her breath ragged with a simmering bitterness. “But of course, you won’t see it. You never could. Not with her.”

A cold fury settled in Rhaenyra’s chest. Alicent, with her self-righteous piety, would do anything to erode her claim, her worth—her children.

A tense silence followed before Alicent pressed on, her tone softening to something almost pleading. “It seems, Your Grace, that the only legacy you care to preserve is Rhaenyra’s. And in doing so, you have neglected the rest of your family. You would defend her, no matter the cost, while Aegon—while Aemond, Helaena, Daeron—go overlooked. Do you even love them as you do her?”

Rhaenyra could hear her father’s exasperated sigh. “Alicent, you know that is not true,” he replied, his tone gentling. “But Rhaenyra is my firstborn, my heir. She bears burdens that none of our other children could understand.”

“And yet,” Alicent countered bitterly, “you have done nothing but enable her sins. Every time she flouts the rules, you look the other way, as if her transgressions are insignificant.” Her voice lowered to a venomous murmur, each word calculated to wound. “Do you not see how your favoritism poisons the realm’s respect for you? How it tarnishes your house? Rhaenyra has chosen to disregard the values that hold the kingdom together, and still, you shield her.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers clenched the cold stone as she felt her fury tighten into a chilling resolve. Alicent would stop at nothing to make her father feel the sting of his own loyalty to his daughter. The nerve of her to speak so boldly, to question the King’s judgment and love.

Alicent’s voice had softened again, dripping now with honeyed reproach. “Our people, our court—they see what is before them. And they know that when it comes to Rhaenyra, you see nothing.”

Rhaenyra waited, watching the fraught exchange in her father’s chamber through the small crevice in the hidden door. Alicent's tear-streaked face pleaded earnestly, her voice choked as she tried again to sway her husband.

“Please, Viserys,” she whispered, “let Aegon back inside. He has been punished enough. He’s your son, and he cannot learn his lesson while being scorched in the courtyard like a stray dog. The people… they’re watching. What will they think?”

Viserys's sigh filled the room, exasperation woven into every line of his worn face. “The people will think that I am a King who will not tolerate such cruelty—not when it’s my own blood who suffers for his careless hand. Aegon will remain in the courtyard until he can grasp the severity of what he has done. Anyone foolish enough to aid him will find themselves without hands by morning.”

Alicent let out a muffled sob, her shoulders trembling. She lowered her head, defeated, and with a final glance, tearfully withdrew from the room. Rhaenyra held her breath as she listened to the Queen’s footsteps fade into the silence of the hall. When the quiet stretched, she let herself pause a few moments longer before stepping into her father’s chamber.

The concealed door groaned open, the sound scraping the silence as Rhaenyra emerged. Her father turned with surprise, eyebrows arching as his gaze fell upon her and the long-forgotten passageway. “What… what is that?” he asked, his astonishment evident. “How long has that been there?”

Her lips curved in a faint smile. “There are many doors in this keep, father, more than we know,” she replied lightly, though her expression hardened as she sat beside him. “But tell me,” her voice sharpened, “why is it that Ser Harwin is the one being punished, the one being sent away, when it was Cole who provoked him?”

Viserys heaved a weary sigh, rubbing his temples. “I do not care who provoked whom. It is Cole who was wounded, and he is a knight of the Kingsguard. The honor of the order must be preserved.”

Rhaenyra let out a mirthless laugh, her tone biting. “Honor, father?” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with the weight of long-held truths. “What honor is there in harboring a man like Criston Cole?”

The King looked at her, his expression puzzled, almost weary. She met his gaze, her words falling like stones between them. “I lost my maidenhead to him, father. Criston Cole.”

She watched her father’s face drain of color, his shock freezing him into silence, and then a slow, furious red crawled up his neck. His voice, usually so firm, was a strained murmur. “But Daemon…”

“Daemon had nothing to do with it,” she said with an ironic smile, almost savoring her father’s discomfort. “He left me chaste, but Cole— He was willing, eager even. But when he asked me to run away with him on our way to Hightide, speaking of selling bushels of oranges or cinnamon in some distant land, I told him no. And that was enough to enrage him." She paused, letting the words sink in. Rhaenyra watched as her father’s hands clenched into tight fists, his knuckles whitening with each word.

He muttered through gritted teeth, his voice thick with anger and disbelief, “A princess...selling oranges?”

 “He stormed straight to the Queen, spinning his disappointment into some sordid tale, painting me as the temptress who forced him to betray his vows."

Her voice grew colder as she continued, her gaze piercing. "And that, Father, is why your wife despises me—because I refused to be bartered and dared to seek happiness where she’s chosen only misery. She clings to her own unhappiness and expects me to do the same." She took a breath, steadying herself but not softening her words. “Alicent found a kindred spirit in Criston Cole; that’s why she begged for his pardon, even after he murdered a nobleman before the entire court on my wedding day. And you allowed her to shield him,” Rhaenyra’s voice was steady, though a fierce light burned in her eyes. “But I will not tolerate that man’s presence in the Red Keep, where he can prey upon my children.”

Viserys was still as stone, his gaze blank with disbelief, and Rhaenyra felt a thrill of satisfaction, a glee that smoldered at the edges of her carefully controlled expression.  

“That is the Kingsguard you’ve sheltered, father, a man who cannot bear that I’ve denied him, who nurtures his spite by encouraging your children to torment mine. His hatred festers into cruelty, and you’ve let it grow unchecked. I want you to know the truth, even if it stings. I am not here to plead with you—only to make certain you see exactly what you’ve allowed.”

Viserys was still as stone, his gaze blank with disbelief, and Rhaenyra felt a thrill of satisfaction, a glee that smoldered at the edges of her carefully controlled expression.

Her father remained speechless, and she held her silence just a moment longer, letting him grapple with the weight of her confession before she swept out of the room, disappearing once more into the dark recesses of the secret passages. She leaned against the door, her heart racing as she listened.

It wasn’t long before she heard her father call sharply for Ser Harrold. His voice, usually gentle, now held a fierce authority that demanded obedience.

“Bring me Ser Criston Cole,” he commanded. “Seize him, and prepare him for execution in the courtyard.”

A pause, and then Ser Harrold’s astonished voice: “But, Your Grace—what has brought this on?”

“Cole will know his own transgression.” Viserys replied darkly.

Through the wall, Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a smug smile as she heard the clank of the Kingsguard’s armor, the hurried shuffle of feet rushing to obey the King’s decree.

Rhaenyra moved swiftly through the shadowed passages, her mind racing as she pieced together her father’s curious sense of justice. King Viserys, ever the peacemaker, often forgave even the gravest transgressions in his pursuit of harmony. Yet there was one line he would never allow anyone to cross: a slight against her, the late Queen Aemma’s daughter. For her, he would cast aside his values, bend his principles, and wield his authority with a severity he reserved for no one else. Not even the hurt inflicted upon her children, his own grandchildren, could draw such fierce protection, unless she herself demanded it.

That was a power she would use to its fullest, until the very end.

The shuffle and clanking of the Kingsguard’s armor grew louder ahead. Rhaenyra quickened her pace, staying just close enough to catch Ser Harrold conversing with Ser Arryk in hushed tones she couldn’t quite make out. From their rigid postures and hurried steps, it was clear more guards would be called—this was no routine command. They continued through the Keep, moving at a brisk pace, and she nearly broke into a run to keep up with them in the dark corridors.

When they finally stopped at the entrance of a corridor, she pressed herself against the cold stone walls, listening intently. Ser Harrold’s voice called out, summoning Ser Criston Cole. A brief silence followed before Cole’s voice, sharp and indignant, cut through the air. “What is this about?” he demanded.

Ser Harrold’s answer was cool, resolute. “The King’s decree.”

As the guards moved to flank Cole, Alicent’s voice, edged with panic, pierced through. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you taking him?”

But the Kingsguard were beholden to their oaths, loyal to the King’s command alone. Ignoring her protests, they positioned Cole between them, boots thundering down the corridor as they escorted him away. Rhaenyra smirked, watching her father’s own decree unfold with the finality she had orchestrated. She trailed behind the guard’s procession until a sudden discovery drew her attention—a concealed door, hidden beneath the dusty folds of a heavy tapestry. With a thrill, she slipped through it and found herself peering into a narrow alcove overlooking the corridor.

From her vantage, she saw Alicent. The Queen’s face was a mask of worry, her eyes darting between the guards, who disappear  on a bend, her teeth gnawing at her nails. After a moment’s hesitation, Alicent lifted her skirts and spun on her heel, clearly heading back toward the King’s chambers.

“Oh, no, you won’t.” Rhaenyra whispered to herself, feeling a fresh surge of determination. She slipped from the alcove and strode out of the corridor, her steps swift and purposeful. Her eyes fell upon a narrow staircase leading to the garden courtyard below, and in that instant, a dark, thrilling impulse took hold. She hastened down, her heart hammering with a heady mixture of purpose and rage.

Alicent’s heels clicked on the cold stone as she approached the stairs, and Rhaenyra didn’t hesitate. She surged forward and, with a swift shove, sent Alicent tumbling sideways down the steps.

Alicent’s body struck the stone stairs with brutal finality, her gown tangling around her ankles as she rolled, never having a chance to cry out. When she came to a halt, she lay crumpled, motionless but for the soft, pained moan that escaped her lips.

Rhaenyra stood atop the staircase, hands resting casually at her waist, gazing down at the Queen with an expression of quiet satisfaction. Alicent stirred, her face twisting in agony as she struggled to move her head, her dazed eyes widening as they found Rhaenyra standing above her.

“Help… me…” Alicent’s voice was a faint rasp, a plea met with nothing but Rhaenyra’s disdainful huff.

“Bitch!” Rhaenyra muttered, relishing the sweet sense of triumph that washed over her as she watched the broken Queen. She turned on her heel, leaving Alicent sprawled in silence, and returned swiftly through the hidden corridors, each step as deliberate as her vengeance.

Rhaenyra swept briskly through the hallways toward her chambers, intent on shedding the thick veil of dust and cobwebs that clung to her gown. Once inside, she called for her maids, who swiftly began drawing her bath. The steaming water was a welcome relief, washing away both the grime of the hidden passageways and the lingering tension from her encounter with Alicent. She bathed quickly, her thoughts already wandering to her youngest son as she slipped into a deep blue gown overlaid with an elegant black overdress.

Upon finishing, she summoned her maid again. “Bring Joffrey to me,” she instructed, smiling to herself. Moments later, the maid returned with the news that he had just been changed and fed, his lashes growing heavy with sleep. Rhaenyra nodded, dismissing the nursemaids, and settled herself against a mound of pillows, folding her legs in front of her and leaning Joffrey on her raised legs. She placed him so he sat facing her, his chubby hands reaching toward her with the unsteady enthusiasm of an infant.

“And how was your day, my sweet boy?” she murmured, tickling the soft skin of his neck. Joffrey gave a delighted squeal, wriggling in respons

“You are the most precious babe in all the world, you know that? Oh, how I love you more than lemon cakes,” she laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “more than even Volantene silk… and perhaps even more than riding my dragon.”

In response, Joffrey squealed again, his tiny hand latching onto one of her curls with surprising strength, tugging just hard enough to make her wince. She chuckled, carefully prying his fingers open one by one, only for him to find the gleaming jewels sewn onto her sleeve. His eyes sparkled, mesmerized by the glinting stones.

“Ah, do you like that?” she asked, amusement dancing in her gaze. Her finger traced over a soft, amber-hued stone. “This yellow one… does it remind you of Tyraxes, hmm?”

At the mention of his dragon, Joffrey looked around as if expecting his scaled companion to appear. Rhaenyra laughed softly, cupping his cheek. “I think he’s asleep, my darling. Don’t you worry, though. When he’s ready, the Dragonkeepers will bring him to you.”

They played together in their little world, her voice lilting as she whispered stories in Valyrian, brushing his dark curls back and peppering his face with kisses. Each peal of his laughter was a treasure, his wide, innocent eyes reflecting only happiness and trust. After a while, he began to yawn, tiny fingers loosening their hold on her sleeve.

With tender care, she laid him beside her, turning him onto his tummy, knowing how he liked to sleep this way. She rubbed his back in gentle circles, her voice a soft lullaby. “Sleep well, my sweet Joffrey. Dream only of happy things—the warm baths you so love, the honey your brother Luke snuck you that first time, and the thrill of the wind on your face when we fly. Remember always, my precious boy, you and your brother are loved beyond all else. You will always be safe.”

As his breaths deepened in slumber, Rhaenyra’s own eyelids grew heavy, her heart wrapped in the warmth of her son’s soft presence. It wasn’t long before she drifted off beside him, secure in the sanctuary they had carved for themselves amidst the turmoil of the realm.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra stirred, hearing faint whispers slipping through her slumber. Slowly, she sat up against the plush pillows, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimming light. A quick glance beside her confirmed that Joffrey had already been whisked away by the nursemaids. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the sky blazed in hues of pink and purple, the sun sinking toward the horizon.

The whispers continued, and she called out, “Who’s there?”

The door cracked open to reveal Lady Amanda, her expression pinched in displeasure. “Princess, the king is here to see you.”

“Have him come in.” Rhaenyra replied, smoothing her gown and patting her hair—though perhaps disheveled, she knew she was presentable enough. She’d only fallen asleep in her dress, after all.

The door opened wider, admitting King Viserys, who shuffled inside as maids bustled around to light the candles in her chamber. As their glow grew, he took in her appearance, an amused smile quirking his lips.

“Your ladies say you slept quite a while, Rhaenyra.”

She stretched, covering a yawn with the back of her hand. “I think the sight of my children hurt was more taxing than I realized, Father.”

He nodded, settling beside her bed instead of the chair nearby. “I’ve already spoken to Aegon. He’s in the courtyard now, on his knees to contemplate his actions.”

She exhaled a short laugh. “There is no hope for Aegon, Father.”

Viserys let out a weary sigh, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know what’s happened to him, why he’s been acting out so gravely.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed as she tilted her head, her tone turning pointed. “Aegon—or rather, Alicent—has always been very adept at concealing her son’s indiscretions.”

Viserys blinked, unsettled. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m saying,” she continued, “that Aegon has been violating maids and ladies-in-waiting for years now, and Alicent’s solution is simply to pay them off.”

The king’s face flushed, his voice rising. “Rhaenyra, you should not give credence to such gossip!”

She shrugged and rose from the bed just as the maids entered with tea and fruit. “If you don’t believe me, perhaps you should speak with the Lord Hand—or even Lord Beesbury, for that matter. He must be well aware of how much gold Alicent sets aside to cover her son’s sins.”

Viserys scowled, waving her away as if to shoo the thought from the air. She merely lifted an eyebrow and poured tea, taking her time with a cup for each of them. If he preferred blindness, then so be it; he could not claim she hadn’t warned him.

Settling back, she sipped her tea, savoring the warmth, and reached for roasted nuts seasoned with herbs and honey, the flavors a perfect complement to the tea’s smoothness. Across from her, the king picked at some candied citrus peel, his brow still furrowed in discomfort.

After a moment, he looked at her, his unease plain. “Rhaenyra… where did you go after we last spoke? You didn’t return directly here, did you?”

She stifled a smile behind her teacup, then lowered it and replied evenly, “Oh, I did, the hidden passages are positively laden with cobwebs, and I was in desperate need of a bath.”

Viserys’s interest piqued, his eyes brightening like a curious child’s. “You’ll have to take me exploring one day.”

Her mouth curved in a wry smile. “I’d advise against it, Father. The passages are dark and damp, parts of them packed with loose soil and some of them as slippery as eel skins. Healer Helene would never forgive me if you were to take a tumble. She worked far too hard getting you back to health to see you sprain something in some dusty corridor.”

Viserys chuckled, though he appeared just a shade disappointed. She reached for another handful of nuts, enjoying the contrast between their savory crunch and her tea, glancing at her father’s solemn face as he pondered her words, his candied peel forgotten.

Rhaenyra’s mind drifted to her recent conversation with Healer Helene, who had disclosed the truth of her father’s illness with gentle honesty: an incurable, deteriorative condition slowly compromising his body. Though beyond true healing, there were methods to soothe him, ways to ease his pain and delay the worst. Her healer’s wisdom had earned them a large room near the King’s chambers, where they meticulously prepared salves, ointments, and herbal soaks. There were immune-boosting teas, bone-strengthening broths, and gentle massages with warm oils. Helene often burned a touch of salt with sage and eucalyptus in a brazier, filling the air with a soothing, clean-scented steam that helped the King breathe more easily.

Surprisingly, the Grand Maester had not objected. Instead, he’d praised these methods, noting that they should do everything possible to alleviate the King’s suffering, even if such techniques were unfamiliar to Westerosi healers. It was Alicent, however, who turned her nose up, disapproving of these foreign methods. Yet she was too preoccupied with her own troubles, and her time was increasingly spent in the Sept, kneeling before the statues, lighting candle after candle. It seemed the more scandalous whispers spread through the city about her and her children, the more fervently she clung to her piety—as if attempting to balance her sins with holy devotion.

'More power to her.' Rhaenyra thought with a wry smile.

Shifting slightly, she continued, “After my bath, I played with Joffrey until we both drifted off to sleep.”

Viserys gave her a soft nod, reassured, before leaning in, his voice a grave murmur. “Rest easy, my daughter—Ser Criston Cole has paid for his disloyalty. He has been executed, his head set upon a spike for all to see.”

A wicked smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Might I see?”

Viserys, looking almost scandalized, chided her gently. “It is hardly proper for a princess to view such things, Rhaenyra.”

With a playful pout, she moved closer to him, leaning her head against his shoulder, her tone softening. “Thank you, Papa.”

Viserys’s expression warmed as he patted her hand, his voice quiet yet firm. “I will always protect you. But you must come to me, tell me these things. If anyone dares act against you, I need to know, so I may take the proper steps to see you are defended.”

She stifled the urge to roll her eyes, suppressing the sting of the words left unspoken—she had, after all, tried to make her feelings about Alicent abundantly clear. But she knew her father’s sympathies; he was selective in his punishments. But that's alright, she can enact her own punishments if she wants to.

They remained together like this for a time, the silence comfortable and reassuring, until the King finished his tea and sighed, preparing to leave. “I must go, sweetling. My bath awaits me—those herbs your healers insist on.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, curious. “And what magical potion will they soak you in tonight?”

“Lavender and chamomile.” he replied, his tone bemused. “They say the infusion will soothe my hands and feet, easing the pain and preventing further infection. Comfrey too, I’m told—something about helping to close sores. Helene could go on for hours on the topic; I’ve learned more of herbs than I ever thought to know.”

Her smile turned fond as she whispered, “Well, you’d better listen to them and get well.”

A shadow passed over Viserys’s gaze, as if he, too, understood the inevitable. Yet he managed a tender smile, patting her cheek and planting a soft kiss on her brow. Then he left, closing the door gently behind him.

But his absence was short-lived. Barely moments had passed when Lady Amanda entered, followed by the Archmaester, both of them wearing somber expressions that made her heart tighten.

Lady Amanda entered the chamber with a soft, motherly smile, asking gently, “How are you, my dear?”

Rhaenyra stretched and gave a half-yawn. “Still a touch sleepy, but the tea and my talk with Papa stirred me properly awake.” Turning toward her granduncle, she added with a mischievous glint, “Did you know Cole is dead? Papa had him beheaded!”

The Archmaester, sitting down with a frown, made a disapproving tsk as Lady Amanda poured their tea, her expression mirroring his distaste at such morbid talks.

Lady Amanda inquired delicately, “Did the King ask anything of importance?”

Rhaenyra thought for a moment, tapping her fingertips together. “He asked if I returned to my chambers right after we spoke earlier.” she replied, tilting her head. Then, with an amused lift of her brow, she added, “He also wanted me to take him to the hidden passages. I discouraged it—those corridors are treacherously steep and far too cramped for him now.”

She studied them both with a spark of impatience, finally asking, “But what is it that you both have come here to tell me?”

The Archmaester took a measured breath, his voice steady yet grave. “The Queen was found bloodied at the foot of a staircase near the King’s apartments,” he explained. “She claims that you, dear Princess, were the one who pushed her.”

Rhaenyra feigned shock, placing her hand over her chest. “Me?” she gasped, eyes wide with incredulity. “I haven’t even seen the Queen in the King’s apartments! Why would I push her? I’m hardly a monster.”

Lady Amanda moved swiftly to her, drawing her into a gentle embrace. Rhaenyra pressed her face against her aunt’s shoulder, closing her eyes in a futile attempt to stifle a laugh. Truly, how could anyone lend credence to Alicent's accusations? The so-called loyal Queen, who could scarcely keep her own son from rebuking her in public. The number of times Aegon had raised his voice at her in the corridors, at feasts, in full view of the court—it was more than one could count. Indeed, the court had begun to whisper, spinning tales of supposed transgressions that might have earned her his resentment. For it always seemed that if a young man fell from favor, surely a woman must be the reason.

Yet, in this strange turn of courtly misfortune, the whispers played into Rhaenyra’s favor, shielding her from Alicent’s misplaced grievances and painting her own actions in a light far removed from suspicion.

When she felt composed enough, Rhaenyra opened her eyes, only to find the Archmaester’s gaze upon her—a pointed, knowing glare. She blinked back at him, the picture of innocent bewilderment, but he simply rolled his eyes, pouring himself another cup of tea.

She gave a soft sigh of thanks to Lady Amanda, who was still holding her hand. “Thank you, Aunt.” she said sweetly. “Where are the children?”

Lady Amanda gave a reassuring nod. “They’re safely indoors; I didn’t want Lucerys outside with this recent… incident and Jacaerys needed to rest. They spent the afternoon on the balcony with Lords Cregan and Joffrey, listening to more tales of the northern horrors and mountains clansmen. They’ve just left to eat and rest.”

Rhaenyra smiled fondly, thinking of her little ones. “Then I shall dine with my boys in the nursery. I don’t want Jace exerting himself unnecessarily on that leg.”

Lady Amanda nodded, gave her one last squeeze, and slipped from the room, leaving Rhaenyra alone with the Archmaester.

She began to fuss with her gown, straightening the delicate fabric, and nervously adjusted a lock of hair. The Archmaester cleared his throat, leveling her with a steady gaze. “Did anyone see you?”

She looked up, feigning a scandalized expression. “Of course not! I made certain I was alone.”

But he shook his head, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. “One can never be entirely sure, Princess. You must curb these impulses of yours.”

Rhaenyra scoffed, but nodded slightly.

He continued, his tone lowering. “And I insist you avoid traipsing through those passages by yourself. You said so yourself, you are not the only one who knows of them—what would happen if you were to happen upon them alone? It would be easy for them to push you in these damp dark corridors with steep stairs.”

She hesitated, glancing away. “I can’t very well confide in my guards about the passages…”

“Then confide in Ser Steffon, your sworn shield,” the Archmaester replied firmly. “He is loyal to you. He would protect your secrets.”

Rhaenyra let out a small sigh, nodding as she turned her gaze back to him, secretly weighing her options and the importance of her secrecy.

The Archmaester rose slowly from his seat, casting a wry glance her way. “Princess, if you ever feel the urge to shove someone down a staircase again,” he intoned, his voice as crisp as autumn air, “I highly recommend letting others handle it for you. That, after all, is what the help is for.”

With that, he inclined his head curtly and departed, not sparing her a backward glance, even as she graciously offered for him to join her and her children for supper. She huffed softly, resisting the strong urge to stick her tongue out at the rigid old man—a gesture she knew Luke would have found simply perfect.

Just then, her ladies entered, their faces a mixture of surprise and concern. Lady Selene gasped as her gaze fell upon the state of her gown. “Oh, Your Grace!” she exclaimed, a hand rising to her mouth in shock. “The creases are terrible! And you spoke with the King dressed like this?”

Lady Nila’s expression was similarly horrified, her mouth agape. “You addressed His Grace without… without standing on proper ceremony?”

Rhaenyra offered a dismissive wave, a fond smile playing on her lips. “Ladies, it is my father. I needn’t stand on ceremony for him.”

Lady Selene and Lady Nila exchanged knowing glances before bustling off to find her a simpler gown. They returned swiftly, presenting a rich, maroon velvet dress with long sleeves that required no elaborate outer garment. As her ladies adjusted the new gown’s folds and hems, she dismissed them gently. “Rest early tonight, ladies. I shall spend my evening with my children.”

The ladies curtsied deeply, murmuring their gratitude, but not without a hint of mischief in their departure. She could just overhear Lady Anella whispering to Lady Selene as they left, “Larys was always peculiar, even as a child. But truly, I do not believe those whispers about him and the Queen. No respectable woman would lower herself to a… clubfoot.”

Rhaenyra stifled a laugh, catching her own wry smile in the mirror, as Valaena deftly plaited her hair into a single thick braid, which was finished with a delicate clasp shaped like a golden dragon. The elegance was understated yet regal, and she admired Valaena’s handiwork as she rose, stepping into the corridor toward the nursery just a few doors down.

Outside the nursery, Ser Ronnel stood at attention. He cleared his throat, bowing with a respectful grace. “Your Grace,” he greeted, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable weight. “Today, I executed the man responsible for my brother’s murder… the one who so brutally wronged House Lonmouth.” Ser Ronnel bowed deeply, gratitude etched in his voice as he spoke, “On behalf of House Lonmouth, I thank you, Princess. You and yours shall ever have a friend in our house.”

Rhaenyra offered him a warm smile, acknowledging the gesture with an understanding look. Likely, Ser Harrold had granted him the grim duty, a reminder to all present of the grievous wrong committed against House Lonmouth by Criston Cole. She inclined her head gracefully, murmuring, “It grieves me still that Cole was not truly punished for the murder of Ser Joffrey, hero of the Stepstones.”

Ser Ronnel returned her smile, though with a tinge of sadness, and replied, “It is enough for me, Your Grace, that he was punished at all. And I must thank you as well… for my match with Lady Cassandra Baratheon.”

She nodded graciously. “Lady Cassandra is to arrive in the capital once she turns six-and-ten. Lady Elenda has requested the marriage occur when Cassandra reaches eight-and-ten. You will have time to get to know her and not marry a stranger.”

Ser Ronnel inclined his head with a look of solemn understanding. “I shall await that day with patience, Princess.”

“Now, rest, Ser Ronnel, and savor this victory,” she advised warmly. “Your duties may resume tomorrow.”

With a final, grateful smile, the knight bowed deeply, then took his leave, his steps echoing softly down the hall. As Rhaenyra stepped into the nursery, a gentle warmth enveloped her, mingling with the soothing scents that drifted through the air. The wood smoke from the hearth carried a soft, comforting heat, taking the chill from her cheeks as she moved further inside. Faint notes of lavender and chamomile greeted her, their calming fragrance threading through the room from little sachets tucked into the folds of the blankets, casting an almost ethereal calm over the space.

The linens held a freshly laundered scent, the faint tang of soap and wool softened by the slightest hint of milk, sweet and familiar. With each breath, Rhaenyra felt herself steeped in the nursery’s quiet, homely essence—a mingling of earthy oils, herbs, and innocence, all bound together by the love that warmed every corner of the room.

Rhaenyra greeted her little ones with a soft smile. "Good eve, my hatchlings."

Immediately, Luke dashed to her side, wrapping his arms around her waist with an excited, “Muña!” His eyes sparkled with delight. “Is it true, then? We’re eating here tonight?”

She chuckled, cupping his small face and planting a tender kiss on his forehead. “Yes, my sweet. Tonight, we’ll eat sitting here on the low table.”

Luke’s face lit up as he let out a jubilant, “Yay!” and raced around the room, arms stretched wide as if he were a dragon taking flight. She laughed, watching him with pure adoration as she settled beside Jace, who was reclining on the sofa with his feet propped up on a small stool, a worn book of Valyrian poetry open before him. He looked up and kissed her cheek, his expression softening at her gentle touch.

“And how is my Jace feeling tonight?” she asked, brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

He gave a small sigh. “Healer Helaena said the pain will be worse tonight, but she soaked my feet in ice and bound them. She told me as long as I keep exercising, it won’t get so bad.”

Rhaenyra frowned, a small sound of disapproval escaping her. “Then I’ll stay with you tonight, and I won’t leave your side.”

“Muña!” Jace protested, though a half-smile betrayed his lack of resistance. “I’m not a babe anymore…”

“Ah, perhaps not,” she said, her voice lilting with motherly warmth as she gently ran her fingers through his dark curls, “but even when you’re fifty, you’ll still be my babe.” She paused, gazing at him with a depth of emotion that softened her features. “You are my first child, Jace. You taught me a kind of love I didn’t know was possible, a love that became my strength when the world was darkest. For that, I’ll be forever thankful. So yes, I’ll stay by your side tonight, and the next, and the one after that—until you grow tired of me.”

Jace’s face broke into a wide grin, and he leaned his head against her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, and kissed the top of his head. They remained that way, wrapped in each other’s warmth, until the maids entered carrying trays laden with food.

They brought forth a splendid array of dishes, fragrant and steaming: a golden-crusted roast with its juices pooling around thick cuts of tender meat, so enticing that Jace’s eyes sparkled with eager hunger. A thick, savory soup filled with chunks of root vegetables, herbs, and tender cuts of lamb waited beside it, accompanied by freshly-baked rolls with a crisp, warm crust. For Luke, the soup had an extra side of soft, crusty bread, perfect for tearing apart and dipping into the broth. He immediately took to it, tearing the bread with his hands and dunking it with gusto.

And for little Joff, his nurse carefully spooned mashed squash onto his plate, along with a small helping of soft-boiled carrots that had been mashed and sweetened with a hint of honey. The baby cooed with delight, eagerly reaching for each spoonful, his chubby cheeks rounding as he savored the sweetness.

Rhaenyra, however, nibbled on only a few crispy slices of bacon, feeling content simply watching her boys. Dinner soon became a cheerful, lively affair. She and Luke settled onto the many plush pillows spread across the floor, Luke babbling between bites about his latest flights of fancy. Jace’s tray was carefully arranged before him on the sofa, allowing him to eat comfortably without moving his sore feet, and Joff’s nurse sat beside her, dutifully spooning food into his eager mouth.

Between Luke’s spirited giggles, Jace’s murmurs of satisfaction, and Joff’s cheerful claps each time he received a spoonful, the room filled with a warmth that seemed to melt away the cares of the world. For tonight, surrounded by her boys, Rhaenyra’s heart felt whole.

The following day, Ser Harwin came to the nursery, his satchel in hand, and Rhaenyra watched him with a quiet, aching sadness as he bid farewell to the children he could never claim as his own.

“Be good to your mother, lads,” Ser Harwin said, his voice thick with unspoken emotions. “I’ll visit when I can, but it may be some time.”

Little Luke looked at him with innocent confusion, too young to truly grasp the bond that went unspoken, even as he felt the sting of loss over the departure of a man who had been a constant, comforting presence in their lives. He noddedbut will resolve to ease the heavy atmosphere by playing with his wooden soldiers, the small figures clattering softly in the corner.

Jace, though struggling with the pain in his leg, went to Rhaenyra’s side. She embraced him, encouraging him with a gentle gesture to say goodbye. “Jace,” she prompted softly, and Ser Harwin knelt down to meet his gaze. “I’ll return, I promise you.” Harwin murmured, though his voice faltered. Jace gave a solemn nod, the weight of their parting settling upon his young shoulders.

When Harwin leaned in to kiss Joffrey on the forehead, the boy, sensing the finality of the moment, nestled his face shyly into Rhaenyra's chest, his small hands gripping her gown for comfort. Harwin’s lips hovered over Joffrey’s brow, a tenderness in his touch that belied the sorrow he held within.

“We’ll be strangers when next we meet,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, as if the words themselves were a fragile thread binding him to a fleeting moment. A sorrowful smile curled upon his lips, bittersweet and full of longing for a future that would never come.

Rhaenyra watched him, her heart full, as his eyes met hers. In that gaze, there was something timeless—a devotion so pure and selfless it nearly brought her to her knees. It was the kind of love, the kind of loyalty, that every soul should know, if only once in their life. In his eyes, she saw the unspoken words, the vows made without utterance, the commitment that stretched far beyond duty.

Her breath caught in her chest, and she wished, with all her heart, that she could express just how deeply grateful she was. For the treasures he had given her—her children, her joy, her quiet moments of peace—and for the unwavering loyalty he had shown her, even when the world had turned its back. Yet, when the words failed her, she could only offer him a smile, fragile and heartfelt, hoping that in some way, he understood. A smile that spoke of all the fondness, all the gratitude, that words could never contain.

With reluctance, she watched as he shouldered his satchel and took up his sword, his steps heavy as he departed. Yet just as he reached the doorway, Jace, despite his discomfort, followed him to the corridor, lingering there with a look of longing. Rhaenyra, holding Joffrey in her arms, moved to join him, assuring him gently, “We’ll exchange letters, Jace—by raven! Think how exciting that will be.”

But Jace, his face clouded with uncertainty, suddenly looked up at her and asked, “Is Ser Harwin Strong…my father?”

The words stole her breath, her heart aching as she took in the vulnerable, searching expression on his face.

“Am I…a bastard?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

Rhaenyra gazed down at him, cupping his face with tender hand, brushing her thumb along his cheek. “My beloved boy,” she murmured, her voice brimming with warmth and love, “you and your brothers were born of immense love—a love so great that we eagerly awaited each of you, even before you took your first breath." She placed a hand over her heart, hoping her words would ease his doubts. "A bastard, my love, is a child born not of love but of fleeting union, often cast aside without the devotion you have known every day. You were anticipated with joy, cherished more dearly than the stars themselves. There are things we’ll speak of one day, when you’re ready to understand them. But know this: you are Targaryen. Your blood is of fire and majesty—it is yours by right, by love, and by destiny.” she continued, her voice a steady reassurance.

She could see the weight of her words sinking into his young mind, the flicker of pride and certainty in his eyes, and she hoped with all her heart that this would anchor him. “Hold fast to that, my Jace. You are loved, and you are true.”

Rhaenyra set Joffrey down onto the thick carpet, and the little boy looked back at her, a tad bewildered, before noticing the scene unfolding before him: the King himself, seated on the floor in a chaotic tumble of golden robes, looked rather grand and wholly out of place. Beside him, Lord Corlys knelt in the thick of it all, his silken coat tossed over the chair and sleeves rolled up, some of his pearl buttons were dislodge on the floor already plucked off by a maid—no doubt to prevent Joffrey from claiming them as his latest snack. Little Luke knelt beside Corlys, clapping and laughing as he watched.

The King grinned, wiggling his fingers, flashing his golden crown at Joffrey with an enticing smile. "Come, Joffrey! Over here, lad!" Meanwhile, Corlys clapped his hands, calling out, "Come here, my boy! Come to Grandpa!" Each man gave the other a sidelong glance, clearly taking their mission of winning Joffrey over far too seriously.

Joffrey began his slow crawl forward, his tiny hands patting the ground with determination. Every few moments, he paused to bask in the attention that was given solely to him, clapping his hands, his laughter bubbling up like the purest melody. The sound delighted the room, drawing indulgent smiles and encouraging calls from all corners. The men, perhaps amused by the show, cheered him on with playful shouts, as though their applause were meant solely for him and not the gathering around them.

"Joff, come here! Come to me!" Little Luke’s voice rose above the din, his hand outstretched, fingers wiggling in invitation. Ever the helpful brother, Luke beckoned with all the authority of a child who believed he could guide his younger sibling’s every move.

Joffrey paused, glancing up with his wide, innocent eyes, first at the King, who smiled indulgently from his seat, then to Lord Corlys, who leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. Joffrey clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and joyous, and waved one arm with the excitement only the very young can summon. He beamed at Corlys, who encouraged him with an exaggerated beckoning motion. Yet as Luke called again, Joffrey’s attention shifted. With a soft coo, he resumed his crawl, this time toward Luke, his chubby legs and arms working harder as if responding to the stronger pull of his brother’s voice.

Lord Corlys, however, was not one to concede easily. Just as Joffrey was about to reach Luke, the Sea Snake moved with the speed and precision of a man who had once bested storms at sea. He swooped down and scooped Joffrey up in one fluid motion, holding him high above his head, throwing a victorious look toward the King.

"Clearly, the lad has better sense than most." Corlys boasted, bouncing Joffrey on his hip, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He turned toward Viserys, his smile triumphant. "A Velaryon through and through. Born for the waves!"

Joffrey giggled in delight, clapping his hands as if the act itself were his applause for the moment. He waved his tiny fingers at the King, then back at Luke, reaching his chubby hands for Luke behind Corlys, paid no heed to the men’s rivalry, his only interest the brother within arm’s reach. Jace, perched on the sofa beside his grandfather, giggled as he watched the display. Ever the helpful one, he assisted his grandsire in rising to his feet, steadying him as he adjusted his crown, albeit now sitting crookedly atop his head.

Corlys gave Joffrey a small toss in the air, catching him securely as the child’s laughter rang out like a bell.

Turning back to the King, Corlys’s grin broadened. "The boy knows where his true place lies." he said, his voice laden with a teasing boast, though his gaze held a flicker of challenge, as if daring anyone to deny the bond between him and his grandson.

The King, ever gracious in his defeat, sighed and ruffled Jace’s hair, saying, "Well, at least I have your loyalty, my Jace. One day, it’s you who will sit the Iron Throne."

With that, the King settled his own crown atop Jace’s head, the weight causing it to slip down over his eyes, the boy grinning despite it. “Don’t worry, my King,” Jace said cheerily. “I like you.”

Lord Corlys gave a huff, standing up with Joffrey still in his arms, bouncing him lightly. "Aye, a heavy Crown and many more responsibilities are what you give them. A crown is all well and good, but where’s the rest, the children need more than titles to be happy."

The King, with a glint of pride, shot back, "Jace and Luke now each have a pony—little mounts to ride about the grounds whenever they please."

"Ponies!" Corlys scoffed with a playful sneer. "And what do princes need with ponies, when they’ve dragons? You can’t teach a Targaryen to ride without fire beneath him!"

The King merely shrugged, smiling. “Their dragons are still young, my lord. For now, they’ll have to practice astride ponies.”

Lord Corlys chuckled, glancing toward Luke. "Besides ponies, my royal grandchildren shall have entertainment suited to their station. Puppeteers and singers have arrived to perform for you all—whenever you so desire."

Eyes wide, Luke tugged at Corlys’s sleeve, a spark of excitement lighting his face. “Did the puppeteers bring the show we watched last time, Grandfather?”

“Oh, I should think so, young prince.” Corlys replied, his tone indulgent.

“Do you think they’ll know the one with the magic lion?” Luke asked, bouncing on his knees.

“Why, of course, they know it.” Corlys assured, clearly pleased with the boy’s interest.

"And… and do you think they perform it for me?"

Corlys looked down, smiling broadly. "I brought them here for you and your brothers. They will do anything you fancy. "

Meanwhile, the King rolled his eyes, casting a knowing look at his daughter. Rhaenyra let out a laugh, her heart alight with joy. These two men, with all their grand airs and titles, were easier to manipulate than they would ever care to admit. All she needed to do was direct their boundless affection toward her children, and they were hers, utterly hers. Of course, her children were adorably endearing all on their own, but seeing these two legends of the realm fawn and fuss over their every whim was the sweetest victory of all.

The quiet hum of conversation was broken as Healer Helene entered, her presence as serene as ever. She carried a steaming cup of broth in her hands, its aroma wafting through the room—a rich, savory scent with notes of earth and spice. She offered the bowl to the King with a soft smile, her movements gentle yet confident.

"Your Grace," she said warmly, "your strengthening broth."

The King’s face lit up as he accepted it, his tone fond. “Ah, Helene, ever my savior. You’ve kept these old bones sturdier than they deserve to be.”

Lord Corlys regarded her with a raised brow, the skepticism clear in his expression. His gaze remained on the way Lady Helene stayed, her smile lingering just a touch too long, and the way the King’s voice softened, as though she were the only one in the room. “And what, pray, is in this miraculous concoction?”

Helene answered with a graceful incline of her head. “A blend of roasted marrowbones, leeks, and ginger for warmth and vitality, sage for strength, and nettle to fortify the blood. The saffron is a final touch, to ensure the heart remains hale.”

The description, delivered with a practiced charm, did little to quell Corlys’s suspicion. Yet when Helene offered him a cup, he accepted it with a polite nod, though his eyes narrowed as if to discern whether the broth might enchant him as it seemingly had the King.

The King, however, was unabashed in his praise. “It has worked wonders! Since Helene took over my care, I’ve been feeling more robust than I have in years.” He leaned toward Corlys with a teasing grin. “Perhaps you should consider her teas and salves for your own old bones, my lord. The winters in Driftmark were harsh, were they not?”

Corlys huffed, his tone dry. “The seas have kept me hale enough, Your Grace, though I’ll not turn away a boon if it proves as effective as you claim.”

The two exchanged a knowing look, a rivalry rekindled over cups of broth, but the mood shifted when Luke suddenly turned to Rhaenyra, his little face scrunched in earnest confusion. “Muña, are you going to marry Lord Tyland?”

Rhaenyra blinked at him, utterly taken aback. “What? Why in the Seven would you think such a thing?”

Luke pouted, folding his arms. “He told me in the yards that you’ll need to remarry and that he’s the best candidate. He said he wanted to be my friend. But I don’t want him to be my friend—he speaks funny.”

At this, Corlys’s gaze darkened, his expression thunderous, though he kept his silence. The King, however, let out an indignant huff. “The boy must have misunderstood,” he declared, though there was an edge of irritation in his voice. “Any petition for the Princess’s hand must go through me, as her father and head of her house. Such matters are not to be discussed lightly, let alone in the training yards!”

Luke grimaced but didn’t contest the point. Instead, he muttered, “I don’t need another father.”

Rhaenyra, catching Corlys’s approving nod, smiled gently at her son. “Nor shall you have one,” Corlys intoned, his voice firm. “The Princess has three sons. The succession is secured.”

But the King was not so easily swayed. “Rhaenyra is to be the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and a Queen must have a Consort. As her father, I shall see to it that the best suitor is chosen.”

Rhaenyra smiled sweetly at her father, though her eyes glinted with condescension. He might have been the King, but the notion that he could dictate her life after all she had endured was almost laughable.

Corlys, ever practical, asked, “Have there been offers already?”

The King straightened with pride. “Of course! She is the Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and the future Queen! There have been petitions from Gerold Royce, a Bracken, and several others of note.” He began listing names, growing more boastful with each one.

The conversation was interrupted as Ser Harrold entered, bowing low. “Your Grace, the Queen requests your presence.”

The King flushed, clearly caught off guard. “Alicent is able to sit for longer periods now,” he said awkwardly, prompting a hearty laugh from Corlys.

“Ah, so it’s not the King summoning others these days, but the Queen summoning the King!” Corlys teased.

The King turned redder, sputtering. “She likely forgot I intended to spend the day with my grandsons. Tell her I’ll visit when I’m free.”

Amused murmurs gave way to a quieter moment as Jace approached with a leather-bound book. “For you, Grandsire.” he said, presenting it.

The King opened it with curiosity, his eyes widening. “Valyrian poetry transcribed from the common tongue into glyphs?”

Jace nodded. “I thought you might appreciate it.”

The King beamed. “I’ve never been skilled at reading glyphs myself. Did you know Jace only needs to read something once, and he’ll never forget it?”

Healer Helene looked at the boy with newfound admiration. “Truly remarkable, my prince.” she said.

The King handed the book back to Jace. “Read me a passage, my boy.”

As Jace began, his clear voice filling the room, Rhaenyra retrieved Joffrey from Corlys’s arms. The Sea Snake appeared deep in thought, though his expression softened as Luke tugged at his sleeve. “Grandfather, can you show me some sailors’ knots?”

Corlys, ever indulgent, nodded, turning his attention to his eager grandson.

As for Alicent, much to Rhaenyra’s lament, the Queen had not succumbed to her injuries. However, the tale of her misstep—a broken hip and a bloodied head—was scandalous enough, especially since Alicent loudly accused Rhaenyra of pushing her. Unfortunately for Alicent, there were no witnesses, and her accusations were unraveled not through loud protestations but through the mundane chatter of Rhaenyra’s maids, in the unassuming testimonies of those who witnessed her day’s routine. Two guards, stationed near her chambers, casually remarked to his fellows, “Her maids came down to fetch the bathwater, said they left the Princess in her rooms. I saw her myself when they knocked to be let in.”

This statement alone might have been enough to cast doubt on the Queen’s accusations, but the narrative grew firmer still. Joffrey’s nursemaids, after delivering the babe to Rhaenyra’s care, had descended to the kitchens, seeking their meal. Their chatter revolved around the Princess’s attire—her gown in particular garnering much admiration.

“That gown,” one of the nurses had said, “the beading, the embroidery—it must have taken months to complete.”

It was further bolstered by Lady Selene that same eve, ranting about her wrinkled dress. “And now look at it! Wrinkled beyond repair because the Princess slept on it all afternoon! A piece of art, and she simply lay down as if it were her riding cloak.”

The guards and maids’ accounts wove together seamlessly, painting a picture of Rhaenyra sequestered in her rooms, surrounded by witnesses tending to her needs. It became apparent to all who heard the murmurings through the halls that the Queen’s accusations—dramatic as they were—lacked substance.

She looked up as she heard Luke’s enthusiastic voice. "Show me how you do it again, Grandfather!" he pleaded eagerly, his eyes wide with admiration. 

With a chuckle, Corlys settled beside him. "All right, lad. Let’s start with something simple yet clever—the Sailor's Kiss. This knot’s as old as the Narrow Sea and quick to tie or untie." Corlys showed Luke how to make a simple overhand knot, looping the end around itself. Luke's face lit up as he watched Lord Corlys's weathered hands work deftly with a length of rope, twisting and looping it in ways that seemed almost magical. "This one’s strong but easy to undo—just like the best promises."

Luke nodded, concentrating on copying the moves. "What next?" he asked, his fingers fumbling but determined.

"The Dragon's Tail Hitch," Corlys replied, guiding Luke's hands. "This is what we use to tie our ships to the pier when the tides are strong and the winds sharp." He passed the rope over a small rail, looped it around, then made a twist. "With this knot, the more the waves pull, the tighter it holds. Keep it firm but not too tight—give it just enough slack to keep from snapping."

Luke’s face wrinkled in concentration as he mimicked Corlys’s movements.

"Now, for something trickier," Corlys said, a hint of pride in his voice. "The Merman’s Snare. It's what we tie when a sail's at risk of tearing—a quick, sturdy knot that saves the day when storms are brewing." He moved Luke’s hands along, showing him how to twist two ends over each other, then wrap one over and through. "Good for sails, or even if you ever need to hold down a stubborn dragon," he winked.

Finally, Corlys took up the last rope and said, "And here’s one called the Storm’s End Loop. This one’s the strongest of the lot, and if you tie it right, it’ll hold even in the fiercest gale." Corlys demonstrated, bending the rope in a loop and weaving the end through the knot twice before pulling it tight. "A good one to know if you’re ever out at sea alone."

Luke’s fingers fumbled, but he persisted, managing to tie his own version of each knot as Corlys encouraged him. "You’ve got a sailor’s spirit, lad,” he said proudly, ruffling Luke’s hair. "One day, you’ll be tying these with your eyes closed."

Rhaenyra watched with a quiet satisfaction as healer Helene settled herself gracefully beside the King, prompted by a gentle word from him. Together, they listened as Jace, with all the pride of a young Targaryen, recited passages of Valyrian verse, his voice carrying the cadence of an ancient tongue that once resounded in halls of fire and shadow. Across the room, Lord Corlys guided young Luke through another sailors’ knot, his deep, rumbling voice steadying Luke’s eager fingers as they twisted and wove the ropes with growing confidence.

It is truly a rare pleasure to spend the day in familial harmony, unmarred by Alicent's ever-judging glances, Aegon's perpetually inebriated stupor, Aemond's envious glances or Helaena’s dreamy detachment from reality. Their absence, indeed, lends a serenity one cannot help but savor

With a soft smile, Rhaenyra turned her attention to Joffrey, perched in her lap, his torso longer than it had been only months before. Soon, he would be too large to cradle this way, but for now, he nestled against her, and she began to gently massage his head and face, her fingers working with careful strokes just as healer Helene had taught her. She traced her thumbs over his temples in soft circles, feeling her child relax, and then moved to the nape of his neck, kneading lightly where his hair began, as his lashes fluttered in calm drowsiness. She knew these simple strokes were more than soothing for Joffrey.

As her fingers glided across Joffrey’s forehead, pressing in light, rhythmic sweeps, her gaze drifted back to Lord Corlys. He had heard of what happened in the training yard, she knew, and had come to King’s Landing not merely as a grandfather but as a fierce guardian. The moment he had entered the castle with his knights—more than she’d ever seen him bring to court—she understood his intent: he had appointed himself her children's protector, and none more fiercely than for Luke. She could overlook his overzealous nature as long as he was useful, as long as his loyalty to her children held steadfast.

Her hands continued their gentle movements, smoothing over Joffrey’s brow as she pondered how Lord Corlys had once more devoted himself to his grandchildren, especially Luke. Princess Rhaenys was in Pentos, Laenor long departed; it was Corlys who had taken on the role of champion. The whispers had already started—the tales of how the Sea Snake doted on his heir, and it was exactly what the realm needed to see. The more they witnessed his devotion, the more unshakable Luke’s claim would appear. She would keep Corlys here, where his influence and loyalty mattered most; she had no intention of allowing him to risk himself in the Stepstones, where his injuries had emboldened Vaemon Velaryon to challenge her son’s inheritance.

Her hand drifted to trace gentle strokes down Joffrey’s cheeks, and she drew him closer. As long as Lord Corlys remained by their side, his watchful eye and legendary loyalty were a reassurance she would not soon relinquish.

The weeks that followed unfolded in relative peace, though the air at court still buzzed with an undercurrent of chaos, owing much to the absence of the Queen. Alicent Hightower, recovering from her latest tumble and fit of madness, had retreated from the public eye, leaving behind a trail of speculation as pungent as wildfire. Yet even from her chambers, Rhaenyra ensured that her infamy lingered. The bedridden state of Larys Strong—after having suffered a grievous altercation with Aegon—did little to quell the whispers surrounding her.

Rhaenyra, however, found a grim satisfaction in Alicent’s descent into the mire of whispers and scandal. It was poetic justice, in a way, to see the Green Queen ensnared by the very tactics she had once wielded with ruthless precision. There was a bitter irony in watching Alicent—who had sown the seeds of vile rumors about Rhaenyra’s children—now being devoured by the same insidious forces she had unleashed.

In her time, Rhaenyra had known better than to let such whispers grow unchecked. She had silenced them swiftly and with brutal finality. The suggestion of her children’s illegitimacy had been a death sentence for the lips that dared speak it. She had taken no half-measures; threats were too frail a leash for a beast so ravenous. Blood and fear, she had learned, were the only chains strong enough to bind gossip. And bind it, she had—until not a soul dared breathe a word against her or her sons.

But this version of Rhaenyra, the one she observed in disbelief, had chosen another path—a maddeningly passive one. She had endured the slander with a stoicism that Rhaenyra herself could scarcely comprehend. No retribution, no calculated retaliation, not even the faintest attempt to twist the narrative in her favor.

It was infuriatingly naive. Did this Rhaenyra truly believe her station alone would shield her? That silence would protect her sons? Foolishness, sheer foolishness! This time, Rhaenyra had drowned such whispers not merely in blood but in counter-rumors. If the court was determined to gossip, she would give them something far more salacious to chatter about. Tales of the Queen’s indiscretions, her children’s questionable virtues, and sordid affairs that painted Alicent as the very picture of hypocrisy.

Through her efforts, songs, shanties, and even bawdy plays flourished across the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Reach, each one embellishing the Queen’s eccentricities and the debauchery of her brood. While Alicent conspired in shadows with her dwindling allies, Rhaenyra’s loyalists made the Queen’s shame the subject of every town square, inn, and market.

This, Rhaenyra reflected as she watched Alicent squirm under the weight of courtly disdain, was a lesson hard learned. To silence the mob was impossible. But to steer them, to weaponize their wagging tongues for one’s own ends—that was the art of survival. And now, at long last, the Green Queen was tasting the bitter fruit of her own making.

Lord Corlys Velaryon, ever her stalwart ally, had grown particularly visible in recent weeks, hosting teas and dinners with a wide array of lords and ladies. Beside him was often young Luke, the boy delighting in tales of their lands while charming them with his youthful wit. Any murmurs questioning Luke’s lineage were swiftly quashed by the Sea Snake himself, pointing to the brown-haired, brown-eyed Lady Amanda and Lord Joffrey Arryn which made sense their own coloring. And, as he loved to note, Luke was the very image of Aemma Arryn—a claim few dared to dispute when looking at the boy.

While Corlys solidified alliances, Rhaenyra turned her attention to her people, ensuring the city’s smallfolk recognized the debt they owed her charity and governance. Though she longed to visit the city herself, the risk of carrying back the plagues and rashes from the teeming streets to her young children was a risk she wouldn’t take. For now, she contented herself with waving regally from her carriage on their excursions to the Dragonpit.

The day was resplendent, the sun casting its golden warmth over the Red Keep’s verdant gardens. A gentle breeze rustled the silken panels of the pavilion where Rhaenyra and Lord Corlys Velaryon sat, a large table between them laden with tea, honey cakes, and a small vase of red fire daisies. The gardens hummed with life; the joyous laughter of children at play mingled with the distant chatter of maids tending to their tasks.

Beneath the pavilion’s shade, Rhaenyra’s foster sons, Lord Cregan Stark and Lord Joffrey Arryn, were hunched over a low table. Cregan, precise and methodical, sketched the footwork of a sword drill, his drawings more akin to diagrams than art. By contrast, Joffrey, ever the aesthete, added intricate details of armor to his figures, his brushstrokes imbued with flair.

Nearby, Jace was seated with a tome open before him, painstakingly copying Valyrian glyphs using the guide the Archmaester made himself. His brow furrowed in concentration, and his parchment was carefully positioned far from the array of glass paints Luke was gleefully experimenting with.

Luke, his sleeves rolled up and his doublet cast aside (a foresight of Lady Elinda’s to preserve the silk), sat cross-legged amidst a riot of color. His hands were stained with smears of blue, green, and gold, and his tunic bore the unmistakable evidence of his artistic exploits. He held up a small piece of glass to the sunlight, watching with delight as it refracted brilliant colors onto the ground.

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened at the sight of her sons and their companions, but her attention soon returned to Lord Corlys, who sat across from her, cradling baby Joffrey in his arms. The Sea Snake rocked the infant gently, his expression unreadable as Rhaenyra spoke.

“I mean to call it the The Seadragon’s Healing House,” she said, her voice imbued with quiet passion. “A sanctuary for healing and for teaching. A place where wisdom and care might thrive, free to all who are in need.”

Corlys hummed noncommittally, his eyes fixed on the baby’s cherubic face.

“My lord,” she pressed, narrowing her eyes in frustration. “This is a legacy not just for me, but for your line. Would you not wish to honor Laenor in this way? Or Luke?”

The old man simply patted the baby’s back, his silence a test of her patience. Her fingers itched to upend the teapot over his head, the stubborn old coot. He may be the richest man in the world but he does not part with his coins easily especially if it will not directly elevate his own House.

Before she could voice her ire, the sound of hurried footsteps drew their attention. A Velaryon page, his tunic damp with sweat and his face flushed from exertion, burst into the pavilion. He clutched a sealed message, bowing low before extending it to the Sea Snake.

Corlys’s expression darkened as he took the parchment, his movements slow, deliberate. Rhaenyra watched as he unfolded it, his eyes scanning the words. His grip faltered, the missive slipping slightly in his fingers as his shoulders sagged.

“Lord Corlys?” Rhaenyra’s voice wavered, her stomach tightening with dread.

The old man did not answer. His hands went slack, and baby Joffrey wobbled precariously in his grasp. Moving swiftly, Rhaenyra reached for her son, cradling him securely before passing him to Lady Anella, who had leapt from her seat. The lady’s embroidery—an image of Vermax stitched onto Jace’s new tunic—lay abandoned as she took the child and moved aside.

Rhaenyra turned her attention to the page, her voice low but firm. “What news?”

The boy hesitated, his voice trembling as he whispered, “Lady Laena, Your Grace. She has perished in childbirth.”

The words struck her like a blow. Though she had known this was likely, the inevitability of it did nothing to dull the pain. She had not seen Laena in this time; now, she never would.

“Ladies,” Lady Amanda’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “Gather the children. Inside, at once.”

The children exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed. Jace frowned, his confusion evident, but allowed Lady Nila to guide him by the hand. Luke lingered, his paint-streaked hands clutching at his glass as he looked toward his grandfather.

“Goodbye, Grandpa,” he said softly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Corlys, still staring unseeingly at the message, did not respond.

Luke set down his glass and climbed onto the Sea Snake’s lap, his small arms wrapping around the man’s shoulders. The touch broke through Corlys’s stupor, and with a shuddering breath, he embraced the boy tightly, holding him as though he might never let go.

Rhaenyra stood, nodding to her entourage as they filed away, her face composed despite the turmoil within. She whispered to the page, instructing him to prepare the Velaryon household to return to Driftmark at first light on the morrow and to alert the Sea Snake’s crew.

At last, she returned to her seat, watching as Lord Corlys clung to Luke, his tears falling silently into the boy’s curls. The most powerful man in Westeros, the one whose wealth and fleet were unmatched, now sat broken before her. And all Rhaenyra could do was sit beside him and bear witness to his grief.

The tolling of the bells echoed through the Red Keep, their somber peal carrying over the bustling streets of King’s Landing. At Rhaenyra’s command, the bells would ring at the hour of Lady Laena Velaryon’s death for the next week, a solemn tribute befitting her station. In the Sept, the High Septon had offered prayers for Laena’s soul, his voice heavy with piety as the Septas committed themselves to unceasing prayer throughout the week. Rhaenyra’s lips curved faintly at the display—not for any belief in their efficacy, but as a pointed reminder of how firmly the Faith remained under her control.

She had made every preparation for their imminent departure, her quill gliding across parchment as she penned a missive to the Castellan at Driftmark. The royal family would, of course, attend the funeral—though in truth, it was only her father who would accompany her. She had taken care to remind the King  that Lord Corlys had banished the Hightowers from his isle, a decree she had no intention of challenging. Even Helaena would not join them, for she had no desire to burden herself further by caring for her mad sister amidst such somber proceedings. The duties awaiting her were already manifold: ensuring every detail of the gathering was met with dignity, offering solace to the grieving, and upholding the honor of her family. The King, as ever, offered no resistance, nodding wearily as though resigned to her judgment.

The cliffs of Driftmark loomed, their jagged faces softened by the golden glow of morning light. High Tide buzzed with activity as ship after ship docked, disgorging mourners dressed in shades of deep blue and black. With the Lady of Driftmark absent it fell to Rhaenyra to take care of everything, she had little time for reflection; her mind buzzed with endless details. The Castellan had seen to the castle’s readiness, but the arrival of the Targaryens of Pentos required her particular attention.

Baela and Rhaena’s chambers were placed directly across from the nursery, a deliberate choice on her part. Though she wished to keep them close, she refrained from placing them within the nursery itself, suspecting the girls might not relish the idea of sharing space with children they have not met yet. It was a sharp contrast to her own time, where the foursome had been inseparable, delighting in each other’s company without a thought for boundaries. Here, however, the children had not even met yet, and the weight of that unfamiliarity rested heavily on her heart.

To speak truthfully, she was anxious about meeting the girls. In her time, stepping into their lives after Laena’s passing had felt natural, seamless even; they had known her for years, had already held her as a steady presence. But now, as she prepared to assume a role she had not yet earned in their eyes, the specter of her own memories loomed large. The shadow of her stepmother's less admirable qualities haunted her, and she feared Baela and Rhaena might view her as an interloper, much as she had once seen Alicent.

The thought was unsettling, her mind turning over the possibilities. Would they welcome her with open hearts, or would they eye her with suspicion, their grief a barrier she could not cross? Time, she supposed, would answer all, but for now, the uncertainty was as sharp as the cold air off the sea and she resolved to tread carefully.

When word arrived that the Lady Laena was an hour from the castle, dragons circling above it in solemn escort, Rhaenyra summoned her children. In the nursery, she knelt before Jace and Luke, her hands resting lightly on their shoulders.

“Remember how you felt when we lost your father,” she said gently, her gaze steady. “Baela and Rhaena have just lost their mother. They will need time and space, but I want them to know we are here for them, should they wish it.”

Jace’s expression was solemn as he nodded. Beside him, Lord Cregan and Lord Joffrey also inclined their heads, murmuring quiet affirmations. Luke, however, squirmed, his small fingers tugging at the stiff collar of his formal robes.

“Sweet boy,” Rhaenyra said, brushing her hand along his cheek. “Is it too tight?”

“I hate it.” he grumbled, his voice muffled.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Hush, my love. I’ll have the seamstress alter it before supper. For now, try to bear it, just a little longer.”

Satisfied, she gathered her sons and fosterlings, leading them to the courtyard. The sky was a brilliant blue, the wind carrying the scent of salt and seaweed. She arranged the children around her—Jace and Luke at her sides, their foster brothers trailing just behind, whispering amongst themselves.

When the first cart entered the courtyard, all murmurs ceased. The carved sarcophagus of Lady Laena was borne upon it, draped in a tapestry of silver and seafoam green. The crowd parted as it approached, silence heavy in the air.

Lord Corlys stepped forward, his expression carved from stone. He reached out, his hand trembling as it rested on the likeness of Laena’s serene face, etched into the marble. For a long moment, he stood thus, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, deliberate breaths. Finally, he nodded, signaling the servants to carry her inside.

The courtyard held its collective breath as the next carriage approached. From within emerged Prince Daemon Targaryen, his bearing as imposing as the storm clouds that sometimes gathered above the Narrow Sea. At his arrival, the Velaryon household sank to their knees, heads bowed in deference.

Rhaenyra and her children remained standing, though she inclined her head slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of her uncle’s rank. Daemon’s sharp eyes met hers briefly, a flicker of something inscrutable passing between them.

“Rise.” Daemon commanded, his voice low but unyielding. The household obeyed, and Daemon turned to speak quietly with Corlys, their words lost to the sea breeze.

Then Daemon, led Baela and Rhaena to meet their grandfather for the very first time. The girls clung to each other at first, their usual fiery confidence tempered by the gravity of the moment. Rhaenys stood behind them, her posture regal yet softened by the unmistakable warmth of a grandmother’s love.

Rhaenyra glanced from Daemon to Corlys, her expression soft—perhaps a flicker of reproach for the years lost, perhaps a quiet joy that this meeting was finally taking place. For his part, Daemon held his head high, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile as if to say, Look at what I have brought back to you, Lord of the Tides.

The Sea Snake, ever the commanding presence, studied his granddaughters with keen eyes, his expression softening only when Baela, bold as ever, took a step forward and dipped her head in greeting. Rhaena followed suit, more hesitant but no less earnest, her small hand clinging to her sister’s sleeve.

Rhaenyra stood beside the Sea snake, her gaze fixed on Daemon as he approached. His expression bore none of its former devil-may-care arrogance, but instead a strange weariness. His violet eyes, once piercing and alive with mischief, now carried a dull ache, as though they’d witnessed too much to ever find rest. The tightness around his mouth betrayed the battles—both fought and lost—that weighed upon him.

He stopped before her, his gaze sweeping over her face as though trying to memorize every line and curve. She felt as if she were being cataloged, examined for what time had done to her. Rhaenyra’s breath caught, though she tilted her chin slightly upward, unwilling to let him see any hesitation.

She extended her hand, and Daemon took it, bowing low as his lips brushed her knuckles. “Princess,” he murmured, his voice like a rasp of silk, “you have not aged a single day, sweet niece.”

She smiled faintly, though they both knew it wasn’t true. Her outward appearance may have changed little, but she was no longer the arrogant, impetuous girl he’d last known. There was steel in her now, tempered by trials he had not been there to share. “And you, Uncle,” she said softly, “are as handsome as ever.”

He raised a brow at her, a flicker of the rogue charm still alive beneath his exhaustion. His straight back and broad shoulders belied his years, his prime unmarred by the march of time. His violet eyes, though dulled, were still striking, framed by high cheekbones and a nose with a subtle patrician curve. His lips, thinner now and often pressed tight, softened into the faintest smirk at her words.

The tension between them dissolved as she turned to her children, placing a hand on Jace’s shoulder. “Uncle, allow me to introduce my sons.” She squeezed Jace’s shoulder gently. “This is Jacaerys.”

Jace stepped forward, his manner polite but his gaze assessing. “Prince Daemon, my mother has told me much about you.”

Daemon inclined his head, his expression inscrutable.

Rhaenyra crouched slightly, coaxing Luke forward. The boy clung to her skirt, his small fingers twisting in the fabric. She took his hand in hers, smiling down at him with quiet reassurance. “And this,” she said softly, “is Lucerys.”

Luke looked up at Daemon with wide, uncertain eyes, his grip tightening on her hand. “Do you remember my Uncle Daemon, the one I always tell you about?” she asked gently. “This is him.”

Luke nodded hesitantly, and Jace, seizing the moment, asked, “Did you really serve with our father in the Stepstones?”

Rhaenyra glanced back at Daemon, but her relief at the question faltered when she saw the way his gaze narrowed, scrutinizing her boys. Her heart clenched as she followed his line of sight, wondering if he saw in them what others often whispered—brown-haired, brown-eyed boys who bore no resemblance to their supposed father.

Was this yet another cruel twist of this time? That even her most ardent supporter, her Daemon, might turn away from her as well? Rhaenyra could scarcely fathom how she might endure in a world where Daemon Targaryen, her fiercest champion, might stand against her—against her children—simply because of their coloring. The thought clawed at her heart, breaking it piece by piece.

She had always known that her love for him burned fiercely, but no amount of devotion could make her abide him judging her boys as others did. They were her treasures, her pride, and she would protect them against any and all who threatened their place in the world—even against Daemon himself. And yet, the very idea of opposing him, of drawing a line so starkly between them, made her breath catch with anguish.

But hadn’t it already happened? She thought of her time, how he had disobeyed her orders, refusing to send her the head of the lowborn girl he was so fond of.

Even then, he had acted against her will. Even then, there had been cracks in their unity.

Her hands trembled as the memories flooded her mind. She loved him, yes, but how could she exist in a world where Daemon was not steadfastly by her side? And yet, she knew she must. If he faltered in his loyalty to her children, if he became like all the others, she would find the strength to stand against him. Because she must.

Before her thoughts could spiral further, Daemon’s lips curved into a wry smile. “Your father,” he said to Jace, “was a fine man, though not without his faults. I’ll tell you stories about him—ones he likely would have preferred you never hear. Embarrassing ones, for certain.”

Jace grinned, Luke’s grip loosened, and Rhaenyra exhaled softly, relief coursing through her.

Daemon turned then, gesturing for Baela and Rhaena to step forward. “And these are my daughters, Baela and Rhaena.”

The girls curtseyed deeply murmuring their greetings and immediately returned back to their father’s side. The twins couldn’t have been more different. Baela’s chin jutted out defiantly as her sharp eyes assessed them, while Rhaena shrank behind her father, peering out shyly. Rhaenyra’s heart ached at the sight, and she knelt slightly to meet their gaze.

“I am Rhaenyra,” she said warmly, though she made no move to draw them close. “I know this must be a difficult time, but I hope we can grow to know one another.”

Baela’s stare didn’t soften, though Rhaena murmured a quiet “thank you” before retreating further behind Daemon’s leg. Rhaenyra straightened, hiding her unease, and beckoned Lord Cregan and Lord Joffrey forward.

“The Lord of Winterfell and the Heir to the Vale,” she said, “my sons’ dearest companions.”

Jace made polite conversation, though Luke had grown impatient, tugging at her hand. “Muña,” he whispered, “can we go inside? It’s cold.”

She kissed the crown of his head, smoothing back his dark curls. “Just a little longer, my sweet boy. Be patient.”

Luke pouted but said no more, though his glances toward the castle betrayed his restlessness. She held him close, her mind drifting to Laenor’s funeral and the effect it had left on her youngest.

The introductions concluded, Rhaenyra guided her family toward the castle, her grip on Luke’s hand firm but comforting.

Rhaenyra understood that Daemon and the girls would need to present themselves privately to the King. It was an unavoidable necessity, and she left them to it, though she silently prayed that Daemon and her father might, for once, curb their tempers and refrain from exchanging barbed words.

Lord Corlys had expressed his wish for a family dinner that evening, but she had managed to dissuade him with gentle reasoning, reminding him that the children—Baela and Rhaena especially—needed their rest ahead of the funeral. The Sea Snake, however, would not be entirely deterred, and he had called for Jace and Luke to join him in his private chambers for supper. She kissed her boys tenderly as they departed.

With Joffrey nestled in her arms, she wandered to the corridor of glittering glass that stretched alongside the garden. The faint shimmer of moonlight filtering through the panes lent the space an ethereal glow, as though the stars themselves had descended to light her path. She longed to take him outside, to feel the cool night air on her skin and let the scents of the garden surround them, but the evening was brisk, and she would not risk exposing her youngest to the chill.

Instead, she cradled him close, his small fingers curling around the edge of her gown as his wide eyes took in the sparkling lights outside. Rhaenyra gazed out at the garden, her thoughts adrift. The soft rustle of leaves and the faint trickle of a distant fountain served as a soothing balm to her frayed nerves.

The corridor stretched long and bright before her, its walls of glass revealing the moonlit gardens beyond. Rhaenyra carried Joffrey in her arms, the weight of his small form a comfort against her chest. The little prince’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as she whispered to him, her voice soft and soothing. “Look there, my sweet.” she murmured, angling him slightly so he could see the shimmering lights of the sconces and braziers illuminating the courtyard below.

The flames flickered and danced, their golden glow reflected in Joffrey’s wide, wondering eyes. He stretched a chubby hand toward the lights, cooing with delight, only to meet the cold, invisible barrier of the glass. His tiny palm pressed against it, leaving a faint smudge, and he let out a sound of confusion, pulling his hand back to inspect it as though the glass had betrayed him.

Rhaenyra chuckled, kissing the crown of his dark curls. “It’s just glass, my clever boy.” she said, smoothing the lace of his tiny cape, which he had already begun to chew in earnest. She turned slightly, pointing to a vivid painting hanging nearby—a swirl of blues and reds depicting a dragon in flight. “Do you see that?” she asked, her voice lilting. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Joffrey responded with a soft coo, his little fingers tugging insistently at the lace as though the fabric might yield some secret flavor. Rhaenyra’s heart warmed, and for a moment, the weight of the day lifted. But then she noticed the silhouette at the end of the corridor.

A familiar figure leaned casually against the floor-to-ceiling glass, his posture one of easy confidence, though she caught the stiffness in his shoulders that belied his exhaustion. “Uncle!” she called, her smile blooming as she hefted Joffrey slightly higher in her arms. “Shouldn’t you be resting? You’ve been at sea for weeks.”

Daemon turned his head at her voice, a faint smile curving his lips—but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes, violet and striking, flicked down to Joffrey in her arms, his expression unreadable. He straightened, his movements slow, almost deliberate, as she approached. Behind her, she could hear the faint shuffle of her guards halting at a respectful distance, granting them a modicum of privacy.

As she drew nearer, she adjusted Joffrey’s position, holding one of his chubby hands to wave at Daemon. “Meet my youngest,” she said warmly, her voice bright with maternal pride. “Joffrey.”

Daemon’s lips quirked into a smirk, though the edge of it held something sharp. “An unfortunate name.” he remarked, his tone dry.

Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose at him, her smile undimmed. “Laenor chose it, actually.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze settling on the boy, who was regarding him with wide-eyed curiosity. Joffrey’s little fingers twitched as though reaching for him, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

Rhaenyra studied her uncle’s face, searching for a hint of his thoughts. Daemon had always been an open book to her in her time, his emotions etched plainly across his features. Whether amused, angered, or indifferent, he had never bothered to disguise himself. Yet now, she found herself puzzled by the stillness of his expression, as though he were weighing something too delicate to voice.

“Would you like to hold him?” she asked gently, breaking the silence.

Daemon blinked, startled, as though the thought had not even occurred to him. Before he could respond, Rhaenyra shifted Joffrey into his arms, her movements confident and practiced. Daemon instinctively cradled the boy close to his chest, his hands steady as they settled beneath Joffrey’s small frame.

The sight brought an unexpected wave of emotion crashing over her. How well she remembered Daemon holding her Joffrey in much the same way, years ago in another time. Out of all her children, her Joff had been the one most like Daemon—a bold, unapologetic spirit who claimed space as though it were his by birthright.

Even now, as an infant, this Joffrey bore that same fierce determination. His small hands grasped with purpose, his gaze unwavering as though the world held secrets he was born to uncover. He had inherited Daemon’s insatiable curiosity, his defiance, and even a touch of that mischievous glint that could either charm or unsettle.

Daemon looked down at the babe, his expression softening as Joffrey reached for the edge of his collar, his tiny fingers closing over the fabric with surprising strength. The moment was achingly familiar, a mirror of the past, and yet there was something in Daemon’s eyes that Rhaenyra couldn’t place—a shadow of loss, perhaps, or the weight of too many ghosts.

She let herself linger in the silence, watching the two of them, as Joffrey gurgled happily and tugged insistently at Daemon’s collar. Whatever walls time and circumstance had built between them, this moment felt like a bridge—a fragile, fleeting connection that held more meaning than words could convey.

Joffrey cooed, nestling his head closer, and she couldn’t help the warmth that spread through her at the sight.

“He likes you.” she said with a delighted smile. “Though, to be fair, Joff likes most people. The only one he cannot abide is Lady Redwyne—probably because the old hag smells like her dog.”

Daemon chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, though it didn’t quite erase the weariness from his features. “I’ve always been good with children.” he remarked, glancing down at the babe in his arms.

Rhaenyra tilted her head, a smile curving her lips as memories stirred. “You were.” she said fondly. “I still remember when I was too young to care for Syrax properly. You were the one who looked after her for me, who taught me how to tend to her. You taught me Valyrian, too, and you were there for my first flight.”

His smile grew, faint but genuine, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of the uncle she had adored as a girl.

And later on, she thought, how he had encouraged her own children in their mischief. Sliding them lemon cakes when they’d been sent to bed without supper, letting them train in the yard when they should have been studying. Teaching them to fly, just as he had once taught her. The memories swirled, bittersweet, a mixture of fondness and frustration. How effortlessly he had slipped into their lives, a conspirator in their little rebellions, yet always with that same unshakable devotion.

The nostalgia thickened in her throat, but she swallowed it down, her expression softening. How easy it would be to fall into the comfort of their shared history, to pretend that this Daemon was the same man she had loved and married. But she wasn’t naive. This Daemon was a stranger, not just to her but even to the Rhaenyra of this time. She reminded herself of that, though it did little to ease the ache in her chest.

Her smile dimmed as she shifted the conversation. “Please accept my condolences again. Lady Laena's passing had brought immense grief in all of Driftmark.” she said quietly, her voice edged with sincerity.

Daemon nodded, his expression unreadable, but she pressed on. “I regret not keeping up correspondence with Laena. I imagine she would have delighted in telling me of all your travels together.”

At this, Daemon’s brows drew together in confusion, and Rhaenyra faltered. Was that the wrong thing to say? Her mind raced, her cheeks flushing faintly. She had no idea what sort of relationship she’d had with Laena—or, perhaps, what sort of relationship she hadn’t had.

Daemon finally broke the silence. “We were always on the move.” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Messages would’ve been hard to send or receive.”

Rhaenyra tried to recover, her voice tinged with curiosity. “Tell me about her, then,” she said softly. “It’s been so long since I saw Laena. It feels as though I didn’t know her at all.”

As if sensing the shift, Joffrey rested his small head on Daemon’s shoulder, his fingers twisting into a fistful of his hair. Rhaenyra hid a smile at the sight. At least he wasn’t trying to eat it, she mused.

Daemon shrugged, adjusting his hold on her boy. “Laena loved the skies more than the anything,” he said simply. “She was happiest on Vhagar, soaring above the world. If we were in one place too long, she’d find excuses to fly. Tending to Vhagar was her joy—she could spend hours ensuring the old girl was content.”

He paused, his gaze drifting. “She loved taking the twins for rides, too. If they cried, she’d bundle them up and take them to the skies. It worked every time.”

Rhaenyra smiled wistfully. “She doesn’t sound so different from the Laena I knew.” she said softly. “I envy her freedom, though—to travel, to explore the world. I’ve been chained to the Seven Kingdoms all my life.” Her voice dipped into self-deprecation, a shadow of bitterness lacing her words.

Daemon’s expression darkened slightly then looked away. “Rhaenys hates me for taking Laena away.” he muttered.

Rhaenyra’s brow arched, her tone turning contemplative. “Laena didn’t miss much,” she said lightly. “Even Laenor wasn’t visited by Rhaenys all that often when he was alive. If anything, you were her freedom.” Her voice softened further, a touch of wistfulness creeping in.

Daemon’s gaze snapped to her, his eyes heavy with something she couldn’t quite place. Sadness, perhaps, or regret.

Not wanting to linger in the somberness, Rhaenyra smiled and shifted the mood. “It’s been so long since you’ve come to Westeros.” she said brightly. “I hope you mean to stay longer.”

Daemon huffed, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “I moved on from Westeros ages ago.” he said dryly. “After the funeral, I’ll be taking the children back to Pentos. Perhaps we’ll visit Saera in Volantis. I have no place here.”

Rhaenyra’s smile tightened at that, though she said nothing. Instead, she glanced at Joffrey, who had begun to doze against Daemon’s shoulder, his little hand still clutching at his hair.

The suggestion slipped from Rhaenyra’s lips with an almost maternal ease, though it was tinged with hope. “Perhaps it would be best for the twins to stay,” she said gently, watching Daemon’s face for any sign of a reaction. “They could get to know their grandparents.” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Or you—you could go to Dragonstone for the time being. I know how much you love it there, and I’m certain the twins would adore exploring their ancestral seat. My boys loved it. It gave them time to heal after Laenor’s loss. You and your daughters will always be welcome in Dragonstone.”

Daemon only gave a noncommittal hum, his face betraying nothing.

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed together in a fleeting show of frustration, but she let the matter drop. Instead, she reached out to take Joffrey from him. “Let me—”

But Daemon pulled back, holding Joffrey closer. “I’ll walk you.” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Her brows lifted, but she acquiesced with a quiet nod. Together, they walked through the illuminated corridors of High Tide, the silence between them not uncomfortable, but contemplative. The warm glow of candles and scones reflected on the stone walls, a reminder of the care Lord Corlys took to ensure that the keep was properly lit whenever the children visited—especially their wing.

Rhaenyra glanced at the flickering light and thought wistfully of the Red Keep. She had tried to replicate such warmth there, but Lord Caswell was strict with the allowance of candles, leaving them to make do with only the necessities. Still, she appreciated High Tide’s glow, the thoughtfulness behind it.

As they entered the nursery, the familiar sounds of laughter and play greeted them. Jace and Luke were already sprawled on the rug, deep in their games. Luke’s exuberant shout at their arrival stirred Joffrey, who blinked his sleepy eyes open and reached out instinctively for his older brother.

Luke hesitated at first, his gaze flicking warily toward Daemon, but his desire to hold Joffrey won out. He edged closer and reached out, his smile brightening when his baby brother gurgled happily in response.

Rhaenyra’s gaze swept the room, her heart warming at the unexpected sight of Baela and Rhaena. Baela sat with a Valyrian poetry book open in her lap, her expression thoughtful as she listened to Jace translate verses in his quiet, steady voice. Rhaena, meanwhile, was crouched near a collection of brightly colored paints that Luke had brought in. Thankfully, she hadn’t opened any of the bottles yet, though she eyed them with unmistakable curiosity.

“Father?” Rhaena’s voice, soft and surprised, drew her Rhaenyra’s attention. She looked up at Daemon, her gaze flickering with tentative delight before shifting to Joffrey, who remained nestled in Luke’s arms.

Luke, eager to show off, turned his full attention to his cousin. “Look at his arms!” he said, his tone filled with childish pride. “They’re so fat, it looks like there are slits in them!”

Daemon, unbothered, chuckled softly while Joffrey wriggled in his arms. At Luke’s encouragement, he placed the babe on the carpet. “Come here, Joff.” Luke called, patting the rug.

But instead of crawling toward his brother, Joffrey turned back, his face scrunching into a pout, and clambered back to Daemon’s leg.

“Traitor.” Luke muttered with a good-natured huff.

Daemon shrugged, scooping Joffrey up again and sitting cross-legged on the rug, much to Rhaena’s delight. She moved closer, her expression bright with anticipation, and Daemon shifted to let her play with the babe on his lap. Joffrey gurgled happily, reaching out to tug at her sleeve, and Rhaena giggled softly, her delight infectious.

Nearby, Luke continued to chatter, showing Rhaena the paints and occasionally reaching out to prod Joffrey’s chubby arms, still fascinated by the folds.

Rhaenyra watched it all unfold from where she had settled beside Jace. Her eldest son leaned against the seat, his voice steady as he continued explaining the intricacies of the Valyrian verses to Baela, who listened intently.

Her gaze softened, taking in the scene—the laughter, the warmth, the love that filled the room. Incomplete as her family was, there was peace in this moment, however fleeting.

She exhaled quietly, her resolve strengthening. I will have my family back, she vowed silently. Whatever it took, she would see it done. For now, though, she allowed herself to simply bask in the warmth of her children, the flicker of hope burning steady in her chest.

Chapter Text

The sea roared below the cliffs of High Tide, its foamy waves crashing against the jagged rocks with a relentless rhythm that seemed to echo the heaviness in Rhaenyra’s heart. She stood there once more, at the very spot where they had committed Laenor to the waters months ago, her sons flanking her on either side.

Luke tugged nervously at the edge of his doublet, the fabric twisting in his small hands. Rhaenyra noticed the fidgeting and drew him gently to her side, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder, hugging him to her side. “Stop that, sweetling.” she murmured softly, her voice a balm against the biting wind. Luke huffed but obeyed, only to start fiddling with the rings on her fingers instead. This, she allowed, her lips pressing into a thin smile.

Jace, ever composed, stood tall on her other side, his dark brows furrowed as he watched the somber procession. When she wrapped an arm around him, he didn’t pull away but leaned slightly into her, resting his cheek against her chest in a rare show of vulnerability. The wind, sharp and unkind, whipped at their cloaks and hair, as if reminding them that this side of High Tide had never been a place for comfort.

Ahead, the Velaryon family gathered solemnly. Laena’s sarcophagus, crafted with exquisite detail, was being tied carefully to the slightly sloping cliff that would send her to the sea. Lord Corlys stood unmoving, a stoic sentinel in his grief, while Rhaenys clutched Rhaena close, her arms wound protectively around the girl. Baela, standing apart, was a lonely figure against the horizon, her expression a mixture of loss and quiet determination.

Rhaenyra’s chest tightened at the sight. She longed to take Baela into her arms as well, to offer the girl comfort she so desperately needed. But they were still strangers, bound by blood yet distant in heart. The thought stung, but Rhaenyra pushed it aside, knowing the time for such closeness would come only if Baela willed it.

Daemon stood on the cliff’s edge, his silver hair stark against the stormy sky, staring intently at the sarcophagus. His posture was deceptively casual, but she knew better; this was his way of mourning—unspoken, unreachable.

Vaemond Velaryon stepped forward, his limp barely noticeable as he took his place at the front. His voice carried over the wind, strong and deliberate.

“We join today at the Seat of the Sea to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King, where he will guard her for all the days to come as she sets to sea for her final voyage. The Lady Laena leaves two trueborn daughters on the shore. Though their mother will not return from her voyage, they will remain bound together in blood. Salt courses through Velaryon veins. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.”

A chill colder than the sea breeze swept through Rhaenyra. She caught the pointed glare Vaemond cast toward her sons—Jace, who had bowed his head in quiet humiliation, and Luke, who seemed blissfully unaware of the insult buried in the words. Rage simmered beneath her skin, though she maintained a regal stillness, her expression betraying nothing.

Daemon’s sharp laugh broke the tension, the sound echoing like a challenge across the cliffs. Vaemond faltered, his mouth pressing into a thin line, but the momentary levity eased the strain, if only slightly. Rhaenyra would not forget this, however—not the words, nor the venomous glances.

Vaemond continued, his tone softening. “My gentle niece, may the winds be as strong as your back, your seas as calm as your spirit, and your nets as full as your heart. From the sea we came, to the sea we shall return.”

The ceremony ended, and the group began the slow trek back to the castle. King Viserys led the way, leaning heavily on the Grand Maester, with the Kingsguard flanking him protectively. Rhaenyra kept her children close, guiding them through the throng of nobles who lingered to exchange hushed words and knowing glances.

She swiftly ushered her family toward a secluded nook, tucked away behind a sheer curtain that offered privacy without completely sealing them off. The space was warm and inviting, with sofas draped in pastel pillows and thick blankets, their softness a welcome reprieve. A large arched window overlooked the sea, its glass muffling the sound of the waves.

Lady Selene approached with Joffrey in her arms. The babe let out a delighted gasp as soon as he saw her, flinging his chubby arms around her neck. She settled into one of the sofas, holding him close until Rhaena shyly took the seat beside her.

Rhaenyra turned Joffrey so that he faced Rhaena, and the girl’s face lit up as the babe cooed and reached for her. Luke joined them, making playful raspberries on Joffrey’s belly, earning squeals of laughter that filled the small space with joy.

At the window, Jace stood with his shoulders still hunched, speaking in hushed tones with Lord Cregan . Rhaenyra’s heart ached for him—so young and already bearing the weight of unspoken slights and expectations.

Nearby, Baela was listening half-heartedly to Lord Joffrey, her expression betraying her boredom. Rhaenyra caught the girl’s eye and offered her a soft smile. Baela startled, her eyes widening slightly before she quickly averted her gaze.

For a moment, Rhaenyra allowed herself to breathe, surrounded by the sounds of her children and the warmth of this small, imperfect haven. It wasn’t peace, not truly, but it was enough to keep her resolve strong. Her family would endure. They must.

The nurses arrived bearing trays laden with fruits, delicate cakes, and soft mashed delicacies, their scents filling the nook with a sweetness that lightened the solemn air. Rhaenyra offered a kind smile to Rhaena. “Would you like to feed him, sweetling?”

Rhaena’s face lit up with a rare, eager grin. “May I, Princess?”

“Of course.” Rhaenyra said, tying Joffrey’s bib more securely around his chubby neck.

Rhaena’s initial attempts were clumsy, her small hands unsteady as she scooped a spoonful of fruit puree, most of it landing on Joffrey’s bib or cheek instead of his waiting mouth. She giggled nervously, and Rhaenyra guided her with gentle patience. “Here, tilt the spoon just so—yes, that’s it. See?”

Soon, Joffrey was happily accepting each bite, his tiny mouth opening in anticipation as Rhaena fed him with growing confidence. The young girl laughed softly at her own success, her delight infectious.

Across the nook, Baela’s gaze drifted to a set of scrolls Lord Cregan Stark and Lord Joffrey Velaryon were reviewing. Exercises for their training, meticulously outlined by the Maester’s hand. Baela tilted her head and asked curiously, “Why aren’t there any women fighters in your scrolls?”

Lord Joffrey snickered, his boyish grin full of mischief. “Women fighters? That’s silly. Women don’t fight.”

Baela’s face flushed with indignation. “My father lets me practice!” she countered, her voice sharp with pride.

Lord Joffrey blinked at her in astonishment. “Practice what? Swords?”

“No,” Baela admitted reluctantly, “I haven’t held a sword yet. But I know how to use a dagger!”

Joffrey, obliviously amused, quipped, “A dagger’s not much of a weapon.”

Baela’s scowl deepened, her hands balling into fists, but before she could retort, Lord Cregan intervened with a placating tone. “In the North, the Mormonts are lady fighters. Even the wildlings fear them.”

Baela’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Truly?”

Joffrey, less convinced, said, “But wildlings aren’t proper ladies. They don’t know better.”

Cregan smirked. “Say that to Lady Mormont’s face, and she’ll use your intestines to string you up a weirwood tree.”

Baela laughed for the first time that day, her anger melting into amusement. Joffrey looked horrified, his cheeks reddening.

Jace joined the conversation with a thoughtful expression. “The Targaryens have always had women fighters. Queen Visenya created the Kingsguard, and my mother’s grandmother, Princess Alyssa, was a renowned warrior.”

Baela beamed, inspired. “When we return to Pentos, I’ll ask Father for a private tutor in arms.”

Rhaenyra interjected warmly. “We have the finest master-at-arms at the Red Keep and Dragonstone. They would be honored to train you.”

Baela’s eyes widened. “You think they’ll let me in the yard?”

“They will do whatever I command,” Rhaenyra assured her. “and I will command them for you.”

Baela’s happiness was evident, her shoulders straightening with newfound confidence. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra turned her attention to the boys. “And how is your training progressing?”

Luke pouted dramatically. “I don’t like running. Ser Erryk always makes us run.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly and shifted her gaze to Rhaena, who had just finished feeding Joffrey. Her little one was still gurgling, his mouth opening expectantly for more.

“That’s enough for now,” Rhaenyra said gently. “He’ll eat again later.”

Rhaena glanced down at little Joffrey, her frown deepening as his mouth opened wide for another bite. “But he’s still hungry.” she protested softly.

Rhaenyra smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair from her son’s face. “Joffrey has had more than enough, sweetling. If we give him too much, his little tummy will ache, and we wouldn’t want him spitting up all over your gown, now, would we?” She tilted her head playfully, coaxing understanding with her lighthearted tone.

Rhaena giggled. “No, Princess. Can I feed him again later?”

“Of course.” Rhaenyra replied.

The nurses entered with bowls of water and soft cloths, ready to clean Joffrey. But Rhaena quickly asked, “May I do it?”

Rhaenyra nodded, her heart swelling at the girl’s earnestness. “Go ahead.”

Rhaena was meticulous, carefully wiping Joffrey’s chubby cheeks and ensuring she didn’t miss the creases of his neck. As she worked, her expression softened into something wistful, almost sorrowful.

“I was supposed to have a brothe.,” Rhaena murmured, her voice barely audible over Joffrey’s soft coos. She paused, her hand trembling slightly. “The healer said… he was supposed to be a boy.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her chest. She reached out, placing a comforting hand on Rhaena’s shoulder. “Oh, my sweet girl.” she said, her voice breaking with the weight of the unspoken grief that lingered between them.

Rhaena looked up, her lips trembling but her resolve firm, before turning back to Joffrey with a sad smile. Her small hands resumed their careful work.

The sigh that escaped Rhaenyra’s lips was laden with sadness, her gaze lingering on Rhaena’s bowed head as the girl carefully wiped at Joffrey’s neck creases. How cruel it was, she thought, for children to carry such burdens of loss. Rhaena and Baela even had less time with their mother than she did with Queen Aemma. It was a sentiment she could not shake as the weight of her own grief pressed uncomfortably against her chest.

Her melancholy was interrupted by the arrival of Princess Rhaenys, who swept into the room with her customary poise. “Do you kids want more food?” she asked, her sharp eyes scanning the gathering.

Luke shook his head, content with the blood oranges he was messily devouring. He licked the sticky juice from his fingers before Rhaenys approached with a kerchief in hand, clicking her tongue lightly as she wiped his face. Luke glanced at her briefly, then returned to his orange, utterly unbothered by the fuss.

“Did you manage to escape the endless nobles offering their condolences?” Rhaenyra asked wryly.

“I escaped Vaemond and his irritating voice.” Rhaenys replied, her tone laced with dry amusement. “The man drones on, and his voices is as grating as dragon claws on stone.”

Jace and Baela, meanwhile, were deep in conversation, their earlier talk of warrior princesses evolving into a discussion about Princess Alyssa. Jace turned to Rhaenys, curiosity bright in his eyes. “Grandmother, is it true that Princess Alyssa—”

“Preferred her brothers’ breeches to her gowns? Quite true.” Rhaenys interjected with a knowing smile. “In fact, I remember the Good Queen and my own mother, Lady Jocelyn, bribing her with sweets and trinkets to wear proper dresses for feasts. Even then, she’d often slip breeches on underneath.”

Baela gasped in delighted surprise. “Truly? She sounds wonderful!”

Rhaenys chuckled softly. “She was… spirited. And stubborn as any dragon.” She turned her sharp gaze to Baela. “Has your father never spoken of her?”

Baela’s expression dimmed, her earlier enthusiasm waning. “He barely talks about Westeros at all,” she said, her voice quiet. “The only things he mentions are what’s in the history books.”

Rhaena added with a small, wistful smile, “Kepa talks a lot about Valyrian history.”

Rhaenyra’s heart clenched painfully at the words. That was so far from the Daemon she knew, the Daemon who had once delighted in recounting family history to her. She could almost hear his voice now, animated and irreverent, telling her how King Maegor loathed garlic so much he nearly outlawed it, or how Jaehaerys the Conciliator had been a fine king but a dreadful father, especially to his daughters. The memory brought a bittersweet ache that she could not shake.

“Princess Alyssa sounds like she was very brave.” Baela mused, her tone brightening again.

“She was,” Rhaenys said fondly. “Brave enough to climb trees and rooftops in her brother’s breeches. And she hated sitting still—unless, of course, it was to play with dragons.”

The children were entranced, their imaginations alight with visions of this rebellious ancestor. Luke, suddenly animated, turned to his mother. “Did you ever want to learn the sword, Muña?”

Rhaenyra smiled faintly. “Once, perhaps. But not because I truly wanted to wield one. I thought that if I could ride and fight like a boy, I’d be taken more seriously. To me, holding a sword meant having respect.” She laughed lightly, the sound tinged with self-deprecation. “But a day in the training yard would have left me ruffled, sweaty, and miserable—and I detest my hair being unkept.”

“But you’re a dragonrider,” Rhaena pointed out with innocent logic. “Surely you’re used to messy hair on dragonback?”

“Oh, no,” Rhaenyra replied with a shake of her head. “I always braid my hair tightly before flying, just like Visenya did. I cannot bear the tangles.”

Baela grinned. “No matter how tight my braids are, they always come undone when I fly.”

“Perhaps I’ll braid your hair for you,” Rhaenyra offered. “Or my maid, Valaena, could do it. Her Valyrian braids are unmatched.”

Baela’s face lit up. “Would you? I’d love that!”

Their moment of warmth was interrupted as Ser Steffon entered, bowing low. “Princess, Black Trombo has arrived.”

Rhaenyra stood, her demeanor shifting to one of authority. “Children, I have important matters to attend to,” she said gently. “Lady Amanda will be here shortly to keep you company.”

Rhaenys was quick to rise, taking Joffrey from her arms. “I’ll look after him.” she said briskly.

Rhaenyra managed a tight smile of thanks to her mother by marriage, relieved when Lady Amanda entered soon after. With one last glance at the children, she straightened her shoulders and left the room, the weight of duty settling heavily over her once more.

Rhaenyra smiled serenely at anyone who glanced her way, her expression one of carefully composed grace as Lords and courtiers bowed and curtsied in her presence. She returned their acknowledgments with polite nods, ensuring her demeanor radiated the poise expected of her station. Yet, despite her smile, she did not permit herself to be ensnared in conversation. The sun hung low in the sky, gilding the horizon in molten hues; time was slipping away, and she had no intention of squandering it.

Trailing behind Black Trombo and flanked by her loyal guards, she made her way through High Tide’s gates. Ser Steffon, ever faithful yet equally exasperated, followed with a distinct huff of disapproval. His pointed glances made clear his thoughts on the matter of her leaving the safety of the castle walls, but he knew well enough that arguing with her would be an exercise in futility.

The path was treacherous in places, uneven ground littered with jagged stones alternating with soft, shifting sands that sucked at the soles of her boots. Rhaenyra navigated with care, mindful of each step. Her guards trudged along without complaint, accustomed to such terrains, as they left behind the protective walls of High Tide.

They approached the beach, the sound of waves crashing against the shore mingling with the calls of gulls overhead. Instead of following the well-worn path leading to the dragons’ nesting cave—a haven for Syrax and her children’s mounts—they veered closer to the water’s edge, where the air was tinged with salt and the sand glimmered under the dimming light.

Rhaenyra startled when Daemon appeared at her side, his steps matching hers with an ease that betrayed his practiced stealth. “Seven hells!” she murmured, her hand briefly clutching at her chest.

Ser Steffon reacted more dramatically, his hand darting to the hilt of his sword before recognition stilled him. Even Black Trombo, upon glancing back, faltered mid-step, his dark eyes widening before he shot Rhaenyra a questioning look. She offered a slight nod, her lips quirking faintly, and he resumed his pace.

“You walk like a—” she began, casting about for an apt comparison, “a shadowcat, perhaps, or some other creature that moves so quietly its prey hardly notices until it is too late.”

Daemon smirked, his violet eyes glinting with amusement. “Imagine my surprise, then, to find the Princess of Dragonstone straying beyond the castle’s safety, even with her retinue of guards,” he replied, his tone light but edged with something sharper. “One might think it rather… unwise, considering how recently the Prince Consort met his end in an ambush.”

Ser Steffon bristled at the veiled admonishment, but his lips remained firmly pressed together.

“The culprit behind that particular treachery is bedridden,” Rhaenyra said, her tone cool but dismissive, “and quite incapable of orchestrating further nefarious deeds so soon.”

Daemon’s brow lifted in sardonic disbelief. “And why,” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, “has this culprit not been dealt with yet, if you are so sure of his guilt?”

"BEcause we do not have any concrete evidences yet." she said then continued more sharply. "And he is protected by a powerful person."

Daemon chuckled darkly. “If the whispers I hear in Pentos hold any truth, there is no one more powerful in the Seven Kingdoms than you right now.”

Rhaenyra snorted softly at his flattery. “Power is a fickle mistress,” she said, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the last vestiges of sunlight faded into twilight. “It is like sand held tightly in your fist—the harder you grip, the more it slips through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but the memory of its roughness against your skin.”

Daemon regarded her with a mixture of amusement and approval. “You’re learning, then.” he murmured, his voice carrying a note of pride. “Learning to play the game.”

“I had no choice but to learn,” Rhaenyra said, her voice even but her words heavy with the weight of her reality. “I was alone with my little children, without any support or protection, I had to learn or else we would have perish.”

Daemon, walking beside her with the quiet ease of a predator, turned his gaze toward her. His tone softened, though his words carried a familiar edge. “It is a tragedy that you had to learn it at all. But such is our lot since Aegon the Dragon set his sights on these Seven Kingdoms.”

“Yes,” she said bitterly, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “What a legacy the Conquerors left us—forever struggling to rule seven broken kingdoms with a broken family and dragons.”

The bitterness in her voice lingered, impossible to conceal. Daemon glanced at her, his eyes narrowing in faint confusion, but she offered no further explanation. He knew better than to press. He, too, bore the scars of their fractured dynasty.

The narrow path wound its way through the terrain, bordered by towering bushes whose branches whispered against the faint evening breeze. The air carried the tang of salt from the sea, which stretched out to their left, its surface shifting with the last golden hues of the setting sun. The ground beneath Rhaenyra’s boots alternated between coarse sand and jagged stones, each step demanding caution. Shadows deepened around them, softening the harsh lines of the rocks that jutted toward the waves.

“Vaemond Velaryon,” he began, his tone laced with derision, “proclaimed himself your next suitor at the gathering.”

Rhaenyra stopped mid-step and turned to him, incredulity flashing in her eyes. “You cannot be serious.” Her footing faltered on the uneven ground, and Daemon’s hand shot out to steady her before she stumbled.

She did not release his arm once he caught her. Instead, her fingers tightened around his sleeve, her grip both firm and reluctant. For a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence, feeling the warmth of his presence seep into her. She had lived a life where he was not there, where his absence hollowed her, and she had died in that emptiness. She would not do it again.

Her voice was calm when she spoke, betraying none of the ache clawing at her heart. “What did Lord Corlys have to say about it?”

Daemon snorted. “He laughed. Loudly. Asked Vaemond what a second son, whose only inheritance is a damp and moldy castle, could possibly offer the Iron Throne.”

A delicate snort escaped her lips as she imagined the scene. “The nerve of that man,” she muttered. “After glaring daggers at my children, he has the audacity to present his suit. At least Tyland Lannister was clever enough to bribe them with toys and food. Vaemond seems to think sheer arrogance is enough to make a match.”

Daemon chuckled, his gaze fixed on the rocky path ahead. “Lord Corlys was less amused. He berated Vaemond for his foolishness—rightfully so.”

Rhaenyra’s voice dropped, her words tinged with cold calculation. “Of course, he did. He knows the truth of it. If, by some inexplicable madness, I married Vaemond Velaryon, the moment I bore his son, Jace, Luke, and Joff would meet tragic ends. That’s the kind of man Vaemond is.” She paused, her tone growing heavier. “The truth is, that applies to any man I might marry.”

Her gaze slid to Daemon, her uncle, her once-consort. She studied him from the corner of her eye, the golden remnants of the sunset catching on the angles of his face. He seemed unbothered, his expression inscrutable. And yet, she had to remind herself that this was not her Daemon—the man she had once known. The face, the gait, the demeanor were all familiar, but they were not the same. They were worlds apart.

The shouts reached them, carried by the wind like distant warnings. Daemon’s posture shifted instantly, his right hand flying to the pommel of Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel blade glinting faintly in the moonlight. His movements were fluid and deliberate, his stance protective. He positioned himself ever so slightly in front of her, a silent barrier between Rhaenyra and the unseen threat ahead. A small, secret smile touched her lips despite the tension. She had not felt this shielded, this cared for, in so long.

Her mind drifted to a morning on Dragonstone, when Visenya still quickened in her womb. Aegon and Viserys had caused a ruckus, demanding entry to her chambers. The moment Daemon opened the door, they scrambled into her bed, burrowing against her with childlike urgency. Her elder boys were still asleep down the corridor, oblivious to the commotion. Daemon joined her then, gathering them all in his strong arms. She had felt utterly safe, cocooned in the love of her family. But that bliss had been shattered by Rhaenys’ arrival, bearing the twin tragedies of her father’s death and the theft of her throne. She lost her Visenya soon after. Everything unraveled.

How she managed to endure, she scarcely knew. For years, she existed as a vessel for grief and vengeance, even failing at the latter. She had cursed the gods—every one of them. The Fourteen, the Seven, even the Old Gods.

Alicent would have called it blasphemy, blaming her suffering on her defiance of faith. But Rhaenyra had suffered even when she prayed, so what difference did it make? And now, they had cast her back into this altered world. A second chance—or a cruel jest? Did they delight in her torment? If so, they had underestimated her resolve. Rhaenyra Targaryen would bow to no gods. She would forge her own destiny, a sovereign of her fate.

They rounded a bend, and the scene before them brought Rhaenyra to an abrupt halt. A cluster of Black Trombo’s men encircled a bedraggled figure, the sea’s cruel touch evident in every inch of his appearance. Vaemond Velaryon, unmistakably proud even in disarray, stood drenched from head to toe. His once-exquisite doublet clung to him in soggy tatters, its fabric streaked with salt, sand, and indignity. His hair, usually a testament to his noble bloodline, was now plastered to his face in tangled, sodden clumps.

When his eyes fell upon her and Daemon, relief flared in his expression like a spark in the dark. He stumbled forward, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Help me! Punish these brutes for laying hands on a lord of Driftmark!”

Rhaenyra remained still, her lips curving into a faint, humorless smile. Beside her, Daemon exuded a quiet readiness, his hand still resting lightly on the pommel of Dark Sister. The Black Trombo’s men, sensing her authority, straightened and turned toward her, bowing low in deference.

Vaemond’s movement faltered as confusion clouded his features. His gaze darted between the men and Rhaenyra, the realization creeping over him like the rising tide. The subtle curl of her smile, the unspoken understanding between her and the men, the lack of outrage at his treatment—these details coalesced into a singular, horrifying truth.

His breathing quickened, his chest heaving as his mind pieced it together. “You…” he whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief. His eyes locked on hers, widening in shock and betrayal. “You did this.”

Rhaenyra’s smile widened, though it never reached her eyes. She watched him, saying nothing, as the full weight of the revelation settled upon him.

Vaemond’s shock boiled into fury. He staggered to his feet, blood streaking his face where the men had struck him, and pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You scheming harlot!” he spat, venom dripping from every word. “You and your bastard brood—you’ve polluted the very blood of the realm! You stand there, preening in stolen power, as your sons—”

Daemon shifted imperceptibly, his presence a silent threat, but Rhaenyra raised a hand, stopping him. She held Vaemond’s gaze, her expression serene, even amused. "Yes, Ser Vaemond,” she said softly, her tone almost languid. “I am everything you say and more. And tonight, you shall serve as proof of it.”

With a nod, two of her men seized Vaemond, dragging him toward the water. He thrashed and cursed, his voice rising to a desperate crescendo. The sea embraced him cruelly, its waves consuming his cries. Born on Driftmark, he fought instinctively, holding his breath, his limbs flailing against the inevitability of his fate. But time wore him down, and the struggle ebbed. Rhaenyra watched without flinching as the life seeped from him, the waves carrying away his resistance.

Her thoughts turned to his long history of insults, of questioning Luke's inheritance and spitting venom at her family. In another life, she had fed him to her dragon—swift, almost merciful. Tonight, his beloved sea became his executioner.

When it was done, and the moonlit waters stilled, she turned to her men. “See that he is not easily found.” she instructed, her voice calm, almost detached. They bowed, their torches flickering in the night, and vanished into the shadows with their grim burden.

Daemon broke the silence as they walked away. “I’m glad to see the court hasn’t dulled your fire.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained somber. “It did,” she said after a pause. “For too long, my life has been a dreary tragedy, one so insignificant that no one would have blinked if my children and I had perished entirely.” She glanced at him, her voice hardening. “But recently, I awoke. I found the strength to reclaim what was taken from me.”

“And what changed?” Daemon asked, his tone edged with curiosity.

She turned her gaze to the horizon, the faintest smirk playing on her lips. “I learned to think the worst of people, I realized that my father's words will never protect me and my children. I had to do it myself.” she said. “If I prepare for a storm, a mere shower cannot shake me. And to vanquish the monsters who haunt me, I need become one myself.”

Daemon regarded her for a moment, then gave a slow, approving nod. Together, they continued into the night, their footsteps silent against the sands and stones.

The trek back to High Tide was slow, the path dimly lit beneath the weight of the night sky. Daemon reached for Rhaenyra’s hand, his grip firm yet unyielding, guiding her through the uneven terrain with a quiet assurance. They moved in a silence so thick it seemed to deepen the chill of the air. Then, without warning, the world was shattered by a roar—terrible and immense, reverberating through the night like the wrath of the heavens.

Rhaenyra's guards froze, their hands instinctively flying to their swords. The horses reared and whinnied in terror, the sound of their distress swallowed by the echo of the monstrous roar. Rhaenyra turned, her breath catching in her throat as she looked toward the skies.

And there she was—a mountain of shadow and fire. Vhagar loomed over the horizon, her wings vast enough to blot out the stars. The sight was enough to still any heart, but it was the figure upon her back that sent chills of dread coursing through Rhaenyra. A small figure, illuminated faintly by moonlight.

“No, it’s impossible.” she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief.

Daemon’s jaw tightened, his voice low with restrained anger. “Rhaena would never have been so irresponsible, so disrespectful.” he muttered, his words laced with a deep frustration.

Their horror only grew as they watched Vhagar buck and twist in the air, her movements erratic, as though she sought to unseat the rider who clung to her. For a moment, it seemed she might succeed. But then, with an unsettling grace, the mighty dragon aligned herself, cutting through the night with a precision that spoke of mastery regained.

Rhaenyra gathered her skirts in trembling hands, her dread giving way to urgency. “To the castle!” she breathed, her voice sharp. Together, they ran, their pace frantic, the uneven ground threatening her balance. She stumbled once, but Daemon’s hand caught her firmly, his grip the anchor that kept her from falling.

The shouts grew louder as they neared High Tide, Vhagar had already landed directly outside of the walls, damaging carts, chaos spilling over the castle walls and into the courtyard. Rhaenyra’s heart raced, her breath coming in sharp gasps as the angry voices of her children rang through the air, mingled with the commanding tones of the twins.

She burst into the courtyard, her eyes wide with horror as the scene unfolded before her. There, in the midst of it all, stood Aemond, his hand clenched tightly around Luke's neck. Her son was bloodied, his face streaked with crimson, his expression contorted with pain and fear.

“Luke!” Rhaenyra cried, her voice breaking. Without hesitation, she rushed forward, her hands flying to Aemond’s hair. She yanked it with a ferocity born of desperation, pulling so hard that he was forced to release her son. Aemond staggered back, his grip broken, and Luke crumpled to the ground with a groan.

Rhaenyra dropped to her knees, gathering her son into her arms, her hands trembling as they brushed over the blood staining his face. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she clung to him. “My sweet boy.” she murmured, her voice choked with anguish.

She turned, her gaze sharp and furious, and met Aemond’s eyes. The hate etched into his features was unmistakable, a cold fire burning within him. For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the weight of his loathing pressing against the air.

But Rhaenyra did not falter. Her arms tightened around Luke, her resolve as fierce as the fire that burned in her veins. This was her son, and no force in the world would tear him from her grasp.

The morning air was thick with unease as Rhaenyra stood in the balcony, her gaze fixed on Vhagar's immense silhouette as it rose into the sky. The great dragon’s wings beat with a power that reverberated through her very bones, the sound of the wind slicing through the early morn like a blade. Aemond sat atop her, the faint figure barely visible from this distance.

She could not fathom how he had come to be here. Aemond Targaryen was meant to be in Oldtown, in exile, stripped of influence and power. Yet somehow, he had crept into High Tide, bypassing their guards, and claimed Vhagar—right beneath their noses.

“No boy could have done this alone.” she murmured, her voice tinged with both fury and dread.

The Hightowers. The thought was a venom in her veins. They were still playing their dangerous game, still weaving their schemes.

Lord Corlys was seething, his rage palpable as he demanded justice. “This is an insult to House Velaryon!” he had thundered. “My grandchildren harmed, in my own castle! This cannot stand!”

And yet, her father had done little more than banish Aemond once more. Banished! As if that would undo the damage. As if that would reclaim the war dragon now gifted, in all but name, to the Hightowers. The implication was clear: Oldtown now possessed the might of Vhagar, and her father had allowed it to happen.

The storm of her thoughts accompanied her back to the nursery, where her children awaited. Dismissing the incompetent guards had been her first act upon learning of their failures. How could four children slip away unnoticed? Ser Arryk’s feeble excuse—that he had stepped away for but a moment—had only stoked her fury. She’d sent him back to her father, demanding that his twin, Ser Erryk, take his place permanently. The Kingsguards normally rotates amongst the Royals but she will no longer allow anyone she does not trust near her children again.

Ser Steffon had observed, with prudent insight, that the Kingsguard were stretched far too thin. It would be far more practical, he suggested, to appoint an additional Sworn Shield for both Jace and Luke, ensuring one could stand vigil while the other took his rest. On this matter, Rhaenyra found herself in full accord.

As she entered the nursery, the tension in the air was palpable. Her children were sulking, their small faces etched with anger and hurt. Rhaena sat primly by the fire, fidgeting with the folds of her gown, bruises visible on her arms and face. Baela, arms crossed over her chest, glared at anyone who dared look her way. Luke sniffled, his nose red but no longer bleeding, while Jace sat in sullen silence, a small cut on his brow a stark reminder of the night's events.

“Eat your breakfast, my hatchlings.” Rhaenyra urged gently, her voice soft but firm.

Jace was the first to obey, though his steps to the table were sluggish and forlorn. Luke trailed after him, dragging his feet with a petulance that tugged at her heart. Baela refused to move, her frown deepening as she fixed her gaze on the floor.

Rhaenyra knelt beside her. “Baela, sweetling,” she said softly, “we’ll visit the dragons later, but only if you eat.”

Baela’s scowl deepened, but with a huff, she stomped toward the table, snatching a piece of bread as if it were a punishment.

Rhaena sat primly at Rhaenyra’s side, her posture impeccable, though her eyes wandered often to Joffrey, who was perched in his nurse’s arms, happily gumming at a spoon. The meal unfolded in a quiet rhythm, marked only by the soft clink of silverware and the occasional murmur of conversation.

When the last dishes had been cleared, Rhaenyra set her goblet down and addressed the children. “It’s time you all changed into your leathers. We shall visit the dragons.”

Jace and Luke exchanged eager glances before springing to their feet, already calling for their maids to assist with their attire. Baela, ever composed, rose silently and made her way to her chambers, her steps quick and purposeful.

Rhaena, however, lingered by the fire. She had coaxed Joffrey into her lap, where he giggled as she dangled a carved wooden dragon before him, his small hands grasping at it with delight.

“Rhaena,” Rhaenyra began gently, “are you not coming with us?”

The younger girl shook her head, her expression carefully neutral. “It’s no use,” she replied softly. “I haven’t a dragon to visit.”

Her heart ached at the words. Rhaenyra approached, lowering herself beside the younger girl. “Your egg is still hot,” she said softly, tucking a stray curl behind Rhaena’s ear. “We must be patient, darling.”

Rhaena frowned, her young face set with determination. “I wanted to claim Vhagar.” she said, her voice trembling. “She was Mama’s dragon. She should have been mine!”

Rhaenyra sighed, her fingers brushing over Rhaena’s hand. “You are not wrong, sweet girl,” she admitted. “But the dragon chooses the rider. And you must understand, you are still too young. In a few years, when you are older, you may claim any dragon in the Dragonmont.”

Rhaena’s eyes lit with tentative hope. “Any dragon?”

Rhaenyra nodded. “Any dragon.”

“But why not now?” Rhaena pressed, her voice forlorn.

Rhaenyra hesitated, then began softly, “Have you heard of Princess Aerea?”

Rhaena shook her head, her wide eyes locked on her face.

Rhaenyra settled herself beside Rhaena by the fire, her gaze distant as she began to speak, her voice measured and heavy with meaning. “She was a child of our house—a princess of fierce spirit and boundless curiosity. In her youth, she defied expectations, as we Targaryens often do, yearning for freedom beyond the confines of the Dragonstone. She was to be the heir once, before my great-grandsire ascended, but fate had other plans for her.”

She paused, her fingers trailing idly over the armrest. “Aerea was willful and headstrong, much like Baela." she whispered with a conspiratorial grin which made the little girl giggle. "But it was that very will that led her to the most harrowing of ends. One day, she vanished, fleeing with Balerion, the Black Dread himself. Can you imagine the courage—or the folly—it took to mount that beast, larger than any dragon alive today?”

Rhaena’s wide eyes reflected the flickering flames as Rhaenyra continued. “For more than a year, no one knew where she had gone, until one fateful day when she returned—Balerion was severely wounded. Aerea was found in a state no one could have foreseen, her body ravaged, her spirit all but extinguished. It was as if she had ventured to the very gates of hell and brought its horrors back with her. The maesters and Septon Barth tried to save her, but the creatures—things of fire and rot—had taken root inside her. No prayer nor potion could undo what had been done.”

Rhaenyra’s voice softened, sorrow thickening her tone. “She was just twelve, Rhaena. A child. And yet, she bore the weight of secrets no one could uncover, horrors no one could fathom. In the end, Aerea died in agony, consumed by whatever dark forces she had encountered. And Balerion… even he bore scars from their journey, as if the great Black Dread had seen something too terrible to withstand.”

She turned to the younger girl, resting a hand gently on her knee. “Remember this, my sweet one: dragons are magnificent, but they are not toys, nor are they wholly ours to command. The skies they fly and the lands they see are not always meant for us to know. There is a reason why some paths remain untraveled, some secrets unspoken.”

Rhaena nodded, subdued, as Rhaenyra kissed her brow. “Let us honor Aerea by learning from her tale. The fire within us must be tempered with wisdom, lest it burn too bright and consume us entirely. That is why we wait until we are older,” Rhaenyra explained softly. “It is not a punishment, my darling. It is to protect you—and the dragon.”

Rhaena nodded slowly, the weight of the story settling upon her. “I’ll wait.” she whispered.

Rhaenyra smiled, pressing a kiss to the little girl's forehead.

Rhaenyra smiled, her heart swelling with warmth as she observed her children, joined by Baela, engaging in animated introductions of themselves and their dragons. The Dragonkeepers lingered nearby, watchful yet unobtrusive, their presence a silent reassurance. The dragons themselves seemed equally intrigued, each creature exhibiting its youthful energy in distinct ways.

Baela’s cheeks were flushed with excitement as she crouched near Moondancer, her voice bright and full of pride. “Moondancer flew all the way from Pentos with Meleys and Caraxes. She only rested on the ship at night! She’s stronger than all the hatchlings here, I bet.” She cast a triumphant grin toward Jace and Luke.

Jace chuckled, his hand resting on Vermax’s emerald-scaled neck as the dragonlet nudged against his chest with a soft, insistent growl. “Moondancer is strong, but you know,Muña was the youngest dragonrider in the family—only seven name days when she flew on Syrax! I hope Vermax grows fast enough so I can ride him soon. It’s not fairMuña had all the adventures!”

Luke, seated on a low rock, wriggled his fingers toward Arrax, only to have the dragonlet snap playfully at them. He laughed and pulled his hand back, his tone wistful. “I want to take Arrax with Grandfather Corlys on the ship someday. Then he can fly to new places too!”

Baela leaned forward, her braid swaying. “Arrax will love that! Moondancer likes the sea breeze, even if the ship feels too slow for her.” Her eyes sparkled, and she glanced between the boys. “But she’s the bravest of all our dragons!”

Their chatter filled the air with youthful exuberance, and Rhaenyra smiled softly, contentment washing over her as she took in the sight of her children. Vermax and Arrax’s soft growls, mingled with Moondancer’s shrill trills, created a harmony that resonated in her soul.

Leaving the children to their dragons, Rhaenyra turned to where Daemon stood some distance away, watching the scene unfold with an inscrutable expression. She approached him, her steps light yet purposeful.

“Tell me, Uncle,” she began with a sly smile, her voice low, “is Vhagar friendly with Caraxes?”

Daemon’s lips quirked at her question, his gaze flicking toward her with a familiar glint. “Friendly is a generous term. Vhagar tolerates few, and Caraxes is even more stubborn than her. He barely endures anyone who isn’t me. But they are... amicable enough.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Good. Then you won’t refuse my invitation for a ride.”

Daemon arched a brow but inclined his head in agreement. “How could I deny you?” he replied with mock solemnity, though the corners of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

Moments later, the two ascended into the sky, Syrax and Caraxes cutting through the clouds in graceful arcs. Rhaenyra laughed aloud, the wind rushing past her and the sun warming her skin. For a fleeting moment, the burdens of crowns and conflicts melted away, replaced by the sheer exhilaration of flight.

Caraxes, with his long, sinuous form, circled Syrax like a mischievous pup, his movements coaxing her into a playful chase. Syrax indulged him, her golden wings glinting in the sunlight as she banked sharply to mirror his turns. Suddenly, Caraxes plunged toward the water below, his descent so swift it took Rhaenyra’s breath away. Her heart skipped a beat as he halted just above the surface, only his claw grazing the water.

Determined not to be outdone, Rhaenyra urged Syrax to follow suit. Yet her calculations faltered, and Syrax dipped lower than intended, sending a great splash of water over both dragon and rider. Rhaenyra sputtered, drenched but still laughing. The high-pitched whistle of Caraxes echoed around her, and she turned to see Daemon’s shoulders shaking with unrestrained laughter.

“That was on purpose!” she called said defensively although her glare was half-hearted.

Daemon's response was a daring one: he urged the great red dragon to dive straight into the water. Rhaenyra watched in awe as dragon and rider disappeared beneath the waves, their crimson forms vanishing into the dark depths.

The seconds stretched into what felt like minutes, the frothy ripples from their plunge slowly fading as the water stilled. Rhaenyra's earlier amusement ebbed, replaced by a growing unease. She leaned forward, straining her eyes against the shimmering surface, searching for any sign of them.

As the ripples fully calmed, her worry deepened. Just as her lips parted to call for them, the water erupted in a powerful surge. Caraxes emerged first, his long neck arching as droplets cascaded off his scaled body, and Daemon followed, his grin as irrepressible as the spray he sent in her direction.

Rhaenyra gasped, half in relief, half in exasperation, though a faint smile betrayed her true feelings. "“Seven hells, Daemon!” she cried, though her smile betrayed her exasperation. Daemon’s laughter, rich and unbridled, filled the air, and her heart ached at the sound. It had been so long since she had seen him so carefree, so unguarded. For nearly a decade on Dragonstone, they had been a family—a true family, until tragedy of war striked them.

Her voice softened as she watched him. “Let’s race!” she said suddenly, a spark of challenge in her tone.

Daemon’s grin turned sly. “You’re on.” Without waiting for her signal, he spurred Caraxes into flight, his crimson dragon surging ahead.

“Cheater!” Rhaenyra cried again, laughter bubbling up as Syrax followed in hot pursuit. The skies above the Narrow Sea bore witness to their joy, fleeting yet profound—a glimpse of what had been and what might still be.

The skies above the narrow stretch of land shimmered in hues of blue and silver as Syrax glided gracefully, her golden wings catching the sunlight. From her vantage point, Rhaenyra could see the jagged cliffs of Stonedance far behind them, the sea glittering below. Her heart clenched as she recognized the sluggish, lumbering shadow of Vhagar in the distance. The massive dragon’s wings beat heavily, slower than Caraxes and Syrax, betraying her rider’s inexperience.

What was Father thinking, sending Aemond alone? The thought pricked her like a thorn.

Ahead of her, Caraxes flew close to Vhagar, his elongated neck curving playfully toward the older dragon. He nudged her with his snout, only to be met with a sharp, irritated roar. Rhaenyra smiled despite herself, urging Syrax upward to soar above Vhagar.

From this higher perch, she caught a glimpse of Aemond in Vhagar’s saddle, his silver hair ruffled by the wind. Even at this distance, she could see his wide eyes and the tense set of his shoulders. His trepidation was palpable, his confidence as fragile as a glass bauble. Rhaenyra raised her hand, motioning toward a small island below, and began her descent. Syrax dove elegantly, her rider’s command clear and precise. Caraxes followed, his crimson form a blur of movement, while Vhagar’s descent was slower and more labored.

As they landed, the island seemed to groan under Vhagar’s weight. It was a small spit of land, barely able to accommodate two dragons, let alone three. Caraxes, as if sensing the cramped quarters, took to the skies again after Dameon dismounted, circling above them with serpentine grace.

Rhaenyra dismounted with practiced ease, retrieving a small satchel from Syrax’s saddle. The dampness of her leathers still clung to her skin, though the wind had dried them considerably. She adjusted the straps, her movements casual, though her gaze was sharp as she watched Aemond dismount clumsily from Vhagar. The rope affixed to his saddle looked old, worn, and haphazardly tied, and she winced as the boy nearly stumbled upon landing. Behind him, Vhagar settled herself with a heavy sigh, her massive head dropping to the ground, her eyes closing in disinterest.

Aemond approached them slowly, his steps deliberate but laced with uncertainty. He tried to summon the confidence of a dragonrider, but his inexperience was glaring. Rhaenyra offered him a small, kind smile as he stopped a few feet away.

"You’ve grown bold, Aemond, claiming Vhagar and flying so far from home." she said, her voice soft but carrying a note of reproach. "Did Father send you with any supplies?"

Aemond’s face reddened slightly. "No," he admitted, his tone clipped. "I was told to leave immediately."

Rhaenyra’s smile faltered, replaced by a faint frown. "That sounds like him," she murmured, shaking her head. "Father has always been careless. You’re young, Aemond, and the journey to Oldtown is long. Did it not occur to him that you might not even know the terrain?"

Aemond stiffened, the tips of his ears burning as he mumbled, "I’ll figure it out. I’ve read maps."

Rhaenyra raised a brow. "Do you have a map with you now?"

His silence was answer enough, and he looked away, his jaw tightening with embarrassment. She sighed, stepping closer and offering him a water skin from her satchel. "Here," she said gently. "At least drink. I know how long you’ve been flying without rest."

Aemond hesitated before taking the water skin. He opened it and took a large gulp—too large. A second later, he froze, his eyes wide with alarm as he gagged violently. The skin slipped from his fingers as he doubled over, his body wracked with spasms. Blood spilled from his mouth, crimson and vivid against the pale sand.

Daemon was at his side in an instant, his hand steadying Aemond’s shoulder as he examined him. His eyes darted to Rhaenyra, sharp with accusation.

Rhaenyra’s smile was serene, almost chilling. "Relax, Uncle. It’s not poison. I’m no kinslayer."

Aemond’s tear-filled eyes lifted to hers, his gaze a mixture of shock and terror as blood dripped down his chin. He tried to speak but could only choke, his voice a gurgling mess. Rhaenyra crouched beside him, her tone turning icy.

"Did you think you could hurt my children again and walk away unscathed?" she whispered. "Last time, I had you disinherited, turned into a bastard in the eyes of the realm. And yet, you dared to try again. Your arrogance, riding the largest dragon alive, will be your undoing, Aemond. But then," she leaned closer, her voice dripping with venom, "you are your mother’s son. Foolish and blind to consequence, just as she is."

Daemon watched in silence, his expression unreadable. Rhaenyra stood, taking the discarded water skin with the tips of her fingers, careful to avoid any wet patches. She tipped its contents onto Aemond’s trembling hands and the side of his face.

The effect was immediate and horrifying. His skin began to redden and blister, the liquid eating away at flesh like an invisible fire. Aemond let out a soundless scream, his cries muffled by the blood still pooling in his throat. He stumbled back half running and half crawling toward Vhagar, his movements frantic and disjointed, leaving a trail of blood and bile in the sand.

Rhaenyra turned back to Syrax, her expression calm, as though she had merely swatted away a fly.

Daemon caught her arm, spinning her to face him. "What was that?" he demanded, his voice low but furious. "What did you do to him?"

She met his gaze, her eyes cold. "It’s called Caustic Draught," she said evenly. "A corrosive liquid, courtesy of the pyromancers in King’s Landing."

"He’s your brother, Rhaenyra," Daemon snapped. "Did you have to go this far?"

Her lips curled into a bitter smile. "That boy is not my brother," she said. "He is a puppet. A weapon the Queen birthed to undermine me and my children. I told you, Daemon—I must be a monster to keep my children safe. If that makes me cruel, so be it. I am a mother first."

Daemon stared at her for a long moment, his anger warring with something deeper, something close to understanding. Finally, he released her arm, stepping back. Rhaenyra mounted Syrax without another word, her jaw set and her heart heavy as she rose into the sky once more.

The flight back to High Tide was largely silent, save for the steady rhythm of Syrax’s golden wings cutting through the air. The sun was high above, and Rhaenyra felt its warmth seeping through her leathers. She glanced over her shoulder, noting Caraxes’ crimson form gliding beside them with surprising grace. Daemon rode in silence, his expression dark and brooding. If anyone could understand her less-than-diplomatic choices, surely it was her uncle. And yet, the frown etched on his face was unrelenting. She turned away before it could unsettle her resolve, her mind churning with justification for what she had done.

A mother protects her children, she reminded herself. Aemond had terrorized her sons once and would again if left unchecked. To spare him would have been a cruelty to her own blood. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Perhaps there was no redemption for what she had done, but for her sons, for their future, she would bear that weight.

It was well after noon when the shores of High Tide came into view. The castle’s elegant towers stood against the horizon, and Rhaenyra allowed herself a breath of relief. The children would have returned by now, safe and sound within its walls. Syrax let out a soft rumble as they descended, her golden scales glinting in the afternoon light.

As they landed, Rhaenyra slid from Syrax’s saddle, her hands lingering on the warm, familiar hide of her dragon. “You’ve done well, my golden lady, thank you for delivering me back safely!” she murmured, her voice soft and tender. She stroked Syrax’s neck with care, whispering sweet nothings to her constant companion. Syrax let out a low purr of contentment, nuzzling into her hand before curling beneath Caraxes’ wing. Rhaenyra raised a brow at the sight—the two dragons nestled close even here, their bond unbreakable.

A shadow fell over her, and before she could turn, strong arms swept her off her feet. A gasp caught in her throat as Daemon’s lips crashed against hers with a fierceness that stole her breath. His kiss was fire and command, and for a moment, Rhaenyra forgot herself entirely. The heat of his skin, the press of his body—it was the same as it had always been, familiar and maddeningly intoxicating.

She tried to break free, tilting her head back to protest, but his lips trailed down her neck, igniting a trail of heat with every touch. “Daemon,” she breathed, her voice trembling as her resolve faltered. Instead of pushing him away, her fingers found his shoulders, clutching tightly.

“What are you doing?” she managed, her words barely audible over the rush of her own pulse.

He pulled back just enough to catch her gaze, his violet eyes blazing. “You set my blood aflame, Rhaenyra,” he murmured, his voice low and laden with desire. “Watching you today... your fire burns hotter than any dragon’s breath.”

She moaned softly as his teeth grazed her collarbone, a sound she couldn’t suppress. When his hips pressed against hers, the hard ridge of his desire left no doubt of his intentions.

“Daemon,” she whispered, her voice breathy. “I thought I frightened you.”

He claimed her lips again, the kiss deep and all-consuming before pulling back with a smirk. “You could never frighten me, Rhaenyra. A dragon breathing fire to kill anyone who threatens her own? That’s the woman I would stand beside.”

A laugh escaped her, low and full of irony. “I didn’t kill Aemond.” she said, her tone laced with dark amusement.

“No.” Daemon chuckled, his voice a rumble that seemed to vibrate through her. “You just maimed him so severely he might perish on that wretched island.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his expression unreadable. “You know, with his throat and hands ruined, exposure alone might end him.”

She smirked, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “I hope it’s slow. I hope it takes days for him to die.”

Daemon laughed again, a wicked sound, before kissing her deeply once more. She allowed him the exploration, their breaths mingling, their bodies pressing close. But when they came up for air, she pushed him firmly away, straightening her clothes.

“That’s enough,” she said, her tone suddenly clipped. “I am a lady, not some common—”

He cut her off, pulling her back into his arms. “You are not common, Rhaenyra. You are the most precious.” His voice softened, a rare moment of tenderness breaking through. “Lord Corlys has been hinting that he wants me to court you.”

Her brow arched, skepticism lacing her features. “And why would you think that?”

Daemon smirked, his confidence unshaken. “As you’ve said, any other man would be a danger to your children. To Lord Corlys’ grandsons.”

Rhaenyra regarded him coyly, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And you are not? How do I know you won’t harm my children once I’ve given you a trueborn son?”

The question struck him like a blow, his shock evident. “I would never harm your children,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “Never. I can’t believe you’d think me capable of such cruelty. To harm them is to hurt you too and that is unthinkable.”

She stepped back, her walls firmly in place once more. Smoothing her skirts, she turned toward the castle. “We’ll see.” she said, her tone dismissive as she left him standing alone on the sands, his expression torn between indignation and longing.

Chapter Text

The training yard was alive with quiet activity as the morning's sparring came to an end. Though the air was damp and heavy with mist, a certain satisfaction lingered over the scene, the kind that followed hard effort. Lord Cregan and Lord Joffrey, faces still glistening from exertion, were returning practice swords to the armory, their movements purposeful and steady.

Jace, meanwhile, stood nearby, undoing the laces of his sweat-dampened gambeson with meticulous care. He folded the thick, padded garment as though it were fine silk rather than the utilitarian protection of the training yard, and set it aside with the same diligence he brought to everything. One by one, he gathered the rest of his practice gear, ensuring all practice garments that the children used were neatly stored away.

But it was Luke who drew Rhaenyra’s gaze, a soft chuckle escaping her as she leaned over the stone balustrade of the balcony. The boy, so small yet so earnest, tugged at a training dummy with all the strength his little frame could muster. The dummy wobbled but refused to move, its weight far beyond what Luke could manage alone. He gritted his teeth and tried again, his determination unwavering despite his lack of progress.

“Look at Luke,” Rhaenyra said with a smile, the warmth in her tone breaking through the gloom. “He’s as stubborn as a mule, even when it’s clear he’s fighting a losing battle.”

“Determined, Your Grace.” Ser Steffon Darklyn corrected gently, standing at her side with his hands clasped behind his back. His faint smile mirrored hers.

“Perhaps.” Rhaenyra's smile lingered before her gaze shifted to Baela, a flicker of worry crossing her face. The little girl stood to the side, her wooden sword still clutched in her hand. Her frown deepened as she flexed her fingers, no doubt testing their endurance after countless strikes against the dummies. Her posture was weary, shoulders sagging slightly, and Rhaenyra suspected her hands felt as though they were aflame.

 “And Baela… she pushes herself too hard. I’ll need to speak with her later.”

The scene below was one of discipline and diligence, a source of pride for Rhaenyra even as her mind turned toward heavier matters. Her attention drifted to Ser Steffon.

“How fares the Prince with his efforts to secure Dragonstone?” she asked, her tone growing more serious. “He has been relentless in addressing our vulnerabilities.”

Ser Steffon straightened slightly, a soldier reporting to his commander. “Prince Daemon has found many deficiencies, Your Grace, but he is making swift and necessary changes. He’s particularly pleased that your Dragonguards is wholly loyal to you and your family, beholden to no one else—not even the King.”

Rhaenyra nodded thoughtfully. “The Dragonguards was Harwin’s idea, primarily.” she admitted. “A wise one, as it turns out.”

Ser Steffon hesitated, his expression tightening before he spoke. “I don’t imagine the Prince will be pleased to hear that.” he said carefully.

Rhaenyra turned her gaze to him, one brow arching in amusement. Her pointed look made the knight clear his throat, his composure faltering slightly.

“Er… there’s been tension between Lord Corlys and the Prince,” he continued hastily. “The Prince criticized the security of High Tide, and Lord Corlys… did not take it well.”

Rhaenyra sighed, her fingers tightening on the cold stone railing. “Daemon is unyielding, but Corlys is still grieving. Laenor’s death left a wound that hasn’t yet healed and then almost immediately Laena followed him.”

“That is true, Your Grace,” Ser Steffon agreed. “Despite the tightened security at High Tide following Lord Laenor’s death, Aemond Waters still managed to gain access to the island. Prince Daemon remains adamant that such a breach could only have occurred with aid from someone within Lord Corlys’ household. The suggestion has deeply insulted Lord Corlys, who staunchly defends the loyalty of his people, though the Prince’s suspicions remain.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, anger flickering in her eyes. “Betrayal? On Driftmark, of all places? The Velaryons have always been good to their people. Even the smallest folk on Driftmark are better fed and clothed than most in the Seven Kingdoms. Who would dare betray them?”

The knight hesitated, but Rhaenyra’s thoughts were already racing. A name surfaced unbidden—Alfred Broome. Her grimace deepened, her lips pressing into a thin line. His treachery had unfolded within the supposed safety of her own stronghold, an unforgettable reminder of how betrayal could fester even in trusted ranks.

‘It is not far-fetched,” she thought, her tone sharp with certainty. ‘If Alfred Broome could betray me on Dragonstone, then it is entirely possible that someone within Lord Corlys’ household enabled Aemond Waters to infiltrate High Tide. No fortress, no matter how fortified, is impervious to a dagger hidden in the dark.’

Below, the training yard had grown quieter. Jace had stepped in to help Luke with the stubborn dummy, the elder brother easily dragging it into place. Baela had finally set her sword aside, flexing her hands and wincing slightly as her fingers moved.

For a brief moment, the sight eased the tension in Rhaenyra’s chest. Her children and wards were thriving in their training, still far from the shadow of war.

Maester Gerardys appeared in the archway, his face flushed and his breathing labored as though he had run the entire length of Dragonstone to reach her. His right hand clutched a raven scroll.

“Your Grace,” Gerardys huffed, bowing so low he nearly lost his balance. “An urgent message from the Red Keep.”

Rhaenyra barely restrained an exasperated roll of her eyes, her lips tightening into a thin line instead. Not even ten days had passed since Laena’s funeral, and already her father had sent three letters. Each one was steeped in the same desperate entreaties for their return to King’s Landing. He missed his grandchildren, he claimed. He longed to know his nieces. She suspected that her father had already written to Daemon as well, only to be rebuffed.

“Very well.” Rhaenyra said coolly, extending her hand for the scroll.

Gerardys placed it into her palm with reverence, his expression expectant as if awaiting a revelation. She broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment with a practiced flick. The words, penned in the precise script of Lord Lyonel Strong, the Hand of the King, leapt out at her:

Your Grace,
A Hightower ship has spotted Vhagar circling a small island off the coast near Tarth. The dragon appears to be guarding Aemond Waters, who was found unconscious near the shore. Attempts to approach the boy have been thwarted by the dragon’s presence. The King urgently requests assistance in retrieving him, as no man alive commands Vhagar's loyalty except her rider.

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply through her nose, the scroll lowering in her hand. She wordlessly passed it back to the Maester. “Daemon would be best suited for this. Vhagar may tolerate Caraxes, and my uncle is familiar with the dragon’s temperament.”

Maester Gerardys bowed, already halfway to suggesting as much. “Shall I send someone to fetch the Prince from the docks, Your Grace? He is speaking with the guards—”

“No.” Rhaenyra’s voice cut cleanly through his eagerness. “What Daemon is doing is important and need not be disturbed for this.”

“But the scroll emphasized urgency,” the Maester protested, his voice quivering slightly. “The boy is injured, Your Grace—”

“He can go tomorrow,” Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone cool and measured. “We’ll have lunch with the children soon, and I see no reason to disrupt my uncle’s duties—or my day—for a thieving bastard.”

Her pointed look left no room for further argument. Gerardys hesitated only a moment longer before bowing deeply. “As you command, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra smiled lightly and nodded in dismissal, her composure unshaken. The Maester retreated, his robes swishing as he disappeared into the shadows of the castle corridors.

Ser Steffon cleared his throat delicately beside her. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but… was that wise? Ignoring the King's request?”

Rhaenyra turned her head, fixing him with a gaze both sharp and amused. “Ser Steffon, I am not ignoring His Grace’s request, I simply do not find it wise to disrupt an entire household for the sake of a boy who dared to steal a dragon and is now suffering its consequences. My Uncle will go tomorrow.” She said with finality.

The knight hesitated, his lips pressed thinly together before he responded. “Of course, Your Grace. Though I do find it curious—how a Hightower ship came to be so close to Shipbreaker’s Bay.”

Rhaenyra frowned, her mind turning over the implications. If there was a Hightower ship near Tarth, it wasn’t there by coincidence. Her gaze narrowed slightly as her thoughts sharpened. “Aemond didn’t sneak onto High Tide alone,” she murmured, more to herself than to Steffon. “Someone aided him. The ship must be how he arrived—and it seems he intended to meet with them after claiming Vhagar.” Her lips curved into a thin, wry smile, the glint in her eyes dangerous. “Perhaps, if I’m in the mood, I’ll have them burned too.”

Ser Steffon said nothing, his silence both agreement and caution. Below, the training yard was nearly spotless now, the efforts of her children evident in every movement. The balance between war, duty, and personal grudges was delicate, but Rhaenyra felt herself firmly in command. For now, that was enough.

Rhaenyra ascended to her chambers with a measured grace, the rustle of her skirts trailing like whispers in the halls of Dragonstone. Her rooms were an inheritance from the Conquerors, three interconnected spaces once occupied by the great Targaryen triumvirate. Aegon’s chamber, with its commanding view and a solar suffused with light, served as her private retreat. The adjoining bath, carved from smooth, dark stone, offered the luxury befitting a queen.

Rhaenys’ airy quarters had been transformed into a sitting room, adorned with plush seating and tapestries depicting the early days of the Freehold. A smaller, sunlit antechamber, which she had turned into her closet, housed her gowns, some vibrant and fresh from Essos, others heirlooms of darker Targaryen grandeur. Visenya’s utilitarian rooms had been reshaped with practicality in mind; the largest now served as the nursery. Two smaller adjoining spaces held a sleeping chamber for her children and a modest room where nurses could reside, ever near yet discreet, should she wish to tend to her children herself without interruption.

The nursery hummed with life, though changes loomed. Jace, her eldest, was to leave the nursery once they returned to the Red Keep, a transition that both heartened and saddened her. Luke, still tender-hearted, refused to leave his youngest brother, little Joffrey, despite the infant’s restless cries disturbing his sleep many a night. The girls, Baela and Rhaena, would not be placed in the nursery at all, their maturity just a year beyond Luke’s making them better suited for separate quarters. Yet the twins had insisted on sharing a single room, a desire Rhaenyra had been careful to honor while ensuring their space encouraged harmony.

Baela thrived among her foster brothers and cousins. She quickly and effortlessly joined Jace and Luke in the training yard, her natural grit ensuring her place among them despite their initial protests. Her persistence was not born solely of a desire to excel but also to channel her grief for her mother’s death. The rhythm of swordplay and the camaraderie of shared challenges seemed to help her find moments of solace amidst her loss.

Rhaena, by contrast, struggled visibly, she was withdrawn, her quiet demeanor an ever-present reminder of her sorrow. She rarely engaged with others, her interactions reduced to polite nods and fleeting smiles. Even Princess Rhaenys, who had built some semblance of relationship with her granddaughters during her time in Pentos, found herself at a loss when trying to draw the girl into conversation.

Rhaena’s world seemed to revolve entirely around Joffrey, the infant who demanded nothing of her but offered silent companionship. In his presence, she found a reprieve from the weight of her grief, her gentle attentiveness to the babe the only glimpse of the warmth she kept hidden from the rest of the world. Baela, for all her energy and persistence, could coax her sister out only briefly, their shared moments a testament to the bonds they still shared despite the gulf that grief had placed between them.

Her steps slowed as she approached the nursery, the echoes of laughter and splashing water reaching her ears. The moment she entered, a rare smile spread across her lips.

The scene was as endearing as it was unexpected. Little Joffrey sat in a small copper tub perched atop a sturdy table, his chubby hands gleefully slapping at the water and sending droplets flying. Beside him, Rhaena stood with uncharacteristic animation, a golden cup in her small hands, pouring water gently over his head at the nurse’s instruction.

“Gently, my lady...” the nurse reminded her, her tone patient but firm. “Pour toward the back of his head, so the suds do not trouble his eyes.”

“Alright.” Rhaena murmured, her voice soft but steady as she tilted the cup with care.

Joffrey splashed once more, this time with purpose, sending a cascade of water onto the nurse’s apron and Rhaena’s skirts. The squeals of delight that followed were contagious, and Rhaena, usually so reserved, erupted into a fit of giggles. Her laughter, bright and unrestrained, filled the room, warming Rhaenyra’s heart in a way she hadn’t felt in weeks.

The nurse chuckled as she reached for a thick, fluffy towel, shaking her head at the boy’s antics. “That’s enough, my prince,” she cooed, lifting him from the tub. “Your little hands are starting to prune.”

Wrapped snugly in the towel, Joffrey cooed and gurgled, his cheeks rosy from the bath. Rhaena, taking her task with the utmost seriousness, moved to the small chest of clothes laid out nearby. She held up a tiny blue doublet and leggings first, presenting them to the boy like a courtier offering fine treasures to a king.

Joffrey’s response was a wet, bubbling sound as he blew spit bubbles, utterly unimpressed.

Rhaena frowned in mock seriousness and selected another outfit, this one a soft green. Before she could fully show it to him, the little prince grabbed for it, attempting to shove a sleeve into his mouth.

The room erupted into laughter again, Rhaenyra included.

Finally, Rhaena picked out a golden ensemble. The moment she held it before him, Joffrey’s face lit up, and he hugged the fabric to his chest with a delighted coo.

“Well, it seems the choice is made.” Rhaenyra whispered with a smile. she left them to their own devices, not wanting to interrupt the tranquility in Rhaena's face.

The corridors felt lighter as she made her way to her chambers. Though the castle’s weathered black stone and the ceaseless unpredictable weather outside could not be altered, Rhaenyra had ensured the halls were adorned with life. Valyrian relics—bronze and gold statuettes of dragons, vases with intricate carvings, and relics retrieved from the vaults—decorated alcoves, while vibrant banners hung in stark contrast to the gloom. These touches breathed life into the ancient stronghold, making it more a home than a fortress.

Along the walls hung banners of Targaryen red and black, their three-headed sigils lending a regal touch to the otherwise severe architecture. Occasionally, paintings of long-dead ancestors caught her eye, their faces stern but their spirits enlivening the hall.

One banner, deep crimson with a silver dragon, depicted the War with the Ghiscari—a series of brutal conflicts where the dragonlords of Valyria finally shattered the power of Old Ghis. The embroidery captured the image of Valyrian dragons descending upon the harpy banners, their fire consuming the famed pyramids that symbolized Ghiscari pride. Another, wrought in gold and black, commemorated the raising of Valyria’s mightiest colony, Volantis, on the southernmost edge of the Valyrian Freehold. It displayed the city’s famed Black Walls, a testament to the dragonlords’ mastery of both stone and flame.

Stepping into her solar, Rhaenyra crossed to her desk, where a small book awaited her. The records of the petition session from that morning were neatly compiled by the castle scribe, detailing each grievance brought before Rhaenyra. She scanned the pages as the golden light of the sun filtered into the chamber.

One account described a waterlogged village devastated by the recent storm. The floodwaters had displaced dozens of families and rendered their homes uninhabitable. Rhaenyra had already begun discussions with the Archmaester regarding alternative living arrangements, considering the possibility of relocating the villagers to higher ground or rebuilding their homes with sturdier materials resistant to future deluges.

Another petition came from a herder who claimed that his sheep had fallen prey to Sheepstealer, the elusive wild dragon. The man's plea was laced with desperation, his livelihood at stake. Rhaenyra had swiftly dispatched a team of dragonkeepers to investigate the veracity of his claims and, if necessary, assess the danger posed by the rogue beast.

The balcony overlooking the Dragon’s Maw was abuzz with tension and the kind of energy that only children could bring to a moment so grand. From their vantage point, Rhaenyra and her brood watched as Caraxes circled the entrance to the Dragonmont, his crimson wings cutting through the misty air with ease. The great dragon paused briefly at the mouth of the cavern, a yawning chasm high on the volcano and accessible only to dragons, as if expecting to be followed.

But Vhagar, with her immense wingspan and age-old stubbornness, had other ideas. She circled the Dragonmont again, her powerful roar echoing across the island and causing loose stones to tumble down the mountainside.

“For the third time.” Rhaenyra muttered with a sigh, her hands resting on the balcony rail as Caraxes disappeared into the dark cavern, only to emerge moments later when he realized his companion had not followed.

“Why won’t she go in?” Rhaena’s small voice broke through the din, and Rhaenyra turned to find her youngest daughter twisting the hem of her sleeve nervously. The worry etched on the girl’s face was enough to tug at her heartstrings.

Rhaenyra reached out, gently taking Rhaena’s restless hand in her own. “Vhagar is an old dragon, my darling.” she said with a reassuring smile. “She’s spent nearly a decade flying free across the skies of Essos. Perhaps she doesn’t like the idea of being confined inside the Dragonmont just yet.”

Rhaena seemed to consider this, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she leaned into Rhaenyra’s embrace. The gesture startled Rhaenyra; the little girl’s aloofness had become so entrenched that this sudden seeking of comfort felt almost foreign. Yet as her arms encircled Rhaena, the surprise gave way to a bittersweet sense of triumph—a tentative step toward reclaiming the bond they had once shared. She pressed a tender kiss to the crown of Rhaena’s silver hair, her voice soft and resolute.

“She’ll find her place.” Rhaenyra murmured, as much a reassurance for her daughter as a vow to herself.

“Look! It’s Grandmother!” Luke’s excited shout startled them both, and Rhaenyra looked up to see Princess Rhaenys atop Meleys, the Red Queen descending gracefully toward the Dragonmont.

“Luke, get down from there!” Jace’s alarmed voice cut through the moment. R

haenyra turned in time to see her middle son perched precariously atop a crate, leaning far too close to the edge of the balcony as he pointed toward the sky. Jace grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back before he could topple over.

“Do you want to fall and end up as crab bait?” Jace admonished, his tone stern.

“I wasn’t going to fall!” Luke protested, pouting as he was set back on solid ground.

“You were leaning so far, you nearly joined the gulls.” Jace shot back, crossing his arms in the exact manner of his mother.

Amid the scolding, young Lord Joffrey tugged at Rhaenyra’s skirts, his wide eyes fixed on the circling dragons. “Princess, will the big dragon come to the castle?” he asked, his voice wavering despite his attempt to appear brave.

Before Rhaenyra could answer, Vhagar let out a thunderous roar, shaking the very stones beneath their feet. The sound was so powerful that even Lord Cregan, who had been standing stoically nearby, let out a startled gasp.

Joffrey flinched visibly.

Above them, Caraxes performed an aerial maneuver that bordered on cheeky, swatting Vhagar’s snout with his tail as he darted below her. Vhagar snapped her jaws in annoyance, her immense teeth glinting in the sunlight, but she did not pursue.

“Oh, Uncle Daemon.” Rhaenyra muttered, shaking her head with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Is there anything he fears?”

Princess Rhaenys, aloft on the regal Meleys, guided her dragon in a deliberate sweep around Vhagar, her movements measured but enticing. It was as though she whispered encouragement through the winds, drawing the elder dragon's attention. Vhagar’s immense eyes followed, her nostrils flaring as if weighing the invitation to move. The children on the ground held their breath, their wide-eyed gazes fixed on the colossal creatures overhead.

As Meleys dipped gracefully, heading toward the darkened entrance of the Dragonmont’s cavern, the children began to cheer, expecting Vhagar to follow. The ancient dragon appeared to comply, her wings folding slightly as she angled downward. But as the yawning mouth of the cavern loomed, Vhagar’s course abruptly changed. With a mighty stroke of her wings, she veered sharply upward, her form climbing higher and higher into the sky.

A collective gasp of surprise rippled through the children, followed by laughter and renewed applause as Vhagar soared above, choosing the expanse of the heavens over the cavern’s confines.

“Perhaps Vhagar wants to nest elsewhere.” Jace suggested thoughtfully, tilting his head as he watched the enormous she-dragon veer away from the cavern entrance.

He appeared to be correct, for Vhagar flew to the back of the Dragonmont, her hulking form casting long shadows across the volcano. Meleys and Caraxes followed at a distance, giving the elder dragon her space.

“Where are they going?” Baela asked, her brows furrowed.

“There’s a larger entrance at the back of the Dragonmont.” Rhaenyra explained, though her voice grew quieter. “But that part of the volcano is near where the Cannibal and the other wild dragons nest. I don’t like them venturing so close.”

“The Cannibal?” Joffrey’s voice piped up again, this time tinged with curiosity.

Jace stepped in. “He’s a wild dragon.” he said matter-of-factly. “Black as night, mean as a storm. They call him the Cannibal because—”

“—he eats other dragons!” Luke interrupted, his tone dramatic as he widened his eyes for effect.

Baela rolled hers in return. “No, he doesn’t. He only eats dragon eggs!”

“He eats dragons!” Luke insisted, crossing his arms stubbornly.

“Eggs!”

“Dragons!”

The bickering continued as they made their way back into the castle, their voices echoing off the stone walls.

They turned a corner and nearly collided with Daemon and Princess Rhaenys near the chamber of the Painted Table. Baela and Luke wasted no time, rushing to their grandmother with a flurry of questions.

“Where’s Vhagar?” Baela asked, her voice hopeful.

“Did she eat the Cannibal?” Luke added, his tone bordering on scandalized.

Rhaenys, to Rhaenyra’s surprise, wore a smile—a rare and almost startling expression on her weathered face. It softened her usual severity but also highlighted the lines of a life hard-lived, the smile stretching like worn leather.

“She’s found a place to settle.” Rhaenys replied, her voice light. “And no, she hasn’t eaten the Cannibal—at least, not yet.”

Luke huffed, clearly disappointed, while Baela’s face lit up at the thought of her mother’s dragon being safe.

She turned to her Uncle, the winds off the Dragonmont tugged at Daemon’s silver braids, leaving most of them unraveled and framing his striking features with a windswept disarray. His cheeks, kissed by the harsh sun, bore a faint blush of sunburn that lent warmth to his otherwise alabaster complexion. But it was his eyes that held her—a shade of dark amethyst so deep they seemed almost like polished stones, cold and impenetrable save for the spark of mischief dancing within them.

One side of his mouth curved higher than the other in a familiar smirk, his expression laced with playful mockery as if he’d already guessed her thoughts. He was beautiful, a contradiction of chaos and charm, and utterly infuriating. Rhaenyra crossed the stone floor toward him, her skirts sweeping behind her.

“Well?” she asked, arching a brow as her gaze traveled from his smirk to his wind-tousled hair.

Daemon’s grin deepened. “He was dead,” he said with maddening nonchalance, “his corpse already rotting by the time I arrived.”

Rhaenyra’s lips twitched, betraying a flicker of pleasure she could not entirely suppress. She turned swiftly, her back now to Rhaenys, lest her aunt catch even the faintest trace of her satisfaction.

Daemon, undeterred, continued, his tone as teasing as ever. “The ship was large,” he mused. “Well-provisioned, and manned by a fine crew—all proudly bearing the Hightower emblem.”

At this, her gaze sharpened, and her head turned to meet his eyes fully. “Did you burn it, then?” she asked, her voice cool and deliberate, though there was a dangerous gleam in her eye.

Daemon looked at her as though she’d asked him to swim to Lys. “What?” he retorted, his incredulity evident. “And have myself carry the boy’s half-rotted corpse atop Caraxes like some macabre prize? No. I told the ship’s crew to pack up their lordling and sail back to Oldtown.”

She frowned slightly, though his reasoning was sound.

Daemon shrugged as though the matter were inconsequential. “Any ship bearing the Hightower sigil that dares sail in the Gullet or the Narrow Sea can be sunk going forward.”

She tilted her head, her expression thoughtful as she let out a soft hum of agreement, though she was not entirely appeased. Her gaze drifted back to Rhaenys, who stood listening to Baela and Luke regale her with increasingly outrageous speculations about Vhagar nesting at the other side of the Dragonmont.

“Tell Lord Corlys he has my permission to sink any Hightower ships he encounters.” Rhaenyra called to her aunt. “I will not tolerate traitors plundering my waters.”

Rhaenys’s mouth tightened into a thin line, though her eyes gleamed with approval. She inclined her head in silent agreement, her presence as commanding as ever.

Rhaenyra then turned to the children, their chatter bubbling over like spring wine. “Enough of dragons for now,” she said warmly. “The servants have prepared a sumptuous lunch for us all, and you ought to eat before Lady Celia commandeers your afternoon.”

The announcement was met with instant jubilation.

“I challenge Luke to see who can eat the most lemon pie!” Baela declared, her voice ringing with unbridled confidence.

“You’re on!” Luke shot back, puffing out his chest. “I’ll eat twice as much as you!”

Jace rolled his eyes, stepping in with the weariness of an elder sibling. “And how did your last competition end?” he reminded them pointedly, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “If I recall, Luke spent the entire night moaning about his upset stomach, and Baela—well, you were sick twice before the bells of dawn.”

At his words, both Luke and Baela paled visibly, their bravado shrinking under the weight of the reminder. Luke shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his stomach absentmindedly while Baela crossed her arms defensively but refused to meet Jace's gaze.

“We won’t get sick again.” Luke said hurriedly, his tone almost pleading as if he could will his stomach to behave through sheer determination.

Baela nodded firmly in agreement, though her expression betrayed a flicker of doubt. “This time, we’ll be careful,” she added, her voice lacking its usual confidence but defiant all the same.

Jace crossed his arms, giving them both a pointed look. “By all means, do go ahead. Let’s see if we can break your previous record for regrettable decisions.”

Lord Cregan, who had grown pale at the memory, interjected with a shudder. “Never again will I touch that Dornish concoction.” he muttered.

Lord Joffrey laughed heartily, giving Cregan a playful shove on the shoulder. “What, afraid of a little spice?” he teased. “Such a delicate northern palate!”

Amid the laughter and light-hearted jests, Rhaenyra’s attention shifted to Rhaena, who was fidgeting beside her father. She stepped closer, pulling at Daemon’s sleeve. “Why is Vhagar here, Father?” she asked, her voice as calm as a still lake.

Daemon’s smirk returned, his tone maddeningly casual. “It seems Vhagar was less than pleased with the dragon thief,” he said, leaning back with an air of indifference. “She burned him, as one might expect. The matter’s settled—he’s dead, and Vhagar will spend her days here from now on.”

There was a finality to his words, one that spoke to the immutable will of dragons and their disdain for mortal hubris.

Rhaena’s expression flickered between horror and a quiet sense of amusement. “Could I…” She hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Could I try to claim her?”

Daemon tilted his head thoughtfully, though his tone was firm. “Perhaps in a few years,” he said. “Let Vhagar grieve her fallen riders first.”

Rhaena blushed, nodding quickly in understanding, probably remembering Aerea Targaryen’s fate, though her cheeks remained pink with embarrassment.

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, placing a gentle hand on her daughter’s back as they began to make their way to the family’s private dining area. The children raced ahead, their laughter filling the halls with the joy of youth, while the adults followed at a more leisurely pace.

The beach at Dragonstone basked in an uncommon brilliance that morning, the sun piercing through scattered clouds to bathe the shoreline in gold. From her vantage point, Rhaenyra could see darker clouds looming on the horizon, distant and subdued, as if kept at bay by the island's imposing cliffs and the steadfast sea breeze. The tide whispered against the shore, its rhythm as soothing as a mother’s lullaby, while the horses’ hooves thudded softly in the sand.

Under the vigilant guidance of the Master of Horse, the children had spent two full hours galloping along the firm sands of Dragonstone’s expansive beach, their steeds' hooves kicking up the damp earth as the salty air whipped past. Their laughter had mingled with the rhythmic pounding of waves, a harmony of youthful exuberance and natural power. Now, the riders embarked on a more arduous task: ascending the island’s steep and narrow trails, their mounts carefully picking their way over uneven ground.

Lord Cregan Stark rode with his usual confidence, his posture as steady as the Northern mountains he called home. Jace followed close behind, his focus unwavering as he urged his horse onward, the determination of a young prince etched into his features.

Lord Joffrey Arryn, though riding at the rear, carried himself with the seasoned ease of one born to such treacherous paths. Born and raised in the craggy reaches of the Vale, he was no stranger to precarious trails and had likely more experience than most when it came to navigating uneven terrain on horseback. Despite his position in the group, his mastery was evident in the way he handled his steed, the animal moving with sure-footed grace under his expert command.

The three rode in a perfect line, their figures framed against the stark blue sky. Atop the path, a trio of horse trainers awaited their arrival, and behind them trailed three more, ever-watchful, along with a complement of guards. Even from this distance, Rhaenyra could distinguish the flash of Ser Erryk’s white cloak, his vigilance evident.

Closer to the water, Luke and Baela had abandoned all pretense of matching the older boys’ strides. Luke had rolled his breeches to his knees, his feet sinking into the cool, damp sand, while Baela had stripped away her leather gown, revealing a well-worn tunic and breeches that Rhaenyra recognized as one of Jace’s outgrown garments. The pair were locked in fierce competition, their focus now on crafting the finest sandcastle.

Though their rivalry had often ended in tears and quarrels, this day held a lighter air. Their teasing carried on the wind, their laughter interspersed with triumphant declarations and mock indignation. Rhaenyra smiled indulgently, though she kept an expectant eye, knowing full well how easily good-natured banter could devolve.

Most often that not, Luke would inevitably flee to her lap, his tears soaking into her gown, while Baela would retreat with a defiant set to her shoulders, though her trembling tension betrayed her yearning for reconciliation.

Further down the shore, little Joff toddled gleefully at the water’s edge, his giggles a melody as he darted toward and away from the encroaching waves. Each time the water lapped at his feet, his squeals of delight pierced the salty air. Daemon hovered nearby, already acting as the vigilant father figure, despite his irreverent air. When a larger wave surged unexpectedly, he swooped in with the agility of a dragonrider, snatching Joff from the frothy grasp of the sea.

Rhaenyra’s smile widened as Daemon, with characteristic mischief, tossed the boy lightly into the air. Joff shrieked with joy, his laughter infectious, though Rhaenyra’s voice rose with maternal alarm. “Daemon, please, do not throw my son in the air!” she called out.

Daemon turned, his smirk unrepentant as he lowered Joffrey back onto the sand, where the boy immediately resumed his fearless pursuit of the waves. Shaking her head, Rhaenyra watched as Joff toddled determinedly, his tiny footprints trailing toward the water. For a moment, her world seemed as golden as the sunlight—filled with laughter, play, and the tender chaos of family.

The soft rustle of fabric drew Rhaenyra’s attention. She glanced toward Rhaena, who hesitated before holding up a square of embroidery, her cheeks faintly pink as she sought approval. “What do you think, Princess?” she asked shyly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, studying the design with a fond smile. The dragon stitched upon it was undeniably green, with wings that spanned the fabric in a bold, intricate sweep. The detail was charming, though the exact identity of the dragon was less clear. IT could be Vermax for all she knows.

“Is it… Vhagar?” Rhaenyra asked with a tilt of her head, the question gentle and encouraging.

Rhaena’s eyes brightened at once, her earlier uncertainty forgotten. “Yes, she is!” she exclaimed, her voice rising with pride. “All of Mother’s dresses had Vhagar on them, even the dresses that was given to her she had them stitched Vhagar’s visage.”

Rhaenyra’s smile deepened, a touch of nostalgia softening her features. “I know the sentiment well,” she said. “I’ve always been fond of having Syrax embroidered on my gowns.”

Rhaena beamed at the shared connection, her expression alight with joy. She returned to her embroidery, her needle moving steadily once more.

After a quiet moment, Rhaenyra spoke again, her tone careful but kind. “There are other dragons on the Dragonmont, you know. Beautiful, strong creatures.”

Rhaena’s stitching slowed as her curiosity was piqued. She glanced up, her brow furrowed slightly. “Other dragons?”

Rhaenyra nodded. “Yes. There’s Silverwing and Vermithor, and of course, Seasmoke. There’s also a young drake that came with us from the Dragonpit—only slightly smaller than Seasmoke, though she hasn’t yet been named.”

Rhaena’s needle paused entirely, her gaze bright with wonder. “She doesn’t have a name?” she asked softly, her tone tentative but intrigued.

“Not yet.” Rhaenyra replied. She knows, in her own time,  that her brother, Daeron, had called the young dragon Tessarion, “If you were to claim her, you could name her yourself.”

For a fleeting moment, Rhaena’s eyes sparkled with possibility. But just as quickly, her gaze dimmed, and her attention returned to the fabric in her lap. “I like Vhagar the most." she said in a small voice, her fingers smoothing the edges of her embroidery.

Rhaenyra’s heart clenched. She reached out, brushing a hand lightly over Rhaena’s shoulder. “I understand.” she said softly, her smile tinged with sadness. She knew all too well the girl’s longing to hold onto the memories of her mother.

The tender moment was interrupted by the sound of boots outside the tent. A runner, a boy of perhaps five and ten name days, appeared in the entrance, allowed in by Ser Steffon. His attire, plain but neat, marked him as one of the Maester’s employ.

Rhaenyra straightened as the boy approached, presenting her with a letter sealed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. She took it, breaking the wax with care, her eyes scanning the parchment.

The letter was from the Hand of the King, Lyonel Strong. The King eagerly awaits your arrival, it read. Lord Caswell has been well-prepared to receive you. The twins will have two sets of rooms. For now, they shall sleep in the middle room, while the adjoining chambers will house their belongings and serve to entertain their guesst. As they grow, they may move into separate rooms, while keeping the middle room connected so they will always be near one another.

Baela has a fascination with weaponry had led to the necessity of allocating an additional room for her ever-expanding collection. It is rather remarkable that one so young has already gathered an array of finely crafted daggers and arrows. Baela scarcely has need of a sword, given her preference for the smaller, sharper tools of the trade.

As for Rhaena, Rhaenyra had taken special care to request the most beautiful sitting rooms for her gentle daughter. The space would be adorned with bookshelves to house her growing collection—an interest that Daemon himself had proudly shared.

The thought of her children settling into such carefully considered arrangements warmed her. Folding the letter neatly, Rhaenyra set it aside and turned back to Rhaena, whose needle was now moving steadily again.

“Good news,” she said, her tone light. “Your rooms in the capital are almost ready. I think you’ll find them quite to your liking.”

Rhaena looked up, her smile faint but sincere, and nodded. Rhaena’s delicate hands worked steadily, her face serene but for the slight crease in her brow. She suspected her younger daughter was distracting herself with the fine stitches, a means of avoiding the thought of their impending journey to the Red Keep.

The children, she knew, far preferred Dragonstone to the Keep. Jace and Luke had told their sisters as much, though their words were carefully chosen it still colors the girls’ perception of the capital. The Red Keep held too many ghosts, too many memories of when the Greens had ruled its halls and cast a shadow over their lives.

But Rhaenyra was not the same naïve princess who had allowed herself and her children to be tormented by an ambitious outsider queen. The Greens had been largely neutralized—for now—and she intended to ensure that her family’s stay in the capital would be as enjoyable as their time on Dragonstone.

Rhaena looked up suddenly, her voice soft but clear. “Will Grandfather stay with us in the Red Keep?”

Rhaenyra inclined her head, her tone measured. “Perhaps.”

She didn’t elaborate, though the question brought forth memories of Lord Corlys’s actions after Laena’s passing in her own time. His grief had driven him back to the Stepstones, where he had immersed himself in battle until an injury forced his return, a moment of weakness that had allowed Vaemond’s ill-fated challenge to his will. Now, Corlys resided in the Red Keep for the past moon, his schemes—whatever they were—kept mercifully at arm’s length. It was better, she supposed, that the King contend with them rather than herself.

Before Rhaenyra could muse further, Baela came bounding into view, her sunlit curls wild as she clutched at Rhaena’s sleeve. “Come, Rhaena! We’re building sandcastles, and you must join us!”

“I can’t,” Rhaena said, her tone hesitant. “I need to finish this.” She gestured to her embroidery, though there was a flicker of longing in her gaze.

Luke appeared not a moment later, his grin wide and persuasive. “You don’t have to build anything,” he declared. “You can be the judge. Tell us who’s better—Baela or me!”

Rhaena hesitated, but the combined insistence of her siblings proved too much. A reluctant smile crept onto her lips, and she set her needlework aside. “Alright.” she said, rising with a feigned sigh. But there was a sparkle in her eyes, and her steps turned to skips as she joined her siblings on the beach.

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on her children’s joy, her heart lightened by the sight, when Daemon emerged from the wide opening of the tent.

Joffrey was cradled in his arms, his small form slumped with the exhaustion that only a day of relentless play could bring.

The boy stirred as they approached, his tiny hands reaching out for her. But before Rhaenyra could take him, his nurse swept in with practiced efficiency, cooing softly. “We must get you into dry clothes, my sweet prince.” the nurse murmured, whisking Joffrey away before Rhaenyra could protest.

Joffrey whimpered, his lower lip trembling as his wide eyes sought hers. But the nurse was quick to produce a wooden dragon, which the boy grasped eagerly, immediately gnawing on the toy with a satisfied little grunt.

Daemon’s smirk was undeniable as he sank onto the bench beside her, his presence close enough to tease propriety but just distant enough to frustrate her.

“Must you throw my son in the air, Uncle?” Rhaenyra chided, her tone a mix of seriousness and teasing. “You’re not so youthful anymore, and it worries me.”

Daemon huffed, a mock glare darkening his violet eyes. “i'm not so old,” he said with an exaggerated grumble, “that I can’t catch a babe who weighs no more than a blanket.”

Rhaenyra laughed, the sound warm and bright. “Both of us know Joff weighs far more than a blanket. A ton, at the very least!”

Daemon’s lips quirked in reluctant amusement. “Perhaps a very fluffy ton.” he conceded.

The Grand Maester’s words came unbidden to her lips as she looked down the beach to where her children laughed in the sand then to her youngest who was being surrounded by several cooing nurses. “The Grand Maester suggested we limit Joffrey’s food intake,” Rhaenyra said with a faint smile, watching as her son’s nurse put him in a dry new clothes. “so he does not grow too fat.”

Daemon, lounging beside her with that infuriating mix of ease and arrogance, snorted at the very idea. “Nonsense. In Essos, a fat child is a sign of a wealthy, prosperous house—proof of riches enough to indulge in food. And Joffrey isn’t even a year old! No one wants a skinny babe.”

She laughed lightly, nodding in agreement. “Aemond Waters was a skinny babe,” she said, a note of teasing mischief in her voice. “Limbs too long and knees far too prominent.”

Daemon arched a brow, his smirk returning with sharp-edged amusement. “There it is. Proof enough that we don’t want any of the princes to resemble the dragon thief in any way.”

The nurse returned then, Joffrey nestled in her arms, his little hands reaching toward Rhaenyra as she opened her arms wide for him. He burrowed eagerly against her chest, his warm, soft weight settling against her as he began to gum at the large sapphire that adorned her bodice.

“Joffrey,” she said softly, rocking him as her fingers traced the dark curls on his head. “Are you tired, my love?”

The babe cooed in response, his little voice forming indistinct sounds that mimicked conversation. “Nana anana.” he babbled, his eyes growing heavy even as he fought the pull of sleep.

“Did you enjoy playing on the beach?” she asked, her tone lilting as if speaking to a much older child. “We’ll have to find ways to enjoy the beach even in the Red Keep.”

Joffrey answered her with more babbled nonsense, his tiny hands waving as though to emphasize his point. But despite his valiant effort, his lids drooped lower with each moment. She cuddled him closer, but his tiny frame squirmed in protest, his whimpers soft but insistent as he resisted her attempts to soothe him into slumber.

Daemon chuckled at the sight, reaching out to take the boy from her arms. “Come here, little prince.” he murmured, settling Joffrey against his shoulder with practiced ease. He rose and began a slow, steady pacing, his hand rubbing circles against the boy’s back.

Rhaenyra watched as Joffrey’s resistance waned, his little head lolling against Daemon’s shoulder. A line of drool escaped his lips, soaking into the fabric of Daemon’s tunic as the boy’s fingers brushed ineffectively at his own face trying to wipe sleep off his face. Despite himself, Joffrey’s movements stilled, his breaths evening out until sleep claimed him.

Daemon turned to one of the waiting daybeds, settling into its cushioned embrace as he leaned with Joff still cradled on his chest, the nurse approached with a thick blanket. She tucked it carefully around Joffrey, smoothing it over his back as the boy nestled closer to Daemon. But the woman leaned down too far, her ample bosom nearly brushing against Daemon’s face as she adjusted the blanket with exaggerated care.

Amusement flashed in Daemon’s eyes, and a slow, devilish smile curved his lips as he looked up at the nurse.

“That will be all.” Rhaenyra snapped, her voice cold enough to cut.

The woman startled, her face reddening as she bobbed a clumsy curtsey before hurrying away.

Daemon glanced at Rhaenyra, his expression both amused and infuriatingly pleased. “Was that truly necessary?” he asked, his voice laced with a teasing drawl.

Rhaenyra glared at him, her cheeks warm with equal parts irritation and something far more dangerous. He chuckled softly, the sound low and rumbling enough to startle Joffrey in his arms. Daemon’s hand immediately resumed its rhythmic tapping on the boy’s back, soothing him with an effortless care that made her stomach flutter.

She couldn’t look away. The sight of her son nestled against Daemon’s chest, of the man she had once known as reckless and untamed holding her child with such tenderness, ignited something deep within her. Butterflies stirred in her stomach, and a quiet, dangerous longing coiled in her core.

She wanted him. Gods, how she wanted him. The way he looked at her, the way he moved, even the way he smirked—it all set her blood aflame. But desire, she reminded herself, could wait. She needed to be sure of his loyalty first.

For now, she allowed herself to linger on the sight of them together, her lips curving into a soft, private smile. Even now, in this fragile peace, Daemon and Joffrey had found comfort in each other. And though she ached for more, she was content to wait—for just a little while longer.

Rhaenyra glanced toward the children, their laughter carried by the sea breeze as they built sandcastles with determined enthusiasm. She smiled softly, but her expression grew more serious as she turned back to Daemon.

"Are you ready to return to the viper's pit?" she asked, arching a brow.

Daemon smirked, his signature cockiness lighting up his features. "The viper's pit is never ready to have me back,. he drawled, leaning back with an air of nonchalance.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at his reply, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. "Just... try not to antagonize my father too much, will you?" she said, her tone part exasperated, part pleading. "I’d rather you not be banished immediately upon arrival."

Daemon chuckled, tilting his head toward her with mock innocence. "Me? Antagonize the King? Never."

She shot him a pointed look, and he responded with a small shrug that said you know exactly who I am. Her gaze drifted back to the children, and her expression softened.

"Jace and Luke won’t like it if Rhaena and Baela had to leave." she murmured, a hint of wistfulness in her voice.

Daemon’s smirk turned mischievous, his eyes narrowing as he leaned toward her. "Am i suddenly more valuable now because of my daughters?" he teased, the faintest tilt to his lips betraying his amusement.

Rhaenyra turned to glare at him, the sharpness of her gaze cutting through his smugness. "Must you always fish for compliments, uncle?" she shot back before rolling her eyes once more, a sigh escaping her lips.

Daemon laughed, a low, rich sound that carried an undeniable charm. "I can’t help it. You make it far too easy." he said, his voice smooth and full of mischief.

Rhaenyra let out a soft sigh, her gaze still fixed on the children playing by the shore. Their laughter was a soothing balm to her heart, but the weight of the past clung to her like a shadow.

"I really missed you," she murmured, her voice quieter now, tinged with a raw vulnerability she rarely let show. "These past ten years… they’ve been hell for me, Daemon. For me and for my children. We had no one. Not even my father seemed willing to protect us from the Greens."

She didn’t turn to look at him, though she could feel his presence shift beside her. It was subtle—Daemon adjusting his position, moving closer as though drawn by the pain in her voice. The heat of him, the sheer gravity of his presence, was undeniable.

"I regret that I wasn’t there to protect you." Daemon said, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, carrying the weight of truths unspoken.

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she kept her gaze steady on the horizon. Rhaenyra smiled bitterly, her lips curving into something more sorrowful than amused. “I understand,” she said softly, her voice trembling despite her efforts to steady it. “You wanted a family of your own, after the King denied you of your divorce for years and I wasn’t… important enough to be part of that.”

Daemon straightened after placing Joffrey on the daybed, his movements deliberate as he turned back to her. His eyes met hers, their usual gleam subdued, replaced by something softer, perhaps regret, perhaps defiance.

“You think you weren’t important enough?” he said, his voice low, measured. “You were everything—are everything—but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t a fool. I’ve made choices... wrong ones, maybe. Ones that hurt us both.”

He took a step closer, his hands braced against the table between them, as if the distance was a chasm he couldn’t quite cross. “But don’t mistake my distance for lack of care."

Daemon lowered himself to a crouch before her, his hands resting lightly on her knees. He tilted his head, searching her face as though he could find the words he sought there, then reached out, his fingers lifting her chin gently. Their gazes locked, his amethyst eyes betraying an uncommon rawness—guilt etched into the lines of his face, yet beneath it, a glimmer of hope, a silent promise.

“When you asked me to take you to Dragonstone,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “to make you my wife, gods, I wanted to. More than anything. But I knew Viserys… his hate for me burns brighter than his love for you. He would have disinherited you without a second thought. And I—” His voice faltered, and he drew in a sharp breath. “I couldn’t bear the risk that one day you would look at me with regret, blaming me for what you lost.”

Rhaenyra pulled her face from his grasp, her expression sharp with indignation. “You think so little of me?” she challenged, her tone a mix of hurt and anger.

Daemon chuckled softly, though the sound held no humor. “You were young,” he admitted, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes on hers. “You don’t know what it is to grow up in a place that should be your home, only to feel like an unwanted guest—and then to be cast out entirely when you displease the king. I was terrified, Rhaenyra, that the allure of being the Rogue Prince’s wife would fade. That when the weight of a lost crown pressed down on you, you would resent me for it.”

She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I suppose we’ll never know, as you didn’t give me the chance to find out.”

His smile turned sad, his eyes reflecting years of pain and guilt. He looked as though he might speak but stopped himself, shaking his head faintly.

“Do I need to brace myself for another ten years of your absence the moment you and my father had another one of your disagreements?” she asked softly, her voice edged with vulnerability. “For you to leave to leave to face court alone again?”

Daemon straightened, his expression sobering, and he reached for her hand. “No,” he said, his voice steady with quiet determination. “I’ll do my best to stay. I won’t leave you to fend off the vipers alone again.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a small, wistful smile. “That would make me very happy.” she murmured, her voice tinged with something fragile but hopeful.

He pressed her hand against his chest, as if swearing an oath. “Then I’ll try, Rhaenyra. I’ll try.”

A sudden wail shattered the tension between them. Luke burst into the tent, his little face streaked with tears and his hand held aloft as if it were a battle standard. "It bit me! It bit me! My finger’s gone!" he sobbed, the words tumbling over each other in his panic.

Rhaenyra was on her feet in an instant, her maternal instincts propelling her forward. "My sweet boy, what happened?" she asked, drawing him into her arms. Luke buried his tear-drenched face in her stomach, his small body trembling.

The tent erupted into a flurry of chaos as the gravity of Luke's cries sank in. Inside the billowing canvas walls, the servants sprang into action, their panic palpable. One of the nurses shrieked, "Fetch the maester!" and darted toward the door with such haste that her foot caught on the edge of a rug, sending her stumbling forward. She barely caught herself before bolting toward the castle, skirts flapping wildly behind her.

Another attendant was already scrambling toward the corner of the tent, her arms laden with blankets. “He’ll catch a chill!” she exclaimed, fumbling to drape one over Luke's shoulder.

"Boil water—quickly!" came another frantic order. A servant with a basin in hand spun around so fast she nearly collided with a man carrying a bundle of clean cloth. The clatter of hurried footsteps mingled with the sound of waves crashing against the shore, creating a cacophony of chaos.

From the opening of the tent, Baela’s laughter rang out, bright and unbothered. "It was just a crab, Luke. A little one!"

"It was the biggest crab!" Luke shot back, his teary voice rising in protest. He turned his face back into his mother’s lap, hiccupping through his tears.

Rhaenyra inspected the finger he held up dramatically, finding it only slightly red. Her lips curved into a soft smile despite herself. "Oh, Luke." she murmured, smoothing back his tousled hair. trying her best to soothe him as his tears streamed freely, his little body trembling with sobs. His cries were incoherent, a wail of gibberish about a missing finger. Her hands cupped his tear-streaked face gently, her thumbs brushing at his cheeks, but her efforts seemed futile. He was inconsolable, his distress spiraling into hysteria.

Nearby, Baela—who had been laughing uproariously mere moments ago—paused mid-cackle. A frown creased her brow as she stepped closer, her tone sharp. “Stop lying, Luke! Your finger’s just fine.” she declared, planting her hands on her hips.

Luke's wailing stopped just long enough for him to glare at her through his tears. “It’s not fine!” he shouted back, his voice shrill. “It’s gone! It’s gone!”

Their shouting quickly escalated into a chaotic match of accusations and denials, with neither willing to concede ground.

Rhaena hovered nearby, looking concerned. "Stop teasing him!" Rhaena whispered, her tone full of quiet reproach.

Daemon, who had been watching from his perch on the daybed, shifted slightly to ensure Joffrey remained undisturbed by the commotion. "Enough, Baela." he said with a glance toward his elder daughter. "If you don’t quit, we’ll let the crab have a go at pinching you and see how you like it."

Baela’s laughter stopped abruptly, though she crossed her arms and pouted. "He’s just being a baby," she grumbled. "It didn’t even hurt!"

"That’s enough," Rhaenyra said gently, retreating back on her seat and pulling Luke fully into her lap. She whispered soft, soothing words in his ear as he continued to cry, though the sobs began to soften into sniffles. "You’re so brave, my darling. It won’t hurt much longer, I promise."

Rhaenyra almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the scene but managed to suppress it, though a smile tugged at her lips. The sheer ridiculousness of their bickering reminded her of how young they still were, of how innocent their squabbles remained despite everything.

Her gaze lingered on Luke, whose chest still heaved with uneven breaths. Her sweet boy. This Luke, spirited and loud even in his distress, was so different from the shy, guilt-ridden boy she remembered from her time. The boy who had lived under the crushing weight of guilt for what had happened to Aemond had been quieter, his spark dimmed by self-reproach.

This time she had ensured that her Luke’s light hadn’t been extinguished by burdens he was far too young to bear. It was no small victory, and one she cherished.

She reached out and pressed a kiss to his forehead, her touch soft and calming. “Look, my sweet,” she said, taking his hand and splaying his fingers before him, counting each one loudly. “All accounted for. There’s nothing missing.”

Luke sniffled, his sobs subsiding as he studied his hand. Slowly, realization dawned, and he gave a shy nod.

Rhaena stepped forward, her small hands clutching a strip of fabric she’d turned into a makeshift bandage. "Here, Luke," she said softly. "Let me wrap it for you."

Luke immediately perked up, thrusting his finger toward his cousin with wide, hopeful eyes. Rhaenyra watched the exchange with quiet fondness, her heart swelling. Rhaena had always had a way of drawing Luke out of his moods, coaxing him into laughter with a gentleness that warmed Rhaenyra’s soul. She hoped her girl might temper Luke’s more daring streaks this time, though that seemed a challenge even for Rhaena.

Baela rolled her eyes but refrained from adding fuel to the fire, though her arms remained crossed. Daemon, meanwhile, shook his head in exasperation and turned away, muttering something under his breath about dramatic children.

Baela, still sulking, watched the scene with furrowed brows. Rhaenyra turned to her eldest niece, her voice calm but firm. "Baela, my brave girl, you must remember that everyone feels pain differently. Some people tolerate more, some less, but that doesn’t make their hurt any less real. When someone says they’re in pain, we believe them."

"But it wasn’t even a true bite!" Baela argued, her expression stubborn. "When we were in Pentos, my knees bled, and I didn’t cry!"

Rhaenyra placed a steadying hand on Baela’s shoulder. "Just because you’ve experienced more doesn’t mean someone else’s pain isn’t awful. This isn’t a competition, Baela."

There was a beat of silence before Baela huffed softly, her frown fading. "I understand," she said reluctantly. Turning to Lucerys, she muttered, "I’m sorry, Luke."

Luke, ever the forgiving soul, accepted immediately, holding up his now-bandaged finger for her inspection.

A mischievous grin tugged at Baela’s lips, and she leaned down to blow gently on his finger. "There," she said with a small laugh. "All better."

Luke giggled, his earlier tears forgotten, and Rhaenyra’s heart ached with quiet gratitude. This was what she’d fought for—a moment of peace, her family together, even amidst the chaos of childhood squabbles and crabs.

The remaining three days on the island were consumed by vigilance and preparation. Daemon took charge of overseeing the patrols, issuing orders that any Hightower ship spotted in the Narrow Sea was to be sunk without hesitation. His presence was a force unto itself, commanding respect from even the most seasoned men. Rhaenyra, for her part, turned her focus inward, holding court each morning at the Throne Room. Smallfolk and nobles alike queued with their grievances and petitions, and she listened with measured patience, dispensing wisdom with a firm yet fair hand. By the time the sun set on the final day, there was a sense of assurance that both the island’s defenses and its people’s needs had been addressed.

When their departure came, they boarded the Sea Dragon under a crisp morning sky. Luke was quickly whisked away by the crew, who had taken a particular liking to the boy’s curious nature and endless energy. They showed him every nook and cranny of his own ship, from the hidden compartments in the hold to the crow’s nest high above. Luke’s delighted laughter carried over the salt-tinged air, a bright contrast to the otherwise serious mood of the voyage.

Yet not everyone aboard was as forthcoming. One sailor in particular semed to avoid the royal children at every opportunity. His name was Alyn of Hull, although older and different  in appearance in this time she knows exactly who he is. He was the bastard legitimized by Corlys Velaryon after Rhaenys’ death, though Rhaenyra had long suspected his true parentage. The sharp, angular features of Alyn bore little resemblance to Laenor Velaryon, but whispers had always surrounded the Hull boys, suggesting they might in fact be Corlys’ sons—a rumor Rhaenyra had never fully dismissed. It was clear that this time, he was from the Sea snake’s loins.

Even when her Joffrey’s was still alive, Lord Corlys had entertained the notion of naming the Hull boys as heirs—a dangerous idea Rhaenyra was too tire then to opposed, something that she  would not allow now. Her eyes lingered on Alyn as he moved with quiet competence among the crew, his gaze averted whenever hers turned his way. Though he had given her no cause for mistrust, Rhaenyra knew the ambitions of men were often stirred by opportunity. And with the sea as vast as the horizon, there was no shortage of ambition aboard this ship.

Upon their arrival at King’s Landing, the change in atmosphere was immediate—and offensive. The city’s infamous stench assaulted their senses as soon as they disembarked, and Baela, never one to mince words, declared loudly in the carriage, “It smells worse in here than it does on the docks!”

Rhaenyra pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperation creeping into her expression.

“Even with the windows closed, the smell finds its way in,” Baela continued, wrinkling her nose and pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders as though it might shield her. “How do people live like this?”

“It is mortifying,” Rhaenyra agreed, her tone contemplative. “The capital of the Seven Kingdoms should be a jewel, a face to the world, and yet it reeks like a midden heap. No foreign dignitary would willingly endure this, let alone take a favorable impression back with them. I shall see to it that the streets are cleaned before we next venture out.”

Baela perked up at that, folding her arms with a satisfied huff. “We’ll need it spotless if we’re to visit the theater.”

Jace looked puzzled. “The troupe usually performs at the castle. Why would we need to go to the theater?”

“Because,” Baela replied with a touch of exasperation, “the plays are meant to be seen there. That’s where all the props and stage sets are. It’s not the same without them.”

Rhaena nodded in agreement, her voice gentle but firm. “The theater offers an experience they simply cannot replicate in the Great Hall. The atmosphere, the space—it all adds to the performance.”

Jace considered this thoughtfully, nodding along as though they had presented a sound argument at court. Meanwhile, Luke was blissfully detached from the conversation, his focus entirely on Joffrey. He had invented a new game of taking Joffrey’s nose, giggling uncontrollably as he pretended to give it back.

Rhaenyra felt an immense relief when the carriage finally emerged from the labyrinthine streets of Flea Bottom, the cloying stench of unwashed bodies, rotting foods and bodily excrements giving way to the floral sweetness that lingered even in the lower reaches of the castle. The royal gardeners, it seemed, had spared no effort in cultivating their blooms to mask the reality of the city below. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile at the sight of the welcoming assembly in the outer yard—the entirety of the court, gathered to greet her with all the pomp and ceremony she expected of the Crownlands.

As the lien of carriages and carts stopped, Rhaenyra was the first to dismount, followed by her children, her ladies-in-waiting, the fosterlings, and her household in well-rehearsed order. The King himself awaited her with open arms, his face creased with emotion, and his misty eyes brimming with theatrics she could not help but find both endearing and exasperating.

Rhaenyra stepped into her father's embrace, his arms warm and eager as he held her close.

“You’ve brought the sunshine back to the Red Keep, my dear.” he whispered, his voice thick with sentiment.

Rhaenyra almost rolled her eyes at the sentimentality. Almost. She felt a pang deep within her, stirring memories of her own father, her King Viserys. It stirred too many memories of the growing distance between them that had been widened, not mended, by time. She resolved then and there that this King—her King—would not be left to rot in his bed, unattended and neglected, as her father had been under the Greens’ dubious care.

Instead of chastising him, she wrinkled her nose with a teasing smile and whispered, “Is that how you court Healer Helene? Truly, my King, that was terribly saccharine.”

Her jest earned a booming laugh that echoed through the courtyard, and he kissed her on both cheeks with affectionate warmth before turning to Daemon. The two men exchanged a grimace of familiarity and clasped hands, murmuring in low tones before the King turned his attention to the children.

Each of her children was gathered into his arms, receiving enthusiastic hugs and kisses on their heads. Lord Corlys, meanwhile, already had Luke hoisted onto his hip, wearing a grin so wide it seemed he might split his face in two. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but wonder what chaos the Velaryons had unleashed in her absence to warrant such a self-satisfied expression. Whatever it was, it would certainly demand her attention later.

Rhaenys, regal as ever, stood with each arm draped protectively over the twins’ shoulders, a picture of matronly pride. Meanwhile, little Joffrey had fastened himself to Daemon’s collar with a determination that neither cajoling nor bribery from the King could dislodge. The sight softened her, even as she kept one eye on the rest of her household’s disembarkation.

Her gaze landed at last on the Queen. Alicent was conspicuously sidelined, her trembling hands clutching a walking stick as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her nailbeds were raw and bloodied, a telltale sign of her nervous habits. Rhaenyra allowed herself a small, victorious smile—a fleeting expression that she smoothed away before anyone could accuse her of gloating.

Today, the Red Keep is hers once more.

She approached the Queen, who stood almost isolated from the rest of the court. Alicent was in a small group, her frailty unmistakable as she leaned heavily on her cane, her hands white-knuckling the polished wood. The others were scattered around her, giving her space, as though unsure of how to approach the delicate Queen, whose mind was as fragile as her body.

Without hesitation, Rhaenyra made her way toward Alicent, her steps light but purposeful. The courtiers, sensing something was amiss, grew still, their attention now focused on the tense interaction about to unfold. Rhaenyra did not offer a curtsy, nor did she bow in respect. She walked straight to her stepmother, her gaze unwavering. She could feel the eyes of the court on her, the quiet gasps that followed her every move.

As Rhaenyra reached Alicent, she did not lower her eyes in the usual subservient gesture, nor did she wait for an invitation. Instead, she took Alicent’s hands in her own, gripping them firmly. The Queen’s grip faltered, and the cane that had supported her fragile form clattered loudly against the stone. It seemed to echo across the courtyard, the sound so sharp it made even the birds pause mid-flight.

“I am so pleased to find you hale, dear stepmother!” Rhaenyra said loudly, her voice carrying across the courtyard. The words were dripping with sweetness, but the sharpness beneath them was unmistakable. The Queen flinched at the touch, but Rhaenyra held her hands with an unwavering strength. Alicent, her eyes wide and still filled with a quiet dread, seemed almost unsteady on her feet, her fingers twitching at Rhaenyra’s firm hold.

“I trust,” Rhaenyra continued, her gaze not leaving the Queen’s face, “that whatever illness of the mind led you to believe I would ever push you down the stairs has been fully cured by now.”

The court gasped at her forwardness, eyes widening at the audacity of such words in front of the Queen. The tension was palpable, the air thick with an uneasy silence as the weight of the accusation hung between them like a specter.

Rhaenyra smiled, unbothered by the shock of those around her. She had no need for decorum when the truth was known to them all. The whispers of the past had been loud enough—there was no need to soften her words.

Viserys, standing a few paces away, cleared his throat. His eyes, always uncomfortable with such confrontations, bore into Rhaenyra with a clear reproach. He did not like public displays of discord, especially not with his wife.

But Rhaenyra, ever composed, turned her gaze sweetly upon him. “It’s alright, Father,” she said with a smile that could almost be called innocent, though it carried an edge of mischief. “Alicent has already gathered her wits, I believe.” She turned back to the Queen, her eyes flickering with a playful glint. “Tomorrow, I will ask the healer for a massage for myself, for the children, and for my ladies. Perhaps you and Helaena would care to join us? It would be terribly delightful.”

As she released Alicent’s hands, the Queen, unsteady without the support of her cane, swayed for a moment, her balance precarious. Alicent made a soft sound of distress as she reached for the fallen cane, but it remained out of her grasp, now abandoned on the cold stone. She saw as the Queen’s Ladies-in-waiting hurried to her side. Rhaenyra did not offer help, her focus already shifting to her sister, Helaena, who stood a short distance away, staring vacantly at a point just past Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

With a flutter of her hand, Rhaenyra gave Helaena a kiss in the air near her cheek. “I do hope you’ll join us tomorrow, sister. It will be so much fun!” she said, her tone playful but with an underlying hint of something more calculating.

Helaena blinked, her expression a mix of confusion and hesitation, before she gave a slow, dazed nod.

Rhaenyra then turned to the rest of the court, her voice commanding and bright as she addressed them all. “I thank you for the warm welcome you’ve extended to me and my household. Despite the great loss we’ve endured, we remain resolute in our commitment to serve the Seven Kingdoms.” Her gaze swept over the courtiers, noting the tense silence that followed her words. “"The rogue prince has returned, bringing with him two jewels—Lady Baela and Lady Rhaena, daughters of the late Lady Laena."

Baela squared her shoulders, her chin lifting just so, as if to present an air of quiet resilience. She radiated the poise of a young woman who had inherited both her mother’s fiery spirit and her father’s unyielding resolve. Beside her, Rhaena offered a radiant smile that seemed to light up the room—a smile so effortlessly charming, it softened even the sternest of hearts. Together, they were a study in contrast: one, all steel and determination; the other, all grace and warmth. Yet, in that moment, they stood united, embodying the legacy of Lady Laena in every glance and gesture.

Rhaenyra smiled at them both then continued. "It is my hope that their presence shall remind us all of their mother’s grace and spirit. Please extend your warmest welcome to the young ladies, ensuring that the court offers them such delights as will ease the absence of the foreign shores they once called home. Let us show Lady Laena’s daughters the very best that the Seven Kingdoms has to offer.”

The applause rang out across the courtyard, vibrant and unrestrained. The gathered lords and ladies, cloaked against the crisp breeze, clapped with enthusiasm that bordered on exuberance. Rhaenyra observed their reaction with a small, triumphant smile, standing a touch taller. 

Turning slightly, her eyes caught Alicent’s across the courtyard. The Queen’s face was tight, her lips pinched as though she were biting back some retort or hiding her displeasure. Her usual air of self-possession faltered just enough for Rhaenyra to detect the cracks beneath.

Rhaenyra smiled, the expression soft enough to be courteous yet laced with a subtle edge. The applause continued, the rhythmic clapping a reminder that this court was hers now, its mood dictated by her will. Alicent had once held sway here, but that time had passed. The realm was no longer divided into loyalties that vied for dominance.

Let her stew in that knowledge, Rhaenyra thought with a quiet satisfaction, watching as Alicent shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of courtly approval that was not hers to command. Here, in the open air of the courtyard, the truth could not be ignored. Rhaenyra’s rule, her alliances, and her family were stronger than ever.

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.