The Silver Seahorse (a Laenor Velaryon SI)

by babalala

Summary:

SI into Laenor Velaryon. Watch as our protagonist stumbles his way to the finish line, and catch a few bruises and maybe avoid an attempted murder or two along the way.

Chapter 1: SI POV I

Summary:

Our protagonist awakens.

***
SI POV I

I woke up mildly expecting the blinking cursor of my laptop screen staring down tauntingly at my slumped form; that folded aching mess of numb skin, quite little muscle and bones that had spent far too much of the night stuck in a truly disagreeable position being shown the holy light of having written a total of four hundred words. It’s not commonplace I assure you; only a bad case of writer’s block would ever end up with me sleeping at my desk. But it had happened enough times that the piss yellow hue of my laptop’s small light bar – an indicator that I had forgotten to plug in that damned charger again – would greet my bad case of deskhead and ravage at my poor, poor eyeballs.

My eyesight being abysmal did not change. In fact, it had somehow gotten worse. Usually, I’d chalk it down to early morning bleariness but the fact everything was now completely black had me on high alert. And the place I was in? Yeah, wet and sticky and straight up nanoscopic, as if I had been shoved into an old unwashed piping bag filled with year old chocolate ganache. Now, my room had never been exactly big or colourful but it was by no means the size of a rice grain or fifty thousand bloody shades of muted grey. As much as I like to joke that I’m blind, even my eyesight was like 20/20 vision compared to the David Aspden painting it had turned into overnight. What was even more disturbing was the fact I was completely and utterly nude and could feel various fluids clinging onto my privates while my poor body tried desperately to crawl out of that confined space. The best I could do was little more than a slippery shove forward before my momentum died. By now, I was a bit more than just concerned; straight up panicking would be apt. Still, us humans do try to rationalise even the most absurd things. So obviously, my brain was just wired from a lot of stuff and this horrible product of either REM or Dream from the Sandman’s meddling had decided to give me ‘the’ wake up call of wake up calls. All I needed to do was just close my eyes and sleep…

Wait a minu-

Why was the weird piping bag contracting, squeezing my poor tushy so tightly!? And why was I feeling very real, very physical pain? That alone should have woken my physical body up by now!

I was starting to regret not watching those breathing exercise videos my therapist had sent me because either:

1. The bacon bits on my cheesy fries hadn’t been turkey or beef and God almighty had come down to smite me down for my heresy and had landed me in my own personal Fields of Punishment-type situation; or

2. I had been small-ified and gobbled up by my cat and landed up somewhere in his digestive tract; or

3. Martians. The fucking Martians had gotten me and were using me as a test subject and doing only something ao3 users were capable of writing about.

Whichever way it went, I was screwed. Scratch that, completely and utterly mulcted by life itself. I couldn’t breathe or move properly from both anxiety and what I suspected must have been a gargantuan amount of fentanyl, my surroundings were oppressively muggy and had me boxed in and my already shitty eyesight had gotten shittier.

The contracting rings of only God knows what weren’t helping me either. I know you’re supposed to remain calm and collected in these situations but holy hell was I twisting my body to try and scoot myself out. I was aided heavily by some form of peristalsis in my efforts. After contraction comes relaxation as you biology nerds may know and as a result, I slip ‘n slid my way further down the hellhole, my poor forehead bumping onto an opening that was promising me a ‘get out of jail free’ pass. The light at the end of the proverbial tunnel was somehow not as bright as I expected it to be and the sounds of a completely alien language from the outside, a mix of shrill screams and gentle coaxing, had me wanting to return back to the little nook I had inside.

My fear of blocking the circulation and worms looking out to infiltrate my own guts coupled with the fact I doubted I’d last any longer in there won out however. With much exertion, I twisted my shoulders in an attempt to get my arms out. It took a few tries and a lot of encouragement from my new Martian friends (something I was beginning to suspect wasn’t directed at me) but I managed to get my grubby what-had-to-be mutilated hands onto the ever-widening opening and let physics, the weird sphincter like mechanism and a lack of friction do the job.

Just like that, I was catapulted out of whatever they had put me in and landed in the firm yet gentle grip of what had to be a giant. And boy do I mean giant. I was by no means heavy or anything; in fact, I was bordering on underweight. But Holy Ymir whatever was holding me was the size of a fifteen-metre giant based on how easily they were lifting me up. I must’ve been as light as a feather to them if the way they were carrying me with ease was saying something. The hands felt human-like at first touch and the texture did eerily resemble skin but for all I know, they were camouflaged as humans to try to ease me into a false sense of security à la Mystique. Then BHAM! Eggs are growing inside of me and I’m in a bacta tank, nothing but a naked caged animal regretting ever having gone into the dark side of ao3 and stumbled upon its worst stories. My trepidation only intensified when I felt some sort of restraint tying me to that lab rat’s labyrinth they had constructed for me. I could feel a sharp tug as I wiggled in what had to be the Attack Titan’s palm, could hear the sharp snip snip of shears and prepared for the worst.

Instead…

Nothing. Literally, whatever giant organic appendage tying me to the tunnel was gone and my movement was a bit better, even though I had lost like 99% of motor control. My eyelids worked in overdrive to try to get all that gunk off my eyes not – either voluntarily or not – but this Brobdingnagian monster was already lifting me away, barking orders in what I was beginning to think was a man’s voice while more feminine sounding voices seemed to defer to him. His bony fingers were prodding at me, sizing me up and examining me as if I was a prime Picasso about to go to auction. Then, he handed me off to what had to be one of the female aliens attending him. I could feel the slightly rougher texture of fabric wash over my face as I was enveloped in soft cloth.

Fuck me, why are they taking such great care of me?

I didn’t know aliens were first class servants to their abducted wards. Then again, this might be some Star Wars-level shit so I might have avoided Earth getting destroyed à la Alderaan. Was I perhaps one of the lucky enough chosen to be kept in the ‘invaded planets’ zoo? My “I was abducted by Martians” theory seemed a bit more plausible in that case given I was born in March and Mars was my favourite of all planets by default. That of course didn’t mean the prospect settled well with my already perturbed stomach. Us Aries’ really do always get the short end of the stick.

Just when I thought life was getting better and this happens. I hadn’t even gotten to break in my tub of chocolate ice cream swirled with chocolate syrup in time. Fuck it, time to formulate my ‘get the hell away or die trying’ plan. My vision was now clearing up and I could see sort of. Okay, maybe that was being generous. By ‘see’ I meant vaguely make out the shapes, or rather, the very blurred grey blobs I supposed were my adultnappers. There seemed to be quite a few from the looks of it and I was clearly the centre of attention. My hearing was surprisingly better than expected although again, that mattered little when I couldn’t understand what the hell they were saying. It didn’t sound like the Geonosian I was expecting. In fact, it sounded like something that could’ve been from earth, like an old distant relative of Ye Olde English or one of those other romance languages. Hmm, so maybe us humans were wrong in assuming all alien species were a bunch of reptiles with somewhat humanoid forms. Or maybe we were just being prejudiced against them having fully formed vocal cords. Not that that concerned me at the moment; my attempts to move were just as vain as they had been in the gulag I had woken up in. When I opened my mouth to attempt to get some words out, all that came out was a rather pitiful ‘Gah!’.

It wasn’t even a scream; it was a whine. Not just any whine….

A baby’s whine.

Fuck, did I just get reincarnated- Wait, screw that, double fuck, did I just die midway through writing bad fanfiction?

As you can probably guess, I broke in my new tear ducts shortly after.

***

Whoever wrote the first ‘SI from birth’ story has a special place in hell marked for them. Now you may be wondering, “woah dude, isn’t that extreme? It’s not your fault you actually ended up God knows where in a newborn baby’s body!”. Rest assured; I don’t think some amateur fanfiction author accidentally moved my consciousness between worlds. If that was possible, I’m sure people would’ve picked up the alarming increase in car accidents and “death quand tu dors” over the years by members of the aSoIaF fandom.

What I was pissed about was the total unrealistic interpretations they had about what being a newborn baby entailed. If it were any other fic, I should’ve taken notice of my surroundings by now and picked up a few clues of potentially where I was, or at the very least what era I was working with. Instead, my vision remained unchangingly abysmal for the longest time. I’m talking 20/400 vision in black and white; like a toddler artist’s first foray into graphite and charcoal. And my dietary needs? Well, they had changed.

As any full-grown adult, my first thought when they’d placed me on what had to be a breast for feeding was “hell no”. Yet, my new baby-ly instincts had kicked in soon after and I was searching for the teat before a minute had even passed.

It was deeply humiliating.

I had regained some semblance of control as I adjusted to my new body but the days were quickly blurring into one as I steadily fell into a repetitive Groundhog Day-esque cycle: eat, sleep, shit, eat, sleep, repeat multiple times per day. And I cannot emphasise enough on the sleep; I was sleeping for most of the day it felt like. I couldn’t force my body to stay awake and even if I could, I didn’t want to. Sleeping was one of the few things that gave me a respite from my new position in life: torn from family, technology, solid food and proper plumbing. My prison, or crib as my new caretakers called it, was even more infuriating but not for the reasons you might suspect. The space was large enough but my newborn muscles were too weak to even give me the movement I was desiring. I was a sluggard back in my first life – and God it was weird calling it that – but I had never spent literal days at a time lying on my back without standing. This new reality had me at my wits’ end.

My nappy situation wasn’t helping either. Okay, maybe nappy was not an all too accurate description of my medieval swaddling clothes. Yes, diapers weren’t a thing yet because of course God needed to fuck me over even more. Instead, my legs were swaddled in long, narrow bands of wool and linen that got routinely changed whenever I gave a cry out for help. Thankfully, we hadn’t gone full medieval Europe although the lack of diaper cream and wet wipes was concerning, especially when my nannies were most definitely not using my preferred brand of Johnson’s baby powder. Still, the lack of proper diapers gave me a clearer gauge of what type of world I should expect while my eyesight improved. Not even Star-Wars Old Republic era unless I had been taken in by the alien equivalent of Ren Fair cosplayers who were taking their roles way too serious. And, from the few times I’d gotten held, I had managed to get a feel of their clothes and from that deduce their status and proximity in kinship.

For one, those who I guessed were relatives wore serious drip. Luxurious was an understatement: velvets, silks, lace, furs and other fabrics that screamed “MEDIEVAL RICH PEOPLE CRAP” to me as well as serious bling if that egg-sized gem I was pretty sure had gotten my hands on truly was what I thought it was. So, I was definitely firmly entrenched in the upper class which was always a good thing. That meant a life that did not entail an early death so long as I kept the feasting and warring down to a minimum. I hoped we were nearing the end of this world’s Long Renaissance. If so, I could at least bet on there being chocolate which was always a good thing in my eyes. But again, moderation was key. If I could also find some Leonardo Da Vinci-type figures, I could regain a lot of my comforts early on; flushable toilets were always nice to have after all.

For that, I’d need my new relatives on my side and boy were there a few of them. Given I was being looked over quite a lot, perhaps I was the heir of something? Maybe a bank, lordship or God forbid a kingship (being a king was gonna way too much for me). Funding would be an issue until I got my new family on my side, even the ones whom I had already completely forgotten about. Nevertheless, I was starting to even recognise some of the visitors based on the frequency of their visits and their distinct voices, excluding the nannies whom I had imprinted on if the amount of cooing was saying something.

There was the most prominent and persistent blood-related visitor of mine, Cymoril as I called her, the woman who fed me at the breast every few hours when I wasn’t sleeping. The reason I called her Cymoril rested solely on how pretty her dark hair was and how beautiful she seemed even as a slowly sharpening blob. Her hair looked coal black and lovely (something I had quickly gained an appreciation of with my new monotone way of life) and was as soft as the lightest silk against my cheek. She was also pretty tall as well. My depth perception had taken a hit from my birth (by hit I meant it was fanciful at best) but she towered over my caretakers which I had taken as a sign of a high stature. Cymoril, I had deduced, was my mother based on how my nannies all seemed to kowtow to her. The way I had grown to recognise the feel of her skin against mine during feedings did help too. Say what you want about breastfeeding but the bonding really does work. Her taking the time of the day to do this instead of using a wet nurse spoke volumes of her love for me.

Cymoril was often accompanied by a child I had dubbed Bee, a young toddler-ish girl who would run her tiny yet still massive fingers (I was really small in comparison okay) on my cheeks and sometimes even attempt to hold me. She was definitely fair-haired unlike Cymoril from the way her hair was tittering towards really pale grey to white. Her liking me was a good thing given I was pretty sure she was my sister. If I was in a more gender equal society, I’d need to defer to her. For that reason, I always made an effort to bear with the annoying poking and far too tight hugs. If pretending to lavish in the affection was how I would have to win my bread and butter, it was a small price to pay.

My father, or the man I was assuming was my dad, had the same fair hair as Bee. Given the Cymoril nickname I had attached to my ‘mother’, I gave in and started calling him Elric. He was taller than Cymoril by a few inches and had a well-kept pale beard on his face. His hands weren’t as soft as the others and felt almost leathery against my own skin. Either he regularly spent hours in the sun or he did not know what sunscreen was. I still liked him well enough though given he always lifted me up and ‘flew’ me around the room. He had the hallmarks of a fun dad.

My new family had seemed decent enough from the get go though they probably couldn’t hold a candle to my old one. Even so, until muscle coordination and movement kicked in, I could not actually off myself even if I wanted to. And the initial bitterness had faded into a dull ache with time but it was still there, just hidden under many hours of sleep. God, I slept so much. The only good thing that came from it was the rough period of time I knew a baby slept.

With no clock to rely upon, I had started counting my days through sleep cycles. I was fairly sure a baby slept for about seventeen hours a day. Newborns probably sleep less but I was trying to stay as insentient as possible as a means of coping. That meant four sleeping cycles were around two and a third days if my mathematics was right, give or take another third of a day. My feeding schedule was expertly timed as well, a full twenty minutes per feeding with an average of around eight feedings per sleeping cycle. So about three weeks had passed from my rebirth per my calculations. Not exactly enough time to completely get over my loss but enough time to contemplate my new existence and reach some sort of New Life’s resolution.

I was stuck here because I had been raised surrounded by faith adherent first family who would chide me for even contemplating suicide. I was devoted enough to keep myself alive begrudgingly but I had conceded that I would probably turn into a less than ideal version of myself by the end of this new life. My new kinsfolk at least seemed kind enough and not at all murder-y. Then again, plenty of criminals put on a nice front before their dirty laundry got aired out so I couldn’t discount that. Hmm… I wish I could’ve met whatever put me here. The least they could’ve done was give me the option of where I got sent to. One Piece sounded really nice right now.

The loud footsteps of my new “parents” walking into the room cut me off from my daydream. My on-duty nanny quickly stood up and began to bow in deference to the two of them. My eyes quickly closed as they approached. Pretending to sleep was always a good way of finding out info, even if you didn’t understand the majority of it. Even adults feel less inclined to give out the juicy stuff if they see an infant staring up at them.

Cymoril picked me up with a great wide smile, pressing a big smack on my forehead. I feigned a yawn and curled onto her bust, tilting my head to stay in earshot of the conversation while she poked at my cheeks and baby talked to me with a smile. I did little but snuggle up into her arms and fake a yawn while Elric joined her in the middle of the room, a calloused thumb brushing up against my damnably soft and sensitive cheek. I gave out a fake sigh of contentment and pretended to revel in the touching.

They seemed to buy into my act well enough so I laid off the acting and tried to pick up what they were implying. While my grasp of the language was as beginner’s level as it comes, I had managed to pick up a few words and had deduced what they meant. I was still too young to get read to however so my efforts were probably in vain in the grand scheme of things. To make things worse, I didn’t even know my own name yet! I was sure it was being used but my hours spent snoozing meant I had missed it through a mixture of bad luck, too much introspection and my hearing not being up to par with what I was used to. Still, complaining would get me nowhere. Time to feign being asleep and try to pull off a cutesy act to divine out my name. I hoped it wasn’t anything that would guarantee me a life of ridicule. Think Gaylord or X Æ A-Xii. I could suffer with A-a-ron if it meant avoiding something straight from the crack name generator.

Cymoril and Elric were both pretty engrossed in the conversation which seemed either a good thing or a bad thing. A certain word kept being repeated but I could not make it out to save my own life. Virus? Walrus? What the hell were they talking about. Given it was being repeated fairly often, it must have been something of great import. I wiggled my body a little closer, trying to get what it was they were saying.

“#&#GYG@!YG&&?” said Cymoril, voice a tad contemplative.

“GGU!&*&!*G!D&,” replied Elric, brushing his fingers through that fine, fine moustache of his.

What the fuck are you two going on about?

I was starting to get mildly annoyed. “SPIT IT OUT ALREADY!” I bellowed, my newly infantile features contorting in what I hoped was a truly fearsome glare. “Spwa!” and a mouthful of spittle came out instead. Instead of the subservience I was expecting, I got my two new parents mildly amused as they stopped mid-walk and seemed to think of this as naught but baby talk. My eyebrows dipped into a scowl.

Three weeks in and the plan to off myself was tittering closely to being back on track. The drop to the floor didn’t seem so short from up in Cymoril’s arms. Hmm, time to gain some wiggle room. If this one-sided (two-sided??) conversation wasn’t going to yield any results, might as well take my chances. If God above was just, I’d wake up back home with my cat trying to slowly suffocate to death by face cuddling. I just needed to get the angle right and let gravity do its thing…

“&($&#!^#^^!7?”

My poor body grew taut at the sudden exclamation. God damn it, Elric! Can you not shut up for one measly second! My already thinned out patience was wearing even thinner now, bordering on anorexic. Could I not contemplate suicide without one of these two meat-mecha figures interrupting my internal monologue?! We all knew I would chicken out last minute anyway! Go talk about Walrus and his virus somewhere else. Just let little ole me be depressed (and mildly colic if the way my stomach was churning) alone! Where is the “shaking my head” emote when you bloody need it!?

My annoyance in regards to my truly shit circumstances must have been rather obvious this time given Cymoril smiled tiredly at me and walked me back to my not-so-secret oubliette. I relaxed slightly at her smile. I had a weakness for tall, beautiful women. I cast Elric a glance. Men too, I mused as I admired his potential silver fox features.

In a couple of years when they stopped being unknown, blurry blobs, I would probably cringe at my past self and maybe spit out some sick. But right now? Well, they weren’t my parents just yet.

I gave a bit of show as I slowly curled into my crib. Nothing too flashy, just a tummy roll and a closed-eye smile. People fell for it every time. Cymoril gave a proud cheer while Elric patted me on my head. A shame I was going to break in tears soon. Well, the gas needed to come out somehow and I wanted it out before it got too bad. During my early days, I had attempted to act indignant after one particular bad day by acting dead and refusing to cry out for help. After hours of crying trying to get a burp out while fighting off an atrocious stomach ache, I was not looking to repeat that mistake again.

One of my nannies would come. Hopefully Felicia as I called her, a rather curvaceous nanny of mine with pale hair just like my dad’s. She was always gentle with the back rubs. God forbit it was Alvida. She was a middle-aged, matronly woman with a kind heart but her superior weight and strong hands always ended up with me lightheaded and feeling a bit sore. The only reason I never complained was because I didn’t want her to get fired just because I was cognisant enough to call her out on it. So far, my little shrieks had been met with cooing. Apparently, even my wails of pain were cute. Sigh, I deserved an Academy Award for this. This patterned blanket that I had had since birth would have to do in the meanwhile unfortunately. My shit eyesight meant it was black and white but the design sewn onto it was vaguely mermaid-like. No matter, it was soft and warm and an easy victim to take out my frustrations on through weak punches and endless teethless gnawing.

“&%^^@&#&?” Cymoril seemed to ask as she gave my belly a little rub. I faux-yawned in reply. I did love catching them off guard. Truly, I was a snivelling little shit sometimes. Some things never change no matter what life you’re on. Show time in 3-2-1. I was sucking in breath to get my wails just right. One good way I had learned to pass the time was by trying to hit various notes with my new vocal cords. One of my upgrades if you could call it that had been a surprisingly dulcet voice. Well, as dulcet as a baby’s voice could get. Hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

Cymoril and Elric both peered at me, probably not even suspecting they would be getting their eardrums assaulted in a minute. I was barely swallowing down my smile. This might even give me enough dopamine to last until the next day. Cymoril did not have the slightest idea as she bent down to caress my cheek.

“&^#&$&*@* Laenor,” she finished in a damnably soft voice, cutting me off mid-breath. I choked on my spit, my brain short circuiting from a combination of shock and complete denial.

Laenor…. Laenor Targ- no Velaryon… Gurm… GoT… GoT equals aSoIaF which equals F&B. In F&B, presence of a Velaryon Snake... Salsa of Snakes… No, Velaryon and Salsa don’t mix. Tango? Ballet? What was the word they used? You know what, fuck it. Other clues… Mermaid? No, Seahorse… Male seahorses can get pre- No, off topic and totally not related to what my frazzled mind was trying to get to. Forget about that, who was Virus? Walrus? Wirus? Valrus? Varys is a mermaid? No, not that. Or maybe- Nope, I’m not that tinfoil-y. Virus? Visus? Viserys-

Seahorse. Sea Snake. Fire and Blood equals fiery and bloody death.

Dance. Dragons.

DANCE OF DRAGONS!

Oh no… Oh God no! No! No! No! No!

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!???!!!!

For the second time in my new life, I didn’t need to rely on colic to coax some tears out of me. They were just coming out in freefall as I hit the highest high note I had ever hammered out in my entire humiliating second life.

That mildly rhymed, heh. Well, when life gives you lemons, use them as ammo to kill a fucking Daemon or two.

***

Notes:

Cross-posting from AH.com. Part 1 of 3 thus far.

Chapter 2: SI POV II/ RHAENYS I

Summary:

Our protagonist comes up with a plan. The first ripples appear.

***

SI POV II

94 AC, Driftmark

One of the things I had decided to adopt in my second life was a positive mindset, something I had terribly lacked during my first abysmal existence. I had been somewhere between a cross of a pessimist and a realist depending on the situation-

(*gets ear twisted by invisible entity*)

Okay, okay. Fine, I was lying. I was always that one person who thought every mild stomach ache could’ve been at worst a tumour and at best a bad case of food poisoning. I had wanted to start this new life with a clean slate: no worries, no stress, just a life of luxury.

*Cue the F.R.I.E.N.D.S theme*

So no one told you life was gonna be this way,

Your job’s being a rich first world cunt,

Your love life's gonna get you slain,

It's like you're always stuck in second mule wagon gear,

When it hasn't been your day, your week, your month,

Or even your year, but-

(*ear gets twisted even more violently*)

Okay, okay, I’ll end the song. Jeez, was even thinking about music going to land me in the ER? Then again, at this point I’ve just spent hours upon hours not sleeping after a boatload of crying so that might just be me hallucinating my ass off. Or maybe whatever fucking deity that tossed me here had decided that I wasn't suffering enough. Hmm, not a good start despite my rather glaringly advantages. As wealthy, beautiful and as lucky as I was to be around some pretty otherworldly not!elves, my second chance at trying to mooch off my parents had turned into a fairly unpleasant situation if what I was 99.99%, round off to one significant figure, had occurred.

The situation?

Well, I or rather my unfortunate consciousness had been tossed into the body of young Laenor Velaryon just seconds before birth, effectively kicking the kid to the curb before he even gotten the chance to break in his new body. That thought alone was disturbing enough given a newborn’s mind could now be controlling my adult body. God knows my mom had had enough on her plate taking care of me already. At this rate, my plans of becoming a civil engineer were kapoot unless Laenor went through a speedrun of my memories.

The somehow even more troubling thought was the one where I had Thanos-snapped him out of existence and become Expanded Universe Palpatine trying to take over Anakin Solo’s body with some spirit transferring Force bullshit and somehow succeeding through divine (or should I say eldritch) intervention.

No matter, I was going off topic here people. Or well, my imaginary head audience.

To say the least, shit was gonna go down.

Hard.

Laenor was born with every good thing a noble could ever ask for at the worst time possible and despite that, he could’ve still salvaged things. Yet, he fucked it up completely, second only to Rhaenyra and Daemon alone in singlehandedly ruining the Black cause. Look, look I got that he was gay and it was downright awful to force him to think of Westeros and just hope for the best. But was the turkey baster method not a thing yet? Or was Westeros a few centuries behind on that?

Damn, it, why was I being so hard on the guy. For all we know, he could’ve been a genuinely nice dude who didn’t want to force Rhaenyra into doing degrading acts to get her preggers. Downright cretinous of course but understandable from the POV of a genuinely good, non-pragmatic person. Still, the least he could’ve done was insist on a fucking Valyrian stud, not Harwin freaking Strong! That was just a braindead move on both their parts. Hell, even thinking about it is making me lose some braincells. Even then, things were still salvageable despite Laenor being one of the last people I’d want to get SIed into post-Jaehaerys. If I could’ve gone for an SI in this era, Aemon would have been my go-to guy with young Rhaenys as my go-to gal. With them, I could’ve killed the Dance in its infancy. But nope, Laenor was what I was stuck with and thus I must needs think on how to solve the very small family dinner spat the singers call the Dance of Dragons.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

..

..

Not.

Still, let me list out some positive things first since optimism was supposed to be my thing now. For one, as shitty as being a baby was, it was a prime position to start with in the long run. So, thanks ASB or your ilk. Still wish I could’ve slowly regained my memories or something to truly immerse myself. It would have been way better than just going through CK3 playthroughs on how to win this shitty thing and strengthen the dynasty as they like to say. But moving on, I might just stop the Dance from ever happening with the thing one might call “my existence”. I couldn’t save Aemon nor could I make Rhaenys queen but I could do my best Greyjoy Alle Breve SI impersonation and get stuff rolling without hopefully pissing the Hightower-backed Faith off. So, I had a plan. Not a very good plan I must say but I had the barebones of it etched into the front, back and everything in between of my mind. It was a 12-step plan, one which went something like this:

• Step 1: Claim a big chongus dragon! I’m talking Miss Vhagar herself once Baelon croaks of appendicitis. At the minimum, something like say Vermithor. I could not afford to be left with a pitifully miniscule Seasmoke. One of the reasons the Greens stood a chance despite having less dragons was because of Vhagar herself. I don’t care what some idiots say, size and girth do matter and I was not going to limit my chances just because of sentimental value. I and by extension my minions were getting swol dragons and that brings me to step two;
• Step 2: Get more sibling(s). There were two marriage options here and neither of them were particularly appetising to think of. On one hand, a rather disgusting hand: Laena, my way younger than me mentally, somewhat older physically biological sister. Yeah no. I’m sorry but it was gross and I would rather not if I had the chance to. But then again, my next and most likely option was Rhaenyra… Well, she was another step in itself. In the most likely scenario that Corlys and Rhaenys toss me to Rhaenyra like a piece of medium rare steak, Laena would need a Valyrian Velaryon husband to keep the dragons in the family. I did not want a Braavosi wastrel as her fiancé in this world. Thus, a younger brother would hopefully come once I could start babbling about wanting a younger sibling. If all was good, Rhaenys had no real issues with giving birth as her mother probably had and her daughter turned out to have and gave me the younger brother I needed. After all, I could use him to get even more big chongus dragons on my side and crush the Greens’ dreams into nothing but bad cocaine: just fairy dust that would give me a trippy dream I’d wake up from eventually. If it was a girl… Let’s hope not as sexist as that sounds. High risk, high reward after all and I am not a political mastermind, let alone someone who can successfully pre-empt the Dance;
• Step 3: Try to keep Aemma and her son alive/ try to expose any affairs Alicent might have had with Daemon. If I managed the former, the Dance could just be avoided completely and we would all be saved. Laena could get the little kid, allowing me to live my best life on Driftmark and Alicent could rot far, far away from me. Corlys and Rhaenys would be happy, I would be happy, everyone would be happy minus maybe Laena for having to wait a while to marry little Baelon. Odds were low though given I doubt she would be taking my medical advice, and well, her body was probably fucked after getting pregnant so young. Big F U to King Fatso and all involved in that abomination of a wedding for that. Even the chroniclers of the time knew Margaret Beaufort couldn’t get pregnant due to giving birth at thirteen years of age! I doubt the more medically advanced Westerosi were that inept. Either way, that plan was probably not going to succeed unless the butterfly’s wings flapped like crazy. Therefore, exposing Alicent would be my backup although another ambitious upstart could easily take her place. Fuck, I wondered how many L’s I would take by the time I died. Moving on;
• Step 4: Stop Rhaenyra from turning into a spoiled brat. As sympathetic as she was by the end of the war she was still a massive b-word to everyone before that. Someone who literally did not give two shits about anyone but herself and her desires. I would have to get close to her as a kid herself, make her think I’m the love of her life. For all her faults however, she did seem like someone who desperately did love people and want love in return. And she had a pretty messed up childhood with two paedos running after her – scratch that – probably a lot more though the two most prominent ones would be Daemon the Dickish and Criston the Cunt. And well, I doubt the capital was the most ideal of places to raise a child, it being a viper's nest full of opportunists and all. As long as the two ended up rotting in obscurity and I could shove away all the carpetbaggers, I could turn her into a better version of herself with a real support system going on. Maybe even give her-
• Step 5: – children. If I do marry her, kids must follow and no Strong plot can happen like in canon. I am not Laenor. Men or women, human or abominable creature; I was sinking myself into this new body and making things work no matter what. Personal feelings be damned, I was marrying her if I had to and making things work, what with “duty” and “heirs and spares” and whatever other idioms these guys could think of. Children were always good after all being political chess pieces and what not. A bit insensitive on my part but I was a fucking baby right now so who cares. Feelings were a problem for later. No matter what, I was not getting cucked by Harwin freaking Strong. If the first kid popped out looking like him, divorce and Velaryon isolation it is then. I don’t care, I’m not that invested in kids that aren’t mine nor do I want to paint an even greater target on my back. Legitimate kids were a must. I had no want to waste their marriage prospects by having to wed them to their cousins in some grand scheme to get Rhaenys and Corlys’ blood on the throne. The kids being legitimate also brought me back to Step 2 of my grand masterplan: claim chongus dragons. No Ancalagon the Black here sadly as that might have ended the war in the cradle (although some fanfics would have you think Cannibal was that huge) but Silverwing-sized dragons would do. At least for the boys. Girls… Well, that’s another problem. I could go the incest-route but that was just alienating support during a time where the Blacks would need it. But do we need it? The thought of my full-blooded kids banging each other made my stomach churn a little. Maybe with time it'd be more palatable...? Damn it, I’m TBDing this shit indefinitely. There were just too many factors at play and for all I know, I’d butterfly the Dance away;
• Step 6: I was a Velaryon and most if not all Velaryons were good at one thing: sailing. I’d spent the past two days waiting for my patron god(s) to claim me and I had gotten nothing yet. That meant unless a Gaemon happened to me in a year or two, I was not going to get Valyrian Steel moolah from my side-hustle. As much as that SI from the Male Visenya fic complained about how crappy his life was with his whole “woe is me” attitude, that shit was a fucking unlimited money cheat. And while the Velaryons were filthy rich, I was also planning to do big things that even Corlys would balk at. Therefore, Yiboo I must become. I was not going to go full Industrial Revolution but I was hoping to get Driftmark on the right track. As Pedro Pascal, aka Oberyn Martell for the GoT bros, said in that one Wonder Woman movie no one watched, “life is good, but it can be better”. Much, much better. Better hygiene, better administrative apparatuses, and a more efficient system. Also, toilets. Never forget the toilets;
• Step 7: Alliances needed to be formed and/or solidified which again brought me back to Step 5. Marriages were the corner stone of how formal alliances were made in Medieval Europe, even more so in Westeros. But again, the question of whether or not I should sacrifice my potential daughters and thus lose out on dragons was weighing on my mind. To TBD it again or not? For all I know, I could just have sons and sons alone. Or daughters… Daughters would be tricky. As much as I would like having the eldest to inherit no matter what sex, a son would be preferable in this case. Th3 Valyrian blood purity shtick couldn't have been all that nonsensical, right? Still, if some Great Council bullshit cropped up because I had turned everyone decent, then political supporters were a must... Then again, canon Rhaenyra had half of Westeros fighting for her despite having a less than stellar reputation. That was where the solidifying part came in. The North and the Vale did not need much incentive other than being tossed some food and dealing with the Mountain Clans respectively. The Riverlands were mostly pro-Black too. I was fairly sure most Crownland Houses sided with the Blacks due to their close proximity to Dragonstone and only turned cloak when Aegon had the capital firmly in his grip. Some of Westerlands and Reach houses could be turned but again, they were prouder than most. I wouldn’t put it past me for those gnats to demand a marriage from Rhaenyra. The Stormlands were way trickier. That thrice damned uncle Borros would want one of his girls as Queen if possible. Maybe I could just- Arghghghgh! Next step! TBD;
• Step 8: Dealing with Daemon. I’m sorry to the Daemon fanboys but that demon had to go. The dude would not rest until I was six feet under, cucked with my tomb (do they do tombs here?) watered with the blood of my infant children and his piss. Daemon the Dick was so, so dead. Groomer-paedo-child murdering dudes were completely worthless bags of flaming crap no matter how cool their deaths were in one world. Sorry Daemon (with a silent a), you will NOT be the father;
• Step 9: Speaking of dicks, Otto Octavius Hightower was going to get put down by a peg or two as well. For all he had a cool sounding name, the dude was hilariously bad at controlling his grandsons. I was getting that small council onto my side whether they liked it or not. So, the incel Kingsguard was not going to win that damned tourney, nor was he ever going to be anything other than a steward’s son. That cunt was dying irrelevant and I was going to get a loyalist on my side;
• Step 10: Get Caraxes back. A continuation of Step 8, this would see us Velaryons gaining back Caraxes so my hopefully firstborn child named in honour of their great grandpapi would claim as their own. It was PR gold and Daemon was not going to use the Blood Wyrm to kill off MY WMD. I was getting that niece effer killed somehow. Call me what you want but I was ready to sink very low to keep myself alive, Daemon be damned. God Almighty would have to forgive me for this one. After all, I was probably doing this world a favour by slipping some cyanide into his drink while I still had a cutesy appearance to deflect the blame onto someone else;
• Step 11: Get the Stepstones under Velaryon control because complete control of the Narrow Sea is quite neato. I was taking a leaf from that one Corlys SI on Alt His I had once read who was in line to firmly take control of the Stepstones. Maybe I was being a little greedy here but this was also strategic in the sense that I could cut off the Greens from the Triarchy and get rid of their high tolls. All of that would lead to my Driftmark East Trading Company to dominate the world and make my copper counting family even wealthier! It was laughably easy to kick the Triarchy to the curb if you had some guts, some brains and some firepower. I liked to think I had all three. King Ghee was far more likely to make us the Lord Paramount of the Stepstones than the Raging Road Fanatic if we played our cards right. The man was a people pleaser by nature after all. But this time, Daemon the Despot would not be on our side to mess up my grand ambitions;
• Step 12: Become the best dragon rider/swordsman/Lord of the Tides/Laenor I can be and have that extend to my allies. I would need to cut canon Rhaenyra’s spoiled brat nature by a shit ton and make her more akin to someone who you’d call Rhaenyra the Righteous than Maegor with Teats. No pressure.

Simple if I had to say so myself but hilariously long. Still, the barebones were easy enough to remember although my knowledge of the Dance itself was iffy at best. I was in it for a lifetime and getting murked by fucking Qarl Correy at a fair was not how I was going to go out. Better die beloved and old than crispy and/or bleeding to death slowly.

Huh, a new step to add to the masterplan.

Step 13: Live a long and happy life surrounded by family and loved ones.

So, a quick revision already. 12+1 plan it is! Just in time for my nappy change too! From… Alvida with the Iron Hands.

Ugh, I hate my second life.

***

Rhaenys POV I

Late 95 AC, Driftmark

Her father had promised her she’d be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms one day. Rhaenys had been but a child of four namedays then, too preoccupied with her own life than with questions of succession and titles and queenship. She had preferred spending her time with her father, pushing the crown’s seal onto the hot wax to the jubilation of the man. The day had started well enough, with the two of them having kissed mother goodbye - father on the lips, Rhaenys on the cheek. Then father had picked her up with ease, nestling her onto his shoulders and they had begun their usual idle chatter. It had been all child’s talk on her part but father had never minded. He’d listen with rapt attention, pale lilac eyes brimming with mirth while she tugged lightly at his white-gold hair to make him go wherever she wanted.

“You are already such a demanding Queen, love,” he had told her with a chuckle just as they had rounded the corner towards his office, “My little queen-to-be.”

That had been the day she had truly found out.

Before that, she’d her mentions of Queen from her grandmother and mentions of future brothers for her to even marry from her grandsire. It had not mattered all too much until that day. She’d prodded at the topic in private, curious and mayhaps a bit demanding. Father had only given her that bright smile of his, settled her onto his lap and promised she would be Queen no matter what.

The expectation from then on had been clear as day. Queen she was told she’d become and queen she would be. Her days had been spent from there on with her father, trying her best to replicate his every movement. Aunt Alyssa had even called her “his dark shadow” teasingly. Rhaenys had thrown a mild tantrum at that but her always smiling aunt had only smothered “Her Grace” with kisses and ruffled her hair until it was all messy. They had laughed until their ribs hurt eventually, with her aunt promising her a flight on scarlet Meleys.

The memory now made her heart ache. Those had been happy times, times where the peace her grandfather everyone boasted about seemed infallible. Yet father was gone, as was her aunt and her cousin who had not lived to his first nameday and even her mother had joined them but a year past from consumption.

For someone still reeling from her father’s death and her position as heir being taken away from her, it had crushed her in ways she hadn’t felt before. Her mother had been as strong a pillar as one could ever need. She’d held herself strong when Rhaenys had been at her lowest, had been at her side when she’d given birth both times, all while hiding her own grief behind a veil of strength. When Jocelyn Baratheon had passed... Well, not even father’s death had left her as devastated. She’d been given to Meleys’ flames, her ashes to be mingled with her love’s. It was the funeral of a dragonlord yet Rhaenys did not care. Her parents would no longer be parted from each other. Even a year on, it still left a shroud over them all. Laena had been despondent at first yet had forgotten as every little girl would have. Little Laenor had been not even four moons old when it had happened yet he had been solemn in the months that passed.

Still, it had not hampered his progress in the slightest. To say he was exceptional was putting it lightly. At four moons, he had said his first word. At six moons, he had taken his first steps. At nearly a year and a half, he’d already begun speaking coherent sentences and had been dragging Laena with him to Rhaenys’ bedchambers for stories and books. It had left her with unspoken pride. Maester Desmond had proclaimed little Laenor to be as exceptional as one could be, just like her own sire had been at that age. It was no doubt an exaggeration on her father’s part but the similarities did bring her comfort. The thought her father never managed to hold either one of his grandchildren still needled away at her heart even now. His last words to her still haunted her almost.

“Mama!”

The sound of her son’s voice pulled her away from her thoughts. He was toddling towards her with surprising speed, her husband carrying little Laena in tow. A look at Corlys’ face told her all she needed to know.

Another one of Laenor’s antics no doubt.

The boy had a penchant for coming up with requests that perplexed everyone despite his desire to hide them. It would not have been nearly as draining if he did not rope Laena into his plans. Sometimes she could not help but feel Laenor was a man grown in a child’s skin. It had become a recurring jest to call him “Little Maester” for all his wits and of late, she’d found it to be true.

She rose from where she sat to pick up her boy with ease, planting a kiss on his cheek while he giggled.

“Mama,” he called out again, his pale purple eyes brimming with mirth, “Lae-Lae and me have a… a we- wequest.”

“We want sister, mama!” the girl chirped from Corlys’ arms, her lips extended into a bright smile.

“Or bwother,” Laenor added with a pout, “Papa and you make it now, mama.”

Her husband’s face only grew more and more exasperated at the mention. “Gods be good, speak to them, my love. They have been badgering me with this request all morning.”

Rhaenys only stared at her children in surprise. “Where did this idea come from?” she asked, exasperated yet still somewhat happy.

“Laenor,” Laena blurted out, making his eyes widen. “He said we need little brother so we can play the Conque… Conque..rors. Conquerors!” Her lips split into a bright grin at that, a self-satisfied look on her face.

Rhaenys only arched a dark eyebrow upwards. “Little sister, you must mean then. My namesake was a girl, son. How are you to play the Conquerors with a brother, little Laenor?"

Laenor almost blushed red. “I Queen Visenya, Laena Avon-“

“And Rhaenyx will be Queen Rhaenys!” Laena proudly proclaimed, a toothy smile on her face, “Just like you, mama!”

“Rhaenyx?” Her husband’s jaw dropped open. “For a boy….?”

“Yes. And Rhaena for a girl,” Laena insisted stubbornly, “For mama and me.”

Rhaenys could only blink in surprise. “Rhaenys,” she tested out, feeling almost ridiculous, “Laena, where did you even get those names?”

“Laenor said I could choose,” her little girl said with a stubborn pout, “And I want to name my brother after you, mama! You and Queen Rhaenys!”

Her baby boy only cast his sister a tired look at that, almost exasperated. Rhaenys could not help but think they all shared his look.

“I… I see. I believe it is time for you two to rest. I will discuss this with your father,” she managed, still somewhat incredulous from the whole experience. Her husband only happily nodded along, eager to shuttle the children off to their nannies before closing the gold and silver banded door with a sigh. His sea-green silks of the Essosi fashion, all trimmed with silver, were near as opulent as her own scarlet silks. His right hand ran through his silver hair wearily. Rhaenys gave him a smile.

“Did you put them up to this?” she asked, more amused than offended. The question made her husband scowl like a little boy rather than a man in his early forties. Rhaenys only walked over to him and placed a kiss on his tanned cheek, softening his expression.

“I have long given up on convincing you for a third, love,” he sighed, “It was all Laenor, no doubt. For all he gladly plays the role of a babe, I am beginning to think you were right when you spoke of his… gift.”

“Curse,” she corrected, “Dragon dreams are a curse, husband, not a gift for all my family claims they are not. Laenor may be seeing… potents from the future. Mayhap a younger brother as he so claims. That is the only way I could explain the name that Laena came up with. Still… If our son has been plagued by such as I theorised…” she exhaled, “Then it would explain much of his… peculiar nature.”

Corlys frowned at that. “Or ‘tis just some boy’s fancy for a younger brother. For all he loves Laena, she is still a girl and will never truly be able to be a companion of his. What child of one and a half namedays can decipher dragon dreams?”

“One as exceptional as our son,” Rhaenys replied curtly, “He is no normal boy. You of all people should know that.”

Corlys only snorted. “I have tossed away enough servants who have spoken of his oddities, yes. Still, I see not why you would do such a thing based on some dream.” His expression seemed almost concerned. “Laenor’s birth was difficult on your body. Another might…”

He left the words unsaid.

Rhaenys herself bit her tongue. The entire time she’d been pregnant with her son had been hellish, even more so than the first time she’d been with child. The birth had been no kinder to her and the thought of going through it again made her stomach roil.

Still… Were the gods speaking to her son? Was this the way her blood would be seated once more atop the throne that should have by rights been hers? Another son…

Another child could claim a dragon and solidify their position as the strongest non-Royal family in Westeros. It would make forcing a marriage to Viserys’ heir would be even easier, especially if he desired to marry his only daughter to his son as their ancestors would have preferred. And if all failed…

They could use that child to strengthen links elsewhere and to form new alliances with the East. Another child was never a bad thing. Still, was it worth the risk? Her own mother and father had refused to have more children after her mother had almost died in childbirth with her. Did she want to share the same fate as her grandmother, Queen Alyssa? Or was the thought of another strong son or beautiful daughter enough to tempt her to dance with fate?

Mayhap, mayhap, mayhap…

She was silent for a while, arms crossed over her chest. Corlys did not deign to speak, only leaning against the weirwood door in quiet thought.

“We shall try for another,” Rhaenys finally said after a while, breaking the silence. “If we are lucky, Laenor’s omens will be true and we will have a son… Rhaenyx.”

She could not help but grimace at the name. “I pray there is a reason for that one name in particular.”

Corlys only grumbled in agreement. “I would have much preferred Aethan or another Velaryon name. Jacaerys or Lucerys would be finer names for those born to us Seahorses.”

Rhaenys only scoffed before leaning into him tightly and pressing her lips to his.

“Will we make a babe or not?” she asked lowly, tugging at the silken sash at his waist. Corlys only smiled and let her wrap her legs around his waist.

 

***

Notes:

Part 2 of 3.

Chapter 3: SI POV III/ RHAENYS II/ LAENA I

Summary:

And the plot is picking up :P

***

SI POV III

96 AC, Driftmark

My paradigm of an ideal sibling had consisted of not much: in hale health, of a robust build and preferably, with a little sausage (and Gods that sounded sexist). It was not asking for much if I was being completely truthful given the 50/50 odds I was working with (Or was it less? Should I have taken twins and the like into account? Probability had never been my strong suit after all. Well, high school was long gone so fuck it). Anyway, back to my main point….

What had that been again? Something about a sausage? Breakfast sausage with scrambled eggs-

(*ear gets twisted by invisible entity again*)

Gods fucking damnit!

I patted my poor ear, wondering once again where that damned ASB or its ilk was hiding, if it wasn’t my hallucinations themselves. Two full years into this “undesired endeavour” as I liked calling it and I still hadn’t grasped on how to stay fully mentally on track half of the time, or how to act the kid just about all the time.

Those thrice-damned servants were not nearly as subtle as they believed.

But back to the main topic of this conversation: the child.

It was everything I could have wanted: lusty, robust, and with the desired parts I had been pitting all my hopes on. Rhaenyx Velaryon was all one could have wanted in one sweet, sweet Valyrian package. He even had the pale blue Velaryon eyes to match.

I could not stand him.

Mayhap it was my time spent trying oh so desperately to give us babies a glowing reputation but by the Gods was this drooling baked bean annoying! When he wasn’t crying, he was either chewing at poor Rhaenys’ teat like it was some slice of chewy beef jerky or doing his best impersonation of Bianca Castafiore from Tintin, simultaneously threatening my delicate tympanic membrane with the mother of all ruptures while violently discharging fluids onto us random passersby trying to win a few friendship points from the bona fide bawling bellyacher that was my newborn brother.

My finely made clothes had been dredged in more piss and puke in the time I had spent with him than in the time I had spent as a literal baby! He spent his time spreading his own shit against the lovely Myrish rugs in the nursery, drooling on my dragon plushy, or responding to Laena’s coddling with obnoxiously loud gurgling. How I was going to end up having children of my own to raise had me on the brink of throwing in the towel prematurely given the obvious “sniveling little shit” nature of all children under twenty.

Still, I did not hate him really, as much as I have a small penchant for complaining. In fact, he was by all standards a normal baby, far too energetic for his own good but still your run of the mill neonate. And he was my brother all things considered, so I couldn’t judge him off the first three moons of his short life.

“Months”, I mentally reminded myself. I had been slipping up again. I blamed it on the ludicrous amount of noxious gas I was no doubt inhaling from Rhaenyx's diapers. “Not moons. Months. God, not gods.”

But I couldn’t look at him and not see well… Rhaenys on her bed, looking utterly drained from the twenty-five-hour labour that had brought my little brother into this world. Thinking about that made me think of my own role in this whole third child plot and thinking about that made my meow meow hurt deep inside my chest. I knew it logically wasn’t fully my fault given I wasn’t the sperm donor in question, nor did I believe Rhaenys would ever let my silver fox of a father get her with child against her will. Had he done that, he’d have lost a couple layers of skin and muscle by now if Meleys was feeling a bit kind. But my stratagem had still put Rhaenys, who I unfortunately was already considering to be my mother, at risk. Canon had had her have only two children for a reason and I had reasonably extrapolated why she hadn’t gone for a third. It was risky, it was playing with fate, and it was downright shit.

I knew pregnancy could be woeful, but I did not really think things through fully. Mother had spent the entire time she was preggers looking like she’d just gone through hell and back with a quick detour in the frozen tundra shithole that was Russia during the Napoleonic Wars. I wasn’t privy to how her pregnancy with me had been (or should I say Laenor before his consciousness had been whisked away), but if it wasn’t even a fraction as bad as the stomach-churning, overtaxing, bloated pregnancy the Queen Who Never Was had to suffer, well, let’s just say one child would be it for me. And the lesser said about the birth itself, the better. Four-and-twenty hours had passed by the time the child, as I liked calling him, came out covered in what no doubt had been the same old gunk I had been… “graced” with.

Mother had been all but bedridden after that, unable to even nurse little Rhaenyx. Speaking of which, that name was so fucking ridiculous. I had expected better from my new parents! I had been gatekeeping Aemon for my own son but Seven above, why couldn’t he have been named after Corlys’ father, Aethon! Why they had gone with Laena’s frankly braindead suggestion of a name was beyond me! Rhaenys never struck me as someone arrogant enough to do that like the Conkhead and his less based wife. You think you know someone, and this is what they do!

(*mentally slaps imaginary table*)

Rhaenyx wasn’t Anus Aenys or Khaleesi-levels of bad, but it wasn’t exactly that much better. Not nearly as good a name as Laenor in my completely unbiased opinion.

Still, a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush as the saying goes. Rhaenys seemed far livelier now than she had been before and had even begun nursing that irksome baked bean of a brother of mine. And my brother’s birth had heralded new opportunities as I liked to call it. Baelon the Brave had come for a quick visit on the absolute unit that was Vhagar, the coolest of any of the Targaryen dragons ever. Queen Visenya’s mount was huge (and I mean yuge). She had been heavy enough to shake the very foundations of High Tide and seemed to blot out the sun itself with her ginormous, bulky frame. The fact she had not even reached her greatest size was absolutely baffling. Baelon was nearly as impressive, I had to admit, very reluctantly. I could almost see why you could want him as king. He was tall, an inch, maybe two, taller than Rhaenys and about the same height as Corlys at six foot two, with a well-built frame. He wasn’t built like a tank like my soon-to-be dragon, but he looked powerful enough that I was somewhat envious of his physique, especially with Dark Sister strapped at his hip like that.

Not that I got too much of a look at him given I had been all but locked inside the nursery with my siblings in tow as my parents, or more accurately, my mother, dealt with her unwanted trespasser of an uncle. He had been given the courtesy due to a prince of the blood, but he had stayed only a day. He didn’t seem half as fun as I had thought him to be. There were lines on his fair face, not quite as handsome as my grandfather was reputed to have been but still Valyrian levels of good-looking. He’d kept his face clean shaven and his silver hair had been kept down to his shoulders. His dark purple eyes had a look that always seemed sad, even when he forced on a smile for us kids and proved to be the cool uncle anyone would have wanted.

A shame his sons turned out the way they did.

Well anyway, we, the kids, were given a set of gifts: a fine set of porcelain dolls for Laena, a book for me (rumours about me being intelligent were apparently flooding the capital), and a set of baby toys for dear Rhaenyx. And not just with toys, but news as well! It seemed that Aemma Arryn had gotten with child again, and if the Gods were unkind, Rhaenyra would come in the following year.

I had been sequestered back to the nursery before long, but I had caught a slight glimpse of genuine happiness on my mother’s face before the same grim look took over. A part of me wondered if she was thinking the same as Baelon was: would this one survive?

If I remembered correctly, there had been one who had died in the cradle. A son was born around the same time as I, just a few weeks before. Prince Aemon.

I could see why Rhaenys’ anger had deepened over the years. While it was no doubt Prince Ghee’s way of trying to mend the rift between the two sides of the family, all it had done was widen it. Rhaenys had wanted to name me Aemon and when the new prince’s birth was announced, she’d been more angry than flattered. Still, she could have still named me Aemon if not for my cousin’s death just a scant few weeks before my own birth. Doing so would have been in bad taste and it seemed the name had been tainted by that death.

No one really spoke of him, not really. I’d only found out through one of the servants I had tried to win over and when I had mentioned it to my parents in as cute a way as possible, they’d both looked at me sternly and said that the prince had passed within a fortnight of his birth. The servants had been warned off after that, the one who’d slipped me that tiny bit of information fired as my day-to-today routine returned to its usual mediocrity.

Baelon left before the evening was over, his words as stilted and stiff as his posture had been. It did not take a genius to know there’d been an argument of some sort. He’d left me with a ruffle of my hair and a bright white grin, telling me that Aemon’s grandson didn’t disappoint before mother had drawn me back into her grip, her lips twisted in distaste. Vhagar the Gigachadette and Baelon left soon after, returning the sun to dear old Driftmark. I suspected Baelon had come with an olive branch, more than eager to make amends. He seemed earnest enough and didn’t try to lord over anyone despite his greater status in theory. Still, the wounds of the past seemed too great for even him to overcome. The damage had been done the moment he’d been made heir, whether he wished for it or not, and not even a short visit would soothe over the grievous insult that Jaehaerys had dealt her.

Nothing would ever truly could. Although, her blood on the throne might be a start to making amends.

***

RHAENYS I

Driftmark, 99AC

The years had soothed the ache ever so slightly.

Rhaenys had never been one eager with just the simple things in life. She had wanted glory; she had wanted fame. She had wanted so desperately to replicate the actions of her namesake, to be another Queen Rhaenys who would be as beloved, as much of a conciliator as her grandsire as she was a warrior like Queen Visenya. Looking back on it now, Rhaenys realized it was her father she’d been trying to replicate. Just and kind, but never weak. Able to find a middle ground between the stone-hearted general and the sharp-witted, canny diplomat that a ruler should be.

Motherhood and building a family had always been an afterthought in her young mind. Looking at her three children - all dressed in their warm, tight-fitting riding clothes with bright smiles gracing their faces - she almost laughed at the thought of it now. There was a part of her that would always desire the queenship, but a greater part loved her children more. Dauntless Laena with her daring streak, mild-mannered Laenor with his quiet nature and little Rhaenyx, but three yet already showing signs of a knight in making.

They were her pride and joy, those she loved more than anyone else in this world and acquiescing to their stubborn demands for a ride on Meleys was more of a treat than the burden she liked to make it out to be.

“I want to go quick!” Laena babbled on, tugging on her silver-gold ponytail with a gloved hand. “Quicker than last time, mama!”

Laenor only snorted at his sister’s enthusiasm, ever the prim and proper ‘Little Maester’.

“Faster,” he corrected matter-of-factly before tossing her an amused glance. “And if we go any faster than last time, I’m afraid that it’ll be more than just the birds you should want to avoid.”

Laena only pouted, tightening her hold on her youngest brother’s hand. Laenor let out a laugh and ruffled her hair, acting more like the older sibling than the younger.

The years had only molded her son into an even more solemn child, always with a slight frown on his face as his gaze went elsewhere. It was clear to her that those were his dragon dreams in play, yet he always seemed to deny the existence of such, no matter how much she prodded.

“My dreams involve only a peaceful life,” he had said in response to her queries. His voice had been wistful, as if that life seemed so out of reach. “A quiet life, a quiet people. All I could ever desire in this life of mine.”

Even with his plastered on smiles, Laenor was an awful liar. His eyes always averted her gaze when he dismissed such talk, almost as if he was lying to himself in some vain attempt to put away his melancholy. His speech was far too advanced, his mind was too quick. Their Maester, Edmund, a wizened old man long past his middle years with brown eyes still bright and pasty white skin almost as white as the few remaining tufts of hair on his round head, had long declared Laenor had the makings of a man of knowledge. Rhaenys could not refute his claim.

Laenor spent all his time in the library studying old tomes, some from the days of the Freehold itself. His eager eyes never tore away from the yellowed, almost crumbling pages of those large leather-bound books. Instead, they drank in the information like it was the sweetest fruit, admiring the illuminations and taking to his own diary to sketch designs that even she could hardly make out. He had Maester Edmund seek more books, this time from the Citadel itself, to read more on certain subjects or to, as he put it, come to his own conclusion after having taken all theories and historical retellings into account. It was the work of a bright mind, one of a kind.

It was a shame it had come with the cost of a normal childhood. No boy of five namedays should look as ruminative as her Laenor yet his boons were as much of a gift as they were a curse. Little Rhaenyx had come as the boy had predicted, a son that would no doubt be involved in the portents he had seen, and all of it was to keep their family safe.

For that, the cost of a dragon ride seemed a small price to pay.

Meleys was curled into herself when they arrived, her scarlet scales glinting like flakes of blood in the harsh rays of noontide. Her left wing was propped awkwardly upwards beside her, almost as if she were giving shelter to something while her copper eyes fluttered awake lazily. She left out a soft whine of greeting as the sight of her rider, her beaten copper horns tilted towards them so that they could embark on her more easily. She had already been saddled before they had arrived, and she rose with a trail of smoke coming out of her nostrils. Rhaenys only pressed a kiss near her eye, her gloved hands pressed against the scales that burned as hot as coal.

“I want to sit at the front!” Laena declared fervently to her mother, almost tugging poor Rhaenyx off the ground with how quickly she lifted her arms. Her youngest only tugged his blue cloak lined with silver thread closer to his body, his shoulder-length silver hair hidden underneath a soft conical hat made of blue felt. His elder brother matched him wearing the same, although his was teal and silver to match his own cloak.

“You sat in front last time,” said son protested, “It’s my turn. You hog the front far too much!”

“Do not!”

“Do too!”

“Do not!”

“Do t-”

Meleys’ lazy roar, more of a yawn if Rhaenys were to be accurate, cut their little spat short, making them both jump in surprise at the she-dragon’s small burst of utter irritation. Rhaenys was glad that her dragon knew her so well at times like this. As much as she loved her children, they were a pain to discipline, especially when petty arguments like this one arose. And sometimes, she had to turn to other methods to get it through their heads that she would not tolerate this sort of behaviour, no matter how old they were.

“Laenor will sit at the front,” Rhaenys told her daughter sternly. “You were seated at the fore the last time we flew. This time, Laenor will be given the opportunity to do the same. So will Rhaenyx the next time we fly together.”

Laena’s eyes only widened in utter shock, her mouth already open to disagree. “But mama-“

“I will not hear any more protests from you, Laena,” Rhaenys said, doubling down on her decision. “You will have your turn in time. Laenor, you-“

“On it,” her son interrupted without a second thought, legs already carrying him towards the Red Queen’s dipped neck.. Laena scowled but Rhaenyx only laughed at the sight of his brother, hard enough that some snot shot out of his nostril. Laena gagged and pulled her hand away at that, Rhaenys only wiped at his nose with a silk handkerchief.

Laenor was halfway onto the saddle when he shrieked in surprise, his legs almost vaulting off the netting as a little bird flapped its wings near Laenor’s face. No, not a bird… It was far too different in shape and its shrieks sounded more like a hiss than chirping. A hatchling? Rhaenys narrowed her eyes, walking ever so cautiously to the thing with a hand on the grip of her whip ready to attack if necessary. It did not look particularly harmful. It seemed freshly hatched, small enough to wear around your neck with a silver-grey appearance. Her gaze shifted momentarily to Meleys, watching as her mount looked on eagerly at her newest child. When did this happen? Meleys was young enough that clutches were not so out of the blue for her but she hadn’t had an egg hatch in near a decade. Rhaenys had always chalked this down to her not being on Dragonstone anymore, yet she’d given birth in a way to a child of her own. A little hatchling that seemed to be trying to latch onto Laenor, almost like a cat.

“Get away from me,” he bellowed, flailing his arms wildly as he tried to slap the hatchling away. “Scram!”

The little dragon only let out a small gout of flame, barely enough to burn, before making its way around Laenor’s neck, almost giggling like a child in the way he did. Had the little hatchling… claimed her son? Rhaenys could only watch, dumbstruck as she watched her son try – and fail – to pry the dragon off his neck. It was as mind boggling as it was… wholesome. The dragon seemed intent on sticking with her son, something nearly everyone admired. The two children that were with her only cheered at the sight of the baby dragon in childish awe, with Laena in particular gushing over the little thing and how ‘cute’ it looked. Her second born unfortunately did not reciprocate those feelings.

“Bugger off, you little miscreant. I am not in need of a dragon! Now get off me!”

The hatchling only curled even tighter, its small claws lightly digging into Laenor’s leathers to cling onto its new rider. Laenor scowled again, trying to rip the dragon off but all that did was make him nuzzle Laenor at the neck. The sight made Rhaenys smile. She had not thought she’d see her child claim a dragon when she had woken up today yet this was a welcome surprise. She could almost see in her mind’s eye her husband’s face at the sight of their son with a dragon perched on his shoulder. Sensing his efforts were in vain, Laenor finally stopped his struggle and turned to Rhaenys almost pleadingly.

“Mother, get this thing off of me,” he begged, “I do not want this… baby hatchling. He’s too small. I need-“

“- to take care of him,” Rhaenys finally said, walking closer towards him to calm him down. Her grip on her whip loosened ever so slightly. “Once you are bonded to a dragon, nothing can break the connection between you both. If there was, that knowledge left us a long time ago.”

“But mother- “

“There is nothing I can do, son,” she admitted. What little magic the Targaryens had ever known had died a long time ago, leaving them with only the essentials needed for dragon riding and its ilk.

“But- “ He paused, almost in dismay, his pink lips thinning into a line of contemplation. He tried once more, halfheartedly this time, to pull the hatchling off again, but the little silver-grey hatchling only cozied up to him even more. Sensing that he had no other choice, Laenor’s shoulders only slumped forward as he allowed the hatchling to make itself at home.

“It seems I have no other choice,” he sighed, watching as the nimble silvery drake exhaled softly, letting out a puff of smoke. “Huh, Seasmoke?”

The hatchling let out a shrill sound of agreement. Laenor only groaned.

***

LAENA I

Driftmark, 101 AC

“They’ve been there for hours.”

Her brother did not even raise his eyes from the tome he’d been reading. Instead, Laenor only turned over the page, his index finger following each word with careful precision, methodically taking every single word with eyes that never seemed anything less than efficient. At the foot of the velvet couch over two feet away, her youngest brother, Rhaenyx toyed with his wooden sword, oblivious to the tenseness that had overtaken the castle since the morn. But Laena had noticed. Mother and father had not been seen since Maester Edmund had come to them, a message in hand. The old man’s face had been a mask of worry, the wrinkled lines only deepening as he had interrupted their family as they broke their fast. Mother and father had disappeared into father’s solar shortly after, leaving the three of them alone as the world itself seemed to slow down.

Something had happened.

Every servant seemed to have caught on. Their whispers were hushed and quickly muttered yet their eyes never trailed away from Laenor, almost as if he were involved in whatever had occurred. Laena had grown worried since then. Laenor had not shown any visible sign of distress but even she could see he was more ruminative than before. Only Seasmoke, the pony-sized dragon that had been his since a year and a half ago, seemed to snap him out of his thoughts. Even then, it was for but a second.

When he did speak, his words seemed halfhearted, as if something else dominated his thoughts. Laena knew that he knew. Laenor always knew everything.

Something had happened and Laena could not for the life of her figure out what it was.

Laenor scratched Seasmoke on the underside of his chin lazily, his pale purple eyes looking at her almost contemplatively before he shook his head and sighed. It was one she had heard before, the sigh of someone too tired to speak to a child. It was hard sometimes to remember Laenor was her younger brother. He never seemed to act like it. From the way he acted to the way he spoke. Still, whatever was on his mind had been enough to leave him slightly irritated. His teal silk tunic, threaded with delicate patterns in silver, was creased, the jewels that dotted it almost disappearing under the shadow of his tome. His nails, always clipped short, seemed to dig into the fine leather of the book, a measure she’d learned helped her brother calm down despite the self-irritation it caused him. She leaned closer, waiting for an answer. He did not even give her another glance.

The action, or rather, lack of had her frowning.

“You know,” she whispered, leaning over the arm of the couch. The soft velvet tickled her arms, nearly as warm as the fire that had been burning in the hearth. The sitting room was not too lavishly furnished, yet it had the hallmark traits of High Tide. Polished walls of marble lined with ancient tapestries, stained glass windows from Myr and busts of ancient Lords of the Tides lined up neatly on ebon pedestals. There were toys littered on the soft, Myrish rugs, mostly wooden toy soldiers and plush toy dragons that she and ‘Nyx had been using to try and distract themselves.

“I know nothing, sister,” Laenor dismissed with a wave of his hand, attention returning to his book. It was about the Conquest from the looks of it. “I know as much as ‘Nyx. That is to say, nothing at all.”

Their little brother shot him a glare at the mention, shaking out of his daze. His blue eyes burned with annoyance. “I know plenty!” he sulked, sounding the child. Laenor only patted him on the head goodnaturedly.

“That you do,” he agreed. “That you do.” The words made Rhaenyx preen.

“You have a theory, do you not?” Laena decided to ask instead, feigning disinterest. Laenor only sent her a look of disapproval.

“’Tis never good to say such things out loud lest they be true.”

Even Seasmoke seemed inclined to agree as he let out a soft snort of agreement. It seemed almost like a dream that Laenor had not wanted him so on account of his small size. Nowadays, they seemed inseparable.

“Even so,” she began hesitantly, “If such things were to involve us-“

“Then mother and father will inform us,” Laenor replied in dismissal. “For now, it is none of our concern. Mayhaps a bit of reading will keep your mind occupied, Laena. Or looking at some maps. I know.”

Laena could not disagree with him on that. Her wanderlust had only intensified during the past few years and all she desired more than anything was a dragon of her own to fly away on. The greatest dragon there was.

Vhagar, the last of the Conquerors’ dragons and the largest there was. It seemed almost sinful to think of given her mother’s uncle already rode her and would no doubt pass it to a grandchild of his own, mayhap their cousin Rhaenyra who’d been born but a few years past. Yet Laena could not help but let her dreams overtake her sometimes. The thought of taking to the skies on such a lovely creature, to ride on one who helped conquer and explore the world with her…

It was what any child wanted.

She slid back down onto the ground, grabbing the plush toy dragon close to her chest, slipping into reveries as the thought of the bronze dragon dominated her thoughts once more. By the time her parents had returned, she had half a dozen maps open, trying her hardest to estimate the distances and time it would take to get from one place to the other.

Mother’s face told her everything she needed to know. It was not warm like it usually was. It was the face of the Lady of the Tides: austere and not ready to brook any disagreement. It made them all stand up. The scarlet and black robes her mother wore seemed ominous for some reason.

Her father seemed not much warmer. In his grip was curled a scroll, its wax seal broken as the ends of the vellum flapped around. The looks on their faces made Laena bite her lip in anxiety. Not even ‘Nyx spoke as their father had them all seated obediently in front of them. It seemed like a lifetime had passed before the news hit her seriously. The words hadn’t registered as they should have, too caught up in worry for her ears to want to listen. She saw her mother’s lips move but all she could focus on were the words that mattered.

“My uncle has passed, and the king must choose a new heir.”

Laena had stared at her mother with a wide-open jaw at that, Laenor had just sighed tiredly. They were old enough by now to know what such news entailed.

She knew she had no chance. Even Mother had been passed over for the throne that should have been hers. But Laenor… She saw hope that she’d never seen in a long time in her parents’ eyes. Hope for the crown mother had been denied.

Hope for the Iron Throne of Westeros.

 

***

Notes:

Part 3 of 3. Next chapter I'll post will be the first new one onto here.

Chapter 4: JAEHAERYS I/ RHAENYS III - An Interlude

---

***

JAEHAERYS I

 King’s Landing, 101 AC

The saccharine tang of the honeyed wine somehow still left an ashen taste in his mouth. Jaehaerys did not know when such rarities had turned into habit. Was it when Aemon died? When his son, both wise and martial in equal measure, all anyone could have ever wished for in an heir, had been murdered at the hands of some barbaric craven - some nobody - from Myr? Or had it started when Alyssa had departed from this world, a once wild girl tamed by marriage and motherhood? He could not tell exactly when it had started, this feeling, that constant stab of sorrow within the confines of his chest, draining him of all the pleasures of this world. 

No, this sorrow, this familiar pain, had been a veil that had cast its dark shadow over almost all of his life. From the moment his grandsire had passed, and with his death, the beckoning of  unrest and treachery at the door of anyone who bore even a drop of his blood, House Targaryen had known no reprieve from the myriad of tragedies that had dogged it. And how it had continued for so long... When his sire had crumpled to the ground that sweet, sweet summer’s day, a man Jaehaerys could remember once admiring, one he could remember trying to replicate, to the suffering he’d had to watch feebly under his great aunt’s cold dark purple eyes…

How he had grieved for them all! Brave Aegon who had fallen in battle and Rhaena who had all but died with him, sweet Viserys who they had to leave behind to his vile fate at the hands of their monstrous brute of an uncle and his wicked Pentoshi whore of a concubine, his darling mother who he had lost to that wretched drunkard, the dear niece he could not protect from such a harrowing demise, his first child and heir who had named after the brother he admired so, and whom he had been so cruelly robbed of, little Daenerys who had just come to tell them she had begun to feel cold…

Throughout all of them, he had had her by his side, his Aly, with her warmth and wit. Sweet Alysanne who was always his strength, his heart. His sister. His wife. His Queen.

Gone , he thought forlornly. All gone.

Gone like their siblings. Gone like their mother and father. Gone like their children.

Gone like Baelon.

An invisible hand seemed to claw at his chest again, squeezing it sadistically. Jaehaerys no longer knew whether it was just his imagination or reality. Reality was far darker these days, even darker since Baelon had left him. In his mind’s eye, he could still see his son taut with pain on his featherbed, silver hair matted with sweat as he tried desperately to put on a strong face for his sire. Baelon the Brave, they all called him. A prince who knew no fear. Imagine if they knew his last moments were spent with him in tears, his folded body rippling with pain. 

That brilliant, brash boy who had once smote Balerion himself in the snout was gone, and he had left behind a father feeling mayhaps even more dead than his son was, and a crisis in the succession that left Westeros teetering on the edge of civil war. 

The crown that rested upon his brow had never felt heavier than in that moment. Once he had been taller, stronger. Once he had had more silver in his hair than grey. Once he had two sons, the heir and the spare, and a succession that had been surer than ever. That time was gone however, an era as dead as Baelon now was.

His eyes lifted reluctantly from the gilded edge of his silver cup to look at his only surviving son. The years spent at the Citadel had not changed Vaegon overmuch. He still had the same sour cast to his mouth, the same long face framed with a limp lank of pale gold-silver hair kept trimmed below his ears. Time had only rounded his shoulders even more, making him look shorter than he truly was, and further deepened his stooped posture. The trip from Oldtown had not been unsparing either - his brow was still slick with sweat from the seasickness he’d been prone to since childhood and the discomfort was still evident upon his blanched face. The years had withered him away as much as Jaehaerys, leaving him a frail and pale ghost of an already weedy man. The heavy chain looped around his neck seemed to only drag his shapeless body closer to his book. It was only then that Jaehaerys realised he had been talking.

“- Citadel, father.”

“What?” Jaehaerys repeated, his mind still adaze. A frown creeped up Vaegon’s lined face, deepening the grooves around his mouth.

“I spoke of the flood of ravens entering the Citadel,” his son repeated samely, his lips twisted in its usual sour way. “Even from as far North,” he noted with a hint of surprise.

“The North?” The thought alone troubled Jaehaerys. “They have never cared much for the dealings of the South. The North did not even stir when my uncle usurped my brother and tossed the realm into chaos. Why should this time be any different?” 

The enmity in his tone was evidently palpable given the way Vaegon’s lips twitched downwards. Jaehaerys had never quite forgiven those many lords who stood by and did nothing as his uncle committed heinous crime after heinous crime, least of all the Northerners who did not even care to send even the smallest of acknowledgements of knowing the South’s doings. Alaric Stark’s less than warm hailing had scarcely endeared him to them as it had Alysanne.

Vaegon only thinned his lips. “The North remembers,” his son recounted in a disinterested fashion. “It is  a common saying up North amongst the Northerners. It alludes to their loyalties to the Starks of course but… they have always been a mistrustful bunch, especially of the South as they call it. And they remember the losses of Walton Stark and the New Gift well. They will not support the heir of your choosing.”

The words made Jaehaerys grimace. 

“I have named no heir,” Jaehaerys stated coolly. 

The Archmaester responded with a doubtful look of his own.

“It is apparent to all that you desire Baelon’s son, Viserys, to succeed you,” Vaegon noted carefully. His golden archmaester’s ring glinted as a stray ray of light danced over his fingers. “To many, it is a matter of when.”

Jaehaerys bit back a bark of laughter. “Is that so?” he mused after a beat, his bony fingers running down the length of his long, grey beard. He could barely go an inch down without meeting another tangle. 

Vaegon only fingered the sleeve of his grey woolen robes in response, the links of the long chain - yellow gold, bronze, platinum, Valyrian Steel - all clinking together, adorned here and there with garnets, emeralds, black pearls and rubies. The yellow golden links were the most numerous of them all, second only to an array of bronze ones that fell past his chest.

“It is what we at the Citadel theorise to be the most likely outcome,” he said finally with a shrug, letting go of the fabric. “Rhaenys was not made your heir once. It would not be surprising if she were overlooked again,” he reasoned. “Unless it is her son you worry about.”

Jaehaerys gave him a smile, but there was no mirth in it. “I am told Lord Corlys is gathering ships and men to defend his son’s right to the throne. Just as I am told Daemon has begun gathering sellswords and men-at-arms in retaliation, to defend his own brother’s claim.” He sent Vaegon a searching look. “Is it clear to you now, why I have summoned you in such haste?”

“I scarce think it would be to offer me to take the throne,” Vaegon stated dryly, though there was no humour in his tone. “So, I must go with counsel then. You wish for my advice upon the matter?”

Jaehaerys merely nodded. “Whoever I desire as my heir means naught. Raising a grown man with feats to his name to Prince of Dragonstone over a girl of eight-and-ten was never a question, especially when it already had precedent before. But now both Aemon and Baelon have male heirs of their blood, young as Laenor Velaryon may be.”

Jaehaerys could scarcely keep the disagreement out of his tone. For all that news of his brilliance flooded the capital, he had no doubt that it had been grossly over exaggerated by his granddaughter’s spies and supporters in an effort to have him disavow his previous edict and to name her son as his heir. His own regency had made him negatively predisposed to a young child as king, and he knew all too well that it would be Corlys who would be the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

No, he could not let all that he had worked so hard for be for naught… Westeros needed a strong man - a Targaryen -at its helm, one who could command the respect of his lords and deliver due justice when called upon. A woman or a boy could never be ready for such a task, as much as it pained him to admit it. Even Alysanne could not harden herself in times of tragedy. It was in a woman’s heart to lament openly and to wither, and in a man’s to carry on as always, no matter the weight of the loss.

“If it is enlightenment on the intricacies of succession you desire, then you should know that Rhaenys is undeniably the heir under Andal law, Valyrian law, and even those of the First Men though they almost never allow that to be put into practice. If she were to renounce that claim, then said claim would pass down to her eldest son, Laenor, and after him, his younger brother, Rhaenyx,” Vaegon recited, one pale hand resting upon a heavy leather bound tome set upon the middle of the table. He nodded towards it. “Maester Desmor’s ‘The Law and Customs of Primogeneiture’ is a richly written treatise on the matter. Although, I am sure you have already mulled over what I have said.”

“Yes, I have.”

“What did Baelon want?” Vaegon asked suddenly, curiosity swirling in his pale lavender eyes. His fingers had curled onto the rod of gold that had laid upon the table, until then forgotten by its owner. 

“Does it matter to know what a dead man desired?” Jaehaerys replied coldly, remembering his son’s weak protests on his sick bed. 

She must be made heir now… Father, you said-

His hands curled into fists at the memory, shaking with rage. Vaegon shrugged again at the dismissal, lifting the rod so that its pointed edge dug lightly into the softness of his chin. The ornate carvings that adorned the length of the golden rod were dressed with glittering garnets that shone like flakes of blood. It only made Jaehaerys' stomach churn in remembrance.

“Mayhaps not,” he murmured to himself. “Yet one can hardly fault a maester for being curious. Even so… I am well aware of the complications that may arise from any of them being named as your heir. Give the title to Rhaenys now, and many will view you as weak willed; someone subordinate to the gentler sex. Hand it to Viserys, and her supporters and all those who stand behind Laenor Velaryon will be most wroth and will no doubt ferment rebellion. Give it to Laenor Velaryon,” he paused, his voice evidently tinged with distaste at the idea. “Give it to the boy of seven, and the lords of Westeros will clamor to have him under their control, all while House Targaryen’s enemies make note of the tumultuous time his regent is having at keeping his reign stable.”

“Then you see why I have called you here then,” Jaehaerys uttered tiredly, slumping into his chair. He had never felt older than in that very moment. His arms seemed to sag against his own will. “I am an old man, my son. I can barely remember who is on my own small council. It seems to me that their faces change every morn, some of them the faces of dead men. At times, I think I hear your mother calling me, other times it is my own mother who calls out my name. Even the names of my Kingsguard sometimes elude me - men who I am to trust with every fibre of my being to protect my person… my confidence.”

It irked him how defeated he sounded. How feeble his once commanding voice had turned into a rasp thick with sorrow. How he could feel his eyes burn as tears threatened to flood them once more. 

“I am the Conciliator, greatest king of them all or so they say, and I am at a loss.”

Vaegon merely traced the outline of the gilded letters stamped upon the leather of the tome with the blunt edge of his nail, his brows drawn together closely. Jaehaerys did not miss the look of contemplation that lingered on his face, or the way his eyes were averted, kept trained upon the glittering letters and the glimmer of gold and little else. A long silence stretched between them, long enough that Jaehaerys had managed to wipe away some of his unshed tears with the back of his hand. His heart - his very being - felt weary of living.

“A council,” Vaegon finally said after a moment, breaking the newfound tranquility of the council chambers. His pale eyes met Jaehaerys darker ones. Outside, the evening sky was beginning to purple.

“Your sire suggested it during his own reign,” Vaegon continued, his voice surprisingly gentle. “A Great Council to be able to discuss how best to deal with the cluster of rebellions that erupted after the Conqueror’s death. It would be the most impartial way to decide who is to succeed you. The Lords themselves will choose who their future king will be, and none can say there was no fairness involved. Not even Rhaenys and Corlys with the Baratheons and the Starks abetting them. And if it is a man grown they desire as your heir rather than a boy of seven… Well, then it is no fault of yours.”

In that moment, Jaehaerys could have sworn he’d seen the barest shadow of a smile fleeting upon his son’s pale lips for the second time.

---

***

RHAENYS III

 Driftmark, 101 AC

“He dares!”

The palm of Rhaenys’ hand slammed upon the ornate goldenheart table, the sound of her rings thundering against the wood. Pain shot through her fingers, up to her arms, but her anger had all but made her all but blind to it. Sat three paces away, her husband had scarcely reacted to her outburst, though his hands had turned white at the knuckles where he still gripped the corners of the scroll, the blood red wax seal broken. His dark purple eyes blazed with untold fury.

“A farce!” Rhaenys continued, caring little for how bitter she sounded. “He would rather call for this farce - this absolute mockery of our inheritance laws - to seat my lackwit of a cousin on that damned throne! He would give power to the lords of Westeros - big or small - over the Crown itself! All because he is too craven to recant his previous illmade decision! To not even return Laenor what should rightfully be his by his own ‘sound’ judgement!? That gods be damned senile rat !”

“Yelling will get us nowhere, my love,” Corlys tried to say soothingly, though his own voice was laced with hidden acidity. The sea green silks he wore over, clashing beautifully with silver thread worked around the hems and graced with square cut emeralds, were taut over his body, as if every muscle were tense. His ring-adorned fingers ran over the length of his closely cropped silver beard.

“Neither will staying silent,” she rebuked tartly, her arms folded over her chest. The blacks and scarlet of her silks, adorned with strings of blood red diamonds, had never seemed more repulsive. “He is stealing our son’s birthright from him! That…That dotard pisses on my sire’s ashes once more to satisfy his own oversized ego!”

“The decision has not been made yet,” her husband reasoned. Rhaenys sent him a withering glance. 

“What hope does our son have? My cousin is a man grown, wed, and with a child of his own, as well as a brother already in his majority. Laenor is a boy of seven namedays, with a boy of four namedays as his own heir and a dragon he only took to the skies not even a moon past! The Lords of Westeros will not choose him, husband. They will not suffer another regency lest it is to their benefit.”

“They can be convinced, dearest,” Corlys said in an even tone. Rhaenys snorted derisively.

“Wealth can only buy him so many votes, Corlys. My uncle will support us, as will those who still feel they have grievances against my grandsire, but the odds are against us. We have support, but not enough. Viserys will win. I am sure of it. By a small margin mayhaps, but he will win . He has spent more time in the capital than we have, and his wife has all but secured the Vale for him. The Redwynes and the Lannisters will gladly support him if it means weakening House Velaryon, and Lord Grover Tully has never been shy about spouting out his principles to all who will give him the time of the day.”

Corlys only stared grimly at her, his almost five decades outlined clearly in the hard lines that were etched upon his still handsome visage. Not even the teal and silver-coloured silks could soften dark eyes that had seen more than some would see in a hundred lifetimes. 

“We will find a way,” he stated in an almost growl-like voice, his words sounding more like a promise than a statement. There was that ever burning fire blazing in his purple eyes, one of the many traits that had allured that girl of six-and-ten to a man over two decades her elder. It was the fire of a man who would stop at nothing to see their blood on the Iron Throne.

“How are you so sure?” she asked with a fire just as fierce alit in her pale violet eyes. “How can you be certain that they will not treat him as they did me? That they will not say he is too young, too weak.” She gave him a hard stare. “How can you be so certain that our Laenor will become king?”

“You said it yourself, my love,” Corlys responded with an ardent fervour. “He is different from the rest of them. Not amongst the sons of some lordlings but among you dragonlords. He is the first of his kind since the Dreamer herself. He was chosen by his dragon, was he not? He possesses with the wisdom of a man a hundred times his age, does he not? He is special, Rhaenys. You know it better than even I! He is blessed by the Gods for Seven’s sake! The Gods themselves sent him portents and for what if not to rule? We shall go to Harrenhal in all our glory, unencumbered by such doubt for we know that when our son presents himself to all those lords, middling and great, we know that he will make Viserys look like the bumbling, dragonless oaf with no wits that he is, and they themselves will see their true king.” 

"And," he paused, his voice quiet though his eyes betrayed his true feelings, "they will crown him."

***

---

 

Notes:

Hoping to get my stuff out on the regular now. Depression is a bitch but Brandon Sanderson has gotten me through one of my spells. Have a Jae.

Chapter 5: VISERYS I/ LAENA II

***

VISERYS I

King's Landing, 101 AC

There was no joy to be felt in the days that followed his father’s death. There were instead arrangements to be looked over, appearances to be made. Always clad in the black of mourning. Always with the eyes of hundreds scrutinising his every step. 

His father had been a great man, in every single aspect. Tall, powerfully built, with a cleverness that most did not expect from a man of such martial prowess, and a charm that followed in his every breath, word, and step, none could have denied Baelon the Brave had been worthy of the Iron Throne. He rode Queen Visenya’s dragon as gracefully and as ably as he wielded her blade, marks that denoted only the finest of dragonlords even in the days before the Doom itself.

And yet, as he stared at the golden urn, so exquisitely made and so richly inlaid with gems, Viserys could not help but wonder why it was that he was the one that still remained, while his father’s body turned to ashes. 

The Stranger’s lapis lazuli eyes seemed to outshine even the Maiden herself in the lavish Sept of the Red Keep. They seemed to judge him, even more excruciating than the Father’s solemn gaze. Not even the grandness of the Sept, one dominated by black marble floors, jade pillars and windows of fine crystal, could quench the sense of remembrance that had taken place but a moon prior. Aemma had thought it foolish for him to visit it ever so often. Why make such overtures if all it would leave was a semblance of sorrow? 

Was it forgiveness he sought? Or was it guidance? More than one man had said it was the will of the Gods themselves that the Spring Prince had passed, though never in his hearing. For his crime of stealing his niece’s inheritance, Baelon had been rightfully subjected to a torturously painful death. 

Daemon had cut the man down for his perfidy, so broken was he by his grief. Not that he was any different. Viserys wondered what they would have thought if they knew his father had never truly been as confident in his own ascension to Prince of Dragonstone as he made himself look. Prince Baelon Targaryen had all the makings of a good king, but he never thirsted for it the way others did. To him, it was a solemn duty. A burden pressed upon his shoulders by his brother’s unexpected demise and his niece’s youth. An obligation bestowed upon him without his knowing in front of a crowd of thousands by his royal sire. 

Yet, everyone seemed to think otherwise. It had bothered Baelon that they did. It had bothered him immensely that none believed in the notion more than Rhaenys herself. 

He always spoke to Viserys of the day when he would have a son of his own, one that would marry the Lady Laena Velaryon and put an end to all this unnecessary bitterness. When little Aemon had been born, that had been all the hope that he had needed. His father said that he would deliver the proposal himself, to finally end these needless hostilities amongst kin. Whence little Aemon with his eyes so much like his grandsire’s, and a wail that could have shattered mountains finally wed Laena Velaryon, granddaughter of the babe’s namesake, there would finally be peace.  

But just like Aemon, Baelon was dead, his dreams and hopes as intangible as ever before. 

And just as Aemon’s did, that death left Viserys feeling empty. An urn, no matter how lavishly made, did not suit a man so full of life and vigour. 

His father had always said the same of his mother’s urn, always with the same sad smile on his face. 

“She should be high in the skies, laughing with you both in tow,” he’d told his sons once. 

As should you, Viserys thought numbly.  

His trembling fingers felt the cool metal again, so lifeless and devoid of warmth. For a second, he thought he could almost feel the warmth of still hot ashes in an urn baked in the heat of the sun. Yet, just like wind, such things never came twice. 

His reflection was distorted and vague, the finer details smudged by the mirror of the polished gold. On his right lay a pattern of gems that showed Vhagar writ small, marvellously made by an expert’s hand, on his left the growing smudged shadow, slimmer and shorter than he, but with clothes just as dark. 

“My prince,” came Otto Hightower’s even voice, his head bowed in greeting as he approached the young man. He wore black as was custom, though Viserys could spy hints of colour from the former Master of Laws’s garb. A half-cloak of deep green velvet, with a doublet of black silk rife with ivory buttons wrought in the shape of the famous lighthouse of Oldtown. It was hardly the most vibrant of clothing choices, but the interlocking array of golden hands that was looped over his neck seemed to demand to be seen. 

The sight of it on him felt wrong. It had been his father’s for so long it seemed like though Viserys knew it had barely been a year.  

“Lord Hand,” the words felt foreign in his mouth, “I had thought you would be with my grandsire.”

“His Grace, our great king, has been rendered tired by his many labours as well as his grief, my prince. I have sent mine own daughter to see to his care. He is fond of hearing her read to him,” Otto announced solemnly.

Viserys gave him a thankful smile, feeling grateful. Even he found it hard to spend time with his grandfather while dealing with his own grief. That the young Lady Alicent would be so kind to spend hours of her time tending to him was most appreciated. “That is most kind of the Lady Alicent and yourself, Ser Otto. I myself intend to bring my daughter to see him on the morrow. To hear you’ve gone to such great lengths to ease his pain lightens my heart immensely. My grandsire could have chosen no better man to succeed my father.”

No matter what Daemon says.

Ser Otto bowed his head in thanks, the Hand’s chain clinking softly as he did so. “You humble me markedly, my prince. As a second son with aught to bear, I find no greater pleasure of being to serve the realm in all ways that I can. I pray that I may serve you as ably as I serve His Grace, my prince.”

Viserys frowned at that, his forehead creasing. “There is no certainty that I will be the one succeeding my grandsire.”

Otto gave him a look touched with pardon. “Forgive me, my prince. It is just that this has been the much accepted, and dare I say, much desired sentiment among all who have heard of the matter, your younger brother included. They say he spends many a night in the bowels of the city, toasting to your ascension with the men that he has gathered.”

Viserys’ frown deepened. He did not know whether to be exasperated or upset. Daemon had never been one for subtlety or for reticence. He would have to deal with his brother for that later. “It is such remarks that continue to divide Houses Targaryen and Velaryon, Ser Otto. One would think they would wish for nothing more than for us two great powers to join forces once more in hopes of warding off something as foolish as a civil war.” He shook his head, one heavily bedecked finger stroking the silver-gold hairs of his moustache. 

The Hand gave him an affirming nod in agreement. “Indeed my prince. Your wisdom surpasses your youth by much. Your own grandsire was no different at your age, the stories say. Were you to ascend, you would be as noble a successor as your father would have been.”

Viserys only smiled warmly at the compliment, clapping Otto on the shoulder. The shorter and lankier man almost fell over from the force alone, though Viserys only laughed heartily. It was good to know there were still some honest men in a city that seemed so full of vipers. “You humble me, Ser Otto. Still, if I am ever to be king, you can be sure to have a place on my council. Though… I would hope you could put an end to these rumours. I do not want to deepen this conflict that has afflicted my family for so long.”

“A most wise choice, my prince. I will ensure that such… hearsay be put down without question.”

With a final bow, Otto Hightower left, still ever so dignified in his gait. Viserys could not help but feel his heart lighten after meeting the man. He would be a loyal and able Hand to whomever succeeded his grandsire on the Iron Throne. Still, the thought of having to deal with Daemon drained him. His brother had never been even-tempered, even as a babe. He had been prone to outbursts and dastardly stunts from his youth, and time had only emboldened him. Their father had said it was their mother’s blood that made him so. Viserys had to agree. 

Viserys had been only seven namedays old when she had passed, but he still had fond memories of a free-spirited woman with a lopsided smile and mismatched eyes. Her death had shattered their father despite his attempts to hide it, and Daemon as well. And now with their sire’s death, Viserys could only expect things to worsen. Already Daemon had been caught drinking himself senseless and bedding half the whores on the Street of Silk since their father’s sudden death. Where Viserys turned to family for comfort, Daemon turned to seedier methods.

Would that mother were here indeed, he thought morosely. Mayhaps she would have been able to put an end to Daemon’s impetuousness and Rhaenys’ cool courtesy. Not even his father had been able to end Rhaenys’ self-imposed exile on Driftmark. It irked Viserys for her to think of him in the same manner as some petty lord focused on naught but furtherance. While the prospect of being king was definitely appealing, he did not think it integral to his life’s purpose the way Rhaenys, or rather, Corlys did. His love for his family would always trump even the loftiest of titles. The talk that he was already heir upset him for that reason.

The decision was hardly as resolute as everyone that knew him seemed to claim. There were well over a thousand lords - great and small - set to attend the ‘Great Council’ as it was being called. His cousin was hardly without her own supporters, though it would be her son who would be the main contender on the late Prince Aemon’s behalf. Nay, Viserys did not like to ponder on such things overlong, for these matters oft left a rancid aftertaste in its wake. All it would do was remind him of sadder things he would rather lock away, memories of a broken family and of dead children, most of whom never came to fulfilment. Spending time with the little light of his life, his sweet Rhaenyra, seemed far more agreeable than discussing political machinations amongst lickspittles. Politics were not of his liking. Yes, Viserys much preferred bringing enjoyment to his loved ones than indulging in petty quarrels. 

How his father had tried so hard to put an end to those quarrels! How it filled him with sorrow to see his dear niece turn him away! And he had died without accomplishing anything. All his death had led to was a promise of more discontent in its wake. 

No, Viserys could not let his father’s legacy end like this. Looking down at his father’s urn one final time, Viserys made a decision. He would not let the sting of their grandfather’s rejection tear their family apart any longer. He would write to his cousin and invite her to dine at Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, while he put his father’s ashes to rest besides those of his mother. The House of the Dragon had remained divided for far too long. Now was the ripest of times to heal wounds instead of allowing them to fester. 

Heir or no, Viserys knew he could no longer remain but a watcher. It was his duty to finally intercede in these affairs. His and Aemma’s sorrows had long dominated their lives, yet now he could no longer afford such lethargy. 

Prince Baelon had always said every ruler needed a firm resolve when it came to all decisions, one not built upon by self-aggrandizement and conceit, but just integrity. From what Viserys had gleaned from his meetings with those given positions by his father, the new Hand included, it seemed that he had attracted men made of the same stuff as he. He could already picture his brother’s mocking laugh in his head, something that had become so much more familiar as the years had passed. But still Viserys did not let it deter him as he finally turned away from the Stranger’s grim gaze. Viserys could only hope he was born of the same make, no matter the fool his brother thought him to be. Balerion himself had chosen warriors - kings - for his riders. The Conqueror himself has ridden him.

Why should Viserys be any different from those men? 

***

LAENA II

Driftmark, 101 AC

“What do you think?” Laenor asked the moment their mother had slinked away, his lips curled into an ever so familiar smile. The door had barely been closed whence he had all but lost his usual composure to turn to face her, eyes alit by this most unexpected news: an invitation to Dragonstone from their mother’s cousin. Mother’s face had not deferred from that of the Lady of the Tides, but Laena had thought she’d heard a hint of conflict in her voice. Not that it surprised her; she had been acting all different since her uncle had passed and left the realm heirless. No doubt it concerned some form of “subterfuge” as Laenor was wont to say, something that Laena thought tiresome and unneeded at their age. She would much rather they spend time swimming and playing than trying to win an uncomfortable throne. So, she just shrugged at her brother’s question, not particularly enthused to tear away from her sewing. 

“I suppose it has been long since we called on Dragonstone,” she said with a sigh, threading sea green thread through the fabric, “I can scarce remember how it looks like to be truthful. It is more a blur than anything. But again, it is hardly something I would regard as notable, little brother.”

Laenor stood up to his full height with a snort that told her all he thought of her belief, his pale blue tunic falling once more to his knees. Silver stitching wrought seahorses along the collar and the hem, with silver waves edging his sleeves, as pale as the silver-white hair that fell to his chin. There was a sense of eagerness about him. In the way he stood. In the way he spoke. Always there was an edge of zeal that seemed so unnatural for someone as composed as Laenor Velaryon. A golden bracelet of opals hung around his wrist, a sapphire ring clinging to his forefinger. Both gifts from his recently passed seventh nameday, Laena recalled.

“To see how pretty Dragonstone remains is not what I am referring to, sister. Not at all. Laena, did you go through the book I had Maester Edmund sent to your chambers?” His tone was exasperated.

Laena only focused her eyes onto the murals that lay above Laenor’s bed, feeling guilty. Not even the merlings that stared back at her deprived themselves of looks of reproach. Laenor’s stern gaze forced itself back into her line of sight, steely and unyielding. 

“Did you?” he asked again in an accusatory tone, lifting one tired eyebrow upward. Laena flushed.

“I went through it a bit,” she mumbled half-heartedly, wishing she had chosen to spend her time with her other brother instead. Rhaenyx was unfortunately busy mooning over his first wooden sword, swatting at all he could hit with a trail of cats in tow. Their father had said he was already a knight-in-making, the second coming of Ser Corlys Velaryon, Lord Commander of the Conqueror’s Kingsguard, something had only inflated his ego even more. Not even Laenor’s snide comment on him having to swear off women worked. Rhaenyx was still too childish to think of girls as naught but “annoying” per his own admission. Something Laena found it hard to believe given he clung onto her skirts like a little kitten himself. 

That left her with Laenor who had scarce left his chambers other than for a trip to the library, seeking out some book so ancient that the film of dust that coated them could have added a hundred extra pages to them. Laena saw no real use for it, but Laenor was strange in that way. Almost always he had a book in his hand. Would that he did not try to force such tedious tomes upon her.

“Laena,” her little brother said, ever stern, “You know you’ve been behind on your lessons of late.”

Laena’s cheeks flared a deeper crimson. “All you did was send me a book thicker than mine own head, probably written by some old Archmaester who has been dead a thousand years now! And it was hardly about numbers now, was it?!”

“One thousand and fifty three years, sister,” he corrected, tapping his foot anxiously on the carpet, running a hand through his hair. There was a frustrated look on his face, one that always seemed to be directed either at her, Rhaenyx, or Seasmoke. Laena could not tell who was on the receiving end of it the most. 

“And the scroll was hardly of the Citadel,” he chided, “This one was of Essosi origin, written by the hand of Haegon of Tellos.”

Laena scrunched her nose. “Then some old Valyrian scholar a thousand and fifty-three years dead!”

Laenor did not find it as amusing as she did. Instead, he sent her a withering look of disappointment. 

“Must you antagonise me?” he asked with a sigh. Laena had to give him a sly smile. 

“Must you bombard me with ancient relics containing ‘knowledge of the greatest import’?”

That at least earned her a most reluctant grin.

“Point taken,” Laenor replied, placing one hand on either side of his hips, “But that treatise in particular was a true font of knowledge in regards to… pertinent issues of sorts. That of which this forthcoming visit may be key in placating.”

Laena Velaryon only stared at him blankly, rightfully confused. “Pertinent issues?” 

“On the rivalries of the noble houses of the Freehold and how they conducted themselves during such dangerous times,” Laenor stated without pause, walking five paces to the left before turning five more paces to the right, like in a trance. The daunting sight of a thick stack of books resting upon his neatly organised desk seemed to cast its dark shadow over her in agreement. Not even the familiar smell of the sea breeze wafting through open stained glass windows could distract her. 

Still, Laena’s blank stare did not waver. “But they’re all dead. Why worry about them?”

“ Dead!? ” Laenor’s voice pitched as he threw his arms in the air, exasperated. “Dearest sister, you still have much to learn. Have you not made note of the increasing number of dragon-riding branches in these most subpar of western lands? Of how our family, us Velaryons, are all but a separate Valyrian dragon-riding house of our own. How this Great Council will undoubtedly cause even more discord between our two families, all but landing us back to the days when the forty families of Valyria fought for complete dominance over each other! Do you understand why it is imperative that we ensure that we leave not a single stone untouched in order to survive this damnable and nigh on inevitable conflict in the making?”

“...Yes?”

Laenor’s body slumped forward as he stared at her incredulously, his mouth slacked open. His lilac eyes blinked profusely, as if there were some dust in his eyes. Laena was beginning to think that mayhaps she had not quite followed his line of thought. Scratch that, she did not even want to follow it. 

With nary a further word said, Laenor walked past her and let his body fall limply onto the downy featherbed, simultaneously grabbing a pair of goosedown pillows and shoving them over the back of his head. He lay face down with his face mushed against the deep blue silks of his sheets, not saying anything. His silk clad pillows seemed to swallow his head whole, leaving not even a hint of silver-white hair shooting up from underneath. 

Laena watched, more than a mite confused and quietly beginning to worry that Laenor was attempting to suffocate himself to death out of sheer vexation. It was enough to make her stand up warily, her sea-green silk dress crumpled from sitting on the floor, and to warily poke him in the shoulder. The pearls of her gown had left indentations on her knees, leaving her aching muscles even more sore. Her worry, however, was greater. 

She sorely hoped for a response. Mayhaps a word of encouragement. She could definitely feel his muscles still working. Or well, she hoped they were.

She did manage to get a sign thankfully. Though she had hoped for more than a yell loud enough to make her fall back onto her bottom in shock, as well as the use of a rather muffled but still most improper term. That his immediate response after setting his attempted hangman’s rope was not to help her up, but to go to his desk and pull out a large scroll only made her feel even more dread.

It seems she would learn about these boring things - this subterfuge - whether she wished for it or not.

***

Chapter 6: AEMMA I/ LAENA III

***

AEMMA I

101 AC, Dragonstone

The white silk ribbon seemed like a velvety streak of cloud wafting in a sky tinged golden as it was looped around the end of the long, swaying braid. It was a simple enough plait, twisting and coiling strands of silver and of gold criss crossed over each other, ending just below the curve of the girl’s waist, past a woven belt of silver-wrought dragons encrusted with moonstones. The white silk of the hair tie was the first in many days for her daughter, meant to compliment the pale sky-blue silk gown worked with silver dragons and pearl teardrops that she wore almost happily today, a rare retreat from the usual austere black and scarlet of her daughter’s house. A necklace of white gold was looped around her neck, encrusted with finely cut amethysts that mirrored Rhaenyra’s eyes. Pulling away, Aemma Arryn could not help but smile at the sight. 

Rhaenyra turned her neck gently as she took in her appearance, one hand delicately tracing the woven pattern, the other holding the toy she had not allowed herself to be parted from limply. Her brows knitted together closely as she appraised Aemma’s work, her lips twisted in contemplation before she broke into a bright smile. Her violet eyes, still facing the mirror, met Aemma’s blue ones. 

“Do you like it, sweetling?” she asked, smoothing over a few loose strands of hair. Rhaenyra nodded happily, both hands returning their vice-like grip upon the plush toy as she turned to face her mother. Her braid swished lazily as she turned with a flourishing step. She was beaming.

“I do, mama,” she said, her cheeks blooming red like two apples. She twirled, admired herself once more in the floor length silver mirror and twirled again, her necklace catching the light. “Vhagar says I look pretty. Right, Vhagar?”

Vhagar the plush toy’s response was an enthusiastic shake of the head (helped not so discreetly by her daughter’s forceful fingers). For all that it was small and misshapen, Aemma had to admit that it was a fairly good attempt at replicating the mighty dragon of Queen Visenya. The body was made of bronze velvet stuffed with a mixture of downy goose feathers and stiff wool, with blue-green felt horns erupting from either side of its head. Shimmering scales of blue-green thread were masterfully worked outwards from the chest and the snout, fading into the bronze velvet that further complimented grass green emerald eyes that sparkled.   

“Well, one can hardly refute Vhagar’s infinite wisdom,” Aemma said, fighting back a laugh. Her hand brushed over the girl’s cheek softly, tucking a loose strand of gold behind her ear. “And I do not think there is any other girl even half as beautiful as you, my sweet.”

Her blush deepened further, turning crimson. She opened her mouth to speak, the jubilence on her face looking seemingly as steadfast as the walls of Storm’s End. But just as quickly as it came, it went, dissipating into oblivion. The grief that had beleaguered her since her grandsire had passed had returned within the span of a few heartbeats. Rhaenyra’s grip on the plush toy grew even tighter. It made Aemma’s heart ache.

“Oh sweetling,” she murmured, lifting the four year old up into her arms with some difficulty. Her own strength had not returned to her yet, she remembered bitterly, a lump forming in her throat. Not after… 

Aemma pushed the thought aside, instead helping Rhaenyra’s head nestle itself into the crook of her neck. Her skin felt clammy against Aemma’s own.

“Miss grandpapa,” the girl croaked, sniffling into her neck. Aemma only held her closer.

“I know, sweetling,” she replied, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her head. Her arms burned with fatigue, but she forced herself to ignore the ache. “I know, my little girl.”

The door suddenly opened with a whine, making Aemma jolt upwards with a start. She turned to face the intruder, filled with a mixture of annoyance and anger, and saw that her husband had been the one to enter. There was a look of concern on his usually genial face, something that had hounded him since his father had died. He strode to Rhaenyra with urgency, his hands already reaching to lift her up. Aemma could not stop the sigh of relief that exited her mouth, her muscles grateful for the small respite Viserys had granted her. Her limbs ached desperately for a bed to lie upon but she stood by her daughter regardless.

“Oh my sweet Rhaenyra,” Viserys murmured softly, his large thumb running across her sodden cheek. Their daughter only let out another sob, pressing Vhagar even closer to her face. “Your grandsire would not want to see his most beloved granddaughter like this, my joy. Especially not on this most auspicious of days.”

Aemma fought back the urge to wince. Auspicious was an optimistic way to look at it. She could not last remember a meeting with her cousin that had not been fraught with tension and frosty comments. She was hopeful of course, as she always was. Yet, her sanguineness rarely ever bore ripe fruit. Nay, it seemed all she touched would fall into decline. 

Not everything, she forced herself to remember, casting a glance at her little one. Her tears still streaked down her cheeks. But no longer was it a torrent as unyielding and familiar as Alyssa’s Tears. It fell softly, slowly, and soon was receding like the ocean tide. 

Yes, Aemma thought to herself, a slight smile touching her lips. Not everything.

Rhaenyra was still small for her age, and did not seem to be inclined to inherit her sire’s height, yet, she was healthy and bright, the most precocious child this world had ever seen. She was lovely and vibrant, the pride of Aemma and Viserys’ worlds.

The reminder lightened the weight on Aemma’s heart once more. There was still time to bring forth a boy. She was still only nine-and-ten. She had decades more.

Still, the reminder of how her own mother had passed still seemed to taunt her. Aemma had never even known her, and yet, was her own fate to end as Princess Daella? To give her husband a girl that would stand to inherit nothing and to die soon after?

The thought made her stomach churn. No, it would be no good to think as such. Aemma was hardly more robust than her own mother had been yet she had already braved half a dozen miscarriages and the birthing bed twice and left it still whole. Her soul might have been weary, feeling the strain of so many losses, but her body would not fail her nor would she allow it. The Gods themselves would not tear her away from her daughter, especially not with all the political machinations they would be sure to find themselves dragged into. Even then…

Mayhaps if Viserys were not chosen as heir, she could have some tranquility from the constant pressures of bearing a son. Mayhaps, for the first time in near a decade, she could find some time to mourn all her losses properly.

Yes, Aemma had always been one to hope.

***

The Heir to the Tides was not at all what Aemma had expected. For one, though he was but a boy of seven, he flew his dragon with a certain confidence. He did not quite have the skill Rhaenys had possessed when she had first ridden Meleys, nor Daemon’s, yet he still landed with flair, twisting in mid air and sliding across the courtyard, setting even little Rhaenyra smilling airily. 

The dragon itself was wondrous, the envy of Aemma’s own childhood, when she had hoped she might ride one herself. Its scales shone, not quite beaten silver yet not quite dull grey as well. Pale blue eyes eyed her own, shining like polished chalcedony. They were keen eyes if not slightly arrogant. The dragon known as Seasmoke even strutted around with an arrogant gait.

Laenor Velaryon was quite different. He was tall for his age, about four feet in length, and climbed down his saddle with care. His garb was Velaryon silver and teal, embellished with sapphires and emeralds, and rounded off with a pale sea-green cape held together by a sea-horse shaped cloak clasp made of white gold. It was less a dragonrider’s gear and more a lordling’s son. Her cousin, Rhaenys, who arrived a matter of moments later upon her own mighty steed, certainly did not seem to favour any gowns or tunics. She wore her riding clothes instead, all black leather with her even darker hair tied back. Even little Laena and Rhaenyx (who had ridden with their mother) had worn similar clothes unlike their brother. 

Mayhaps it was a stylistic choice? Or was Laenor Velaryon as eccentric as they said? Aemma had half-expected him to jump from his saddle in a somersault given how men spoke of him. Some said the Crone herself had given him her favour, giving him the wits of a hundred of the most cunning of maesters. Others said he bore dragon wings upon his back and covered his horns with a flurry of hats. Aemma could safely say she did not see anything protruding from said areas.  

Laenor walked obediently to his mother’s side despite his capability for evoking interest, a pleasant look upon his face. There was a note of her late uncle Aemon there as well, what little Aemma still remembered of him. In his aquiline nose, his sharp cheekbones, and in his pale eyes. His features were just as fine as his clothing, his body slender and lithe in build. He would grow into an even taller man, that was for sure, though more slender than his own sire was. 

“Cousin!” Viserys exclaimed with hardly a warning, smiling and walking to engulf Rhaenys in a crushing hug, “The sight of you here soothes me deeply. So does the sight of your three! The very image of their father your sons are! And your daughter is as fair as you are!”

Aemma felt her lips twitch into a smile. For all her husband was amiable, he could sometimes be daft. None of Rhaenys’ boys bore the thicker features of Corlys bar Laena, and even hers was of a finer, more delicate make. Laenor certainly thought the same given he barely seemed to swallow down a chuckle. 

Still, Rhaenys surprisingly returned the hug, even if awkwardly. Her amethyst eyes looked at Viserys earnestly, if not exasperated. 

“I… It is good to be back, cousin,” her eyes turned, landing first on Aemma and then on Rhaenyra. “You all look well.”

She paused, her expression clearly conflicted but spoke on, 

“I am sorry for your loss, cousin. Truly. I… understand the feeling.”

Viserys’ face lost some of its mirth at that, making even Aemma’s oft jovial husband look morose. It was times like this that she remembered not even a moon had passed since Baelon’s funeral. Next to her, her daughter seemed to wilt again. Aemma could only draw her closer to her. 

Laenor Velaryon thankfully changed the subject with his infallible enthusiasm. 

“Ah, cousin!” he exclaimed, skipping towards Viserys with a bright smile on his face, “Why I can hardly the last time I saw you! I must have been a babe!”

Laenor turned to look at her before Viserys could even respond, his little face brightening even more. “Ah, your beauty makes even the sunsets of Driftmark seem poor, Lady Aemma. Your light could make even the pale white stone of the Eyrie seem as dreary as Dragonstone. Though…” he turned to Rhaenyra, “I must admit your daughter has even you beaten in that regard. Why, she must truly be the Realm’s Delight!”

Aemma’s eyes and mouth widened in shock, simultaneously flattered and confused at the boy’s outburst of flattery. Rhaenyra, on the other hand, was blushing, her grief forgotten. 

“Laenor, mama told you not to call them cousin! You’re going to get in trouble !” his sister, Laena, called from behind, her arms crossed over her chest. His mother looked very displeased indeed. 

“Indeed, Laenor.” Rhaenys’ voice was stern. 

“ In trouble,” Rhaenyx Velaryon repeated again after the fashion of his elder sister, with all the cockiness of a four year old. Laenor only smiled warmly, shooting his mother an apologetic look. 

“You know how pedantic I can be, mama. Besides, we’re amongst family, and father’s not even here yet to chide me.”

“Where is he?” Aemma’s daughter asked innocently, no doubt having searched the skies for a third dragon. Laenor grinned at her. 

“He takes to the seas upon his swiftest ship with all our belongings in tow, my dearest Rhaenyra. All while we ride the winds. Still, he will not be long and I am positively famished! I am sure my ‘nuncle Viserys can lead the way, though I was told there were two I was to expect…”

His voice grew cold at the end, mirroring eyes that darted suspiciously at the skies. 

“Ah, my younger brother Daemon has gone off riding his Caraxes, lad,” Viserys explained, “But he will be here for dinner, worry not!”

“How very tragic,” Laenor sighed, “Truly, it is like the Doom has struck us again! The Seven only know when I shall be able to fill my belly now that the Rogue Prince has gone riding! Woe betide all who crave almond pastries!”

“Laenor,” Rhaenys said tiredly, clearly unenthused. Viserys only patted their nephew on the back with a hearty chuckle.

“Oh let the lad be, Rhaenys. No harm done. After all, I myself am eager for some pastries.” Aemma shot her husband a withering glare. Viserys winced. “After dinner of course. But enough of that! Come my little Rhaenyra! Come meet your aunt and your cousins!”

And for the first time that day, Rhaenyra ran off towards them laughing. 

***

The children were well away when the two women were finally left to speak, Viserys leading them past tapestries while regaling them with stories. They walked silently for the most part, neither saying more than a few idle words to each other before the silence swallowed them again. 

How could they after all? It had been so long. It was Rhaenys who broke the quietness proper. 

“You look well, Aemma,” she said, one hand on each hip. Even now as women-grown, she was so much taller than Aemma. Nearly a whole foot taller. “How have you been?”

Aemma’s lips moved wordlessly, unable to make even the slightest of sounds. What could she say? Weary of all these sorrows? Envious of Rhaenys’ ease at delivering two sons? Her nails scratched at her palms in discomfort, trying to ward away the weakness that not only afflicted her body, but her very soul. Despite herself, she wanted to cry on her cousin’s shoulder, to just sob. 

“I am well,” she said instead, the lie etched in not only her mouth, but on her face. A well practiced smile. Rhaenys frowned at the sight of it, her lips thinned. 

The silence began again. 

They both knew Aemma was far from well. They both knew the reason why. 

The silence stretched. 

“I am sorry, cousin,” Rhaenys said after a moment. Her eyes looked genuinely concerned. “Truly, I am.”

Aemma’s nails only dug deeper into the flesh of her palms, breeding a sharp sting that was only second to the ache that still clung to her heart. She should not be upset, no. It was not Rhaenys’ fault she had lost another one. It was not her fault the only life she had brought to term that had survived past the cradle was that of her little dragon’s.

“I am not upset, cousin,” Aemma replied shakily. Her breath still trembled despite her efforts. “It is not your fault.”

Rhaenys’ grimace only deepened. She looked ready to counter that, but swallowed down whatever words of rebuttal she might have thought of. “Mayhaps not,” she said instead, squeezing Aemma’s shoulder in comfort, “but I can commiserate with you, cousin. Whatever quarrels between our grandfather and I.”

Aemma turned to glance at her. Rhaenys’ pale violet eyes seemed almost sad. It made her think of that girl she had all but worshipped during her younger days. The girl who had taken her on flights upon a dragon as scarlet as the colours she once wore so proudly. 

A memory. An impression. A distant echo in the dark.

All lost to the spiteful swords of the Iron Throne.

***

LAENA III 

The first thing she thought as the great gold-and-silver doors closed behind them was the world of difference between High Tide and Dragonstone. The walls of High Tide were pale, made of stone quarried from the mountains of the Vale upnorth, with slender towers crowned with roofs of beaten silver sheets sprawling out into a massive complex, its architecture a mix of both the East and the West. Somewhat like them, her father was wont to say. There were frescoes from artists her father had patroned, with fine mosaics gracing the marble walls and ground, depicting scenes of relief or of mythical encounters and ancestors of ages past. Tapestries from the Freehold hung over its walls, with scented candles encroached in finely made silver sconces artfully shaped into wonderful shapes - of seahorses and merlins, of even the lowly driftwood that gave the island its name. The smell of the warm sea breeze flowing in from half-open ornate windows of stained glass clashed with the heady incense that burned in each room, leaving in a scent that she could only describe as the scent of home . It was light and airy, decadent without being outlandish. 

It seemed the antithesis of Dragonstone. 

She could not remember when she had last visited the island, but it had been long enough that the sight of the last true masterwork made by the hands of Valyrian sorcerers made her stop and stare. Even grim Driftmark, for all that its walls were caked with salt and its interior damp and flooded, had more appeal than Dragonstone in her opinion. It was egregious in its beauty and lush, worked not by chisels but by sorceries long forgotten. The different towers were not shaped into tall spires; instead the towers themselves were forged to resemble menacing dragons luring in their prey. Like an invitation to an early death to all those who dared trespass.

The thought made her insides freeze over as she once again thought of what she would be attempting that night. Every crook and cranny seemed to carry a reminder of Valyria, with dragons dominating statues, sconces, stairs and even doorways amidst a clutch of other monstrous creatures, all carved to such exquisite detail that it stole the breath away. The most wonderful of tapestries showed off the burning of men who dared oppose the dragonlords, their faces contorted into an everfrozen stilled portrait of agony while their wives, their children and all their possessions, however meagre, were claimed as spoils of war. They were few and far between, having been replaced with tapestries of the age of the Conquerors and their successors, but those were a pale shadow of the ones that preceded them. It was violent enough that it made her feel a wave of nausea wash over her, and for ‘Nyx to start crying at even a glimpse of all these terribly beautiful terrible things that covered every foot of the keep. Laenor seemed more entranced than anything. He did not smile; even he was not so barbarous. But there was an appreciation in his eyes that always made Laena wonder what he was thinking. Laenor seemed to find beauty in even the most crude of stuff, and fault in all that was thought pure and proper. 

Like Dragonstone and High Tide , she thought with a frown.

He played the role of the heir to the Tides well today: his mouth was always smiling, speaking animatedly to Prince Viserys and his wife, ever so often complimenting their young cousin who blushed. It had done enough to smooth out the beginnings of awkwardness, enough that her mother spoke to them with a familiarity that Laena had never known existed. A part of her wondered if Laenor was putting on an act on purpose. For all he claimed he wanted nothing to do with being king, Laena could not help but think he would be suited for it. There was nothing in his face that showed any hint of nervousness of what he had been planning ever since they had received the news that evening in his chambers.

It made Laena all the more nervous. She trusted her little brother - truly she did. But even she could not help but wonder if this plan they had been concocting since mother had been invited to Dragonstone would go even reasonably well. 

Just thinking about it again made her swell up with guilt. The thought of her mother’s wrath did not help. She did not know which would be more frightening: coming face to face with the greatest dragon in the world, or having to confront a very angry Lady of the Tides. Mayhaps her father might be of help given he and mother had quarreled recently. But even father might be disappointed!

She glanced at Laenor once more, now walking arm in arm with their cousin, Rhaenyra, and grimaced. 

At least she could use one brother as a shield. The other, to her exasperation and amusement, was now dragging her off to look at a stray kitten from the kitchens.

***

“His name is Fluffles,” Rhaenyx Velaryon stated proudly, his freshly-claimed tabby curled securely under his armpit as he showed the kitten off. A pleased grin was stretched over his face as he puffed up his chest even more at the sound of Rhaenyra’s awwing. Fluffles, in contrast, seemed content to just hang limply, almost as if playing dead. The prospect of being claimed by a boy of four seemed to be grimmer to Fluffles than a life of living off of kitchen scraps. The sight of her brother’s despondent new pet left her giggling despite her attempts at keeping her composure. It made Laena almost forget her agitation. 

“ She ,” corrected Laenor tiredly as he lifted the kitten’s tail from behind and crinkled his nose. “And she looks more willing to brave the waters of the Smoking Sea than to be named Fluffles, dear brother.”

Rhaenyx snorted in distaste. “Jealous baby,” her youngest brother muttered ever so childishly, sticking his tongue out at him. Laenor stared back at him, affronted. His lips worked to form words, no doubt eager to begin another lecture on the importance of respecting your elders, but Rhaenyra thankfully squashed any further attempt at that with a soft coo.

“She is so beautiful, Rhaenyx,” she exclaimed. Rhaenyx’s smug smile only grew larger. 

“Of course she is, coz,” he said haughtily, “Fluffles is fiercer than a dragon.”

The mention of a dragon cut Laena’s joy short. Once again, anxiety crept into the confines of her chest, begging to be heard. She saw Laenor frown at her, lips thinning as his lilac eyes seemed to scream at her for showing even the slightest sign of worry. Laena swallowed her fear down with haste.

“I think a dragon is fiercer,” Rhaenyra continued on obliviously, a white smile brightening up her features. There was a certain fondness traced in her voice, etched into the very curve of her lips. Her violet eyes seemed almost morose for the flicker of a second, though it was gone as soon as it came. It made Laena frown. She opened her mouth to speak, feeling concerned, but Rhaenyx cut her off nonchalantly.

“Well mama says I am a dragon and a seahorse! So I’m fiercer than you,” he reaffirmed loftily. Laena and Laenor both let out simultaneous sighs of exasperation. Of course Rhaenyx had to say that.

“You are not!” Rhaenyra cried out angrily in retaliation.

“Am too!” ‘Nyx repeatedly stubbornly, Fluffles flailing wildly in his arms.

“Gods be good,” Laenor lamented quietly, his face a portrait of weariness. 

“Are not,” continued Rhaenyra, ignoring her brother’s words.

“Am t-”

“It is not polite to speak to a princess as such, boy .”

The sudden sound of a male voice made Laena freeze on the spot. It was more of a drawl than a reprimand, yet it made Laena tense up all the same. Against her better judgement she turned to look at its owner, someone who she could barely recall but knew of greatly. 

Prince Daemon Targaryen leaned languidly onto the slick stone wall, dressed in clothes of the finest make, scarlet upon black with golden thread dancing along the hems and sleeves in flame motifs. A cloth of gold half-cape was lazily swung over his broad shoulder, pinned to his breast with an intricately carved dragon-shaped brooch wrought of red-gold and inlaid with spinels carefully placed to seem almost like the scales of a real dragon. His silver hair ended at his shoulders, worn in a loosely kept braid that bespoke of a certain dastardly charm. His face was tanned brown from hours in the sun (a handsome countenance Laena had to admit) though slightly thicker than the usual Valyrian’s finer features. His dark purple eyes eyed them with amusement, his right hand loosely gripping the sword at his belt. Its golden flame pommel vanished from sight as he played with the handle almost like a dance, there for one moment and hidden behind his hand or his cape the next. 

The sight of him made Laenor’s weak smile curdle like spoiled milk. Laena could feel her brother approach her, his hand lightly nudging her to his side while he tried to direct their younger brother towards them from behind. Their little brother, however, ignored the tug. Instead, he scowled stubbornly at the man, his lips curled in distaste. Either he did not know that Daemon was a prince with a dragon of his own, or he did not care much about it. ‘Nyx had always been too brash for his own good. 

“ I have a name, boy ,” Rhaenyx riposted mockingly, imitating Daemon’s languorous tone. “And me and ‘Nyra did not invite you to play.”

Rhaenyra’s face flickered uncomfortably at the mention. Laena could tell by the smile she had worn at the sight of him that the girl was fond of her uncle and plainly did not want to take any sides. She chewed at her lip, frowning, as she stared between the two of them.

“Uncle…” she began, “‘Nyx is right. We were just playing with Fluffles.”

Daemon’s smile split into an even wider grin as he chuckled long and deep, his hands clutching his sides as his laughs grew more plentiful. “Rhaenyra, you had not told me your father had given you a jester of your own. He certainly is small enough to rival Mushroom, and has just as much wit.”

Rhaenyx’s face flushed with embarrassment, turning beetroot red. His confidence was withering and Daemon knew it. Laena grabbed her brother’s hand into her own and felt it hang limply. There were hot tears in his eyes. Daemon seemed not to notice as he cast the cat another glance and laughed again. It made Laenor’s face turn graver. 

“Is there something you find amusing, cousin? I had thought you would be out riding,” Laenor said coldly. His eyes glowered at Daemon.

“Why, your brother’s mount has caught my fancy, boy! A mount worthy of a seahorse indeed. My Caraxes pales before her feline splendour.” His voice had turned into a drawl again. Laena felt her own anger rise to the fore, burning as white hot as a dragon’s flame.

“Better a brave seahorse than an arrogant bully like you,” she retorted back. His features contorted in anger at the insult before his face faltered, almost as if he was realising no one else had found it as funny as he had. He turned to look at his niece, obviously looking for some support but she only looked at him reproachingly, her brows knitted together to form a scowl. Her small mouth was slanted in petulance. Her good mood had all but dissipated.

“That was not nice, uncle,” Rhaenyra reprimanded sourly. “We were only playing.”

“Is that so? It seemed to me, dearest niece, that the boy was claiming that him being Velaryon’s whelp makes him more of a dragon than you are. And yet I am the bully?” Condescension seemed to overflow from his lips. 

“We were playing, uncle,” the girl reaffirmed, though less confidently than before. Her own cheeks burned pink at Daemon’s accusation and her voice had lost its firmness. 

“A cruel game,” Daemon noted casually, shrugging his shoulders.“Yet it is always the children who are most cruel.” He looked at his niece affectionately, something Laena had not thought a man like him possible of even conceiving. “There is no need to protect them, dear niece.”

“Not always children,” Laenor snapped back in retort, taking a step forward. His lilac eyes burned with rage. 

Daemon only smirked.

“If you have something to say, child, then I suggest you say it plainly instead of speaking in riddles.”

“I fear even that would be beyond your comprehension,” Laenor snarked back hotly. The prince’s eyes lost their warmth in a heartbeat.

“You certainly have your mother’s fire,” Daemon scoffed, “Would that you had inherited some of her better judgement.”

“Would that you had inherited some of your father’s tolerance,” Laenor answered with a sneer.

Daemon’s muscles tensed almost at once at the mention of his dead sire. His hands balled up in fists on either side of him, making the branches of his veins stand out. His eyes burned with a mad fury, one that made Laena step back warily. His nostrils flared out in anger.

“Watch your tongue, boy ,” Daemon said through gritted teeth, his grip on Dark Sister tightening. Laenor only stood taller, defiant.

“I suggest the same to you, cousin,” Princess Rhaenys Targaryen remarked sharply, The Lady of the Tides’ voice carried over the corridor in a ring of rage, accompanied by the heavy footfalls of her boots upon the marble ground. Her every muscle seemed on the cusp of wanton violence. Daemon stood straighter and let go of his sword, though his complacent smile had returned.

“Cousin,” he greeted with that annoying smirk back on his face. He swaggered towards her with a certain nonchalance. “I thought my brother was busy dragging you off to taste the custard pies. With the way he’s been indulging recently, they might go the way of Valyria if you tarry here any longer.”

Her mother’s eyes only narrowed. “And I had thought you would be dragging yourself back to Runestone. I hear Lord Yorbert is in ill health. I am sure your lady wife would appreciate your support.”

Daemon only snorted derisively, his lips turned downward. There was a certain pique to his tone despite the unconcern it tried to carry. “I am very glad to be rid of my bronze bitch and her upstart begetter. May the Gods take him swiftly so he can stop bothering me with all these ravens demanding I fuck her. And may they take her swiftly as well. I’d sooner take one of their sheep from behind. They’re far comelier than the women there.”

Laena cringed at the vulgar language. Impropriety was not befit a scion of noble blood, their mother always said. 

“Crass,” Laenor muttered quietly next to her, one arm around ‘Nyx’s shoulder. The Princess Rhaenys seemed to think similarly. 

“I would suggest you keep such words out of my children’s hearing. Unless you are fond of the taste of lye soap of course.”

There was no amusement or warmth in her voice, just frigidity. Daemon did not seem affected by it at all.

“The years have not changed you, have they cousin? Still so bitter… Come, Rhaenyra,” he called, his smirk deepening at the sight of the little girl’s hurried steps. Laenor’s face grew grimmer at the sight. Their mother only walked past Daemon as if he were no more than a small, irrelevant pest, and lifted Rhaenyx into her arms. Then, with not a word, their mother began to move forward, clearly expecting her children to follow suit obediently. Laena did not dare show any cheek. 

“It matters little,” Laenor whispered to her as they walked, his eyes narrowed on the flowing gold cloak disappearing into the distance. His voice shook with rage. “When we are done here, none of this will matter at all.”

Laena did not reply. Her mouth had dried up again at the thought of what she would be doing tonight. Laenor had hammered his scheme into her mind till she knew it as well as she knew her own hand. 

In her mind’s eye, the colossus figure seemed to drown High Tide in its shadow again, leaving that young girl green with envy.

Vhagar, last of the Conquering dragons, of the ties that harkened back to the days where the Targaryens looked East, and not West. The greatest dragon of all the Known World and tonight, she would go and claim her.

***

Notes:

Rhaenyx is not Joffrey junior, don't worry. He's just a cocky kid. It seems I have also discovered a regular writing schedule.

Chapter 7: CORLYS I/ LAENA IV

***

CORLYS I

101 AC, Dragonstone

The sound of music accompanied every bite as the Targaryens and Velaryons broke bread for the first time in nearly a decade, all previous bitter sentiment forgotten for the night. The dining hall was vaguely familiar to him even now. Corlys could remember feasting here half a dozen times when Prince Aemon Targaryen was still the heir of the Iron Throne all those years ago, away from the shifty eyes and prying ears of the court.

It had changed very little since then. Banners of the three-headed red dragon were still draped along the black marble pillars of the austere hall, accompanied on either side by some twisted monstrosity carved to immaculate perfection. The carved dining chairs, all wrought of fine sandalwood and inlaid with twisting designs of gold along the edges, seated all of them comfortably around a table of pure goldenheart wood with legs shaped into the slinking forms of prowling dragons and gilded flame patterns rounding its lip. Scented candles burned bright as they all feasted on fat roasted pigs with crackling skin, a fat helping of buttered beets, grilled fish draped in a thick sauce of hot peppers, golden pitchers full of the finest of wines, and mounds of exotic breads, heavily spiced.

Yet, the two sides of the private dining room table were dominated by two distinct colours. The Velaryon side bore the sea-green and silver of their house, accentuated with emeralds and sapphires sewn over cloth of silver wave patterns along the sleeves. The other half - the Targaryen half - was bespeckled with figures adorned in black and scarlet, grim colours that had been theirs for millennia it was said. Even Aemma Arryn had foregone the sky blue of her house for the harsh, contrasting colours of her mother's family.

Unfortunately, she was not the only woman garbed in those colours. Rhaenys wore the black and red proudly, it seemed, for the first time in years. There was a splash of gold here and there, a show of her Baratheon blood, but it was subdued by the sheer amount of rubies that she wore. A golden necklace set with the almost egg-sized red gems hung around her neck, matching pear-cut earrings he had given her as a bridal gift.

She was a study of loveliness as always, yet her pale violet eyes did not deign to give him the time of the day beyond curt responses exemplified by a posture stiffer than a ship's mast. She had still not forgiven him even near a fortnight after their argument.

A part of him thought he very well deserved it. Another part - the more sensible one - still thought her refusing to allow their two dragonless children to claim mounts of their own while on the island was a mistake as clear as the finest Myrish glass.

Her reasoning had been well founded enough. She spoke of not wanting to invite her grandsire's displeasure upon them, of not wanting to invite civil war upon their shores again lest they cause even more strife between their families.

Yet, if the second son of a second son could claim a dragon as large as Caraxes barely a moon after its former rider had died, why not the children of the woman who should have been queen? Why not the grandchildren of the man that should have been king?

The window of opportunity was ripe, yet Rhaenys wanted to toss it away because she was a better woman than Baelon had ever been a man. She urged their children to play niceties with those that would try to claim their birthright.

Mayhaps it was her own way of scheming? The Princess Rhaenyra seemed utterly besotted with his eldest son, and the boy had turned on every charm in his possession to woo his kinsmen. A betrothal between the two might have been the way Rhaenys desired to lay claim to the throne. Yet, the thought his son needed her as a wife annoyed Corlys to no end. What need was there other than bestowing some favour upon some cousin of hers. By rights, Laena should have been the boy's bride, with Rhaenyx taking the Targaryen girl as his own. But nay, the world had not been made with fairness in mind. Such was the way of court politics. Careful machinations would be Rhaenys' tools rather than Corlys' more forceful approach.

Betrothals could guarantee an 'if', but dragons… Dragons would guarantee victory. It would very well worsen their relations, but with only a singular dragon in hand, Baelon's sons could do nothing without guaranteeing the loss of one of their own. It was a gamble, but Corlys' gambles had rarely ever failed to reap rewards.

A not so small part of him also wanted nothing more than to wipe Daemon's smug smirk off his face. For all that she tried, even Rhaenys could not share more than a forced smile with him. The two of them had been at odds since she had claimed Meleys, the dragon that once belonged to Daemon's mother.

Valyrian custom had always been to pass a dragon towards the rider's closest descendant of dragonriding age. Rhaenys had been a girl when she'd unknowingly broken it, claiming the mount of her long-dead aunt before either of her cousins. Baelon had been a better man then, someone who cared for his family, and who was not his father's spineless slave. It had taken Prince Aemon's diplomacy, but it had hardly ended in anything but a short spat. Viserys had been disappointed at the fact, but understanding. But Daemon…

Daemon had only turned resentful towards the cousin he had once held a semblance of youthful infatuation for. Since then, their relationship had grown fraught with tension and dislike.

When Aemon had died, Daemon found no better revenge than to claim Caraxes for himself while Rhaenys was at her lowest - stripped of her father, her inheritance, and now the dragon that should have been their child's. The years had soothed the pain, but even now, Corlys saw the pain in her eyes when the slightest mention of the Caraxes came up.

Yet, instead of pouncing on the Targaryens while they were at their weakest - instead of reclaiming her birthright - Rhaenys focused on weakening their cause out of love for the kinsmen who had betrayed her. That two of their children, children who should carry the titles of prince and princess, could not even claim dragons freely as was their right was absurd! Laena and Rhaenyx had more claim to the throne and to those magnificent creatures than some insignificant Vale lordling like Daemon. But what would Jaehaerys know of such things. For a man who relied so much on his queen and had ascended as a young boy himself, he cared very little about placing those of similar make in such a position of power. The only reason Laenor had even managed to claim a dragon of his own by now was because of Meleys' presence on Driftmark. Were the Old King healthier and keener of mind, Corlys knew that even that would have stoked his ire.

Jaehaerys had once been a man Corlys had respected. Now all he saw was a bumbling fool carried upon the shoulders of wise advisors and an even wiser queen, and eager to justify his own ascension by puppeteering false claimants onto a throne that should never have been theirs.

Would that he had taken his sister-wife's advice on this matter.

But what did it matter? In the end, they had all given up. Even the late Queen Alysanne had spoken of how brilliant a king Baelon would make one day, the same woman who had called her granddaughter the rightful queen. Not even Rhaenys seemed fully sure that the throne would return to the heirs of the Pale Prince.

But not Corlys.

He had crossed seemingly never-ending seas, battled fierce storms, turned the silver of the realm's second house into halcyon gold, and wed a princess of the blood - the rightful heir to the Iron Throne - all in barely half a lifetime. Things thought impossible once by his ancestors who had left all their dreams behind whence they set sail from Dragonstone, content with the mere pittance that the Conqueror had given them, no different from hounds waiting for their overlord's commands.

But Corlys was different. Corlys had always hungered for more. Why be satisfied with a ship when you could have a fleet? Why be content with a middling princess and not take a future queen to bride?

His wife had once called his ambition his greatest flaw. Corlys had never seen it as anything but a strength. Were men not put on this world to craft legacies - to make as great an impact as they could, whether it be by their own hands or by those born of their seed? Why let his children's patrimony end in obscurity when he had the means to elevate them to the greatest of heights?

He would not let another Targaryen treat his noble house like they were naught but slaves, to be ordered around at their beck and call. Velaryon blood ran just as true as the blood of the Targaryens, and their claim to Westeros now ran even stronger.

And woe betide the men who dared challenge their claim for it.

***

LAENA IV

The ingress of nightfall had somehow bettered her youngest brother's mood, something that alleviated Laena's own worries temporarily. Mayhaps it was the arrival of their father, or the silent licks Fluffles had eventually given him out of pity, but Rhaenyx seemed to be back to his old self after what must have been a very encouraging talk from their mother. Her baby brother hardly spent a moment in silence, preferring to wax lyrical about all the knights from the stories and how he would one day be their better.

Never their equal. 'Nyx was far too bold to be satisfied with that.

Not even Daemon's comments could dampen his mood though they grew increasingly rarer as the evening passed. It seemed that, for all his boasting, Daemon surprisingly did follow his brother's lead. Well, in his own callous way.

He still made snide remarks, but their father's arrival and their mother's not so subtle glares had left him as docile as a lamb. Well, a very wild lamb indeed. And even when he did act the fool, surprisingly, his brother tended to quiet him with a displeased look. For all that they were brothers, Laena could not recall seeing two such dissimilar men. Where Daemon might have retorted towards others, he instead folded at his brother's pleading eyes. Daemon, for all his faults, seemed to truly care for Viserys despite appearances. In fact, Laena could see a deep fondness between the two brothers. Brotherly love that was not so different from that between her own two siblings.

That of course did not mean Rhaenyx had not thought of claiming revenge. Halfway through dinner, he had 'accidentally' flicked a chunk of his buttered beetroot off his knife onto Daemon's all too handsome face, smothering his fine cheekbone in all its mushed glory. Daemon had had murder in his eyes at that, but the advantage of being a four nameday old child had given Rhaenyx a blanket of pardon. That and his talent for mummery. It was amazing how well he could put on the act of a scared little boy who was afraid of being scolded for an accident beyond his control.

It did not help Daemon's cause that even Rhaenyra had burst out giggling at the sight, followed by a very affable Viserys. Neither did her father's cool expression and her mother's stern glare.

In that, they were united. In everything else, they seemed as terse and distant as before. Something had happened, and, as per usual, Laenor had most likely figured it out. Still, he did not tell her why. He always thought it best to leave his theories unheard. It was an odd quirk, but Laena supposed Laenor's seer-like visions had no doubt influenced him in some way.

Laena had figured it revolved around that uncomfortable throne or something of the sort. That seemed what everyone other than Rhaenyx and her seemed to talk about. Not even Laenor was exempt.

And now with this plot…

No matter how much he insisted it was for her safety, Laena could not understand his paranoia. He spoke as if they were on the cusp of war!

Daemon was indeed an annoying bully, but he did not look like the sort to do any real killing like Maegor the Cruel. Or at least Laena thought so. Laenor was of the opposite opinion.

Once, when he thought no one was looking, Laenor looked as if he were contemplating launching his knife into Daemon's right eye from afar. Laena was very glad to have caught his gaze before he could do anything irrational.

Yet, the dinner ended without incident, with their mother and father escorting them to their designated chambers, the night having gone surprisingly well. Laena could only hope it would stay that way for the rest of the time they would spend here. Somehow, she doubted it would last very long. She left her father and mother with a kiss before following Laenor into the room, her body trembling. Was it out of excitement or was it out of fear?

Laena could not tell.

Rhaenyx thankfully was still prone to spending some nights in their mother's chambers, which spared them the trouble of figuring out how to be rid of him without being too harsh. Laenor and Laena had insisted on one shared room given they were still young enough that it was not so abnormal. Rhaenyx's presence on this night would unfortunately be unwelcome. Laenor did not trust their brother with such a secret, and for once, Laena could not blame him. Her brother would either run his mouth off to their mother the moment they were out of sight or insist on coming with them. The Gods only knew which was worse.

Their chambers were on a lower level, one floor above the ground floor. It faced a private stretch of the beach directly, with turret stairs leading outside. They were lavish in a very Valyrian way, overflowing with reds and golds. The dark wood of the bed had been lacquered near pitch black, though the carvings were still intricate, all evoking draconic imagery. The portrait of a Valyrian woman gazing into the sunset graced polished walls of fitted white marble, while a pair of onyx sphinxes guarded the great silver banded doors. Lush Myrish rugs enveloped a pristine floor the colour of ink veined with gold, matching the red and black silks in both colour and austerity. Their trunks lay at the foot of the bed, still unopened. Laenor greeted his with a sly smile, rubbing his hands against each other deviously. That smile always made Laena feel anxious.

Inside, they found a length of woven hemp rope that would spirit them down, out of the castle and two cloaks made of roughspun which Laenor had filched from two stable boys on Driftmark. There was no fear of night patrols. Dragonstone's guardsmen were famously lax; Laenor had not even bribed any of them for safe passage. They were all too busy drinking or playing cards to notice two diminutive figures tiptoeing through the dark. Besides, what fool was bold enough to run into the dragon's den and hope to leave in one piece? Probably not one from an island that revered the Targaryens as near gods.

As planned, their escape went as smoothly as one could expect from a pair of young children stumbling through the dark. Their decoys were hidden beneath the silk sheets, a pile of clothes roughly shaped to resemble their bodies with downgoose pillows swallowing their 'faces' whole. When all the candles were blown, cloth of silver looked remarkably like a messy pile of silver hair.

The bed frame had been more than heavy enough to carry both their weights without issue, but the rope was so rough that it cut through her hands when she grasped them. And though Laenor made climbing down it look easy, it was very far from the case. Much like the thrice-damned cloak in a way.

The roughspun cloak not only smelled, but the abrasive fabric also irritated her skin, a world of difference from the sleek, soft silk Laena usually favoured. To make things worse, it was made for a taller boy - closer to a man grown - and not a girl of nine. The overlong ends of it made her trip over the rugs of her rooms on her way to the windows, and when she wiggled her way down the rope, it chafed at her exposed skin harshly. No sooner had she landed on the ground, than the cloak was shrugged off, much to Laenor's evident displeasure. His lilac eyes narrowed, lips drawn into a line of distaste. Laena stood her ground however.

"You make for an awful peasant," her brother finally said with a sigh, shaking his head.

Laena glared at him, affronted. "A hairshirt would have been kinder than that... that thing!"

Laenor merely snorted in response. "Don't look at me when you start getting cold. And keep quiet. Someone might hear."

And then, they were on the move again, seeking out their guard of sorts: Seasmoke. As small and young as he was, Laena thought him to be a more able protector than Laenor. For one, were some fiend to fall upon them, Seasmoke's flame would prove valuable to giving them a short but very painful end. And if some wild dragon crossed their paths... well, they would need a distraction that wasn't prone to being engulfed in flames.

The he-dragon waited for Laenor a little away from the castle proper, covered in sand with the burnt remains of a goat girdling him. His bright blue eyes lit up at the sight of them, chest puffed up not unlike Rhaenyx's.

There was an air of excitement around him, an almost infectious one. For all her nervousness, Laena could not help but smile at him. She was frightened, of course. Who would not be? So many things could go wrong, yet…

If they all went right, she would have a dragon of her own! Not just any dragon, but Vhagar. The thought had been needling at her for weeks, but as they inched ever closer towards the Dragonmont, the sea breeze blowing through the air, she could not help but feel her elation - and fear - grow exponentially. A part of her still chided herself for coming, but another remained curious of what the trip would offer her. She was so lost in thought that she did not even notice Laenor's hand prodding at her shoulder until a few moments later.

"Do you long for her so much?" her brother asked halfway through the trip, his voice curious. Their pace had turned sluggish by the time they had reached the foot of the Dragonmont nearly an hour later. Laena turned to glance at him, his features somewhat muddled in the darkness, though still visible.

"Who would not want her?" Her voice was a squeak. "Could there be anything more wonderful than a dragon?"

Her brother shrugged at that. "Mayhaps the Iron Throne. It seems to me that people want that even more than a dragon. Would that they desired cleaning up the muck of our forebears just as much."

There was a hint of humour in his tone, so unlike him.

"Then I suppose you should become king then," she replied, voice thoughtful.

"King?" Laenor looked at her with a befuddled expression on his face. "Why would I become king?"

"Because you're smart and you know everything. You could solve every problem there is in this world."

"That is presumptuous of you to say," he replied, his face now marred by the great shadow of Seasmoke but the fond smile on his lips so evident in his tone. "I would have thought you might want to be queen instead. You are my elder, and if all goes well tonight, the girl who will ride the greatest dragon in the world."

Laena snorted. The thought of her having to spend all her time pouring over rolls of parchment and paper, of sitting on the uncomfortable throne where Maegor the Cruel had ended up laying dead... Of being forced to stay in one place when she could be somewhere else adventuring… Well, Laena would much rather spend her time touring the East with her siblings, Fluffles and mayhaps a dragon in tow. It was the Velaryon in her after all.

Laenor, on the other hand, seemed to exude the nature of one who would excel as a king, no matter how much he babbled about it being a lost cause. For one as bright as her brother, he certainly was oblivious of his natural talent for ordering people around very well.

Still, she did not say anything. Instead, she stuck close to him, arms wrapped around her nightgown, progressively feeling more and more foolish for tossing away the extra layer of fabric. The cool night breeze tempered the warmth of the Dragonmont like a freshly beaten sword dipped into cool water. Her leather shoes were thin enough that the soles of her feet felt every crack and crevice on the rocky plateau that stretched from the foot of the dormant volcano. Every passing moment filled her with new aches and growing worry as the hour grew later by the second. The distance had not seemed so long from the castle.

The night and the trek seemed to stretch on endlessly, gaining her new scratches and cut around her ankles. Her nightgown caught a snag on one of the dark crags as they rounded a corner, ending with Laenor having to tear a piece of the silk raggedly off, and grime befouled the white of the fabric after her every footfall. And still there was no Vhagar in sight!

After what felt like an eternity of walking in circles and accumulating a horde of blisters along the way, Laenor finally stopped, though Laena could still see nothing in the distance. His hand touched Seasmoke, as if readying him for danger, making Laena straighten meant Vhagar was close. Laena felt her feet dragging her closer to the lazy grey dragon despite herself. Small as he was, Seasmoke was still a dragon, and she felt far safer with him around than just Laenor's seven-nameday old self.

"Is she here?" Laena's voice sounded strained, even to her own ears. The pounding of her heartbeat in her ears blocked out her usually boisterous voice, like a snail retreating into its shell, scared. The prospect of claiming Vhagar had seemed exciting but a moment ago despite the recklessness it entailed when Laenor had brought it up for the first time. Now, the thought alone made a bit of sick rise up to her throat. She could barely see two paces ahead with the all black landscape blending easily into the night. How was she going to ride a dragon so large she could make castles shake! Would she even be able to climb onto a neck that thick?

Laenor turned to look at her, her pale eyes darker in the night. There was an annoyed frown on his face, one accentuated by the sight of his hands on his hips. His face was scrunched up in frustration - not at having seen the prowling bulk of the last dragon of the Conquest, but at not seeing her at all!

"We're lost!" she shrieked, aghast. How long had they been walking like blind fools on such dangerous grounds?! Mayhaps a guard may have sounded the alarm already! And they still had not found Vhagar.

"No we're not," her brother promised, beginning his trek once more. Laena's fists bunched together in frustration, her jaw set slack in bewilderment. Was her brother truly serious?

"You do not even know where she is!"

Laenor only continued to march forward, his head kept shaded underneath Seasmoke's outstretched wing. She had thought that mayhaps he had not heard (or rather, chose not to) when he finally stopped abruptly and turned to face her again, his face barely illuminated by the pale shafts of moonlight. There was a look of utter confidence on his face.

"Now, now, Laena," he tutted, using the same tone Maester Edmund would use when she would get the answer to one of his questions wrong. "You act as if one could lose something that big on an island this small."

"Well, where is she then?" she asked cautiously. Her brother only silently joined the tips of his thumb and of his index finger together on both hands and pressed them against his face, peering around in the tenebrity of night. He did not speak as he crouched low on the ground, gingerly pushing his ear against the soil, listening. His nose sniffed noisily at the air like some hound.

Laena waited, hopeful for even the smallest sound of success from her brother. Mayhaps even a few words of wisdom to distract her from chiding herself over and over again for agreeing to such a hare-brained scheme in the first place. Instead, Laenor stood up with a defeated sigh.

"She's gone somewhere else," he groaned, dusting himself off. His left ear and the tip of his nose were smeared with black soil. "Mayhaps on the other side of the Dragonmont."

Laena's arms fell limp on either side of her. All that effort… All that planning… All for nothing. Walking in the dark with nothing with the cold gusts of wind cutting through their clothes without mercy, leaving them chattering at the mouth. And they were still in danger of getting caught, either by some rogue dragon or by their no doubt angry mother. Laena did not know which prospect frightened her the most.

"We will have to make some adjustments," Laenor continued absentmindedly. "Yes… It might just work…"

Laena stared at him, feeling rather insipid. "Adjustments?" she repeated out loud, trying to make sense of it all. No positive outcome was cropping up in her mind. "Gods be good, Laenor! What are you talking about?"

"About finding her, of course," he replied, half-yawning. "We will have to fly there on Seasmoke. We are light enough for him to carry us both, I reckon."

"Fly?" Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, thick with incredulity. "Laenor, Seasmoke is not even saddled! How do you expect us to fly on Seasmoke without one?!"

"By holding onto him really tight," he opined, crinkling his dirty nose up, almost offended that she wasn't trusting him. Seasmoke craned his own long neck to stare at her with a nettled expression on his far too expressive face, as if she were questioning some wizened old drake and not one that was the size of an overgrown pony with the wits of a newborn chick.

"Are you coming or not, sister?" Laenor asked impatiently. "We do not have all night. They'll have already noticed our decoys by now."

Once again, the thought of their very angry mother popped into her head, her face flushed red with anger as steam erupted from her ears, and Laena weakly made her way towards the gods be damned cretin of a dragon, praying that if the Stranger were to claim her life today, that he better leave her thrice-damned brother alive for their mother to finish off.

***

Laena had barely managed to secure tightly herself behind Laenor when he had commanded Seasmoke to take flight. A good amount of time had already passed since she'd climbed onto the dragon, but she had hardly felt equipped for airborne travel. Without a proper saddle, riding just seemed impossible. Laenor's solution to that had been to wrap his arms around Seasmoke's long neck while his hands gripped the small greyish-blue horns that sprouted along its length. That had left Laena with a rather limited amount of options as to how she could comfortably seat herself while simultaneously avoiding falling to her death.

So, clinging onto her brother tightly and praying to the Seven Above that they might have pity on the poor maid being drawn into schemes made by a boy who had to be the Stranger himself, they rose into the air…

… before slamming back onto the ground.

The jolt from the impact left her slamming forward into Laenor, knocking him into Seasmoke's less than pillowy frame with a hard grunt. Her own neck felt as if it could have snapped into two from the blow. It looked like Seasmoke, for all his endless confidence, remained too small for two riders.

"Seven Above," Laenor groaned, pressing his hand onto his nose. Blood leaked down his right nostril, accompanied by a nasty bruise blooming on his cheek. Laena felt her own body for injuries.

She seemed to have gotten away in relatively good condition though her neck still ached. Laenor had thankfully taken the brunt of Seasmoke's abrupt landing to the face. Still, she felt more than a bit dazed, and the contents of her stomach desired nothing more than to be free of their cell. Laena had been wrong; this night could get worse.

"Is your nose broken?" she asked, her hands turning her brother's head towards her as her cold fingers prodded at his bleeding nose with concern. Laenor swallowed down a moan at her touch and recoiled.

"No. Although that does not mean it isn't very bruised," he mumbled halfheartedly, rubbing the blood away with the sleeve of his nightgown. "Mayhaps this was not the brightest of my ideas."

Laena glared, feeling most unamused. "Most definitely, I would say, little brother."

Laenor sniffed at her tone. "Sister, you cannot blame me for Seasmoke's deficiencies."

The dragon in question huffed heavily at that, bringing about a trail of smoke that would no doubt stain Laena's own nightgown even further. It did not lighten Laena's sullen mood in the slightest.

"And besides," he continued obliviously, "I am rather sure Seasmoke can carry both of us around while grounded. It will take more time, but he is swift and hardy."

Laena did not reply. Her neck hurt, the cuts along her legs burned and she wanted nothing more than to sleep instead of strolling around in the dark like a blind halfwit. The thought of even more of that made her want to cry. Why had she even thought this to have the makings of a formidable adventure? All it had led to was worry, distress and bodily pains that only an ancient relic like the Old King Jaehaerys would have been capable of having.

"I am going back," she finally managed.

Her tone was resolute despite the shaky way she descended onto the hard ground. Dirt kicked up and filled her shoes, but she managed to land gracefully. Up above, her brother watched her with eyes and a mouth as wide as the night's full moon. If it had grown any wider, Laena was sure it could have made a lovely nest for a brood of sparrows.

"What?" he choked out, his nose still dirty from the earth and the blood.

"I am going back to our rooms," Laena repeated again, forcing her tired limbs to push forward in spite of her weary body.

"But Laena-"

"Enough, Laenor! This was a waste," Laena grinded out, annoyed.

"Laena, listen-"

"Laenor, I told you-"

"But look!" he argued, fingers pointing into the near distance where a rolling hill lay stubbornly near a patch of sand down below, crusted with greenery. In the dark, it blended perfectly with the dim nature of night, but the light from the moon was enough for her to notice it now that Laenor had pointed it out. A line of thick trees grew along its middle, surrounded by smaller brambles. They all looked so smooth. Almost too smooth.

Gods Almighty, Laena thought, her eyes widening in sudden realisation, that's no hill.

That was Vhagar.

***

For a boy who had planned this wild scheme in but a few days, Laenor Velaryon did not look overly confident in his own plan when it was finally near fruition. He clung to Seasmoke's slender side, his lips drawn into a thin line that matched the frown on his face. He had not scurried away at the sight of Vhagar. In fact, he accompanied Laena almost all the way to her! But, for the first time that night, he did not seem so sure of himself. It was something that set Laena off worrying.

For all she chided him, a part of her truly did believe him to be some sort of seer who knew the future. How else could one explain all his peculiar qualities? Yet, her brother's face turned to cringe at the barest shuffling of sand, almost in fright, filling Laena with more dread than she had thought possible.

Still, he put on a brave face for her, staying by her side with a most reluctant Seasmoke to act as their shield if necessary - something that the acutely arrogant dragon minded very much from the way it was glaring at the pair of them.

Not that Laena could blame him; Vhagar looked capable of making even the vastest of mountains shudder.

They stopped a short distance away, mayhaps ten feet or so. The taming of a dragon always involved two alone: dragon and its prospective rider. That had been the part Laena had feared even more than the aftermath. Seasmoke and Laenor, small as they were, had been akin to her protectors. Yet, she knew she could not have him near. If the worst were to come, Laena would not allow her brother to fall beside her. She had made him swear to it despite his protests.

Infuriating as he could get, Laena loved her little brother very much.

So, after parting with one final embrace from Laenor that could have rivalled even their uncle Viserys' bear-like clutches, Laena approached: she a trifling figure - an ant - in front of this behemoth of epic proportions. The dragon's eyes were still shut close, her body almost frozen like stone. Laena's eyes strained to take her in fully.

Her claws alone looked like they could hold a clutch of horses within them with ease. Even her father could not have hoped to match heights with them. Her scales were not like the supple flakes of Seasmoke, but the large shields of knights emblazoned a myriad of colours. Though most of Vhagar was bronze, blue-green crept in from her crest, covering a decent portion of her body with a myriad of shades of algae, favouring the green more. The enormity of her size had never struck her truly until now. To see from a distance was hardly like seeing from up close.

Every step Laena took on the grist-like sandgrains seemed as loud as the groaning of a wagon's wheel in that moment. There was a thrill she could find in it, and a semblance of fear as well. She wondered how large Vhagar had been when her previous riders had claimed her. The thought of her being as small as Seasmoke could have made Laena laugh if she were not so afraid of even breathing too loudly.

Still, the daughter of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen crept forward.

She was only a foot away when the beast took notice of her. A hailstorm of sand flew into her eyes as Vhagar's own descended upon her, head craning upwards as if pondering this new little thing. Instinctively, her arm shot forward, trying to ward the sand - and the dragon - away. Vhagar did not seem too pleased by the sight of that.

A growl left a mouth chock full of teeth as long as a man and half as wide. The smell of the charred remains of some poor beast still clung to her maw, causing Laena to almost choke at the smell.

Behind her, Laenor was saying something, but Laena did not hear anything other than some vague mention of using the techniques. Instead, her eyes remained trained upon those of Queen Visenya's mount, not daring to look away.

Bright green eyes the colour of glowing emeralds seemed to peer into her very being, almost amused. Laena paused, her right hand still forward, now shaking. Laenor shouted again, but the words she had memorised seemed to slip out of her mind as loosely as sand slipping beneath open fingers. A part of her wanted to run. To hide.

She was not ready. No, she would never be. This quest had been that of a fool's, a halfwit's scheme. She was only nine, still a girl who struggled with her sums. She could not-

"Laena!" Laenor's hissed call seemed ever so distant, even though she knew he was but a few feet away with Seasmoke in hand. "Claim her! You know the specifics!"

"I…"

No further words seemed to leave her lips. Her eyes kept themselves trained on Vhagar's: half in awe, half in fear, but her still frozen hand twitched ever so slightly reaching for her snout. She waited for a burst of flame. A sign of anger. But Vhagar's gaze did not waver, neither did her patience as she encouraged the young girl forward.

Her flesh touched the blue-green scales that crested from her chest and disappeared into those lovely flakes of bronze, feeling a warmth as hot as burning coals spread through her arm. It was only then that she had even realised how less cold she was feeling, as if Vhagar herself were some grand hearth that could have heated an entire city.

The she-dragon let out a soft whine at her touch, almost as if in need of some affection. Almost like a cat, Laena could not help but think with a smile.

She could not remember the words, or the claiming techniques, but she did remember her blood. Hers was the blood of the dragon, the blood of kings and gods, and Vhagar knew that far more than even some uttered Valyrian words and old incantations they hardly even understood anymore. It was a bond borne within their blood and those of the dragons. They were more than just masters and their pets.

They were kin.

All her anxiety seemed to melt away at that realisation. To quiver was to make herself seem weak. Unworthy.

A dragon like Vhagar would never accept someone of that temperament. Queen Visenya had ridden her, and Prince Baelon after that. Both had had a streak of daring in their own ways, and Laena knew she was possessed of that same boldness. Aerea Targaryen had lost her life for a mistake like jumping on a dragon with nary a care for any possible bad repercussions.

Laena would not.

Instead, she eased Vhagar in. Her fingers stroked the hard scales, its touch closer to thick sheets of steel than the flesh of men. The she-dragon craned her head ever so gently, responding to her touch with a similar gentleness.

Accepting it.

Behind her, Laenor continued to shout something but Laena could scarce hear. Her heartbeat kept thumping loudly into her ears, her every limb taut with excitement. There was a binding she could feel, so swift to form yet so delicate most would not notice it. It was like a tug in Vhagar's direction, one that seemed to pass on more in feeling than in flesh. Hesitantly, she walked forward one more step, pressing her other hand to the creature's face.

"Be calm," she said in the High Valyrian of her ancestors. It felt right.

Vhagar's bright green eyes regaled her with another look before her massive head slumped onto the ground once more, sending up a pile of sand into her and Laenor's direction.

Laena could only laugh. From her right, her brother's head seemed to poke from under Seasmoke's wing, the latter unsurprisingly defensive of his charge despite his usual lackadaisical attitude.

"Are you done?" he asked rather squeakily, his face still illuminated by the dazzling moonlight. The dirt on his face seemed to stick out even more now that she looked at him properly again, like black ash rubbed over the bridge of his aquiline nose. The blood smear had dried out.

Laena gave him a smile, her forehead moving to touch her new mount's chin, ignoring the putrid smell that came from her mouth.

"So it seems."

Just like that, Laenor's face broke into a bright grin, one as bright as his hair. His arms shot upwards in celebration, as if he had claimed Vhagar himself.

"I knew you could do it! In fact, I never doubted you at all," Laenor said, pumping his fists in the air. Laena only sent him a withering look despite the joy she was feeling.

"Of course you did, little brother."

"Mayhaps I was a mite skeptical, but I was hardly-"

Laena cut him off with a giggle. It felt good to laugh again. "Oh shush, Laenor! You looked like you had wet your breeches five times over when I went to her. You would have had you not used the privy before you left, I reckon!"

Lilac eyes regarded her with an exasperated, yet very familiar and indeed warm mirth, matching the small smile he had conjured up behind.

"'Nyx will be most wroth that we didn't bring him," Laenor remarked, as if the world's largest dragon was not practically drowning his own Seasmoke in her shadow. "I dare say even Fluffles pales in comparison to Vhagar."

Despite all her previous annoyance and anger, Laena found herself smiling sincerely at him again.

"And that," she began, "is why you will be the one to tell him."

"Why me?" Laenor grumbled, though his words lacked any heat, "We all know you're his favourite. His sweet sister."

Laena opened her mouth to respond, still feeling pithy enough that she could launch a light insult or two into her brother's way, but the sickening roar that forced itself into their conversation made her mouth clamp shut and left her knocking into idling Vhagar's form with a fright. From a distance away, she could see the dark outline of a dragon growing larger against the moon.

"Seven Hells," Laenor mumbled with a gulp, keeping a hand on her shoulder as if to protect her.

Vhagar would not be the only dragon they would cross paths with that night, the stars seemed to sing.

***

Notes:

Managing to keep a regular schedule for once. Rough chapter but I have set a deadline.

Chapter 8: SI POV IV/ RHAENYS IV

***

SI POV IV

101 AC, Dragonstone

There is something particularly refreshing about finding oneself in grisly danger. Not the peril itself, mind you; I am fairly sure that I am at least as intelligent as the average dolphin after all. But sometimes, I do grow too lax in regards to the precariousness of my situation, also known as the constant threat on my second life. It was times like this that a 'HERE'S JOHNNY' reminder came in handy. A simple but scary reminder that, for all my foreknowledge leading up to this inevitable Dance, I was pretty much a useless marshmallow waiting its turn to end up skewered, roasted, then slathered between the two graham crackers that would act as my proverbial casket.

Just before they tossed my s'mores-like sarcophagus plop into the ocean if the ancient traditions of House Velaryon were followed.

But again, I've gone totally off topic.

My point is that, for all my careful planning, I am probably doomed to end up prematurely dead. Some orators might refer to the phenomenon I call my sinister second life as some overly detailed manifestation of Murphy's Law, but I much preferred Sod's Law, its shittier British cousin. Just like the British, I preferred to go by the crassest way possible. And just like the British, it went straight to the point, no stalling whatsoever. Much like me you could say, shitty adages included.

The point when all good things would crash and burn was not an 'if' in my case - it was a 'when'. Now, I am taking certain liberties with this dicey assumption of mine. But statistics rule in my favour I would like to think. Not my strongest point, but I had easily mapped out the likelihood of things going my way and they were as fictional as decent plumbing in this most shitty (quite literally) of worlds.

One could not be a Targaryen/Velaryon during this era and not expect something to go horribly wrong. Not even the grandest, wankiest of wankfests will realistically leave their MC safe from the horrible reality of Daemon Targaryen's existence, so my hopes for doing more than just prepping for the Dance were slim.

Besides, if my story was anything like the other hundreds of thousands of self-inserts online, I would inevitably run into enemy plot armour. Now, now, I know that many of these fanmade fables end up with the typical 'butterflies' and the many 'canon divergences'' of their lore, but other than Rhaenyx existing and then some, I had done moot to really change the tides of House Velaryon. Now maybe this was me getting too existential, but I had already accepted that my life would probably fall into the usual tropes from my sheer rotten luck alone, and probably some Alien Space Bat interference. I just knew I would eventually suffer from the Aemon 'Jon' Targaryen syndrome somewhere down the line. Also known as the forced implementation of canon to better suit your readers from whatever Gods that were using me as a way to kill a few decades of their time. After all, whoever thought of tossing me into this backwards world probably wanted nothing more than for the Dance to crop up with a few changes here and there, Black wank and Green hate included. Don't blame me for my wacky logic. I am, after all, a highly paranoid, unpleasant pessimist with trust issues by nature.

Or maybe, I just really, really don't want to even contemplate a world where I was truly thrown off the deep end with no solid details to jump off on.

Who knows? I would hardly consider myself a prime philosopher.

But the universe had finally tossed me my first L and I could already see the house of cards collapsing. Said nudge into the wrong direction came in the form of Elizabeth the Dragoness, or, as everyone else liked to call her, Meleys the Red Queen. It had taken a few roars and a bit of squinting (the night and the distance wasn't really helping my sleepy self) for me to really discern who was the dragon who had decided to swing by our stretch of the beach. That did not matter of course. A dragon - any dragon in fact - meant danger in either the physical and/or emotional forms. Laena might have found it funny to tease me about wetting my breeches, but I won't deny that the sound had very nearly made me unintentionally let out a stream.

A small reminder that I might still very well be suffering from intense, long-term psychosis, so take these nervous ramblings from a hungry, freezing seven year old with a grain of salt.

Meleys landed with no small ounce of pizazz, drifting like a Mazda MX-5 right in front of us, an angry growl on her lips. Pale yellow eyes the colour of heliodor stared down at two pyjama-clad children up way past their bedtime, no doubt a perfect copy of the look in her rider's eyes. Vhagar did not move a limb to my disappointment (no doubt Laena's inborn supreme dragonriding talent or something coming into play), but her eyes did stare down at Meleys threateningly - showing teeth that could have snapped even her in two - and her immense wing curved around the young girl protectively, every fibre of her being ready for a fight that would not happen. My own majestic mount, Seasmoke the Sissy, cowered away with a chicken-like squawk.

Maybe we were fucked.

Rhaenys Targaryen certainly did not seem too pleased as she all but jumped down from her saddle onto the beach, hair wild, clothes looking like they'd been quickly thrown on, and features contorted into a scowl that could have given Maegor a run for his money.

Her face was flushed red with anger, and, for the first time, I saw the Baratheon in her rise to the fore in the shape of blazing hot fury. She definitely looked like someone who had the same relation as the dude who caved chests in for funsies with his physics defying warhammer. Her breathing was uneven and barely under control, as if she was brewing a tempest under those flared nostrils of hers. Veins popped angrily against her tightly clenched fists, creating a fairly good replica of the Mander on those white-knuckled hands. Her lips were drawn into a thin line of displeasure, as if fighting back a hurl of diatribe.

Yep, we were definitely fucked.

"Mama," I squeezed out, forcing on a smile. I wondered if my face really looked as bad as it felt. My attempts at rubbing away the now-crusted blood that had trickled from my nose were quite evidently in vain given the way those pale violet eyes zeroed in on me with a mixture of concern. Still, our mother did not let up.

"Come here, both of you."

It was not a request; it was a command. Like clockwork, Laena and I both straightened and marched towards her, heads bowed in shame. I gave her a small comforting pat on the shoulder on the way there. Behind me, Vhagar's huge bulk stirred, as if hostile, but did not engage in a fight. Seasmoke, on the other hand, was probably trying hard to go the way of John Cena.

His bravado did not extend to standing up to my mother from the looks of it.

Rhaenys' six foot height had never seemed quite as imposing as now, with one gloved hand resting on each hip, and her heavy breathing reminiscent of Vhagar's own predatory breaths. It made a part of me want to cringe at the lambasting I was destined to be getting.

I could only hope that Rhaenys hadn't switched to corporal punishment in the past hour or so since we had run off. I did not fancy my delicate skin's chances against a medieval spanking.

Learning how to ride a pony alone had chafed my poor thighs to near bleeding.

You can imagine my surprise when she instead knelt down with urgency, desperate arms coming to embrace us with a certain ferocity I could only describe as akin to that of a mama bear.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice concerned. Laena shook her head, her eyes still focusing on the ground. I shrugged.

"I hurt my nose a bit, but I don't think I broke it."

"And you?" Her gaze turned towards Laena.

"No, mama," my sister managed.

"Thank the Gods!" The princess sighed in relief, pulling us back into another tight hug. Her arms - usually so sure, stable, and strong - were trembling. It was hard not to melt into them. For all that we had survived, a part of me had feared we might never get another one of these again.

Sadly, our moment of peace did not last very long.

"What were you two thinking!?" the Lady of the Tides barked out suddenly, making us both jump. "What madness led you to go on this fool's quest?!

I grimaced at the sharpness of her tone. It was more than expected, but that did not mean it didn't feel as shocking as a bucket of ice water to the face. I had never, ever made my mama mad. There truly was a first time for everything.

"I… It was me, mama. I told Laena to do it," I reluctantly admitted, my cheeks burning red.

Laena's pale violet eyes, so much like our mother's, fell upon me with shock.

"I told her to claim Vhagar because I was scared. She had nothing to do with any of this. Not really…" I swallowed thickly. "If someone is to blame, it is me. Please forgive me. I apologise for letting my fears get the better of me and convincing Laena that this was not a mistake. I will accept any punishment without complaint."

"Is that so?" Rhaenys' voice was hard. I nodded weakly.

It was not a complete lie. I would much rather have Vhagar on my side than on Team Green or on that of the Rogue Prick's. Her gaze switched onto her daughter next, who wilted at the sight. I sent my sister a comforting glance, hoping that she would at least stick to the script. I had all but prepared for getting the mother of all groundings from the moment I had concocted this messy scheme. I may very well be a bastard-coated bastard, but cravenly backstabber I am not. I did intend to save Laena the trouble of being forced to spend more time than necessary listening to Septon Florion drone on and on about the Seven.

Laena, unfortunately, did not allow me to do so.

"Mama," my sister's voice quivered as she spoke, "It is true that Laenor was the one who spoke of it to me… but I did not disagree with him. The reason I came was because I wanted to claim Vhagar as my own. He may have sown the seed, but I watered it knowing what it entailed. Please do not blame only him!"

Our mother only shook her head, disappointed but not surprised. I was beginning to think I was growing a bit too obvious, huh. The anger that had filled her before slowly started to creep back in.

Damn it, Laena!

"I never intended to do so. You are no fool, girl. Have you both any notion of what you have just done?" Rhaenys' very voice was on edge, as if it were covered with Valyrian Steel. "Do you realise how easily this could have gone wrong?"

I winced. "I had thought that Seasmoke's presence would be enough to deter any wild dragons from crossing our paths."

At the mention of his name, said dragon glared daggers at me from his place of hiding. He very clearly did not want his role in our escapade to be mentioned. He had gotten more than one scolding from my mother after torching a rug or two, and clearly did not want to implicate himself even more.

Well, damn him! If I was going down with this sinking ship, I was dragging that arrogant bastard down with me. Maybe he should have thought twice before forcibly laying claim to me as his human.

Not that his worry mattered much.

Rhaenys scoffed at the thought of my pony-sized mount being our protector and I could not blame her. I loved Seasmoke. For all I criticised him, I would die before I let harm come to him, but the Gods knew that we both preferred lounging in luxury instead of getting into fist fights. Self preservation was our game, not tossing ourselves on the front lines. We had Rhaenyx and whatever chonkster I could manage to get him to bond with to do that for us.

That of course did not prevent the silver-grey dragon from looking utterly offended at the concept of him not exulting the air of dangerousness someone like the Predator from Alien possessed. That attitude of his was going to get us both killed one day, probably from showing too much cheek to Daemon or whatever bullshit the prat would make up to justify disemboweling me. I hoped that Seasmoke could at least be spared from that, though chances were slim with all that sass he cooped up in that tiny body of his.

"I find it hard to imagine Seasmoke fighting a wild dragon like the Cannibal," Rhaenys continued, scowling. Her eyes flickered to Seasmoke's, staring him down. "Dragons not much larger than him have ended up as his supper."

I could swear I heard an audible thud coming from Seasmoke's direction following that reveal. A gag-inducing fecal odor permeated through the air seconds after, mingling with an audible shriek of fear coming from the wyrm.

Okay, maybe I had underestimated how dangerous this plan of mine was. But Rhaenys did not need to know that.

"But we survived," I pointed out, "and with hardly a scratch on us!"

Both Laena and Rhaenys shot me withering glares at that. I was beginning to think my nose really did resemble Rudolph the red-nose reindeer's if it did indeed look as swollen as it felt.

"I think you have both supplied me with sufficient excuses," my mother continued harshly, each word resolute, "I have had quite enough for the night. We will leave. Now."

Laena flinched at the tone. "Mama," she pleaded, her eyes welling up with tears, "Please. We did not mean to-"

"To what, daughter?" she demanded sternly, her voice brooking no argument. "To run off in the middle of the night like on some fool's quest? To worry your mother and father half to death?"

"I… Forgive me, mama." She trembled, hot tears streaming down her face. Her lips wobbled with every word.

The Lady of Driftmark merely shook her head in disappointment at that, her body almost deflating from exhaustion. It was only then that I noticed that her eyes were glassy. Guilt surged within me at the sight. She stood up with her arms crossed over her chest, looking as weary as I felt.

"We will speak more of this later," she finally said after a beat, her tone… defeated. "On Meleys. Now!"

***

RHAENYS IV

Rhaenys did not dare even speak to her children as they flew back to Dragonstone in silence, her anger still too fresh for her to manage words that were not incensed. Neither of her children seemed to mind. Laena sat quietly at the front, eyes wet with tears. Sniffling sounds came from her every few heartbeats, accompanied by sobs that fought to stay quiet. Laenor was seated behind her in stark silence, his face as unreadable as the starry night.

Rhaenys was glad neither of them spoke. To hear any more excuses might have ended in a tirade that she would prefer to avoid. Her mother had always called it a product of her heritage; she called it a dragon temper born out of Baratheon fury and Targaryen passion. It had been the bane of Prince Aemon Targaryen and Lady Jocelyn Baratheon's lives when she had been a babe, they had been so fond of reminding her.

"One day you will have a child with a dragon temper just as bad as yours," her mother had teased her once.

As a child, Rhaenys had always sulked at the perceived insult. Now, simply thinking of it just left her aching at the heart.

Laenor was too mature for outbursts like that, but Laena had a touch of it. It was her little Rhaenyx who had inherited it the most. Hardly a day went by without him being too bold for his own good, either ending up successful in his daily pursuit or throwing sulky tantrums that continuously challenged the patience of his nannies. Endearing in one so young, but draining to deal with.

Coming here, she had expected her youngest to be the one to cause a ruckus. His less than pleasant encounter with her cousin had all but confirmed her worst fears, though she would hardly fault him for standing up for himself in that case. Yet, somehow it was he who had behaved the most during this trip while her two eldest children acted like froward rogues with hardly a care for their safety!

You are being too harsh, Rhaenys chided herself.

It was hard not to. No caring mother could watch such an incident unfold and not feel trepidation at all that could have gone wrong. It was in a mother's nature to fret over her children's safety. Yet, Rhaenys could not deny that these incidents rarely passed without some ulterior motive behind it. She had long learned that Laenor rarely put his sister up to these things without good reason. Another dragon dream mayhaps? Even then…

She had grown to hold a degree of trust in her son and his tightly-held visions, but that did not mean that the vague worry that they were not completely trustworthy did not constantly disquiet her. The Gods take as the Gods give, so the saying went. An omen need not always show him the complete truth.

But for her heedful boy to go to such lengths to get the greatest dragon in all the Known World on their side was staggering to think about. That thought perturbed her more than she liked to admit. He had said he was scared. But scared of what exactly? Was it a child's fear or the methodical planning of a Gods-blessed oracle?

Rhaenys did not see her cousins as particularly dangerous men. Viserys was far too much of their family's dove to attempt something as violent as open warfare amongst kin. But Daemon.. Daemon had never been one to back down from a fight. He was petulant, ambitious, and forceful, arrogant in his need to possess all he found to be his or of his kin. With his father's firm hand and their grandfather's stern gaze, he had never been allowed to run wild, but now with Prince Baelon dead and King Jaehaerys' health failing, he had been allowed to get away with far more than he could have before.

Why must it always end in such strife?

Was her family cursed to always end up squabbling amongst each other while the nobles of Westeros remained unchecked? Her grandsire might be known as the Conciliator, but Rhaenys could not help but think that he had all but torn his family apart out of pure prejudice against those he thought to be too weak to rule.

Rhaenys would not allow her Laenor the same freedom. She would make him king somehow, through a gentler approach to politics than Corlys. If that meant she would have to make Viserys' daughter his Queen, then so be it.

The piercing cry of a dragon broke her out of her thoughts, familiar even all these years later. A part of Rhaenys wanted to close her eyes, to pretend it was her father's gentle gesture for his daughter to return from hours spent flying instead of the bellicose warning she knew it to be.

Coiled around one of Dragonstone's soaring towers, Caraxes watched with a rage that matched that of his rider's without fault. Meleys responded with a cry of her own, no less threatening than her brother's. A distance away, Vhagar's booming roar made both of her children's sound paltry. Rhaenys idly wondered if dragons felt the same kinship amongst themselves that their riders did.

The dark walls of Dragonstone stood stark in the gloomy shadow of the Dragonmont, a dozen pinpricks of light speckled all over its grounds. They glowed a vibrant red, like blood leaking from a freshly torn scab, matching a pair of eyes that followed their every movement with predatory aggression.

Rhaenys did not allow it to unsettle her, not when two more dragons followed swiftly behind her own. Instead, she calmly coaxed Meleys down, ready for all that would greet her down below.

Two dozen guardsmen dressed in silver-and-seagreen and black-and-red livery filled the outside of the outer court of the castle proper, huddled closely around their silver-haired patrons. They gave Meleys a large berth to land, the red of the fire giving way to a softer orange besieged by a wanner yellow. The ground groaned lightly under the she-dragon's weight, sweeping grains of sand into the air as she shook her slender body, forcing them all to pace back a step. Fear dominated the rough features of the Targaryen garrison as Meleys let out a guttural growl. The Red Queen found satisfaction in that, her mouth drawn into a wicked smile.

The massive ebon doors of the entrance were flung open, set within the sculpted confines of a dragon's fearsome front. Even at night they stood out, banded with gold and silver that fronted the entry of Dragonstone, paired here and there with goldenheart wood and red rubies that mimicked licks of flame erupting around a set of pointed teeth. Dying torches burned at the sconces, shining a dim light on her family.

Rhaenys worked to undo the chains methodically, eyes meeting the faraway ones of her husband.

He stood with their youngest in hand on the left of her cousins, still dressed in the silks he had worn to dinner that night. Viserys and Daemon were no different, though their clothes were noticeably more wrinkled than before. Only Aemma and Rhaenyx wore their nightclothes, something Rhaenys herself had had to discard in favour of more practical clothing to fight off the chill of the night. The small form of Maester Jasper kept quietly beside Aemma, his grey robes engulfing his spindly figure.

Far above, Caraxes' eyes still lingered like two red-hot coals.

It was Rhaenyx who approached them first, a pool of snot and dried tracks of tears covering his face as he jumped into Laena's arms barely a heartbeat after her feet had touched the ground and sobbed in her chest. Corlys followed him down the stairs soon after at a more sedate pace, though his silver hair looked well run through.

Violet eyes gazed sternly at their children as he approached, but Rhaenys could spy hints of curiosity and eagerness hidden within them.

It made her lips thin further, though she said nothing.

"I claimed Vhagar, papa," Laena piped out without any prodding, shrinking into a small slip of a girl trying her best to disappear.

"That she did," Laenor confirmed, his brother half-hanging from his neck in joy. Her eldest son's face was cringing away from the various fluids flowing down his younger brother's face. "I suppose we will be having a stern talking to in private. Or will you have us shipped to Driftmark before the sun comes up?

Her husband smiled slightly at them despite himself. His gaze was warm.

"What you did was dangerous, reckless and could have gotten you both killed!" he stated without pause, kneeling down to match their height. Then, he gently placed a hand on each of their shoulders fondly. "But I cannot deny that I am also awestruck and impressed. Especially of you, my sweet girl. Gods, you make me feel like a callow boy, sweetling."

Their daughter blushed at that, the barest hint of a smile on her red face. Corlys laughed, drawing her into a firm hug, before moving on towards Laenor.

Rhaenys watched it all unravel with a look of disapproval on her face. Again, she held her tongue. She did not need to prod much to know that her husband was more than pleased by this revelation. He had been the one pushing for it all along after all. That it had happened without his urging no doubt filled him with immense joy, especially when he caught sight of Vhagar landing two towers away from Caraxes, Seasmoke in tow. Rhaenyx watched them all with his mouth agape, sorrow forgotten at the sight of Vhagar.

"Mama, I want one too," he admitted in awe, pointing at Vhagar. Rhaenys cast him a stern glance.

"Will you want to serve the punishment that claiming one entails?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. Rhaenyx pouted, but said nothing. His siblings noticeably shrank away at the reminder, their success now secondary in sentiment to their impending punishment.

"I hope you do not mind if I have my own say in that," a voice sneered, each word dripping of utter disdain. Prince Daemon Targaryen made his way towards them with unsteady steps, his brother following him closely behind. Rhaenys could see that he had spent the time she had gone searching for them off drinking. His eyes were red with fury, his jaw clenched so tightly that Rhaenys half-wondered if it had snapped shut permanently. One of his hands lay wrapped around the hilt of his sword, aching to draw forth its blade.

"Is that a threat, cousin?" she asked. The princess took a step forward, putting herself in front of her children. She no longer could feign any warmth towards him. All she felt was cold, unhinged fury whirling inside of her, aching to be unleashed. Meleys echoed it just as well, taking a step forward in warning.

Daemon only scoffed in contempt. "A threat? Are you truly trying to make me the villain here? You who sent your two annoying brats on an absurd quest to steal my father's dragon!"

His voice pitched at the end, shaking nearly as badly as he did. An inch of Dark Sister was unsheathed. Viserys' meaty hand dragged his brother's away, letting the sword slide back into its ebony sheath with an ominous clink.

"Is that what you truly believe, Daemon?" she snapped, "Do you think me so petty that I would hold onto a grudge for over a decade? I am not like you to act the child even now."

A flash of pique flashed across his face. Daemon elbowed his brother back with ferocity, his face flushed red with anger. The pique in his dark eyes quickly turned into loathing. A look of murder. "I find it very likely that the weakling who was willing to whore herself out to a dragonless lickspittle and still moans about her dead father's dead wishes would come up with a desperate plot like this one to seat her seahorse whelp on a dragon's throne!"

"Daemon, enough!" Viserys yelled. Daemon chose to ignore him, as did Rhaenys.

The mention of her father all but shattered whatever restraint Rhaenys still had. Her fist was already raised in anger. Daemon was even anticipating it from the way he tauntingly kept a tight grip on Dark Sister. The sound of swords being withdrawn echoed around her, coming from both Velaryon and Targaryen men. Behind her, the princess could hear footsteps and someone shout. Corlys?

She did not expect Rhaenyx to barrel into Daemon with thunder. The last comment was the last straw for the youngest Velaryon. He jumped and sunk his teeth into Daemon's swordarm, managing to draw blood, all while his feet kicked at the man's loins with uncontrollable fury. Daemon cursed, kneeling in pain, before he slapped him away, sending him flying. Dark Sister's blade was whipped out in a dark flourish, seeking blood.

"I'll have your hand for that, you little imp!" he seethed, Caraxes' glowing eyes approaching.

Rhaenys saw red. She rushed at him, she and Meleys roaring as one. Viserys rose to slap at the side of his brother's head with force, leaving him in a daze just as Rhaenys landed a hard punch on his nose, eager to pummel his face into red slop for what he had done to her son. Blood squirted out of it as he fell backwards, his brother kicking his sword away with a grunt then holding him onto the ground with difficulty. The guards all ran to help him in a flurry of black-and-red.

A part of Rhaenys wanted nothing more than to continue hitting him. A greater part - the motherly part - rushed to her son's side with worry. His lip was split and bleeding at the corner, and the flank of his face bore a harsh red handprint that would no doubt turn an ugly purple in the coming hours. He was sobbing hysterically into Laena's arms. Laenor on the other hand was wrestling Corlys' tight grasp on his arm like a wild animal intent on his prey. Seasmoke urged him on, his own roars screaming of murder. Her husband's words fell on deaf ears as Laenor fought to brawl with Daemon.

All while their dragons sang into the night, waiting for the call to attack.

Rhaenys took her son into her arms, trying her best to soothe him with softly spoken words commending his bravery against such a wicked man. He wailed into her chest, blood and tears and snot all mixing into a sticky sap the colour of scarlet. Laena's hand rubbed at his back, her cheeks wet with tears of her own. A wall of sea-green girdled them, their drawn swords pointed to a kicking and screaming Daemon who was being pulled away by six hardy men. In the confusion, Aemma had rushed towards her husband, speaking to him in a hushed voice while her blue eyes looked on apologetically. Whatever it was she had said, it had not calmed Viserys down. His face was as cold as stone as he approached them, his wife trailing by his side.

"You have my apologies for what my brother did," he acknowledged, lips drawn tightly together, "It was repugnant and unbefitting for a man of his station. But what you did…" Viserys' face hardened even more. He was no longer the amiable fellow she had spent the day talking to. "That was discourteous indeed, cousin."

"Discourteous?" Rhaenys could not hide the disbelief that coated each word that left her mouth. "Do you truly believe this to be some… some ploy of mine?! That I would willingly toss my children to Vhagar in their nightclothes and pray they return to me in one piece?"

"Whether it was your ploy or not matters little. I would have thought you would have given me the same kindness I showed you when you claimed my mother's Meleys." His words sounded pained. "Instead you provoke my grieving brother and coax him into a drunken brawl."

Rhaenys stared at her cousin, eyes incredulous. He had said each word, resolute, and she could see a flash of barely veiled anger in his eyes. Aemma sent her a pleading look, but Rhaenys could no longer feel anything but apathy towards her at the moment. Her gaze hardened, frosting into a black look that could have - would have - shattered castle walls. Her voice had never sounded more cold.

"I will see you at the Great Council, cousin," the Queen Who Never Was said before turning towards her dragon who was already poised to return to Driftmark, cursing herself for ever thinking that this rift they had perpetuated was ever worth mending.

***

Notes:

Shit chapter but my week's been busy. Still intend to stay on schedule though.

Chapter 9: SI POV V

***

SI POV V

101 AC, Driftmark

The marble walls of High Tide had never seemed more welcoming as Seasmoke glided across the sky, almost guided by the invisible hand of the warm sea breeze. The journey back was oddly silent, bereft of the usual cheerful squawks and laughs that usually accompanied our trips by air. It was hard to feel content when you had messed everything up.

Why Seasmoke shared in my misery, I did not know. He had done nothing wrong. In fact, he had acted with more wisdom and bravery than I could ever profess to have. Unlike me, he did not spend all his time thinking like a jocular little woolhead. He had trusted in my plans, followed Laena and I scrupulously, and had kept me shielded from the largest dragon in the world despite his own immense terror.

And what had I done in response to the trust he had given me? A suicidal plan that overlooked the chances of any wild dragon coming across us, constant comments on his cowardice, and a fight that could have easily ended into the beginnings of a Dance.

I could not even preempt an avoidable war. No, I was only acting as its catalyst and accelerating it: sowing mistrust where there was none, unintentionally making plays for a throne I did not want through my intervention, endangering the lives of my siblings through sheer recklessness.

And for some reason, they still trusted me.

Unconsciously, my eyes glanced to my right, catching sight of pale pink wings charging towards the same destination as I. For once, my father had silently settled himself behind my mother. Even the Sea Snake hadn't dared to protest mother's simple order to get on the saddle. She had been more than glad to be rid of Dragonstone. Our father had left one of our many distant cousins to deal with sending our belongings back, though I was fairly sure my mother had ordered some older servants to prepare our things already. It was easy to forget how Dragonstone had once been my grandfather's since boyhood, and that a good amount of servants had known my mother since she was a babe and retained a sense of loyalty to her.

And that was with her spending most of her time in court all her life! How could I compete with that? I was the equivalent of a noob at politics. All my subtle nudges towards preservation had floundered into bad attempts at supposed perfidy.

I was thinking too long-term; it had always been a failing of mine.

To think of what could go wrong was not a weakness in itself. One could not live here without expecting a curveball or two to be thrown your way. The world of Westeros did not wait for you to finally fill out your armour; it strove to stick its filthy sword into your back while you were still caught within the struggles of boyhood. To anticipate an attack from just about everyone was a cornerstone to my survival. But wholeheartedly neglecting to consider the short term butterflies had all but ripped my plans into shreds. To have Vhagar on my side was a great asset in a world where the Dance was in full swing. To have her now only sought to bring me closer to the death sentence that is the Iron Throne.

Why are you even complaining, damn fool!

I had all but secured my safety after all. But at what cost? Kingship? I did not want to be king. I did not want to have a gigantic X marked in gory red blood on my back. My whole '12+1' plan revolved on making it out alive by not making myself too much of a danger in the beginning, then pouncing when I had a brood of hellions of my own to capture every dragon of note. I was going to be prince consort to Rhaenyra, quietly focusing on my hobbies and ignoring all the important decisions that did not revolve around Driftmark or my children. How in the Seven Hells had I managed this? Was I such a short-sighted moron?!

Seasmoke let out a smoky snort in agreement, then dipped into a low dive despite my protests. It was only then I realised that Vhagar and Meleys had already long descended. How long had I been mulling over my thoughts?

It hadn't felt that long. Seasmoke's speed had slackened however, and I remembered he had spent the night with me with hardly a bite of food or wink of sleep since. I felt guilt stab at me and let my rebellious flying lizard go without a reprimand. I had pretty much upset everyone I could possibly have upset bar my father and Laena. To consider Laena within that category was a stretch as well given how glum and quiet she had been since 'Nyx had ignored her care.

Whatever swooning I had managed with Rhaenyra had probably gone to shit as well now that I thought about it. Maybe she would have an inkling of sympathy for Rhaenyx, but I was hardly going to get the same treatment. Not after she made it a point to show off her Vhagar plushy to me before dinner.

Damn it.

And Rhaenyx… Well, the less said, the better. He had clung to our mother since he'd been hit, not even allowing Dragonstone's maester to take a look at his wounds when prompted. Instead, he hung onto her hip with an iron grip, trying his damndest to cover what he had called his 'shame'. His voice had sounded small when he had said that to us while Vhagar was getting saddled, as if he were trying to shrink into nothingness.

It was an almost alien sight, so unRhaenyx-like. Rhaenyx was bold, brash, and adventurous, always with a cocksure expression on his bright face. To see him so defeated felt wrong. Like something that should not - could not - happen occurring for the first time, leaving everyone perplexed as to how it had happened.

Except I knew how it had happened. I had all but caused it.

Now, to figure out how to sort this mess out.

The only logical answer that I could now come up with was killing off Daemon and marrying Rhaenyra into my line. It would postpone civil war for at least one generation, giving me more than enough time to die out before the inevitable bloodfest can begin.

That was if I won. Were Viserys to win, I was back at step one, only now I've antagonised my family from the Targaryens completely, vice versa. Odds are it will be us either starting the Dance or sitting back until we can come out on top.

Each step pointed in the same direction though: a conflict of some kind that I would very much not touch with a giant sized Vhagar, thank you very much.

Was it cowardly? Probably. But I had never been one of the types looking for some grand enthronement to precede a new Era of Enlightenment in Westeros. The Iron Throne automatically meant some kind of hard decision down the road and I wanted to keep my hands clean, my family safe.

The thought that the safety of my family might compromise my ethics was sucky to say the least. But seeing what Daemon had done tonight had all but slapped some sense into me finally.

It was a chilling realisation, but one that needed to be made. There was no going back to my old self, comfortable in my laxity. I either was the force that pushed things into motion or the driftwood being carried by the tides of fate.

Fuck me, this is hard.

Seasmoke landed rather roughly, as if to literally emphasize my point. I just barely kept my face away from his neck this time. A welcome party had been placed for my arrival, no doubt to signal my mother if I had gone off on some wild revenge quest. I was a mite offended. I had mostly squashed the burning want to 'dracarys' Daemon in the face. Mostly.

"Hail, nephew," my uncle Rhaegon greeted as he approached Seasmoke, his voice unnaturally grim. "It gladdens my heart to see you well."

He was dressed finely even this late at night. Pale blue silks embroidered with silver thread, with light touches of gold cloth to match his strands of gold that touched his mostly silver hair. Pearls crusted his sleeves, making up an array of wave-like patterns. I would not be surprised if he had actually gone off to change. The man was the definition of a second son. It was hardly a surprise he had begotten a bonehead like Vaemond on his Massey wife. A pair of dragonkeepers followed him, clad in their gleaming black armours. Though I could not see it in the darkness of night, I knew very well that the scales of Balerion lined their helms and a section of their plate. It was an oddity to see after having just been to Dragonstone where the keepers there wore hardly anything beyond linen robes soiled with ash and hardened leather shaped into 'armour'. Did it have something to do with the last vestiges of Valyrian culture being relegated to an island no one other than the occasional Targaryen frequented? Probably.

Still, I had to admit there was a certain charm to it. Living on Driftmark had endeared me to the mix of East and West, and I could still see faint traces of what was once one of Valyria's strongholds.

"Uncle, you are up particularly early," I mumbled tiredly, allowing the two keepers to undo my chains for me.

"I am told that I have you to thank for that," he replied rather tartly. I kept my lips shut. I was not in the mood to take into consideration the words of an uncle I barely spent time with, especially one mine own father had never taken great interest in.

"Everyone has arrived?" My tone was icy.

"Indeed, dear nephew," was Rhaegon's more subdued response. "Your mother has seen to it that your brother and sister are being seen to by the maester."

"And my father?"

"Locked in his solar plotting no doubt." I did not need to even look at him to know how bitter he looked. I could hear it in every word he said.

"I see. You are dismissed then, uncle. I will see myself to Maester Edmund at once."

"Nephew, your mother strictly -"

"I am sure she need not fear for my safety within the confines of my own castle, uncle."

Rhaegon scowled, approaching. "Lady Rhaenys was quite specific in her orders, nephew. And it is more what she fears outside these castle walls that may harm you."

The implication was not lost to me. Of course my mother thought I might go gallivanting into the night again.

I gave him a smile. I had already predicted that, but I was in too deep shit to care. "Take it up to Seasmoke then," I said softly, feeling the air shift as Seasmoke's neck coiled to face us, away from the keepers. In the dark, the silver-grey wyrm's eyes glowed like bioluminescent waves breaking onto the sandy shore. Rhaegon's step faltered, then died.

"Go," he spluttered, his eyes still fixated on Seasmoke.

"Ensure he is given a veritable feast, uncle! It will surely endear him to you!"

I gave my best friend an affectionate pat in thanks, then ran down along the paved courtyard, passing guardsmen and maids and a gazillion Velaryon cousins, most of whom kept asking about me. I ignored them all. Marble statues carved in the likeness of ancient Lords of the Tides stared at me with empty eyes, hidden within their niches where the shadows rendered their gildings, silverings, and inlays worthless.

My legs just kept dragging me forward despite sharp protests from my sore muscles, lungs burning as I rounded past a pilaster, then marched up the stairs. Torches burned bright red in their iron sconces, but no one past the first flutter of concerned relatives noticed me. My clothing was still covered in blood and ash, and the roughspun cloak all but hid the fine silk beneath it. I had been too busy being dragged away from my attempts to hurt Daemon to change as Laena had. I probably looked no different from an armourer's apprentice coming from having worked the forges all night.

The maester's turret was found on the westernmost side of the castle, a short distance away from the Merling's Gate. Like the rest of my home, it was not wholly Westerosi. It was one of the areas my father had deemed not fully complete yet. For all that High Tide felt as old and true as its owners, it was still a babe when compared to damp Driftmark, let alone the towering granite walls of Winterfell. Lord Corlys Velaryon had very much intended for High Tide to be Driftmark's defining trait, his own Magnum Opus. For that to happen, he had commissioned artists and workers from all across the word. Hardly a foot of High Tide could be walked without some piece of art in the surrounding. Merlings and seahorses made of jade spouted water within their own little 'kingdoms', water fountains whose floors were covered in gem-encrusted mosaics. Friezes danced along the pale blue cornice, bringing to life scenes of myth that were breathtaking to behold.

A pair of guards bordered the bronze doors, the polished silver of their lamellar a sharp contrast to the inlay of gold worked upon it, casting visions of sailors on their galleys braving the winds of a fierce tempest. Knee-length blue cloaks made from fine silk hung from their broad shoulders, decorated with silver embroidery along the borders that bespoke the seafaring roots of the man who had had his personal guard decked out so lavishly. Their finely worked greaves and vambraces were of polished steel dyed deep blue, matching the steel of their swords and spears. All in all, immensely lavish and not afforded to all guardsmen.

I recognised one as Ser Aron, the son of one of our cooks and now a captain of our guard, a broad-shouldered man bearing the typical Valyrian colouring of silver hair and indigo eyes. He was one of those whom Rhaenys would no doubt force to tail me constantly; the man was obedient to a fault.

"Lord Laenor," he announced with a curt nod , swinging the door open with a gauntleted fist, "the maester impatiently awaits your arrival."

"And my mother?"

The knight shook his head. "Gone to see your sister to her chambers. She gave us a command to ensure no one be allowed to enter but you, my lord."

I winced at that. That was not exactly giving me the good news I was looking for in regards to Rhaenyx's condition.

"Is my brother well?"

He shrugged. "Well enough, my lord. Mayhaps only twice as bad as you. Nothing you wouldn't see in a scuffle."

I smarted at his words but kept my pace even as I entered. The candles inside gave off a softer, weaker light than its uglier cousins, but birthed a sweet scent that smelled faintly like honey. I placed a hand against the cool wall, giving myself a second to catch my breath, before climbing up two steps at a time. My hand dragged along the wall, painting sharp shadows that broadened the further away they were from me. The warmth of the inside left my nose running again as the numbness from the cold faded away from my face. I could only hope there was no blood accompanying it.

The door was already wide open at the arched opening of the doorway, orange light from a burning flooding the stairwell. I found myself squinting in the light, having to readjust to its harshness.

The room itself was made large and circular, covered with decorated rugs more befitting a high lord than some no-name maester. Lord Corlys Velaryon loved nothing more than to have some excuse to show off his wealth. He had decreed that High Tide was to be the pinnacle of luxury in this day and age, and not even Edmund's refuge was exempt from his lavishness. A mosaic stretched from its middle, weaving together the likenesses of hunters and gatherers, knights and ship hands, all crowded within its expanding rings. Images of the Seven lay betwixt each ring, encircled and encircling the two bands modelled after their calling.

Thick bookshelves of mahogany pressed against the smooth white walls, covering nearly every inch of unused space in the room. Leather-bound books and old stout scrolls filled them to a point of plumpness.

The welcoming sight made me relax. The scent of parchment and potions had grown as familiar as breathing. I could still remember countless check ups at old Maester Desmond's hand before he passed. The visits with Laena and the toddling Rhaenyx on our way to filching one of Edmund's prized books.

Such fond memories, though I doubted this night would be creating any new ones.

It took me a moment to locate Edmund and Rhaenyx in the stuffy room. The maester had my brother seated on a wooden chair at the epicentre of the room while he hovered over him, speaking gentle words as he did the necessary. He had a cloth pack bulging with what looked like ice pressed against Rhaenyx's face though it was hardly going to do much to reverse the bruising.

The makeshift ice pack hid part of the ugly splotches of yellow, purple, and red that crept across his cheek, so swollen that the outline of the handprint could be seen even six feet away. The blood from his split lip had dried up and scabbed, but half of his mouth was bruised a deep indigo. I could not fight the wince that flickered onto my face as I took him in fully.

Rhaenyx did not miss it either by the way he lowered his head after meeting my gaze.

Maester Edmund stood beside the boy, dressed in his linen nightgown, though his maester's chain still hung limply against the flaps of fat he called his neck. He was a barrel-chested man early in his later years, someone who had served the Old King's uncle and then his grandson after him. His brown hair streaked with grey was still moussed from sleep, but he seemed fully alert. I could still spot the blue ink he favoured staining his fingers. He did not turn away from his charge or stop his work as I approached. He barely gave any indication that I was there though I knew full well the man had probably heard me from a mile away. His ears could pierce through castle walls.

"Ah, Master Laenor," the Maester greeted blithely in his Riverlander's accent, still touched by the grit of the Ironborn even a century later. Not quite as refined as that of the southern Reach. "Please sit, my lord. Your Lady Mother will return shortly, so worry not! I am almost done tending to Lord Rhaenyx's wounds."

"There will be no need," I brushed off as I took a seat beside my brother, plopping myself onto one of the two carved wooden chairs that surrounded the round mahogany table. There was a mushed up green paste in a mortar, some of which had been smeared over Rhaenyx's face. A collection of vials and beakers filled with colourful solutions were smattered all over the place, crowded around brass instruments and a burner. One potion vial filled was unstoppered; an antiseptic I supposed. Given Rhaenyx was cringing away from Edmund's ministrations, I wasn't so far off.

"I believe I will be the judge of that, my lord," Edmund interjected just as Rhaenyx let out a moan of pain. The old man's green eyes turned to face me critically. One fat finger prodded gently at my still swollen nose, managing to get a groan out of me despite my best efforts. Mayhaps I was underestimating the damage that Seasmoke's scales had dealt to me.

"You are lucky the bone did not fracture," the maester said finally, twisting back to his table ridden with objects. "The tenderness will persist for a few days, but I suspect that will be the worst of it."

I sniffed. "You act as if my comeliness has not suffered greatly."

Rhaenyx let out a small giggle at that, probably more at the sight of my bruised nose, crossed arms and mock look of annoyance. It felt good to hear him laugh again. It seemed to me such sweet sounds would turn scarce in the moons that followed, beckoning forward the Great Council. Even Edmund turned and reluctantly smiled wryly. In his hand was another small bag full of ice, no doubt for my nose.

I waved it away. "A bruise is not going to kill me. Neither is a long-ended nose bleed."

Desmond frowned but let it drop with a sigh, muttering something under his breath. That man always enjoyed saying I would be the reason he died. I often found myself agreeing with him.

"I will have a runner send a message to our lady then," he announced with a side eye, "I am sure she will be more convincing than I."

Ah, a threat. I missed when those were usually non-lethal.

I waved the old man away. "You will see to her yourself, Edmund. My uncle was as apprehensive as you are, though he was easily convinced."

Edmund's frown deepened, revealing creases and wrinkles that looked far too little for a man so jovial. I could tell just from looking at him that he did not see eye to eye with that.

"My Lord, it will not be wise to leave you both unattended after such a strenuous incident."

I scoffed. "I will not be sneaking my brother out, if that is the scheme you believe me to be plotting. I have not spoken to Rhaenyx all night. Surely you can afford me this small courtesy."

Edmund's worried gaze did not let up, but he did make his way to the banded ironwood with another sigh, scuttling forward like a crab missing a few legs. I let out a sigh the moment he left, before turning to face my brother. His eyes were averted, focusing on the swinging of his dangling legs more than my gaze. A reddish tint had taken over his cheeks, though whether it was from the heat, anger or embarrassment I did not know.

"You need not feel ashamed for crying, dear brother. What you did was very brave."

Rhaenyx did not reply. His small hands, both covered in scrapes from sliding across the rough ground, grasped at his knees tightly. The silk of his trousers bunched together in his grasp. His lips were set into a sullen pout. I sighed.

"I did not mean to exclude you, brother."

More stubborn silence. Another sigh. I was already feeling my own anger beating at me again. I did not blame Rhaenyx for hating me; the Seven knew I hated myself at that moment. Looking at my despondent baby brother sitting swollen and beaten was just another awful reminder of my giant fuck up.

As if things could not get any worse, my thrice-damned nose started bleeding again. That just about summed up my night. The taste of hard iron mingled with the salt of phlegm, creating a concoction that made me want to retch. A thickly thin gloop (words that probably mean no sense lest you could touch the wretched substance) smudged against the back of my hand as I tried to wipe it away. My nose pulsed in pain.

"You look funny." Rhaenyx was looking at me with a small grin, face mildly amused.

I felt a retort climb up my throat but swallowed it down with a weak laugh. That made him perk up more. "Is my nose such a sight to behold?"

"It looks like that red squishy apple thing you like that tastes bad." His silver eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. "The one from Norvos."

"A tomato?"

My brother nodded, his small grin widening. "But it's even bigger than that! Like an ugly carrot!"

That put me smiling. Rhaenyx acting like Rhaenyx always did. "How flattering."

We fell into a comfortable silence, Rhaenyx with his ice pack pressed against his face, me with my fingers pinched around the bridge of my bruised nose. It brought about more mundane thoughts, those that consisted of a nice hot bath and a fluffy bed to sink into. I silently regretted not having ordered a servant to get me a change of clothes and something to nibble on. Rhaenyx had evidently felt the same given there was a silver platter laden with food placed right in front of his chair. Clusters of fat grapes, slices of spiced breads, and hot chunks of roasted meat all spilled from gem-encrusted plates of gold made to fit my brother's size. The familiar smell of lamb stew wafted through the air from a small bowl, making my mouth water. Wisps of smoke trailed from a cup of what smelled like warmed milk.

There was no doubt it was for Rhaenyx: it had been chewed through messily. Even so, there was still so much to be eaten… I eyed the food longingly.

Hopefully mother has some sent to my chambers later, I hoped.

"You can have one," Rhaenyx said tightly, palming a thick slice of bread towards me with narrowed eyes. I blinked, then took it gratefully. The bread was still crunchy when I gave it a cautious first bite, unleashing a whirlwind of spices and herbs that all mixed and matched perfectly.

I couldn't help but moan. "The Seven bless you, 'Nyx. I should have you knighted for this."

Rhaenyx's good mood had however completely evaporated by then. In the place of a little boy chortling about my nose was a morose one who looked at me with a mixture of resentment and defeat.

"I'm still angry," the boy admitted sullenly. "At you and Laena both."

"I know. I deserve it."

"Mama is mad at you." Rhaenyx did not sound pleased.

I shrugged. "She is right too. What we did was reckless."

Rhaenyx snorted derisively at that. "You left me! You two always leave me!"

"It was dangerous!" I protested weakly. "I only took Laena with me because… because I knew Vhagar would like her!"

'Nyx only glowered in response. "You never take me anywhere or tell me anything! I'm not a baby!" he cried out, snot running down his nose.

"No," my voice was stern, "but you are a little boy who would have been the only thing standing between our father and mother's line being extinguished if Laena and I had died."

My brother's eyes widened at that. He had clearly not thought about the possibility of the Cannibal swooping in and turning us all into dinner. His lips worked to say something.

Then, he pouted.

"Stupid baby," Rhaenyx mumbled under his breath. I let out an exasperated sigh though my lips kept smiling.

"Make sure to voice all your insults out before mama gets here," I said, closing my eyes, "You won't be the last person I reckon."

Surprisingly, nothing came. I waited a minute, then two, reluctantly waiting for a slew of angry comments. All I got was the crackle of wood burning in the hearth and… sobs?

I cracked an eye open and saw my brother crying. His cheeks were flushed red, thick rivulets of tears streaking across them. His bruised lips quivered, drowning in a pool of snot that dangled off the end of his small chin. His pale blue eyes were wet, growing redder and redder at the edges. I felt my voice fail.

"I'm de stubid bady!" Rhaenyx said, sniffling. His sleeve muffled his voice. "He bead me!"

I managed a weak laugh. "I am fairly sure you beat him."

Rhaenyx scowled.

"You drew first blood," I explained, nudging him lightly in the ribs. "and didn't even need a dragon or a Valyrian Steel sword to do it. All while weighing as much as a quarter of a Daemon. Think of that! Daemon Targaryen bested by someone whose balls haven't even dropped yet!" I forced out a laugh. "By the Gods, you're amazing 'Nyx! You made a real fool out of me."

"I…did?"

I nodded, giving him a wistful look. His face was so innocent at that moment. So vulnerable. Rhaenyx never dared look anything but tough in front of me. But now, his gaze was searching. He looked to me as if I had all the answers on the tip of my tongue. All the right things to say and how to say it. It was the same look Laena had given me for years on end. How would he feel if he knew I was just as lost and beaten down as him?

That I wanted to throw in the towel and just let the waves guide me?

I opened my mouth, trying to force something out, but all I could see were his red-rimmed eyes, his bruised face, and the half-hiccuped sobs he was trying to hide. A weight settled into my stomach at the sight.

Why do you trust me so much, I wanted to ask. Why do you look up to me like that?

Couldn't he see I was barely keeping my head afloat? My confidence was fraying, my determination shattered. Even if he didn't see it in my face, surely my actions had all but confirmed it for him. I was not the big brother he could trust. I was just a coward. A useless one at that.

A weakling hiding his head in the ground, waiting for the dust to settle.

But you don't need to know that, I finally conceded, my decision at last made. My siblings need not know how hopeless I actually was. In a hopeless mess, all anyone ever wants is an infallible pillar to look up to. How laughable was it that I, the craven, had somehow turned into their stalwart.

"You are the better warrior by far," I affirmed, "and one day, you shall have a dragon of your own. Mayhaps another by Meleys, just like my Seasmoke. Then we'll be blood brothers in all ways." I pressed a kiss on his forehead. "And we'll protect each other. You, me and Laena. No more secrets. I swear it."

Unbelieving eyes looked at me with uncertainty. "Promise?" he asked gingerly.

I nodded, taking my hand in his. "I swear that I'll not navigate this ship alone anymore. On my honour as a seahorse."

"But I want to be a knight more than a sailor!" Rhaenyx protested with sudden gusto, as if a light switch had flicked back on to revive his childish self. Embarrassingly, I felt I could cry at that. My little brother was a terror and a snotty brat, but I would have died a thousand times over to ensure he would never see real a dragon battle in his life.

"You can be both, you know. A sailing knight to rout out evil villains at sea," I said, "I have met few men as doughty and as true as you."

"You said I was a little boy," Rhaenyx pointed out with a surly pout, "not a man."

I grinned widely, clapping him on the shoulder. "And yet you put so many men to shame. I can only imagine how great you shall be whence you reach manhood. You're already more dragon than that crooked-nose knave could ever hope to be."

Red dusted Rhaenyx's cheeks at that, above the preening smile that curled upon his swollen lip. His pale blue eyes shone with newfound confidence. It was a look I had come to love. Even bruised and beaten with a veritable patchwork of bruises clouding his face, Rhaenyx Velaryon looked as puissant as the Warrior himself.

***

It took my parents two full days to sit down with me to discuss my transgressions. Until then, I was relegated to being confined to my chambers with guards posted at every possible entrance to prevent any tomfoolery on my part. I did not mind. It was better that way, though I regretted that I did not have access to any ravens. I had wanted to send Rhaenyra a letter to start some sort of contact.

But it gave me the time to think. To curse at whatever had put me here, to cry at my no-doubt impending doom, to restart my plan from scratch. Rhaenyx ducked inside my room ever so often which helped. He was one of the reasons I hadn't given up. We would play at being pirates and battle-hardened sailors, knocking wooden swords at each other as we fought for 'treasure'. Most of it ended with me on my back, my treasure whisked away by my baby brother, but I did not mind.

Every moment spent with him was a reminder to keep moving forward. That he snuck in letters from Laena helped as well.

So, when Princess Rhaenys Targaryen came with her husband in tow, I did not shy away from her intense gaze. Instead, I met it with my own lilac one. The time for acting the abashed child had long faded.

The list of my infractions was a long one, punctuated with a punishment for each one. No pastries for a week for threatening to use Seasmoke on Rhaegon. No books for two weeks for using Edmund as my errand boy and denying medical care. A moon without riding dragon and pony alike for the Vhagar stunt… It was endless.

Though that was somehow not even the worst of the punishment.

"The king has written to us, my son," she said severely, her tone evidently displeased at the prospect. "He intends to call on Driftmark on the morrow. You will conduct yourself as the heir to Driftmark should. No pithy comments. No having Seasmoke tossing him in dragon dung. No disobedience."

So it seemed my mother had caught word of Seasmoke saving his bowel movement for Jaehaerys. Damn it. I managed to nod meekly at her demands.

My father grimaced at my mother's tone. "Must we berate the lad, dearest? We both know he is earnest in his regret! Is it such a sin that he helped Laena claim a part of her birthright?"

Rhaenys' stern gaze did not waver in the slightest. "All of our children could have left Dragonstone as corpses."

"Daemon-"

Rhaenys cast him a bone-chilling glare. "Will be dealt with, I promise you. But it is Laenor I am speaking of currently. You have trust in him, husband, and on that I cannot fault you. But I can no longer follow behind blindly. I need to know."

"Know what?" I asked though I had already figured it out.

Pale violet eyes turned to meet mine again, no longer austere. Just… sad.

"Your dreams, Laenor," she said so softly I could hardly hear. Her tone was pleading. "You have denied it again and again, and I have respected your wishes. But now… Things have changed now. I must know, son. What have you seen?"

I gave her a sad smile. "I was not lying when I said I see no visions of the future." I paused. "Nor was I lying when I told you I was scared."

Rhaenys' face fell, defeated. I wondered if I should tell her, yet I knew better than to rope her in. It was not fair to her, just as my existence wasn't fair to my siblings. I had made my choice. No longer would I trust in a future that could have been or the slightest ministrations on my part. I needed to act, to eliminate all the danger root and stem.

King or no, I would do whatever it took to keep my family safe. Even if it meant having to do things that made my skin crawl at the mere thought.

And the death of Daemon Targaryen was the first on my list.

But no one needed to know that.

***

Notes:

TSS will be updating every 2 weeks now so I can focus more on my other stories (EotS & TBD) and better the quality of my work. Hope you understand.

Chapter 10: JAEHAERYS II/ RHAENYS II - An Interlude

***

JAEHAERYS II

101 AC, Driftmark

The sky was weeping when he left.

It seemed an unending drizzle to Jaehaerys' slowly blurring sight, almost like one of those paintings his eldest sister used to work on in her later years though her work had never been anything more than average. Dull and grey, leaving behind a wetness that sought to suck in your joy.

'Much like her' was Jaehaerys' thought about it.

Unlike Rhaena's art however, there was not only metaphorical expression behind it as Jaehaerys would have liked. This rain was as real and ugly as the warm sizzle of steam when water met Vermithor's firm flesh. Its kisses were scarce but bitter cold, seemingly seeping past the warmth of his fur-lined silk hooded cloak to loose arrows of ice onto his skin, like the welcoming arms of an Other. His gloved hands fared little better despite the thick coating of grey leather that protected the fur within.

Was it his age getting the better of him or had the world gotten chillier since Baelon died? Only the Gods knew and they were a cruel lot to begin with.

His ears still rang from the multitude of protests erupting from the mouths of his countless advisors. Those braven enough to mention his age, even then in the most delicate manner they could, still broke underneath his stern gaze. It had been a comforting thought despite all that had gone wrong in King Jaehaerys Targaryen's world. Even in his later years - his cursed failing years, he was a man to tread lightly around. That did not mean that his advisors were wrong however. The dampness and humidity clung to him like a damned leech, sapping his strength away. His body was already screaming in sharp protest before they had even left King's Landing's coastline behind. Though Driftmark was such a short distance away, even the mildest of journeys now left him somewhat infirm.

It made the Old King feel more pathetic than he should have. His own father and grandsire had been in worse shape than he was at younger ages. King Aenys had not even counted his fourth decade when he had passed. That did not mean it lessened the sting.

He was not his father. No man would look at him and see a frail, soft weakling. But reputation alone did not carry away the weakness of age and grief. It had not done his brother's namesake any favours and it would not do him any as well.

Driftmark still stood out like lumen amongst a sea of dull colors, the once demure isle, forever living in the shadow of its greater kinsman, now bustling trade even in unpleasant weather. High Tide was a masterpiece of pale splendour opposite its granite older brother. Sheets of rain rolled over sheets of silver, creating ripples of dark grey almost like Valyrian Steel. Sprawling, the grounds made up twice as much as those of Castle Driftmark, stretching as far east as the cobbled causeway that connected the two. The newer Velaryon seat lived up to its name as Jaehaerys coaxed Vermithor to land however. Grey brackish waters washed over the pathway, like a thin layer of patina, casting a gloomy shadow over the coloured stone patterns that accompanied its every stride.

Even so, High Tide, for all its show of pomp and wealth, was but a plain pest compared to its dragon residents. The large bulk of Vhagar loomed behind High Tide's walls like an ominous shadow, those emerald eyes of hers eyeing Jaehaerys with curious intent. She did not even stand at her full height yet she easily met Vermithor's eyes, a low rumble of warning on her lips. Looking at her made Jaehaerys stiffen. The last time that Vhagar had made him so uncomfortable had been decades ago, almost like a dream. He could suddenly vividly remember those dark purple eyes with a stern expression mirroring those emerald ones staring down at him, hard enough to shatter castle walls. He could remember the fear of death clinging to him like flesh to bone whenever bony fingers gripped that which bespoke its former owner and the character of her son in every way possible.

Though ghosts could not hurt him, they were still capable of bringing back memories of a life of isolation on the island that was his brother's, locked up for "the good of House Targaryen". He shook that weakness away. Now was not the time to remember those dark days.

Vermithor dove towards a crowded courtyard that lay behind the inner gate, almost as stiff as Jaehaerys himself felt. The king knew it was because of their bond and could not fight off a slight smile. Even Alysanne had not known him in the ways that Vermithor did. The bond of a dragon and its rider transcended spoken words. He pressed a gloved hand against scales of beaten bronze and relished in their warmth. It alleviated all his aches for the briefest of moments.

The Bronze Fury seemed the only one left capable of doing so these days.

A distant, but familiar, cry broke the whipping wind's smothered screams, high pitched coming from one growing so old. Meleys. Jaehaerys' eyes narrowed, searching for her presence. He spied her coiled scarlet mass perched upon one of the castle battlements, sprawled over lazily.

Despite the damp rain, Jaehaerys smiled. It brought back the memory of better days. Memories of his eldest children clamoured onto their dragons, racing; Aemon with the methodical calm of a man who would be king, Baelon with the fierce intent of a brave warrior riding to war, and Alyssa wildly with her characteristic boldness that bordered on recklessness. What would they have thought of seeing their dragons pitted against one another?

Almost tauntingly, Baelon's voice creeped into his mind again.

Father, you said-

He shoved that damning voice to the back of his mind. Today was not the day to ruminate over his son's last wishes. Those were the frailties of the man, not the king.

***

The icy courtesy the Velaryons had shown the Crown since Aemon's death did not change as Lord Corlys reluctantly granted Jaehaerys his complete deference. Neither age nor anger had weathered away the man's pride, but there was certainly more respect held in his bearing for Jaehaerys than his granddaughter's did. The sight of her was an almost foreign one to Jaehaerys' eyes. Where once there stood a waspish woman-child dressed proudly in black-and-red, one hand rested over a swollen belly now lay a woman of seven-and-twenty years. The words, the kiss on the cheek, the practiced introductions as she herded two of her children forward… Formal as Jaehaerys expected, but utterly devoid of any warmth. It was not the first time a kinswoman had acted as such to him, but it did not harden him as easily as it once had.

Her children were little better. It was easy enough to tell them apart, even without their clearly different appearances. The girl was the taller of the two, named after the late Lady of the Tides, the Lady Laena Celtigar. She bore her look well enough, favouring her father's features though they were refined. Lady-like, as much in her looks as her sea-green silk clothing. She had her mother's build however, and Jaehaerys could see she would one day grow tall. Even so, she was so… underwhelming for someone who had claimed Vhagar. While he had no love for Visenya, even he had to admit she had had a commanding presence to her. This child had the look of a milksop-in-making. Childish and shy, with a clumsy curtsy that needed improving and a clumsy tongue as well. Nothing like Alysanne who could outwit any man at that age. Just another ditzy fop with defiance in her veins. Gods forbid another Saera to contend with.

Laenor Velaryon was clearly the more promising of the two, even without the rumours that swirled constantly around him. Jaehaerys found it hard to look at him.

He has Aemon's look, he internally remarked. On that account, Baelon had been right.

He was possessed of the same pale lilac eyes, the same aquiline nose. Those same perfect features. Only the shades of their hair differed, and even then, only slightly. Laenor's was a silver-white hue, Aemon's a white-gold. Instead of Targaryen colours, Laenor wore a tunic of pale blue satin, finely stitched with designs of silver sea-shells and wave patterns in silver thread. Pearls carved into the shape of dragons lined his sleeves, with cuffs and a neckline made of brocaded silk. A deeper blue cloak hung on his shoulders with the aid of an amethyst-studded cloak fastener made of rare platinum. He was still shorter than Aemon had been at seven namedays, though he promised to outgrow even his sister at such a middling age. Built slenderly, he had a sturdy feel to him, as if his stubbornness alone could have braved storms.

Oh, he was quick to bow and quicker with his glib words of deference, but Jaehaerys could see the slight measure of anger that coloured his face. Jaehaerys had been possessed of that same anger once. Maegor's evils had quelled it with far more ease than any words could ever have had on him. Vile brute as he was, at least his uncle was right not to tolerate blatant disobedience from their lesser barbarian counterparts.

"I had heard there was another," Jaehaerys mentioned as he searched across the crowd of Velaryons, "A boy."

Rhaenys stiffened up further at that. "Forgive me for such boldness, your grace, but my youngest son, Rhaenyx, has still not recovered from his injuries and I thought it best for him to remain in our maester's care." Her lips were already thin with disapproval, as if she could hear the chastisement from a league away.

Jaehaerys fought off a wince at the reminder that he could not tarry here for too long. His fool of a grandson would be meted some more than deserved harsh words once he was done with Driftmark. For all his justified fury, to strike a nobly-bred child that was not your own was an act of utter idiocy. It was times like this he wished he still had the strength of a man half his age. For all his talent with the sword, Daemon had the restraint of those barbarian wretches who hungered for blood. Barely into his second decade yet a whoremonger already, a far cry from the nobility of the Conqueror and the virtue of Daemon's own father.

"I will be sure to pay my great-grandson a visit while I am here," he dismissed, handing his sodden cloak to one of the numerous Velaryons pooling around him like ants did to plump fruit. Jaehaerys had to make an effort not to show his displeasure at their obliging words. Corlys' kinsmen they may be, but they were just as grasping, if not moreso, than he was. They would swim wherever the tide favoured them, even if it meant betraying their own liege. Jaehaerys was not unfamiliar with such self-serving ilk; his own uncle had gladly endorsed Rhaena's forced marriage and rape in an effort to save his own skin. He had found it hard to have love for any of them other than his mother after that.

"Allow me to guide you to your chambers myself, your grace," the Lord of Driftmark stated formally. "My servants have already drawn a hot bath and my cooks slave away in the kitchens to prepare as fine a feast as Driftmark has ever seen. Send word of any desire and I shall see it seen to with haste."

Jaehaerys felt himself smile inwardly at the forced words. They sounded so unnatural coming from such a man, but he was glad to know that Corlys still feared him as soundly as he had the first time they had met. Old and failing some might say yet Jaehaerys Targaryen could still command respect from the proudest of lords.

"I have only one request, Lord Velaryon. Some mulled wine and your heir as my cupbearer."

The younger man stopped mid-step at Jaehaerys' demand, stilling into a statue. There was a hand already caressing his beard, a regular feature during the man's time as Master of Ships. A sign of irritation, once at Lord Beesbury's cautious approach to expanding the royal fleet, now at Jaehaerys' obvious approach at getting the truth out of the man's son.

Too long had he neglected meeting this 'wonder' child himself. His granddaughter and her scheming husband were ambitious, but he knew them both well enough to know that not even they would dare steal his dead son's dragon barely a moon after his funeral rites. Viserys' letter had explained it well enough.

Laenor Velaryon was every bit as peculiar as the rumours claimed, and Jaehaerys would waste no time indulging in the drudgery of a king's welcome.

"Your Grace," Corlys' tone did not lose its cool, "My nephew, Malentine, was once Lord Bartimos' own cupbearer. You will find him more adept at the job than my son, Laenor."

A small boy was pushed forward by one of Corlys' two brothers. Daemon, if Jaehaerys recalled correctly, named after his own cowardly uncle.

The boy resembled Daemon well enough, what with the slender build and shorter height despite clearly being older than Laenor Velaryon. He seemed eager enough if not nervous, with his back bent so low from his bow that Jaehaerys was surprised his nose did not touch the ground.

"A generous offer, Lord Corlys," Jaehaerys replied, smiling thinly as he waved the boy away. "But I shall have to rectify your mistake. It will do the boy some good. I myself was not exempt from such a task."

His hand had always been steady when it came to pouring his father's wine. Sweetwine from Lys, coloured gold. He never spilled a single drop. Tyanna had informed Maegor of it once in jape. When his uncle had taken Viserys instead of him, he had never felt more relieved.

"I will not keep him for long. It will be good to see High Tide from the perspective of younger eyes."

Corlys' jaw worked itself, then slackened as his shoulders did. Defeat coloured his being once more. "He is your ever willing subject, your grace."

The king's purple eyes turned to look at his intended quarry, half-hidden inside the folds of his mother's cloak like a shadow. His granddaughter's grip on the boy had tightened immediately at his words, almost vice-like. Her jaw was clenched so tightly, he half thought it would shatter from sheer rage. Jaehaerys knew the look of a mother intent on saving her child. His own mother had looked at the dowager Queen Visenya the same way from afar. Those eyes looked as if they could have shattered the strongest of castle walls, but Jaehaerys never wavered. Princess she might be, Aemon's only daughter, but he was king. She may stand high next to the barbarians of these Sunsetlands and those false lords of the East, but so long as he lived, Jaehaerys towered over them all.

***

The rooms that the king was given were as fine as his own back in the Red Keep, draped with soft carpets that hugged the feet and silk tapestries that dated as far back as the Empire of Ghis. A masterwork wrought of crystal stood perched upon a lacquered cabinet inlaid with precious stones, taking the form of a seven-sided star that glittered seven different colours from the light. Fist-sized sapphires were set in each seahorse-shaped silver sconce. Sea blue silks adorned the goose down featherbed matched them. Tessellated marble covered the floor, gilded panelling the wall. The loveliest feature of all was the goldenheart table facing the entrance to the balcony, so smooth to the touch that Jaehaerys would not have been surprised if it were the work of some sorcerous craftsman from Qohor. Loathe as he was to admit it, Lord Corlys did have fine taste.

Mother would have adored it here, Jaehaerys could not help but think as he took his seat in a chair of carved sandalwood with a back spanned with tooled leather overlaid with silk brocade.

Queen Alyssa Velaryon had always preferred the luxuries of court life to the damp walls of Castle Driftmark which always brought out sorrow from within her. She was a woman full of life and warmth, a flower of summer in full bloom amidst piles of damp driftwood. It was no surprise to anyone that Storm's End was no better fit for her either.

Would that she had lived longer.

High Tide was more to her taste than the damp walls of her home ever could be.

The rest of High Tide was just as elegant, touched by both the East and the West in terms of architecture and design, enhanced by mosaics, doors of burnished gold and silver, and sculpted friezes. A small part of him very reluctantly understood why Aemon had been so supportive of such a match. None could deny the wealth and prestige of House Velaryon. The bustling towns, once plain fishing villages, were of the same quality. Though smaller than King's Landing by a fair amount, the streets were wide and clean, and there was no scent of refuse clinging onto them like skin on flesh.

A flash of annoyance sprung up within him towards his predecessors for a heartbeat. Anger that they had so neglected their 'prized' capital and turned it into something so disorderly. For the briefest of seconds, Jaehaerys felt anger at not just Maegor whom he loathed so dearly and at his own father, Aenys, who had been so spineless, but at his grandsire as well.

Seven Kingdoms he had conquered yet it had taken him three decades to finally be rid of the Aegonfort. Though his memories of it were dim, Jaehaerys could remember thinking Dragonstone to be their main seat of power instead of the ramshackle collection of wood-and-palisade buildings that it had really been.

That even ambitious lickspittles like the Velaryons had risen so high within the span of one generation left him annoyed.

"Your Grace?" the boy's voice interrupted his thoughts, sounding so small and precocious that it was a wonder that he could pose such a threat to the Targaryen dynasty. With one final shaky breath, Jaehaerys turned to face him. Laenor Velaryon had not given any sign of unruliness in the short time they had spent together touring the castle. He had arrived at Jaehaerys' chambers as instructed with a pitcher of wine in hands. Yet, few words ever left his mouth, as if his lips had been sewn shut by his mother if rumours were to be believed. Jaehaerys found that hard to fathom given how shielded the boy was; his granddaughter was far too much like Aemon in that respect. Indulgent to a fault.

"One cup," Jaehaerys ordered curtly, moving into one of the ivory-and-wood chairs nestled behind the goldenheart wood table, his aching muscles relaxing against the silk-covered goose down cushions that piled it. Behind him, a cool ocean breeze fluttered in from the open balcony. "Watered down."

Laenor fulfilled his duty without complaint, so silently competent. It allowed Jaehaerys time to observe him as he worked. Again, not an unpracticed word left his lips. Laenor Velaryon knew every protocol as if it were ingrained within his memory. Yet, there was a clear edge to the boy's movements despite it all. An annoyed twist to his lips, eyes focused on anything other than Jaehaerys. No, the boy was not good at feigning respect as he pretended to be.

Letting the rim of the cup touch his lips, Jaehaerys' eyes peered into Laenor's reluctant ones. Once more, they fled from sight. The golden cup, so finely embellished with precious stones, was set down upon the table after that.

"Do I frighten you, child?" His voice was soft, barely above a whisper. Laenor Velaryon seemed stunned to have even heard it, as if it were a ghost that had spoken and not a man. His eyes widened in shock, as if seeing an entirely new person in front of him. Jaehaerys knew well what the boy was thinking.

Where had the commanding king gone and who was this old man sitting in his place, so beaten down by life? Was the gentleness a ruse from the king, some tactic to befog the boy or the genuine weariness of a slowly dying soul? Little did he know Jaehaerys found oft asked himself that same question every day.

"No, your grace," Laenor finally obliged politely.

"What is it then that frightens you?" the king continued on, running a finger along the rim. His ministrations disturbed the golden liquid, almost like waves beating against the shore. But the ripples would always be too weak; such was the way of gold. But men… they were all too easy to shatter. He waited patiently, his eyes never leaving the cup though his ears listened for even the slightest rustle of cloth that might indicate movement from the child. He had long learned to equate that to nervousness.

"My sister's continued struggle with sums. My brother aiming his wooden sword at my shins. Worms," Laenor Velaryon listed out, an edge coating every word.

"But not Vhagar?"

The boy's lips thinned immediately at that, shattering the child-like illusion he'd been so desperate to project.

"No words?" Jaehaerys continued, waiting. Always waiting. "My eldest grandson wrote to me that you have little rein on your tongue. So does half my court for that matter. Do not pretend with me, child. I am the head of our household. I am your king. To lie to me is treason of the highest order. Do you understand, child?"

Reluctantly, the boy nodded. "Understood, your grace."

Jaehaerys let out a breath and relaxed once more into the armchair. "Then tell me, why did you have your sister claim my son's dragon? Lie not to me. Was it Corlys who planted this idea into your mind, or was it my granddaughter? Pray tell."

Despite himself, Jaehaerys could not keep the bitterness out of his tone. No matter what, Vhagar was Baelon's, not some girl's plaything. A Conqueror's dragon should not have been wasted on a child with a head full of flights of fancy. It was a warrior's weapon, not a pony to prance around with. Laenor opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it as his lips drew to a close once more. The action stoked Jaehaerys' growing impatience.

"Well?" the king demanded. Somehow, Laenor did not show even a slight flicker of discomfort at that. He just stared at Jaehaerys politely.

"Neither of them encouraged me, your grace. It was my personal desire to have my sister claim her," he admitted, "A dragon so formidable should not be wasting away, riderless, and my sister has shown her natural talent for dragonriding since."

Jaehaerys arched an unconvinced eyebrow. "Just a short few moons away from the Great Council? Do you expect me to believe there was no hidden agenda with your plot?" He gave the boy a sharp look. "This is no work of your father's nor your mother's. I see that now. I have neglected dealing with you for far too long, and now it has come back to curse me."

The boy barely snuffed out his snort. "You cursed your dynasty the moment you decided to use such a farce to name an heir. Had you gone through with your son's wishes, there would be no muddied waters, your grace. Just the lawful and the perfidious, separated by the fine distinction of all the succession laws that rule these lands."

"Some would view my decision as the fairest route to settling the succession," Jaehaerys pointed out in a hard voice.

Laenor's lilac eyes narrowed. "The opinions of lesser men should never have been considered in the first place, your grace. To give some backwater lord fond of deflowering maidens no older than his youngest daughter any power over the Crown is an utter embarrassment. Not even the Andal kings lowered themselves to such depths."

His words left Jaehaerys feeling struck. It was not only at the sheer audacity of such a statement, but also at the condescension in his voice, one befitting a man-grown of great renown rather than some… boy. A child with no care for consequences so long as it gave him what it wanted.

On some level, Jaehaerys could feel a grudging respect, for Laenor reminded him of his own younger self. But Jaehaerys had challenged usurpers and boastful fools who had overstepped, not his own king. He thought of discipling the boy, then thought better of it. Instead, he laughed at the sheer incredulity of it all. Laenor watched on, his judgemental look not wavering.

"Is this truly the best my granddaughter can produce?" He shook his head in disbelief. "For all you resemble my late son in appearance, you take little after him in temperament. Your entitlement will ruin you," Jaehaerys mused. "You truly are your Corlys' son. Your arrogance and self-righteousness are plain to see."

The boy's jaw set at that, bringing out a sharp jaw still undergoing the trials of growth. His eyes were almost insulted. Jaehaerys only continued,

"You wax lyrical about your right and the eminence of your blood yet you chafe at the slightest touch of authority." He took a sip of wine. "Hubris masked behind a veil of nobility. Ghastly traits for a man who desires to become king."

The boy gave a laugh of disbelief at that. "Forgive me for my candour, Your Grace, but I desire anything but. To put on airs like some beastly tyrant -"

Jaehaerys scoffed at the implication, feeling his anger rise to the fore. "You admit to me you pulled off that stunt out of your own free will yet you accuse me of tyranny? Baelon was wrong to ever compare you to Aemon. You are all Velaryon: a gluttonous, self-serving lickspittle blind to your own faults. The pale shadow of a middling snake before a dragon. Maegor was like you, boy. He trusted no one but his mother, and when she died, no one at all. It was his undoing in the end."

Laenor's lips thinned. Jaehaerys could see a silent wroth raging in his eyes. His nose scrunched up in annoyance. "I am no usurper, your grace."

Jaehaerys bit back a laugh. "I am sure my uncle thought the same. That he was forced to put on his sire's crown by fault of his brother's weakness. That it was all for the good of House Targaryen in the end. Mayhaps he even thought his Valyrian Gods had needed a steady hand." He shook his head, an amused smile painting his lips though it was bereft of any true mirth. "And so he slew his own nephews and raped his own niece, soaking his hands in the blood of the dynasty he proclaimed to be championing while bringing about its ruin. And what did he get in return for his piety? Twisted abominations dead in the womb, his supporters turning traitor and a death wherein he knew his cursed bloodline would end with him."

Jaehaerys gave the boy a hard look, staring into those eyes. So readable. Did he know how much of an open book he was? How little he knew how to play the game? This was the boy Rhaenys wanted to make king? Even a blustering, drunken lout like Rogar would prove too great a challenge for him. "The maesters say he was born cruel and I am wont to agree. It was all in the breeding stock one might say. The Conqueror bequeathed to that vile woman a child and his line suffered for it."

To his surprise, Laenor snorted. his voice was lightly touched by the rage he sought so hard to conceal. Jaehaerys knew he had gotten under the boy's skin. He was too rash for his own good. "It seems to me that Maegor was no different to his father, and not just in appearance if the portraits are accurate. Both wanted a throne and took it. They burned as many as the other and lost not a wink of sleep over it. The only difference is one did it to his kinsmen and the other did not."

"Is that what you truly believe, boy?" Jaehaerys' voice was cold. Unbelieving. A flush of discomfort flashed across the boy's face, but he did not recant his statement. Foolishly, stubbornly, he went on,

"Our house was built on betrayal, your grace? Did Aenar not withhold the secret of the Doom from our rivals to strengthen our own middling house? Did he not let the East destroy itself though his daughter, the Dreamer, desired elsewise. Our own line can be traced to that of Daemion the Kinslayer, the man who slew his brothers, their children, their dragons, and took his widowed elder sister to wife and tossed the other to mine own namesake, his greatest supporter. Treason and usurpation runs in our bloodline, your grace. I am more surprised we are still so shocked by it when it happens once again." Still, he shrugged uncomfortably, eyes averted. "In my eyes, it's just a matter of time before someone else attempts to do the same. I have no love for any of them, your grace."

"Is that your justification?"

Laenor shrugged uneasily. "I am not so proud to name any of them faultless. The blood of thousands stained their hands." He bit his lip. "But I think if certain circumstances were met, it would be understandable."

"Why not?"

Laenor looked at the ground forlornly at that, looking genuinely saddened. "Well, should another Daemion threaten to rise, I think that anyone would be well within their rights to cull the rot before it spreads, even if that comes at the cost of kinslaying. All of this is all a matter of perspective I think. Men will do anything to justify their own selfishness, even if it defies all logic itself."

Jaehaerys let out a slight scoff at that.

Fool boy, he thought with a shake of his head. What a pity that so much intelligence be wasted on a child this misguided.

"To commit vile perfidy can be justified based on perspective? Simply because of the example of some few." His voice was as cold as ice. Laenor's gaze did not waver however.

"I did not say it was right," he sputtered in his defense.

"To speak of the Conqueror and his brute second son in the same vein betrays your reasoning," Jaehaerys replied, barely keeping his voice from shaking with rage. "Do you think Maegor would not have snapped you in half, boy? Do you think even your Laena would be spared mine own sister's fate?!"

That at least made Laenor wince, as if the thought alone was more than he could bear. Even more, he seemed to shrink, as if he had not quite considered it at all. What did he think Maegor to be? Some ancient legend? Some folktale to frighten children?

Nay, he had been real. Real enough to slay both of Jaehaerys' brothers. Real enough to leave a dark mark upon Rhaena for the rest of her life.

Jaehaerys wished he could have felt some form of satisfaction at the boy's ashamed look, but nothing of the sort burned within him. All he felt was that same old emptiness again, hoping to be silenced by a familiar warmth. But that warmth had been dead for nearly a year now. Alysanne had been dead for nearly a year now.

She would have spoken kindly to this boy, both stern and gentle in equal measure. It was something to be admired about her, but that was a woman's heart. Soft, even one with the blood of Valyria coursing through her. Rhaenys, for all her daring, was no different.

It was a woman's role to nurture a budding flower. It was a man's role to shear off its prickly thorns.

"You shame your grandsire," King Jaehaerys Targaryen decried, "You shame your bloodline. Am I to be cursed with Visenya and Maegor come again in the shapes of you and your mother?"

He spoke so loudly and so fiercely that when he spoke no more, his breath had left him. Rage burned within his eyes, fury burning in his belly. His hands, usually so feeble, grasped the arms of the chair with surprising strength, hard enough that his muscles ached when he let go.

The boy's lilac eyes widened in shock at the sudden reprisal. His lips parted, his face flinched away as if struck. Then his features contorted, twisting into a study of stubborn pride. Laenor's cheeks flushed red with rage.

"You may denounce me as a thieving devil child all you want, your grace, but keep such slanderous insults away from my mother! She is no Visenya to usurp any throne, even if it is hers by right! And she is not you to send her young children to their deaths to further her ambitions."

Every word came out seething.

Jaehaerys bit back a laugh at that. That easily aroused flame… The brazen look of defiance… The utter incredulity of his words. No, mayhaps Laenor was not all his father.

"How did I send my young children to their deaths?" Jaehaerys asked, more amused than anything. "I do not recall torturing a boy of five-and-ten for nine days as my uncle did." His tone grew sharp, like a whip. "Another different perspective, or simply misremembrance?"

Still, Laenor did not budge. "You may have dressed them up as fine marriages to wise men of great import, but the deaths of your daughters will forever stain your hands. In time, mayhaps that of your youngest trueborn granddaughter as well."

Jaehaerys scowled, fingers coiling around the cup. So tight was his grip that he was sure he would draw blood soon enough. "That whore is no child of mine, and speak not of my daughters' marriages as such. Your own father did not seem to mind wedding a 'girl' of six-and-ten when the time came."

That comment shut the boy up in an instant. His face flushed red more in embarrassment now than rage. He did not relent however. "Nay, my father is no different than those men were. You are right in that. But that does not absolve you any more than it absolves them. Were mine own sister tossed to some coot she could not stand, I know that my brother and I would not hesitate in gifting him a most bloody welcome to our family. We would give nary a thought to our father's greater ambitions if it hurts our sister. Would that your sons had been the same."

"Your mother would think otherwise of her father."

"My mother has unfortunately grown accustomed to giving in to the demands of men," was Laenor's chilly reply. "She takes after her grandmother in that respect."

"I see my granddaughter has not failed in moulding you to be her fiercest lickspittle." Jaehaerys allowed himself another sip of wine. The sweetness was lost to him now as his mood soured. It now tasted like bitter venom prised open just for his arrival. Arbor Gold awash with the thin salt water blood of the bitter Seahorses. "Would that you were a dragon rather than one of our lessers. Aemon's heir instead of his daughter's. Were you groomed by a proper dragon, all this insolence would never have taken root. The Gods are cruel indeed."

Small fists bunched together at the comment, shaking with utter rage.

"I am proud to be a Velaryon." His harsh stare was resolute. "And I am even prouder to be the son of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, rightful heir to your Iron Throne. I have no doubt my grandfather thought the same, though it is a sad thing that you are not of the same mind. I wonder how differently things might have gone had he not died. How pleased do you think he would have been to know that his own father and brother betrayed him?"

Father, you said-

Baelon's damning words rang into his head once more. Jaehaerys ignored them just as swiftly as he first had. All his focus was in keeping his hands from striking the boy for his insolence.

"I did what was best for the realm."

Laenor snorted derisively. "I find that hard to believe, your grace. You were willing to toss the realm into another war if it meant you could marry your sister. What difference would having a ruling queen make?"

"All the difference. To marry my sister was my right as a dragonlord, as is the right of all who claim them! Taking the throne after such a tumultuous time after my uncle's misrule was a necessity, one that created a precedent. If mine own claim now trumped that of my brother's eldest child, how was I to justify your mother's ascension as my heir?" he spat out. "Had Aemon not been so unmanned and begotten another whelp on that Baratheon woman, none of this would have ever happened!"

Genuine wroth bloomed upon Laenor's face, as if he'd seen his own mother struck in front of him. Whatever fits of anger that came before seemed utterly tamed to the unruly lividity that came over him like an unstoppable wave. "Then mayhaps you are no different from Maegor after all. Just another usurping younger son stealing the inheritance of his brother's children, all in the pretense of saving the dynasty."

"You dare -"

"- the only difference I see between you and him is that Maegor at least respected his mother enough to mourn her memory. You spat on your mother's grave when you did to your sister what Rogar did to her!"

"ENOUGH!" the old king yelled, standing up in a fit of rage. His voice echoed around the room, leaving a daunting impression each time it came and left. A silence blanketed the room after that, broken only by the old king's deep wheezing breaths. Jaehaerys had not expected his rage to lash at the boy as wildly as it did, but it had come like a storm. A thing of nature it was, unconcerned with the feelings of some abrasively spoken child. It was powerful enough that Laenor Velaryon could only stare in shock, speechless.

It is over then, the king realised tiredly, feeling sapped of all his strength. Oh, what you could have been, child. What a waste!

But that opportunity of greatness had died long before Laenor Velaryon had been born. It had died on Tarth.

There was a silent understanding between them, Jaehaerys knew. Their conference was over. Jaehaerys did not even give the boy his leave but he was just as glad to see him move stiffly toward the door and leave.

How has it come to this, he wondered. Was he not the Conciliator, greatest of all the Targaryen kings? Jaehaerys had fought wars, had brought down usurpers, and brought the Faith into the fold with hardly any blood spilt. It seemed a grand jape to him that he could heal Seven Kingdoms but not his own family.

***

RHAENYS V

Laenor's summons by the king found Rhaenys waiting in his chambers, her frustration growing as time seemed to stretch past. Every second felt like an hour, every minute an entire day. She half-expected the food she had brought him to turn to mold, yet a touch of her hand on the bowl told her it was still warm.

To pass the time, she took to tidying his room in a vain attempt to shrug off her growing worry. It was not something she wholly desired or even did often. After all, they had servants for such menial tasks. But Laenor had made it a habit to clean up after himself, and now seeing his possessions strewn wildly from what she was sure had been the work of an unstoppable squall named Rhaenyx, she hefted each object back to its chosen place. It was not too hard; Laenor categorised everything. His wooden soldiers were always cast inside the wicker container beside his bed, his stuffed Seasmoke plush toy capping his veritable mountain of goose down pillows. Next came his books which were arranged by topic, bulging with small scraps of paper that contained annotations, then his 'Little Soldiers' board game. When even servant's work ran out, Rhaenys did not know what to do.

Oh she had felt a growing need to stride into her grandsire's rooms had begun to bud the moment he had refused her presence alongside Laenor, yet she had somehow tempered it through sheer force of will if anything. She had no desire to give him another reason to view her as an unfit woman ruled by her emotions, let alone feed into the ridiculous notion that Laenor was some puppet of hers parroting out her words. That did not mean she was not sorely tempted to do so. Rhaenys was tempted to do many things, each successive idea more counterproductive than its predecessor. For her grandfather to chastise her was one thing, for him to rope her son into it was something else altogether. It had taken Corlys to stop her from calling an end to this farce early on, Corlys who always seemed so convinced that Laenor knew what he was doing. That Laenor was almost otherworldly.

Once again, she was left to trust in her son. Once again, that trust was fraying.

She severely regretted her leniency now. From birth, she had indulged in his behaviour. Why not, after all? What mother did not want a son so bright and precocious, wholly devoted to his siblings. Then, Baelon had died and the world had turned on its head, casting away years of careful planning to thrust them to the centre stage.

Kingship was now the prize to be won, not mere consolation gifts and greater leverage over the Iron Throne. Everything mattered now, and even the slightest misstep could lead to their downfall.

The Lady of Driftmark had been so confident then. She had no idea of what her tame son could be capable of if given the right push. All those years of effort to shield him from the worst of what people thought of him, from rumours of him being born with horns and wings to that of him being the man that would lead the Citadel back to its glory days. Laenor had never known, and he had no reason to. They were nonsensical, the stuff her political opponents spouted to knock her down even further. Yet, it had slowly made Laenor believe he was invincible. The Vhagar scheme had more than proved that, and his blatant lies about his visions had hardly bolstered her confidence in such an encounter passing without incident.

Her Laenor had a heart wrought of gold filled to the brim with kindness, but alas, his anger was so easily stoked when it came to his family. Rhaenys feared for what her grandfather might do if Laenor crossed certain lines. If Daemon alone had gotten under his skin by sheer force of personality, Rhaenys had no doubt that her more cunning grandsire would do so with hardly any effort.

That same Daemon that had struck her youngest and gotten a broken nose in return. Hardly a fair exchange in Rhaenys' eyes. The bastard's nose would heal, the scars he had dealt to her son's psyche might never. Part of her wondered what her reaction would be were Jaehaerys to do the same? It seemed unlikely for the king to do so, but so many things had once seemed so unreachable. Would Rhaenys be able to calm herself if that were ever the case?

The answer to the question left her squirming in discomfort.

The hope that Laenor would remain on his best behaviour still weakly lived on however, held together by a promise built on pillars of grainy sand. He had promised, but Laenor promised much and always spoke so little.

She loved him. Gods she loved her brave boy, her little maester, but that did not mean he did not frustrate her endlessly.

Everything he did, she knew he did for his family. Yet, how much longer did he think they would follow him blindly, trusting in his portents. He had not seen his brother get struck in his visions after all. What would come next?

Death?

Curse that old fool for coming here when he did.

His visit had left her with hardly any time to speak to her son. A king's visit demanded a multitude of festivities, and Driftmark's lady, it was her duty to see it through. That she had two other children to tend to did not lessen her workload, especially now with Rhaenyx clinging onto her like a shadow.

And now, here she was, waiting like a mother hen fretting over her chicks.

The soft creak of the door and soft padded footsteps announced her son's return, looking more haggard than Rhaenys had thought possible for a child. He took a few moments to register her presence, and even then, just barely. A sullen expression coloured his face, a clear indication that her grandfather had not been too kind.

"You brought food," he noted monotonically, eyes empty. The sight made Rhaenys wince.

"Come, my sweet boy," Rhaenys said, drawing him in by the arm and pulling him toward an armchair and pressing him into his seat, "Eat. I know firsthand how tiring it can be to have an audience with the king. Some warm food will do you some good."

There was no resistance from his body, but his blank expression did not waver in the slightest either. There might as well have been no food at all for all the attention Laenor gave it. He lifted a spoonful of the stew towards his mouth, then let it drop unceremoniously. The bowl was promptly pushed away. The sight of it made his mother wince inwardly.

"Are you well, my son?" the Lady of Driftmark asked, rounding the armchair to better comfort her son. Her left hand took to rubbing at her son's arm in comfort while she craned to get a better look at him. Laenor blinked, his gaze unmoving.

"I argued with the king," he confessed.

Almost immediately, Rhaenys' eyes searched for bruises and cuts wildly, her mind flush with the insults and bodily harm she would deal to the old dotard if he had laid even a single shriveled finger on her boy. Her restless hands took to searching his face methodically, taking in every curve and line as if it were a portrait to be critiqued.

"Did he hurt you?" Her tone was gentle, but questioning.

His lilac eyes turned their gaze away from her at that. "He insulted you."

"Did he hurt you?" she repeated with much more urgency, brooking no more excuses from the boy.

Laenor shrugged, then shook his head. The confirmation eased the tautness in her body slightly.

"Nothing other than my Velaryon pride," he groused, his expression surly. "One would think his mother was not a Velaryon herself."

"Do not take his words to heart, my boy," she urged, stroking his cheek gently, "The Old King cares for naught but himself. He has always looked down upon us for not fitting into his ideal world. His insults are as potent as Dorne's fleet."

That brought out a small smile and laugh from him. But just as swiftly, it vanished. Leaving behind a look of conflict on her child's face.

"Not all of them felt false."

Rhaenys pressed a kiss to his chin. "Charm works wonders for faulty arguments."

He frowned. "Then why do I feel like I lost?"

Rhaenys smiled though there was no humour in it. "Few people ever win against kings, Laenor. The handful who do oft find themselves dead shortly after. Kings seldom like to be questioned. They feel the world was made to cater to their every whim and wish, even if that entails trampling on their own blood."

"And what if what they want is better in the long run?" he asked, face pensive. "Is it such an awful thing to live in blissful ignorance?" He let out a mirthless laugh. "Mayhaps you are right. Selfish, conceited creatures live within us as much as they live without. Jaehaerys spoke some truth." His hands curled into fists as he snarled. "Ugly little tyrants indeed."

Rhaenys felt confusion cloud her mind at her son's sudden cynicism. It felt so wrong. So foreign. She felt less like she was looking at her son and more like she was face to face with that bitter girl of eight-and-ten all those years ago, barely grasping with her anger and grief. Complete realisation dawned upon her a heartbeat later as she took in his face once more, the blank slate he had been using as a front for her crumbling like the walls of Harrenhal before the Dread's black flames.

"Oh," she murmured, reaching for his face. "Oh, my sweet Laenor. You are nothing like my grandfather. Seven Above, you are so kind, so loving to all you hold dear. No, you are anything but."

"You don't even trust me to keep you safe," he argued with quivering lips.

"You make it hard, Laenor," Rhaenys admitted, "So, so hard. But you are no Jaehaerys. Of that, I am more than certain."

"What if I am, mama?" Laenor asked bitterly, sniffling. His eyes were glassy. "What if that is who I'm doomed to be?"

Rhaenys held her son fiercely at that, her own eyes wet at the sheer vulnerability in his bearing. Never had she seen him so lost and in need of guidance. Was there any greater pain that a mother could experience other than her child's?

"You can't help me, mama," her son said as all composure left him, snot and tears running down his face. "You can't. You don't know how awful it is! It is nothing but a curse. This life is nothing but a curse!"

He spat out the words as if they were poison.

Rhaenys only held him harder at that, peppering kisses onto his brow while her hands brushed at his hair.

"Then let me share the burden," she urged him softly, pressing another kiss to his brow. "I would do anything for you, love. Anything."

Laenor barked out another humorless laugh.

"And if I told you to murder your own kinsmen, would you do it?" he demanded with a sneer, pulling away from her chest, caught between sorrow and frustration. His breaths were hard and rapid, like a tempest beating on a castle's walls. "Would you brand yourself a kinslayer on account of my whims? Do tell."

"I would," Rhaenys replied softly and without hesitation though the words physically pained her to say. "It would destroy me, but I would slay my grandsire right now with nary a care for the consequences if it meant keeping you safe, my love. I would burn the whole world to make you smile. So please," Her voice broke. "Trust me."

He shook his head, his face pained.

"It will only bring you danger and sorrow," he repeated tiredly, as if he had given up on the prospect a long time ago.

"Then I have failed as a mother if that is what I've let you face for so long," was her solemn reply.

No words passed from Laenor's lips after that. He just stared at her with wide, vulnerable eyes, disbelieving. Every muscle in her body ached to draw him into an embrace. To reassure him he was not the failure he thought himself to be. Rhaenys softened every demanding impulse. Instead, she waited with open arms, hoping, and for what was the first time in his entire life, Laenor Velaryon, son of Rhaenys, broke down sobbing. That image of a boy incapable of weakness shattered, leaving only a wounded animal behind.

And so many wounds there were.

Jagged scars that had never gotten to heal, left to fester in loneliness and fear while her own supposedly 'tough' skin was left unblemished, marred only by her grandfather's slight.

A mother protected by her child. What a farce! Rhaenys would have laughed had it not been so heartbreaking.

She felt all those years of hidden concern finally pour out like a flood demanding to be felt. It burned at her heart, her lungs, her throat, but it was one that promised mending rather than more pain. And for that, mother and child clung onto each other, comforted and comforting in turns.

Rhaenys was glad no one sought to disturb them during the hours that followed. She wanted nothing more than to be with her son now, whether he confided in her or not. She would not force, nor would she prod. Her role was to be his stalwart, not his overlord. She would let him come to her in his own time, if at all. She owed him that small gift of mercy at least.

"Mama?" he voiced out much later, when their breaths had evened and their eyes fluttered wearily.

Rhaenys hummed in answer, still keeping him close.

He pulled away from her chest once more, his lilac eyes searching hers. Rhaenys only continued stroking his hair despite the ache in her fingers. She could not stop the small smile from spreading across her face at the sight of her son. It was not one born out of anticipation, but simply love.

How had such a wonderful child come from her?

"I was not lying when I said I did not see the future," he said uneasily, his voice dropping to a whisper. There was an alertness in his tone that made Rhaenys straighten up. She did not want him to force himself. Not after all he had put himself through.

"Sweetling, you do not have to force yourself-"

"And I am not," he promised, with a small smile of his own. His smaller hands squeezed her own. "I never saw the future, mama. Only… what could have been." Those pale lilac eyes of his, a painful reminder of her father's, gazed at her again.

Trusting.

"It will destroy you," her son repeated again softly, as if in warning.

"So long as it saves you," Princess Rhaenys Targaryen responded in as tender a voice as she had ever mustered.

The words did destroy her after a fashion. Never would Rhaenys Targaryen see the world so plainly again. Blood painted every corner of her eye. Her son's blood. Her daughter's. Her own. Not even their dragons were spared.

She had known the Gods were cruel, but had never truly felt it until that day. That moment had changed everything, not just in the course of her life, but in the course of history itself.

The truth bolstered her resolve as much as it bled her heart dry.

***

Notes:

Last chapter of the year i can confidently say. Gonna be plenty of drama at the great council. Daemon better watch out for meleys :P

Chapter 11: AEMMA II

***

AEMMA II

101 AC, Harrenhal

The bards said that once it had been a castle of splendour. That roofs of hammered gold once crowned each daunting tower, sheltering hard men born of iron and borne by salt slowly losing their flinty ways: mosaics wrought of plundered jewels covered pale walls otherwise dressed in silk tapestries, the room’s motif only broken by bleach-white weirwood doors contrasting with colour-stained glass windows; slaves wearing golden collars, captured from as far east as Volantis herself; the oily, black throne inspiring the grim image of a kraken rising from the bellows of the sea.

Harrenhal, Black Harren’s pride and his doom.

Harrenhal, mayhaps Lady Aemma Arryn’s own ruination, were her husband to be made heir to their grandfather’s throne.

She would not be so disingenuous to say that there was not a trace of that splendour still left in these halls however deteriorated by time. There was still some charm to the old thing, and over a century of renovations had seen it grow into a pale copy of its former self. But much of the stolen loot that the last Hoare king had hoarded within these walls had been either stripped or burnt by Aegon and his host, leaving the first lord of this cursed castle closer to squalor than obscene wealth, and though the years had been kinder to its most recent, wealthier tenants, it was the burnt, melted stone covering an area better fit for an Eastern city than a keep that stole the eye. 

It need not even be mentioned that not one family had held the damned thing for more than three generations. Rhaenyra had not gone one night without sleeping in Aemma’s bed, complaining of the ghosts that haunted these halls, and Aemma could scarcely blame her, and not just because her daughter’s presence was always a welcome thing. There was something eerie about living within the walls where men, women, and children burned under the merciless heat of the Black Dread’s flames, to say nothing of her direct descent from Balerion’s rider of the time and her marriage to his last one. That she had been housed in the Widow’s Tower had not helped. Lord Bywin Strong had been proud to wax lyrical on how she would not be the first Targaryen Queen to live within these walls. It had taken all her willpower not to point out the council had not even begun yet. That there was no guarantee that it would be Viserys who would claim the crown. 

But, as always, she swallowed down her refutations and played along. The last thing she needed was her grandfather’s grim eyes settled on her. He had already given Viserys enough stern warnings to last a lifetime these past two moons alone. Some of them heated. All of them expecting utter obedience. 

It was well that Viserys rarely ever had an original thought of his own that did not involve some form of self-indulgence. She did not think that he expected much from his eldest grandson other than a moderate amount of competence. After all, how could one man, even the most witless of fools, undo what the Conciliator had done during his reign? The sun had greater luck rising from the west. 

And so, with every second that trickled by, Aemma felt as if she was holding bated breath like an enemy soldier who had just spotted a dragon in the sky and was waiting for the inevitable death that followed. 

On the edge of the precipice, waiting for the landing. 

Waiting for the inevitable.

How many moons had it been since that dinner turned brawl? Four? Five?

The year was certainly closer to its end than its beginning. One need only look at the multitude of tents that ringed the towers of Harrenhal to find out. Well over a thousand tents lay erect within its walls, housing the richest and most prominent of lords, each fighting for dominance in this makeshift court of sorts. Lord Tymond Lannister alone had brought an entourage in the hundreds. Red and gold littered the westernmost tower to its very verge. That he had somehow been outdone had been a surprise to all when Lord Matthos Tyrell of Highgarden had entered Harrenhal’s gates with five hundred. Their combined men-at-arms rivalled that of the Strongs.

Their vassals stayed close by, arranged from the most prominent in the fore. The wide assortment of colours delighted Rhaenyra upon their arrival. It had been a welcome change from her recently acquired dourness.

However, that dourness had dampened the moment the Velaryons had arrived. It had been shortly after they had arrived at the castle a week ago, an affair of great pomp and pageantry. River barges painted silver and teal battled against the currents of the Blackwater, sporting all the wealth and majesty of the Velaryons. Silk sea-green sails dressed with silver thread battled against the gusts of their dragons, though it was Vhagar who had stolen the show. So large she seemed to blot out the sun, she had made Meleys and the minuscule Seasmoke look irrelevant. The cheers that had emanated at the sight of young Laena mounted atop Vhagar probably could have been heard in King’s Landing. Laenor had made it a point however to land amongst the common folk, and there he showered them with gold. The Velaryons did not pay homage to the king nor did they even enter Harrenhal’s walls since then. 

While lords and ladies piled into Harrenhal from the moment it was announced, those prominent enough to be housed within its walls only made the long journey during the past moon. Her grandsire would not suffer waiting as if he desired their presence. Instead, all his time had been spent in the capital with his Hand, drafting messages and offers while forcing Viserys and Aemma to attend dinners with prominent courtiers in a bid to earn their support. Some nobles seemed to be taking the long way to Harrenhal by ship just to pass through the Narrow Sea to gauge the two candidates. First to Driftmark where Rhaenys apparently had spent the past few moons working tirelessly to make Laenor into the prime candidate. Some said using the Sea Snake’s wealth, others said with sorceries from the far east. Then they would come to King’s Landing and be hosted by the king. As such, two camps between the two favourites for the throne had formed. 

It was hard to gauge who supported who. Her grandfather was confident that the majority would be siding with Viserys, but Aemma knew Rhaenys was wily enough not to let off whether or not she had the advantage. Even if she were not so determined, one need only turn to her husband. Lord Corlys would fight tooth and nail to seat his blood on the Iron Throne. 

Spies no doubt riddled the halls. This game they played was one of subterfuge and the right words. 

Stroking egos but subtly reminding them of your supremacy. Of the Old King’s preferred candidate. It was a dance Aemma would not have cared for had it not kept her from her wifely duties. 

Her grandsire had been insistent on her getting with child so as to increase support, but thankfully, every new moon blood stretched that thought further and further away. No matter her grandfather’s insistence for a son for Viserys, the Gods seemed to answer her prayers.

It was more than just the effect on her, however. Rhaenyra was old enough to notice that the baby in her mama’s belly never seemed to come. Old enough to notice the bouts of frailty, both physical and emotional. 

With Baelon’s death, the last thing she needed was a dozen women fretting over Aemma again. Even so, it had not meant that the past few moons had been joyous for her. Especially not after Laena and Laenor Velaryon’s escapades. 

Even now she had her nose pressed against the clear Myrish window panel, eyes staring intently on the small sea-green and silver castle the Velaryons called a tent. Notably, it was sat firmly outside the castle walls, seemingly an insult to their grandfather’s hospitality. 

“What are you looking for?” Aemma asked, creeping behind the girl. Rhaenyra’s face did not budge from being plastered against the glass, though she spoke, leaving it cloudy. 

“Vhagar is gone again.”

Aemma’s lips thinned in dismay at that. Even so many moons later, Rhaenyra had not recovered from Baelon’s death yet. Aemma had thought that mayhaps the presence of Rhaenys’ children might have lessened that ache, but all that visit had done was dampened Rhaenyra’s already sullen mood. 

“Sweetling,” she said gently, lifting the girl up from the cushioned wooden bench she had been lying on, “You have your own Vhagar to look after.”

It was a plush toy, one that she had once stubbornly clung to, but Aemma had hoped that mayhaps it would have brought her some form of closure. Of late, it had been spending most of its time in Rhaenyra’s cedarwood chest despite Aemma’s encouragement. Given the scowl on her face, it was not the case once more. 

“That toy is not grandpapa’s dragon, mama!”

“Your grandfather gave her to you. You never parted from her before. Not even as a babe.”

Rhaenyra’s scowl only deepened. 

“I am not a babe!” she said sharply, then turned her head to the clear glass with her lips stuck in a particularly stubborn pout. 

Aemma let out a sigh as she quickly sifted through strategies. It seemed today would be one of those petulant days.  

***

Though the chambers they had sequestered for Aemma were lavish to an almost gaudy degree, Aemma had to admit that the sitting room made up for it. It was smaller than the others, a cozy nook that housed a collection of books and some Eastern-style couches. But it was airy, with slanting clear windows that welcomed in light, furniture from Qohor that Lord Strong had not so subtly insinuated had been ensorcelled to perfection, and spacious in its own way. 

In sum, the perfect place to keep a four-nameday-old distracted after another bout of sulking. 

Rhaenyra was surrounded by two of her maids, both of them willowy young women that Aemma had taken a liking to from the Vale itself. Lyla was the daughter of Aemma’s own wetnurse, with smooth red hair that fell past her waist in a braid, and sparkling green eyes. Though she was a far cry away from her matronly mother’s stout frame, she possessed the same maternal instinct which Rhaenyra loved. Jessamine, her flax-haired counterpart, was not much older than Lyla in appearance, but a mature, more disciplined woman in personality. The two of them balanced the other out, and amidst what had been a slew of pregnancies and subsequent bouts of infirmity from the loss of another child, Aemma was glad to have them around. They could be trusted to keep an eye on her and keep her in check if need be. 

It also provided Aemma with some time to herself. A stop to Harrenhal’s sept had been a must. Much like the castle itself, it harboured some remnants of the old regime. Mosaic depictions of Harmund the First who had brought the Faith into the Iron Islands still decorated its walls despite the external damage that still lingered. The Lords of Harrenhal had evidently made it a priority to restore the Sept to its former glory. New walls of white marble veined with gold had been erected to cover the upper levels where the roof had caved in. Glass tesserae lay interspersed between the thin plates, making up scenes of myth that were less reminiscent of the Hoares. It was in some ways a steep contrast in style. The Lords of Harrenhal had not forgotten to sprinkle some vain representation of the Targaryen kings to show their appreciation. Mayhaps the only thing keeping the remnants of Black Harren’s arrogance intact was the sublimity of it all. It was not hard to figure out that he had worked his people slavishly from the way not a single visible error seemed to meet her eyes. 

In the silence of the sept, Aemma lingered in the sweet scent of incense and prayed before candles lit before the Seven. She made sure to give each their due, even the dreaded Stranger, but spent the longest at the altars of the Mother and the Crone. It was not something she was new to.

Her days back in the Vale had been spent frequently before the Mother’s altar with her septa, praying. Her own mother had passed when she had been born, and the chalcedony eyes of the statue that had been made in her likeness after her passing felt like a conduit to her. Her father had never recovered from Princess Daella’s death and had always been distant towards Aemma. Her eldest brother, Artys, had always said it was because she had her mother’s look. As the youngest, she had been closer in age to her nephews than her own siblings. She adored them all: sweet Osgood with his cheery smiles, Ronnel with his petulant tantrums but golden heart. Sometimes her sisters would visit, both of them women-grown with children of their own. Amanda had always been the younger and sweeter sister, but Elys always acted more of a mother. It was a dull life to some, but it was a memory of better days.

Thinking about them only caused her pain now. Her nephews and most of her siblings were dead. The Stone Crows had taken Artys and his sons, and Elys had been taken by a sudden stroke. Only Amanda and Hobert, her second brother, still lived, but Hobert had left the attack by the Stone Crows short of three limbs and of a fractured mind, and Amanda was still inconsolable from her husband, the late Lord Gwayne Corbray’s death. They had children, but both were still far too young to travel to a place like Harrenhal on their own. And Jeyne… 

Well, her heart bled for her. How old was she now? Six? Seven? The last Aemma had seen her was at Artys’ funeral so many years back. She remembered a small, sly thing, with a headful of sandy blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. Her father’s image. She had looked so alone within those daunting walls. Her Grafton mother had been dead two years when Artys and his sons had joined her, and all that was left of them now was Jeyne.

A pang of regret hit Aemma at the thought. 

Artys had been incensed when their father had announced her marriage. Now here she was, leaving his only surviving child in the hands of an ambitious king’s lickspittle like Yorbert Royce. She knew that her constant being with child and successive recoveries had been what had left her lingering in the capital, but that did not alleviate any sense of wrongdoing. 

The Lord of Runestone had not failed to use his newfound power as her niece’s regent and their family connections to wed his daughter to Daemon. He had tried so desperately to wed his own late son to her back when she lived in the Vale. While Rufert had been a charming lad, he’d also been a decade and a half her senior. Even her father had balked at the offer. No doubt with only his daughter left to him, he’d try to wed Jeyne to one of his nephews. 

Or Seven forbid! Himself once she comes to age.

Her head felt light at the thought alone. Mentally, she made a note to visit the Vale as soon as her strength returned, no matter the reproach. After all, it would be good for Rhaenyra to be with a girl her age.

Returning to her chambers, she was met with the unfortunate presence of Daemon sitting reclined in an armchair, looking fondly as Rhaenyra showed him her drawing. Her bright smile put her smiling as well.

“ Cousin ,” Daemon called out once he made notice of her, his customary smile dancing on his lips as always, “Back from the sanctum of the Seven, I see.”

His hair was braided today, dangling over his shoulder. He wore his preferred golden cloak today, linked together with silver clasp studded with rubies and yellow tourmaline. He was still in his riding outfit, all black trousers of leather with worn gloves belted beside his scabbard. Above that, he wore a thick, black woolen overtunic with raised gold thread making up elaborate patterns. Dark Sister herself was propped up against the side of his chair.

“Mama!” Rhaenyra’s voice was far more genuine. Her violet eyes sparkled as she was taken into an embrace. “You took too long!”

“There is never too much time spent on prayer,” she reminded the girl warmly. Daemon scoffed, then smirked.

“For the right gods indeed, niece.”

Aemma shot him a withering look at that. Daemon was well-known for his belief in the gods of their ancestors. Though their family had long converted since the Conqueror and his sisters, even Viserys was not all unknowing of the names and practices of the old religion, and held a fascination for the histories. Daemon, however, strove to cling to whatever he considered to be Valyria. Religion was no different and sadly, he enthused Rhaenyra with stories of their lost homeland. Aemma, having grown up in the true birthland of the Faith of the Seven as every septon within the Vale’s borders would tell you, was of a different mind.

“Do not listen to your uncle, dearest,” Aemma told her as she settled the girl back down, “Those gods died with Old Valyria.”

Daemon’s face flickered with annoyance but he swallowed down his retort after seeing her warning look. Rhaenyra, oblivious, moved to show her the drawing she had done with sticks of coloured wax. 

It was a sketch of a woman in scale armour with twin braids flying about, one of her arms raised up with a sword in the air. She was mounted on a dragon with scales of what looked to be brown with hints of green here and there. The saddle Rhaenyra had drawn in almost blended with the dragon’s scales. It was the only black and red sigil of House Targaryen that helped Aemma make the distinction.

“A dragonlord,” Aemma observed.

Rhaenyra beamed. “Queen Visenya! Uncle Daemon was telling me about her.”

Aemma arched an eyebrow. “Did he?”

“He did! Mama, she rode Vhagar before grandpapa! And uncle Daemon said that she conquered the Eye-ree-”

Aemma couldn’t help but smile. “The Eyrie.”

The girl nodded impatiently, eager to continue. “- and she took an Arryn like you on Vhagar and he joined the kingdom after!” Her grin broadened. “And she saved King Aegon’s life and uncle says was amazing at swords! I want to be like her!”

Aemma fought off a wince. 

Seven forbid, she thought to herself as she nodded. Her little girl being remembered as a treacherous usurper whose son had claimed the Iron Throne through a sea of kinslaying and wanton murder… Aemma was glad that the likelihood of that happening was nigh on impossible but it did not stop her from shuddering at the mere notion itself.

“It is a lovely drawing, dear,” Aemma said instead, “Though mayhaps we should keep it between us. The king may not view her in the same light.”

Daemon chuckled at that as if he had heard a comical jest.

“No, he will not,” he agreed. He straightened in his seat and ushered Rhaenyra close to him again. She followed obediently, her drawing still clutched between her small hands. His long fingers took the piece of paper within his own hands, and he looked at it admiringly once more. 

“A shame she was wasted on our great ancestor,” he finally said after a beat, handing it back to Rhaenyra. “I would have liked to have a woman like her around instead of my bronze bitch.”

Aemma sent him a stern glance. Daemon laughed again.

“A jape, cousin! ‘Tis a jape.”

Aemma’s scowl deepened. “A poor one. A crass one. Wholly unfit for the ears of a princess.”

“Rhaenyra knows what a bitch is, cousin. Why, she was just telling me of a litter the brown one loitering in the gardens just whelped out.”

Aemma shot him an unimpressed look. 

“Do not sully her ears further,” she told him promptly. Though he muttered something under his breath, he thankfully kept quiet. That done, Aemma turned her attention back on Rhaenyra who was awkwardly staring at her slippered feet with flushed cheeks beside him. Aemma felt a flash of guilt for causing a fuss in front of her child. She was young and did not know her histories well yet, and any awkwardness that came had risen from her uncle. All in all, it had taken away from that brief spot of happiness she had cultivated.

Rhaenyra did not deserve that.

“Sweetling,” Aemma said, ushering the girl forward. Rhaenyra took small steps but met her obediently despite the pout on her lips. Aemma bent down to her height with one hand pressed against each rosy cheek, taking her in. Violet eyes met her blue ones slowly but steadily. “Your drawing is lovely. Truly. You have an eye for it. Mayhaps we can send for a tutor whence we return home.”

That helped a small smile creep out of her daughter. “Really, mama?”

Her eyes were as wide as a full moon.

Aemma gave her a kiss and a conspicuous wink. “On my honour as an Arryn.”

Rhaenyra’s arms flung around her and Aemma spun her around. The sky-blue silk of her daughter’s skirts fanned out as they turned. 

“Uncle,” Rhaenyra called out confidently as she landed back on her two feet, a broad grin on her face, “I will draw you and Caraxes next!”

Daemon’s smile didn’t waver when it came to his niece. “I look forward to it, Rhaenyra.” He stood up, all long limbs and graceful feet, and turned to look at Aemma again, this time more seriously. “Although I did not come here to play with my niece alone. Grandfather summoned us, cousin. All of us.”

He made sure to look at Rhaenyra pointedly. It made Aemma frown. King Jaehaerys rarely involved her in anything that did not involve her playing the doting wife and cheerful potential future Queen. For him to summon her and her daughter both was telling.

“Has something happened?”

Daemon’s lips slackened into a flat line. “Rhaenys and her brat were seen making rounds within the great hall from what I’ve been told. Rumours say that a fair number of lords have been convening in the “Seahorse’s court” as those mindless clots of theirs like to call it. He wants us to put on a strong front in the face of her defiance. No doubt she is here sowing dissent amongst our supporters by parading that suckling babe of hers. But a show of Viserys’ virility and the unity of our family will put any doubts in the mud. Hopefully, she’s only brought her craven firstborn son with her, and not her other spawn. The last thing I need is to see his thieving sister’s face.” 

Aemma looked at him disapprovingly. “She is a child .”

“Even children can be brigands then.”

Beside her, Rhaenyra made a slight sound of agreement. She still had not quite forgiven Laena Velaryon for ‘stealing grandpapa’s dragon’. It hadn’t helped that Daemon constantly egged her on. Aemma turned her attention to the girl; disappointment lay etched on the mother’s face.

“However cross you are with them, I expect you to act as befits a princess of the blood,” she reminded the girl. 

She could hear Daemon snort behind her, as sardonic as always. With two long strides, he made his way to Aemma’s side with a mocking smile dancing upon his lips. He had one hand firmly encroached on his niece’s small shoulder.

“Cousin, must you silence my poor niece even behind these thick walls? One would think you wish for that Velaryon brat to win,” he drawled out. 

“Does it matter who will win? Our grandfather’s blood will lawfully find its way on the throne in either case.”

A disbelieving smirk touched Daemon’s lips at that. “Not dragon’s blood. Only the thin saltwater of seahorse veins.”

That made her frown. “You act as if you have not Velaryon blood yourself.”

Daemon waved his right hand dismissively at that. “From two generations prior. And besides, both my father and my mother rode dragons and were full-blooded Targaryens. The closest mount Corlys Velaryon has ever had to a dragon was our cousin, and she is all Baratheon in appearance and temperament. He would have carried her babes himself if she asked for it like a true seahorse would. Were she even the slightest like a real dragon lord, she would have fought for her own right to inherit, not that of her son. She gave any backbone she had to a man older than her own sire.” The prince shook his head, chuckling. “A waste of a perfectly good Targaryen princess. Had our uncle been of a better mind, he would have married her to closer kin.”

He could not help but let a tinge of bitterness creep into his tone, nor the downward curves that cut into his smooth skin. Aemma barely snuffed out a snort of her own. Daemon sought so desperately to emulate the Valyrians, down to the very gods he worshipped. Had it not been for their grandmother, the late Queen, he’d have never breathed the same air - let alone marry - the Royce girl. 

He loved nothing more than to say the men of the Vale loved bedding sheep. Never in her presence, however. For all his bravado, Daemon at least knew better than to say that to her. The one time he’d japed about it, his father had shut him up with a withering glare. 

“Rhaenys is not a fool,” she replied coolly, “If Laenor is announced as heir to the throne, Rhaenys will see to it that one of her sons may have Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage.”

Rhaenyra made another noise of disapproval, but Aemma shushed her with a look. Daemon, on the other hand, arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “Odds are that she’s already sold her youngest brat to one of her boorish supporters and will sell the other two to the others. Even Lannister will turn cloak if Rhaenys tosses Vhagar’s rider, however diminutive, at his heir.”

Aemma did not deign to give him the satisfaction. “That you think this to be some competition closer to the pageantry of a tourney rather than what might decide the fate of the Conqueror’s legacy says much about your priorities, cousin.”

Daemon’s lips curled. “Is it a crime to wish for the rightful heir to be crowned? The king’s authority is absolute and our grandfather wishes for Viserys to inherit as he did my father. It seems to me cousin that the thought of being Queen repulses you.” His voice turned dangerously soft. Mocking . “Are you so desperate for Rhaenys’ attention that you would sabotage Rhaenyra’s future for some morsels from her table? Viserys cares not for politics. He will spend his time on festivities, mummer shows, and grand balls, and leave the actual ruling to those sycophants he thinks are his friends. Better for you I suppose. You love the pageantry when it serves you. Rhaenyra will have her pick of the dragons and everything else. Gods, when grandfather dies, mayhaps even you may claim one for yourself.” He cocked his head. The way he now spoke to her felt misguiding, sweet honey on his tongue to mask the bitter venom underneath. 

“Why toss that all away? So long as one son slides out from between your legs, your life is assured.”

Queen, Queen, Queen. 

What would it be like to be Queen? 

One son for all she could have ever dreamed of as a child? One son?

And how many more dead children?

Dragons and riches and all the power in the world would not bring them back. They’d leave her body as broken as before, her soul as worn. It was so easy to say such things when you were a man and saw naught but a young woman with many more fertile years ahead of her. But they would never feel it. The unwanted gush of blood between their legs, the constant sense of inevitability plaguing their minds at all times. The spells of weakness and moons spent bedridden, their hearts and souls growing more threadbare.

Let Laenor be king, or Rhaenys be queen. Seven above, even her aunt’s bastard could take the damned throne. 

The truth was, Aemma was worn. Worn to the bone. Worn to the very last wisp of her soul. Being queen could grant her a thousand thousand boons, but it would not extend her life or lend her the peace she desired. All it would do was sap her strength and grant her the possibility of a happy ending. Not a guarantee. And mayhaps it was selfish of her to wish so dearly, but nothing would have made her happier than a life without the looming desire for a male heir weighing down on her.

Her own mother had died and for what? To see her suffer the same fate?

So, she turned, looked at him head-on, and bitterly said,

“I am sure your mother would have thought the same.”

His face fell, and for the briefest of moments, Aemma thought she might have seen regret. But that moment quickly passed as a newfound coldness took him.

“Shall we?” he asked, taking a step forward.

Aemma reluctantly followed.

***

One hundred pairs of eyes clung to their every move as they walked the halls of Harrenhal. Waiting. Searching.

For any hint, any fault, any sign of Aemma’s thoughts. Aemma had grown used to such stares during her time in the capital. She had lost child after child after all. That gaze had followed her like her own shadow since her first moon blood had passed when she had been two-and-ten and all attention went from her dolls to her womb. It hurt at first. She went from a sheltered girl similarly sheltered by the snow-white walls of the Eyrie to being surrounded by the vipers that wrapped themselves around her late mother’s family like a second skin. The years had forced her to grow calluses. Now, neither pity nor judgement pierced the mask she wore. It was easier, however, with Rhaenyra close by. 

The crowds that usually delighted her now made her curl close to Aemma; as if searching for protection. Aemma was more than happy to oblige; more than a few of those gazes coveted her daughter like some prize to be won for their sons. 

For a castle of such considerable size, it felt suffocating. All the grandeur of Harrenhal shrunk underneath the fragrant scents, fabrics and gems of differing quality, and the noise of the passers-by. The world was moving without fail.

Some nobles reached out to her, scraping their knees as they hastily bowed and spoke words of greeting. But they might as well not have been there with the pace Daemon had set. She saw Lord Willam Mooton converse with Ser Vanor Vypren’s eldest, both speaking in hushed tones as they glanced at her and smiled. At the foot of a stairwell, a host of Reyne knights chatted with Ser Lorent, heir to Crakehall. Some more handsy, distracted lords still had their hands up the skirts of serving girls supplying them with wine. 

Revolting.

Aemma shot the Kingsguard assigned to her, Ser Harrold Westerling, a look. The knight nodded and barked orders to the other guardsmen that followed, no doubt with orders to keep a measure of order among the rowdier crowd.

A distance ahead, Grand Maester Runciter, a shrunken old man with more hair coming out of his ears than on his head, hurried towards them to the best of his ability, accompanied by the dashing Ser Clement Crabb dressed richly in his Qohorik-dyed white armour and pale snow-white cloak. Behind them, a small army of attendants followed.

“Prince Daemon.” The Kingsguard stopped in his tracks. His dark eyes looked at her kindly next. “Lady Aemma. Forgive us for our tardiness. We will escort you to the king and the prince immediately.”

“I do not suppose you may tell me where, ser?”

“The bear pit,” Runciter stated in a raspy voice. “A tad small, but Lord Strong is hosting it for his Grace’s entertainment. The smaller the field, the more exciting it shall be so he says. Only a select few knights have been allowed to enlist. His Grace believes it to be wise for the people to see the prince’s interest in such martial matters.”

Aemma frowned, tightening her grip on Rhaenyra. She still remembered seeing her first melee. She had retched into a pitcher of wine when a mace had accidentally found itself embedded into a newly knighted lad’s face. “Rhaenyra is young…”

Runciter shook his head, his chains clinking softly. “Lord Corlys entered his brother into the melee and made quite a show of it. Fine, fine armour. Some might say more befit a prince than a Velaryon second son. Be that as it may, Ser Daemon is known to be a quite formidable warrior, and has toured the Narrow Sea many a time, routing out pirates and the like. He may well win. It is said that Laenor Velaryon will act as his squire.”

Daemon let out a scoff. “Is this why my grandsire had me holed up in a room for so long?” His hand touched Dark Sister’s hilt. “Does he think me some craven?”

Runciter stared at him grimly. “Ser Daemon only just enlisted. The Lord of the Tides left it quite late. He has only just recently arrived with his other two children, my prince. The reports that there is some strife between him and his lady wife seem to be true.”

Daemon shrugged. “The better for us then.”

Runciter continued. “He has unfortunately brought half his “court” along with him, and it is a spectacle in and of itself now. Vhagar has made it her prerogative to make her presence known, as have the dragons Meleys and Seasmoke. It is a message, my prince.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes. “Let us see about that.” He turned to a guardsman of theirs, Lance, a fresh recruit with long golden hair and eager blue eyes. He stood as straight as a pole under Daemon’s gaze. “Boy, have my attendants prepare my armour and my horse.” His eyebrows dipped into a scowl. “Well? Go on! ”

Rhaenyra bristled at the sharp tone, even if it was not directed at her. Aemma brought her closer. She had no doubt now that this melee would turn bloody with an incensed Daemon on the field. Gods, she would not be surprised if Ser Daemon left the pit dead. The thought of such visceral scenes churned her stomach. No, that would not do for Rhaenyra. 

“Well I see this has nothing to do with me or my daughter,” Aemma finally said clearly. 

Ser Clement frowned. 

“The king was very clear, my lady,” he stated gruffly, as if he had not heard.

Aemma felt her nostrils flare at his impudence. “Then he can command me himself.”

Ser Clement took a step forward, his mouth working to reply, but a small voice cut in before he could. 

“It is not a tenet of chivalry to disturb a lady,” Laenor Velaryon said softly, one small hand wrapped around Ser Clement’s wrist. He was barely of height with the man’s waist, but his grip did not loosen. Aemma blinked, surprised.

The boy wore a surcoat over a filmy silk shirt. Half of it was scarlet-and-black, a red dragon of covered in rubies and golden thread, the other half a silver seahorse emblazoned over the velvety fabric in silver thread and satin with intricately carved ornate pearls outlined each crevice of his house’s sigil, each one a replica of a seahorse itself. At the hems of his silk shirt’s sleeves lay an extra layer of fabric made up of golden fibres she had never seen before. A swordbelt made from lizard-lion leather was wrapped around his waist, studded with black diamonds. 

“Lord Velaryon,” Clement acknowledged reluctantly, his previous annoyance subdued. Rhaenyra stiffened in her grasp at the sight of the boy, but Aemma somehow managed a positive look. Around them, Aemma could hear an onslaught of hushed and rushed whispers and a flood of new colours surrounding them. 

Daemon was muttering something under his breath, but Aemma could not hear. All she could think about was the absurdity of it all. Was this some ploy he had hatched, she wondered? Or had all these months of hearing about her grandfather’s machinations poisoned her mind.

“Ser,” Laenor acknowledged calmly, letting go of the knight’s wrist. His pale lilac eyes glanced over all their faces, before settling on Rhaenyra and smiling. “Princess, it is good to see you.”

Rhaenyra responded with an exaggerated huff of annoyance. 

“Can you not tell when a girl finds you revolting, boy?” Daemon asked, sneering. He had his hand in a vice-like grip around Dark Sister from the looks of it. If Laenor had noticed, he did not show. 

“I should ask you. I am sure you have experience, ser,” he replied.

“ Prince , your lordship,” Daemon hissed. “And I would like to see you use that insolent tongue of yours witho-”

“Laenor!” Princess Rhaenys Targaryen’s voice cut through all the noise like a sword of Valyrian Steel. As if to match, her tunic was black and scarlet and gold to match her sons. In an instant, Aemma flipped back to reality. Where they were a blur of colours and voices now lay distinct. Half of the faces that surrounded her had not set foot in Harrenhal past the day they paid homage to the king. “What did I tell you about slipping away?”

The boy’s cheeks flushed red, but he did not back down. “I heard a commotion and wanted to investigate. When I saw our kinsmen, I thought it only polite to greet them and reaffirm our closeknit bonds. But… Ser Clement was not agreable to one of our kinswoman’s suggestion from what I heard it.”

His mother frowned, then shook her head, “Heedless of danger as always. Well, if it is to defend a lady’s honour… I will overlook it this once.”

Then his mother gave him a fond smile, and he beamed, leaning his head into her middle. Around them, elderly Lord Penrose spoke loudly of Laenor’s “model of knightliness”. On their side, even some knights looked at him with appreciation. Aemma wondered again if it was some ploy, but the genuine annoyance he held towards Ser Clement dispelled any notion. The boy had been worried, and from the way his eyes darted between her and Daemon, she figured he must have guessed what Aemma had been worried about.

“It is very kind of you, my boy,” Runciter’s ancient voice cut in, “but this is naught but a misunderstanding, you see.”

“It is always a “misunderstanding” with him,” came Daemon’s chilly voice. Rhaenys, sent him a glare. Her mouth was a thin line.

“I would not expect you to understand what you disdain,” Rhaenys replied calmly, standing as tall and proud as ever. Where Daemon was shaking with fury, she remained evercalm. Like the eye of a storm. Every word carried authority. But they lacked that familiar warmth Aemma craved. 

When those imperial eyes deigned to grace her, they might as well have been chips of ice from the chilly way they met Aemma’s own. Aemma wondered how much of it was for show.

Laenor gave Rhaenyra an uneasy smile, one that all but indicated that he had expected a frosty reunion between the two. It was not the forced, perfected smile she had grown accustomed to during his last visit. This one seemed genuine and welcoming. The smile of a boy, not a lord. 

“I am glad you are both well,” he said sincerely again. Aemma’s daughter did not respond in kind. Instead, her scowl deepened even further, stretching her small, pouty mouth further downwards, and she backed further into the skirts of Aemma’s sky-blue gown. Those violet eyes of hers were seething. 

Aemma knew Rhaenyra well enough to know that the firm hand Aemma had on her shoulder was only barely keeping the girl from lashing out. 

“Likewise, young Laenor.” Aemma gave him an uneasy smile back. “You seem in finer spirits.”

It was not a lie. He had grown an inch since last she had seen him, and his slight frame had filled up more. He had never seemed unhealthy; the son of a Targaryen princess and the Lord of Driftmark would never be left wanting. But he did seem more childlike. His face was slightly fuller now, making him look less stoic and stern. There was an air of genuineness about him as well. Nothing seemed forced or preplanned. He was a boy, not a man. 

A child.

And yet her grandsire spoke as if he were some insurgent threatening the kingdom’s peace. Viserys’ rival? It made her want to laugh at the sheer ludicrousness of it all. 

More than that, it angered her. 

Could her family not see that? 

The sword belted at his hip was not for show too; Aemma could see in him a certain level of grace open only to swordsmen. He had not seemed entirely too interested in martial pursuits before. Had the encounter with Daemon changed him so? His knuckles were bone white from how tightly he was gripping its hilt. Aemma must have fixated on it for a second too long however as his grip fell loose a moment later.  

“It is hard to feel dour in such a place,” the young boy managed with a white grin. “It seems the whole of the Riverlands is abuzz.”

Daemon gave a bark of laughter. “What a surprise, a Velaryon overjoyed to be the centre of attention again. One act of theft seems not to have satiated your lust.”

Laenor’s face soured once more but he did not allow Daemon to get a rise out of him. Instead, he fell a step back and allowed his mother’s hand to settle on his shoulder. Princess Rhaenys’ already cool gaze frosted over. 

“Worry not, little cousin. My son has read about Maegor. Even history errs to the side of usurpers every so often.” She gave Laenor’s shoulder a squeeze and an earnest glance. “The truth remains the same as always, however. There is one claim that trumps all, and unlike with the Uncrowned, that claim need not fear the combined power of the Black Dread and Vhagar.”

Daemon stiffened. It did not take a scholar to decipher Rhaenys’ subtle taunt. 

Laenor Velaryon sent her an apologetic look, but he did not refrain from obediently trailing after his mother’s sea-green skirts like a pup on his mother’s heels. Strange that the one who had been the cause of all this trouble seemed the most affable of them all. 

***

Notes:

starting university + eye surgery = unintended sabbatical???

I got something cooking fr.