Nādrēsy hen Lys (The Bastard of Lys)

by pastexistence

Summary:

Born a bastard to Daemon Targaryen and Mysaria of Lys, Valyda Waters was raised to watch her back, seek out secrets, and keep her enemies close. Growing up a child spy for the infamous White Worm, her life is turned upside down the day she steals a dragon, forcing King Viserys to name her legitimate. Suddenly thrown into the court of House Targaryen, Valyda becomes an outsider among her own blood. But when war rears its head, she will lead the charge, making her mark on the history of the Seven Kingdoms for centuries to come.

Chapter 1

Mysaria of Lys stood on the steps of Dragonstone, staring down through the fog at the cascade of rocks and salty waves below, feeling more inhuman than she ever had in her life. She was not a woman - she was a bargaining piece, a pawn in Daemon Targaryen’s game.

And he thought she could not see it.

She followed him down the bridge, boxed between the Prince and his precious City Watch as they faced Otto Hightower. Daemon clutched a dragon egg to his chest, scaled and grotesque, worth infinitely more than any coin he had ever tossed to her after their nights together. He would boast that it was for his child - for the babe that grew within her - but she knew him too well to believe that. Six months at Dragonstone, many of which she had spent feeling her child grow, but never once had it seemed to matter to him until the realisation struck - what better way to avenge his lost position as heir than to whelp a bastard, to steal an egg, to start a war. 

Even as Hightower spoke, as the Kingsguard unsheathed their blades, she could not tear her eyes from the back of Daemon’s head as he stood in front of her. Maybe their child would have his bright, white hair? She could not quite force herself to care. There was not a motherly bone in her body, but what was done is done. Even as Caraxes mounted the ridge above, his horrible screech leaving a dull ringing in her ears, she could not pull her attention away, could not stop staring at him as if he would somehow wither and shrink under her gaze.

Mysaria was being used. Even as she stood here, dressed in white like the bride he never intended to wed. She felt a fool. She wanted to toss him over the ledge into the waters below, and yet her hand would not move to deliver the shove. 

And then she arrived. 

Rhaenyra Targaryen, astride her golden beast, only fourteen years of age and yet, when she stood in front of the father of Mysaria’s child, he could not look away from her. Even as she goaded him to strike her down with his blade, he could not meet her gaze with anything but an affectionate smirk, his grip on the egg loosening with each passing moment. And when he finally tossed it to her, it was as if any hope that Mysaria was now anything more than a method of provocation was thrown away with it. She was the mother of his child, his confidant, his companion. But one look from the Targaryen girl and he was prepared to cast it all aside. 

When all was over and done with, he came to her in the belly of the castle, seizing her from behind, his chin resting against her shoulder. Her jaw clenched so hard she thought her teeth might shatter. 

“You told him we were to be wed,” She spoke, voice low. “You know we will not.” 

Daemon said nothing. He let out a low hum, his breath warm against her throat.

“You said I would be safe with you, Daemon. And yet you announce to all that I am with child?” 

He pulled away from her, stepping past to take a seat in one of the huge chairs that lined the table. “You are safe with me.” 

“No. You are safe, but you do not consider how things differ for me. In the eyes of your brother, I am a common whore, and if he thinks you are to violate your marriage and wed me, he will have me discarded as such.”

“I will not let that happen,” Daemon vowed, leaning forward to press a hand to her stomach. 

“I was a slave. You know that. I have been with child before, and I have rid myself of it. I do not want to be a mother, I only carry this child because you promised me you would take responsibility for it.”

“And I will ,” He assured her. Mysaria could not quite compel herself to believe him. But it was too late now. 

“You will look after it? You will raise it and feed it and teach it your tongue?” 

“I will.” 

She took a breath. A long silence hung upon them as his fingers slipped away from her. 

“Very well. I will return to King’s Landing. At least if they do come for me, it will be more convenient for all of us. When the time comes, it will be brought to you. Enjoy your war, Daemon.” 

“Mysaria-” He called, but before Daemon could say another word, she had turned away from him and fled the room, her footsteps echoing against the black stone outside. There was not an ounce of confidence within her that she would ever see him again. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Months later, deep within the labyrinth of King’s Landing, the child was born. The birth was long and hard, and when it was over Mysaria wrapped the child in a blanket, holding her tight against her chest as sweat streamed down her forehead. The girl had her complexion, thin whisps of dark hair covering her scalp. But when she first opened her eyes, it was that bright shade of violet that ensured the girl would never live without the shadow of her father. 

Her name was Valyda Waters, taking the name of all bastards born in the Westerlands. Mysaria wrote to Daemon time and time again, trying fruitlessly to reach him in the Stepstones, but all she ever received in return for her efforts was a few small purses of coin. She cursed herself over and over - she knew he would not keep his promise, she knew she would be left here with this, and yet she let it happen. 

Sometimes Mysaria would just sit and stare at the child, watching as she burbled away, her fat little hands grasping at her. She almost felt guilty when maternal affection was not stirred within her. Valyda did not feel like her child - she felt like her ally. The only other person in the entire world who had been used and discarded by Daemon as she had. And as she looked down at her, she vowed that no one would use her girl as she had been used. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

From the day Valyda could walk and talk, her lessons began. By night, Mysaria’s spy ring would grow, the White Worm’s reach ever-expanding. But by day, her child learnt all that she could teach her. She gathered books on languages and history, and by the time Valyda was eight she spoke Lysene and Braavosi, learning High Valyrian purely out of spite. When she was nine, she was taught where to keep a blade hidden and how to use it, and when she was ten, she undertook her first assignment, gathering whispers around the harbour. 

Valyda was never under any misconception that Mysaria had wanted to be her mother. She could see it in her impatience, in her frustration at this constant lingering responsibility. She was not truly her daughter - she was her prodigy. And perhaps it was enough to settle for being the only person the White Worm would ever trust. 

The first memory she had of her father came when she was three years old. It was late, the only light in the streets outside the burning torches that adorned the walls. Valyda clambered down the stairs on her little legs and found a drunken man lying in a heap on the floor, his hair almost white, his breath thick with alcohol, yet he was awake. 

"I don't take help from common whores," He grunted, batting at her mother’s hand as she tried to give him something to drink.

" Mother, who is that? " Valyda asked, the Lysene words familiar on her tongue, as it was the language they spoke most often when they were together.

" This is your father, or what's left of him ," Mysaria replied. The words flowed naturally from her. Valyda was yet to master the accent. 

Daemon narrowed his eyes at the child, rolling onto his side. "Have you made my daughter stupid?" He asked Mysaria, gaze never leaving the girl.

"She's already smarter than you." 

Reaching out, he pressed his thumb to the flesh below Valyda’s brow, pushing the skin upwards until the whole curve of her pupil was visible in the dimness. “She’s got the eyes,” He hummed, slumping back onto the floor. Her mother made her go back upstairs then, and she heard Daemon leave shortly after. 

It was not the last time she saw him. But sometimes Valyda wished it had been. 

The worst thing Mysaria ever had her child do came when she was eleven. Thirst for entertainment was never quenched in King’s Landing, and as a result, new and more barbaric forms of ‘fun’ were never in short supply. Fighting pits were opening up all over the city, using children for what must have seemed an exciting subversion - but the men who lingered here were never ones who wished to be found. They kept their secrets close, just as their mere presence in these establishments would remain undisclosed. It was hard to get near them unless one seemed part of the show. 

Valyda sat dutifully on her stool, head held high, back straight as she had been taught, watching closely as Mysaria worked at her nails with a file until they had been chiselled into points, each sharp enough to tear at flesh. Her eyes were wide as she looked up at her mother, who wasted no time admiring her work. 

“We can do nothing about your teeth. Just keep your mouth closed.” 

She nodded, adding the instruction to the mental pile she had been collating. It was vital that each of Mysaria’s instructions was remembered and heeded, for slip-ups could mean death. But she was not afraid. It was the very purpose she had been raised for, the only thing she had been taught to do. In Valyda’s mind, there was nothing else for her but this life. 

But despite every one of her lessons, nothing Mysaria could teach could have prepared her for the powerful stench that pervaded her senses as she entered the den. There were few candles, the flames cast only over the central pits so as to obscure the patrons’ faces in shadow. The ceiling was low, the air thick and hot, and the miasma stung her nose and throat as she breathed it in, the taste of sweat and ale and smoke sticking to her tongue. 

It was a fight to suppress the instinct to ball her hands into fists, for she knew if she did her nails would pierce right through her palms. Valyda was taller than many girls her age and kept her head bowed to appear meek as she burrowed through the raucous crowds, ale and spit drenching her hair as the spectators revelled, towering above her. After a while of timidly tunnelling through the masses, she found a place to linger that would not draw attention, huddled away in a dingy corner. The men that surrounded her all had their backs turned, attention held only by the barbaric fights taking place in the centre. She couldn’t see, but the wails and yelps of children’s agony rose high above the observers’ chatter, engraining themselves in her mind until she had to suppress a shudder. 

From where she was crouched, however, her focus was pulled by two men drinking close by. They spoke in Braavosi, loudly enough to suggest they clearly did not expect to be understood by anyone nearby. But Valyda was listening. Valyda understood. And so she gathered their secrets, adding each piece of information divulged to the mountain of knowledge she was forced to retain each time she was sent on such a task. Hunched in the corner of that obscene den, she listened closely as each man spilt what he had to say about himself and others until she had enough dirt to incriminate half of the noblemen in the city. 

As the night rolled on, she became satisfied with what she had gathered, certain that if she stayed any longer she would start to forget the things she’d heard when she arrived. But it was as she made to leave her spot in that dark, dingy corner that the very men she had been spying on finally took notice. 

“Well, well, what do we have here?” One of them smirked, his words thickly accented. Valyda stared up at them blankly, and made to shove past before the other seized her wrist, her heart pounding in her chest. 

“Don’t go, girl,” The other crooned, his gaze darting to her sharpened claws. “You’re a lot prettier than the other ones they have fighting here. Cleaner too. I’d like to see you in the pit. Maybe I’ll take you to the backrooms afterwards as well, eh?” 

The first man chuckled at this, neither of them noticing the way the fear drained from Valyda’s eyes, her expression hardening as her gaze went cold. With a single swipe from her free hand, she tore open the flesh of the second man’s cheek, blood running in streams down the side of his face and neck. Letting out a roar of agony, he released her wrist from his grasp, and before the first man could grab her, she slashed out again, taking a chunk of his arm with her. The commotion had pulled some of the attention away from the fighting pits, and people yelled after her as Valyda darted through the crowds, quick on her feet as she scrambled for the door. Someone reached out behind her, grabbing the hem of her skirt as she ran. Swinging her hand, she tore at the fabric, skinning the man’s knuckles as she went and scuttling out of the back door as he cried out in pain. 

Even at this time, the streets of King’s Landing were bustling, and no one paid notice to a scrappy little girl running down the side alleys, never faltering or slowing for a second until she reached the place she knew Mysaria would be. Thundering through the door, her mother looked up expectantly as she entered, expression unflinching as she took in the girl’s ragged appearance - the tears in her clothes, the blood on her hands. 

“Well?” She prompted. Valyda wanted to scream. Seizing a piece of parchment from her mother’s desk and scratching herself a few times more as she hurriedly grabbed something to write with, she set to scribbling down all that she had heard. She wrote in symbols only Mysaria knew, desperate to set it all down before the memories left her head, but unable to calm her breathing enough to speak. 

It wasn’t until she had finished putting everything to paper that Mysaria offered her comfort, sliding the parchment into her pocket as she pulled Valyda to her chest and stroking her filthy hair as she muttered consolations and assurances of safety in both Lysene and the Common Tongue. 

When the girl was bathed, her mother let her sit on her knee, leaning back against her as she cut her nails down to stubs, picking at any dried blood that had been missed. She knew she was too old and too heavy to be cradled in her mother’s lap like this, but the opportunity was so rare that she would not deny it. Valyda’s heart ached for the children in those pits, their everyday lives so abhorrent that she could not even last a night without running home. For the first time in her life, she had seen true cruelty, felt true fear. Nothing scared her, not until she had seen the kinds of men that lurked in those dens.

And yet she could not make herself hate Mysaria for sending her in there. Because the work she had done that night would surely help see those men punished. They had let her in on their secrets, and Valyda would make sure they regretted it. 

Chapter 2

The White Worm’s justice was slow and thorough. As the years rolled by, and men who had wronged the weak and vulnerable found their lives crumbling around them on all sides, one disaster at a time, no one knew who to turn to, who to blame. No one knew that the source of their ruin was but one woman - one woman telling their wives about the whores they had taken, one woman feeding lies and truths into the ears of their enemies, one woman making sure that, before they breathed their last, they would know the undoing they had wrought upon others. 

Valyda’s childhood was one of passing faces and impermanence. It seemed that every day there was a different whore or street child or serving girl seated at her table, spilling secrets into her mother’s lap. When the ‘little birds’ came to visit, she and Mysaria spoke only in the languages of Essos, mingling Braavosi and Lysene until it became incomprehensible to anyone but themselves. Just because they trusted the White Worm, it did not mean the White Worm trusted them. She trusted no one. No one but Valyda, the very flesh and bone she had created. 

But the devotion she bore for her mother did not keep her mind from wandering, from straying to thoughts of what her life might have been like had her father been around - had he taken her like he’d promised, raised her a Princess of dragon and flame. As she grew older, on her walks through the city she often found herself straying closer and closer to the Red Keep and the Dragonpit, encircling the hills named for her father’s ancestors - for her ancestors. As a girl raised to seek out and uncover secrets, it was only natural that she sought to get closer, to infiltrate the sacred world of House Targaryen. 

When she was twelve, Valyda broke into the Dragonpit for the first time. Burrowed deep into the stone and dirt of Rhaenys’ hill was a series of vents and shafts, designed to prevent the dragons’ keepers from being seared alive in the heat. These shafts were not secret, but they were left alone, for everyone knew that if intruders were caught inside at the wrong time, the flames of the dragons would roast them alive, and they would become nothing but an irritant, their charred bones and flesh blocking up the tunnel. But whether it was stupidity or bravery, this possibility did not scare Valyda. Men would always be more frightening than dragons. And what the pit contained belonged to her by blood. 

It was a short clamber up the rocks towards the opening, the metal bars that covered it swinging open with ease - a measure taken to make it easier to remove the remains of those lost within. Her body lithe, her shoulders narrow, it was a simple task to push herself inside, shimmying on her stomach along the passage, stone pressing in on all sides. She could barely see an inch in front of her face in the darkness, but every now and then the faraway end of the tunnel would light up with flickers of red and amber, the heat warming her face - if the flames were aimed but a fraction further in any one direction, she would surely die here. 

By the time she finally reached the end, there was dirt and ash embedded beneath her nails, smearing her cheeks, sweat beading on her forehead and dampening her hair. Tucking her chin into her chest, there was no choice but to dive head first out of the shaft, holding her hands out to stop from breaking her neck on the stone floor below. Rolling over in the soot, she saw the brick-lined walls of the cave towering around her, the ceiling so high that it faded into the dimness, and if she held out her hand it was as if she were reaching up into the stars themselves. 

All at once, a horrifying screech rang out from the shadows. Scrambling to her feet, back pressed against stone, Valyda skirted the edges of the pit cautiously, taking each step lightly on her toes as she approached the spot where the main cave veered off into a lower tunnel. Little by little, she craned her head around the wall, the smell of smoke and tar from the torches burning her nostrils as she squinted at the shape moving in the dark. After a little while, she realised that if the beast had wanted to hurt her, she would have been roasted already, so she slipped carefully into view, holding up her hands as she crouched down before the mouth of the cavern. As it stepped forward into the light of the torch, she could feel her heart pounding against her ribs.

The dragon was young, barely larger than a stallion. She lurched forward on gangly legs, sickly white scales stretched tight over muscle and bone, a line of spines running down the length of her back. Deceptively keen-sighted, her pupils were pale and watery, frenzied gaze darting this way and that over every surface put before her. Her teeth were sharp and uneven, curved like rows of cutlasses. The beast was a hideous sight to behold, but from the moment she had revealed herself, she had Valyda’s heart. 

A wondrous smile spreading across her face, she outstretched a hand to the dragon. “ Māzīs ” Valyda uttered, eternally grateful for the High Valyrian her mother had insisted she learn. 

Claws scrabbling noisily against the ground, the creature approached, craning her head to the side. Just as she was about to reach the girl, a voice rang out from somewhere behind her, echoing high against the pit’s walls. “You there!” A man barked. 

As the dragon jerked back from her, Valyda rose to stand, turning to face the dragonkeeper as he stormed across the pit towards her. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” When he reached her, the man towered high, craning over her. But even in the dimness, it was impossible to miss the Targaryen purple that shone in her eyes. The keeper seemed to soften. 

“I came through the vent.” She admitted. 

He rose a brow. “That was stupid. They could’ve baked you alive in there, riña . I haven’t seen you before, but you look Valyrian.” 

“I’m Prince Daemon’s bastard,” Valyda said disdainfully, turning away from the man to peer at the dragon once again. “What’s her name?” 

“Mekkara. But the keepers call her The Cannibal.” 

“Why?” 

The keeper frowned. “She had a sister - another egg alongside hers. But she hatched first, and when the other was born, she tore it limb from limb and ate the flesh off its bones.” 

Valyda’s eyes widened in wonderment. “Does she have a rider?” 

The man scoffed. “No. No one will take her.” 

It was as if everything had fallen perfectly into place, as if there were some invisible string tying the pair of them together. “I will have her.” 

“You can’t. The Targaryens and Velaryons are the dragonriders. You said you’re just a bastard.” 

Balling her hands into fists, she felt her nails dig crescent marks into the flesh of her palm. She must have her. Valyda had never wanted for more than she had, not until now. Mekkara belonged with her. “It does not matter to a dragon that my name is Waters. My blood is Targaryen.” 

The dragon came forward tentatively, her claws scratching against the hard ground. Valyda held out her hand, and Mekkara nibbled affectionately at the tip of her finger, squeaking shrilly. Up close, a pinkish scar was visible across her side, and the edge of her right wing was slightly tattered, no doubt from a skirmish with the other dragons. She smiled, stroking the cool scales above her eyes. 

“Well,” The keeper breathed. “I’ve never seen that before. Especially not with her.” 

“So she’s mine?” Valyda looked up at him, her eyes looking almost brown in the torchlight. 

“I don’t think you have much of a choice,” He admitted, letting out a huff of a chuckle as Mekkara rested her chin atop the girl’s head, letting out a high-pitched purring sound. 

“Can I ride her?” She asked. 

The keeper opened his mouth to speak when a voice came booming from across the pit, echoing around the domed ceiling until it was cacophonous. It seemed to her both familiar and distant as if plucked from somewhere deep within her memories, somewhere lost in the constant passage of time. “I heard we have an intruder,” Daemon Targaryen called, his face half-illuminated in the golden light that bathed him. Valyda definitely knew him, but there was no amount of certainty in her heart to give her hope he remembered her. It had been nearly ten years since he had seen her, and even then he had been a drunkard. 

The dragon keeper kept his distance as the prince approached, looking wearily between the bastard and her dragon. “I thought you were in Pentos with your wife. And your daughters.” Valyda called. 

When Daemon stopped before her he towered over the girl, silver hair falling into his face as he peered down at her. “I should’ve guessed it would be you.” He said. She could not quite tell what he seemed to be thinking, but there was too much contempt stirring within her to be intimidated. Valyda knew the stories - she knew about the war in the Stepstones and the tourneys and the killings. But how could she be afraid of a man who could not even bear to face her? 

“Why’s that? You don’t know me.” She stared up at him, craning her neck until she could meet his gaze. She wanted to see him flinch. 

“And what are you doing with that?” Daemon asked, gesturing behind her to where Mekkara stood, lolling her head side to side and occasionally letting out a shrill whistle. 

“I claimed her. She’s mine.” 

Something changed in him then - a flicker in his eye. Before Valyda could step away he had seized her by the wrist, pulling her alongside him until he had dragged her up and out of the pit, Mekkara’s roars fading away behind them. 

The light outside was blinding after the darkness of the caves, and she struggled not to stumble as she squinted, shying away from it. Chatter and shouts and the smells of a hundred foods filled the air as the Rogue Prince stormed down each side street and alley as it came, wrenching her closer whenever she slowed down. She knew where he was taking her. She just didn’t know how he knew. 

Daemon hammered on the front door until it was thrown open, one of the more familiar of her mother’s spies stepping back out of his way as he marched inside. “Mysaria!” He yelled, visibly uncomfortable in the dim parlour of their current abode. 

Valyda’s mother hurried in from the next room, layers of skirts and shawls rippling with her body’s movement, expression thunderous as she grabbed the girl, tearing her from his grip. “Did he hurt you?” She asked her, her stony gaze softening. There was a special kind of hostility reserved for Daemon Targaryen in this house. 

“You think I would?” He asked, insulted. 

“I don’t know. She’s not much younger than your niece was when you fell in love with her .” Mysaria snapped, stepping between him and their daughter. 

His whole body seemed to tense. For a moment Valyda thought he might strike her for what she had said. He looked like he wanted to. 

“Get rid of your spiders.” Daemon seethed. 

With a single wave of her hand, every other soul in the house departed, scurrying out of any available door until the three of them were alone. He may have been the Prince of Dragonstone, but the common people were in Mysaria’s palm. 

“Your daughter has broken into the Pit and claimed a dragon,” He said, voice low, menacing. “She had no right.” 

“She had every right. It is only your blood to blame,” Mysaria tilted her head to the side. “Tell me, Daemon, how are your daughters in Pentos? Do you see them? Talk to them? Have you finally become some semblance of a father?” 

“They are not bastards.” 

“And how long will Valyda be one for now?” She asked. Her voice had taken on a musical lilt, as if she were trying not to laugh in his face. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, how long until the people find out a common bastard has claimed a dragon? How long until the almighty conquerors are not the only ones who can command the beasts? Do you really want her flying that thing around the city, where everyone can see, when she isn’t even a Targaryen?” 

Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he peered at Valyda, who stood dutifully at her mother’s elbow, her second as always. “She will not see the dragon again.”

“I think we both know she will,” Mysaria scoffed. “If she made it inside once she will do it again.” 

She smirked. Her mother knew her well. And so she should - she was her creator. Daemon moved to approach her, and for a moment Valyda thought her mother might strike him, but she stepped aside. They both knew that if the girl felt threatened she would deal with it herself. 

Reaching out his hands, the Prince cupped her cheeks, tilting her face up at him. Valyda met his gaze, unflinching, her chest rising and falling with each steady breath. It was as if he were staring into her soul, recounting every detail of her that he had neglected to see before. And when she felt his pulse against her skin, their blood ran the same. 

A smile began to spread across his face. Mysaria frowned. He looked… proud. Suddenly Valyda realised she didn’t want to be. She wanted him to hurt - to shout and throw and hit, to expose himself as the man she had decided he was, the man she had held in contempt for so many years. 

“I shall petition my brother.” He declared, lightly squeezing her face. She pictured him squeezing too hard, her head coming clean off. She wanted to grab his hands, and dig her nails into his wrists until they bled. She wanted to avenge the childhood she could have had if he had chosen her. 

Daemon released her, stepping back towards the door. And without so much as a word, he had gone, fleeing the house and slipping into the crowds outside until he disappeared. They stood in silence for a moment, and then Mysaria looked at her. 

When she spoke, her voice came cold. “Do not trust him. He’ll never love you.” Turning away, and left her alone and returned to her business. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

None of the Red Keep’s guards ever seemed sure of what to do when Daemon Targaryen arrived. Did they allow him entry, or bar the gates to him? Loyalty to the king and loyalty to the Rogue Prince never felt the same thing. But nevertheless, they parted for him as he approached Viserys’ chambers, exchanging wary glances as he passed. 

“Brother,” He spoke sharply, eyes adjusting to the king’s dim chambers. Viserys was seated beside the hearth, huddled beneath layers of blankets that his wife constantly adjusted to keep him comfortable. He looked worse every time they were together, and as Daemon approached, Alicent’s gaze seemed laced with venom. 

“Come to grace us with your presence, brother?” Viserys shifted sideways in his seat, the edge of the furs that covered him coming loose and dropping onto the floor. Alicent reached forward to correct the error before sitting back in her chair, picking at the skin around her nails as she watched the pair silently. 

“I need something.” 

“Of course you do.” 

“I need you to legitimize my daughter.” 

Viserys raised a brow, leaning heavily on his elbow as he searched Daemon’s expression. “Your daughter? Baela and Rhaena are already legitimate, I don’t understand.”

“I think he means the bastard he whelped on his paramour,” Alicent suggested. “She should be about Aegon’s age now.” 

“She had claimed a dragon,” Daemon explained. “She broke into the pit and claimed Mekkara. To not legitimize her would set a precedent that common folk have the right to our dragons.” 

Alicent frowned. “But they don’t, and neither does she. Why would the king reward her for stealing what belongs to the Targaryens?” 

Viserys batted a hand at his wife, and she fell silent, resigning herself from the conversation. “So you wish to declare the girl legitimate so as to avoid undermining our house?” 

“Valyda. Yes.” 

The king sat back in his seat, hands folded across his lap, brow drawn in thought. Daemon had little reason to believe his brother would grant his request. They had never seen eye to eye, and Valyda’s mere existence was a reminder of one of the prince’s greatest crimes. His infidelity, his treason, his theft, what he had done to Rhea… all seemed personified in the child. 

“Does she look like you?” Viserys asked. 

Daemon frowned. Of everything he had expected his brother to say, that was not it. “She had the Valyrian eyes, but she’s more her mother’s child.” 

“Obviously not, if she’s stealing dragons,” He chuckled, stifling a cough. Alicent reached for a cup, holding it out to him, but he batted her away again. With a huff, the queen stood up, leaving the two of them alone. “I will grant your request, brother.” 

He nodded, expressions of gratitude failing him. “How long will it take?” 

“All you need is my seal. It is done.” 

Daemon nodded again, hands folded behind his back as he too turned to go, leaving the king to himself. In a matter of moments, he had named a new child, a new heir. But he could not claim to be excited by the prospect. Daemon’s heart held no memories of the girl, and in her eyes, he had seen only spite and contempt. Maybe he could handle Baela and Rhaena, but Valyda Targaryen was certain to prove a challenge.

Chapter 3

Mekkara grew quickly in the years that followed, and soon she was larger than any of the other dragons belonging to the Targaryen children. It seemed she became ever more fierce with each month that slipped by, her teeth sharp enough to snap bone as if it were nothing, her haunting screeches enough to keep any keeper on his toes. 

And as the beast grew, so did her sister. Valyda was a Targaryen now, a princess and a lady, but that didn’t mean anyone had to like it. In her instruction, she had received almost no help, not even a saddle with which to ride. The dragon keepers believed in the blood of Old Valyria almost as much as her father’s family - and no one here would forget in a hurry that she was a bastard, that the dragon she rode had been stolen, claimed without permission. So she learned without them. 

Nothing but a piece of rope - tied taught between her waist and the huge spines that rose on either side of her - secured Valyda to Mekkara when they flew. Anyone could see it was dangerous, stupid, a fatal accident waiting to happen. But they were bound, as if one soul in two halves, and she would not let her fall. 

Her cousins came often, prattling amongst themselves, boasting about their dragons. But none among them were as big as Mekkara. The boys would watch them sometimes, but Valyda ignored them. Aemond stared the most, for he had no dragon of his own. But she could not feel sympathy in her heart for any of them. She had just as much Targaryen blood as they did, so why did she always have to fight twice as hard? Jace and Luke were bastards, everyone knew it to be true. Yet they were afforded the life she had yearned for at their age, and questioning their parentage came with a swift and dangerous price. Valyda had heard them call her bastard - sometimes Aegon said it to her face. What made any of them better than her? They were all of Valyrian blood - one Targaryen parent to each of them, the blood of dragonriders in their veins. But where they lived in keeps and castles, waited on hand and foot, when she left the dragon pit it was a long walk back towards the Mud Gate. Was it because their mothers were respected, and high-born, whereas hers was a freed slave, a whore, a paramour, a spy? They weren’t better than her - they were just lucky. 

Their fathers were here, not pitching camp somewhere in Pentos with a few newer daughters to parent in place of the one he had abandoned. The child Daemon Targaryen could not control, so he did not try to. 

Mekkara landed on the floor of the great amphitheatre, skittering over the gravel and sand as her winds gave one last flap. Tugging the rope at her waist until it came free, Valyda slid down the beast’s side against her scales, landing with a thud, knees bent to brace against the impact. 

“You’ll break your neck, flying like that,” Aegon called, almost sneering. The other boys stared quietly. The prince was a year her junior and, by all accounts, a git. 

“I’m not sure you should be giving anyone advice on flying,” Valyda shrugged, gathering up the rope into a loop around her palm. “Seen you fall on your arse enough times already. Does Sunfyre throw you off on purpose, or are you just incapable?” 

The Strong boys had to stifle their snorts and chuckles as a red tint dappled Aegon’s cheeks. He pushed back his shoulders, fists clenched irritably. “At least I didn’t have to steal my dragon, bastard. You should show some respect.” 

She sighed, shaking her head. “People might start respecting you if you could come up with more than one insult. I’m sure there’s something rattling around in there for you to use.” 

He opened his mouth to speak as she walked past, but before the words could escape him Mekkara snapped her jaws loudly, letting out a jagged squawk. The prince retracted, chin tilted down as she left the pit. It seemed juvenile to her - to bicker with them. Although only one year Aegon’s senior, she felt so beyond him. The things that had happened to her didn’t happen to little girls. She was a weapon and a spy and a dragon rider before she was a child. She had been raised to ruin boys like Aegon Targaryen.

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Get in, get what you came for, get out. 

Get in, get what you came for, get out. 

Get in, get what you came for, get out. 

The words repeated in her mind like a mantra, looping over and over again so that no other thought could pierce her focus. 

At fourteen, Valyda was a child to everyone but her mother. It didn’t matter that Mysaria had created her, birthed her, brought her up from an infant. The girl was not a daughter or a fragile thing to be protected, she was another weapon in her arsenal, ready to be trained and deployed when needed. When darkness fell over King’s Landing her true purpose shone like a beacon in the night. Tight black clothes clung to her skin, the fabric just thin enough to free her movements as she crept along the tiled rooftops. 

Tomorrow, Ser Eowan of House Blount would be tried for conspiring with and profiting from slavers out of the Free Cities. In the morning, a document would find its way into the Grand Maester’s possession that proved without a doubt that the charges were legitimate. By nightfall, Ser Eowan would be imprisoned or dead. And his future suffering now lay in the hands of a child. 

She knew which house was the target - she’d been over the layout of this street so many times she could have found the building in her sleep. Her shoes were padded, footfall silent against terracotta roof tiles as she approached, hunched forward to conceal her silhouette from any passers-by on the streets below. Jaehaerys I had set to rebuilding much of the city years ago, but construction was still yet to finish under the reign of his grandson. In Flea Bottom, the houses were packed in so tightly that a person could reach out of the window of their house right through that of the neighbour. But to a spy like Valya, this was the perfect playground. 

The house she needed to get into was packed in too tightly for her to get at on its own - its roof overhung too far, its doors were bolted shut and its windows were impossible to reach from above. But the house next door was falling quickly into disrepair, and to the trained eye posed a quick and easy entrance. 

Its roof had partially caved in, tiles cracked and slipping out of place, occasionally giving in to the hole that had opened in its centre, smashing against the floor of the room below. Valyda crossed the roof’s ridge, poised on her toes as she reached the whole. Careful not to disturb the tiles, she slipped through, touching down on the balls of her feet and crouching low to dull the sound of her landing. There were people in the house; she could hear their voices, muffled under two layers of floorboards. 

As she straightened herself up, one of the tiles that had been balanced precariously on the edge of the hole teetered and slipped, threatening to smash and give the game away. She barely had time to react, dashing forward to grab it before it hit the ground. Holding out her arm, Valyda lunged for the tile, almost losing her balance and tumbling onto her knees as it landed in her hand, the rough edge slitting the skin of her palm. Wincing slightly, she took a deep breath to regain her composure. Nothing had been lost yet tonight. 

Prying open the window shutters, she saw the window of her target on the opposite wall, barely more than a few feet away, shutters thrown open as if inviting her inside. Really? Valyda fought the urge to roll her eyes. It’s like they’re asking to be robbed. 

Getting inside was an easy manoeuvre - hooking her fingertips over the top of the window frame, she catapulted her body through the opening feet first, slipping seamlessly from building to building. Letting go at the right time, she felt her feet hit the floor inside the next house, the thud suppressed by the pads in her shoes that Mysaria had made specially. 

The room was small and dark, with no light but from a single candle on a nearby shelf. Pushed into the corner behind the bed was a small wooden box - that was it. Valyda crept towards it, stooping low to examine the lock. It would be faster to unscrew the mechanism completely than to pick it, so she got to work. She would take everything, so whoever found the documents missing wouldn’t be able to figure out which one she had come for until it was already too late. Wrenching open the lid, she began the quick work of stuffing the papers into her bag until the chest was empty. 

Behind her, a floorboard creaked. 

Valyda’s gaze snapped to the doorway, poised on the balls of her feet to make a quick move. A man stood there, silhouetted in the golden light from the hall. He was bigger than her, probably stronger too. But the man was old. If she had nothing else on him, she was certainly faster. 

He hesitated for a moment, squaring his shoulders. A tense silence hung between them for a moment, the only sound their baited breaths as they stared straight at each other. All at once, he lunged forward, grabbing the burning candle from the shelf and hurling it at her. Valyda grabbed the rim of the box, swinging with all her might and delivering a blow to his ribs with a sharp crack. The man opened his mouth to yelp, but she clamped her hand over his lips, muting his cries. There was a metal poker propped up beside the unlit heart. Reaching for it, he flailed wildly at the girl, but she managed to dodge, sweeping her foot across the man’s ankles and toppling him with a heavy thud. 

He was lying on his back, eyes wide and full of rage. When he tried to cry out to whoever might hear, Valyda covered his mouth again but he gnashed his teeth, piercing the skin of her palm. She wanted to yelp or pull away, but she could be caught any second, and making noise would only speed up the process of discovery. Her mind was racing as she tried to figure out what to do with him, how to get away without a witness that would put tomorrow’s trial in jeopardy. 

Over and over again, her thoughts fell to the knife at her belt. 

She didn’t want to kill him. Really, she didn’t. At fourteen years old, Valyda was under no illusions that she was a good person. But thus far she’d never been a murderer. She’d hurt people, but no one had died . Was there any way out of this night that didn’t rely on that? She couldn’t think of any. 

The man writhed beneath her as she straddled his torso, arms pinned beneath her knees, blood seeping from her hand and through his lips. Hand trembling slightly, she reached for the blade, slowly unsheathing it, polished steel glinting in the dim light. His eyes widened, and he began trying to frantically shake his head, restrained by her grip. He would be quiet for her now if it would spare him, but as soon as she was gone she knew he would be anything but. 

As it turned out, he hadn’t been as strong as he looked. In the last moments of his life, the man had been unable to topple the girl, who had been raised to fight and trained to ride dragons. All it took was one slash, blood spilling forth through the tear in his throat, gushing down the sides of his neck into the cracks between the floorboards. After a moment he began to choke and splutter, his own blood rising up to meet hers on his tongue. Valyda let him go when he fell still, pushing herself up onto her feet to stand over his body. Her clothes felt damp with his blood, but they were so dark it was invisible. Only she knew it was there. 

Slinging the bag of documents over her shoulder, ignoring the sting in her hand, she slid over the windowsill, landing in a crouch in the alley below. Come morning, someone would probably find him up there, flies already beginning to feast on him. They might not even notice what had been taken, at least not before the papers made their way onto the Grand Maester’s desk. 

If there had ever been a childhood for Valyda Targaryen, it was over now. She would return to Mysaria’s house before sunrise, hand over the goods and wash herself of her gory deed before anyone in King’s Landing even awoke from their slumber. In the days that followed, she thought often of the man she had killed. Who was he? What had he been doing there? Had he deserved what he got? 

“Forget about it. We all must have blood on our hands in this life.” Mysaria had told her. But what good did that do? Was Valyda supposed to just accept that, on the path her mother had put her on, being a child and a murderer were two things that were supposed to happily coexist? 

Ser Eowan was executed before the week’s end. It seemed poor conduct in trade was far more offensive to the courts than the selling of human lives. Perhaps in time, his death would make it easier to cope with the other man whose fate had been sealed that night. In time, Valyda would become accustomed to it, and the night she had put any remaining innocence within her to death on the pyre would become simply one job of many. 

But there was an uneasiness that ate away at her after that night, one that made it painful to look at her mother for too long. There were few things she was sure of in life that had not been taught to her by Mysaria herself, but she knew one thing; This was not a family. This was not a home. Valyda was more sure now than ever before that she was not a person in the eyes of her parents, she was a pawn. Hating Daemon came far easier than hating Mysaria ever would. There would always be a part of her that was grateful to the woman, for teaching her so much, for being the only person in the world she had ever trusted in her youth. 

The worst part of all was knowing that, no matter what, when Mysaria called, Valyda would come. And she would always be the one cleaning blood from her hands when it was over.

Chapter 4

It is a strange thing, to be surrounded by people and yet entirely alone. Laena Velaryon was dead - her stepmother by law, yet Valyda had never laid eyes on the woman. She had no idea what she had looked like save for clues left in the faces of her daughters, she had never heard her laugh, and had never been able to determine whether she had made her father happy. 

Upon the rocks of Driftmark, the sea air left the taste of salt upon her lips, whipping her hair until it wrapped itself around her neck. Mysaria had draped her in a rich black tunic embroidered with silver suns so that at least she could look like she belonged here, even when the side-eyeing of her companions was unable to slip her notice. 

Why had Daemon brought her here? Why parade his bastard at the funeral of his wife? If she had not known him, she might have suspected he intended to turn a page in his life, that Laena’s death had pushed him to reconsider the way he had neglected his daughter for so many years. But Valyda wasn’t fucking stupid. If anything, he was trying to use her as a pawn in his family squabbles the way he had used her mother. She would not let him. 

She almost flinched as Laena’s coffin tipped over the edge of the rock, the splash breaking her from her thoughts. When she looked down, her thumb was bleeding from where she had picked at the skin around her nail. The salt on the breeze made the fresh wound sting. She raised her hand to her lips, sucking the blood into her mouth until she tasted a sour mixture of seafoam and metal. 

When the ceremony was over, the family was herded back up the rocky slopes to a stone terrace littered with servers and seats. How conversation came so easily to these people, Valyda would never understand - but they had been raised for diplomacy - her life’s purpose was to observe. A servant passed close by, holding out a tray of goblets. She snatched one before he could leave, tilting the cup to her lips and feeling the warmth fill her throat. It was unclear quite was the drink was, but the alcohol certainly helped to make things bearable. Her heartbeat slowed, and she felt the desire to tear off her own skin lessen somewhat. 

Someone had appeared beside her, and Valyda felt her shoulders tense. Turning her head slowly, she swallowed as she looked over at the girl. Her skin was dark like her mother’s, her hair silver like her father's. There was no resemblance between the pair of them save for the Valyrian eyes, purple even when puffy with tears. The girl looked too young. For what, Valyda couldn’t quite say, but it unsettled her. 

“Are you my sister?” The girl asked meekly, picking anxiously at her fingers the way she too often did. 

“...I think so,” Valyda admitted. “I’m sorry about your mother.” 

“I’m sorry about your father.”

Tilting the cup to her lips, she felt the last of the drink slide down her throat. She coughed slightly. “I’m Valyda.” 

“Rhaena.” 

Valyda nodded, setting the goblet down on the stone ledge. “Is he good to you? Our father?” 

Rhaena frowned. She looked as if she were wrestling with her thoughts, as if no reply could truly express what she wanted to say. “Sometimes.” 

It was silent for a long moment, sandwiched between the rumble of chatter behind them and the constant crash of waves ahead. Valyda had been jealous of Laena’s girls once, of the daughters who lived with her father - who supped at his table and slept in his house. She wasn’t now. Daemon Targaryen was not made to father daughters, and as the years went on, more proof of this seemed to emerge wherever she looked. 

She reached out, taking Rhaena’s hand in hers and squeezing it gently, their palms cold against each other. So many words could have been said, but at that moment none were needed. It was enough that they both knew the other understood what it was to have their father. Valyda had always wondered what her life might have been like had she grown up with a sister or brother, but Rhaena didn’t deserve the childhood she had endured. Over the girl’s shoulder, she noticed Princess Rhaenys comforting Laena’s other child. 

“I think your grandmother’s looking for you,” She ushered gently. 

Rhaena wiped a tear from her cheek, following her gaze before looking back to Valyda. “She’s your family too. You should come.” 

Shaking her head, she found her eyes searching for another passing goblet. “Nah. You go.” 

The girl wandered away, and in an instant, her silver head was lost amongst the crowds. Valyda turned back to the sea, closing her eyes as the cold wind fanned her face. These could never be her people. She could not live with them. Families were for other children, for girls whose mothers read them stories and sang them to sleep, for boys whose fathers taught them to hold a sword and mount a horse, for children who knew their parents’ affections and had a place to belong. Mysaria’s house down by the Mud Gate was not her home, and in all her years she had never stepped foot in the Red Keep more than once or twice. When she watched them climb the filthy walls of King’s Landing, she felt more akin to a spider than anything else - lingering in corners, hiding where she should not, spinning her web all across the city with every mission, every crime. 

Sometimes she dreamt of mounting Mekkara and flying far away from here, of living out the rest of her days on the other side of Westeros, surrounded by people who didn’t know who she really was. But this voyage to Driftmark had been the first time she’d ever strayed from the walls of King’s Landing. For a girl so smart, she felt stupid for having seen so little. The sea air tasted different here. One day she would traipse the Kingswood, see the peaks of the Eyrie and the snows of Winterfell. But right now, Valyda wanted to go home. Wherever that was. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Late in the night, she awoke to the sounds of shouting, of footsteps drumming against stone outside. She was a light sleeper at the best of times, and the moment her eyes opened she was up and out of bed, bare feet chilled by the cold floor, poised on her toes as she seized a robe, craning her neck around the door. 

Torches cast an orange glow around the corner at the end of the hall, long dark shadows leaping towards her as people scurried about just out of sight. Valyda made no sound as she crept into the light, the palm of her hand pressed flat against the wall to guide her on her path as she made her way down the spiralling steps, Driftmark’s great hall unfolding beneath her. The room was crowded already, and when the inhaled she paused, the scent of blood faint in the air. 

No one could have seen her perched up there, peering over the bannister, shrouded by shadow and obscured by stone arches, which propped up the high ceiling, the light from the hearth flickering against the black rock. For the untrained ear, it would have been difficult to decipher the commotion, the deafening overlap of voices as they shouted and fought below. But there was very little else Valyda was better at. 

Prince Aemond’s hands were covered in blood, his round face struck with deep red gashes as the maester hurriedly stitched, the boy wincing with each stroke as the gorges in his flesh were pulled shut. One of the Strong bastards, Jacaerys - no, Lucerys - was stricken too, his nose crooked, dried blood coating his lips and chin. Rhaena was huddled behind her grandmother, gripping her sister’s sleeve with her fist. 

When the blade was pulled, the room erupted into chaos, somehow more hectic than it had been already. The children screamed as the Queen charged at the object of all her father’s affections, hair fanning about her face, eyes wild like a mad woman from folklore. Light from the hearth struck the steel, glinting brightly in the dark. Valyda watched with wide eyes, struck more by awe or wonder than by fear. The entropy entranced her, Queen and Princess wrestling against each other, tongues laced with venom, teeth bared in snarls. It was wonderful havoc. If only the common folk of King’s Landing could see them now. 

How could any of these people find room in their lives for the bastard girl from Lys when they couldn’t even find space in their hearts for each other? 

Valyda scurried back up the stairs as Rhaenyra was released, blanketed in shadow as she skulked back to her chambers, fingers twitching to clutch at a quill. She’d been in the room with all of the most powerful people in Westeros, and not one of them had noticed. That was a dangerous power to wield. A power that now belonged to Mysaria’s puppet. 

She almost knocked over the ink well on her desk, blotting her fingertips as she flattened out the parchment under her palm, squinting in the candlelight as she put pen to paper. A hurried scrawl, indecipherable words, an encoded flurry of three different languages and five different alphabets, absolutely impossible for anyone but she and her mother. And as she wrote, Valyda let everything spill - all that she had seen and heard since her arrival at Driftmark. Since Aegon’s Conquest, the Targaryens had been fraught with conflict from within, but until now she wondered if any one of them had quite so completely betrayed them to an outsider - a spy of all things. She was a Targaryen, by law and by name, but her heart felt empty, and she felt no guilt at all the things she wrote down, of the whispers, rumours, of knives wielded and fists swung. 

They had condemned themselves the moment Daemon left her with Mysaria. He had created a child full of spite and anger and left her in the lap of the most powerful spy in Westeros. 

It would have been foolish to use one of the ravens to send her letter, but they had connections everywhere, even here. When morning came and the King’s family packed to return to the city with haste, Valyda slipped her note into the palm of a porter, who saw it tucked away in the family’s own luggage. It was audacious, but it worked. There was no securer route into the city walls than in the bags of the King himself. Once it made it inside the Keep, one of the maids on Mysaria’s payroll would sneak it away, and in a matter of hours, it would be in the White Worm’s hands. 

Valyda watched from the rocky ledges as the ship departed, rocking against the waves as it slipped further and further away on the grey water. The wind was fierce, chilling her to her bones as her hands gripped the stone ledge, eyes watering against the sea salt it carried. Glancing to her side, a figure caught her gaze, standing over by the steps watching the boat, her silver hair pulled back into braids around her scalp. 

Rhaenyra Targaryen turned, their eyes meeting, holding for what felt like forever but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. There was something indecipherable in the Princess’ cool expression, something buried beneath years of… what? 

Daemon appeared at the top of the step, looming by her shoulder, and Rhaenyra looked away. It made Valyda’s skin crawl to watch them together, her mother’s words running through her head. “ She’s not much younger than your niece was when you fell in love with her”. The story Mysaria had told her when she was young was that she had realised Daemon was in love with the princess when she had been only fourteen years old. Now Valyda herself was fourteen, and the thought of it made her want to scream. 

He did not look at her, but when he started to speak to Rhaenyra, their voices hushed, faces tilted close to one another, Valyda tore her gaze away.

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Daemon was in his chambers when the door was thrown open, a worried-looking guard peering in over his daughter’s head as she stormed forward. She only looked like him when she was angry, and now she was seething. He could see Mekkara in her. She looked like she could bite his hand off. 

“You couldn’t be bothered to look after your own bastards, so you’ve taken on Harwin Strong’s instead, is that it?” She snapped. Valyda was tall for a girl her age, but even then she didn’t come up to her father’s shoulder. Daemon sighed. This was exactly why he had avoided telling her when he had wed Rhaenyra only days before. 

“You’d better not start telling everyone what you know,” He warned, barely looking up at her as he shuffled papers on his desk. “My brother seems somewhat fond of you, but if he hears you talking about his grandsons like that he’ll make you regret it.” 

“You’re her uncle ,” Valyda grimaced. 

“Surely in all that reading your mother had you do, you’d have come across the tradition.” 

“It’s vulgar.” 

“It’s exceptionalism . You’ll be old enough to wed soon, perhaps we’ll pair you up with Aemond, or one of Rhaenyra’s boys.” 

All at once the girl lunged towards him, hands reached out, fingers bared like claws as if she wished to scratch out his eyes. Daemon managed to grab her by the wrists, but the force by which she collided with him tipped him backwards into the chair behind him as he wrestled against her. Valyda was still small, nowhere near as strong as he. He had fought a thousand tourneys and slain the Crab King with his wits and his fists. She was no match for him, even when she seemed feral under the grip of teenage rage and the tutelage of her wretched mother. 

“She’s closer to my age than yours!” She snapped, flecks of spit spattering across his cheek as she squirmed against his grip. 

Daemon held out his arms, raising her hands high above her head as he pushed himself out of the chair, forcing her backwards onto her feet. “That’s enough- stop- stop it!” He yelled, shoving Valyda away from him. Her hair had fallen into her face, a single violet eye visible as it glared up at him. Her chest heaved with each breath, and there were red marks on her wrists from where he had held her. 

It was silent for a moment, the only sound in the room the constant huffs of their breathing. After a pause, she rose her hand, delivering a slap to the side of his face. Daemon barely flinched, but his patience with the girl had been exhausted. 

He lunged towards her and Valyda skittered backwards on graceful toes, reaching out behind her as her hand seized the doorframe. She knew he was stronger than her in every sense of the word, that this was a fight she could not win. 

“Get out!” He yelled. “You will board the next ship and go back to whatever hovel your whore of a mother keeps you in!”

She held his gaze, jaw clenched tightly. Why had he ever left her with Mysaria? With this girl in his hands, she could have been so useful. 

“GO!” Daemon roared, and she disappeared in a flurry of black hair and skirts, disappearing from his sight like a rat scurrying away down a dark alleyway. 

He ran a hand over his face, exhausted from their encounter. It shouldn’t have surprised him that the fruit of whatever he had had with Mysaria would have turned out to be such a beast. The sin plagued him sometimes when he lay awake at night - it was not her fault what she was, but that did not make it easier for him to live with her. How much easier his life would have been now if the only children he had to worry about now were the twins and the Strong boys. They were easy to deal with. None of them had ever tried to tear off his skin with their fingernails. 

Valyda was something else entirely, but perhaps even she could be useful in time. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Three years later.  

 

The air of the brothel was thick with incense smoke and sweat, the scent of desire clinging to every surface. False gold tables and cheap silks littered the rooms, daylight streaming in through shutters and leaving patterns on the tiled floors. It was a conscious effort to tune out the groans and moans from the adjacent rooms, to try not to choke on the overly sweet scent of perfume that clung to her tongue and coated her nostrils in a poor attempt to mask the stench of an overflowing gutter just outside. 

Valyda had grown prettier with age, beautiful in a way that all children with dragon’s blood were. Features refined, hair thick and shiny, eyes brighter than they had been in her youth. She had draped her browned skin with blush-coloured fabrics and painted her lips and cheeks, praying the combined beauty of both her parents would be enough to achieve the task at hand. 

The man to her left was pot-bellied and half-drunk, greying hair sprouting unevenly in every crevice except atop his head. She would not surrender her maidenhead to him, not for the information she needed, but he truly seemed to think she would. The door had been bolted behind them, and he eyed her lustily as they chatted. He had not yet caught on that this was an interrogation, not some polite sort of foreplay. 

“They won’t knight my boy, not even after he’s proven himself in tourneys all over the Riverlands. I say they must let him prove himself at a tourney in King’s Landing if they demand proof, but they will not hold one, and the ones they do hold they say he must already be a knight to enter!” The man complained, nursing a goblet in one hand as his gaze trailed Valyda’s outline. She knew his son was little more than a bumbling fool, only winning for lack of talented opponents. But she let him prattle on, whining about his children and the poor wife he had undoubtedly left at home so he could go out and try his luck with a seventeen-year-old. 

Valyda dutifully refilled his wine whenever needed, keeping a steady stream of alcohol flowing through him. As the man became more and more intoxicated, he grew less and less careful about which information he kept close to his chest. Her ears pricked as he finally broached the subject of banking, drawling on about investments and whoever he owed money to. This was what she had come for. Reaching out her arm, she poured one last cup of wine, the flagon finally emptying itself as he let his mouth run, spilling all the information she needed. 

The man paused, rubbing a hand against the soft skin of her forearm. “My dear, you don’t want to hear about this. Why don’t you take off that dress and we can get down to what we’re here for.” 

She smiled sweetly, tilting her head to the side. “Oh, I’ve got everything I’m here for already.” 

He paused for a moment, brow creasing in confusion, but before the man could open his mouth to question her, she brought the empty flagon down against his head, the rim striking his skull and knocking him out cold. Falling backwards onto the bed, the goblet slipped from his hand, a red pool forming around his feet. 

Valyda rolled her eyes, discarding the jug on a nearby table and tossing open the shutters that covered the nearby window. They were on the ground floor, so it was an easy task to step out through it into the street - she was hardly the first woman the people of King’s Landing had seen escaping a brothel in such a fashion. With a squelch, she touched down on the cobbled ground. Frowning, she looked to her feet, where the sewage that filled the gutter she had landed in had begun to seep up the hem of her dress. 

“ Fuck, ” She muttered, hiking up her skirts and hurrying away before someone could find her banker inside. 

Back at the house she cleaned her face and brushed through her hair before beginning the task of scrubbing the filth out of her clothes, for her shoes were similarly caked in waste. Currently the only person home, there seemed no issue in washing the garments as soon as she took them off, crouching almost naked beside the tub as she tried to rinse out the dirt. However, a thunderous knock at the door startled her, dropping the dress into the warm water. Hurriedly reaching for a tunic, she shrugged it on, conscious that she still smelled of incense and sweat from her morning at the whorehouse. 

Opening the door, her brow raised at the Kingsguard posted on the step, who seemed equally confused at the sight of her, and wholeheartedly repulsed to be standing out on the street, restraining the urge to bat away at a beggar tugging at his cloak. 

“The King has requested your presence,” He demanded gruffly, face barely visible beneath his helmet. 

Valyda sighed, leaning against the doorframe as she nodded weakly. “Alright. Give me a minute, I’ll go get cleaned up-”

“He wants you now.” 

She paused, frowning at him for a moment before throwing up her hands in surrender. “His problem now, I suppose.” 

The knight lead her up the road and all the way up to the Red Keep, where Viserys had gathered in the courtyard with the wife and the younger two of their children. Valyda made for a sore sight beside them, dressed in a grey tunic, the closest thing she could find, one of her boots unlaced and sliding off at the heel. 

“Valyda!” The King greeted her, jolly as he seized her by the shoulders. He almost pulled her into an embrace, but a poorly timed inhale alerted him to her stink, and he decided against it. Viserys had always been far more welcoming to her than she had expected, but he seemed not to have noticed how much his summons greatly irritated her. “I’m glad you could come. We have guests I’d like you to meet,” He said, patting her on the shoulder and sidling slightly further away from her. 

There was no time for her to ask who he was referring to, as a wheelhouse came trundling through the Keep’s gates and into the courtyard, horses rearing to a stop just in front of her. Valyda was suddenly self-conscious, for what felt like the first time in her life. Beside the royal family, she must have looked an awful state. Her shoulders tensed, and without meaning to do so she found herself holding her breath as the carriage’s door swung open. 

The first figure to emerge was a man, who looked close to ten years her senior. He was handsome enough, with dark hair tinged with red and a beard shrouding his chin. He looked too spry to be a lord himself, but the Tully banner that waved in the wind atop the wheelhouse meant he had come all the way from Riverrun. He must have been important. 

Viserys greeted him warmly, shaking his hand before introducing the man to his family. “This is Edmund Tully, son of Lord Grover. As his father grows too old to attend us here for official business, he has sent some of his children here as envoys.” 

Why had she been brought up here for this? As the minutes ticked by and Edmund Tully greeted the Queen and Princess Helaena, Valyda grew more and more irritated at her summons, unable to see the point of her presence. 

But then the wheelhouse door opened again, and another figure stepped out, lifting her skirt as she descended the wooden steps. Her hair was a flaming orange and fell down to her waist, and when the breeze blew it looked like a lion’s mane. Dressed in bright blue silks, she smiled feebly, curtseying to the King. When the girl rose again, Valyda was able to get a good look at her face. She had gentle, pretty features, a squared jaw and kind, green eyes. She’d never seen anyone who looked quite so… Tully. 

“My Lady,” Edmund spoke again, and Valyda was almost startled when she realised he was speaking to her. The girl beside him looked to her, and she felt blood rushing to her cheeks. “This is my sister, Lady Nessa.” 

Suddenly she could breathe again.

Chapter 5

The wheelhouse rocked side to side over the uneven dirt road, and on the horizon the sun rose over a hill, bright golden beams of light slicing the landscape and painting the leaves yellow as they rustled in the breeze, puddles splashing beneath the wheels of the carriage. Swaying side by side with the movement of their vehicle, Nessa Tully tore into a loaf of bread, peeling back the curtains with one hand as she satisfied her stomach with the other, chewing noisily on chunks of bread and cheese. 

“Do you mind?” Her brother Edmund tutted, peering up at her from the papers in his lap, tapping irritably with his quill. 

She shrugged, swallowing her mouthful. “I’m sorry to trouble you will my existence. Next time I shall starve,” The girl said, tilting her head in mockery. 

“I don’t mind you eating, I just wish you didn’t have to sound like a horse when you did it,” Edmund teased, earning a slap on the knee from his sister. The second living son of Grover Tully, he had been sent to King’s Landing to represent his father in matters of court. As the Lord of Riverrun grew frail and sick in his old age, his days of travelling slipped far into the past, and as the only one of his sons yet unwed, Edmund appeared the natural choice to make the journey. 

“Why did father send me with you?” Nessa chirped. She showed more of the Tully blood than her brother, her hair a raging orange fire where his was simple brown, her eyes bright green, his a dull grey. Nevertheless, they made a handsome pair, with all of their mother’s beauty and none of Lord Grover’s more unlikable traits. “He hopes I find a husband in King’s Landing, I’m sure of it.” 

“He probably just finds you annoying, as I do. Wanted some excuse to get rid of you for a while.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “ I am going to tell the entire court about the time you pissed yourself at our cousin’s wedding, and then we shall see which of us they all like best.” 

Edmund delivered a playful kick to his sister’s shin, eliciting a yelp from the girl. “Bitch,” He chuckled, ducking to avoid the fistful of cheese rind she hurled at his head. 

“When will we arrive? I want to get away from you as soon as possible,” Nessa said haughtily, fighting the smile that threatened to crease her cheeks. 

“We will be in the city by this afternoon,” He assured her, and the pair fell into silence for a moment. When Edmund looked over at her again, his expression had darkened. “Be careful, Nessa,” He warned. 

Her brow furrowed. “Of what?”

“King’s Landing isn’t like Riverrun. There are spies everywhere. I’ve heard rumours that the White Worm has competition - they’re calling them the Black Worm.” 

Nessa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “There’s nothing spies could want with me.” 

Edmund smiled slightly. “I know. But they’ll be watching us when we arrive, at least until they figure that out.” 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

As the wheelhouse scaled the slopes of Aegon’s hill, climbing up towards the Red Keep, Nessa held out her arms to steady herself, struggling not to slide from one side of the carriage to another with every turn. The horses whinnied as they pulled to a stop, and she peered through a gap in the curtains as Edmund rose to open the door. She spied the King and Queen, patiently awaiting their arrival, bracketed by two silver-haired children she assumed must have been Aemond and Helaena, as the boy’s affliction was well known across the kingdom. But there was another girl there whom she did not recognise. She had raven black hair, pale brown skin, and from afar had nothing recognisably Targaryen about her. Nessa frowned, rising to join her brother outside. 

Stepping out of the carriage, she found her gaze wandering to the battlements above, as if expecting to see one of the spies Edmund had warned her about just standing out in the open watching her. She knew it was foolish, but in all her life she’d never been further south than Harrenhall, and this place was nothing like anything she’d seen. Standing beside her brother as he greeted the Royal Family, Nessa couldn’t quite stop her gaze from wandering - that was until she felt Edmund tug at her sleeve, snapping her from her daze. Suddenly her eyes met the strange, dark-haired girl. Oh . Up close, she had the Targaryen eyes everyone always spoke of. 

“This is my sister, Lady Nessa.” 

“Hello,” She chirped, raising her hand to wave slightly. Curse your awkwardness. The girl’s mouth tilted up in a slight smile. 

“This is Valyda, my niece,” King Viserys added. 

Nessa’s eyes widened, and she offered Valyda a curtsey. “Your highness.” 

Her expression contorted into something like embarrassment, raising a hand. There was dirt beneath her nails. “Oh, please don’t,” Valyda said earnestly, visibly uncomfortable at the formality. 

The King spoke again. “Valyda, why don’t you take Nessa and show her around, eh?” An awkward beat of silence passed before the princess nodded, holding out her arm. 

“Come,” She said, and Nessa cautiously linked her arm with hers, walking alongside her as they headed inside. 

It was difficult not to stare at Valyda as they walked - at this apparent princess whom she’d somehow never heard of. It had always been expected that she knew every member of the Royal Family, drilled into her by her Septas until she wanted to scream, and yet this one had never been mentioned, not even once. As Nessa followed her through the halls of the Red Keep, it grew more and more obvious that Valyda herself was seeing some of its secrets for the very first time, as if she’d never gone further than its great hall. Occasionally she would open a door and, upon seeing the room’s interior, hum to herself in approval or distaste as if assessing the place for the very first time. The longer it went on, the more confusing it became. 

“I never knew Prince Daemon had another daughter,” Nessa said as they wandered along an empty hallway. They had remained linked at the elbows since their arrival, and occasionally their hips bumped together as they walked, but the silence between them did not feel uncomfortable. 

Valyda regarded her carefully for a moment before shrugging her shoulders. “I’m not as important as his other children, my mother was a whore when she met my father.”

Nessa stuttered slightly when she spoke again. “I didn’t know that - uh- that-” 

“That Daemon has a bastard? I’m sure he has more than one, I’m just the only one he legitimised. I stole a dragon, it was difficult to work around.” 

“A dragon?” She asked, her face lighting up in awe. Valyda chuckled at her expression. Her laugh was like music, but Nessa got the sense it was a sound rarely heard. 

“Her name is Mekkara… she’s wonderful,” She nodded, lifting her hand to rest on the place their arms intertwined. “She’s my only friend, which I suppose is quite sad.” 

“Well, I think we ought to be friends. Although I don’t know how I’ll compete with a dragon.”

Valyda stared at her then. There was something twinkling in her eye, and Nessa felt her cheeks heating up as her mouth curled into a smile. “I think you’ll do just fine.” 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t normal. Valyda had never felt like this before, and it made her uneasy. Never before had she been asked to befriend someone simply to… befriend them. Every person she’d met until now had been concealing ulterior motives, every conversation a ploy to extract some secret she could betray to her mother. But Mysaria wasn’t here. When she spoke she wasn’t in danger, when she listened there was nothing to seek out, nothing embedded in Nessa’s words. What should have been simpler than anything felt like the most daunting task of all. Valyda was being herself. She was stripping back the layers of the facade, abandoning years of training. Because of all the things Mysaria taught her, she never showed her how to be a friend. 

She was the Black Worm - the spy, the killer, the Lysene bastard who had slithered her way into the most powerful family alive. She didn’t have friends.. . But that didn’t mean she couldn’t.

The dragonpit upon Rhaenys’ hill rose high in the afternoon sun, slivers of daylight cutting their way through the gaps in the huge domed ceiling. Her footsteps echoed against the cold ground, dragonkeepers looking up as they entered. Somewhere in the bowels of the hill, a great roar bellowed and shook the stone walls, a horrifying screech echoing through every crevice. When she turned her head, Nessa had fallen behind, cowering in the doorway, her hand clutching the wall. “Come on,” She called, reaching out her hand. “It’s safe, I promise.” 

Nessa hesitated, her eyes wide as she took a tentative step inside, the hem of her dress coming away browned from the dirt on the floor. Valyda offered the gentlest smile she could muster as the girl approached, pausing beside her. “What’s going to happen?” She asked quietly. 

Another terrible screech came rumbling from down below and Nessa jolted in surprise. The slope that rose from the pit below began to shake with each great footstep as the beast clambered free. She tried to step back, but Valyda seized her arm, pressing a gentle palm to her shoulder, eyes never tearing from the gaping hole in the ground. When the light hit those sickly white scales, Nessa let out a gasp, Mekkara’s milky pupils darting this way and that. As the years passed, she had grown ever a terrifying sight to behold. She was near as large as Syrax now, but she walked with a strange gait, her legs contorting as if every bone in her body had been dislocated, a horrible, croaked squeal reverberating against the stone walls of the pit. 

“This is her?” Nessa breathed. “Your dragon?” 

“Yes,” Valyda smiled. Mekkara stepped forward, bowing her head with a chirp. She could feel the Tully girl’s arm tug against her own as she tried to keep a safe distance. “Hello,” She cooed, fingertips dancing across the cool scales, her precious beast purring as if she were a cat.

Slowly, Nessa’s arm began to rise, palm outstretched towards Mekkara’s head breath caught in her throat. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded the girl, letting out a huff from scaled nostrils that almost made her retreat. But Mekkara craned her head, pressing her nose against Nessa’s fingers, chittering quietly as a grin of elation spread across the girl’s face, bouncing in excitement on the balls of her feet. As Valyda watched, she realised she’d been holding her breath, heartbeat hammering against her chest. 

The first time Valyda had felt anything like it, she had been eleven. Mysaria’s network of birds stretched far and wide, granting her access to every crevice and misdeed in the city and beyond to the ports in Essos. Their house was ever filled with constantly shifting faces, of people passing through to exchange information or gather their coin. It was rare for Valyda to ever see the same face twice. Except Lyra. 

Lyra was a whore for a nearby pleasure house, one of the wealthier dives, the type frequented by successful merchants, knights and minor lords. She had a button nose, full lips, and deep blue eyes that could drown a man and keep him reaching for his purse. Her hair was golden, always pinned up in messy tresses that fell down the back of her pale neck and into her face. She was good at what she did. Every now and then she would arrive with information and leave with a full pocket - so often did this happen, that after a while Mysaria began to set aside coin specifically to pay her, so frequent and useful were her visits. 

As a child, Valyda anxiously anticipated these visits, ears pricking whenever the door was pushed open in the hopes Lyra would come waltzing in, draped in blue silks with whispers on her tongue. Lyra would smile at her whenever she came, and with each passing month, they each grew more accustomed to the other’s presence in their life. Mysaria never had time to talk about anything but business, but Valyda ached to know more of life outside of their little house by the Mud Gate, what King’s Landing was truly like, for she had only seen its dark secrets, and a part of her longed to know that wasn’t all the world had to offer. But Lyra brought flowers from the market, Lyra could tell funny stories and sing songs of romance and fairytales. She was a gateway into the brightness, the goodness in Westeros that Valyda never saw. 

Valyda had loved Lyra so much, that she had never noticed the truth. 

Her accent had been so thick that she struggled to say Valyda’s name. She claimed to have come from somewhere deep in Essos, but where exactly seemed to change in every story. Later in life, Valyda would realise that she probably hadn’t remembered - that Lyra had been stolen from her homeland, her memories lost to the sands of time until all she could do was guess at which marvellous city she could’ve once inhabited. Sometimes she came around with a broken lip or a black eye, blood drying upon her rosy cheeks, deep purple marks mottling the flesh at her throat. She would smile and everything would feel alright, but as a girl, Valyda had never realised what it must’ve taken out of Lyra to leave that house and trudge back up the hill, back to the den where they would beat her until her beauty was dented and pocked with bruises. Sometimes it would be worse than usual. And then it started to get worse every time. Once she came with an eye so swollen it would not open. She did not stay to talk that time.

That was the last time Valyda ever saw Lyra. 

She had been beautiful and kind, and then she was gone. Valyda asked her mother once what had happened, and Mysaria had said; “They must have killed her. It’s what men do when they find out their whores have been spying on them.” She had been scurrying around the ports one afternoon, hoping to find the names of any new arrivals in the city, when she found a body. Floating face down in the murky water, half tucked beneath the wooden walkways. The body was dressed in blue silks, torn and ragged down her back, golden hair brown with dirt, a huge clump torn from her bloody scalp. One pale arm floated outstretched, purple fingers bruised and broken at odd angles. Valyda had chased off the crabs with a stick, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn the body over, to gaze upon its face. Even if it had been Lyra, what good would it have done? She never told Mysaria. 

Nessa had her eyes - the way they had been when he had still been safe, when she had sung songs and brought flowers. Nessa laughed like someone uncorrupted by the world - like someone to whom happiness came freely and often. She didn’t deserve to be here, not in King’s Landing. “We should go back,” Valyda said. Mekkara was nibbling playfully at the tips of Nessa's fingers, and it took her a moment to tear her gaze away, the ghost of a smile still creasing her cheeks. 

“Really?” 

She nodded. “I’m hungry. We can come back tomorrow.” 

Nessa nodded slowly, pulling away from the dragon. With an affectionate scratch on her head, Valyda sent Mekkara lumbering back down into the pit, the sound of her uneven stomps echoing against the stone walls as the pair retraced their steps back outside and towards the Keep. 

They had given the Tullys their own chambers, as was often the case for guests and newcomers. Nessa’s bedroom was larger than Valyda’s entire house, and they perched opposite each other upon the windowsill, legs dangling as they ate from a silver tray of meats and cheeses, two goblets of wine close at hand. It was quiet here, even as they looked out over the city, risen too high for the din of the streets below to reach them. Night was falling, stars dotting the sky above, a cool, salty breeze blowing in from the harbour. Nessa’s hair seemed even redder in the deep blue light, the moon’s beams casting upon her cheeks and making her look so pale she was almost white. 

“What’s it like where you’re from?” Valyda asked, voice soft as she took a sip of wine. 

“Riverrun? Well, it’s not at all like here. It’s surrounded by water - you can look over the battlements and see the fishes,” She chuckled. “There’s fields and forests and marshes, it’s green everywhere, and my brothers go hunting for deer. The air smells different too - like grass and mud.” 

“I’d like to go.”

“I’ll show you it someday,” She smiled. 

“I know every inch of this city like the back of my hand, but I’ve never seen anywhere else. I can barely picture a place that isn’t like this.” 

Nessa raised a brow. “They let you go around on your own? Everywhere?” 

Valyda batted a hand. “Oh, they don’t care what I do,” It had always sounded good to her, but when she looked a Nessa her expression was drawn with sympathy. “What?” 

She shrugged, looking down into her cup as she swilled the wine around and around. “I don’t think they treat you as well as you deserve.” 

“I’m not interested in being anything like what they want. If it means they don’t like me… I don’t really mind it.” 

Nessa frowned, considering this for a while. “You never showed me your chambers earlier, when you took me around the Keep.”

What would she think of that little house down by the Mud Gate? With its uneven steps and low ceiling, its white-washed walls and shutters that never close? Would the Lady of Riverrun be disgusted, turn tail and run, refuse to even step inside? She couldn’t quite picture it, but the anxiety lingered. 

“Maybe tomorrow,” She rose from her perch, leaving the empty goblet behind. “You should sleep, you had a long journey. I’ll come back in the morning.” Turning on her heel, Valyda made for the door, reaching out to open it. 

“Please do,” Nessa’s voice came, making her pause. “I like you.” She added.  Valyda smiled to herself in the darkness of the hallway outside. No one had ever just liked her before. It felt good to be wanted by Nessa Tully.

Chapter 6

The repetitive clang of steel against steel filled the courtyard at the Red Keep as crowds amassed around the two Hightower boys, Aegon and Aemond taking swing after swing at each other, parrying each time to nods of approval from their audience of courtiers and noble boys. When they fought it was all bravado - their egos bolstering what talent they truly possessed, chests puffed as they exhibited extravagant swordsmanship that served more as a spectacle than real technique. 

Tucked away in a corner, Valyda practised alone, sweat beading on her brow as she jabbed at the canvas dummy, delivering precise blows to the throat, attacking the heart through the flesh of the underarm, training herself to target the weakest spots in a man’s armour. Sparring against what was little more than a scarecrow was admittedly less impressive than what the princelings had to show for themselves, but for Valyda sword fighting was just the latest in a wide array of combat techniques, many of which she had already mastered. Without a sword, the great Prince Aegon would have been unable to ward her off. She was no tourney knight - she would kill a man with her bare hands before she would reach for a blade. 

Perhaps it was for the best she went ignored. If the people of the court knew what she was truly capable of, they might start asking questions. 

But Valyda was not completely unseen. Perched in one of the brick alcoves that lined the courtyard, Nessa Tully watched on, her attention drawn between the fighting and the work of embroidery she held in her hands, dipping the needle back and forth through the fabric with meticulous detail. Valyda often found her frequenting such places - Nessa always said it reminded her most of Riverrun, of watching her older brothers spar with each other when they were younger. The constant thud of fighting was as familiar as the beating of her own heart, and places grew unnervingly quiet without it. 

“I didn’t know you could fight,” Nessa chirped, discarding her work as she wandered over, hands folded neatly behind her back. 

Valyda shrugged, letting her sword arm relax. “I don’t practice as often as I should,” She admitted. It wasn’t exactly a lie. It was just that most of her practice came from… practical experience. 

“I’ve been here six months, I’ve never seen you out here.” 

“Well, maybe you should look harder,” She teased. “I doubt you see much sitting over there.” 

A smirk curled the edges of Nessa’s mouth. “If you had been here, you’d know I don’t just sit over there.” 

“Oh really?” 

She nodded, a smile playing on her lips as she quickly tugged her hair back away from her face. Bending down, she seized one of the longbows from a nearby rack, slinging a quiver over her shoulder. When she moved with it, it was as if the weapon were an extension of her own arm, so naturally did it sit in her palm. Valyda’s brow furrowed as she watched Nessa hold the bow out in front of her, reaching over her shoulder to pluck an arrow, flowing smoothly as if the whole process were a single rehearsed action. Drawing the string back to the corner of her mouth, Nessa let her gaze wander for a moment, flashing a grin before releasing the bolt, which landed square in the centre of the canvas dummy’s chest. 

Valyda let out something between a laugh and a shriek, cheeks creased in a grin as she stepped closer to examine the shot. Nessa’s aim had been deliberate, exact, and like nothing she’d come to expect from her friend. 

“You didn’t tell me you could do that!” She exclaimed. 

“You didn’t ask,” Nessa shrugged, cheeks flushing pink. 

“Do it again.” 

Once again she took out an arrow, held it against the shaft of the bow, and sent it home with expert aim, burrowing the metal tip deep into the dummy’s head, right between where the eyes would be on a real man. 

And once again, Valyda demanded to be shown once more. 

This time Nessa’s eyes narrowed, her gaze surveying the courtyard for a more impressive target. She’d always been a good shot, better even than her brothers, but she’d never been a show-off. Not until now. Now she had someone she wanted to impress. Feeling Valyda’s expectant gaze upon her, Nessa smiled as she noticed another practice dummy on the other side of the courtyard, positioned in the far corner behind where the princes and their crowd had assembled. It was risky. If she hit one of the princes, the consequences would be dire. 

But Nessa had never doubted her skills before, and she wasn’t about to start now. 

Drawing back the bowstring, she noticed a look of alarm cross Valyda’s face as she realised what she was aiming for. Taking a deep breath, she centred herself, tuning out any possible distraction. She felt the solid ground beneath her feet, the slight breeze that blew through the yard. Wind’s coming in from the left. Adjust your shot. Every sound seemed to merge together into a single, droning whine, her heartbeat rising into her ears with a steady thump. There was nothing but her and the target. Nessa let the arrow fly. 

Yelps of shock rose from the crowds as the arrow zipped past their heads, slipping perfectly through the gap between the two princes, who both leapt back in surprise, clearing its path. The bolt lodged itself deep into the dummy’s head, and one by one each set of eyes turned to face the pair of girls on the other side of the yard. Nessa felt pride bubble in her chest, cheeks blazing red as Valyda let out a guffaw, their shoulders bumping together as they both began to laugh. 

It felt good to laugh, standing there with Nessa when they should have been cowering under the stern gazes of the princes and some two dozen courtiers. Valyda had met people in her life, the kinds of people who seemed to find humour in every little thing, who let out big, hearty, belly laughs at every joke, every slight, every accident. She had never been one of those people. She had been taught Mysaria’s view of the world, where everyone was either a target to be used, or an irrelevance to be ignored. Nothing in Valyda’s childhood had ever been done without a purpose, as part of some wider scheme she could never quite comprehend. Nothing had ever been done just for the joy of it, just to make her smile. 

But Nessa made her smile. 

Recovering her breath, she straightened herself, the ghost of a laugh still etched across her features. She watched Nessa for a moment, taking in the way her entire face seemed to glow when she smiled, her cheeks a rosy pink, her eyes a brighter green than she could swear she’d ever seen. Valyda’s gaze left her for a split second, only to see Prince Aegon, his glare thunderous, dangerous. Before he could open his mouth to speak, she seized Nessa’s arm, tugging her away from the scene as they discarded the bow and arrows. 

Fleeing the courtyard, they turned down a nearby corridor, Valyda’s hand still wrapped around Nessa’s elbow. Once they were out of sight, she was unable to restrain a snort, her expression splitting into a grin once more as Nessa collapsed into giggles beside her. 

“Did you see their faces ?!” Nessa cackled. “I thought they were going to call the guards on us.” 

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Valya asked, their arms swinging as they wandered down the hall. 

“Hunting parties. I realised the only way to spend time with my brothers was to do the same things they did, but I got pretty unpopular when they all realised I was better than them,” She smiled. 

Turning sideways on her heel, Nessa leaned her back against the wall. Tugging Valyda by the arm, they were only inches apart when their pacing stopped. Valyda was still smiling, her shoulder pressed against the cold stone as she watched Nessa - the curve of her nose, the tilt of her chin, the way her chest rose and fell as she breathed and the way her skin looked too smooth to have ever done a day’s work in her life. Nessa let her head loll to the side, facing her, a strand of bright red hair falling into her face. Valyda reached up to brush it away, the side of her finger briefly skirting across the warm skin of her cheek. Their noses were almost touching, they would barely have to move to close the gap. 

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway, resonating against the high stone arches as a pair of Queen Alicent’s handmaidens turned the corner, walking towards them. Valyda jerked away immediately, pushing herself away from the wall, expression shifting seamlessly, the flush in her cheeks seeping away as if she controlled the very flow of blood within her. The handmaidens barely spared them a glance, sweeping by and disappearing around the next corner, but she could feel Nessa’s stare, her gaze burning into the side of her face as Valyda refused to return it. She let out a sigh, pushing herself away from the wall. Valyda swore she sounded frustrated. 

“My brother wants to see me this afternoon, I should go,” Nessa said, skirts held up in balled fists as she strode down the hall. 

Valyda gnawed at the inside of her cheek, taking a step to follow her. “I’m sorry.” 

Nessa turned swiftly to face her, stopping her in her tracks. There was a placid smile plastered across her expression. “For what?” She asked, turning away again before Valyda could answer. 

She refused to follow, rooted to the spot until the last inch of Nessa’s skirt trailed from view, vanishing around the corner. She was kicking herself, cursing herself for being so… for being the girl she’d been trained to be. Valyda was ever wary of the fact that each day she spent with Nessa could be their last - that at any point her brother could find some nobleman to wed her and she could be shipped away to some far-flung corner of Westeros where they would never see each other again. They were both eighteen now, it was natural that marriage prospects would be flooding in for unwed noble girls. Yet it seemed unfair that some man could be entitled to her simply because of his money, his house, his standing. Nessa had a face like sculpted marble, gentle hands that could kill a thousand targets, a kind smile and a gentle laugh - what man deserved that? 

Of course, there had been no proposals for Valyda. She was no princess of the people, there was nothing to be gained through her hand except an unruly wife with a body littered with scars and a glare like a crossbow bolt to the chest. It was not something she was ashamed of - as a girl she had often wondered if she would be better suited to roaming the lands beyond the Wall with a pack of wildlings. She wasn’t opposed to the mere idea of having a husband, but she would certainly never be plucked like cattle to make babies for some Lord. 

She would be loved, or she would be left alone. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

The streets of King’s Landing were already growing dark when she made her way home from the Keep, but the city had never scared her. She knew its secrets infinitely better than any common thief or raper ever could, and had made it a rule back when she was twelve to always carry at least three knives concealed on her person, tucked away beneath the folds and layers of her clothing. On the rare instance anyone had tried to hurt her, they had regretted it swiftly. She could tear flesh with her teeth, knew precisely where to cut to ensure the slowest but surest death. She was the one the thieves and rapers should be afraid of. 

It was quiet inside the house when she entered, shrugging off her cloak as she bolted the door shut behind her. The faint golden blur of lamplight emanated from the next room as she slipped through, hoping to make it upstairs without rousing her mother’s attention. 

“Valyda,” Mysaria’s accented tone rang. Valyda’s teeth grated against each other as she entered the room, leaning against the doorway as her mother’s gaze rose from the papers on her desk. “I needed you today. You weren’t here.” 

“What did you need? I’ll do it now,” She offered, taking a step closer to survey the piles of notes that littered the table, all of which would inevitably be destroyed before the night’s end. 

“Too late. I had to get someone else to do it. You know that’s not what I expect of you.” 

Instinctively, Valyda wanted to object. She knew deep down she wasn’t Mysaria’s property, that she didn’t exist at her beck and call, that it wasn’t her duty to run her errands and serve her needs. But she found her tongue was stuck in her throat, the words unable to manifest. What would she be without Mysaria? A bastard nobody, resigned to the orphanages or the streets (it was unclear which was worse). Without Mysaria’s tutelage, she would be stupid and useless, as helpless and tame as the city’s washerwomen and whores, battered and bruised and at the mercy of bigger men. It was only because of Mysaria that Valyda was at nobody’s mercy. Nobody’s but her own mother’s. 

“I know you’ve been spending time with the Tully girl, I hope she’s not making you weak.” 

“She’s not,” Valyda hurriedly assured her. 

“Good. You need to be ruthless, you know that. When the time comes to discard her, I trust you will.” 

When the time comes? 

“It’s nothing, don’t worry. Next time you need me, I’ll be here.” 

She resented herself for saying it. It felt pathetic, to be at Mysaria’s whim. But it felt infinitely worse to disappoint her. 

“Good. Things are moving quickly, and we need our foot in the door. If you’re not bringing me information, you’re of no use to me. I can always find someone else to invest in - you can look after yourself now.” 

It seemed abnormally cold, even for her. But Mysaria had not been made to be a mother - there had never been anything motivating her to raise Valyda except the promise of future benefit, the assurance of loyalty that came with shared blood. The affection she showed her daughter existed out of spite, pouring false love out into the universe to prove she was better than Valyda’s father, to prove that she could get on without the help he had promised and then denied her. 

“Viserys expects me to show at the hunt next week,” Valyda said. “All of the noble families in the city are invited, he doesn’t want it to look like I’m being excluded.” 

“Very well. But once it’s over, your mission will begin.” 

Her brow rose, head tilting to the side. “What is my mission?” 

Mysaria took a deep breath, setting down the quill in her hand. She was frowning, a flicker of guilt crossing her expression. That scared Valyda more than anything. Her mother had sent her to the worst places the city had to offer and put her up against the cruellest people she’d ever seen, all without remorse for the toll it would take on her child. But whatever she had for her now must truly be something dreadful if it elicited even a hint of apprehension. Whatever it was, it would change her forever. Mysaria held out a hand, gesturing for her to approach. 

“Sit down, Valyda.”

Chapter 7

It was often the nature of the world to underestimate women. To assume they had gotten where they were with the help of men - fathers, husbands, brothers - to never look closer at what they really achieved. But to be a woman in Westeros was to claw and scrape for every little thing, to be ruthless and cruel and entirely self-serving to ever get anywhere in life. 

This was the way of the world that Mysaria knew well. She did not remember the day shackles were first clapped upon her wrists, but the years of enslavement were ones she would never truly be rid of, not in her mind. The constant sway of the slavers’ ship, the crack of whips, the sobs the women tried to suppress as their babies were torn from their breasts and handed to the Unsullied. Most mothers complain of the sleep they lose in the first months of their child’s life, constantly roused by its tears, but Mysaria had not slept before Valyda’s birth, and she did not sleep now, when her daughter was grown and capable of soothing her own nightmares. When she closed her eyes she could smell the salt water, hear the monotonous creaks of the ship’s decks above, and feel the press of foreign men’s hands upon her skin. It was easier to keep the ghosts at bay when she was awake, when she was making every effort possible to ensure they would hurt just as she had. 

Valyda’s birth was an opportunity, a tool thrust into her lap to aid her revenge. It had been years in the waiting, years when even her warped conscience could not justify sending a child to the ships, to the markets, to the faraway shores of Essos alone. But time had passed, and word had arisen of her old slave master’s ship being sighted off the shores of Westeros, docking in the ports at night where they thought no one could see, the master growing old and fat in his indulgence. No one would notice yet another dark-haired young woman in their midst. 

It had scarcely taken any convincing to align Valyda with her cause, for the girl to hold out her hand and give away her freedom. For they were both of them girls born of vengeance, raised to hate and to hurt. And Mysaria was her mother. Even in their worst moments, Valyda would have never passed an opportunity to avenge the wrongs she had suffered. 

And so it was to be. Come nightfall, she would discard her freedom on the shores of King’s Landing and board the ship, a spy out in the open, for no one cared to look at slaves. She would pass on information to spies at every port, and little by little they would bring Mysaria’s tormentors to their knees. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

In the woods beyond the City, parties gathered in the clearing, lords from as far-flung as Oldtown and Casterly Rock astride their horses as squires and servants scurried about, ensuring their masters were well-equipped with enough weapons and wine for the hunt ahead. 

King Viserys sat in the doorway to his great tent, too weakened in his age to partake in the afternoon’s slaughter, but always one to enjoy watching over the fun of his people as they revelled in their victories. The Queen was undoubtedly somewhere inside, always at her husband’s side for fear of his health, but without the stomach for the violence that these men considered entertainment. 

Valyda strode from her tent, adjusting her gloves as she tried to quash the pit of dread growing in her stomach. She felt she would vomit if she considered too greatly the weight of the task ahead, that by nightfall she would be sneaking aboard a slavers’ ship and setting sail for who knew how long. A huge fire was burning in the middle of the makeshift camp, bathing her in its warmth as she passed it, watching keenly to find where her horse was kept waiting for her. 

The great lords would not hunt alongside her, for although she was a princess she remained a bastard and an outsider to all noblemen concerned. And above all else, she was a woman. They would never be seen providing a woman ample opportunity to outshine their hunting prowess, and as such their party would carry on separately with all of the best weapons, the most servants and the finest food for the journey, and trek the best trails that practically guaranteed sightings of deer and other beasts for them to kill. Valyda would have to settle for their leftovers - for the sparser areas of woodland, the flimsier weapons, and the watery ale that the squires left behind. 

“Valyda!” Nessa’s voice came from behind her as she reached her horse, tightening the saddle straps with one hand as she craned her neck to look at her. When their eyes met, it was as if a crossbow bolt had pierced her flesh and burrowed straight into her heart. It seemed almost unfathomable that today would be their last together, that by the time Valyda returned from her mission Nessa could have been married off and shipped away to some corner of Westeros where she would never see her again.

But for now, it was enough that they were here. No one suited this place quite like Nessa, her wild red hair pulled tightly away from her face, her trusty longbow clutched in her hand. Here it was easy to picture her back at Riverrun, accompanying her brothers on hunts through the marshes and the forests. It seemed she was born to be in a place like this. 

“You’re late,” Valyda teased, hauling herself up by the stirrup to straddle her horse’s back. Nessa scoffed, clambering onto her own mount beside her, adjusting the quiver of arrows on her back. 

“And yet you waited,” She pointed out. “You’ll never catch the stag now.” 

Valyda shrugged. “I’ll live. No matter what we catch today we’ll still have to listen to the lords brag over dinner.” 

Kicking their horses into motion, she ducked her head as they breached the treeline, trailing along through bushes and rarely trodden paths to peruse the areas of the forest where there was little wildlife to be found. No one expected them to find anything - their party was tiny compared to the others, the two ladies accompanied by only a handful of guards and a single squire, who looked no older than thirteen, the group of men lingering out of earshot just behind them. But all in all, it was more desirable to catch nothing than to accidentally wander into the area hunted by the main party and end up with an accidental arrow to the chest. 

With a grunt, Valyda tugged at the reins, veering her horse back onto the trail. “I’ve not practised this in years, I’m shit at riding.” 

“You’re perfectly fine. I’ll tie ours together if you’re so worried about yours running away,” Nessa chuckled. 

“You’re not leading me around this forest like a dog.”

“Might be the only chance we get to actually hunt something, you’ll scare everything off with your complaining.” 

Valyda shook her head, smirking as she yanked at the flask tied to her saddle, lifting it to her lips and taking a long sip of ale. Somewhere beyond the trees, they heard a cheer rise from the other party, the sudden commotion frightening the still woodland around them as birds took flight from the branches above, and a hare darted across the path ahead. Her instincts quick and sharp, Nessa plucked an arrow from her quiver, stringing her bow and firing swiftly before the hare made it to the bushes that would shelter it on the other side. As the arrowhead ripped through its small body, the beast let out a pained yelp, collapsing into the dirt as it pawed at the ground, trying to drag itself to safety. 

Nessa began to dismount, but Valyda was faster. “I’ll get it,” She said, slipping from the saddle and stepping forward, lifting the hare by its muzzle. The creature writhed in her grip for a moment before she reached out, wrapping gloved fingers around its neck and feeling its fragile bones break with a harsh snap under her grip. The hare stopped moving. Sometimes she despised herself for how easy she found it to kill. What crime had this beast committed except that of being afraid? 

“Well, we have something,” Valyda called back to her companion as she approached, handing the hare’s body to one of the guards, who tied its little feet together and hung it from a loop on his saddle. 

Pushing herself back up onto the horse, they continued to move, travelling slowly through the woodland until they reached a clearing. It was a small area, a dirt circle barren of bushes, remnants of a firepit from an old hunt still left in its centre. When she looked up, the sunlight came pouring through, the clouds opening up above, the blue sky mixing like paint into shades of lilac and pink as the sun began its descent somewhere on the horizon. It was eerily silent here, nothing but the occasional huff or scrape of hooves piercing the veil that seemed to fall over it. They lingered here, and Valyda took a long, deep breath, savouring the smell of dew upon the leaves. 

Suddenly, a scream rang out from somewhere in the bushes, no more than a hundred metres beyond the treeline. Each of the party members snapped their gazes in its direction, waiting with bated breath for another sound. When a second cry sounded, the guards pulled out their swords, Valyda’s fist wrapping around the hilt of her own blade. As the group began to run back through the trees towards it, she made to follow, but Nessa reached out, pressing a hand to her shoulder. 

“Stay here,” She ordered, bow clutched tightly in her hand, ready to fight. 

“You know I can fight, I’m coming with you,” Valyda protested. 

“Someone needs to stay with the horses. Please ,” There was something unspoken in her gaze, something desperate in those eyes, something that rooted Valyda to the ground and made her stick. And as she watched Nessa disappear through the trees, she couldn’t will herself to move. 

The minutes felt like hours in that clearing, the silence suffocatingly thick, oppressive, as if it were pressing down on her chest. There were no birds here, no animals rustling in the bushes behind her, no life except the horses, which grew more and more restless with each passing moment. Valyda crouched down on a nearby rock, clasping her sword with both hands as she waited, unmoving, barely breathing, her finger tapping nervously against the blade’s metal hilt. 

She had heard nothing since they left. Perhaps that was worse than the screams. Screams were sure, silence was ominous. 

A twig cracked somewhere in the bushes across the clearing. Valyda’s gaze snapped towards it, her heart suddenly caught in her throat. Slowly rising to her feet, she gripped the blade with both hands, feeling her palms grow sweaty beneath the fabric of her gloves. Holding the sword out in front of her, she sidled into the middle of the clearing, squaring her shoulders and preparing to defend herself. 

Valyda had never been hunted before. All her life, even when she was a child, she had been the hunter. The figure lurking in the shadows, watching and waiting, tracking every move and waiting for a chance to strike, to drive home and draw blood. But out here she was vulnerable. This was not her home, not a place where she could hold the upper hand. It was not until Nessa had left that she realised how out of her depth she was, alone in these woods. But she wasn’t alone now. Now, something was watching her. 

With a deep, guttural growl, the bear emerged from the bushes, lumbering forward on huge, padded feet, its legs like tree trunks, its body thick and taught with muscle, its eyes dark and hungry. As it bore its teeth, a string of saliva dripped from the corner of its mouth, swinging with every step as it approached, watching Valyda with its beady stare. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Nothing in her life had ever thrown her so violently off balance as this. In all her years of training, Mysaria had convinced her that she was prepared for anything, that she was the weapon, the monster that men should fear. But how could Valyda be anything at all against a beast such as this? 

She took a tentative step back, pressing her heel into the rotting detritus that covered the forest floor. Something snapped loudly beneath her foot. Before she even had the time to wince, the bear growled again, gnashing its teeth. She saw now that its mouth was full of blood. So this was why they had been screaming. 

A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead and into her eye. Blinking it away hurriedly, Valyda’s head twitched as she took another step. Her mind was racing too fast to catch up, even for her. There was nothing here, nothing in her mind or memory that explained to her what she should do, where she should go. Her consciousness was consumed by the beast that lurched before her, her thoughts reduced to mulch in its presence. In its eyes, it seemed to know that there was nothing she could do. The bear did not cower or flinch even in the face of her sword. It was so great, so strong, she would not have been surprised if it snapped the blade in half with its paws. 

Her foot hit the ground again. 

Snap . 

It seemed this was the final straw. Opening its mouth to roar, the beast leapt forward, stretching itself upwards onto its rear legs, fangs and claws bared like a thousand deadly blades. Valyda staggered backwards, tripping on an exposed root and landing painfully on her back in the dirt, letting the sword slip from her hand in her panic. Eyes wide, chest heaving, she was unable to tear her gaze from the creature even as her hands scrambled wildly for the sword’s hilt, its body curling downwards, looming over her as if preparing to dive, to land atop her and rip her limb from limb. 

With a final roar, it lunged towards her. Valyda opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. It was as if, in all those years of training, she had forgotten how to feel fear. As if her body were working entirely independently of her brain, her arm lifted the blade, plunging it deep into the beast’s belly. But at that exact moment, an arrow came flying from somewhere in the trees, embedding itself deep into the bear’s neck, blood spurting like a terrible fountain, gushing from its throat and mouth as it keeled over. 

Letting go of the sword’s hilt, she rolled over to her side the moment it fell, narrowly avoiding the corpse that would have undoubtedly crushed her, breaking her bones with no more difficulty than she had snapped the neck of the hare mere hours before. Arms raised to shield her face, Valyda froze for a long moment, her breath ragged as she finally peeled them away from her eyes, blinking rapidly, her hair full of dirt and twigs, hanging in front of her face and obscuring her vision. When she brushed it away, she saw Nessa standing at the edge of the clearing, her face panic-stricken, arms still raised, bow in hand from where she had taken that masterful shot. 

They stared at each other for what felt like forever, their wide-eyed gazes meeting in horror. But there was something softening there. Nessa had followed the beast all the way here. In a way, it had brought her back to Valyda. And without it, she would surely be dead. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Valyda was in her tent, washing the dirt from her hair as darkness began to fall over the camp, the timer in her mind running down slowly, every minute slipping away and dragging her close and closer to the moment she had to leave. The main hunting party had returned with a stag and an array of hares and pheasants, but the moment they dragged that bear into camp they had secured victory for the day. She combed her fingers through her hair, plucking out stray pieces of dead leaves and twigs, so engrossed that she almost didn’t notice the flap of her tent open behind her. 

She saw Nessa’s reflection in the mirror first. Tentatively creeping inside, she smiled almost nervously as she caught Valyda’s gaze. “I’ll be presentable in a minute, wait outside,” Valyda chuckled, tossing another piece of detritus into the bowl on her dressing table. 

“You really fucking scared me, Valyda,” Nessa said. There was no pretence here, no teasing glint in her tone. 

“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t made me stay with the horses,” She pointed out. It hadn’t been intended as a slight, but when she turned she could tell her words had hurt. 

“I didn’t-... I wanted you to stay because I needed you to be safe. I can’t concentrate when I think you’re in danger.” 

I would’ve been fine . She wanted to say. I wanted to fight with you . But as Valyda stepped forward to speak, she found she was unable to say a word, for the moment her lips parted, Nessa’s hands pressed against her cheeks and she kissed her. Valyda breathed in sharply, frozen for a moment, feeling the warmth of Nessa’s breath against her face, the press of their bodies against each other. Most noble girls had their first kiss with a young knight or a handsome squire - a girlish impulse that they would giggle about amongst their friends as they fantasized about their future lives as ladies in huge castles with husbands and gaggles of children. She didn’t doubt it had happened to Nessa once, years ago back at Riverrun. It was unheard of for a princess of eighteen to have never been kissed - even if the truth would have shamed their fathers, it remained the truth nonetheless. But here Valyda was like a newborn foal, unsure on her feet as she staggered awkwardly to return the gesture. Had she wanted this? She realised that she had, almost desperately so, from the day they first met. And for a brief, shining moment, she was free of the girl Mysaria had made her. 

But in doing so, she had broken her vow. 

“When the time comes to discard her, I trust you will.” 

She wanted to cry. What kind of godforsaken mess had Nessa turned her into? A pining teenager when she should have been a weapon. A grinning fool when she should have been a cold killer. And despite all of it, she knew that it was time to go, that she truly had no choice, that no matter how she felt she would still tear herself away if it meant she could do her mother’s bidding. Valyda felt like a puppet on a string, unable to snap the threads that bound her, that tugged her every which way without any say in the matter. Because if she severed those lines, what did she become? Who was she if she was not needed, if she was not depended upon? 

Nessa broke the kiss after a moment, her eyes somehow even greener up close. A grin spread across her lips, and when she spoke it was scarcely more than a whisper. “We’ve got to be careful. My brother says there are spies everywhere. We can’t have the Black Worm knowing, we’ll get in all kinds of trouble.” 

“I am the Black Worm,” The words slipped out before she could stop them, and for a moment Valyda felt her heart cease its beating in her chest, panic rising in her throat. It all happened too quickly for the smile on her face to even fade, for the alarm to even register in her eyes. 

But then Nessa laughed. She doesn’t believe you . It was all Nessa could do not to breathe a sigh of relief. As her hands pulled away from Valyda’s face, she stepped back towards the tent flap. “I need to go take a bath, I’ll see you later?” 

She almost nodded, then stopped herself, feeling her heart turn solid like a rock, sinking deeper and deeper and settling somewhere painful in her stomach. “Nessa?” 

Pausing, she turned her head. “Yes?” 

“I’ve got something I need to do in the City, I need to go.”

“Now? But it’s late, you can go tomorrow.”

Valyda shook her head. “I can’t, it’s urgent. It’s for my mother… you understand?” 

Nessa was frowning, but she nodded slowly. “I understand.” 

“I’ll see you soon, ok?” 

Forcing a smile, she nodded once more, firmly this time. “Yes.” 

She wanted to sob. As Nessa left the tent, disappearing from sight, she wanted to scream and cry and tear at the fabric walls that surrounded her until there was nothing left but tatters. But she had a job to do. There was no use pretending that she wasn’t frightened, but revenge kindled a fire somewhere deep within her that kept her from turning around and running, from staying here, from betraying her mother. 

It was a short ride from the camp to the city gates, and an even shorter one from the gates to the dragonpit. If there was one thing in the world she could control, Valyda would not leave this city without saying goodbye to Mekkara. 

The dragon was curled up comfortably in the corner of the pit when she entered, raising her head immediately, as if she had sensed her presence. She had grown into a huge beast these past few years, but with a pleased squawk, she bounded towards Valyda as if she were still a pup, delighted to see its mother. 

“Hello, girl,” Valyda chuckled, lifting one hand to cup Mekkara’s chin, the other stroking the scales that lined her snout. She rested her cheek against it, feeling heat radiate through the smooth white scales. Mekkara let out something like a purr, as if she were a huge, grotesque cat. How she would miss her. 

“I have to go for a while, but you’ll be good whilst I’m away, won’t you? Don’t eat anyone, or I’ll be very angry when I get back.” 

The dragon whined, as if she understood her words. Perhaps somehow she did. Nevertheless, it hurt to pull away, to leave her there in that pit, to leave her without a rider for as long as it took to exact her vengeance. In a way, this mission was not only revenge for Mysaria, but for herself as well. If Mysaria had never been taken, never been tortured and twisted into a shell of her former self, Valyda never would have fallen victim to her coldness. Maybe she would have known a true mother, maybe she would never have had to leave those she loved, as she was doing now. It was revenge for the life she could have had without them, for the girl she could have been, the childhood she could have had. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

The docks were shrouded in a thick blanket of darkness, the torches that usually burned through the night doused by the slavers in an effort to further conceal their precious cargo. A line of prisoners trudged weakly in a long, twisting row down narrow alleyways and dark passages, taking the most concealed route as the poor souls were marched down towards the ship that would seal their gruesome fates. 

Valyda had dressed herself in a brown smock that resembled little more than a potato sack, her shoes discarded and her hair mussed until she looked almost as decrepit as the others in that horrible group. One of the master’s lackeys trailed at the end of the line, watching his prisoners closely, a whip held tightly in his fist. If she wanted to join them, she needed to distract him. 

As the line passed beneath a narrow bridge, she tossed a rock from where she hid, shrouded in the darkness. The clatters drew his attention, and he stepped away just long enough for Valyda to slink over the railing and down into the alley, joining the rear of the group and thanking the gods that the slave girl who was now in front of her looked similar enough that the man would not notice this new addition. 

They trailed down to a lone jetty, shrouded in the shadow of a huge rock that protruded from the shoreline. The slavers’ ship was concealed here, torches blazing upon the deck as they approached, the slaves lined up to enter the hold, ready to be taken across the Narrow Sea to some unknown land, to sail further than Valyda had ever imagined. She was led up the ramp onto the deck, glancing up at the hills above one last time, the turrets of the Red Keep just visible over the rocks. All of this went on right under Viserys’ nose, under her father’s nose. Would they care now that one of their own was in shackles? 

She almost made it to the hold’s opening, a trapdoor in the deck covered with thick metal bars, when she felt a sweaty palm on the skin of her arm. Turning her head, fat fingers grasped at her chin, and she was face to face with one of the slavers, beady eyes scanning her features as his rancid breath fanned her face, making her want to gag. 

“Valyrian eyes…” He murmured, before a twisted grin spread across his face, exposing the rotting gaps in his teeth. “We’re in luck boys! This one’ll sell for a pretty penny!” 

A few of them cheered, the others leering at her in ways that made her want to squirm as she felt a dozen eyes roaming every inch of her. As the slaver let go of her face, he shoved her shoulder roughly, sending her scurrying down the ladder into the hold below. The trap door shut above her head, and they were plunged into darkness, the only sounds the muffled laughter of the captors above, the faint sobbing of the prisoners, and the creak of wooden boards against the waves outside. It smelled of sea salt and vomit down there, and she felt her feet sink into a few inches of ice-cold water as she reached the bottom of the ladder, searching for a place among the slaves to crouch and wait out the voyage. 

What have I gotten myself into? 

It was here, rotting in the cold, stinking hold of a slavers’ ship, that Valyda would realise the true price of her mother’s love. Suffering. 

Chapter 8

The ship’s hold stank of mould and salt, sickness and sweat, the relentless sway against the waves an assault upon her senses, as if her brain were rattling around in her skull. Valyda’s first few days at sea were consumed by delirium, the slits of sunlight creeping through the boards above appearing multiplied in her blurred vision, a constant hammering somewhere in her head which only relented long enough to allow her to be sick, craning her head into the filthy, stinking barrel that each of the prisoners unloaded their stomachs when the seasickness came for them. There was nothing she could do but lay in the pool of filthy water that filled the base of the hull, ebbing in and out of consciousness, waking from her sleep only to be sick again, the bilge clinging to her skin and hair. But her stomach was empty, she had not been fed in two days, and with each heave, she felt the lining of her stomach swell and ache, her body desperate for food but all at once repelled by it. 

Is this how I die? Wallowing in a pool of saltwater and vomit and piss, barely lucid in the middle of the Narrow Sea? 

Each time she surrendered to sleep it became harder to jolt herself awake again, terrified that if she closed her eyes she would not open them again, that they would dig out her corpse from the mass of aching bodies and throw her overboard, her flesh devoured by sea beasts, her bones left to rest on the rocky ocean floor. Perhaps death would have been a sweet relief, a relinquishment of this sickness that consumed her, an end to the fever and the retching, the shivering and the relentless throbbing pain. 

Valyda broke from her trance with a jolt as something thudded against the hull outside, right by her head. She barely had the time to move before the nausea consumed her again, rolling over in the water to heave and gag, her stomach finally purged of its contents, the motion rubbing her throat raw. As if coming up to breathe, she let out a sob, running a hand through her matted hair, squinting in the dimness. Suddenly she felt someone’s hand on her arm and recoiled sharply, pressing her back against the rough, splintered board behind her. 

“Ssh,” A voice came, and as the figure shuffled forwards into the light that spilt through a gap in the boards above, she could finally see her face. The woman’s face was tired from age and exhaustion, knelt forward as she held out a hand to her. Her skin was browned, her hair black like Valyda’s, but her eyes were a deep and dark brown, like bottomless pools, round and kind. She could not have been much older than Mysaria, but it was clear she had known hardship from the wrinkles that lined her face and the scars that littered her shoulders. Her stomach swelled with child. 

“Ssh,” The woman cooed again, and Valyda accepted her hand, letting the woman tip her on her side, resting her head gently in her lap, her head pressed against the bulge of her baby. Her fingers found her hair, stroking soft lines across her scalp. “ You will be well, ” She spoke in Myrish, her voice warm and sweet. “ This will all pass .” 

She grew suddenly aware of the sensation of something crawling across her foot, and with a kick, a damp, disease-ridden rat was sent careening across the room with a terrible screech. Evidently, someone had stolen the boots off her feet during her last bout of feverish sleep. Valyda groaned as the ship lurched to one side, and the woman stroked her hair again, rubbing her bare arm with her hand until a patch of warmth began to blossom upon her damp shoulder. “ Thank you ,” She croaked, her Myrish accent refined from years of practice.

The woman craned her head, peering down at her, and smiled as if she had already accepted their fates. “You’re not Westerosi, you have the skin of an Eastern girl. But your eyes… I’ve heard of them in songs.” 

“My father is Valyrian,” Valyda said, her throat rubbed raw from days of dry heaving. “He’s a prince.” 

All at once the woman’s expression hardened. She dipped her head, leaning in close to Valyda’s ear, her voice coming as a whisper. “Never tell anyone that again. If they know what you are, they will raise the price, sell you to one of the expensive pleasure houses. The merchants will mock you and pay mountains of gold to be allowed to rape you. They like to spit in the face of the Targaryens in Essos.” 

She thought she might be sick again, but there was no energy left in her body to even let her roll her head. Valyda stared up at the woman as she corrected herself, pulling away as if she had never said a thing, feeling the blood drain from her cheeks, a shiver running up her spine that for once didn’t come from the fever. “If they come for me, I will tear out their throats with my teeth and pluck out their eyes with my nails.” 

The woman chuckled, pressing the back of her hand to Valyda’s forehead. “Beautiful girl, promise me you will be careful.” 

Who was she to ask for her oath? To make her swear? She was unbound, never owing anything to anyone. Or at least that’s what she told herself. Lately, it seemed all she did was to please another. 

“I will do what I must,” She said. It wasn’t quite what the woman had asked, but she wouldn’t lie to her, that would be poor payment for her kindness. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

The other captives in the hold estimated they were still a few days away from reaching Essos the first time Valyda was called up onto the deck. Her seasickness had largely subsided, but the feverish sheen of sweat that coated her skin seemed to rise and dissipate in flushes. Still, she could be certain she stank like an animal the first time she saw the sky, the bright sunlight bouncing off the waves and making her squint, jarring after growing accustomed to the darkness down below.  

The blue sky reminded her of Nessa, of the dresses she wore, and the way the sun reflected upon her red hair until it looked like her whole scalp was on fire. She wondered what the girl was doing now. Maybe she was praying for her. She hoped so. 

“There she is!” One of the slavers yapped as she emerged. Valyda had to blink a few times, raising her hand to blot out the sun, before she could see him. He had heavy, dropping jowls covered in unevenly shaved stubble, his eyes deep set back into his skull, teeth various shades of yellow and black. “We finally found a pretty one, she’ll do well at the market.” 

She had been raised to infiltrate without raising suspicion, but even Valyda found it strange that not one of them had questioned where she had come from, when she had arrived. Then it struck her that they must have had no idea who dwelled in the disgusting ship’s hold - it made no difference who they were, as long as they could be sold. What did it matter where the slaves came from as long as they made good coin? 

The slaver rose from where he sat atop a nearby barrel, and as his uneven body shifted she noticed a whip hanging from his belt, worn and stained from years of use. “You could at least show us something . Men like us get bored from weeks at sea.” He stepped closer, too close, his foul breath fanning her face. The men around them chuckled, leering with their hideous expressions and crooked smiles. “Take off your clothes.” 

Valyda had allowed herself one look around the moment she had climbed up through the trap door, one glance at the expanse of sea around them. Did they mean to rape her? To pass her around as a means of passing the time? She would not let them. She would fight her way to the ledge and dive over into the waters if it meant she would be spared that fate. 

Taking a deep breath, her teeth sunk into the inside of her cheek until she drew blood. “No.” 

The slaver’s eyes grew dark, his grin turning to a snarl. “No?” He repeated. In a single motion, he reached up and tore at her sleeve, the fabric falling out of place and almost exposing her chest. In a single, instinctual movement, Valyda rose her arm, a loud crack echoing across the deck as the back of her hand collided with the man’s cheek. 

It was silent for a moment, the slavers watching on, some with slack jaws, some with hateful stares. Seizing her shoulder with his stubby, dirty fingers, the man shoved her face forward onto the wooden floor, raising his whip. This crack rang louder, and Valyda felt the skin of her back split open in a long, bloody gash. Her flinch was real. The tears that followed were not. She would pick her battles - show weakness only when she thought it might help her case. If she cried now, maybe he wouldn’t hit her again. She could feel warm drops of blood running down her back, mingling with her sweat in the afternoon sun. 

“Oi!” A gruff voice rang out, and the men around her seemed to stop in their tracks. Valyda dared to look, peering through the corner of her eye, turning her head just a fraction in the hopes that no one would notice. 

The door to the captain’s cabin had been flung open, and out trudged the fattest man she had ever seen, robed in layers of yellow and orange and red, dripping with jewels at both wrists, an earring hanging from his right lobe. His head was so bald that it shone in the light like a polished stone, but from his chin sprouted a huge grey beard, curling in ringlets down to his stomach. His voice was gravelly and worn, as if from years of shouting commands to these men. 

“If you lift the whip to that girl again, I’ll feed you to the fucking gulls,” The man wheezed, his knuckles turning white from gripping the bannister as he descended the stairs onto the deck. “You think our customers want damaged goods? Fucking fools .” 

It was him. Valyda could feel it in her bones that it was him, her mother’s old captor of days gone by, bejewelled and pleased with himself for all of his indulgences. She felt his fat, fleshy hand grip her chin, letting him guide her to her feet. “Do you still have your maidenhead, girl?” 

She fought the urge to furrow her brow. “...Yes.” 

“Good. We can sell that. Now get back down below and don’t cause trouble, or next time I’ll let them do what they want with you.” 

Valyda could feel trails of warm blood running down her back as she turned away, fists clenched until her knuckles whitened. How desperately she had wanted to kill him, to make him regret ever laying eyes upon her, ever putting his fingers to her skin. But what could she do? She had no blade, and they would kill her before any bite or scratch could make a difference. She thought of the way her mother had filed her nails into the claws that night at the fighting pits, how easy it had been then to tear at flesh, even for a child. The other poor souls confined to the brug looked up at her as she trudged down the steps, eyes trailing the bloody gashes that littered her back as she passed. The Myrish woman held out her arms to her, but she shook her head, crouching beside her in the dampness. This was simply something that she would bear - it would do no good to go crying to this woman, this woman who grew a life inside her, a life that would be born into chains. 

All at once, the wind struck the sails with a harsh gust, the boat lurching forward violently as the captives let out yelps of shock and fear. Up on deck, she could hear the men crying “Dragon! Dragon!”, but just as soon as the chaos had begun it subsided, the sea beneath them falling still again. Valyda turned to the woman with a frown. 

She shook her head, hands folded calmly over her bulging stomach. “Do not take it to heart. Men grow superstitious at sea, and think they see things that are not there. They will blame nature on any manner of beast.” 

Valyda was not so certain.

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

They reached Pentos at the crack of dawn, seagulls swooping listlessly and noisily above as they were led outside one by one. The sun did not hurt her eyes as it did the others, for she had spent much of the past few days watching the sky through the slats in the floorboards, wishing for any sign of those great winged beasts, watching for their dark silhouettes amongst the clouds. Could the woman have been right? Could it truly have been nought but the wind and the imaginations of tired sailors? It had felt real to her. Perhaps she too was losing her mind. 

The market was set up in the harbour, rows and rows of wooden stages for each merchant to hawk his wares, boasting everything from luscious silks to a line of Unsullied. Valyda’s gaze wandered to the Myrish woman, who rubbed at her belly with shackled hands, watching the soldiers with wary eyes. Would that be her child’s fate? Its brains dashed against these cobblestones in front of its own mother for the sake of some twisted ritual? She had heard only stories of the Unsullied, but surely for so many to have accused them of such vile crimes there must have been some truth in it. It was hard not to crane her neck as they walked, for she had never seen anything like this place - huge manses and towers of yellow and red stone, domed rooves reaching up towards the clouds, a thousand animals and foods she had never seen before around every corner. Had she not been a prisoner, it might have been exciting.

Up ahead, the empty wooden stage rose at the top of a small flight of steps, men dripping with jewels and expensive fabrics already stood waiting for the slaves to arrive. Valyda’s wounds had begun to heal and scab over, but every time she moved her shoulders she felt the skin stretch uncomfortably, tugging at the new flesh that was yet to fully grow. Moved into place upon the stage, she struggled not to wince as the sun shone directly into her eyes, making green and purple blots in her vision as she kept her head held high, careful not to make eye contact with any of these men. If there was one thing she was not accustomed to, it was the heat , searing and relentless as it bore down upon them without a lick of shade for shelter. Even in the sweaty hull of the slavers’ ship, the sea wind that permeated the gaps in the boards had kept them cool, but here she could feel her hair stick uncomfortably to the back of her neck, her shackled hands keeping her from flicking a fat horse fly off of her shoulder before it could bite her. 

Men turned and craned their heads to listen as the slavers began barking their prices, showing off the slaves to their customers - the men’s muscles, the women’s hair, the children’s strong teeth - as if they were cattle at auction, bred to work and serve. Valyda was the last in line, as if they had saved their best catches for the end, but she had been so focused on avoiding the eyes of leering men, of keeping her gaze trained on the heavens so that they would not see the purple eyes that made her all the more valuable, that she had not noticed when the slaver came up behind her, seizing her chin between his fingers. The motion had startled her, and for a moment her wide eyes scanned the crowd as he roughly tilted her face down towards them. 

He had not finished his sales speech before the men began reaching for their coin, each vying to get their hands on a real Valyrian. But before any of them could even call out, her gaze met a man’s eyes and his hand was raised, naming his price. 

It was leagues more gold than the slavers could have hoped for in their tiny minds, and for a moment the market was still and quiet, mouths hung slack as people watched on as the man stepped forward to claim her. He was not a handsome man, his short beard dyed a garish green, the rest of the hair upon his head falling in dark ringlets shiny with sweat, but it only took a glance to know he was dripping with wealth - golden earrings lined the entire length of each ear, emeralds and rubies hanging from his neck, almost buried in the layers of silks he wore that rippled with every step. He could not have been more than ten years her elder, still a young man in his own right, yet the elderly merchants practically leapt from his path as he stepped forward, climbing up onto the stage without invitation. 

The slaver held out his grubby hand greedily, grin exposing rotted teeth as the man handed over a hefty pouch of gold, the slaver’s arms dragged down by its weight. The buyer took the key himself, and for the briefest of moments Valyda thought he was lifting it to unlock the heavy metal collar that hung around her neck, but he simply separated her from the slave beside her, gently tugging at her chains to beckon her to follow him. In a moment of hesitation, her eyes found the Myrish woman, who had already been staring at her, her deep brown eyes betraying no sadness. She nodded stiffly at her. Valyda wondered what the woman knew, why she did not look at this man with the same fear she looked at the others. But there was no time to ponder before the slaver delivered a kick to the back of her heel, urging her onward. 

“He’s paid good gold for you, now you go with him or I’ll give you to the brothels instead.” 

She would not look at him, not even as his warm, damp breath fanned the side of her face, the stench of his rotting gums making her nose shrivel. Shoulders pushed back, Valyda followed the green-bearded man, chains clanging noisily with every step as she dismounted the stage and the crowd parted for them as he led her away and up the winding streets into the heart of Pentos.

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Never in all of King’s Landing had she seen a manse as enormous as this one. It looked like it could have fit Maegor’s Holdfast within it ten times over and there would still have been room for the huge central courtyard, bracketed with great palm trees, a huge fountain bubbling away in its centre. The place was so large that once they entered, the noise of the busy streets outside died instantly, smothered by the sheer expanse of it, lost in the pockets of air encased in each of its hundreds of rooms. It was difficult to keep her wits about her as she was led through. She suspected the effect was intentional. 

For the duration of the walk here from the port, the man had not held onto her chains even once, and showed no concern at the prospect of escape. But the heavy shackle at her neck remained connected to the chains around her ankles, and Valyda expected that even someone as skilled as her could not have run far without tripping in them. The sun hit the plants that filled the courtyard in a myriad of greens, the scent of flowers meeting her nose. How jarring it seemed to smell anything other than seawater, sweat and vomit. 

“Jarrah!” He barked, snapping his ring-encrusted fingers at a passing slave girl, her chains jangling as she scurried forward. The girl could not have been more than twenty, but she was certainly beautiful, with silver hair cascading past her shoulders and half-covering the matching collar that encased her pale throat. “Have her bathed and dressed,” The man nodded, turning to look at Valyda for the first time since the market. “Your name?” 

“Valyda.” 

The corner of his mouth turned upwards in an almost smile. “Good,” He nodded, then snapped his fingers again, gesturing for Jarrah. The girl wrapped her hand gently around Valyda’s arm, tugging her away from the courtyard towards the shade and through a doorway. The corridor seemed to run on for an impossibly long time, but when they reached its end it opened out into a large, dim room, its ceiling low, brick walls exposed unlike the painted frescos outside. There was a row of baths in the centre of the room, water heating over the great hearth as two more women stoked its flames. The slave women all dressed in loose, cool fabric, a welcome relief against the sweltering Pentoshi heat, and all wore the same chains - collars secured at the necks and connected to their ankles, links knocking against each other noisily as they moved. 

Jarrah had begun to peel Valyda’s clothes away from her skin, grimacing at the weeks worth of sweat and vomit and grime that encrusted the fabric. “Destroy it,” She ordered, tossing the clothes to one of the girls by the fire. Valyda watched silently as it was cast into the flames, the smell filling the room as it burned. The other girls wrinkled their noses in disgust, but she had grown so accustomed to the stench that it was more shocking to feel the soap against her skin as she was submerged in the warm tub, closing her eyes as she allowed this one moment of bliss to sink in. 

Valyda and Jarrah scrubbed and scrubbed at her skin until it was raw, albeit soft from the absence of dirt that had begun to encrust every crevice of her body. The blonde girl brushed her hair over the rim of the tub, yanking and tugging painfully at every knot. “I’ll only do this once for you, you know,” She stated, unfazed as Valda let out a small grunt when half a fistful of matted hair was ripped from her scalp but her merciless brushing. 

“Who is he?” She asked. 

“He is Zhago,” Jarrah said. It was not until now that Valyda realised they shared the same Westerosi accent. She craned her head to look at her, their matching purple eyes meeting. 

“You’re Valyrian too.” 

“We all are,” She shrugged. Valyda’s gaze went to the two girls by the fire. One had skin so dark it was almost black, but her hair fell in bright blonde curls, and whilst the other had dull brown hair, when she turned she could see she had the same eyes as the rest of them. “Zhago only likes Valyrian girls.” 

“Where… Where did you all come from?” 

“Most of us were bought out of brothels. Not you, though,” Jarrah observed, seizing one of Valyda’s arms and lifting it into the light, prodding at her bicep with one bony finger. “You’re strong . Well fed too, I’d wager - there’s real muscle on your bones.” 

She did not have time to reply before the woman dropped her arm with a thud against the side of the tub, tossing the hairbrush aside and standing up. “Stay until the water goes cold. Use the lavender soap, Zhago likes that one.” Valyda watched silently as Jarrah wandered off, the two other women scurrying along behind her as they left the room, talking to each other in whispers. 

The room fell silent, save for the crackling of the hearth. When she sat still in the water it was as if she could still feel the sway of the boat, the constant back and forth and back and forth and back-

A sudden bout of panic rose in her throat. The water still comfortably warm, Valyda bolted out of the tub, knocking her knee against the side with a loud clang, water splashing everywhere as she scrambled out, standing naked and alone in the dim, terracotta room. She was frozen for a moment, staring at the fire, its flames cracking and licking at each other, the uneven and ever-changing orange glow it cast blanketing the room in its warmth. A puddle had formed around her feet when she stepped towards it, feeling the heat bathe every inch of her bare skin as she crouched before it, sitting down on the tiled floor in front of the flames. 

The fire reflected in her eyes as she stared deeply into it, as if she expected some vision to emerge from the flames, some remnant of a magic she was not even sure if she believed in. Valyda knew she was a true Targaryen when she looked into that fire, no matter how many people back across the sea had dismissed her as a bastard. She felt the flames in her soul, in her bones, ached to ride her dragon again, to feel the wind in her hair and the heat against her face as Mekkarra unleashed her power. 

It did not matter who Zhago was, or what he wanted from her. She had a mission to fulfil, secrets to unravel and trade. And she was not just a spy, she was the blood of the dragon. The slavers on the ship, the men in the port, Zhago in his great manse - they would all come to regret the day they had laid eyes on Valyda Targaryen. The flames would come for them one day, she would see to it.

Chapter 9

“I heard twelve sheep went missing from the farm over the hill last week,” One of the women said, the flesh up to her elbows red and raw from the steaming hot water as she scrubbed at dirty linens, a few strands of sweaty hair sticking to her forehead. 

“ I heard one of the farmers tried to protect his herd, and the beast bit his hand clean off,” Another said, preparing some meat for Zhago to break his fast with later. 

The sun had barely crested over the horizon to begin the day, but the Pentoshi heat was relentless no matter the time, and that combined with the hearth and the washing made the basement of the grand manse a sweltering hell. Valyda sat in the corner of the room, darning the holes in the slaves’ clothes as she kept her ears pricked, the repetitive movements allowing her to go without distraction as she listened to the others' gossip. 

The dragon the slavers’ had claimed to see had been real, the hundreds of rumoured sightings that had been flooding in from all over Essos over the last few months confirmed it. But it seemed odd to her - the remaining dragons belonged to the Targaryens, which of them could have possibly made it here? Valyda had suspected Sheepstealer, the wild beast from Dragonmont, but it struck her as strange that any of them would have crossed the sea to feast on sheep when Dragonstone was home to so many farmers already. 

When her work was done, it was time for the next task - to take her basket and head down to the port to gather fresh fruit so that the morning feast would be ready once Zhago woke. The ports of Pentos were the only places in the city awake so early, already bustling with trade at daybreak. As time passed, Valyda had grown accustomed to the constant clanking of her chains, so much so that she almost did not notice the sound anymore as she descended into the lower city. She still had to stop herself from tripping occasionally, but it had begun to feel like a part of her, as miserable as it was to admit. Months had passed since her arrival in Essos, months of hiding who she was, of being so far from home that the faces of those she knew grew more and more blurred in her memory. Even those she had loathed were missed once their voices were forgotten. 

As the city streets opened out into the port, she was struck by the scents of a hundred different perfumes, of mandarins and honeyed dates and countless other goods from all over the Free Cities. She never met the eyes of the slaves up on the stages - it was a habit long practised, but sometimes she found herself searching for the Myrish woman she had met in the hold of that dreadful ship. By now, her baby would be born. Valyda had never been religious - but when she prayed, it was for the life of that child, wherever it may be. 

Mysaria’s birds were always lingering here. There was always a scrappy little thing from a brothel or merchant’s ship waiting for her in the darkened corners of the market, ready and waiting to accept whatever information she brought. Her daily routine had begun to make this easier as the weeks rolled by. There were patterns here - when you knew where to look. Some ships would come every three weeks, some every four, and some came so frequently that they could not have gone beyond the Flatlands. Once you grew familiar enough with the ships, it was easy to predict their paths. Their goods would tell her whether they had come North or South, and the time since their last visit gave the length of their journey. She knew which slavers made it all the way to the Summer Isles, and she knew where their next stops would be. All it took was an observant eye. 

It was the culmination of her life’s training. And month by month, fewer and fewer ships would return - evidence of her success, of seemingly accidental disasters that claimed the lives of slavers up and down the coast. 

Today’s meeting had been brisk - a few names handed over to a whelp of a girl, who had hoped her usefulness could buy her a way out of Pentos’ brothels. Valyda had felt sorry for her, but it would have been too detrimental to the mission to tell the poor girl that Mysaria’s promises were best not trusted. Her information wasn’t always thorough. She wished she could have gotten inside the ships, stolen ledgers and passed on more than mere speculation, but that could not be done here. Not in broad daylight, not with noisy chains weighing her down. Some days she would look out of the windows of the manse across the rooftops of Pentos, and feel her whole body ache for the feeling of skirting those heights, of carrying herself above this place the way she had done a thousand times before. 

“I must go, I must get these to my master before he wakes,” Valyda muttered, the girl nodding silently and scurrying off back through the bustle of the port. With a basket of fruit under her arm, she began the trek back up to the house, already dreading the moment Zhago would wake for the day. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

“Thank you, Valyda,” Zhago uttered as she poured him a cup of wine a few hours later, platters of fruits and meats laid out before him as he broke his fast for the day. As she retracted her arm, holding the heavy jug to her chest, he lifted a hand, rubbing a calloused thumb back and forth over her wrist as he tore at a leg of something with his teeth. It was all she could do not to pin him to the table with his own boning knife, her jaw clenched so tightly she worried her teeth might splinter. 

She knew his bed as well as she knew her own by now. She had learnt early on that if she kicked and yelled he would leave her be, but if she wanted favour it was easier to let him have what he wanted. Without it she would have never been given the freedom to go to market, unchaperoned by his guards. It was what she had to do for the sake of the mission. In her mind, she told herself it was what her mother would have wanted. 

This charade had gone on for so long that Valyda had lost count of the days. With the seasons so long and unchanging, it was impossible to estimate how long she had been here. Perhaps her nineteenth Name Day had come and gone already. Perhaps her father had long since presumed her dead. 

He released her after a moment, turning his attention to a plate of candied oranges. With a polite nod, she turned to leave, unable to force out a single word that would not be laced with venom and spite. 

“Valyda?” He called, never deigning to even turn his head to her. 

“Yes?” 

“Come with me to the pits today. I would bring Jarrah but… she is beginning to bore me.”

Valyda’s gaze found Jarrah’s, who was standing across the courtyard, her glare burning with the hatred of a hundred dragons’ fire. They had been fond of each other once, but as soon as Zhago’s favour had begun to shift, Jarrah’s affection had soured. Being the favourite came with advantages, ones she had been unwilling to let go of.

“Of course,” She nodded, scuttling away to change. In the dim underbelly of the house, she tugged a finer dress over her head, of thin purple linen interweaved with dotted lines of gold thread, saved for special occasions. As she tugged her hair over her shoulder, she heard footsteps against the tiles behind her, felt someone standing in the doorway.

“I won’t fight with you, Jarrah,” Valyda said, the woman watching with narrowed eyes and she turned. “Do you think I asked for his favour?”

“You certainly did nothing to dissuade it,” She spat. “Before you came here, I had everything-”

“Except freedom. Except liberation from a man we both despise. Do you want his favour back, truly? Do you truly miss the nights he would come seeking you out - when you had to do what he wanted even when all you wanted was to sleep, when you felt the ache of your labour so deep in your bones that all you wanted was to be left alone to rest?” 

“I want the security that comes with knowing he wants me,” She frowned. “But now you’re the only one he cares about.” 

Valyda stepped forward, their faces so close that she could feel Jarrah’s breath on her skin. “If I got the chance, I would butcher him in cold blood without so much as a flinch. I would do it so we can be free.” 

Jarrah’s expression faltered, eyes widening. She had never voiced such thoughts before, never told anyone of how deeply she yearned for the violence, for the opportunity to feel Zhago’s blood run cold against her hands. In a moment, the woman’s gaze turned cold again, brow furrowing. She reached out, gripping Valyda’s arm. “Do it.” 

Their foreheads touched for a moment before she brushed past her, the chains around Valyda’s neck suddenly feeling as heavy as they had the day she’d first worn them. “I’ll come back for you,” She vowed, turning away down the hall. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

The fighting pit was like nothing she had ever seen in Westeros, a great stone amphitheatre so wide she could barely make out the faces of the spectators on the other side. Huge fabric canopies had been erected over the seats of the wealthiest patrons, sheltering them from the scorching rays that beamed down upon them relentlessly, so hot it was as if the air seemed to ripple around her. They took their seats amongst the crowd, Zhago conversing with his fellow merchants in languages they must have assumed she would not understand. A slave came by, pouring yet more wine into their goblets. What she would have given to taste the cool relief of water on her tongue - what good did warm wine do in this climate? 

After a few minutes of bustling and chattering as the crowds found their seats, the pit momentarily fell quiet. Valyda swore she could hear a thousand people hold their breath all at once, and found herself leaning further and further forward, captivated by the sight until she was on the edge of her seat. With the heavy clank of huge, metal chains, the doors at either end of the central circle rose slowly upwards. For a moment all she could see was darkness, but then horrible, wheezing screeches rang out, echoing around the ring as two wyverns emerged, their gaits strained and even, their scaly flesh littered witch gouges and scars. The crowd erupted in raucous applause as the beasts appeared, beady yellow eyes trained on each other as they stepped out onto the sand, creeping closer and closer, poised to strike. 

Valyda could not bring herself to cheer, even as the men around her yelped and clapped, laughing as the fight began. But as the first wyvern lashed out to tear at the other, claws and teeth bared, the pair of them leaping to evade the other’s attacks, she could not help but think of her dear Mekkara. She who had shared these creatures’ unnerving nature and beastly temperament, yet she who had loved her all the same. She remembered that day in the dragon pit years ago, Mekkara’s teeth bared and snapping, her gaze skittering and nervous - the day she knew the creature would have her heart forever. 

One of the wyverns lashed out with its claws, the other letting out a terrible cry as its talons cut a hideous gash across its neck, dark blood running down its front. And suddenly Valyda was reminded of another memory. Of her first true mission as a girl, of the fighting pits in King’s Landing, the poor, hungry children with their teeth filed and their nails sharpened, clawing at each other for nothing but the promise of food once it was over. She remembered her own mother filing her nails into claws, sending her down amongst the rabble. She remembered the feeling of those men grabbing her, how their flesh had torn as she lashed out, the feeling of their blood running hot against her skin. This spectacle felt no different, no less barbaric, and despite her initial intrigue, she felt nausea taking root in her stomach. 

Beside her Zhago was jeering and shouting with the others, the crowd around them growing more and more wild by the minute. There was a platter of food in front of them, a golden knife balanced on the edge. Among all this chaos, who would notice her reach for it? If she stabbed him in exactly the right place, he may not even notice at first. 

She forced herself to cheer along, to relieve herself of sideways glances from those around her who by now had noticed she was not having as much fun as everyone else. The wyvern went for a killing blow, once again jabbing its talons at its opponent’s already injured throat, blood coming forth in an uncontrolled spray as the crowd began to scream even louder than before. Against the jostling of unfamiliar bodies on all sides, Valyda leant forward, her fist wrapping around the hilt of the golden knife, pulling it away with her. It would only take a second, one single movement, and they would all be free. 

But just as she moved to stab him, a huge shadow fell over the arena, almost blotting out the sun as the crowd was plunged into darkness. The cheers swiftly died, replaced by terrified shrieks, gazes lifting away from the wyverns’ bloodies bodies and up towards the heavens. 

The dragon circling above was directly below the midday sun, so bright that it blotted Valyda’s vision to look at it, blurring the beast’s outline until it was barely recognisable. But then it opened its mouth and roared, so loud that the spectators around her clamped their hands over their ears and winced at the sound. But she would know that sound anywhere. 

Zhago’s gaze was drawn to her as she let go of the knife, the metal clattering against the stone floor. Brow raised in horror and rage as he realised what she had been about to do, he reached out, seizing her wrist harshly, yanking her arm uncomfortably towards him. 

“You bitch,” He spat, a fleck of spit landing on her cheek. “You ungrateful fucking whore, you-”

Before he could speak again, Valyda struck out, her fist colliding with his nose with a sickening crunch. Releasing his grip in shock, Zhago stumbled a few steps backwards, and she took her opportunity to run, skirts balled in her fists as she darted through the crowd, down the steps towards the central arena. The guards had gone slack-jawed, not a single one reaching for her as she pulled herself over the wall, knees bending as she landed with a thud in the sand below. 

Dark blood ran across the dirt as the wyvern lay dead in the centre of the ring, the other pacing in circles around it, teeth still bared, shoulders hunched nervously as strips of tattered skin hung from its jaws. She took a deep breath, glancing between the beast and the huge dragon still circling ahead. “Come on, girl,” Valyda muttered, daring to take another step into the ring. 

With the sound of her footstep, the surviving wyvern’s gaze snapped towards her, blood dripping from its teeth, yellow eyes piercing as it stared back at her. It gave an uneven growl, lunging forwards, limping slightly as one of its legs had been badly mauled in the fight. Valyda raised her hands, never breaking its gaze as she crouched slightly, hoping to appease the beast. It was still for a moment, before suddenly darting forward, jaw wide open and ready to tear her limb from limb. The creature couldn’t have been any larger than Valyda herself, but it was undoubtedly stronger. 

Stumbling backwards until her back pressed against the stone wall behind her, she watched with wide eyes as the wyvern leapt towards her, remembering her last day in King’s Landing and how the bear had come for her during the hunt. It was barely a foot away from her when a great thud shook the arena, the crowds behind her erupting into hysteria, bolting for the nearest exit. At the very last second, the wyvern was torn from the ground, ripped away from her by the tail, Mekkara’s fangs shredding its flesh and discarding it beside its opponent upon the blood-soaked sand. 

She had searched for her. All this time, since the boat all those months ago, Mekkara had sought her out. It had been her stealing those poor sheep, her who had stirred rumours heard all throughout Pentos. Mekkara had come looking for her mother, and she had found her. 

Valyda raised her hands, clutching the chain that bound her, holding it out to her wonderful beast. Mekkara chirped, spitting forward a tiny ball of flame. She felt the heat against her skin as the metal links in the centre melted away, splitting the chain cleanly in two and giving her enough leeway to wriggle the shackles off from around her ankles, the heavy metal collar the only remaining evidence of her captivity. 

“It’s good to see you, my darling,” She cooed, rushing forward and stroking the dragon’s snout as she bowed her head towards her. Mekkara had grown since they’d last seen each other, fatter and stronger on the fruits of her thievery, towering high above the walls that ringed the sandy pit in the amphitheatre’s centre. 

Digging her heel into the ridges of her scales, Valyda mounted her back as she had done hundreds of times before, the muscle memory carrying her up to perch between the dragon’s spines. She could feel Mekkara’s blood rushing beneath her skin against her palms, and sense her heartbeat drumming steadily beneath her. Letting out another ferocious roar, she reared up on her hind legs, the wall crumbling in places beneath her feet as she clawed upwards into the stands. Valyda scanned the crowds, searching for her all too familiar green-bearded captor. Zhago was down amongst the crowds, tugging and shoving fellow spectators out of his way as he scrambled for the exit, tossing helpless women and children out of his way. Always the coward. 

“Zhago!” She yelled, Mekkara’s cloudy eyes finding him, letting out an eerie whine. The man stumbled to a halt, hands raised in surrender as he turned to face her. 

“Go! Go! You’re free, I grant you your freedom, just go!” He stammered, his face flushing red, sweat drenching the curls that lined his brow. 

Surely he did not think she would let him go so easily? Valyda’s stare was cold, withering, unflinching, nothing like the polite slave girl he had grown accustomed to. Zhago’s mouth opened and closed over and over like a dying fish, stammering uselessly for a moment as his expression became struck with terror. “I… I…” 

There was not an excuse he could give her that would calm the loathing that burned within her, nothing he could say that would give her back the months she had spent wallowing in his prison. Fuck the mission. She would not be her mother’s puppet any longer, not this time. 

“Dracarys.” 

Zhago’s screams were barely audible over Mekkara’s roar as she unleashed her fury, the flames instantly engulfing him as those nearby ducked for cover, suffering little more than scorches hems. But he had taken the full force of dragonfire, and as he writhed and wailed in agony the stench of scorched flesh filled the air, his skin blackening and cracking, burning away every inch of him until there was nothing left but a mangled, charred skeleton, the remnants of his flesh sliding off the bone. 

Perhaps it made her a monster to admit she had missed this power, but it had certainly felt good to watch him die. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

The arena had been reduced to a burnt wasteland by the time they departed, soaring high across Pentos as Valyda closed her eyes to the wind, the feeling of freedom lifting a weight from her back, the pain of her captivity draining from her body. From up here, the red-tiled rooftops all looked the same, but she kept an eye out for the huge fountain in the manse’s courtyard, desperate to single it out amongst the sea of buildings. 

“There!” She cried, pointing down at the house as they passed. Mekkara dove towards it, her claws grazing the roof and sending tiles crashing onto the ground below as they landed in the courtyard. 

Zhago’s slave women came running out to see what was happening, lining the balconies and stepping out into the sun to peer up at the dragon, eyes wide with fear, which changed to confusion as they noticed Valyda upon its back. She had never seen all of the women in one place before, never truly realised how many of them Zhago had held captive in this place. There must have been at least a hundred, all of them watching her with the same Valyrian eyes. 

Jarrah emerged from amongst the crowd, shouldering her way to the front and holding up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looked up at them. “What… Who are you?” 

Valyda lifted herself off of Mekkara’s back, sliding down her scales until her feet reached the ground. “I am a Targaryen. I came here from King’s Landing, from the household of King Viserys.” 

Her eyes were wide, gaze still lingering on the dragon when she tore herself away to look back at Valyda. “Is he dead? Did you do it?” 

“I did. I burned him where he stood. He screamed and begged for mercy, but I did not give it to him.” 

The crowd of women murmured to each other, the relief washing away the exhaustion from their expressions. “You’re free now. When I return to King’s Landing I will dispatch men to help you - you never have to serve anyone again.” 

Jarrah threw her arms around her, enveloping her in a hug for the briefest of moments. When she pulled away, hands still grasping her shoulders, there were tears in her eyes. “Thank you.” 

One by one, Mekkara melted the women’s chains with her flames, the courtyard sweltering from the heat of dragon fire and molten metal as the women freed themselves from their ankle shackles and helped to tear away each others’ collars. The women reached out and touched her shoulders as they passed, uttering thank-yous as they rushed inside to loot what they could of Zhago’s wealth, to take what had been denied to them all these years. Valyda left them with a promise that help would come soon, climbing back atop her beloved Mekkara as they rose up above the city, the air growing cooler the higher they flew. 

As she looked to the West, she could see the ocean unfolding before them, the seemingly endless blanket of blue stretching out over the horizon. But somewhere beyond the furthest point her gaze could reach, King’s Landing stood firm in the distance, invisible to her from here but forever memorialised in her mind. Leaning forward against Mekkara’s back, she rubbed an affectionate hand against her, urging the dragon to continue, the flap of her wings sending the salty sea air back into her face as they flew over the port. She had suppressed the impulse to destroy it, to send the slavers’ ships to the bottom of the bay with her flames, to decimate every stall and stage that had allowed these people to be stolen and traded. Destroying the port would have meant killing countless slaves too, and they deserved a life better than this.

Someday she would return, Valyda vowed to herself. Someday, when her own home knew peace, she would ensure these people could know it too. 

 

Chapter 10

The moment Mekkara touched down in the cobbled courtyard of the Red Keep, they were swarmed with guards, spears raised and pointed, the air filled with overlapping, indistinguishable yells, ordering Valyda to declare herself. She held her hands up as she slid down the dragon’s side, the uncomfortable metal collar still hanging from her neck, the chain dangling down to her waist where it grew warped and twisted, melted from the flames. In the months she’d been away her skin had grown darker in the fierce sun, her body softer, muscles less defined. But she was always Valyda. 

“You’re alive,” The barely familiar voice of Queen Alicent rang out as she appeared in one of the many doorways that lined the courtyard. Valyda’s gaze met the eyes of one of the guards, and she watched on as realisation rippled across his expression, letting the fist clenched tight around his weapon relax. One by one, each of them seemed to recognise her, their spears lowering, heads bowing in a chorus of ‘Your Highness’ . 

“Your Grace,” Valyda nodded, barely glancing at the Queen, her voice coming forth breathless as she ran a gentle hand across Mekkara’s scales, the beast letting out an affectionate chirp, her neck curled to contain herself within the red brick walls. 

Where’s Nessa? Where is she? Is she well? Is she safe? The questions were incessant, so loud she could barely think anything else. Their landing had caused such a commotion that others were beginning to gather, courtiers and servants peering at them from every window and doorway. Valyda’s keen eyes scanned over each of them, never lingering save for when she caught a hint of red hair or a glimpse of green eyes. 

She turned to the Queen, a long strand of dark hair hanging low in her face. “Where is-?”

“Valyda!” 

Turning with a start, she felt her breath catch in her throat as Nessa came streaking across the yard towards her, layers of emerald green skirts rippling around her as she ran. She looked older. Tired. Before Valyda could speak a word, the girl was in her arms, warm breath against her neck as a piece of her red hair caught in the corner of Valyda’s mouth. 

“You’re alive,” She whispered. “You’re alive, I can’t believe you’re alive.” 

They parted for a moment, staring back at each other, chests rising and falling with each heavy, laboured breath. Valyda couldn’t remember the last time she had wept, but all of a sudden she felt her eyes well with tears. A hand on her shoulder tore her gaze from Nessa’s as Queen Alicent began to herd the pair inside. “Fetch the Maester, now,” She demanded, a nearby servant scuttling away as they headed in through the doorway, Mekkara tucking her tail beneath herself and settling down to rest. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

The fire roared in the hearth in the far corner, its heat warming Valyda’s skin as she stood before the Maester, bare as a newborn babe, arms outstretched as he examined her, scouring every inch of her body for injury. The smith had removed her collar, her slave dress cast into the flames, the golden threads catching alight and burning steadily until nothing but ash remained. Nessa was stood by the bed, leant up against the bedpost, her cheek resting against the curtains as she watched silently, gaze locked upon the twisted scars that littered the back of her shoulders, running across her skin like puckered, pink earthworms. They had healed over time, but an infection in the ship’s hold had left them ugly and uneven, too far gone for even the most skilled of Maesters to repair. 

The Maester had objected to the Tully girl’s presence at first, but Valyda soon realised that the thought of being naked and alone with a man once more made her suddenly panic, sweat beading upon her brow as if she was again beneath the scorching Pentoshi sun despite the cool breeze coming in through the window that chilled her to the bone. 

“They did that to you?” Nessa’s voice came quiet and strained, her fingers picking anxiously at the curtain hem.

“They only beat me once. The master said I would be easier to sell if I was undamaged.”

She had been captured - caught unaware on the streets of King’s Landing and hauled away by slavers against her will. That was the story she had told, the only one she could tell that would make sense to anyone but her co-conspirator. No one but Mysaria would have understood the flame that had burned within Valyda the night she had stepped willingly upon that ship, the night she had thrown away her freedom for quiet, deadly revenge. No one could ever know, especially not Nessa. When they had seen each other last, she had been foolish. ‘I am the Black Worm’ . Never again would she tread so carelessly, never again would she play with the lives of those she cared for with such reckless abandon. Valyda had been lucky Nessa had not believed her - if she had, who knew what fate may have befallen her.  

“We lit candles for you in the Sept on your nineteenth name day,” Nessa said, her cheeks turning red as Valyda turned to face her. Perhaps before, she would have been embarrassed by her nakedness, but now she couldn’t quite care - although she admitted to herself she would have preferred Nessa seeing her in such a state under different circumstances. 

The Maester handed her a robe once he was finished, slipping wordlessly from the room as she shrugged on her clothes, taking a moment to relish the feeling of the coarse Westerosi wool against her skin. 

“I missed you,” She admitted. “Every day, I missed you, I-... I killed people to get back here. The thought of seeing you again kept me sane.” 

Nessa stared back at her for a long moment, and for a while, it felt like neither of them was breathing, the air thick and stagnant between them. Valyda sat down, lifting a hand to her throat, realising she had grown unaccustomed to the feeling of being unchained. The sound of her restraints had haunted her every step for so long that silence felt almost unnatural. The Tully girl sucked in a deep breath, stepping around to sit on the end of the bed, staring back at her. In the light from the window, Valyda noted the deep, dark circles beneath her eyes. 

“My father…” Nessa took another breath, rubbing her eye with her knuckle. “My father died while you were away.” 

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare. It was hard to know what to say, hard to approach from a place of understanding when the death of Valyda’s own father would have likely left her entirely unaffected. “I’m… I’m so sorry.” 

Nessa shook her head gently, hair swinging back and forth with the motion as her brow furrowed ever tighter. “It was seven moons ago, I’m alright. He’d been old and failing for as long as I can remember, it didn’t come as a surprise. We went to Riverrun to bury him - that part was hard. It took me a long time to… accept that you weren’t coming back. I didn’t want to leave the city, I was worried that you’d return whilst I was away.” 

Rising from her seat and stepping forward, Valyda placed a gentle hand on the back of Nessa’s head and guided her into an embrace, the Tully girl’s forehead pressed against her shoulder. They stood there holding each other silently, their breathing the only sound save for the occasional crackling of firewood in the hearth. It had been so long since she had felt such affection, such tenderness, that it was a struggle not to burst into tears, salty tears welling in her eyes and blurring her vision. As Nessa finally pulled away, Valyda sniffed loudly, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand before the other girl could see. 

“I need to see my mother,” She spoke, voice barely more than a whisper, their faces still only inches apart. 

Worry contorted Nessa’s features. “Take guards with you - you need to be protected, I won’t let anyone take you away again.” 

“Nessa, I don’t need guards, I can-”

“ Please. For me.”  

Oh, dear Nessa. She couldn’t fight the smile that creased her cheeks, couldn’t stop the way her eyes widened and bloomed with a look of adoration. She had never deserved someone so good. Valyda raised a hand, angling Nessa’s chin between her fingers as she pressed their foreheads together. 

“Anyone who tries will take a knife between the eyes before they take me away from you again,” She vowed. 

Valyda wanted to kiss her then. Every bone in her body ached for it, the memory of their last night together a whole year ago seared into her mind. She had replayed that moment countless times, staring up at the ceiling in Zhago’s manse as the fire dwindled in the hearth, as the sun set and plunged the city into darkness and her fellow slaves slept quietly beside her. There had been so many sleepless nights, and every one had been made better with thoughts of the girl standing before her. And yet she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring herself to press their lips together. It was as if they were magnets facing the wrong way, an invisible force stopping them from ever getting too close. Zhago had kissed her, and she had hated every moment of it. It would take a while for that association to fade away. 

She pressed her lips briefly to Nessa’s forehead, moving away swiftly as if fleeing from every problem swirling around her head. Nessa raised a brow and Valyda forced a smile. “All is well. I won’t stay at my mother’s long, I’ll be back before sundown,” She said, avoiding the girl’s eye as she reached for a cloak, slinging it around her shoulders. 

“Valyda,” Nessa called before she could leave. She stopped in her tracks, turning to look back. 

“Yes?” 

“My brother’s getting married… Please come. We leave for Riverrun in a few days - I don’t want to be alone, and it will do you good to spend time with good people. Kind people.” 

“Yes, I-...” She smiled again, truthfully this time. “Yes. I will.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Nothing in the Lower Town had changed since she had been gone - although, when she thought of it, nothing much had changed since the day she had been born - such was the way of these places. The stagnation had always made her job easier, so she never complained. A gaggle of small children were playing with a set of poorly whittled horses in the street outside her house as she arrived, huddled against the whitewashed brick that looked sorely in need of repainting. 

Valyda had always been able to walk here unrecognised. Most common folk only heard about the Royal Family from word of mouth and knew nothing of their faces. The bright Valyrian eyes had hardly drawn attention to her - Targaryen bastards had wandered the streets for so many generations that it had become entirely unremarkable, especially in areas so densely populated by brothels. 

“Oi, scatter,” She tutted to the children currently blocking her doorstep, and they scurried away down the street, toys in hand as they disappeared down an alleyway. Taking a deep breath, she reached out to open the door, her mind so consumed by thought that she had entirely tuned out the constant din of activity outside. What would Mysaria say? How would she react? It seemed less painful to just grit her teeth and bear it, so Valyda pushed the door open and stepped inside, the familiar smell of her childhood home filling her brain with dozens of almost forgotten memories. 

Mysaria was sitting at her desk, quill in hand as she scribbled away in her own coded language, the one only she and Valyda had ever learned how to read. Tossing a handful of parchment into the fire, she looked up, expression unwavering as she met her daughter’s gaze. 

Of course, she already knew. 

“I had expected you to take longer to come crawling back here. Word came of your return this morning, I had expected not to see you for at least a week.” 

Valyda’s expression furrowed in confusion. “Why would you think that?” 

“Because you failed your mission. Usually you take a while to hide with your tail between your legs before you own up to it.” 

She hadn’t known what to expect from her mother, but it certainly wasn’t this. 

“What do you mean I- I did not fail .” 

Mysaria threw down her quill, tutting in exasperation. “We were so close, Valyda. So close , we were gathering new information every day, the network we had built was bigger than you ever knew and you destroyed the central component. You broke the chain of information, and we lost all of the progress we had made.” 

Valyda had never been able to take her mother’s criticism as anything other than a dagger to the heart. She felt keenly as each bitter word pierced her skin until it felt like her very soul was bathed in blood - hot and sticky and rooting her to the spot. As a little girl she had withered beneath Mysaria’s gaze, she had taken her scolding and held her tears at bay until she was alone under the blankets at night. She had let her mother pour every kind of poison into her ear until she was nothing but a subservient puppet, desperately seizing every waking moment as an opportunity to earn some acknowledgement of satisfaction from Mysaria. 

It had not been until she had been chained that she had become free. 

“I don’t exist for you,” She spat, leaning forwards against Mysaria’s desk so that she towered over her. Valyda may have been physically imposing, but her heart was never in it. In her heart, she was eleven years old again, clinging to her mother as she stroked her hair after the worst night of her childhood, her heart still hammering in her chest after her escape from the fighting pits, her nails still filed into points as she balled the fabric of Mysaria’s dress into her fists. “I don’t exist to carry out your every vendetta against every slave trader in all of Essos.”

“Yes! Yes, you do!” Her mother cried, sitting back in her chair as if the words meant nothing. “The only reason that I have kept you here with me is because you are useful to the work that I do. I never wanted to be a mother, and that did not change when the choice was taken from me - your father had promised to raise you, and he broke that promise, so I was forced to make you into something useful. You are only here today because of me , so you will work when I tell you to work, and you will not stop.” 

Holding the inside of her lip between her teeth, Valyda grimaced when she felt the flesh tear, tasting blood upon her tongue. After all she had seen and done, it was her mother’s anger that disturbed her the most. After all of the strength she had gathered, it was her mother’s words that tore it all to shreds. 

"You made a mistake sending me across the sea,” She spoke, her voice quiet and rasping as she gently shook her head. I spent a year away from your schemes, your manipulation - I had nothing of you but your voice in my head. But then I learned what it felt like to free myself from the will of others, and yet you still think I will surrender myself to do your bidding again.” 

“I don’t think you know how to live any other way. I know I don’t, and you-... you are just an extension of me. We’re the same, Valyda, because I built you , no one else.”

“You’re wrong. I took my freedom, and I did it without you. I taught myself to ride that dragon, it had nothing to do with you - that was the only reason I got out of there alive.” 

“You really think that without me you would have been able to kill - to do what you needed to escape? You’re strong because of me - you took that dragon because I taught you not to be afraid.” 

Valyda threw up her hands. “Then maybe you’re right. Maybe I am an extension of you. But if I am, then I should be your greatest shame. No child should have had blood on their hands as young as I did. I am an extension of you because you are bitter and resentful and you could not stand the idea of your child having a life better than your own because you are selfish .” 

Before her mother could speak again, she turned to leave, realising her fists had been clenched so tightly that her nails had begun to draw blood. As she reached for the door, Mysaria called to her.

“Where will you go?”

Valyda paused, her whole body tense, then sighed.

“Do you really need me to tell you? I’m sure you’ll find out by sundown.” 

Shoving her way out of the door, she let it slam behind her as she trudged back up the street towards the Red Keep, her eyes red from holding back tears. All at once, Nessa’s invitation had become a lifeline. She couldn’t leave this city fast enough.

Chapter 11

The party had barely left King’s Landing when the constant rocking of the wheelhouse became overwhelming, Valyda’s mind suddenly back in the hull of the slavers’ ship, cast adrift and dying upon the waves. Flying upon Mekkara’s back had quickly become the only way of travelling to Riverrun that felt safe, and as a result, a journey that should have taken weeks was over in just hours. Landing on the soft grass outside the castle grounds, Mekkara let out a shriek, flapping her wings as she staggered over to the moat for a drink. Valyda slid from the beast’s back, stretching out her legs and tugging off her gloves as the drawbridge was lowered ahead, a small party of guards marching forward, bracketing a man on horseback. 

“Your Highness,” The new Lord Tully called, dismounting with a bow of his head. Despite being Nessa and Edmund’s nephew, it was clear from the lines on his face that he was older than the pair of them. She had never met the late Grover Tully, but this observation seemed to inform her of all she needed to know. “We had not expected you so soon, Edmund and Nessa-”

“-Will arrive on time, as intended.” Valyda interrupted, nodding. “I apologise, Lord, I had intended to travel with them, but I find coach travel no longer agrees with me. If I’m imposing, I can find myself other lodgings, I know how long it can take to prepare for such an event.” 

“No, no, that will not be necessary,” Lord Tully shook his head, a few of his guards eyeing Mekkara warily. “What kind of man would I be if I turned the King’s own kin away from my home? Please, come inside.” 

Valyda smiled politely, accompanying the group through Riverrun’s gates. The air hung thick with the smell of swampland, the sky above dull and grey, yet there was something uniquely charming about the place, with ivy and moss clinging to every brick. The ground beneath her feet felt ancient in a way King’s Landing never did, the space around her full of life and nature where she was used to narrow streets and sandstone. Looking out across the courtyard, she could picture Nessa here as a girl, watching her family train with their swords in the yard. 

“I hope my dragon will not be a nuisance to you. I can chain her up outside the gates whilst I’m here - she’s spent many months in Essos feasting on livestock and seems to have lost her taste for it, so your farmers shouldn’t worry.” 

“Thank you, your Highness. All I really worry about is how the children will react - none of them have seen a dragon before, I’m just praying they don’t get too close and end up hurt.” 

“She’s a gentle thing, really. But if you’re concerned, tell the children not to approach her alone, and if they really want to meet her I will take them myself. She wouldn’t hurt anyone when I’m there.” 

“That’s generous of you,” Lord Tully admitted. “I’ll admit, we weren’t sure what to expect when we heard you were coming, but I can see why Nessa is so fond of you.” 

“Thank you, Lord,” Valyda nodded, hands tucked into the pockets of her overcoat as they crossed the yard towards the main keep. “I figure if I’m to be taking up space here for so much longer than we had planned, I ought to make myself useful.” 

“You won’t be alone here for too long - Lord Stark’s party is set to arrive early, and the Manderlys will be here in a few days - Lord Manderly’s daughter will be Edmund’s bride, I’m not sure if you knew.” 

Her brow raised, and she gave Lord Tully a sideways glance as they came beneath the great stone entryway into the main building of the castle. “Lord Stark is coming? That seems an awfully long journey for a wedding, especially when he has no relation to either party.” 

He shrugged, conceding her point. “The Starks and Tullys are good friends - Cregan had been betrothed to Nessa for a time, and they’re very close, even though it became necessary for him to marry Arra Norrey instead. There’s no animosity over the broken engagement - it was for the best.” 

Valyda’s brow furrowed. How had Nessa never mentioned this? “I didn’t even know Lord Stark was married.”

“Well, he’s not, not anymore. Arra died during the birth of their boy, Rickon, a few years ago.” 

“I see.” 

They turned down a long hallway, unfamiliar faces bowing their heads to her as they passed. How could people stand this - being bowed to all day? It almost turned her stomach, the way in which people so readily accepted her as their superior. She had the Valyrian eyes, the Targaryen name - but had she not been born little more than a gutter rat? She had done things that would make these people’s skin crawl, been through things no coddled princess would have ever endured. Valyda was not the person these people thought she was.

A maid scurried forward, draped in thick blue wool, holding a basket of laundry tight against her chest. “See the princess to her chambers,” Lord Tully ordered, and the girl nodded meekly, surrendering the basket to another maid as she hurried past. Valyda was led up to one of the keep’s tallest towers, high above the bustle of the great courtyard below. The room was much smaller than hers had been in King’s Landing, but the burning hearth made the place feel cosy, and she was more than happy to lie back on the bed and rest once she was alone, the strain of the long ride slowly oozing out of her bones. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Over the following days, as they awaited the arrival of the other wedding guests, Valyda grew frequently withdrawn, breaking her fast alone in her room, and rarely speaking unprompted at dinner. Politeness was exhausting, almost as much as it was to pretend to be the refined princess that the Riverlanders expected of her. She did not want to sip wine and talk pleasantries with lords - formality had never made itself a part of her training, and even now small talk came clumsily to her. And, although she did not dislike her time at Riverrun - making frequent use of the library and the horses in the stables - she found herself growing restless as she awaited Nessa’a arrival. 

One afternoon, she decided to fulfil her promise to Lord Tully and managed to avoid another day of socialising by taking a small troop of the local children to see Mekkara. The great beast had been chained by the neck to a large tree like a hideous watchdog on the other side of the moat, but she seemed unphased by such treatment. Her chain was loose enough to provide no discomfort, and after months of scrounging across the Narrow Sea, she appeared to revel in the chance to lounge about on the grass, curling up in a ball and spending most of her time napping, only rousing herself to be fed. A gaggle of almost thirty children trailed after her as they crossed the drawbridge, the sons and daughters of everyone from nobles to labourers, the smallest of which - a blacksmith’s daughter barely more than three years old - clinging to her hand with fat little fingers, her golden curls bouncing as they walked. 

As they approached, Mekkara stirred, huffing a gust of hot air from her nostrils as she lifted her head, a few of the children scurrying backwards cautiously. “Here we go,” Valyda cooed, guiding the little girl forward as she extended her other hand to stroke the scales that lined the dragon’s snout. The child watched on with wide eyes, her gaze filled with awe as Valyda scratched under Mekkara’s chin, eliciting a series of affectionate chirping sounds. “Stay in front where she can see you so you don’t scare her, but you’re welcome to touch.” 

An older boy, around ten years old and the son of one of the Tullys’ bannermen, stepped forward, growing nervous as he lifted his hand past Mekkara’s mouth as if half expecting her to snap his arm clean off. But when the dragon did not stir, he began to stroke her head, wary expression giving way to a grin as Mekkara leant forward to help him reach, purring like a huge cat. 

“See? She may look frightening, but she’s a baby, really,” Valyda grinned, lifting up the little girl, who prodded gently at her scales with one finger before letting out a joyous squeal. At this, one by one the other children crept nearer, each building up the courage to reach out and touch, to feel the warmth of Mekkara’s blood beneath her smooth, white scales. 

“Do you really ride her?” Another girl asked, unable to tear her wonderstruck gaze from the huge creature. 

“I do.”

“Can we see?” She prompted, causing the other children to grow excited. 

Valyda chuckled, shaking her head gently. “If you come back on the day I leave, you will see her fly, but for now it’s best to keep her here.” 

A few of the children frowned disappointedly, a chorus of ‘aw’ s rising among them. But the air of excitement was swiftly restored as one of the boys towards the back of the crowd yelled “Look! Over there!” 

Turning her head, Valyda squinted in the sun to get a better look at the riding party now coming up the road, large black banners held aloft as the party of weary-looking horses and riders approached Riverrun’s walls. The children began to chatter noisily amongst themselves, Mekkara’s novelty suddenly forgotten. Still holding the blacksmith’s daughter up against her hip, Valyda lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the light as the riding party approached. A huge black stallion emerged from the middle of the group, parting ways from the others and veering towards her as the parade of bannermen and wagons made their way across the drawbridge. 

Her brow furrowed as the rider approached. “Children, it’s time to go back to your parents, off you go,” She ordered, never tearing her gaze from the man as she put the girl down, the group scurrying away back to their homes. The morning sun hung bright behind his head, obscuring his face from view, but as the man dismounted she could get a better look at him, his brow covered in sweat and dirt from the journey, but certainly still handsome underneath, hair falling to just above his shoulders in black curls, a direwolf sigil stamped into the strap of his cloak. 

Valyda opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word he had brushed past her, approaching Mekkara without an ounce of fear, raising a calloused hand to stroke her as the dragon purred happily. She stared for a moment. “Lord Stark?” 

“Yes?” He turned his head, still scratching at her scales as Mekkara closed her eyes in enjoyment. Gods, he really didn’t know who she was.

Taking a step closer, she held out her hand. “Valyda Targaryen.” 

Cregan Stark blinked. Then for a brief moment, his eyes widened as realisation dawned on him. Reaching out, he shook her hand. “Your Highness. Forgive me- with the children, I thought-”

“-You thought I was - what? A septa?” 

He let out a dry chuckle, and she noticed his gaze momentarily wander. “Not a septa.” 

She gnawed slightly at the inside of her lip. For the last few days, she had grown more and more irritated at being treated like a princess, and yet this was somehow worse. Cregan Stark was not supposed to just touch her dragon, and her dragon certainly wasn’t supposed to enjoy it . “Are you familiar with dragons?” Valyda asked tartly. 

“Never seen one in the flesh before. Marvellous creature.” He was right. She wasn’t going to acknowledge it. 

“You’ve had a long journey,” She observed. As he shifted slightly, she could smell the sweat that came from days of riding without a chance to wash or change. “You need a bath.” 

Cregan said nothing for a moment, then nodded, releasing her hand. “You are… not what I had expected, your highness.” 

Valyda turned on her heel and began walking back towards the castle. He quickly fell into step with her. She frowned. “You had expected me to be tepid and well-mannered, I’m sure.” 

He chuckled again, watching her sideways as they passed under the stone archway into the courtyard. “You truly dislike me so, already?” 

She shook her head. “I have not thought about you enough to dislike you.” 

Before Cregan could speak again, Lord Tully arrived to greet him, the pair instantly friendly as he invited him inside for some ale. Lord Tully’s hand affectionately on his back, Stark paused as they reached the door, turning to meet Valyda’s eyes as he spoke loudly. “Surely we ought to invite the princess, Lord?” Tully flushed ever so slightly, clearly embarrassed at having overlooked her as he quickly uttered his agreement. She could not refuse such an invitation, this he knew. Curse him. Stifling a roll of her eyes, Valyda wandered inside after them, mentally counting down the hours until Nessa would arrive. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

She was still dressing when shouts from below alerted her to Nessa’s arrival, clumsily fixing the last few buttons on her dress as she hurried down the stairs towards the yard. The bannermen had flooded the place, greeting Edmund as he emerged from the wheelhouse and congratulating him on his forthcoming marriage. Nessa stepped out soon after, and had barely made it to the bottom of the steps before Valyda was standing before her, pulling her tightly into an embrace. 

“I have been so bored,” She whispered into the girl’s ear. “Your home is lovely, everyone here is lovely, but if I have to small talk with any more bannermen I’m going to stab something.” 

Nessa laughed loudly, peeling Valyda’s arms away from around her shoulders. “You should have waited in King’s Landing, you didn’t need to come so early” She smiled, shaking her head slightly. 

“I had… no intention of staying there a day longer than I had to.” 

Nodding with understanding, Nessa rubbed her shoulder with one hand before her gaze was ripped away by something across the yard. “Cregan!” She grinned, stepping past Valyda and scurrying towards him, the pair embracing each other like old friends. “Valyda, come!” She called, gesturing for her to approach. 

“We’ve met,” Valyda nodded curtly. The others exchanged a few brief words before Cregan turned, sparing Valyda a lingering glance before disappearing into the crowd of men come to welcome Edmund Tully.

Nessa walked over to her, frowning. “You don’t like him? Strange, I really thought you would. He seemed just like the kind of man you’d enjoy.” She looked down and scoffed. “You did your buttons up wrong.” 

Valyda planted her hands on her hips as the Tully girl reached out to fix her dress buttons. “I don’t want to talk to anyone but you at this bloody wedding.” 

Nessa hummed, a smirk playing at her lips. “We’ll see.” 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

The great hall at Riverrun was lit with a thousand candles, basking the place in a beautiful golden glow, banners of houses Tully and Manderly hanging from the terrace above as three long tables lined the room, piled high with an enormous feast, chatter growing louder by the minute as ale ran freely. 

Edmund and his new bride sat in the centre of the table that ran across the end of the hall, bracketed on either side by the more important nobility and other members of each house. Valyda was seated to the left of Lord Manderly’s daughter, whose name she could not recall, with Nessa on her other side in what she expected was a desperate bid to please the only royalty in the room. It was working. 

“You look wonderful, your highness,” Edmund’s new wife politely observed. 

“Thank you-...” She smiled, hoping the girl’s name would come to her in the moment, and taking a long, awkward sip of ale when it did not. 

“Alys,” Nessa whispered, biting back a giggle. 

“Thank you, Alys,” Valyda nodded, earning a pleased grin from the bride. 

“It’s a talent, to be so terrible at this,” Nessa teased as Alys Manderly turned her attention to the other side of the table. “I’m amazed no one ever tried to train you for these things.” 

“I don’t go to these things. I went to my stepmother’s funeral - but I’d never met her, and no one tried to speak to me, so it was much easier,” Valyda craned her neck, watching on for a moment as Lord Tully and Lord Blackwood spoke intently, unable to hear anything over the celebrations. Leaning back into her chair, she let out a sigh. “How much longer do these things usually go on for?” 

“Oh, the dancing hasn’t even started yet,” Nessa informed her, bursting into laughter at Valyda’s distressed expression, grimacing slightly as she downed the rest of her cup of ale. 

There was no shortage of men asking after Nessa’s hand once the dancing began, and she only revisited the table at brief intervals to ensure Valyda was not too miserable and to attempt to pressure her to find at least one partner to dance with. Gaze wandering across the hall, she noticed Cregan stark, standing to the side of the open area they were using for dancing, a cup of ale in hand. He truly was handsome once he wasn’t covered in dirt, she had to admit, and it was clear many of the other women present thought the same, bannermen’s daughters flocking to him like moths to a flame as he gently turned down each and every one of them, nodding politely as they left, disappointed. Valyda did not realise how intently she had been staring until Nessa appeared before her, slamming her hands down on the table and startling her. 

“Right. I won’t stand for it any longer,” She declared, cheeks rosy red from one too many cups of wine. “You must dance at least once this evening, I command it.” 

“You command a princess, do you?” Valyda teased, raising a brow. 

“Yes, I do. If you wish to put me in the stocks come morning, so be it.” Reaching across the table, she seized Valyda’s arm tightly, pulling her to her feet. “Cregan!” She called. “Come and dance with my friend here, I demand it!” 

She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. Valyda had almost objected, but after watching Lord Stark reject so many women already thus far, did not see much point. He would say no regardless. 

“Certainly,” He nodded, putting down his goblet as he crossed the hall towards them. “Your Highness,” Cregan said, bowing his head. She gritted her teeth as he held out his hand to her, the blow only softened by Nessa’s pleased smile as she accepted, allowing him to guide her into the centre of the hall. 

Placing her other hand on his shoulder, Valyda felt her body tense. “I don’t know how to dance.” 

“You were not taught?” He asked. 

“I was not raised in the Red Keep. I’m sure news does not reach Winterfell so slowly that you’re not aware I am a bastard.” 

Cregan’s jaw tightened and he nodded, his politeness clearly at least somewhat forced. “I was aware. I mean no offence by it, your highness, but you don’t exactly resemble the other Targaryens closely.” 

“You seem displeased,” She noted. “I don’t mind, many people dislike bastards - I’ve dealt with worse.” Looking down, Valyda suddenly realised they had begun moving, drifting in a slow circle in the centre of the room as the other pairs moved swiftly around them. 

His brow furrowed as he frowned, shaking his head slightly. “I hold nothing against you, your highness. If I may, I do not approve of a man breaking his vow to his wife, as your father did with Lady Royce.” 

“Oh you may , I have no love for my father. And, please , no more ‘your highness’. I’ve never liked it, it doesn’t suit me.” 

“I think it does.” 

For a moment, neither of them said anything, their gazes locked as they continued their slow, swaying circle. His eyes were brown, so dark they appeared almost black. She decided his beard suited him well - far better than many of the other lords. 

Cregan sucked in a sharp breath, clearing his throat as he suddenly looked down at their feet. “Right. Put your left foot forward when I move mine,” He said, his voice suddenly far softer. Valyda dipped her head to follow the movement of their feet, mirroring Cregan’s actions as they began to move across the floor, allowing him to steer them between the other pairs that surrounded them. “There, that’s it. Well done,” He spoke again, voice breathy, and when she looked up he was watching her face, the corner of his lip curled upwards in a slight smile. 

Perhaps he was not so bad. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

When the festivities died down well into the early hours of the morning, Valyda took it upon herself to return Nessa to her chambers, the Tully girl swaying gently into her side as they walked, her head spinning from too much wine. Valyda had not drunk half as much, and even then, she tended to handle it better. “That was… an excellent party,” Nessa murmured, nodding. “I have a new sister now, that’s nice.” 

“You certainly appeared to be enjoying yourself,” She chuckled, their arms interlinked as they reached the top of the staircase.

“I’m sorry you had a bad time,” Nessa frowned, squeezing her shoulder affectionately. 

“Oh… It wasn’t so bad.” 

The hallway was dimly lit, many of the older guests having headed to bed hours ago, and they crept along the stone floor quietly until they reached the great wooden door to Nessa’s chambers, the rooms she had been raised in since she was a girl. Pushing the door ajar with her foot, Valyda guided her inside, releasing Nessa’s arm as she glanced around the room. The servants had left the fire burning in the hearth, the thick blue drapes closed over the windows to keep the heat in. There were many remnants of Nessa here, and she found she could picture her as a child - from the ancient storybooks that littered the shelves to the old tattered dolls still sitting atop one of the chests in the corner. Above the mantle, a series of intricately carved hunting bows had been mounted on the wall, bracketed by two huge sets of antlers from stags she had taken down on hunts. 

Tearing her gaze away from the room, when she looked back Valyda noticed Nessa straining to untie the last knots on the back of her bodice, grunting slightly as she struggled to peer over her shoulder. “Let me,” She offered, stepping forward and making quick work of the thing, Nessa watching her expression intently in the mirror that stood before them. 

“I missed you,” She said quietly. 

“I know.” 

As she slipped the bodice off over her shoulders, leaving her in just her shift, Nessa turned around to face her, leaning forwards on her toes. The tip of her nose was flushed pink from the wine, and it brushed briefly against Valyda’s before she felt their lips press tenderly against each other’s, Nessa’s breath fanning her cheek as her hands grasped Valyda’s hips. Valyda lifted a hand to the soft flesh of her cheek, holding her face still as she returned the kiss, sucking in a sharp breath as she relished the feeling of closeness, finally doing what she had yearned for all those months across the sea. 

After a moment, they pulled apart, Nessa taking a deep breath to gather her composure as she watched Valyda intently. “I believe that you are drunker than we had thought,” Valyda spoke, barely more than a whisper, letting a teasing grin spread across her face. 

Nessa laughed. “Perhaps. But you are beautiful, and I neglected you today, so you must begrudge me this.” 

She hummed, nodding slightly. “I will,” The pair grinned, their teeth momentarily grazing against each other’s as Valyda leant forward to kiss her again, this time much briefer, a quick goodbye for the night. “Now go to bed. You must be rested for the hunt tomorrow, we need more antlers for that wall.” 

With a smile, Nessa obliged, slipping into bed and allowing Valyda to wordlessly take her leave. Closing the door behind her as quietly as she could, she turned to creep up to her own room, but as she reached the top of the stairs a familiar face stopped her in her tracks. 

As the next most senior guest at the wedding, it was evident that she and Cregan Stark had been given the tower to share, his door opposite hers across the narrow hallway. He was stood with a few of his men, talking in hushed voices when she arrived, Lord Stark now dressed in nothing but a plain grey tunic and breeches, his hair tied messily out of his face. Once her arrival was noticed, the other men turned to leave, bowing their heads respectfully to her as they passed and disappeared down the stairs. 

Cregan remained standing by his door as Valyda approached. The maids had tied her hair up in a braided crown for the ceremony, but she had taken it out as she left, long black locks running down to her waist, loose strands framing her face. “Lord Stark,” She nodded, reaching for the door handle. 

He stared for a moment before bowing his head dutifully. “Valyda. Forgive me, but I forgot to tell you earlier.” 

She raised a brow. “Tell me what?” 

Pushing open his own door, Cregan took a half step inside before speaking again, his voice soft. “You look lovely.” He nodded, letting the door fall shut behind him, leaving Valyda alone in the dark hallway.

Notes:

Big day for bisexuals and Cregan Stark lovers (he's finally here!!)

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, I had so much fun writing it!

Chapter 12

The wedding party broke their fast outside the woods the following morning, the ring of tents encircling a huge table laden with platters of fruit and meat, ale continuing to flow despite much of the group having drunk themselves silly the night before. Towards the treeline, the horses whinnied and nudged each other as the squires fastened their reigns and saddles, draping them in the colours of their owners’ houses, and all around her people were gathering weapons to begin the day’s sport. 

As Valyda looked across the camp, the place seemed strikingly similar to that of her last day in King’s Landing before she had boarded the slavers’ ship - the tents, the merriment, Nessa readying her bow for a day’s hunt. Sitting at the table, her mind began to wander - tracing every minute of that last day until the night she had stepped aboard that ship, the stench of the hold so foul that she could still taste the misery on her tongue even now. A pair of men somewhere to her left let out a merry roar, and she felt her heart begin to pound in her chest, sweat beading on her brow despite the dreary weather.

“Valyda?” Nessa’s voice pierced the veil of panic, her concerned tone coming muffled against the shrill ringing that wracked her brain. 

“I’m alright,” She assured breathlessly, placing a gentle hand on the girl’s arm as she rose from her seat. “I’ve forgotten something in my tent, I’ll be back in a moment.” 

She opened her mouth to protest, but was unable to find the words before Valyda turned away, disappearing through the rabble towards her tent. Positioned near the edge of the camp, the sound of the celebrations was obscured by the many layers of canvas, granting her the moment of peace she so desired. Lingering outside, her hand holding the edge of the tent flap yet never tugging it open, Valyda let out a heavy sigh, feeling the panic drain from her body. Get it together. You were made to be stronger than this. We don’t panic. 

The sound of footsteps on the other side of the tent, squelching against the damp earth, pulled her from her thoughts. “I said I was fine, Nessa,” She called, wiping the sweat away from her face with the back of her hand. As the footsteps continued to approach, she craned her head to look, suppressing a look of surprise as Cregan Stark appeared, already clad in his leather armour, a wolfskin draped across his shoulders. 

“I’ve been told you’re riding with my party today, I came to see if you were ready,” Lord Stark stepped forward, nodding politely. He didn’t say ‘Your Highness’. 

Valyda paused. “I thought I would be riding with Nessa.”

He shook his head slightly. “The Tullys and Manderlys make up a party - they are the joined families, after all.” 

She said nothing to this. A long pause hung stagnant in the air, Stark’s frown growing ever more pronounced with each passing moment before he spoke again. “You barely ate at the table - it’ll be a long day, I brought you this,” Holding out a gloved hand, he offered up a chunk of bread, frowning again - this time to himself - as he realised how meagre an offering it was. 

“Ah, plain bread, my favourite,” Valyda teased, the corner of her mouth curling in a half-smile. Cregan chuckled, standing there awkwardly for a moment as she accepted the bread, tearing off a small piece and eating it. 

“...Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“I…” Oh, fuck it. I’m sure he knows by now, everyone seems to. “I spent my last day in King’s Landing at a hunt like this one, before… before I was taken.” Cregan listened intently, his forehead creasing inwards as his brow furrowed deeper. Valyda waved a hand dismissively, his gaze eliciting something akin to embarrassment. “It’s just bad memories, it’s nothing. I’ll be ready to go in a moment.” 

She turned to enter the tent when he spoke. “It’s alright if you don’t want to come-”

“No!” Valyda barked, raising her hand to quiet him. When Cregan took a step back, she sucked in a long breath, letting out a sigh. “No. I’m sorry, I want to come, just… Wait here, one moment.” 

Letting the tent flap fall shut behind her, she took a moment alone in the dimness to compose herself, drawing in one slow breath after the others, the heels of her palms pressed tight over her eyes. A bow and quiver had been left atop the dresser. Although she was a decent shot, she had always favoured her sword, and had asked one of the servants to sharpen it for her, even though the chances of it coming in useful were slim. Tightening the sword belt around her waist and slinging the quiver over her shoulder, she re-emerged from the tent. Cregan stood firm outside with his back to her, hands clasped behind his back as if standing guard, his gaze surveying the almost abandoned campsite around them. Turning his head, he raised his brow silently as if to check one last time that she was alright, and with a quick nod they began to walk towards the edge of the woods where the others were gathering, the horses shifting their weight from hoof to hoof impatiently. 

As she approached her mount, Stark held out a hand to help her up. Raising a brow, Valyda shot him a look, and he swiftly retracted the offer with a knowing smirk, turning instead to his own horse. A long line of riders stretched out across the opening to the woods, and once she was comfortable upon the saddle, she spied Nessa at the far end of the row, smiling back at her reassuringly. Valyda did not doubt that she had figured out what had rattled her at breakfast, but she also knew the girl would not offer help that she did not need. It was her problem and hers alone, and the pair had known each other long enough to know it would be hers to resolve as well. 

With a chorus of barks from their pack of hounds, the Tullys bolted swiftly into motion, disappearing through the treeline, the most treacherous of hunting trails reserved for only those who knew the Riverlands best. Although, Valyda suspected even her party of Northmen could navigate these woods better than she, having never travelled further West than King’s Landing in all her life. Her feet were made for creeping through tiled alleyways, not stomping across wooded earth, and her eyes could track a man through any crowd, yet spotting a singing sparrow in the branches above seemed impossible. When Stark’s men made a start into the woods, stringing their crossbows as they rode through the brush, she clung loosely to their side, keeping Cregan always in her line of sight but allowing her mount to tread its own path, avoiding the sharp-looking brush underfoot. 

“Would the Princess like to have the first shot?” One of the bannermen asked, keeping his voice hushed so as not to scare any potential prey. The group looked back at her, and she met Cregan’s expectant gaze, urging her forward. Her horse let out a huff as it stepped through the bushes towards them, carrying her to the front of the group where the bannerman was waiting, pointing silently to the deer that feasted obliviously on some berries through the trees. 

Threading her bow, she felt the arrow’s feathered fletchings brush against her fingertips, her breath tight in her throat, shoulders squared as she drew back the string, the men around her waiting in expectant silence. Pulling back the arrow to the corner of her mouth, she angled the shaft towards the deer, her arm stilling its shaking as she aimed. At once, she let the string roll off of her fingertips, loosing her arrow, and watching on as it zipped straight past the deer, vanishing into the hedges beside it. 

“Well shot, your highness,” One of the men said. “It was very close.” 

Valyda shook her head, letting out a chuckle as the deer bolted away, vanishing through the brush. “No need to flatter me, Ser. It was a poor shot, I’m sorely out of practice.” 

Lord Stark’s squire came forward, a wiry boy who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, keen eyes preparing to retrieve her lost arrow. “Don’t worry yourself,” She called down kindly to the boy. “It was my mistake, I’ll find it myself.” 

The men behind her exchanged uncertain glances, unsure at the notion of allowing the Targaryen princess to head out alone. Cregan cleared his throat loudly. “I’ll accompany the princess. The rest of you head on, keep to the trail and we’ll catch up.” This seemed to satisfy the Northmen, who were keen for any excuse that would allow them to carry on with their hunt, and Valyda suspected they wouldn’t mind not having to keep her around, preferring to be unbound by propriety and a poor shot. 

Turning their mounts, the Northmen continued along the trail, watching keenly for their next prey as Valyda kicked gently at her horse’s side, jolting the beast into a careful walk as they navigated the uneven ground, heading towards the bushes where the deer had once stood. Cregan fell quickly into step with her, their bodies rocking backwards and forward against the motion of the horses, watching the ground for any signs of the lost arrow. 

“He was right - It was a very close shot,” He pointed out. 

“ Close shots are still misses,” Valyda lowered her hand to tap the blade hanging from her belt. “I’ve always preferred a sword, anyway.” 

Stark hummed in agreement. “As have I. There’s more control with a sword - allows you to face your enemies up close.” 

“Exactly,” She nodded. “You know, the last time I went hunting, I had to face a bear alone. My sword might have saved me then, but it was strange - even before I could see it, I could feel it watching me.” She wondered if the deer she had shot at had felt it too, felt the looming presence of something that wanted to kill, lurking in the bushes. 

“Do you feel watched now?” Cregan asked, his gaze lingering on her face. 

Valyda paused, listening to the woods around them, silent save for the chirp of birds above and her horse’s breathing below. Even though she knew the forest was filled with hunting parties, they seemed miles away, the pair of them isolated out here amongst the trees. “No.” 

“Good. I had no plans to fight bears today - only to go hunting with this lovely woman I danced with at the wedding last night.” 

“Oh really?” She asked, a smirk playing on her features.

“Oh yes, she didn’t want to dance with me of course, but I rather enjoyed it once she stopped stepping on my toes.” 

Valyda let out a laugh, reaching across to bat at his arm. “I did not step on your toes!” 

“Alright then, only once.” 

“I warned you I didn’t know how to dance,” She shrugged, and Cregan grinned. Slipping into comfortable quiet, Valyda decided she was glad she had come, glancing over at Lord Stark once more, his gaze stuck on the bushes ahead, tracing the outline of each tree they passed. She smiled. 

A bird flew overhead, letting out a great squawk and drawing their attention, its wings spread wide as it swooped through the branches, disappearing further into the forest. “I’m sure one of the others will bring that back to camp later,” Cregan observed, both of them still staring up at the place they had last seen it. 

All of a sudden, the ground seemed to fall out from under them, the horses letting out terrible shrieks as they plunged into swampland that had been concealed by bushes. The mud below them came up to the horses’ underbelly, covering them with dirt as the beasts began to thrash in panic, their hooves growing stuck, sucked deeper into the mud with every movement. Cregan shushed his mount loudly, stroking at its mane until the beast began to calm and prompting Valyda to do the same. They had strayed far enough into the swamp that it would have been impossible to simply ride the horses back out again, and once Stark was sure his would not lash out at him, he dismounted, the mud enveloping him up to the waist. 

“Stay there,” He called up to her, but in a moment she too had slid off her saddle, the impact of landing in the mud splashing dirt over her torso and cheeks. Cregan sighed, but she could see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. There was something sad there too, as if he almost did not want to enjoy her company, as if succumbing to the feeling meant he had failed. But there was no time to dwell on this before her horse kicked at the mud around it, splashing the front of her riding coat. 

“How do we handle this?” Valyda asked, mopping some of the grime off of her front with her gloves. He considered this for a moment, before moving around to his horse’s side, positioning himself at the rear. 

“Take the other side, stay out of the way of its kick,” Cregan instructed, lifting his hands to brace the animal. Wading through the bog, she did the same, the pair grunting as they tugged its hooves from the mud, coaxing it as best they could towards the edge of the pool until it was close enough to leap free, whinnying as it scrambled up onto the bank. The force of its movement as the horse broke free sent the pair stumbling backwards, instinctively grasping onto each other to stop them from tumbling into the mud and inevitably submerging them completely. The desperate scramble to prevent their fall had churned up yet more dirt, and it was now splattered across their faces and sticking in their hair, their features almost unrecognisable from the mess. 

All at once, Valyda felt a bubble of laughter rising in her throat. It was strange. This was bad , anyone with any sense would have seen that. They were soaked and filthy and smelled of all kinds of rot and dirt, and still had another horse to free before they could even consider clambering out of this pit. And yet she was smiling . There were no two ways about it - somehow she was enjoying herself. She let the bubble pop with a chuckle, drawing Cregan’s gaze. He rose a brow in confusion, the mud that had dried to his forehead cracking and flaking off from the movement, and this only seemed to make her laugh harder, eyes creased shut, bent forward to release a hearty cackle. Soon Cregan was laughing too, his stern, lordly exterior dashed, attempting to brush away some of the filth from his face but only smearing it further with the mud on his hands. Just as their chuckles began to peter out, the horse still stranded let out a frustrated huff, shaking its mane as if to urge them on. 

It was easier to release the second horse than it had been the first, pushing it firmly to the edge of the swamp and digging in their heels as it broke free to keep their balance steady. After that, it was only a matter of pulling themselves out, and in a flurry of grunts and curses the pair managed to scramble up, moss and grass stuck to their fronts and sleeves as they dragged themselves out on their stomachs, the mud in their hair growing dry and sticking it to their faces. Their swords would need a thorough cleaning before they would be usable again, and their quivers were near soaked too. Of all the gear they had brought on their hunt, the only thing that didn’t seem completely soiled was Cregan’s flask of ale. 

“That’s just typical,” Valyda huffed, pushing herself up off the ground to stand. He dug the flask out from his saddlebag, gesturing for her to lift her head before he poured some of the amber liquid over her face and hands. It would leave their skin unbearably sticky, and made them smell somehow even worse, but in the absence of any water, it was the only way to even somewhat clean themselves. 

“I think,” Cregan sighed, closing his eyes as he tipped the last of the ale over his face. “This hunt may be a write-off.” 

She hummed in agreement, grimacing at the way her boots squelched when she moved. “If we continued on, the others would probably confuse us for some hideous monster and shoot us.” 

“Not the best way to spend an afternoon,” He concurred, and with a silent nod of agreement they began to make their way back towards camp. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Back in her tent, a maid filled a tin bath with scalding hot water, helping Valyda peel off her filth-encrusted clothes and brush the debris from her hair as she curled up naked beneath the soapy film that covered the water. Feeling the brush tug at each knot and clump of dried mud reminded her of her first night at Zhago’s manse, feeling Jarrah’s rough hands comb through her hair as she scoured her flesh of every inch of dirt she had accumulated in the hold of the slavers’ ship. “I can do it. Thank you,” She uttered softly, taking the brush from the maid as the girl gingerly retreated, slipping out through the half-open tent flap. The camp outside was silent, and it would be hours before the hunting parties returned with their bounty. Valyda wandered where Cregan’s tent was amongst this small village they had pitched. 

Hair falling, dripping and flat against her back, she climbed out of the tub before the water had a chance to run cold, shrugging on a simple tunic, the loose fabric sticking to her damp skin in places as she dressed. Total stillness hung in the air as she emerged back out into the daylight, the only sound coming from a small tent across camp where the servants had gathered to await their masters’ returns, chattering quietly amongst themselves as they passed around leftover food from breakfast. 

A huge firepit had been built in the centre of camp to roast the day’s catch later that evening, but a small flame had been lit here already, watched quietly by Cregan Stark as he sat on a nearby log, letting the heat from the blaze dry his hair, which fell to his shoulders in damp ringlets. Without a word, Valyda sat down beside him, keeping what would be considered a ‘proper’ distance between the pair as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a peach she had taken from the bowl in her tent, raising it to her lips. As her teeth pierced its skin, she felt proof of its ripeness in the explosion of juice that coated her tongue, taking a large bite and chewing silently as she watched the flames flicker and dance in the breeze. 

Cregan let his gaze wander from the fire to the princess as she sat down beside him, and he couldn’t help but admire the way her hair still stuck to her in places, the way that moving from the hot water to the cool outside had made her cheeks begin to flush, a patch of red blossoming on the end of her nose. As she bit into the peach, a trail of juice trickled over her lip and down her chin, the lone droplet clinging to her skin and threatening to fall as she moved. He felt the sudden urge to reach out, to placed the pad of his thumb to her face and wipe it away, to hold her face in the palm of his hand. When they had danced at the wedding, she had been dressed by countless maids, every aspect of her appearance carefully curated, but he liked this Valyda more. The Valyda who rode a mighty dragon, who laughed at her own expense and dressed like the smallfolk. Her gaze flickered towards him for a moment and then stuck, frowning slightly as she noticed his stare. “What?” She asked softly. 

“You’ve got-” He pointed to his own chin, and she seemed to take the hint. 

“Oh. Shit.” Valyda muttered, brushing the juice away with the back of her hand, and he cursed himself for not taking the chance to touch her when it had presented itself. Chances for such a thing were always limited. There would not be many more like this one. “Thanks.” 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

When word came that the hunting parties were on their way back, the remaining servants began to stoke the firepit until the blaze roared and spat, setting up a huge spit to roast their prey for the night’s feast. The Tullys returned first, their hounds sprinting noisily through the treeline, barking and howling, leaving trails of mud in their wake as they skittered to a stop in the centre of the camp, jumping to catch scraps of meat that were thrown to them as rewards for their day of work. Nessa and her brother were talking and laughing as they rode in, and Valyda’s eyes widened at the huge stag they dragged behind them, its legs bound and tied to the saddle of Nessa’s horse, antlers carving gouged in the damp mud, an arrow still protruding from its neck, its blood dried dark and hard. 

“Did you take it down yourself?” She called as the flame-haired girl came to a stop, servants hurrying to untie the beast, carrying it away so it could be skinned. 

“Of course, I did.” Nessa snorted, dismounting gracefully. “I needed another pair of antlers for my wall like you said.” 

“I doubt any of the others will bring back anything better than that,” Valyda said, marvelling at the way the huge beast’s muscles rippled and strained against the strength of the servants as they lifted it up onto a great table, knifes prepared to slice through its tough flesh. 

“I hope not. I have a reputation to uphold,” The girl grinned, tugging her gloves off of her hands, finger by finger.  They stood and watched for a moment - how the stag’s flesh was split and torn, skin pulled away fist over first, exposing the pink muscle underneath. How its eyes remained forever open, pupils gazing blankly up at the darkening sky as the setting sun cast a mural of purples and oranges over the clouds above. When Nessa spoke again, her voice was quiet, solemn. “I need to talk to you about something.” 

“Oh?” Valyda asked, hesitantly tearing her gaze from the creature. Nessa gestured for her to follow, and her brow furrowed as she obliged, snaking after the girl as they wove through the gathering crowds, skirting around the edges of tents until they made it to Nessa’s, the fabric emblazoned with the blue and red stripes of House Tully. 

Reaching out, Valyda lifted the tent flap to follow Nessa inside, her frown hard-set in anticipation of whatever she had to say to her. Taking a few tentative steps into the tent, she was yet to stop in place when Nessa broke the silence between them. 

“I will not return to King’s Landing with you.” 

She had been halfway through taking a step, her foot still hovering in the air when Nessa spoke. For a moment, Valyda was frozen, but soon began to shift her weight from foot to foot with unease. “...What?” 

“I can’t go back… I’m betrothed.” 

It felt like a punch to the stomach, a spit in the face - her throat ran dry and her stomach began to ache, her heart dropping painfully to the bottom of her ribcage. She was shaking her head before her mind was even aware of her dissent. “Wh- no. You, you can’t.” 

Nessa’s eyes narrowed, her head pulling backwards. “I can’t ? Why can’t I?” 

“Because…” There was no excuse she could think of that didn’t seem childish, pathetic, the immature complaints of a girl who had at some point started expecting things to go her way. “Because you love me.” 

She sighed, guilt etching every feature on her face, and Nessa raised her hands, rubbing her eyes. When she pulled away, the whites of her eyes had turned pink. “I do. But there’s nothing to be done about it. You were gone for a year , Valyda. I know none of it was your fault, I know you suffered, and you know I would have undone it all in a heartbeat if I could. But you’re a princess . If you’d really wanted to you could’ve made me your lady, could’ve kept me in King’s Landing with you. But you left and things changed. I’m nineteen years old, most people think I should have been married already by the time we even met.” 

“So you’re just… you’re just leaving? I could make you my lady the day we get back to King’s Landing - you don’t have to pack up and move to a dreary old keep with some man you barely know and certainly don’t care for.” 

“I do care for him,” Nessa interjected, her eyebrows raised to each other, expression pleading with her to understand. 

“But you- You’ve never cared for a man like that, you told me yourself they don’t turn your head.” 

“Not like that . He’s my friend.” 

A dawning realisation had begun to creep up upon her, and Valyda felt the blood drain from her face, sucking out of her fingertips and leaving them numb, every drop needed to calm the pounding of her heart. Her head was shaking slowly, side to side as she let the question slip from her tongue, although deep down she already knew the answer. “Who is he?” 

“... Cregan Stark.” 

Valyda let out a rough scoff, raising a hand as if to bat the possibility away, turning her head away from the girl. Nessa let out a pained croak, words failing her as she took half a step forward, arms outstretched to her. Valyda’s gaze was cold as she looked back at her, moving away from her reach. “Don’t. Don’t.” 

“Plans for this have been in motion for months, since before you came back, I just didn’t want to upset you-” 

“You both knew this whole time ?” She seethed. “You made me dance with him, made me befriend him, when you knew ?” 

“I made you like him because I knew!” Nessa cried. “I couldn’t bare the thought of leaving you feeling like I wasn’t going to be happy. I wanted you to like him because I wanted you to see that I would be taken care of!” 

“So, what?” Valyda tilted her head to the side. “You will marry him, bed him, have his children, all without a single ounce of attraction in you?” 

Now it was Nessa’s turn to scoff. “You really have no idea how this works, do you? How lucky I am to marry a man who has shown me kindness all the years I have known him? I may not care for him in any romantic sense, but he is my friend, and it is better than marrying some old lord whom I feel nothing for whatsoever.” 

She felt stupid. She felt wholly, utterly ridiculous, standing there protesting the most basic facet of any young noblewoman’s life. How long would it be until she too was subject to this fate? Which lord would they marry her off to - the bastard princess who had been stolen by slavers, leaving her with no maidenhead left to speak of, who had burned a man alive for all to see, who had stolen and threatened her family’s honour from childhood? Perhaps they would marry her off to some rich merchant from the Summer Isles, where her countless nights with Zhago would become a badge of honour rather than shame. Or, Gods forbid, send her back to Essos where no one knew her story, only that her name brought with it a hefty lump of gold. 

“So you will… return to Winterfell with the Northmen when the festivities are over.” Valyda seceded, head bowed in shame. 

“Yes.” Nessa’s voice was raw, fighting back emotion. “You must visit, bring Mekkara. I’ve seen the North only once, but I believe you would like it there.” 

She could not meet the Tully girl’s eyes, her gaze travelling to the ceiling of the tent down to the floor. Sniffing loudly, she stepped back. “So that is all you wished to tell me?” 

Nessa sighed. “Yes.” 

Valyda nodded, turning towards the tent flap. “Then I bid you goodnight. Enjoy your stag.” 

She heard Nessa try to speak again, but before the girl had gotten the chance she had left the tent, emerging into the darkness and letting the flap fall shut behind her. It seemed all of the hunting parties had returned now, for the middle of the camp was alight with huge amber flames, guests talking jovially and drinking heavily, raising their cups and gnawing on the legs of countless different creatures they had brought back from their trips. Valyda wanted nothing but to leave this place, to ride back to Riverrun, take her dragon and fly, to leave Nessa and Cregan alone in each other’s company, to keep firmly out of their way. But she could not leave, not now. At least for now, she had to wait out the celebrations, show her face, be polite and keep the peace. Her feet carried her at speed through the camp, wheeling unsteadily around each tent as she strode towards her own, a flaming torch nearby illuminating the black and red fabric, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flying above on the wind. 

Someone was standing outside her tent when she arrived. Cregan had his back to her, posted outside the door, his gaze surveying the surrounding camp as he patiently awaited her. Valyda stopped in her tracks, her heel digging into the damp mud. She did not want to speak to him, did not want to see him. She was furious - how dare he make her laugh, make her smile, make her soften to him, think tenderly of him, all whilst knowing he would soon be betrothed to the woman she loved most of all? How dare he say those things - call her lovely, treat her kindly, make jokes with her - all whilst scheming to steal her best friend from her? How dare he look at her with such softness, how dare he make her care about him so? 

She had almost turned to retreat when he sensed her approach, turning his head to look at her. “Valyda,” He started, a slight smile curling his lips. The golden glow of the torch illuminated his features so perfectly - the squareness of his jaw, the curls in his hair, the way his dark eyes seemed to soften when they gazed upon her. 

Cregan was about to continue but was not afforded the chance, for just as his mouth opened she bounded forward, stretching up on her toes, pressing her palms to his cheeks, and drawing their lips together. It was a chaste kiss, their skin barely even touching, her eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, but it was enough that she felt his lips against hers just once. She knew in her heart that she could have come to love him. But now she never could, so she would take this with her. 

His hand pressed against her back, firmly yet gently holding her in place as he dipped his head to meet her. She could tell from the way his body pressed into hers that he wanted this too, from the way he tilted his chin towards hers when she broke the kiss. When she spoke, her breath fanned his face, and he could still smell the peach on the air between them. 

“You will be good to her. You will show her kindness always, or I swear I will bring my dragon to your gates and make you regret it.” Valyda whispered. 

It was the kind of thing that would have made him laugh under different circumstances, but he could tell this was no sort of joke. “I promise I will,” Cregan uttered softly, letting his grip on her slip as he felt her palms peel away from his face. 

“Good,” She nodded firmly, taking a step back, untangling them from one another. She could feel his gaze glued to her face, but could not bring herself to meet his eyes. “You may go now.” 

Cregan hesitated for a moment, before bowing his head. “Your Highness,” He said, voice low as he slipped past her, disappearing into the jungle of tents that surrounded them. 

Valyda scurried inside, buttoning shut the tent flap behind her to ensure she was entirely alone. The candle on her table had been snuffed, and the tent was flooded with darkness as she stood there in the centre of the room, feeling the compressed dirt and dead grass sink beneath her feet under the canvas floor. She could barely see her own hands in front of her face, but as she raised them to her cheeks she could feel the dampness of salty tears running across her skin. She had begun crying without even realising it, but once she grew aware there was no stopping her hurt. A choked sob ripped free from her, filling the silence of the tent, her chest aching with the weight of it. Valyda let herself weep, ignoring the hunger growing in her stomach as she fumbled in the darkness to find her bed, burying herself beneath the covers and letting her tears soak the thin pillow. What was left for her outside this tent? Who did she have now? 

She wanted to go home. But where was it? 

Chapter 13

Each passing day in King’s Landing seemed to drive Valyda closer and closer to the verge of insanity, as if she were clinging to a rocky ledge with her fingertips, feeling her nails slowly stripped away as her grip began to slip further and further, condemning her to the abyss below. She woke with a sigh every morning, dragging her body out of bed as if her limbs were weighed down with greyscale, taking her meals in bitter silence. The Red Keep had nothing for her - no one she cared for, nothing to do except swing her sword aimlessly at the practice dummies in the yard. Sometimes Helaena would smile at her as she passed, but they never exchanged a word, and it was difficult to get the girl alone without her mother or one of her loathsome brothers lurking nearby. It was alarming how truly isolating the life of a princess could be, but even that loneliness would not drive her down into the lower town. Nothing here was so bad as to make her knock on that door, step inside, and follow her mother’s orders again. 

Perhaps the worst part was how in the dark she found herself these days. The knowledge she had accumulated so easily as a child seemed to slip further from her with each rising sun - she was no longer free to roam as she had once been, could no longer lurk and listen and spy, for there was no a soul within these walls that didn’t know her face. And what would she do with the information if she had it? Severing her ties to her mother had not only taken away the only relief she had from the Red Keep, it had also destroyed her purpose. The drive within her that had pulled her through so many hard nights had dissipated, gone like water under the hot sun. Who did she fight for now? She would have been a fool not to notice the conflict going on all around her - the battle for succession, the constant uncertainty - but could she truly lie and profess to care? Valyda had despised Aegon for as long as she had known him, but Rhaenyra made her uneasy - her cousin and yet her stepmother, a relationship she couldn’t pretend did not unsettle her. 

As for Daemon… She had not seen him in years, had not spoken to him since Laena Velaryon’s funeral. Had news of her disappearance reached him on Dragonstone? Had he cared? Had he wasted even a single breath looking for her, spent a single prayer hoping for her return? He had let her down with his indifference so many times that she could hardly feel bitter anymore, hardly feel anything except the reciprocated lack of care they both showed. 

Valyda was perched below the eaves in the yard, head bowed to read her book as the gates were thrust open, the pounding of hooves against cobbles seizing her attention as she watched the carriages enter, men holding Targaryen banners trailing behind them. She remained still, as if hoping no one would notice her that way, her gaze trailing every door and window that opened out onto the yard, waiting for someone more senior than she to arrive, to step out and welcome the party. No one came. 

Rhaenyra’s arrival was announced to no one but the castle servants, and she watched silently as the party emerged one by one, their expressions laced with confusion at their reception. Perhaps she should have been glad. The last time Valyda had seen them all in one room, Aemond was freshly missing an eye, and the queen was brandishing a knife. 

“Princess,” She called, rising to her feet, her book discarded as she crossed the yard. They turned to look at her, and she could feel Daemon’s gaze burning into the side of her face. She would not acknowledge him yet. He was not worth her anger. 

“Valyda,” Rhaenyra said, pulling her into an awkward and all-too-formal embrace. “We were so glad to hear of your safe return.” It was strange to be in her arms. Since she was old enough to remember, Valyda had been fed stories of this princess, how Daemon’s affections for her were the reason Valyda had been cast aside, his vow to Mysaria forgotten. But she had been fourteen - a child just as much as Valyda had been. If she had questioned everything else her mother told her, why not this? 

“Thank you.” She nodded politely, her hands cautiously hovering over the woman’s back yet never quite touching her. She could feel the others watching her, the sudden urge to retreat back into the depths of the Keep and stay out of whatever this was creeping up her spine. But then her gaze fell upon the nursemaid, a white-haired baby sitting comfortably in her arms, sucking on his hand as he stared at her with bright violet eyes. Pulling back and away from Rhaenyra’s embrace, she found herself unable to look away from the boy, a sense of tenderness growing within her. 

The princess followed her eyes, a fond smile spreading across her face as she saw the boy. “His name is Viserys,” She said. “He is… your brother, I suppose.” 

Somehow, she found this notion did not disgust her. Gesturing to the child, Valyda looked back at Rhaenyra. “May I-?” 

“Of course,” She nodded, gesturing for the maid to come forward and place the boy in her arms. Valyda braced herself for the weight, unsure of what to expect, feeling rich fabric and plump flesh against her palms as she held him, his pale hair stroking her cheek as the child peered up at her. He was so small, his eyes so wide, searching her curiously, his fingers damp with spittle as he tugged them from his mouth. She had never held a child before, had never felt one wriggle and squirm in her grip, knowing her strength was all that kept it safe from harm. Viserys reached up, wrapping a fat hand around a lock of her hair, and where she had expected a painful tug she felt him wrap it gently around his fingers, muttering away to himself in a babbling language she could not interpret. She could not help but smile, looking back at Rhaenyra. 

“He is lovely.” 

The princess smiled, and gestured for them to walk together as their party headed inside the Keep, lifting a hand to stroke affectionately at Viserys’ hair. Looking down at the child in her arms, at the way he leant into his mother’s touch, Valyda felt a painful tugging in her chest, a bitter longing bubbling within her. This was a mother. This was a woman with love left in her heart to spare for others, a woman who raised her children to lean into her hand rather than bite at it. Valyda was a grown woman herself now, the flaming wreckage of her childhood existing only in memory, but by the Gods what she would have given to turn it all back - to the days before she had met Cregan or Nessa, the days before she had claimed her dragon, the days before her first mission. To watch time unravel and spill away all the way back until the day she had first opened her eyes as a tiny infant, wishing she could have peered up at the face of a woman like this and not her own mother. To have been regarded with wonder and love, to have never been a burden or a tool but an extension of her mother’s own heart. As young Viserys squirmed in her hands, she grieved for her own girlhood, and felt this boy must have been the luckiest in all the world. 

Strolling into the Red Keep, the grey stone arching high above them, Rhaenyra’s hand stilled and fell to her side as her gaze landed upon the huge star of the Seven that had been erected in the entryway, hanging menacingly above their heads. “I had been looking forward to coming home, but I find I scarcely recognise it,” She muttered, mouth curling in distaste. 

“Queen Alicent has… discovered religion,” Valyda remarked, and heard Daemon let out something between a scoff and a laugh behind her. She kept her eyes forward, never turning her head to him. Say something. Say something to me, anything, I am your daughter. I am your daughter and I was missing and you did not search so fucking say something. Her cheeks heated with the sheer embarrassment of being so desperate for his attention. Perhaps if he yelled in her face, called her reckless or stupid, held her wrist so hard he left a red mark of his hand scorched upon her skin - perhaps then he would feel like the father she remembered again. 

When it came time for Rhaenyra and Daemon to head up to King Viserys’ chambers, she passed the young namesake back to his nursemaid, the child letting her hair slip freely from his grasp without an ounce of struggle. Rhaenyra ran a hand over her cheek, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear with all the tenderness of a mother that was not her own, and Valyda felt all of her past judgements about the woman shrivel and wash away with the tide. 

As they disappeared up the staircase, she stood still and watched, jolting with a start as she felt a warm palm press against her own. For a moment, the hand felt so familiar against her own that the most irrational crevices of her mind shouted and rejoiced, convincing her for the briefest of seconds that Nessa had returned, that it was her hand she felt within her own. But when she turned her head, this illusion was shattered. The girl beside her had grown so much since the last time they had spoken, yet the sweetness of her face remained just as it had appeared the day of the funeral. 

“Rhaena,” Valyda greeted, feeling a smile curl her expression. They had met each other less than a handful of times, but the girl’s presence felt comfortable beside her. 

“I was so worried when I heard you’d gone missing,” She said, her voice soft, between just them, inaudible to the two sons lurking behind them, muttering to each other about heading to the courtyard to practice with their swords. “I prayed for you all the time, I’m so glad you’re safe.” 

“Thank you,” She smiled, bringing her other hand to rest atop Rhaena’s. “You would not believe the things that happened to me, but I am grateful for your prayers. Believing there were people waiting for me here kept me going through all of it.” 

They turned their heads to look as Jacerys and Lucerys slipped away, leaving them alone in the huge hallway, the ceilings towering high above them, their bodies appearing minuscule beneath all this decadence. “Have you told anyone about the things that happened to you?” Rhaena asked, frowning deeper when Valyda shook her head. 

“Everyone knows pieces. No one knows all of it.” 

“I think if you told someone… It would help lift the weight off your shoulders. I can see that you carry it still.”

“I do,” She admitted. “But I have so few friends left, so few that I trust with it.” 

“You can trust me,” Her sister said, and when she looked into her eyes, she could tell it was true. 

So she did. She trusted her, and she told her everything - The boat, the sickness, the Myrish woman who had held her close and stroked her hair. She told her about the manse, about the Valyrian girls and the work and the heat, about Zhago and the fighting pits, and how Mekkara had somehow found her, had followed her across the sea and freed her, how together they had burnt Zhago to ashes for his crimes. And Rhaena had listened to it all, watching with an unflinching frown, taking each piece of the story in her stride, holding her hand all the while. She had lived in Pentos for many years as a child, and from the look on her face, Valyda could tell she had heard similar stories before. 

When it was over, Rhaena had only one question. “What of the girls you left behind? The other slaves?” 

She sighed, emptying her lungs of air and filling them with guilt. “I sent a ship full of soldiers to the port, though I have heard no word of their arrival yet. They’ve been instructed to go to the manse - I told the girls to wait there - and they shall be freed, brought back here if they wish.” The idea of bringing the beautiful Valyrian women back to Westeros in a ship full of soldiers made her uneasy, yet what could she do? Women suffered everywhere in the world, was it not enough that she held out her hand to them, that she kept her word? And yet, Valyda suspected her days would be far from empty as she awaited them. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t told to expect your arrival today. If I may… why have you come?” 

Rhaena frowned, pushing herself up off the step they had taken a seat upon. “We must dispute the succession for Driftmark. Rhaenyra wishes it to pass to Lucerys, as my grandfather promised, but my uncle Vaemond wants to claim the title for himself. We’re bringing the matter before the King to settle things.” 

Ah, politics. Valyda had little taste for it herself. “I would have liked to see it pass to you, or your sister,” She smirked, and the girl sighed. 

“We are older, but my uncle Laenor was the male heir, and Lucerys is… well, you know.” 

“I know.” They could not utter the truth, not here.

“Besides, I am betrothed to Lucerys, so I will be the Lady of Driftmark either way.” 

“Ah… That’s nice,” She remembered the last time she had seen her family all together, at the funeral of Rhaena’s mother - the argument she had had with her father, when Daemon had threatened to betroth her to one of Rhaenyra’s sons, and she had, in turn, attempted to claw his face off. At least someone was happy with this arrangement. 

After a pause, Rhaena spoke again, eyeing Valyda with uncertainty. “Are you sure there is nothing else?” 

How could she tell her about the rest? How could she let it be known that she had fallen in love, with a maiden no less? Or that she had kissed Lord Cregan Stark behind her hunting tent, and that she yearned to feel such closeness again, to feel his hands against her skin, to feel the comfort of Nessa’s embrace? No. She would not. “The rest is just for me,” She teased, the loneliness shrouded in a knowing smile. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

The Great Hall was crowded and unsettled as Valyda slipped in through a side door, courtiers shuffling out of her way to give her just enough space to pass that it still felt passive-aggressive, as if to mark the fact she was not one of them, that she did not belong here. Otto Hightower was already halfway through his speech when she arrived, standing high above the rest of them in front of the Iron Throne and - although he dared not sit in it - it seemed to her that his ambition was clear. There was a moment when her mind seemed unsure of itself, unsure of where to place her amongst this crowd. Did she stand with Alicent and her children? The princes and princess she had lived alongside all these years? Or did she stand beside her father, a man who had never shown her an ounce of care in all her life, not like he did Rhaenyra’s boys. She should have despised them all, cried injustice at the ways she had been neglected - she would never be legitimate, would never be a son, and those were her greatest crimes. Had she been a boy, would they have shuddered at the things she had done, or lauded her as a champion of her sex? Would she be a cold-blooded killer, or just a man? 

And yet, she found herself gravitating towards Rhaenyra, creeping up behind her, gaze darting over the crown of braids that encircled her scalp, at the way her sons bracketed her at each shoulder as if guarding her. Standing in the empty space between her father and Jacaerys, she felt them both glance sideways at her. In Jace’s expression, the unfamiliarity of years apart, the wariness that came with remembering the sharp-tongued girl who had encircled him on her great beast in the dragonpit so long ago. And in Daemon’s face… nothing. He was indecipherable, with no glimmer in his eyes or twitch of his brow to indicate he felt anything at all. Perhaps he had expected her to come, to fall in beside the rest of his family. Perhaps he simply did not care that she was here. Standing beside him made her feel weak, as if she was the relenting side in an ongoing war, letting her resolve slip enough to make him think she didn’t quite hate him so much as she used to. 

Vaemond Velaryon came forward to make his case. As he preached the importance of ‘pureness of blood’, Valyda fought the urge to roll her eyes. Was he truly so much better than anyone else, with his Valyrian blood and stark white hair? What did Valyrian blood mean when they was no Valyria - was hers tainted, corrupted, made invaluable by her Lysene mother? Zhago had not thought so. She noticed Rhaenyra grow tense, her shoulders risen, her jaw held tight. 

“If you truly cared so much for the blood of House Velaryon, you would recognise my sons as heirs - the true-born sons of Laenor Velaryon,” The princess spoke, her sons watching intently. She would not meet the eyes of her accuser, her gaze diverted to the ground. She’s lying. “You only speak for yourself and your ambition,” She’s lying, and yet Valyda could not help but hope they listened, hope they granted her wish. Why? Because if Lucerys could make something of himself, not all was lost for the bastards among them. 

As each voice rose around the hall in turn, her mind was pulled back to that night on Driftmark, lurking in the shadows, watching from on high as they fought, Rhaenyra and Alicent wrestling against each other as the children bled and wept. 

But when Rhaenyra’s turn to speak arrived, she was scarcely able to utter a word in defence of her son before the doors to the hall were swung open with an enormous creak, the weight of it sending vibrations through the stone floor that she felt through the soles of her shoes. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room as King Viserys began the laborious trek from one end of the hall to the other, and for a moment Valyda met Jacaerys’ gaze, his brow drawn tight with confusion. She shook her head slightly, lifting her shoulders in a shrug as if to say ‘I don’t know either’ . They peered over the shoulders of those surrounding them, craning their necks to get a view of the ever-ailing king as he shuffled forwards, the bones that supported his withered frame appearing close to snapping as he began to force himself up the steps towards the throne. Valyda felt a body brush past her shoulder, and watched on as Daemon came forward, reaching out to help his brother even in spite of their differences, their decades of conflict. 

What have I done to him that was so terrible that I have become the only one he does not care for? In what universe, what version of events, am I more deserving of this neglect than anyone else, than the King who butchered his first wife to marry a child? Am I a monster in his eyes, or just a daughter? 

She was hardly listening as Princess Rhaenys came forward in her support of Lucerys’ claim, hardly paying attention as she stared at the crowd around them, at Aegon’s ever-satisfied smirk that she longed to smack clean off, at the way Vaemond’s very body seemed to sink as the prospect of his inheritance slipped further and further away from him. But among all this division, there was an olive branch here, an alliance growing strong between the princesses - that she could feel, even if she never quite knew what had divided them in the first place. That was real, more so than these squabbles, these venomous glares and pathetic notions of purity. That was something she wanted to be a part of, a family she finally felt some connection to. 

But evidently, this display had not so affected Vaemond. He appeared poised to strike as he came forward to chastise his King, his hands almost trembling with the anger that rushed through his veins. “ That is no true Velaryon!” The man yelled, turning to jab an accusing finger at Luke. When he turned to face them, she could see in his eyes all the contempt she had faced as a child - how people had stared and whispered behind her back, thinking she did not notice, how the people of the Red Keep had ostracised her so, how Aegon had laughed and mocked her, treating her like some foolish, feral creature whenever she dared to fight back. She had told herself it did not affect her, that she had been taught and trained to withstand this, but the animosity in Vaemond’s voice, the sheer belief in his own superiority as he yelled in the face of a child… Valyda could feel the anger build, could feel her face grow hot, her nails dig into the flesh of her palm. 

“Gods be damned,” He seethed. “I will not see my house ended on the account of this-”

Say it. She thought. Say it and see what happens. Say it.

“Say it.” Daemon’s voice came low, a vocalisation of her own thoughts, her mind and his words urging the Velaryon to keep pushing, and for a startling moment, she realised how alike they were. That he too felt the need to wrap his hands around this man’s neck and squeeze, to wipe these words from his mouth. Their fists tightened the same, their jaws clenched with the same aggravation, and suddenly she knew. It wasn’t that Daemon hated Valyda, it was that Daemon was Valyda. He had funnelled all of his violence into one little girl, and he couldn’t bare to look at it. 

“Her children are bastards! And she is a whore.” 

There was a knife hidden in the folds of her clothes, just as there had always been since the day she had learnt to wield one, and in a second she had reached for it, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal handle. How many times had those words been said of her, said of her mother? She hated Mysaria, that was what she told herself, but buried deep within her there was an urge to protect her mother, to defend her against anyone who dared say a bad word about her. In that moment, they were not talking about Rhaenyra, not to her - they were talking about Mysaria. There was a ringing in her ears, blood pumping so hard she could scarcely hear as she pulled out the knife from its sheath. 

And then a hand seized her wrist, stilling her movement. 

For a moment Valyda was struck dumb and frozen by the sensation of Daemon’s palm against her skin, by the gentleness with which he held her back from committing violence, the way in which he had not even had to look at her to know to stop her, to know she was going to hurt someone because it’s what he would do. They were a wretched reflection of each other and she watched on, her body frozen, as her father moved past her into the opening at the centre of the room. Still unmoving, she stared as he pushed through the crowd, each spectator shrugged aside one by one, his hand reaching for his sword and pulling it from its sheath, the Dark Sister emerging into the light with a drawn-out shlink, the light of a dozen candles refracting off its surface. 

It was a blade of legend, and she felt the truth of the myth as it sliced through the skull of Vaemond Velaryon in a single swoop, severing his hair halfway down as his head slipped from its roost, tumbling to the floor and rolling across the stone tiles, leaving a streak of dark blood in its wake. So that’s what true Valyrian blood looks like. The same as any other. For a split second, it was as if the rest of his body had not registered the loss of its crown, but then all at once the knees buckled and it came crashing to the ground in a pathetic heap, like a rag-doll dropped from a height, blood still spurting and spewing from the thickest arteries, a macabre fountain pouring out into the cracks in the floor. It was as if time had slowed, for it wasn’t until his body hit the ground that she was aware of anything else - of the way Helaena tore her gaze away as fast as she could, of the maid behind her who let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a retch, of the way Vaemond’s tongue lolled sideways, almost brushing against the floor. Valyda wanted to look away, she told herself she did, and yet she could not. Never had she seen vengeance so swift, and a part of her longed for a taste of it. 

The sound of a dozen swords unsheathing stole her attention, finally able to tear her gaze from the terrible sight to watch as the King’s guards encroached on her father at the Hand’s order. Daemon raised his empty hand in surrender, seemingly unphased by his own actions. “No need,” He said simply as the guards reached for him. “Valyda,” She watched as he held the Dark Sister out to her, their gazes finally locking, and she felt that she was finally seen. Stepping forward, she took the blade from his hand, their fingers brushing against each other as he let the hilt pass into her palm. It was less of a disarming than it was a statement - an acknowledgement that she was his child, to show them all that he trusted her with this sword, a warning that the Dark Sister was just as dangerous in her hands as it was his. 

Even as the King collapsed backwards into his throne, groaning in agony as every breath put yet more strain on his aged bones, Valyda could do nought but stare at the weapon in her hand, holding it aloft as the blood ran down its blade and trickled over the hilt, warming her skin with its freshness. In her hand was a relic of Targaryen history, a token of her place in this family. The Dark Sister named her legitimate far more than any document or decree ever could.

And for a moment, she almost did not hate Daemon Targaryen.

Chapter 14

Notes:

Sorry this one took a while! I didn't have access to a computer for a while, and then writer's block hit me like a fucking train, but I'm pleased with this chapter - hope you enjoy!

A tense silence hung over the room, Valyda’s fingertips tracing the engraved handle of Dark Sister as it sat propped against her chair whilst she waited for someone to speak. They had assembled here to eat as a family, but it was becoming clearer by the moment that their gazes geld venom, their words little but false niceties. She had been seated next to her father, a decision she suspected was intended to show unity and to prompt reconciliation, but they could extract nothing but formality out of one another. 

“Are you well?” Daemon asked, sipping his wine. 

“Quite well,” Valyda replied tersely. Neither of them made an effort to probe much further after this. 

Baela and Rhaena had stood up from their seats, positioning themselves between Rhaenyra’s two eldest sons as they chatted amongst themselves. She felt envy stab at her heart, pushing it down with a long gulp of wine. Being the eldest of the children, and the only one truly acknowledged as a bastard - an outsider - had always put her at odds with the others, and with what little anyone knew of her mother being so shrouded in mystery and scandal, she had always felt a veil of distrust hanging between them, one that it seemed only Rhaena had bothered trying to reach through. The girl noticed Valyda across the table and smiled, coming to claim the chair beside her. She was sweet - so much so that Valyda could see almost nothing of their father in her. Perhaps if she had met Laena Velaryon she would have understood. 

They rose courteously to their feet as King Viserys entered, his chair carried by four men who strained beneath its weight, heaving him up the steps and across the stone floor to his place at the table. It was not until he was settled, the guards retreating to stand by the door, that the others were free to sit, and the King spoke with a strained voice, emerging from his throat with a painful rasp. “It is so nice… to have you all here… together.” As Valyda cast a glance across the table at all of them, she realised they stared at each other with an apprehensive, calculating quality, as if waiting to see who would be the first to ruin this night. 

Queen Alicent had offered to pray, and as Valyda watched on with unease, she was startled to realise that it was only she and her father who did not join in - did not clasp their hands together and quietly bow their heads - that even in their stubborn refusal to open themselves up to one another they remained connected in their resistance. And when the Queen asked for the Gods to show mercy upon Vaemond Velaryon, she fought to contain a smirk as Daemon rolled his eyes. 

As the King toasted to the twins’ betrothals to Rhaenyra’s sons, Valyda noticed Aegon lean towards Jacaerys, a teasing glint in his eyes as he muttered, “Well done Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.” Baela shot him a filthy glare, a look which seemed to inflate Aegon’s sense of himself even further as he leant back in his chair, a content smile curling his features. But as he noticed the way Valyda stared him down with a look of utter coldness, the Prince appeared to sink into his chair, clearing his throat as he attempted to mask his discomfort with drink. 

Ever since they had been children, she had made the boy uneasy. She remembered seeing him watch her in the dragonpit as she swooped and circled on Mekkara’s back, a natural despite receiving none of the training or help he had been given, the pair moving in tandem when he had, at times, struggled to even remain upright. Perhaps it had come from some twisted envy, some idea that Aegon’s birthright had been to prove himself better than her, a feat he had never quite managed. Or perhaps he was truly frightened by Valyda - her untameable nature, the mighty beast that only she could control, the knowledge that she knew more about him than anyone else, that one slip of the tongue would ruin his already fragile reputation forever. 

For it was true, and she made sure he knew it. In the years she had spent as her mother’s spy, she had come to know Aegon Targaryen better than even his own mother. She had seen the fighting pits he’d frequented, met his bastard child, heard whispers of women fallen victim to his drunken lust. There was not a single bone in the boy’s body that was fit to be king, and he knew that she knew it. To confront her, to expose her tricks, meant certain and swift retaliation - to Aegon, being around Valyda was like being presented with a bear and handed a stick with which to poke it. 

“We do not require a fool at this feast,” She whispered, loud enough for those across the table to hear. “But thank you for offering your services, cousin,” Jacaerys smirked, and for a moment they were smiling at each other for the first time, the awkwardness between them forgotten. 

It was clear the animosity at the table upset the King - the sight of his family bickering and glaring at one another driving him to despair - but Valyda found it hard to find any sympathy for him. She had heard all about what had happened to Rhaenyra’s mother - Mysaria had been close by the first time Viserys’ heir had been declared, her ear to the ground, and she remembered it well, the chaos of the court, the whispers of maids that had been unlucky enough to witness the moment Queen Aemma had been torn open, screaming and crying until every drop of blood had left her, and all for a son that would not survive a week. And how old had the current queen been when he had taken her to wife? The years of exhaustion had drawn her face down, but even now she did not look old enough to be Valyda’s mother, not really, and yet here she sat opposite her own son, only one year Valyda’s younger. No. This old man would not have her sympathy - not even as he wheezed and croaked his way through dinner, the flesh slowly drooping off of his bones even as he still lived. If anyone were to blame for this rift that existed among them it was him, in his naivety and his desperation for a son, in his will to ignore the suffering of those around him until the moment it became an unsightly inconvenience. In her eyes, he was no better a man than his son would be king. 

“Tonight…” He spoke, drawing in a strained breath. He had taken off the gold mask that shielded his face from the world, the horrible fleshy hole that existed where his eye once had exposed to the room. Across the table, Helaena squirmed uncomfortably, unable to look at her father’s face. “Tonight I am not your king. I am your father, your brother, your husband, and your grandsire,” Valyda noted he had not claimed himself as her uncle. “And I may not walk for much longer among you.” 

The admission of this weighed heavy on the room, the very air growing thick with tension as, perhaps for the first time, everyone in the room came to the same realisation at the exact same time. Things were going to get worse very soon. Things were going to get bloody. Her hand grazed against the hilt of Dark Sister, the cold, rough metal skinning her knuckle slightly, drawing a single drop of blood. It was the first sword she had known that had felt like a threat in itself, not just in the hands of a swordsman. It felt like an entity, sitting there next to her, the legacy of Targaryens before her casting an aura around it and weighing it down. It was magnificent, and it was repulsive. She wanted to hold it aloft and carry it into battle, and she wanted to cast it into the harbour where no one could wield it again. 

“The House of the Dragon will not survive if you tear it apart, so mend the rift between you. If not for yourselves, then for me - an old man, who loves you all,” Viserys’s speech had appeared to drain him of all energy, and he collapsed backwards into his chair with an exhausted, heaving sigh, helped gently by the Queen. Rhaenyra stood, raising a cup to Alicent, holding out an olive branch, the sincerity of which Vayda struggled to discern. One of the only memories she had of the two from her childhood had been watching them from the shadows, high above the great hall at Driftmark, their knives raised and teeth bared, wrestling against each other as their children wept. 

“I raise my cup to you and your house,” Alicent obliged, her gaze never leaving Rhaenyra’s. “You will make a fine queen.” 

And yet she could not help but hope for its truth. As much as she had told herself she hated these people, that they could never truly be her family, she found that recent loneliness had made her more and more desperate for it to be so. The North seemed so far away, a land so unknown and distant to her that she could not even imagine what it might look like, and with it had gone the only people she cared about outside of this room. Perhaps she wanted her family to accept each other for their happiness, perhaps she needed it for her own sanity. 

Valyda’s hand found itself wrapped around her own goblet, and she noticed her father frown as he noticed the bloody graze across her knuckle. “... If I may?” She asked tentatively, and Alicent smiled, perhaps the first true smile she had shown the girl, nodding in approval. Lifting the cup, she felt the weight of her wine against her palm, and for a moment was compelled to drink it all - to lessen the weight and give her the strength to speak. “I would like to toast the princesses Rhaena and Helaena. For I have found them unflinchingly kind and good-natured to me, and I am proud to call them my family. People often do not recognise a woman’s goodwill as strength, but as someone who has experienced little and often finds little of it within herself, I say it is much stronger to be kind than to be cruel.” 

Rhaena beamed, reaching out for her empty hand and seizing it in hers with an affectionate squeeze. Aegon practically scoffed, fighting not to roll his eyes, but beside him, Helaena seemed genuinely touched, a look of awe and bewilderment upon her face as she began to smile. She had meant all she had said, absolutely, but the move had not been without intention. Valyda had drawn the two emerging sides together, had complimented something no one at the table could refute, and had appealed to a parent’s pride. Daemon leant towards her, and she fought the urge to shudder as she felt his breath, warm against her neck as he whispered into her ear. “That was clever. Not how I would have thought to do it, but clever.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” She shrugged, downing a long sip of her wine. Across the table, Aegon glanced around, frowning at the pleased looks on everyone’s faces, at the sense of calm that had descended over them. Clearing his throat, he rose from his seat, stepping around Jace’s seat and leaning down, obscuring him from Baela’s view. 

“I regret the disappointment you are about to suffer,” He whispered, the girl looking up at him with beady eyes, a glare not dissimilar to Valyda’s. “But, if you ever wish to know what it is to be truly satisfied…”

Jace bolted up from his seat, visibly outraged. “Aegon stop being such a fucking child ,” Valyda snapped, the pair united against the prince as he retreated back to his seat. Suddenly it was back. Suddenly the rift between them had re-opened, as if a gaping canyon had split the table cleanly in two, all previous words of reconciliation poured into its abyss. If she had had a little more of her wine that night, Valyda probably would have exposed Aegon right there and then, condemning herself in the process, but ensuring he would lose any respect he somehow still had. 

It seemed Jace sensed this too, could feel any attempt at peace slipping through their fingers, as he let his shoulders relax, his jaw still clenched as he forced a polite smile, raising his cup. “To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth,” Whilst she could not have said the same, she admired the boy’s attempt to lessen the tension, and with each moment he held his composure she felt more and more comradery with the young prince. 

Aemond was already standing, his unmoving, unblinking expression unnerving to behold. Whilst Valyda had despised Aegon as a youth, she had never felt much of anything for his brother. Aemond had been as much subjected to the boy’s teasing as she had, but it had never made her see him as an ally - he had been just as likely to call her a bastard if it saved himself from the taunts, and as such she had never made any attempt to bridge the rift between them, even in the years they had spent living under the same roof. It was not her job to appease these boys, and she would not appeal to them either. 

In the corner, Helaena muttered something, a grim frown falling away to a pleasant smile as she stood up, lifting her cup. “I would like to toast to Rhaena too - and Baela. They will be married soon. It isn’t so bad, mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.” Valyda felt her throat squeeze shut, the breath unable to escape her for a moment at this admission that seemed to come so nonchalantly from the princess, and her heart broke for her. “And to Valyda,” She added. “I pray for your health, and I am grateful to the gods for your return.” 

Valyda nodded her thanks sincerely, the two women meeting each other’s gazes as Helaena lowered herself back into her chair, understanding passing between the two. They had rarely spoken the entire time Valyda had spent in the Red Keep, so rare it was to find her without her mother or either brother, but there was an unspoken bond between them, a golden string reaching out over the table, slithering between the goblets and dishes and tying them together - a promise that they would always be kind to each other, that they understood each other’s pain. It hurt to watch the princess sit down, bracketed on either side by her brothers, an impenetrable guard that kept her barred from tenderness. But not from her. Never from her. As the music started, Jace met her eye, and the pair nodded to each other as he stood up, crossing the room towards Helaena and offering her a dance. She smiled as she watched them, a sense of ease settling over the room once more, Helaena’s disturbing remark seemingly slipping out of everyone’s minds as soon as it had come forward. But Valyda refused to look down to the other end of the table. She was not confident she could meet Aegon’s eye without climbing across the table and strangling him. 

“Valyda,” Lucerys’ voice came, catching her attention. Rhaena smiled approvingly, and she suspected the girl had encouraged her betrothed to speak. “Is it true you are gifted with a sword? Rhaena says you’re excellent.” 

“‘Excellent’ is kind - although I have had a lot of time to practice, so yes, I suppose.” 

“You should practice with my brother and me, it would do us good to fight with someone more practised.” 

She was almost taken aback by the invitation, so unused she was to being asked for anything, let alone for someone to admit her skill. No matter how confident Valyda had always been in the knowledge of what she could do better than others, it never seemed to her that anyone else could see it. But this acknowledgement made her grin, and she accepted with a polite nod and her thanks.

“I would love to meet your dragon,” Baela added. “I’ve heard she’s a great beast, but I’ve never been fortunate enough to see her.” 

“Of course. We can go tomorrow if you’d like. Mekkara’s far more gentle than she appears, though - I was at Riverrun recently, and there she let the children play with her like it was nothing,” Baela smiled, but at the mention of Riverrun, it was as if a sharp stab of pain coursed its way through Valyda’s chest. That morning with the children had been the first time she had met Cregan, when she had decided she had no time for the Lord of Winterfell, and the very place she soon found herself very, very wrong. It was the home of her truest friend, her first love, the woman she may never see again. She allowed her mind to wander for a moment. What might they have been doing at that moment? Were they too sat down to feast in the halls of Winterfell, bundled in furs beside the hearth to keep them safe from the bitter cold? Was Nessa happy? Was Cregan? Did either of them feel her absence as she felt theirs? 

The King was carried wearily to bed shortly after, and the family returned to the table as another course of food was carried in, servants placing sucked pigs and all manner of meats on the table before them. Valyda was reaching for a leg of lamb when she hesitated, noticing Luke let out a chuckle, hiding his smirk behind his goblet as he took a sip. For a moment she was confused, before Aemond slammed his fist upon the table at the opposite end, rising to his feet. Of course, she remembered what had caused the outburst at Driftmark, and it was truly no surprise that the princes still resented each other. She retracted her hand slowly, placing it in her lap, internally lamenting that the family seemed intent on fighting all evening when she was, in truth, growing unbearably hungry. 

“A final tribute,” Aemond announced, the room around him falling silent. “To my nephews - Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…” He trailed off for a moment, and she noticed the way Luke’s jaw clenched. She could tell what was coming. So they felt it too? As a youth, she had grown bitter at the way the circumstances of the prices’ births seemed overlooked, whereas hers was the only thing anyone ever talked about. It hadn’t mattered how smart or strong she had been - how well-read or quick with a sword she had become - she was always a bastard and subsequently always deficient. But she had thought the boys immune to such biases, always favoured by the king, always aided by the dragonkeepers where she was denied help. It seemed now that she had not been looking hard enough. 

“... Strong.” 

Valyda heard Rhaenyra take a sharp breath, sucking the air through her teeth with a hiss as Queen Alicent spoke a warning to her son. “ Aemond-” 

The prince was not deterred. “Come. Let us drain our cups to these three-” Aegon lifted his own goblet, making a show of his agreement. “-Strong boys.” 

“I dare you to say that again,” Jace spat, Luke already rising to his feet. 

“Why? Do you not think yourself Strong?” 

Aemond had been unable to even place his goblet on the table before Luke swung the first punch, the prince letting the cup clatter to the floor, a pool of wine forming at his feet as he lunged towards the other boy. Aegon had seized Luke, holding his face down against the table as Baela and Rhaena yelled for them to stop, Rhaena being forced to hold her sister back from joining the fight herself. As Aemond knocked Jace to the floor, Valyda pushed her own chair out from behind her, her hand finding the sword at her side as she stood, fist clutching the handle. 

Her father’s hand wrapped itself around her arm, tight and painful, and she could already feel the palm-shaped bruise forming that would show itself an ugly grey tomorrow. “Are you a fool ?” Daemon spat, his voice lowered so that only she could hear over the ruckus. “Do not ever raise your blade to these people, you stupid girl. I knew you were sensitive, I didn’t know you were an idiot.” 

“This from the man who killed Vaemond Velaryon only hours ago?” She threw back at him, her attention no longer occupied with the fight going on around them as she wrenched her arm away from his grip. 

“You would have done the same had I not stopped you, and then where would you be? In the cells, awaiting your execution.” 

“Take the fucking thing, then,” Valyda hissed, thrusting Dark Sister into his hands. “You deserve something as vile as yourself.” It looked as though he was about to say something before she cut him off. “I am ashamed to call you my father.” 

Daemon stared at her for a long moment, his gaze cold and unrelenting, almost frightening. But she would not cower from him. He would not get the satisfaction of thinking he made her feel anything as real as fear. Dipping his head, he spoke into her ear. “We are far more alike than you realise.” 

With a rough shrug of her shoulder, she repelled him from her, bone striking him in the chest, and without another word, he turned to his sons, stepping in between them and the King’s boys. Rhaenyra sent the children away, and as they turned to leave, Rhaena looked back over her shoulder, gesturing to Valyda that she should follow, that she should come with them. She knew they would return to Dragonstone - what choice did they have now? They could not house these boys under the same roof without the Driftmark incident happening again, or worse. But she would not go with her father, not now when she could scarcely stomach being in the same room as him. She would not let him kick her and follow him blindly all the same like some dog starved for attention. If he wished to speak to her in that way, she would ensure there were consequences. Valyda shook her head, and Rhaena frowned sadly, following her sister out of the room. 

The Queen and Rhaenyra were speaking softly to one another as she crept around the edge of the room towards Helaena, who was standing silently beside her grandfather, looking mournfully at the remnants of the feast. She had no intention of leaving the girl here, nor of letting her return to her chambers alone. After what she had divulged at dinner, who knew what Aegon might do to her behind closed doors? He was growing drunker by the minute, and had already been driven to violence once that night - she would not allow his sister to become his next victim, not again. 

“Helaena,” She spoke softly, sliding her arm through the crook of the princess’ elbow, their arms intertwining. “Why don’t you spend the night with me in my chambers tonight? We are cousins, yet I feel we barely see any of each other. I would like to spend more time with you.” 

The princess was not a fool, and she could tell by the relief in her eyes that she understood what Valyda’s invitation had meant, that she could tell she was seen. How could these people let her be treated like this? It was unconscionable. “Yes,” Helaena smiled. “Thank you.” 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Back in Valyda’s chambers, the two girls lay down on opposite sides of the bed, their legs dangling off the sides, heads beside each other in the middle of the mattress, their hands folded on their fronts as they both stared up at the ceiling. The stone had been carved into arches, small dragons perching in the corners of the ceiling, a blanket of golden stars painted across it. She had spent so many hours in this room, so many years, that little by little it was as if her very soul had soaked into its foundations. Anyone who cared to really look could have learned everything they needed to know about the girl - from the messy charcoal sketch of Mekkara lying on the desk beside the window to one of Nessa’s old dresses still hanging in her wardrobe. 

“I like it here,” Helaena declared. Her arm was extended upwards, tracing the constellations on the ceiling with her finger. “It’s quiet. There are always babies crying in my chambers.” 

“No one ever comes to this part of the castle - that’s why I chose it. Unless there’s a tourney or something on, it’s all empty guest apartments.” 

Neither of them spoke for a long time, the room silent save for the sound of slow breathing as they let the day’s events slip away, the stress draining from their bodies. Outside the window, the final glimpse of the sun cast a deep orange streak of light against the wall before disappearing completely over the rooftops of King’s Landing. 

“Do you…” Helaena started, piercing the silence. Her voice came quiet, hesitant. “...Do you have dreams?” 

“All the time.” 

“...What are they about?” 

Valyda sighed, picking at the flesh around her fingernails. “I dream about dying, mostly. Burning, drowning, taking a sword to the chest - I’ve died a hundred times in a hundred different ways in my dreams.” 

She heard the rustle of sheets as Helaena craned her head to look at her. “Do they frighten you?”

“Yes. More than they used to. Sometimes I dream about being in a slavers’ ship again - that frightens me more than the ones where I’m dying.”  The princess said nothing to this, nodding her head in understanding. Valyda let her head loll to the side, looking back at the girl, Helaena’s gaze darting downwards to avoid making eye contact. “What about you?” 

Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, and she tugged nervously at the hem of her sleeve. “There-...” She began before biting her tongue, hesitant to speak what was on her mind. 

“Don’t worry,” Valyda assured her. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.” 

She took a deep breath, pushing herself to sit upright. “There are beasts… beneath the boards.” 

Valyda’s brow furrowed, a frown creasing her expression. Digging an elbow into the mattress, she pulled herself up, tucking one leg under the other as she sat on the bed, watching Helaena intently. “What does that mean?” 

When she looked back at her, finally meeting her eyes, a single tear ran down her cheek.

“I don’t know.” 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Valyda did not remember falling asleep, but when she awoke the next morning she did so with a start, squinting hard against the blinding sunlight streaming in through the window. She was still dressed in her clothing from the night before, still lying atop the sheets, and Helaena was nowhere to be seen. Pushing herself up, she rubbed her eyes, digging her knuckle into the socket, the graze from the previous day scabbed over and dry. Her mouth tasted foul, her throat dry. There was something strange going on, something odd that she had felt from the moment she had awoken but could not quite decipher. 

And then she noticed it. 

The bells. 

The Great Sept of Baelor was ringing the bells, a long relentless toll echoed by every gong in the city - a cacophonous din that burrowed its way straight into her brain, a dull ache forming in her temples. Craning her head out of the window, she saw men running back and forth across the courtyard below in a panic, as if preparing for something. Were they under attack? 

Valyda scurried across the room, grabbing the door handle and firmly tugging. But the force of her movement sent a jab of pain running up her arm when the door did not give way - did not move even an inch no matter how hard she pulled. It was locked. She was locked in from the outside. 

Heart pounding in her chest, she ran back to the window, leaning out of it, holding on to the stone sill for dear life. “You!” She yelled to a guard down below. “You there! What’s happening?!” 

But no one could hear her over the toll of the bells. She tried the door again, heaving with all her might. Perhaps it was just stuck, maybe if she pulled hard enough it would come undone. Each tug achieved the same result, and the clanking of the bar across the door outside only confirmed her position. Valyda attempted to pry it open with one of the pokers from the hearth, but only succeeded in painfully bruising her hands and worsening her panic, the sound of her heartbeat thumping in her chest the only thing audible over the constant ringing. 

Suddenly, she heard footsteps outside, and a great creak as the bar was lifted from the door. Rummaging hurriedly through her drawers, she retrieved a dagger she had stashed there years ago, holding out out before her to defend herself against whoever was trying to come in. 

The doors were flung open, and in came Princess Rhaenys, a kingsguard at her shoulder who quickly closed them again behind her. Brow drawn in confusion, Valyda slowly lowered the dagger, holding it to her side as Rhaenys crossed to the window, peering down at the courtyard below before nodding to the knight. 

“What’s happening?” She asked tentatively, watching the pair with keen eyes. Rhaenys placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her to the door. 

“The King is dead. We’re getting out of here.”

Chapter 15

Wrapped in a roughspun cloak, the hood pulled down low over her face, Valyda slipped wordlessly through the secret passages that wormed their way through the Red Keep, the knight at her front, Princess Rhaenys on her heels. The halls were dark, so much so that she could scarcely see the walls that bracketed them on either side, the three of them only daring to light a torch when they needed to descend the narrow stone stairs, shuffling in single file towards the exit. 

The tunnel opened out onto the courtyard, the tiled ground illuminated with ripples of golden light as the torches reflected off the spattering of rainwater that had fallen earlier. Peering out to ensure no one was around, the Kingsguard ushered them forward, Rhaenys pressing a comforting hand to her back as they slipped out into the open. “What is your name, sir?” Valyda whispered, voice barely audible over the constant drip drip drip of water falling from the rooftops. 

“Erryk Cargyll, Your Highness,” He uttered, eyes never meeting hers as he scanned their surroundings, hand firmly planted on the hilt of his sword, ready to defend them against anyone who would seek to raise the alarm. Valyda’s years as a spy for her mother had prepared her well for a night such as this, her footsteps skirting around puddles and across the damp tiles without a sound - but at the sight before her, she hesitated, stepping into the water with a splash. 

A man hung by the neck from the cloisters, his body dangling limply, face swollen from the blood and the water that soaked his skin, eyes puffy, rainwater running down his nose and dripping to the ground as a crow swooped down and landed upon his head, pecking at his scalp with its beak. The man was dressed finely in the clothing of the court, and beneath the bruises and bloating that disfigured his face, she was sure she recognised him, although his name escaped her. He reminded her of Lyra - the woman she had loved so dearly as a girl - her body floating face-down in the harbour, beaten and marred by the filthy water. 

It was far from the first dead body she had seen in her life. She had watched many a slave waste away and die in the hull of the slavers’ ship, and even before, she had been responsible for many a corpse herself. But seeing one so blatantly displayed here, in the Red Keep, was jarring. It was wrong. In the lower town, she would not have batted an eye, but this man’s body represented a fundamental shift, a change in the place she had, albeit begrudgingly, known as her home for so many years. The violence of King’s Landing had penetrated the walls of the Keep, and that could only mean one thing. The way of life they knew was over.

“Come,” Rhaenys urged, tugging gently at Valyda’s elbow. “We cannot stay, or we’ll be seen.” She followed obediently, wondering when, or if, she would ever return to this place. Her room would be left just as it was, her memories preserved in every corner of the castle. In this yard, she had practised her sword-fighting, had watched Nessa shoot - she had met her here for the first time, had wandered these halls with her, had sought refuge here from her mother’s schemes. Even if she had never truly loved the Red Keep, it had been her home nonetheless, and it hurt to leave it behind. 

As they passed through, scurrying down yet more steps deeper into the very belly of the castle, to the dark underground chambers where the dragon skulls were held, encircled by hundreds of candles still burning in the cold evening, casting an eerie glow through the rooms. Rhaenys stopped then, peering silently up at the huge skull before them, its teeth bared, eyes hollow and empty. She could tell they were both thinking the same thing - where is my dragon? Is she safe? Can I get to her? The path to the Dragonpit would not be a safe one, but it was one she had trodden so many times. She had broken in once, she could do it again. 

“Princess,” Valyda whispered, approaching Rhaenys, their heads bowed close to one another, voices inaudible to anyone but themselves. “I can get into the Dragonpit. I’ve broken in before - it can be done.” Rhaenys met her eyes, a look of hope glimmering in her expression, and gently seized the girl’s wrist, guiding her to follow Erryk as he led them out of the chambers. She followed, the cold air hitting her face like a wall as they emerged into the night, standing high above King’s Landing. They had bided their time for escape, and the bells had since ceased their toll, the city plunged into an unsettling silence. 

“Where are we?” Rhaenys asked the knight. 

“South of King’s Way. The Blackwater’s this way,” He informed her, stepping closer in a bid to guide them forward. Somewhere in the distance, amid the maze of buildings she had come to know so well, a fire was burning - a pinprick of gold among the sea of darkness. The others were speaking behind her, but Valyda tuned them out as she stepped up to the ledge, peering out at the city, trying her best to make out the site of the fire. 

And then it hit her. 

Mysaria’s manse stood ablaze, flames pouring forth from every gaping window, the bricks stained and blackened with soot. It was not the whitewashed hut she had grown up in down by the mud gate, but she knew this house just as well. Her mother’s exploits had brought them wealth, and with it had come expansion. It would have been dangerous for the White Worm to remain settled in a single place, so they had bought up a few places all across King’s Landing, from squalid townhouses to vast manses. But this one had been the greatest - her mother’s pride, the place she received the most illustrious business. And there it was, the timbers that held up its roof weakening and collapsing under the heat of the flames, tiles sliding off and shattering in the street below. They had found her mother’s heart and they had burned it. Valyda almost wished she had lit the match herself. 

“We’re not going to the Blackwater,” She said, eyes still locked on the inferno. “We’re not sailing away tonight.” 

“Where then?” Cargyll asked, but it was clear Rhaenys already knew. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

They spent the night in the home of her childhood, slipping through the back door of the small house in the dead of night, when even the street urchins were asleep. Mysaria would not find them here - she had no need to come to this place now that Valyda had proven disloyal. Her business was taken elsewhere, the door bolted tight without any expectation that the one person who had walked away would be the one breaking back in. Valyda had pried the door open with a grunt, and they had slept on the floor upstairs, Erryk keeping watch through the cloudy glass of the bedroom window, waking them as dawn came and the bells for Aegon’s coronation began to toll. 

“We won’t leave the dragons,” Rhaenys told him, the three of them hurrying down a darkened side alley as the morning sun began to crest over the rooftops, King’s Landing once more bursting with life. “If we can get to the pit, then-”

“No,” Cargyll said firmly. “They’ll expect you both there, too many guards will be looking for you. Neither of you would get past the guards - you must find a ship and get out of here.” 

“I’ve made it past the guards before, Ser,” Valyda pointed out, tugging down her hood to cover the violet of her eyes as a stranger scurried past. “It’s certainly a risk, but I can do it again.”

“How?” He whispered as they stepped out into the main street. But before she could reply, the city watchmen that littered the town began barking and yelling at passing citizens, and in a moment the square they found themselves in was swarmed with people, bustling in all directions, carrying boxes and baskets with the hopes of selling their wares at the coronation. Rhaenys and Cargyll struggled against the tide of people, but Valyda had spent enough time in the city to move with the flow, slipping between each passing man without trouble, her body drifting seamlessly through the ever-changing gaps around them. 

She managed to reach Rhaenys, tugging her hood away from her ear. “I will meet you there,” Valyda uttered, and the princess nodded, lurching this way and that as people collided with her and the Kingsguard on all sides. By the time she had secured her footing and looked up once more, Valyda was gone, vanished in the crowd as if she had never been there at all. 

Back at the house, she had gathered some of the old clothes she had left behind, discarding her court dress for the garb she had worn in her days as a spy - the padded shoes, the dark grey fabric that moved silently with her body, loose and free. Even surrounded by people, Valyda knew how to be invisible, and it was here that she was the most dangerous. As the crowds moved steadily up Rhaenys’ hill to the top of the Dragonpit, herded forwards, the city watch as their shepherds, she headed downwards, her footfalls silent upon the cobbles as she rounded the base of the hill. Since she had been here as a child, more houses had been built, their bricks pressing into the sides of the steep slope, obscuring many of the vents from view. But she knew where they were, and would not be deterred. 

The very vent she had first slipped through as a girl remained in its place, high up on the rocky wall, obscured now by the canopy extending out the back of a butcher’s shop. A few boxes of rotting meat, waiting to be discarded, acted as steps, and she clambered up to the opening, the street behind her empty as the townfolk had left for the celebrations. Valyda’s fingers wrapped around the cold metal bars, prying open the entrance to the vent. Then she paused. When she had first burrowed her way through this tunnel, she had been a girl of just twelve. Now she had surpassed her twentieth name day, and with all those years had come growth, her body no longer the lithe thing it was. It would be much harder to make it through, and if she grew stuck there would be no one to help her, no one to pull her out. She would die in there, either by flame or starvation, wasting away, her body unable to move out of the tight stone passage. 

Craning her head towards the opening, she called down into the pit, her voice echoing against the rock. “ Tala ?” She spoke, the Valyrian almost foreign on her tongue after so many years. 

From deep within the bowels of the pit came a chirp, the sound of gravel shuffling and scraping underfoot growing louder and louder before a milky white pupil pressed itself up against the opposite end of the shaft. “Hello, my darling,” Valyda grinned, and Mekkara let out a joyous yowl, a small ball of flame erupting from her throat. “Shh, shh,” She soothed, the great beast obeying her command, retreating back away from the opening. There was no leaving her here. If she had to risk her own life to fly with her dragon ever again, so be it. 

With a grunt, she pried the upper half of her body through the opening, the rock cool against her skin. This passage had not lit up with dragon flame in a long time, and with Mekkara posted dutifully at its opposite end, she was thankfully safe from the fiery death many thought of as promised for those who forced themselves in this way. Craning her body this way and that as she wriggled down through the vent, Valyda felt the passage growing tighter, the stone pressing uncomfortably against her shoulders. Yet she clawed herself further forward, grasping at the walls around her for some grip that could propel her deeper inside, the warmth of the pit heating her skin as sweat beaded on her brow. Mekkara was waiting for her mother, and she would not disappoint. 

Heaving with a final push, Valyda’s head emerged at the other end, and she was forced to bat away Mekkara’s affectionate nudges as she gently lowered her body out of the shaft and onto the pit’s floor - the dragon had always underestimated her own hugeness, and often tried to nuzzle her as if she were a dog or cat, despite the fact her head was larger than Valyda’s entire body. “Shh, easy girl,” She cooed, scratching the creature’s snout as it let out a satisfied squeak. “I need you to be quiet, ok? Quiet.” 

As she waited in the dark for Rhaenys’ arrival, her mind began to race with possibilities for how the hell they planned to get out of here. Would they wait out the coronation - fly away under the cover of darkness? Would they bring Ser Cargyll with them, the poor knight dragged through the clouds on the back of a beast? The thought of it almost made her laugh. 

The coronation was already beginning in the amphitheatre above, the din of hundreds of smallfolk bustling and chattering seeping through the layers of stone as the dragons paced back and forth, grunting with unease. It was emptier down here than she had ever seen it, the dragons belonging to Rhaenyra and her family now far away on Dragonstone, the pit home to only a few of the beasts now. At the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, Valyda reached for her dagger. Mekkara sensed her disquiet, setting her body back on her haunches with a low growl, the embers of fire blooming deep in her throat. Was it a guard? She would have to kill him if it was - they’d never make it out of here if he raised the alarm.  

“Valyda?” Rhaenys’ voice came, whispered around the corner. 

With a sigh, she let her guard down, sliding the blade back into her belt. “I’m here,” She replied, and the woman slipped into the open, tugging down her hood. As the celebrations grew louder above, it was no wonder no one heard as Meleys let out a cry of elation, bounding forward out of the shadows towards her rider. 

“However did you make it down here?” The princess asked, greeting her dragon affectionately.

“The vents,” Valyda replied, shrugging as Rhaenys raised a brow in disbelief. “It wasn’t as easy as it was when I was a child,” She admitted. 

“I’d think not,” Rhaenys chuckled, before wordlessly mounting her dragon. Valyda did the same, clambering up onto Mekkara’s back and assuming her regular position, straddling her spine between two great spikes, their shape anchoring her firmly in place. 

“So what do we do? How do we get out of here?” She asked, rubbing her dragon’s back to soothe it as she began to grow restless. 

There was something dark in Rhaenys’ eyes, something venomous as she stared up at the arching stone ceiling above, the sound of stomping and cheering permeating the air all around them. They must have crowned Aegon - the thought of it made bile rise in Valyda’s throat, the foul, sour taste materialising her dread. Gods only knew what he would be capable of now - how many women he could hurt, how many lives he could destroy when untethered by the authority of his parents. She wondered if she would have killed him, given the chance. Looking to the older woman, Valyda’s brow raised expectantly, waiting for her plan to be revealed. But Rhaenys offered nothing. Nothing save for a look of determination, her fists tightening around the reins. 

“Follow me,” She spoke, her voice thunderous. 

Before Valyda could offer up another question, Meleys was tugged upwards into action, and she let out a strangled gasp as the beast’s armoured skull smashed straight through the pit’s ceiling, Rhaenys ducking to avoid the rubble as they burst up through the floor of the amphitheatre. Huge slabs of stone tumbled from the gaping hole above them, dust filling the pit and choking her as she felt it enter her lungs and sting her eyes. She could hear nothing but screams, and the sickening squelch as a poor peasant fell through the gaps and landed with a crunch on the rocky floor in front of Mekkara - his head lolling to the side, skull dashed upon the hard ground as blood oozed from his mouth. Valyda raised a hand to wipe the dust from her face, and when her palm came away she realised it was wet from tears that had begun to spill, washing the rubble from her eyes and mourning to loss of so many innocents.

This was not how she wanted this to go. But there was nothing she could do now. 

Urging Mekkara forward, the dragon flapped her wings, the clouds of rock dust clearing, carrying her upwards to where the coronation had taken place only moments before. She teetered on her back legs at Meleys’ side, the two dragons filling almost the entire space with their great size, and Valyda watched as the remains of the crowd scattered, sprinting towards any possible exit, the screams deafening. 

Rhaenys could not tear her gaze away from the family stood before them, Alicent’s eyes locking with hers as she shielded Aegon with her body. After all that he had done, she still loved him - perhaps even now she did not know the whole truth. Mekkara side-stepped nervously around the room, peering down at the floor as she tried to avoid crushing the people beneath her, careful as if she were a child who had discovered an ant hill. “Rhaenys!” Valyda yelled over the din, watching wide-eyed as Meleys lurched closer to the new King. 

Down on the podium, her gaze met Helaena’s, stricken with terror as her trembling hands gripped the arm of Ser Criston Cole, watching the scene with bated breath. 

 “There are beasts… beneath the boards.” 

With a sickening lurch, deep within her stomach, she realised she had become the monster - the beast that had tormented Helaena’s dreams, and caused her to weep with fear. The poor girl, whom she had felt so much pity for, whose tormentors she had cursed and hated with all her heart, now saw Valyda as just another cause of her suffering. She wanted to climb down from Mekkara’s back, to walk through the bodies and go to her, to hold her hand and tell her she was sorry - this had never been her plan, had never been who she was. 

Suddenly she was a girl again, fingers trembling as she took hold of her knife to make her first kill. In her heart, she had not been a killer then, and perhaps she was not one now, not truly. She had known what it was to seethe with hatred, to desire revenge more than anything else - she had felt life ebb away beneath her fingertips, felt the hot stick of blood coat her skin, smelled the bitter tang of charred flesh - so much so that it seemed that was all she was. But it did not have to be. 

“Rhaenys!” She shouted once more, only this time she heard her. “We have to go, stop this!” 

She watched the way Rhaenys’ knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on Meleys’ reins, and for a moment it seemed she was too late - her pleas not enough. Below them, Alicent closed her eyes, and in a moment of startling realisation, Valyda saw she had accepted her fate, expecting the moment Meleys’ opened her jaws and burned them away to ash. But the dragon bore her teeth, a great roar tearing from her throat, so loud it seemed to shake the very foundations below them - and then they took flight. Wrapping her wings around her body, Meleys shot through the great doors to the pit like an arrow, bursting into the sunlit afternoon as the crowds outside still scrambled to escape the carnage. 

Valyda hesitated for a moment, opening her mouth to speak yet finding her tongue empty of all words. Her gaze met Helaena’s, and the overwhelming guilt that filled her brought tears to her eyes. “Go,” She spoke softly, patting Mekkara’s side. “Go!” And with that, the dragon followed its predecessor, the sea air hitting her in the face as they launched into the outside, squinting in the sun. 

Her body was bound for Dragonstone, but her heart remained with the man she had seen, bones shattered in a crumpled heap upon the floor of the pit, an innocent slaughtered to enable her escape. Was this who they were? Brimming with such self-importance that it did not matter who died in their efforts to be free. People had oft said the Targaryens were closer to Gods than to men, but if this was what Gods did, she wanted no part in their worship. 

And yet, deep down, Valyda knew things could only get worse.

Chapter 16

Notes:

Sorry this chapter was delayed! I've had a lot going on at the moment, so writing had to take a backseat for a while, but I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Valyda Targaryen stood on the steps of Dragonstone, staring down through the fog at the cascade of rocks and salty waves below, feeling more dangerous than she ever had in her life. She was not just a woman - she was a weapon, a key piece in the conflict to come. Her hand would spill blood, he dragon would spout flames - all to prevent the boy-king who so disgusted her from enacting his will on the people of her city. 

If only her mother could see her now. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

They had crowned Rhaenyra high up on the cliffs, the sea air leaving a bitter sheen on her tongue like it had that day on Driftmark at the funeral of her first stepmother. There was no turning back now - nowhere to hide her treason the way she had done for so many years. In her youth, she had spied on and betrayed this family in her mother’s name - now she would kill for them. The memory of the screams, of the piles of bodies they had left in their wake at the coronation of the new King Aegon had not left her. Perhaps it never would. But had there truly been any other means of escape? Any other possible way out of King’s Landing that would not have forced her to abandon Mekkara? The more Valyda considered it, the less her guilt seemed to pain her. If the love for her beast made her a monster herself, then so be it. Sorrow would only hold her back from what now needed to be done. If any of Mysaria’s teachings still lived within her, it was her absence of shame. Her suppression of guilt. She and Rhaenys had delivered the first blow against Aegon’s rule, and she would be there when he tried to make them pay for it. 

Valyda had attempted to suppress the flicker of surprise that crossed her expression when Rhaenyra invited her to join the war council - to stand at the table, a huge wooden carving of Westeros, and plot their next move against the king. Her gaze flickered across it, surveying the thousands of miles of land she had never set foot upon nor seen with her own eyes. And up above it all, towards her father’s end of the table, stood a carved model of Winterfell, its towers and turrets protruding from the flat surface. They were there - Nessa and Cregan - safe within the castle’s walls. It was possible they had not even heard yet of Aegon’s coronation, so far away from the capital. She wondered if they had been married yet. No letters of invitation, nor any other subject, had ever reached her. Perhaps she had been forgotten - a relic of the new couple’s shared past that was best discarded. 

“We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton,” Rhaenyra’s maester spoke, his voice dragging Valyda’s attention back to the matter at hand, her sorrow slowly dissipating. “Massey, Darklyn and Bar Emmon.” 

Rhaenyra considered this, her gaze surveying the map for any other potential supporters. “My mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.” 

“I am a friend of House Tully,” The words escaped Valyda before she was able to even finish thinking them, a surge of embarrassment coursing through her as the room’s attention shifted to her. She had always been most comfortable lingering in the shadows, and the sensation of dozens of eyes upon her made her uncomfortable, as if she were contradicting the most very basic facets of her training. “Lady Nessa was a close companion of mine for many years in King’s Landing, and I only recently attended the wedding of Edmund Tully and Alys Manderley. I will have their ear.” 

But she did not want to go to Riverrun - could not bear the thought of traipsing those halls when Nessa was not there, not when every room reminded her so of the girl. Rhaenyra nodded in approval, and she forced a smile to hide the inner conflict that tugged at her brow. If Nessa were here now, would she hate her for this? For dragging her family into this war - a war that would almost certainly claim the lives of people she loved. There seemed to be no way to appease one loyalty without damaging the other, and Valyda picked irritably at a chipping edge of the table as the others continued their discussion. 

“What of Winterfell?” 

The question roused her from her thoughts, her heart skipping a dull beat as she looked up at the others. 

“House Stark made an oath to support you. Lord Cregan will not break that oath - I know him, it is not in his nature.” Valyda declared. She could feel Daemon’s gaze upon her, burning into her cheek as she spoke, and when she turned to look at him he raised a brow in question. She did not owe him answers. If he had bothered to show any interest at all in her life over the years, he would not have needed to ask. Valyda would not divulge her history with Cregan Stark - that belonged to her alone. Taking a step back away from the table, she slipped through the narrow crowd around them, her contributions to this council all but spent. She would go where Rhaenyra sent her, but she could not stand to discuss the politics, not whilst her thoughts remained with Winterfell. 

She slipped silently away from the hall, the hallway outside dimly lit by flickering torches. As Valyda turned to descend the cold, stone steps, Ser Erryk came scurrying up towards her, concern painting his expression. “Ser Erryk?” She called, his expression softening as he noticed her. Even if they were scarcely acquainted, the knight had come to feel some tenderness for the princess during their night in her childhood home whilst attempting to flee the city. 

“A ship had been spotted, m’lady,” He informed her as he reached the top step. “It’s approaching the castle, and flying a banner of a three-headed, green dragon.” 

Valyda knew what this meant. With a swift nod to the knight, she turned on her heel, making her way hurriedly outside. The evening wind hit her like a wall, dark hair fanning out wildly around her head as she descended the steps alone, a small party already gathered on the walkway that stretched out across the water below. Making her way towards them, Valyda peered down over the side, watching as the sea foam crashed over the jagged rocks, pausing in the very place her own mother had stood, almost twenty years before, Valyda’s existence within her and the dragon egg in her father’s hands the last source of conflict in this place. 

“Lord Hightower,” Valyda greeted casually. The Hand frowned at her lack of deference, an uneasy eye trained on Mekkara, who sat poised, high up on the rocks behind her. The beast opened her jaws with a mighty roar, the guards assembled behind him visibly shaken, but Valyda did not even flinch. Daemon would call her foolish for being out here alone, but she was not stupid. She knew how lowly others thought her - how unworthy of her position she was, like an insect to be trodden underfoot. To greet Lord Hightower here alone was an insult, plain and simple, an undermining of his status. Just as she intended. 

“My message is for the Princess, not for Daemon’s bastard,” Otto practically spat. 

The corner of her mouth rose in a smirk, a dry chuckle escaping her throat. “I was legitimised by your precious King Viserys, now be careful. Unless the fate of Vaemond Velaryon greatly appeals to you.” 

The guards that bracketed him tightened their grips on their swords, ready to strike her for her threats. But Hightower lifted a hand dismissively, wordlessly ordering the men to stand down. “It needn’t be like this, Valyda,” He pondered. “If you come back with us, you will finally be a true Targaryen in the eyes of the court. Clearly, you were coerced by your father - your crimes can be forgiven. You can live peacefully in the Red Keep with Queen Helaena, I know she would be delighted.” 

Valyda scoffed. “I will not be bribed into accepting the rule of a rapist . I know far more about your false king than you, Ser, and believe me - Helaena is more a hostage than any of those loyal men you hold in your dungeons.” 

Hightower opened his mouth to speak again, but fell silent as Daemon arrived with the Queensguard at his heels, placing a hand on Valyda’s shoulder as a sign that he would be taking over, that she should leave. She would not fight him on this, not here - here they were a united front, here she was a loving daughter who obeyed her father, because anything else would suggest weakness. Stepping to the side, Valyda had half-turned to head back up the steps, before she paused to offer the false Hand some final words. 

“You ought to be careful, Ser. Watch the skies. When I go to war, I will not fight with a blade - I will fight with the fire and fangs of my Cannibal."

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Rhaenyra stood alone in the great hall that night, the hearth casting a golden glow over her expression, highlighting the haggard exhaustion she had done her best to mask in front of the others as her hand rubbed back and forth across her stomach where Visenya had once been, now gone. This war had not yet begun, and already she was tired by it, already she missed the peaceful life that had come before it. But she would not show it, not whilst Aegon still sat on the Iron Throne. 

“Your grace?” Valyda’s voice came from behind her as she entered quietly, hands clasped behind her back. Rhaenyra greeted her with a smile. She would not be this girl’s mother, like she was for her boys, nor her stepmother like she was for the twins. There was some barrier between them that prevented that - perhaps it was their age, perhaps it was that Valyda’s true mother still lived, the pain of their relationship forever distorting what it meant to her to have a mother. But they could be family. They could be friends. 

“Valyda, come,” She nodded, reaching out a hand to beckon the girl closer. They took the two seats closest to the fire, the warmth of the flames protecting them from the chill and damp of Dragonstone. It may have been a mighty fortress, but it was no home.

“I want to help,” Valyda declared, elbows resting on her knees as she leant forward. “You’re sending Jace to Winterfell to bring Lord Stark to our side tomorrow - I want to go with him. Please.”

“You think you can help?” 

“Lord Stark and I… we’re close . We met at Riverrun, and I know he’ll listen to me.”

A hint of a smile graced Rhaenyra’s expression, a knowing glint in her eye. “Close?” 

“He is engaged to my best friend, I saw it fit to get to know him,” Valyda shrugged, but it was clear that neither of them believed this was the whole story. 

“Very well,” Rhaenyra nodded. “I’m grateful for your help, Valyda. I know this must be hard for you.” 

She rose from her chair, sniffing slightly as she shook her head. “It is nothing. Aegon cannot be King. Nothing else matters.” 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

Vermax was almost dwarfed at Mekkara’s side, the two dragons nipping playfully at each other as they awaited their riders on the rocks of Dragonstone. Valyda rounded the outer walkway of the castle with Jace at her side, heavy fur cloaks hanging from their shoulders to shield them from the Northern winds. The pair walked in silence, years of strange tension hanging between them. They had never been friends - as children, Jace had hung too close to his uncles for her liking, and now it seemed Valyda’s animosity towards her father prevented them from truly becoming siblings. But a part of her had grown to resent this over the years - resent the control she let her hatred of Daemon have over her life, allowing the conflict between them to sever her from the rest of her family. 

“I am sorry that we never got along, you and I,” She confessed, adjusting the fingers of her tight leather gloves. Her brother looked up at her, still not yet fully grown. He looks so young. Too young for war.

“I thought you hated me,” Jace said, clutching at his mother’s message to Lord Stark, holding it tight in his fist. 

“I was jealous of you,” Valyda admitted, and when he looked confused, she almost scoffed. “You and your brother had the life I wanted - no one was ever allowed to question what you were. I was always hated at court. I have too much of my mother in me, it made people uncomfortable, and Daemon never once stood up for me. He was never even there.” 

“People don’t exactly speak fondly of us, either,” Jace pointed out. 

“The King stood up for you. You have futures - Luke will have Driftmark, you will be King , Jace. What happened to Vaemond Velaryon would have never happened if it was me he spoke against… But it is not your fault. I’ve spent too long blaming you when we should have been friends - you are my brother now.” 

A smile flickered across the boy’s expression as they reached their dragons, the beasts growing restless, squawking at the arrival of their riders. Mekkara attempted to nudge at Valyda, and she had to bat her away to save herself from being pushed off the rocks, the dragon still not quite aware of her own size. Behind her, Jace secured his saddle, but she had learned to ride bareback all those years ago, and she would do so now. Clambering up the spines that lined Mekkara’s back, she waited patiently for the boy to ready himself, eyeing the way ahead. Within hours, she would be with Nessa and Cregan again. 

“I think I was intimidated by you,” Jace spoke up, grunting slightly as he forced himself up Vermax’s back and into the saddle. “You always seemed fearless. I heard one of the maids call you a little monster when I was a boy, and I think I was always slightly scared of you after that.”

Valyda let out a laugh, the wind dulling the sound of it. “Some say all bastards are monstrous by nature.”

He frowned sternly. “That isn’t true.”

“Well, I don’t know. I certainly am.” 

 A grin crossed his face, and Valyda reciprocated, the two smiling as their dragons kicked away from the rocks, plunging them into mid-air as they took flight, her body tensing at the sudden blast of cold as they pierced the clouds. The beasts dipped and dove over and under one another, and she let out a laugh and Mekkara swerved beneath Vermax’s wings, the two nipping at each other's heads as they passed. It was a long way from Dragonstone to Winterfell, and as the hours rolled by, Valyda felt her body grow tired, her muscles aching from straddling the great beast’s back all this way. But it would be worth it the moment they arrived - the moment she saw Nessa and Cregan through the castle gates. 

The further North they travelled, eventually dropping below the clouds to survey the land below, the air turned freezing around them, Valyda’s breath rising in icy clouds before her face as snow began to fall, flakes settling in her hair and on her lashes. For a moment, she was stunned. She had not yet lived to see a winter, though the maesters had declared autumn to be setting in, and in all her life, she had never glimpsed snow before. Although little more than a light dusting, she couldn’t help the smile that covered her face, holding out a gloved palm to watch as snowflakes left spots against the black leather and swiftly melted away. Mekkara was momentarily distracted, snapping at the air as she tried to catch it in her mouth, and she heard Jace let out a laugh behind them as the dragon lurched to one side, almost toppling her rider in the process. 

“Watch yourself, princeling!” Valyda called. “Or I’ll knock you on your arse, and all!” 

“Is that so?” Jace yelled back, squinting against the wind as it pummelled snowflakes against his face. With a shout, he urged Vermax forward, the two dragons diving to a safe height before playfully attacking each other. Mekkara’s body twisted beneath her opponent’s, and Valyda lost her grip, letting out something between a shriek and a laugh as she toppled from her back, rolling along the ground for a moment as snow, dirt, and old, dead leaves caught in her hair. Her brother laughed raucously, the seriousness of their mission forgotten for a moment. 

Sitting in the dirt with her legs outstretched, Valyda wiped her hair away from her face as she caught her breath, the two dragons ceasing their scrap as Jacaerys dismounted Vermax, approaching her with a smile and a hand to help her up. Raising a brow, she batted him away, standing up herself - he was not yet a man grown, and she still stood half a head taller than him when they were beside each other. 

“Come,” She huffed. “We must get on.” 

“Why? We’re already here.”

Gesturing behind her, as Valyda turned, she realised they had landed only a few hundred metres down the dirt road from Winterfell’s gates, the earth beneath them beginning its incline towards the shallow hill the castle was built upon. From here, they could spy guards atop the battlements, watching curiously at the two dragons that had seemingly hurtled through the low-hanging clouds above, a sight that had undoubtedly raised questions in the keep. A cloud of ice crystals rose before her face as Valyda let out a contented smile, lifting up her cloak as she began the trek up to the gates, where the portcullis was already being raised. 

When it came to picturing Winterfell, her imagination had failed her. She had imagined it a dingy keep of cobbled stone walls, like Riverrun’s more miserable equivalent, but the rising labyrinth of circular towers before her was truly a sight to behold. Even from here, she could see the bright red leaves of the weirwood tree peering over the walls, a beacon of colour against the grey sky above. 

As they reached the gate, Valyda happened upon a small boy, straining his neck to stare out at the dragons, eyes wide in awe yet never daring to step beyond the boundaries of Winterfell’s walls, a cautious hand clutching the sleeve of his Septa, who watched with a smile, just as fascinated by the beasts’ appearance as the child. Valyda paused beside them, grinning at his expression, his little mouth hanging open in wonder. 

“Is it yours?” He asked, hesitantly tearing his gaze from Mekkara and Vermax to look up at her. The boy’s hair was a sandy brown, his fur coat wrapped tightly around him up to his chin, but there was something familiar in his eyes. 

Crouching down at the child’s side, Valyda pointed down the hill to where Mekkara was settling down to rest. “That one’s mine - her name is Mekkara. The other one - that green one, see? - That’s Vermax, he belongs to my brother, Jace.” Glancing up, she noticed the embarrassed flush that spread over the Septa’s face as she realised who Valyda was, bowing her head respectfully to the princess before leaning down to whisper in the boy’s ear. 

“Now, Rickon, you must bow to the princess, and say thank you,” The elderly woman ordered. 

Rickon. She had heard that name before… 

“Rickon?” A familiar voice called, echoing across the courtyard behind them, and for a moment, Valyda swore her heart stopped. 

Letting go of his Septa’s sleeve, Rickon bobbed his head in a quick bow. “Thankyouprincess, goodbyeprincess,” He spoke hurriedly, the hood of his little coat bouncing with each step as he scurried away across the yard, arms outstretched to his father as Cregan beamed at him, rubbing a gloved hand through the child’s hair affectionately. It took him a moment to pull his gaze away from his son, but when he saw Valyda, his smile faded, eyes widening, and it struck her that he watched her with the same awe that Rickon watched the dragons. Side by side, they looked so much alike. 

Muttering something to one of his men, and sending his son inside, it seemed to take Cregan only a few strides to cross the yard, never once tearing his gaze from her until he was stood before her, their breath mingling in a huge cloud, momentarily obscuring each other’s faces from vision. 

“I had not heard you were coming,” He breathed, suddenly struggling to meet her eye now that they were so close. 

“Things have changed so fast, with the King’s death and Aegon’s coronation. My brother and I have come on Queen Rhaenyra’s behalf,” Valyda explained, gesturing to Jace, who stood to the side, barely disguising the enjoyment in his expression at this reunion. Cregan nodded, though she did not miss the flicker of surprise in his eyes at news of Aegon’s crowning. Clearly, dragons flew faster than ravens. 

“I see… Prince Jacaerys, welcome to Winterfell,” He spoke, offering a courteous bow. “Now please, come inside out of the cold.” 

The pair followed Cregan inside as he led them back across the yard, Jace craning his head towards Valyda’s ear. “My mother did not say why she sent you here with me, but I think I’m starting to figure it out,” He teased, earning himself an elbow to the side from his sister. “Ow!” 

“Quiet,” She scolded, shaking her head slightly as they passed through the doors to the main keep. 

The great hall was sparsely populated, the few bannermen they could gather at a moment’s notice huddled by the huge hearth at the other end of the room, nervously speculating about the nature of this royal visit. As Cregan entered, the Prince and Princess at his side, the hall fell silent, the men hurrying to bow, spreading out into a clumsy line. But as they stepped away from the fire, from the middle of the group, a familiar face emerged, her cheek cast in gold from the flames, which shone so fiercely against her red hair it almost appeared as though her whole head had caught alight. 

Within seconds of their gazes meeting, Valyda found herself in Nessa’s arms, the pair barreling across the hall towards each other as if the only souls in the room. 

“I thought I’d heard Mekkara, I was just starting to convince myself I’d imagined it,” Nessa laughed, her breath warm against Valyda’s neck. She was wrapped in layers of fur, still unused to the Northern cold. 

“I begged Rhaenyra to come,” She confessed. “It’s unbearable in King’s Landing alone, I needed to see you both.” 

Nessa withdrew her embrace, a smile creasing her cheeks as she cupped Valyda’s face in her palms. She looked older somehow, wrapped in the dark greys and blacks of House Stark. When Valyda spoke again, it was in hushed tones, shielding her words from the men around them. “Are you two married yet?” 

“No,” Nessa scoffed. “No, of course not - you think we wouldn’t invite you? I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Behind them, Jace cleared his throat, a reminder to Valyda that they were here on serious business, that reunions would have to be tabled for a later date. Reaching up, she peeled Nessa’s hands away from her face, dropping them to her sides. 

“Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Chapter 17

“So - what do you say, Lord Stark?” Valyda asked, standing at the head of the table in the Great Hall of Winterfell the following morning, the corner of her mouth upturned in a slight smirk. Jace had suggested she take the lead in the negotiations on account of her connections with the Northman - a prospect that had initially terrified her. She was not made for politics - not meant to be seen and heard, but rather to slip by unnoticed. Standing before the bannermen, Valyda’s palms had grown slick with sweat, and she had focused all her energy on trying not to mince or fumble her words. By the look on her brother’s face, this effort had not gone in vain. 

Nessa fought to suppress a prideful grin, watching eagerly as Cregan considered their bid to secure his allyship. She knew that he would accept - in her mind, there was no doubt about it. Stark had always been a house committed to their word, and years ago they had sworn allegiance to Rhaenyra as heir - it was a simple decision, made even easier by the messenger they had sent to plea for his loyalty. In all the time Nessa had spent at Winterfell since their betrothal, she had not seen Cregan happier than when Valyda was there. Even now, his eyes filled with tenderness as he looked upon her, the men that surrounded him preparing themselves for the war that was to come. It was as if he had scarcely noticed the severity of what they were discussing, unable to wipe the inkling of a smile from his expression as he listened to her speak. 

“When my father was Lord of Winterfell, he swore his allegiance and bent the knee to Rhaenyra as the true heir to the Iron Throne,” Cregan declared. “We will fight for her claim against the usurper.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd of bannermen that had assembled, the men nodding and conferring amongst each other, discussing how long it would take for their men to gather, and how many swords they could each raise. Jacaerys had risen from his seat to stand at her side, beaming at their success. In this room, as they declared war upon Aegon and his followers, he looked more like a boy than he ever had. The way his hair stuck out at awkward angles behind his ears, his posture perpetually crooked, a handful of spots littering his cheeks - he was a child amongst men, a boy who did not yet understand the consequences of war. Valyda forced a smile in return, placing a hand on his shoulder as she handed him one of the goblets of ale that had been passed around. 

Seated at the other end of the table, Nessa watched on, almost amazed that, after so much time apart, she could still read the other woman like a book - the anxiety in her furrowed brow clear even despite her forced smile, the sadness with which she looked at her brother tainting her expression. It was declared that they would take a party out to show their guests more of the North, but as they rose to leave the great hall, Nessa reached out to her betrothed, speaking softly into Cregan’s ear. “Would you mind if I detained the princess for a while? We’ll catch up with you later.” 

“Of course,” He permitted, a gentle smile creasing his cheeks. Cregan had never shown her anything but kindness in all the years she had known her - if she was anyone else, perhaps she could have fallen in love with him. But he was her friend. It was naive to ever hope for anything better. 

“Valyda?” She called softly, gesturing for her to follow as she left the hall through the opposite door to the one the bannermen were filing out through. Nessa did not need to look back to ensure Valyda was coming - she heard the echo of her footsteps against the stone behind her, a sound she had learnt to recognise, a sound she had grown to miss. A smile crept across her face as she felt Valyda’s arm intertwine with her own, hand resting in the crook of her elbow as they traipsed the empty hallways. 

“It’s so cold here,” Valyda observed, shrugging so that the fur-lined collar of her coat reached her chin. “Even with all the hearths burning, I’ve never known anything like it.” 

Nessa chuckled. “You get used to it. I was born in the Riverlands, it’s always wet and cold there, although not quite like this. It was King’s Landing I struggled with - the constant sun made me sweat like a pig.” 

She laughed easily, their shoulders pressed together as they leaned against one another. But in a moment she grew solemn, a frown drawing lines across her forehead. “I don’t know if I’ll ever return there now. My last night in the city, I saw them burn down one of my mother’s houses - I know that must have stung her.” 

Nessa peered closely at her face, attempting to surmise her feelings. “You don’t feel sorry for her anymore.”

“I don’t feel anything for her anymore. Nor my father. They deserved each other but they don’t deserve me.” 

She smiled at this, squeezing Valyda’s arm with affection. “Quite right. I am glad - you should stay here with us, help lead the Northern armies South. We could certainly use a dragon.” 

The invitation almost made her heart skip a beat, sucking in a long breath of air as she considered the prospect. She could stay . She could go forward with those she truly cared for - make a home here for her and her Mekkara, and find peace once all this was over. It was a truly wonderful prospect - but there were people counting on her back at Dragonstone. Rhaenyra, her sisters - another family that had taken years to find, to be accepted by. Even young Luke was playing his part - he would be at Storm’s End by now, perhaps already finished with his negotiations. Her brothers were brave - braver than she had ever thought herself at their age. She would not abandon them now. 

“I will consider it, I promise.” 

They had gone down to Winterfell’s kitchens for food, sharing a leg of meat and sipping cups of hot broth to sustain themselves against the cold. As their future lady of Winterfell, the castle’s servants were at Nessa’s disposal, yet she always took care to show them kindness, never demanding anything that would keep them from important work, and ensuring they were fed and rested themselves. It was clear that she already had the people’s hearts as they shared a stool in the corner of the kitchens, warming themselves by the huge hearth, over which the cook stewed vegetables and roasted various meats upon a rack of spits, a young boy ensuring they rotated constantly. It must have been a strange sight - a princess and a high-born lady gossiping and giggling in the corner of the dim room, blending in amongst the constant hustle and bustle. Once they were ready to leave, they did so without fuss, and dressed themselves for the cold in preparation to catch up with Cregan and Jacaerys. 

Nessa had given her a fur hat and another cloak, even heavier than her own, to keep her warm against the wind, the layers of fur and wool weighing Valyda down as she pulled herself up onto her horse’s saddle, gripping the reins with gloved palms. They rode out beyond the walls of Winterfell and down into Winter Town, their mounts leaving hoofprints in the thin blanket of snow below. Valyda had grown to expect all towns to be similar to King’s Landing, but this was not the case here. There were no harlots lounging half-clothed in doors and alleyways - the women here were all dressed in layers of thick wool, hats and hoods keeping themselves warm - and there were no merchants crowding the streets with their stalls, yelling and boasting about their wares to anyone who passed. She could see no street children huddling together on doorsteps and scurrying through gutters, could not smell the waste and sweat that the air was so soaked with down south. 

Cregan and Jace were emerging from a nearby tavern as they approached, tankards still in hand as they chatted merrily with some of the smallfolk. Stark’s expression brightened as he noticed their arrival, clapping Jacaerys over the shoulder as they returned to the horses. “Getting the Prince drunk, are we?” Nessa teased, coming to a halt beside them. 

“Showing him some Northern hospitality,” Cregan shrugged, passing his empty cup back to the innkeeper. Valyda could feel the people’s eyes on her, their stares lingering as they passed on the road and gawked through their windows. The Lord of Winterfell scarcely went noticed here, but it was obvious the Northerners were not used to royalty. As they stood there outside the tavern, an elderly woman approached her tentatively, face wrinkled and creased all over from so many years in this frozen land, and reached out to kiss the princess’ hand, aged fingers callous against her own, pressing thin lips to the back of her glove. She did not enjoy the feeling of being revered, of being loved like a figure from a fairytale. That was what the Targaryens were to so many of their people - mythical figures they could never see nor touch, their superiors in every sense of the word. Valyda was not interested in being better than these people. 

Jace climbed back up onto his horse, cheeks flushing red from the chill in the air and the alcohol in his blood, sending his sister a smile. “Luke would love it here,” He grinned. 

“I’m sure he would,” She agreed. “Although I doubt he could get Rhaena to come up here.” 

The boy laughed, and as they began to move again, he slipped into easy conversation with Nessa, the pair riding side by side. She often forgot they too had lived together within the Red Keep for a time. Her gaze slipped away from them as Cregan rode up beside her, a faint smile curling his lip. 

“I haven’t had a chance to say how glad I am to see you again,” He said, their knees brushing briefly against each other from how closely their horses travelled. “I’ve thought about you often these past months.”

Valyda almost raised a brow, so unexpected was this blatant expression of affection, especially here, where all his people could see them. “I am glad to be here. King’s Landing has been… grim . Although I’m not certain I’ll ever see it again now.”

Cregan frowned, observing the way her expression contorted with dismay. “Once this fight is over, you will return, I’m sure. Unless…”

“Unless I wish to stay here, is that it?” She began to smile as he failed to suppress a look of surprise. “Nessa has already asked me.”

“You’ll always be welcome here, I would be… happy to have you. It would undoubtedly create some personal challenges, but nothing I can’t manage.”

“ Personal challenges ?” 

Cregan took a deep breath, his gaze lingering on Nessa as she rode ahead of them before turning back to look at her. “I would never break an oath made to my wife. But having you under my roof would certainly make it… more difficult.”

“Lord Stark, you ought to watch your tongue,” Valyda teased, though deep down she knew he wasn’t joking. Could she do it? Live in Winterfell with them both, knowing she could never be with either, could never threaten the sanctity of their vows? 

There was a glint in his eye as they rode on, suppressing a smile. All among them knew there was something here - something deeper than they had ever intended - but there was little that could be done now. They would live with whatever it was they felt until it dissipated or destroyed them, teetering on a knife’s edge until it was impossible to keep their balance. 

They reached the end of the main road that led through the town, the trail splitting off into smaller dirt paths that twisted and turned between the scattered houses that remained. Nessa turned her head to the others, a few snowflakes standing out against the fiery red of her hair, and was about to speak when she noticed another horse, thundering down the road towards them, its rider clutching a letter in his hand. “Cregan,” She said, nodding towards the messenger, and the rest of them turned to look, breaths baited as the man came closer. 

His expression was weathered, brow drawn tight with an expression of concern, sweat beading on his brow even despite the cold. “What is it?” Cregan demanded, holding out his hand to receive the note.

The messenger shook his head, pausing for a moment to regain his breath. “It is for the Prince Jacaerys, my lord.” 

Jace frowned, he and Valyda exchanging a look of uncertainty as he dismounted his horse, stepping forward to claim the letter. The messenger handed it to him, frowning deeply, turning to hurriedly return to Winterfell once the Prince had taken it from his hand. He was silent for a moment, running his thumb across the parchment as he stared down at his own name. “It’s my mother’s hand,” Jace murmured, taking a few steps out into the snow, turning his back from the others as he broke Rhaenyra’s seal, taking in the words upon the page as they lingered in an uneasy quiet. 

Valyda watched intently for any signs in her brother’s body language, anything that might indicate the nature of the message. The boy sucked in a ragged breath, the air croaking in his throat as his shoulders began to tremble. “Jace-” She began, pushing herself from the saddle, boots landing in the soft snow below. He would not look at her, eyes raking over the letter’s words again and again until the words finally sunk in, and when Valyda stepped in front of the boy she realised he was crying, tears streaking down his cheeks, flush from the cold, fingertips trembling so fiercely he almost dropped the note altogether. 

“Jace?” She spoke softly, reaching out to him. As her hand touched his shoulder, he flinched. 

“Luke-” He gasped. “... Luke is dead.” 

Valyda did not waste a moment before pulling Jace tightly into her arms, feeling his body shake against hers as he finally broke down, sobbing against the fur collar of her cloak as she stroked his hair with a gloved palm. Her mind was racing, trying to concoct some explanation for how this could have happened. Luke was just a child - who or what could have done this? She would not ask Jace, not whilst he was in this state, but the question would eat at her until she had an answer, something to blame for this crime. 

And Rhaena. Poor Rhaena, who must now be mourning the loss of her betrothed, a boy she had cared for so deeply. Her heart ached for the girl, and all at once she knew her plans for a future in Winterfell were gone. She could not stay here, not for long, not whilst her family on Dragonstone were grieving such a loss, whilst Rhaenyra’s armies prepared themselves for war. To back away now would be selfish. 

After a while, Jace pulled away from her embrace, his eyes puffy and red from weeping. When he spoke, his voice came jagged and raw. “I must return to Dragonstone, to Mother.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. No, stay here for now. Make sure the North are ready to fight for us, then come home.” He nodded frantically, sniffing as he turned back to his horse. 

She watched anxiously as he made to ride away back to Winterfell, cloak billowing in the wind as his form shrank with distance. Nessa leant down from high upon her horse, speaking to her softly. “I’ll follow him, make sure he’s fit to ride before he goes.”

“Thank you,” Valyda offered a sad smile, squeezing her wrist affectionately before she too left, galloping to catch up with the prince. Cregan was watching quietly, a look of sympathy washing over him. It was as if all the energy she had had drained from her body, and it seemed he could see it, holding out a hand to her. She was too exhausted to bear the thought of riding all the way back to Winterfell, so she accepted, using his empty stirrup and the grip her hand on her hand to pull herself up onto Cregan’s horse, nestling in behind him, arms wrapped around his torso. 

“I’m so sorry,” He uttered, turning his cheek to her, the sun highlighting the perfect silhouette of his face. 

“Let’s just go,” Valyda sighed, resting her chin against his shoulder blade as their horse was kicked into motion, carrying the pair back up towards the castle. 

 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

 

The Great Hall was almost unrecognisable from how it had appeared earlier that day - no bannermen filling the tables, debating noisily, tankard clanging and plans being made. The silence that now filled the room seemed to echo against the thick stone walls, suffocating Valyda as she sat on a fur rug in front of the hearth, watching over little Rickon as he played with his little wooden knights, the whittled figures battling one another as he whispered the imagined sounds of swords clashing against each other. The fire cast a bright orange glow upon them, highlighting every curl in the child’s sandy hair, every freckle that littered his sweet, round cheeks. Even in her despair, it was hard not to smile at him, so absorbed was he in his own little fantasy world. 

A tiny wooden dragon had been discarded on the rug beside her, its mouth open in a perpetual roar, wings spread as if in mid-flight. “Is this one for me?” Valyda asked, tentatively picking up the toy. Rickon’s gaze snapped towards her, gnawing his lip nervously as he nodded. She let herself grin, shifting to lie on her front so she could be level with the other toys as she mimicked the dragon’s flight. As the toy swooped in above the knights below, Valyda made a quiet, terrible screeching sound, somewhat failing to mimic the sound of her own beloved Mekkara, but the noise made Rickon laugh, the sound bubbling from him in a happy squeal. It was one of the most wonderful sounds she thought she had ever heard. 

The child lifted one of the figures - the largest of the set, with a huge greatsword and shield - and placed him on the back of the little dragon, mimicking whooshing sounds as the knight soared through the imaginary clouds. “Who’s this one?” Valyda asked with a grin. 

“Papa,” Rickon replied, eyes wide at the figure he imagined as his father leapt from the dragon’s back to vanquish the other knights below. An involuntary grin spread across her face as they played. He truly was the spitting image of Cregan, now that she considered it. She had never met Arra Norrey, but there couldn’t have been much reminder of her in her son’s features, save for the dusty brown tint in his hair, much fairer than his father’s. 

“Rickon,” Cregan’s voice echoed from the other end of the hall, far softer than she was used to hearing it. Scrambling to his feet, the child scurried across the room towards him, offering a toothy grin, a marked gap in the front where he had lost the first of his infant teeth. “Go play in your room, yes? Or take the toy swords into the yard.” The boy nodded, hurrying to leave the room, but halting in his tracks as his father cleared his throat loudly. “Are you forgetting something?”

Rickon paused for a moment, gnawing the inside of his cheek, brow drawn in thought as he tried to recall what he could have possibly missed. Looking up at his father, Cregan raised a brow, tilting his head towards the fire, where he had left his knights and dragons scattered all over the rug. The child let out a gasp of realisation, but it appeared the message had been lost in translation, for whilst he scurried back towards the hearth, rather than clearing up his mess, Rickon placed a light, swift kiss to Valyda’s forehead, offering up another hurried “Thankyouprincess, goodbyeprincess,” before disappearing from the room. 

Valyda was momentarily stunned, mouth hanging open in a smile as she stared at the now empty doorway he had scuttled away through, gaze slowly trailing back towards Cregan, who appeared similarly lost for words. Even despite the tragedy that lingered in her mind, she could not help but laugh at the child’s sweet innocence, Cregan beginning to grin as he shook his head in exasperation. 

“That boy,” He sighed, crossing the room towards her, where she remained cross-legged on the fur rug. Unclasping his cloak, he tossed it over the back of a nearby chair, crouching at her side to gather the wooden figurines into a neat pile, smile never faltering even as he continued to shake his head. “He goes too fast for me.”

“Do you struggle to keep up in your old age?” Valyda teased, passing him the wooden dragon, their knuckles skimming against each other as he took it gently, adding it to the pile. Once he had finished tidying his son’s mess, Cregan lowered himself to sit beside her, watching the fire for a moment, the flames shining golden against the deep brown of his eyes. He knew she did not want to talk about what had happened, yet he could see it weighed heavily upon her all the same. It was hard to know what else to speak of. 

“I can trust you,” Valyda broke the silence, his gaze snapping towards her. Frowning slightly, he offered a nod. 

“Of course. Always,” Cregan affirmed, a look of uncertainty creasing his brow.

“It’s just… there are things I haven’t told you.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want-”

“-No. No, I want to tell you this… I want to tell someone .”

She looked down, feeling his hand move to cover hers, a silent promise that whatever she said would be safe with him. Oh, if only he knew. 

“I am not who you think I am. The story Nessa told you - about me being captured by slavers - it’s not… entirely true,” His frown only deepened, and she found she could not look him in the eye. “I… I was taken by slavers to Essos, I was sold, that is true, but it had been planned. My mother - she is not the whore everyone says she is, she is so far beyond that, scarcely anyone knows,” Valyda paused for a long moment. Did she really want to tell anyone this? Could she be sure she was safe to speak the words, even here? “...Have you heard of the White Worm?” 

“I have,” Cregan spoke slowly, gradually piecing together her meaning. 

“She’s my mother. It’s been her all along and I-... I helped . The Black Worm that people began whispering about in King’s Landing - she’s me. I was sent to Essos to gather information, it was supposed to be just another mission, but… it was so much worse than I imagined. I never told Nessa, not truly, I was too worried about what might have happened to her in King’s Landing if she knew. But Cregan, I… I’m no princess, not really. I’ve killed, and I’ve hurt people, and I betrayed my family when she asked me to because I didn’t think I had a choice. I just couldn’t let you have me here - in your home, with your son - without knowing what I really am.”

Valyda prepared for her dismissal - for the tenderness his gaze had held for her to vanish, for her to be sent back to Dragonstone never to return to Winterfell again. It had been selfish to tell him this now. If he knew Rhaenyra had a traitor in her midst, would he ride for her? Would he keep her from Nessa, from Rickon - would he denounce her to her family? Any of these reactions would have been appropriate in her mind, a worthy punishment for her years spent hurting others. But what she had not expected was the feeling of his hand brushing against her cheek, the calloused pad of his thumb so gentle against her face as he turned her head to face him. There were tears welling in her eyes as he offered a soft smile, not a trace of resentment anywhere in his expression. 

The first time Valyda had kissed Cregan, it had been angry, desperate, a final act of a woman convinced she was losing everyone she cared for. 

The first time Cregan kissed Valyda, it was a promise. 

A tear rolled down her cheek and skimmed his lips as he pressed them against hers, hand cupping her face as if she were made of cracked glass, fragile enough to break under even the slightest pressure. She raised her own hand, seizing his hair at the roots, a faint grunt escaping his throat as he was tugged closer, an arm snaking around her back, the warmth of the hearth the only light in that huge, empty hall, silhouetting their bodies against the darkness. For a moment, they separated for a breath, and as their eyes met, it was clear they were both thinking the same thing. 

They made it up the main tower to Cregan’s chambers, miraculously without encountering another soul, the heavy thud of the door’s bolt locking signalling their safety before his hands were on her again, the pair fumbling against each other in the dimly lit room, Valyda tugging at the ties on her dress as he worked to remove his own clothes, bare skin colliding as their chests pressed against one another and she found herself on her back atop the furs strewn across Cregan’s bed. Hovering above her, he pressed his lips to hers once more, feverish this time, the tenderness of the previous moment replaced with sheer lust. 

Valyda broke the kiss briefly, her teeth skirting across his lip as she spoke breathlessly. “You promise you won’t tell a soul.”

“You have my word,” He huffed, bracing her body against his as they reconnected. Maybe she would hate herself for this come morning - maybe she had betrayed Nessa, maybe it was horribly, unspeakably wrong to be in this position when her family was mourning back on Dragonstone. But it felt so good to be touched like this without fear. Since her time in Zhago’s manse, she had doubted she would ever be able to get close to another man without being reminded of the way he had exploited her. But Cregan was safe. Cregan was good . 

And suddenly she knew her return to Dragonstone would hurt all the more come sunrise.

Chapter 18

Hi everyone!

 

I know it's been a very long time since this fic has been updated, and for that, I apologise. I started this fic during a period of transition in my life and have since become incredibly busy, so I haven't had much time for writing. However, I'm just popping in to make a little announcement.

First of all, this is NOT me stopping by to tell you I'm abandoning this fic. I have no intention of doing that - this story, these characters, and the support you have all shown mean so much to me and I'm not going to stop. However, during my absence, I've been struggling to decide on how I want to proceed with this fic, and I have now decided.

I'm going to be putting this story on hold until the second season of House of The Dragon airs. Up until now this story has, as you know, been based on the events and characterisations put forward in the TV show, and are not consistent with the history told in Fire and Blood. Since reading Fire and Blood (primarily as research for this fic), I have realised I prefer the events outlined in the show to the original book, and as such find more enjoyment in writing about them than I would if I now switched to a retelling of F&B. Also, as it has been so long since the show aired, I am not as passionate as I was when I first started writing, but I'm confident that once Season 2 airs, I will have that passion again, and therefore be able to produce better writing that I am proud of. 

I know Season 2 is likely several months away, and I frankly have no idea if people will come back to continue this story with me once that happens, but please know that every single kudos and comment I have received has been taken to heart and is so incredibly appreciated. The support you have shown for this story so far has been amazing, and I hope to see you all again soon!