Chapter Text
Standing over the precipice of Blueshell Tower, I imagine myself in flight, the flamed-tipped sky beckoning me, a saddle beneath me as I cut through the skies like a knife. The clouds swallow me as I soar higher through the air as I have seen my brothers and sister do. I imagined a lithe creature beneath me, graceful with wings the color of my mother's emerald sleeves. With a dragon, I can hold my head high. With a dragon, I will not need to hide bleeding nails underneath silken gloves, and my mother's face will not be clouded with worry and disappointment.
I crane my head forward, imagining that I am flying. I can almost hear my brother Aegon's roaring laughter the first time he touched down, years ago, back when he still seemed alive, when he was still my big brother.
With a dragon perhaps, my father, the King will gaze upon me fondly and not betroth me to my Lord Lannister, a man twice my age though he is very kind and everyone says, will make a fine husband for me.
Such is an arrangement for a third-born daughter. Father will not give House Lannister dragons; luckily, I do not possess one. My marriage has been an agreement brokered in quiet tones meant to alleviate the hurt feelings of one of the greatest Lords in the realm and cover the scent of secret shame that the marriage of my half-sister Rhaenyra has wrought. At least, that is the rumor I have heard in court from Alissa Pennytree and Dyana Tyrell, even though the very sensible Maege Redwyne smacks them on the head and tells me not to heed baseless gossip from silly girls. The great Lords speak little of her. Rhaenyra, I mean. My half-sister no longer lives in King's Landing. I know she was once the Realm's Delight and once arranged to marry my future husband, Lord Jason Lannister. She was the Heir-apparent too. But the great Lords are not too fond of her. Their faces turn stony when her name is mentioned. Rhaenyra lives on Dragonstone and Driftmark but not King’s Landing. She is an exile in all but name.
We are visiting her now. Or rather, her husband's family.
I have never been to Driftmark before.
Driftmark is the seat of the Velaryon family, distant ancestors to us, and they possess the most powerful fleet in the world at the command of Lord Corlys Velaryon.
The sun's edges bleed into the water far off the horizon. High above are the sounds of seagulls, mournful and low and then softer still, the faint whispering caress of the sea breeze whose currents are harsh enough, they say, to bow a full-grown knight. The stones are damp with moisture from the sea, and the air is fresh. I find myself taking great gulps of it. Though the weather is chilly, my gloved hands, warmed by my sweet sister Helaena's clasped hands around mine, are warm. My half-sister Rhaenyra will greet us from the skies soon because she never misses an opportunity to remind us that despite my nephews' dark coloring, their family is as Targaryen as ours. Perhaps more so. After all, only Targaryens ride dragons.
I am the only Targaryen child in our family without a dragon.
"You need to dress warmer. You'll catch a chill." My mother tells me reproachfully, her eyes large and mournful. Rhaenyra’s presence haunts us like the sea ghost stories that Aegon likes to frighten me with. "I'll see that a fire will warm us up after the proceedings. Princess Rhaenys will need help managing the funeral; she is growing into her years and grieving, and I will need both your and Helaena's aid."
Helaena's pale curls catch the sunlight, dancing like liquid silver as she gracefully moves away from my mother's gentle hands, called to a higher dance that we mere mortals do not understand. My sister has always been more a creature of light and air, unbothered by the world's griefs. The maids whisper that she is a Dreamer though that curries her little favor with the King for all his obsession with old Valyria and prophetic dreams.
"She will have dresses of fire," Helaena sings in her distant way to my queenly mother before giving me a sweet smile and blithely. "Blossoms of flame for a sapphire-eyed sister."
Some days my sister says unfathomable things, where she is a little closer to the realm of the gods than men. Aegon mocks her often and calls my sister and his future bride a dimwit, a halfwit, and a witch. But I like listening to her words even though I usually don't understand them. My mother listens to her as well but with fear instead of pride. Everyone else dismisses her words as little more than fairytales. A Dreamer's words have a way of coming true, though not in ways comprehensible to us who dwell in the present. Grandfather says it is not good to dwell upon her dreams and lose sight of the present.
I give Helaena a smile of encouragement, but Helaena has already blithely turned away from me, lost to her visions and dreams.
I love my sister, though on her bad days; she is as distant to me as my brother has become in recent years.
I allow my mother to tighten the fastenings of my green cloak around my neck and secure it with her brooch of sapphire. Sapphires are my mother’s favorite gems, so they are mine as well. Mother's hands are gentle, and she brushes her lips upon my forehead. I can smell her perfume and let her dust from my cloak with her long fingers. They say that my mother has a gentle touch; the smallfolk adore my mother. She is a good Queen who gives much comfort to her people. Kind, charitable, and pious, they call her. She brushes her hand upon my necklace bearing the Star of the Seven, a smaller but matched pair with her pendant.
"For protection," she murmurs again in anxiety and then quieter still, her voice catching a hint of urgency that always comes when speaking of my elder brother. Her bejeweled fingers flutter as they curl and uncurl strands of her dark tresses in her nervous motions.
"Have you seen Aegon? Gods be good, that boy is nowhere to be found. He needs to look presentable and not reek of wine today."
I shake my head.
Aegon is our mother’s favorite. She loves him in the way she frets over him and orders me to protect him. I am more grounded than my siblings in more ways than one because I have to be. Aegon wears out our mother’s care, and I must not make her worry. I must be good and proper and dutiful. That is what my grandfather tells me in all his letters.
Aegon, as always, is nowhere to be seen. I believe he has already found a tavern. He will drink half the day away, even during our aunt's funeral. He does not understand duty.
Aegon says that he does not understand why we have to attend. We are no family to the deceased lady. Not really. We have never met Laena Velaryon, even though she is our aunt. Alissa Pennytree, two years older than me and prides herself on knowing all the court gossip, tells me that Laena Velaryon would have been the King's wife if my mother had not seduced the King. Dyana Tyrell, a bookish and clever girl, and my very best friend, tells me Laena Velaryon is a fearsome dragon rider. And in very ill standing with the King and her husband, Prince Daemon, says Mary Caswell in her usual gloomy manner.
The King cares enough for Uncle Daemon enough to request all of our presence at her funeral. Uncle Daemon makes the King happy. I do not understand it, but I suppose the King’s love for Uncle Daemon is not dissimilar to my mother's love for Aegon.
A flash of yellow catches the corner of my eye. A rush of wind and an enormous roar heralds my half-sister's arrival on Syrax, a dragon the color of narcissuses.
My mother never speaks of Rhaenyra badly, though I know she must not be pleased with such a flashy entrance during a funeral of all occasions. The court will whisper about her lack of decorum.
Good, I think, better they whisper about her than Aegon. Behind her are my nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys. Rhaenyra's children. The twin banes of my existence.
"I do not need you to speak to either of them." My mother warns me, lips pursing in a way that has promised violence before. She does not need to tell me again. I will never willingly speak to them.
They bring only trouble. Everyone knows that.
There have been rumors long held that Rhaenyra's children are not Laenor Velaryon's, whispers that the true paternity of these boys belongs to a lord who burned to death three months ago at Harrenhal. My nephews' coloring does not resemble the blood of the dragon. But they have dragons, and I do not. I am reminded of this each time in their presence. It is the reason why my brother Aegon favors them over me.
They are callow and cruel boys, my handmaiden Lissa says oft enough that I roll my eyes at her.
"Make sure your brother does not associate with them either. The last time — " She drifts off.
The last time we were together, my brother was nearly disowned for taking Jacaerys and Lucerys to a tavern and then to a brothel. Both my mother and the King were livid after a drunken Jacaerys slurred and blustered about how Aegon took them there to get something wet. The three princes of the realm had ended up in a brawl and had to be brought back by Ser Criston Cole. Aegon had been forced to kneel in penitence for three days in the Great Sept under threat of banishment to Oldtown. Rhaenyra had taken her children to Driftmark then. That had been nearly three years ago.
I cannot control my brother, and my brother does not listen to me, but I promise my mother that I will keep Aegon from trouble. It earns a tired smile from her. She knows I am her daughter who tries my best even if I do not always meet her exacting standards.
"Aerea, promise me that you will be my good girl," my mother pleads quiet desperation in her tone and wary intensity in her gaze. I reassure her, and the weary lines between her eyes fade if just a little. She brushes another few specks of dust from my cloak. "Promise me that you will not cause any trouble."
I promise my mother that I will stay away from them. I promise her that I will keep Aegon out of trouble though frankly, Aegon is the one who leads me into trouble. I promise her that I will look for Aegon and lock him in a shed somewhere so that he will not bring any shame to our family today. It earns an exhausted laugh from her though her bejeweled fingers begin their apprehensive dance again.
I pray to the Maiden that I will not bring any shame today and that my mother may be free from any worries.
-
I cannot find Aegon.
Finding my silver-haired brother in Driftmark is harder than in King's Landing because, at least in King's Landing, I know of my eighteen-year-old brother's favorite taverns and drinking spots where he sulks. When we were younger, I always knew where to find him. But it is easy to find someone whose hiding spot is underneath his sister's bed. Aegon is not under my bed this time. I even checked my room in Driftmark, just in case. Thankfully, my grandfather relieves me of this task and tells me in his droll manner that he will search for our rogue prince himself, and when he does, Aegon will be hauled to the stocks of Oldtown like the fool he is to be pelted upon by stinky eggs.
During my embroidery lessons, Aunt Cassandra Fossoway tells me I should not follow my big brother’s bad behavior. Grandfather once said it would be better for the realm had I been born elder and a man. But it will be my brother who becomes King. My grandfather and mother work tirelessly to make it so even if Aegon throws their care in their faces. If Aegon does not change his wanton ways, grandfather tells me, he will grow up to become another Daemon. But not a Lord Flea Bottom but instead King Flea Bottom.
Her family disowned Laena Velaryon after Uncle Daemon seduced and begot her with children. She was a beautiful and good child; Uncle Ormund Hightower tells me in his stout manner until that vile beast lured her away. He tells this story to all noble-born Reach girls as a cautionary tale for why well-bred girls should listen to their parents and not run off with seductive rogues, even though Floris Baratheon says he is supposed to be very attractive and much more handsome than my Lord Lannister. Merry Merryweather says that Laena Velaryon wed well since Uncle Daemon is a Prince of the Realm, but Merry was sent home in disgrace after a romp with my brother in the stables, so I am not sure if her judgment is sound.
I also know that Laena Velaryon rode the largest dragon in the world.
She was the rider of Vhagar.
Vhagar, named for the God of Death in Old Valyria, was the beloved companion of the legendary Queen Visenya and seems very frightening in all the stories. The Field of Fire is not a happy event in the eyes of many a maester, lord, or lady of the Reach of Westerlands. Even now, after a century since the Conquest.
And though I am Targaryen, my grandfather, and uncles say I am more Hightower than Targaryen. More Reacher than Kingslander.
Laena Velaryon was the fourth rider of Vhagar. She claimed Vhagar at fifteen, a year older than I am now. She lived with my uncle in Essos after the King banished them for wedding without his permission. Courtiers all speak of the King's even nature. They call him a second Jaehaerys. But I hear of how quick he is to banish family — first Daemon, maybe Rhaenyra, and potentially Aegon if my brother does not improve his ways. I recognize his coldness towards my mother's quiet devotion. I do not see the King as kindly as the courtiers speak of him. I know it makes me an unfilial daughter, a dark sister. Perhaps this is why no dragon has chosen me.
I worry against a hangnail until the skin there bleeds and guiltily pull my gloves over my stinging fingers. I am going to join my mother. I pray to the Mother that I will not speak out of turn, that Aegon will be returned and not reeking of alcohol, that my nephews will be quiet, and that my half-sister, who I have not spoken to in years, will be kind to me. I pray that my Uncle Daemon will be a good uncle like my Uncle Gwayne. I pray that we can all be a consolation to him in his grief and that Laena Velaryon will be at peace with her gods and ours. I pray that my cousins, Baela and Rhaena, will feel some comfort. I could not bear losing my mother. I try to think of more prayers that good girls offer to the Seven to help their families. I pray that my nephews find some comfort after the death of Ser Breakbones if those rumors of their parentage are true. I pray that my mother's loyal friend, Ser Larys, will also find comfort in his father's and brother's passing. I pray that I will not chew on my fingernails to the point of bleeding and that my mother will not worry. I pray for a dragon, too, because I am greedy with my wishes, and I am allowed one selfish want in a sea of selfless ones.
At least one of my prayers is answered because Otto drags Aegon over to my mother a few minutes later by his ear. My brother is scowling. She fusses over him, makes him presentable, smooths his hair, tucks in his vest, and chides him harshly while he stares at her like a sulky cow. He does not smell like wine though I suspect it is because of the strong scent of sea salt and smoke in the air. I follow behind my mother and the King. I pray to the Maiden to give me strength. I am afraid of my half-sister. I duck behind my mother, whose face is stony upon Rhaenyra's arrival.
My half-sister is dressed in a handsome gown of black velvet. Her hair is pinned in the braided style of Driftmark. Her eyes gaze straight ahead like our family is inconsequential to her as the waves splash against rocks. Rhaenyra’s features are lovely and soft, but her eyes are clouded by sadness. I do not see the monster that they claim her to be. Truthfully, she resembles Aegon quite a bit; she has the same square face and solemn lilac eyes.
My half-sister greets the King warmly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She brushes past the rest of us, leaving the faint scent of lilies. Princess Rhaenys, my great-aunt, is half bowed in grief, a tremor in her body. Her eyes are red-rimmed beneath her veil. She has lost a daughter. Beside her, Lord Corlys is stony-faced and silent.
I bow to them and smile awkwardly at my cousins, Baela and Rhaena. We stand as my mother, and Princess Rhaenys offer words of greeting to each other.
Mayhaps Rhaena and Baela could have been my friends had the King not banished Uncle Daemon from King's Landing. They are similar in age to me. But there is little to be said, little comfort I know how to offer. Mother once told me that sometimes you can only say that you are sorry for what happened to a person, but even those words feel difficult to utter. They still have their father, although I have not seen Uncle Daemon anywhere. I do not think I will recognize him in a crowd of silver-haired relations. I had thought he would be at his daughters’ side.
The greetings are made, and Baela and Rhaena, flanking Princess Rhaenys again, turn to go. There are others to greet and receive sympathy from. My betrothed Lord Jason stands there looking much diminished, dressed in black instead of his usual clothes of gold. He wears a massive chain upon his chest and a cape of a lion rampant. He lounges by an arcade of white limestone and smiles at us.
Mother takes me to make my greetings to him and the Lannister clan. Half of the Lannister clan are at Lord Strong and Ser Harwin's funerals. My Lord Lannister is a man of four-and-thirty to my four-and-ten. Though he is kind and charming and makes me smile, I never know what to say to him. He looks as awkward as the other nobility at the funeral of a distant princess that we know little of and have never met whilst she was still alive. Though my family rules this realm, the blood of old Valyria and the scions of the great Westerosi houses have never truly mixed.
"Good morrow, princess – " Lord Jason calls to me in a courtly manner as he kisses my hand and gives me a little bow.
He then turns to my mother. My mother gestures for Ser Criston Cole to accompany me whilst she and Lord Lannister discuss matters I am not privy to because I am still Princess Aerea Targaryen and not the Lady of Casterly Rock.
My grandfather has told me that Lord Jason Lannister will be a good husband for me because he will bring the alliances to stabilize my brother's realm. It binds us close to the Westerosi nobility. The Lannisters, tracing their line to the Age of Heroes and the First Men, sit the second richest seat of Casterly Rock, and I am descended from the wealthy Oldtown on my maternal side. Jason Lannister is known for being dashing, wealthy, politically astute, and in good standing with the King. A good match for a third-born princess. He is dear friends with my uncles, Gwayne Hightower and Steffan Tyrell. There is some superstition about marrying your sister's ex-fiancé. However, I should not feel too bad as Alissa Pennytree tells me that Rhaenyra has spurred my Lord Lannister first with many hurt feelings on the Lannister side. And thus, I am his consolation for a sister, and he is my protector as I do not have a dragon.
I allow Ser Criston to accompany me to take wine and perhaps cake. As we walk, I catch Aegon loudly making a pass at a serving girl. I grimace. Mother will be unhappy if she hears of it. We have already lost three serving maids to Aegon's indiscretions in the past year. He doesn't understand. He doesn't think. Everyone suspects my brother has already fathered a bastard son. My teeth worry against my bottom lip. Prince Flea Bottom.
Then I hear a sound in the distance, low and mournful. Familiar. It is like a song, but nothing like I have ever heard before. I crane my head forward, almost losing my footing against the rough-hewn stone of the steps until Ser Criston catches me.
"Are you well, Princess?" Ser Criston asks kindly, his brown eyes warm and returning me to reality.
The song vanishes to the sound of the crashing tide.
I move to reply, but the bells start ringing, heralding the beginning of Laena Velaryon's funeral sermons. We pass by Lord Boremund Baratheon with his four granddaughters, and my dear friend Maris makes a face at me. We greet a red-haired Tully, several stern-faced Arryns, and some minor Reach cousins looking out of place in their bright greens, blues, and golds. Nobility has come from as far as Essos, Pentos, and the North. Ser Criston and I are pulled forward by the crowd and take our places next to my mother as Ser Vaemond Velaryon begins his sermon, his low voice trembling with emotion yet loud enough to drown out the tide. Nearly all the nobles assembled here do not understand these words, strange and foreign as all things from Old Valyria seem to the Westerosi High Lords. But I do. I have studied High Valyrian as closely as the Westerosi Common Tongue.
Ser Vaemond speaks of the heaviness of blood, of a watery paradise after death. A moving speech if you understand High Valyrian. Aegon makes little attempt to hide his yawns and kicks a pebble around with his feet though he is not the only one. I see Lord Jason stifling yawns with his hands though Ser Tyland Lannister stands with appropriate gravitas. I elbow Prince Flea Bottom. In return, he makes a face and kicks me. Instead, I do not fall to his feint, steady myself, and smile as serenely as possible. Mother will not be happy if I disgrace myself alongside my brother.
A silver-haired, unfamiliar man laughs halfway through the speech, a lone sound against the occasion's solemnity. Judging by his position next to the grieving family and his long silver hair, I suspect this must be my Uncle Daemon, and I wonder what sort of a man dared laugh during his wife's funeral. In the distance, I hear that strange song again, and just as quickly, it disappears. One of my cousins has started crying, and the other's face is a statue. Uncle Daemon laughs again, the laughter rippling out until the wind swallows it. The song carries again into the air, more sonorous than the sounds of the tides. A wave of rage washes over me and threatens to pull me under. I do not understand it. I have nothing to be angry about.
My mother is clutching her rosary, fidgeting with the Seven-Pointed Star. I do not know this Laena Velaryon, but her death weighs heavily on me still. I know the Stranger will come for us eventually, but I cannot fathom losing my mother, Ser Criston, my dear sister Helaena or my brother Aegon. I do not wish my half-sister's passing or my nephews' deaths to be as wretched, distant, and cruel as they are to me. While the men of Westeros whisper that we Targaryens are closer to gods than me, I know we bleed and fall sick just as men do. Princess Rhaenys' composure slips as she wails, one mournful, sickening sound that pierces the air as they push Lady Laena's stone-carved coffin into her resting place under the sea.
A foreign, strange rage comes over me again, mingled with suffocating grief.
Just like that, Lady Laena, the rider of Vhagar, the partner of the largest dragon in the world, disappears beneath the waves. I wonder if Vhagar mourns for her. I wonder if Vhagar is lonely. I wonder if dragons desire comforting and kind words for their loss as much as men. I have never seen Vhagar before, but they say she is magnificent, the Queen of All Dragons, and the last reminder of Aegon’s Conquest. The strange song begins anew in the distance. It sounds like it is coming from the earth itself, from the depths of the waters below. I feel it overpowering me in its beauty and loneliness.
I am hit with a sudden chill. It knocks the wind out of my lungs, and I can feel myself sinking to my knees like my heart has been ripped from my chest though I force myself to stand. The funeral is not yet over. I cannot disgrace myself in front of my mother. I tear my gaze away, forcing myself to stare straight at the waters below. If I stare across the sea hard enough, I can see where the sky and sea are blurred into one expanse of unseparated blue. I feel Ser Criston's concerned expression directed toward me. I dig my gloved nails into the palm of my hand, will myself to breathe, and bite the inside of my cheek until the stinging pain overcomes the unfamiliar grief and drowns everything else.
-
My mother, the Queen, takes over the castle.
She commands the servants to light a fire in every fireplace. All the thousands of fragrant candles are illuminated under her watchful eyes. She directs warm blankets and woolen shawls to be distributed to the guests and for tapestries to be hung in the dining rooms and the Great Hall to ward off chills. She orders hot baths to be drawn for those with aching and fragile bones, for the older lords and ladies not accustomed to standing so long in such a damp place. She orders supper to be served promptly at the Hour of the Bat, cups of warm hippocras to be distributed and partaken by all. In her usual graceful demeanor and amidst the chaos of two sets of staff, my mother battles against the frightful lingering shadow of the Stranger with the efficiency and hospitality of Oldtown. We Light The Way, and nobody embodies my maternal family's motto more than my mother, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
The servants fall quickly in line, jumping to obey her orders and under her direction. They are aided by the Hightower servants we brought from King's Landing, their green and gold livery in contrast with the sky blue of the attendants at Driftmark; the castle comes alive. She calls me first and then Rhaena Targaryen, my cousin with the thin, wan face. Baela, with her wild, sharp features, is nowhere to be found. My mother orders me to accompany Rhaena, for the two of us to help light candles under the watchful gaze of one of her ladies-in-waiting, Lady Sybelle Fossoway. I know my mother is only trying to be kind to a young girl who has lost her mother. However, I have never been good at comforting others. Neither my siblings, save for Daeron, have the gift of sweet words, and Daeron is in Oldtown with my uncle, so the arduous task falls to me even though my tongue feels like lead.
Mother is busy. I do not protest and lead Rhaena away.
In less than an hour, the dreary castle becomes warm again from a thousand candles under mother's watchful gaze. Aegon is missing again, and Ser Criston and my grandfather are searching for him.
We work in silence, Rhaena shuffling behind me, and I follow Lady Fossoway through the winding corridors of High Tide. We say little, and I pretend I do not hear her sniffling. We pass by one of Lord Celtigar’s bannermen and a Beesbury girl who spares us little attention—sloan-eyed Alysanne with her brother, Benjicot Blackwood.
It is an awkward half hour, and I am grateful to be done with it. In the distance, I hear Rhaenyra's voice, and my curiosity is piqued; I break off from Rhaena to eavesdrop.
"Have you seen your father?" Rhaenyra asks Jacaerys in the same tone that my mother speaks to Aegon. "Your little cousins have lost their mother. They could use a kind word."
I lean in closer, my eyes wide.
"I have an equal claim to sympathy," Jacaerys replies sulkily. "We should be at Harrenhal, mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin."
"Listen to me. Look at me," Rhaenyra's voice is a furious hiss. "The Velaryons are our blood. Not the Strongs. Do you understand?"
Jacaerys stomps off, and I walk in the opposite direction, heart hammering from what I have heard.
Given my nephew's pug-like features and brown hair as different from the Valyrian features as night from day, I suppose it makes sense that my half-sister's children are fathered by Ser Harwin Strong, rather than Ser Laenor, who is Rhaenyra's husband. Ser Harwin was the Captain of the City Watch and the son of the Hand of the King, the heir to House Strong, and a large man known for his ill temper. They say he is also the sworn nemesis of Ser Criston Cole. Their altercation in the training yards sent Ser Criston to the infirmary two years ago and Ser Harwin back to Harrenhal in disgrace. My mother’s face darkens whenever someone brings up that story. I only recall Ser Criston looking beaten and bloodied and nursing a head wound dragging hapless Aegon to sword practice the following day. There had been a vicious, victorious gleam in Ser Criston's eye later that morning as he thrashed Aegon on the training field and then later, upon the balcony where he joined me, watching silently as Ser Harwin and Lord Strong left for Harrenhal half a year ago.
I go to my brother.
Aegon clutches a tankard as he watches our sister busy herself with an isopod for her collection. While neither Aegon nor myself understand my sister's fascination with insects, Aegon treats Helaena’s interest with unbridled, obvious disgust. I do not understand the King's cruelty in betrothing them together. Initially, there was a spirited Baratheon girl for Aegon, Cassandra or Floris perhaps, and a gentle Hightower for Helaena. One of the Tyrell sisters for my younger brother Daeron in Oldtown. But the King had insisted my brother and sister wed. My mother seethed and wept, but with no one to champion her cause after my grandfather's departure, she eventually surrendered to the King’s wishes.
"We have nothing in common," Aegon remarks loudly to me and in earshot of every lord and lady. His breath reeks of wine.
"She is your sister," I caution, a warning that he may have heeded if he is not a prince of cups. The outdated Targaryen practice of marrying brother to sister is unpopular in Westeros and has even led to civil war and strife. But it is a practice that keeps dragons and the source of our family's power within the Targaryen line. It's why they are so eager to betroth me to a Lannister. I have no dragon for my family to protect. I glare at him: do not speak ill of our sister here. Not when everyone is watching and listening. Not when Rhaenyra is here. Anyone could be listening.
But he only shakes his head. My prayer goes unanswered. "I'll marry you instead," he makes a face at me. "Lady Starry-Eyed." An insult though not the worst one, from my brother.
"I would perform my duty, Prince Flea Bottom," I reply, smoothly and evenly in taunt, thinking about how much I dislike Aegon now. How easy it would be to slap him for all the shame he has brought upon the family. I would strangle him in his sleep, I think. Or poison his wine. If he were my husband. "If mother has only betrothed us."
Aegon scoffs, showing how little he thinks of me, and looks away. Takes another gulp from his drink. He takes the bait. "If only." A scoff.
"It will strengthen the family. Keep our Valyrian blood pure," That is what the King had said when my mother fought his decision. Words easy enough to parrot in mockery. But a reminder too. We are not safe here, and the King will not take our side. Take care of what you say.
"You both are idiots," Aegon retorts, sensing more ill will in these lines than I intended. Aegon and the King's relationship is very tenuous as of late. I sense one of the Redwyne ladies intently listening to our conversation. My face reddens. No doubt, we will be a topic of discussion at dinnertime. Aegon is far too deep in his wine. He does not realize what he is saying. He does not care. He is saying it publicly. I will find my mother or Ser Criston before Aegon's defiance makes its way to the King's ears. He will scream at Aegon again, and my mother will slap us both.
The look I give him is as withering as I can make it. I remind him: "She's your future queen."
With a coarse jape about preferring creatures with very long legs, Aegon leaves to find a conversation partner more worthy of his company and leaves me thankfully alone.
-
On my way to find Ser Criston, I stumble across Jacaerys Velaryon, head downcast and lost in his thoughts. I should walk away from him and pretend I do not see him, but I catch his eye. I attempt a lopsided smile conveying that I am sorry for the death of Ser Harwin Strong. I do not know if he understands my meaning. I wonder if he thinks I am mocking him, treading upon his misfortune in being born a bastard.
I wonder if my mother, at my age, knew how to offer condolences. I am sure that she would know all the right things to say. Maiden, please help me. I stare at my feet and give him a clumsy bow.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
He says nothing in return.
This is legacy, the Archmaester Danolos of Oldtown writes, the same names dancing the same waltzes with different partners over and over again until you carve out a groove for yourself into the world that even when you are gone, the tale will keep turning, and start the dances of history again. An uncle slaying a nephew, a sister's claim surpassing her brother's, a King named Aegon with Blackfyre at his side. Let us turn to the divisive legacy of one Aerea Targaryen, not the girl rumored to have flown to Valyria and the rider of Balerion the Black Dread, but instead the youngest daughter of King Viserys and his second wife, Alicent Hightower.
With a legacy as controversial as her traitorous older sister, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the second Aerea Targaryen's beginnings were humble. She was oft described as a sickly but clever princess. Many remarked that she was markedly unremarkable. She was no Visenya, not by any imagination. Nor did anyone believe her to possess even a fraction of her legendary namesake's spirit. Yet Aerea Targaryen managed to claim the great dragon Vhagar and brought the Riverlands under her heel during the most tumultuous years of the Dance and subjugated the Vale and the North for her brother (and rumored paramour) King Aegon. She wore the crown of Aegon the Conqueror and bore his blade Blackfyre and hundreds of thousands flocked to her bloodied black-and-gold banners and the vicious battles that turned the mighty Trident red with bloodshed. None in the realm doubted the Riverlands would be the centerpiece of this Dance of Dragons, but using promises of riches and land taken from the defeated rebels, and a place in her bed for lords who swore her fealty (the latter a detail claimed by Mushroom), the young princess gathered a fearsome host to her seat in Harrenhal, composed of the worst of Westeros.
Of that, all accounts agree. Septon Eustace writes, 'the bloodthirsty Stormlords and the avaricious Westermen, the most vicious of Ormund Hightower's army who found themselves exiled in all but name and the opportunistic lords of the Riverlands found in Princess Aerea, a crowned weakling who they could bend to their will.' The youngest daughter of Queen Alicent Hightower, who had never been loved by either side of her family, took quickly to their lavish gifts and oaths of fealty and affection and was all too willing to acquiesce to their violent demands with delight, so eager was she to please and be pleased …
– Archmaester Gyldayn, Fire and Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros