darilaros (princess)

by EmWritesStuff_Sometimes

Summary:

“And so it was that, in the summer of 109 AC, Queen Aemma took once again to her childbed, remaining there for near two days for what would be a difficult and taxing labour. In the early hours of the morning, King Viserys and his lady wife welcomed a living babe—but not the babe they expected. The arrival of a second daughter took both by surprise, for they had come to believe the child in the Queen’s belly had been their longed-for son. It was nonetheless announced that the Queen had been delivered of a healthy girl, and a great relief was struck up across the Realm, the bells of King’s Landing being rung from dawn to dusk and the people gathering on the streets in praise of their new Princess.”

- ‘Fire and Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

* * * * * * * *

Queen Aemma brings a new child into the world —you. As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon.
(Set during Episodes 1-5, in which you, the Reader, become part of the storyline.)

Notes:

• For grimeundglow, EvIsNotOk, ajthefujoshi.

Chapter 1: Sunrise

Notes:

Hello, everyone! Welcome to the very first instalment of this series, featuring baby!Reader and teen-uncle!Daemon!

This prologue will be the only Daemon POV of this instalment (or at least that is my current plan), and there will be several time jumps in keeping with canon. Please keep in mind that, as canon diverges around Episode 5/6 in this series, much of what occurs in the show will also occur as-is here, so don’t expect anything particularly innovative in terms of plot, lol. I’m hoping this will be an opportunity to establish Reader as a firm part of the storyline in a manner that is a little less ambiguous, and will also serve to provide more wholesome Reader/Daemon interactions to foreground their later shift.

A couple things: there will be NO ROMANCE in this fic, because Reader is a child. Ew. There may be mentions of romance between other characters, but this story will be told firmly through Reader's eyes and thus events are limited to her own interpretations.

TRIGGERS: mentions of miscarriage/stillbirth, mentions of childbirth trauma, blood.

 

“The marriage between the second daughter of King Viserys I and his own brother, Prince Daemon, raised eyebrows upon its first announcement. Many assumed the match would echo the Rogue Prince’s unfortunate first union with the late Lady Rhea, despite his wish for a Valyrian bride being, finally, fulfilled. It surprised all who took witness to see the intensity of Daemon’s devotion to his second wife, a regard that would persist through a long and happy union between uncle and niece.”

- ‘Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

* * * * * * * *

The story of Prince Daemon Targaryen and his brother’s second-born daughter, as told through the many terms of endearment he calls her by.

 

 

THE PRINCESS = Reader-Centric POV

THE ROGUE = Daemon-Centric POV

 

 

“And so it was that, in the summer of 109 AC, Queen Aemma took once again to her childbed, remaining there for near two days for what would be a difficult and taxing labour. In the early hours of the morning, King Viserys and his lady wife welcomed a living babe—but not the babe they expected. The arrival of a second daughter took both by surprise, for they had come to believe the child in the queen’s belly had been their longed-for son. It was nonetheless announced that the queen had been delivered of a healthy girl, and a great relief was struck up across the realm, the bells of King’s Landing being rung from dawn to dusk and the people gathering on the streets in praise of their new princess.”

- ‘Fire and Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

* * * * * * * *

 

THE ROGUE

 

 

It's quiet this time, he thinks. No snivelling midwives, no wailing… A good thing, surely.

Still. The silence, in all of its peculiarity, is unnerving. After the last occasion—the frenetic activity bustling up and down the halls, the yelling, the sound of Aemma’s screams, the stench of blood thickening in his nostrils as he stepped forth to take his first and last view of the purple, unmoving babe in the cradle he would never outgrow—the absence of sound seems almost foreboding. Should he not hear the child cry? Should he not be within by now? He would venture to knock on the door, but he dares not risk disturbing this fragile peace—especially if it is not fated to remain so.

Thus, Daemon Targaryen, eighteen summers old and the king’s very own brother, waits in his seat opposite the entry to the queen’s chambers as he has done for hours. And, as he sits, he prays.

Well—not pray, exactly. He’d have to believe in gods to do that. But, should a higher power exist, it cannot hurt to lend his own voice to the masses that even now attempt to muster enough mercy to grant the survival of his cousin and the child she has worked so hard to bring forth these past moons. Let them live, he urges, pressing the thought out into the air around him, into the sky far above the keep. Let them both live.

“Any news?”

Daemon snaps to attention, head tilting automatically to the intruder. He suppresses a sneer. Now is not the time.

“Nothing,” he says, taking care to keep his tone even.

Otto Hightower sighs. “Well”—the Hand of the King moves closer, towering over Daemon with his hands clasped behind his back—“no news is good news, I hope.”

“Hm.” He’ll not dignify that with a response.

Hightower’s eyes narrow in on him. “There is no need to sound quite so downtrodden, Prince Daemon. I am sure the king will find some use for you… now that you are no longer his heir.”

He knows what the man is after. A display of anger, perhaps—maybe even hot-headed insistence on his part that his position stands as it has since Viserys won the throne, that the child is dead, that the lord has every reason to fear him still. He won’t give him the satisfaction, though. If his brother ventures out to see Daemon once again railing at his most trusted advisor…

Daemon’s desire to meet his nephew outweighs his need to put this upstart in his place.

“Never fear, Otto.” He smiles, lips stretched wide with too much teeth, threatening more than welcoming. “I’ll always have a place by Viserys’s side. I am his brother. And you…” He looks the man up and down. Even now, the pin of the Hand is attached to the cunt’s lapel like a sycophantic badge of honour, gleaming in the golden torchlight. “What are you, exactly?”

Hightower’s jaw clenches. “I am the Hand of the Ki—”

“For now,” Daemon says, a smug half-smirk playing at the very corners of his mouth. “Don’t forget that. For now.”

What he doesn’t say is plain to read. ‘One day, he’ll understand. One day, he’ll see you for what you really are. A leech, one who latches onto power and drains those who truly wield it dry.’

The reminder makes Otto pale. “I—”

The door creaks open, the flushed face of one Viserys Targaryen appearing in the space between wood and frame. “Daemon.”

Daemon rises. “Is—how is—” He cannot get the fucking words out.

His brother grins. “Aemma is well, and the babe is healthy.”

He lets out a relieved breath, surprised to discover exactly how tense he had been since the messenger had roused him from sleep at the hour of the owl. That tension releases itself with the air he pushes from his lungs, his shoulders sagging from the freedom of it. Suddenly, his eyes no longer feel so wide, so fear-bright, and fatigue sets in. He is tired. But first—

“May I see him?” he asks.

At that, Viserys pauses, whatever he had intended to say to Otto left unfinished. He clears his throat, all joy fleeing his face. “Ah… About that.”

“Is the boy… crippled?” The Hand’s voice is hushed, apprehensive.

“No, no!” Viserys insists, shaking his head. “Only… she is small, quiet. Nothing at all like Rhaenyra was.”

“A girl? But Runciter was so certain!” Otto says, mouth parted in shock.

Runciter’s a fucking fool. Anyone who sets stock by his theories ought to be burned alive, Daemon thinks, rolling his eyes. He’d never liked maesters—any of them, least of all the doddering fuckwits appointed to the vaunted station of Grand Maester. That Runciter had gotten this wrong is hardly surprising. None of them seem to know what they are doing.

He pushes around his brother and leaves him to his latest inanity, moving onward to where his newest niece lay.

The queen’s chambers are stifling, unbearably hot, the windows closed tight and the fires blazing in spite of the warmth already pervading the early hours of the morn. Another ridiculous notion, he suspects, though whether it be Westerosi custom or Targaryen superstition, he knows not. Perhaps dragonbabes can only be born into the fire they are made from.

Last time he was here, Aemma had been gaunt, eyes red-rimmed and near hysterical from the passing of her first, her only son. She’d laid weeping in her bloodied shift still, bedraggled hair sticking to slick skin as she’d mourned the child, insensate to kind words or reason from any who had approached her. Eventually, Viserys had demanded all who were not the blood of the dragon to remove themselves from the room. Together, he and Daemon had borne Aemma from her childbed, had taken her to the bath still waiting, had disposed of the last markers of gloom and tragedy marring the space.

Only those of Valyrian blood should ever bear witness to weakness from one of their own. Only those of Valyrian blood could ever understand the magnitude of such a loss. Their line had been dying out since the Doom—every death since only ever added salt to the wound.

What Daemon walks into this time is different. So very, very different.

Aemma is gaunt still, overcome by weariness, no doubt sapped greatly by the trials of such long labour. Shadows carve deep hollows beneath her eyes, skeletal, made almost sinister by the flicker of dim light, and her mouth is pale and cracked. Yet, there is naught but a buoyant sort of lightness adorning her face, shining more brilliantly than a crown ever could.

The chamber bears none of that ominous atmosphere that pervaded that night, instead filled with the heady scent of frankincense clogging each breath he draws, earthy smoke settling warm in his gut. The sheets are clean. The midwives calm. The Grand Maester, asleep in the chair by the fire.

And, in the queen’s arms, the smallest wrapped bundle he has ever seen.

“Is that…” He swallows, dazed and speechless.

His cousin beams. “Come,” she says. “Come and meet her.”

Wordlessly, he approaches, taking care to make his footfalls light so as not to disturb the delicate creature enshrined in a mother’s embrace. As he draws close, he sees that the babe is not asleep as he had thought. Instead, open eyes look upward, deep dark indigo with the merest hint of lilac-violet-amethyst, the promise of Old Valyria in that muzzy, unfocused gaze.

This is the moment he meets you.

Aemma graciously accepts his silent question, relinquishing you to your uncle with naught but a gentle sigh and a stroke to the cheek. So little are you that you settle easily into the line of his arm, head to the crook of his elbow and rump to his cupped hand, light enough that it would be easy to forget you are even there. You let out a soft bleat, feet kicking beneath your swaddling—but that is all. For when that blue-nearly-purple stare shifts, locking with his, you fall silent, still. And so does he.

You are beautiful.

Of course you are. Viserys is hardly the handsomest of men, and Aemma comely enough though of no great noteworthiness, but their firstborn is about as lovely as any girl of nine summers old can be. Your sister.

Gods, he thinks. Rhaenyra, an elder sister. The very notion of his spoiled little niece playing such a part seems unwittingly hilarious in this moment. She will not like being made to share her mama and papa—her uncle—with you.

Right now, that is irrelevant. His attention returns to the slope of your nose, the rosebud bloom of your lips, the blush of your rounded cheeks, tracking the near ethereal features with a delicate fingertip. Newborns are dreadful-looking things, usually squished and red and misshapen. You look like a painting, or a doll made by the finest artisans, a sculpture rendered by magic rather than mortal hands. He wonders if it is love for you—and it is love, he has no doubt of that, for his love of family is perhaps the one truly redeeming quality he possesses—that blinds him to any imperfection, or if you really are as lovely as you seem.

“What will you name her?” he asks, smoothing the cloths off your fragile little head to take the briefest peek at your scalp. Ah—there it is. Targaryen silver. With an Arryn for a mother, one could never be certain.

“Rhaenyra’s insisted on naming her sister Visenya.”

Daemon glances toward the foot of the bed. Viserys has returned, absent of his loyal hound, drawing near without his notice. He snorts at the man’s words. “How very like her.”

‘Tis true. Rhaenyra has always been fixated on stories of the Conqueror and his wives, forming a particular fascination for the elder of Aegon’s queens. It is a powerful name. A warrior’s name.

He frowns. “A fine name—but not for this little thing.”

Visenya is anger and retribution, violence and chaos, death and destruction. Daemon can find nothing of the sort in you. Every part of you—from the tips of your fuzzed palewhite hair to the petite softness of your wiggly little feet—seems fit for a destiny of another kind. One of peace, of calm, of joy and goodness.

Aemma hums an agreement, wholly preoccupied with gazing at her newest child. “If she were a son, her name would be Baelon.”

“Hm.” Viserys steps forward, palm brushing featherlight across your side as he passes to sit by his wife. “Baelon and Visenya. Those are the names we had prepared. But alas, Baelon was not to be. And Visenya is not… right.”

Daemon stands, bringing you a scant few steps toward the window. Dawn is approaching. The sky has relinquished the darkness of night, and there, on the horizon, the faintest of ambers illuminates the locus where the heavens and the earth meet, silhouetting the city below. As he watches the sun rise, he just barely hears the staff behind him make their final exits, awash in a rustle of equipment and a hush of words offered to their mistress and exultant ruler.

A tiny noise below draws his interest. Your eyelids have drooped, soft lashes framing lavender lids that sweep across the skin of your cheeks. When he dips his finger into the parting of your mouth, you begin to suckle at him, reflex rather than need.

“What would you call her?” Aemma asks after seconds, minutes, hours.

He turns, brow arched in surprise. She seems genuinely curious, though she is admittedly not one for mean-spirited japes as it is. His cousin has always valued his opinion more than his brother ever had, even if was she who had forced his bitch of a wife upon him.

“If you could,” she adds, “what name would you give her?”

He looks to Viserys, wordlessly asking for permission. A dip of the chin is his response. Letting loose a soft grunt, he peers down at his small charge.

Visenya is too fierce. Gael too glum. Too many fucking ‘Rhae’ names, so no Rhaenys. Daella too bland, Saera too provocative, Alysanne too common.

And then, he thinks upon it. The perfect name. Your name. When he says it aloud, he is met with a shine in Aemma’s eyes, a gleam in Viserys’s grin.

“That is it,” the king says, nodding decisively. “That is what we shall call her.” Rising, he comes forward to clap Daemon on the shoulder lightly, hand warm even through the layers of his shirt and coat. “Thank you, brother.”

“Your Grace,” he murmurs, tipping his head.

There is a tightening in his chest, the sort of feeling that threatens to stop his heart from the depth of his own enduring emotion. As Viserys makes his way to the door to deliver the announcement—to proclaim your birth, to order the ringing of the bells, to declare your name for the entire world to hear and know—Daemon gazes down at you.

“What do you think, sweetling?” He says your name again.

This time, he swears that you smile back at him.

Notes:

This one is a short one, I'm afraid! I hope you enjoyed! The next few chaps will all be baby!Reader POVs, which will serve as a new and interesting challenge. I'll have to figure out how to write like a child without being disingenuous, I suppose. Looking forward to it!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! If you have any ideas or thoughts about this series in general, feel free to head over to my Tumblr to leave me an ask!

Also, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on this chapter, or even just leave a quick little message. I adore feedback! Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 2: Dolls

Notes:

Hello, all! My apologies for the wait. There was a whole mess of stuff that killed my drive to write for a few days.

BUT, I’ve managed to write this one, featuring baby!Babey as a POV character! I’ve tried hard to keep it in a ‘small person’ voice, which got real old real fast, lol. Keep in mind that she’s around 3 years old in this one, so she’s not hella mature or anything.

TRIGGERS: child doing child things, child narrating Episode 1 of HotD, character death.

 

THE PRINCESS

 

 

Once upon a time, there lived a girl called Hana. Hana was the prettiest girl in the whole kingdom, and she wore fancy dresses with gold and silver necklaces and rings, and she had a pearl hairnet in her red hair. There was also another girl called Marya who was very pretty too, but not as pretty as Hana. When Hana and Marya were lit—

“Ah,” Mama says. “Rhaenyra!”

From your place on the floor in the corner, right in the middle of a patch of sunlight, you see that ’Nyra has come. It’s not nice to have your story interrupted, but ’Nyra’s visits are always fun, so you don’t mind. She is dressed the way she does when she goes to visit Syrax, which means she will smell funny and make Mama cross.

“You know I don’t like you to go flying while I’m in this condition,” Mama adds.

“You don’t like me to go flying while you’re in any condition.”

Alicent, ’Nyra’s best friend, stands in the doorway. She is very very pretty, you think, with red hair like Hana’s and a blue dress that makes her look like a girl from one of the old stories you like to listen to.

“Your Grace,” she says, smiling.

“Good morrow, Alicent.” Mama sighs. She sounds very tired. She has put her coat back on, even though it’s so hot in the room and she’s fanning herself to try and dry the sweat on her cheeks and her brow.

“Did you sleep?” ’Nyra asks.

Mama laughs, quick and soft. “I slept.”

“How long?” ’Nyra takes a seat on the stool beside Mama’s feet.

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra.”

“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants, all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.”

That is when Mama’s eyes go to you. “I have my own right here, so there is no need to fear.”

’Nyra turns to look, too. Her frown goes away and she smiles, wiggling her fingers at you to say ‘hello’. Even though she’s your sister and that means you love her, you don’t go over to her. She is older, so she doesn’t care very much about dolls or stories or little sisters who don’t have dragons.

Mama keeps talking to ’Nyra while you listen. “You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm.” None of it makes sense, but you like the sound of their voices.

’Nyra makes a rude noise. “I’d rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.”

Mama laughs. “We have royal wombs, you and your sister and I. The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.”

Why would a child’s bed be a battlefield? My bed is nice and big. And what is a stiff lip? Is it something that Maester Mellos should give his herbs for? Are there bones in a lip? Can those bones break like big bones can?

You have lots of questions, but you don’t say what you’re thinking out loud, of course. The maester only said you could be in here if you were good, so you mustn’t talk unless Mama asks you something or starts saying things to you.

“Now,” Mama says to ’Nyra, “take a bath. You stink of dragon.”

’Nyra stands up and bends down to kiss Mama on her head. Then, she comes over to you and gets on the floor so she can give you a hug and a kiss, and she is warm and smelly like Mama said she is. You like the smell, though, because it is what ’Nyra always smells like.

’Nyra leaves with Alicent, and for a while it is very calm. Mama takes a nap by closing her eyes and leaning with her head back, so you make sure to be very quiet when you continue telling yourself the story.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl called Hana. Hana was the prettiest girl in the whole kingdom, and she wore fancy dresses with gold and silver necklaces and rings, and she had a pearl hairnet in her red hair. There was also another girl called Marya who was very pretty too, but not as pretty as Hana. When Hana and Marya were little, they were best friends, and they played dolls and sang hymns and learned their letters together. But when they became older, they started to fight.

Marya was jealous of Hana. Lords from all over the kingdom wanted to marry her because of how pretty and how kind she was. That meant that not many lords wanted to marry Marya, even though she had lovely dark hair and knew all the names of the houses and could sing even better than Hana did! So, Marya thought and thought about how she could make more lords want to marry her. She decided to hide all of Hana’s nicest dresses and shiniest jewels.

Naughty, naughty Marya. That’s not how proper ladies act. It was very nasty of you to—

“What are you and your ladies up to?”

You don’t like being interrupted for a second time, but it is Mama who is asking. Everyone’s been using soft voices since ’Nyra came to make a fuss and then left to wash the dragon-stink off. Mama’s question is louder than them all, so it must be for you.

Turning your head, you see that she is looking at you with a small smile.

“Marya hid Hana’s dresses and her best necklace and rings,” you say, holding her up high so Mama can see. You frown at the doll. “She needs to say sorry, so I’m telling her to.”

Mama laughs, but you don’t know why. “Oh, dear. How unkind of her! Why did Marya do such a thing?”

“All the lords want to marry Hana,” you say, “and not Marya. She’s very angry, but—but it’s not Hana’s fault. So I’m going to tell her that, too.”

“My, my.” Mama looks tired, like she has ever since baby Baelon-or-Visenya started growing in her belly, but she still seems happy that you’re here. Her eyes are warm the way they get when she sees you. “Quite a responsibility, you have.”

You nod. “I’m her mama, like you’re mine. I have to teach her to be good.”

This makes Mama smile even wider. She holds her hand out to you, so you put Marya down beside Hana, making sure they’re not too close together. It would be bad if they started fighting after you’ve been busy telling Marya off so much. Making sure your skirts are neat like a proper lady, you go to take Mama’s hand, letting her pull you close-close so that you have to get up onto the daybed with her. Her skin is hot like fire is when you get too near it.

“Are you going to teach your little brother or sister to be good, too?” she asks, bringing your hand to her belly. When you touch it, you feel the kicking. It’s like a tapping from under a very thick blanket.

“Yes, Mama. I promise. I’ll sing all the hymns so they learn them, and make sure they eat all their supper, and—and say ‘no running’ and ‘no hitting’ and give them lots of hugs and tell—tell them they are naughty if they don’t liste—”

“Well,” she says even louder, smiling so wide you can see her teeth, “you already sound like a wonderful big sister, my dearest.”

Then, a new voice speaks out from the doorway, catching your interest. “Hakorje mandia kesā, sīlāvose.”

It’s one of your favourite people in the whole world.

You scramble out of Mama’s hold, nearly tripping over your dress. “Kepus!”

He chuckles as you race toward him, arm out so that he can catch you and lift you up. Mama hasn’t been able to do that since her belly became big, and Papa is too busy now. Oh, how you’ve missed it!

Uncle Daemon sits you on his hip so that you can stare straight at his face, at the way his eyes scrunch up with how much his mouth stretches. “What about you, princess? Have you been a good girl since last I saw you?” he asks.

“I’m always good, kepus,” you say, pushing out your bottom lip to show how rude you think his question is. “But—but you haven’t. You’re naughty. You’ve been gone for so, so, so long!”

Even though his brow raises, he sounds like he finds you funny. “Ah-ah. A moon’s turn, nothing more or less, is all the time I’ve spent away. I was here for your name day celebrations, was I not?”

“That was ages ago!”

There were lots of people in the keep for the party, and you don’t think you really knew most of them. But, because Papa is the king and you are a princess, they were invited to come and wish you a happy name day and give you gifts and eat and drink lots. It was nice at first, but the more they ate and drank, the louder they got, and soon you had to sneak off and find Uncle so that he could take you back to your rooms where it was quiet. He sang a song in High Valyrian, the language that your house has spoken for thousands of years, so that you could fall asleep even after eating so many little frosted cakes. Soon, you had to say farewell to him because he had to go back to Runestone and visit his lady wife, the one he hate-hates but Mama says he has to see.

Thinking about High Valyrian makes you stop. You can’t speak it, but there are some parts you know. Kicking Uncle in the side for being rude, you say, “And—and I’m not ann—annoying. I’m good!”

He looks sorry when you say that. “Of course you are. And I hope you’ll forgive me for returning after such a long time.”

Behind his back where you can’t see is his other arm. He brings it out, showing you what he was hiding in his hand. Oh! A new doll! And this one is special because it has pale hair and purple eyes just like you!

“Please accept this as a token of my apology, sweetling,” Uncle Daemon says, offering it to you. “Perhaps—Marya and Hana, was it?—could do with another friend.”

“Thank you, kepus!” Keeping your new doll pinned between you and Uncle, you wrap your arms around his neck so so tight and squeeze so he can feel how happy you are! You kiss him on the cheek, wiggling very close and smiling when he squeezes you back just as tight. “Thank you, thank you! I missed you so much!”

“Silly girl.”

Uncle pats you on the back once, twice, and then crouches down so that you can stand on your own two feet again. Sometimes, this makes you sad, because his hugs are your favourite and you wish they would never end. But he has to say ‘hello’ to Mama, too. Besides, you have a new lady to introduce!

“How about you play,” he says, “while I speak with Mama?”

“Okay!” You’re already thinking about it anyway.

When you go back to Marya and Hana, you can see that they’ve been good girls and not moved at all. You rearrange them both so that they are sitting, and place your new doll—Alysanne, you decide, after Papa and Uncle’s grandmama—between them, fussing with their hair so that it lies neatly. They are very pretty, you think, red and dark and silver all together.

“And how is Lady Rhea?” Mama is asking, brow lifting.

Uncle makes a noise and curls his lip meanly.

“Who the fuck—who cares?” he says, rolling his eyes when you gasp. He said a bad word. “It’s not as though we spent any time in each other’s presence. Think I’d rather the company of sheep, anyway.”

“You were there for an entire moon’s turn, Daemon”—Mama frowns the way she does when ’Nyra says something rude, and ’Nyra does that a lot—“and you refused to even speak with her? She’s your wife.”

“Not one I chose. You would know that all too well, cousin.”

Mama goes quiet, looking to you. Uncle does, too. Then, she starts whispering to Uncle, and Uncle whispers back, and you return to your game.

Dolls make far more sense than people do.

 

 

 

You don’t like tourneys. You don’t like them at all.

It’s loud, and hot, and there are too many smells—of different perfumes all swirling around and clogging in your nose, of dirt and manure from the ground below, of something sharp that clings to the walls that box you in and shield you from being able to see anything interesting. The horns ring out and so many people cheer that it feels like a buzzing in your head. It makes your teeth hurt.

“Be welcome!”

Papa looks happy today, so much happier than he was the last time Mama said a babe was in her belly. That babe was dead, she told you. It went away from inside her and never came back. That’s what death is, and everyone is very, very afraid of it all the time. But you didn’t know that babe like you know Mama and Papa and ’Nyra and Uncle, so you weren’t sad or scared. You wonder if this babe will go away, too.

The sound of clapping is like thunder. “I know many of you have travelled long leagues to be at these games,” he says. “But I promise, you will not be disappointed.”

You watch from beside Papa as ’Nyra sneaks to her seat, but she is not so sneaky because she is wearing a bright red dress that looks beautiful. She sits beside Alicent, her friend and Lord Hightower’s daughter, and tries to make herself small in her chair so that Papa won’t get angry.

After a pause, he keeps speaking. “When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news that I am happy to share—Queen Aemma has begun her labours!”

There is so much noise that you have to hold your hands over your ears to quiet it just a little bit. Brella pats your shoulder, trying to make you feel better.

“It’s alright, princess. We can play in just a moment—how about that?”

“I want Mama,” you say sadly, your bottom lip wobbling and your eyes feeling hot like they do when you really want to cry.

Mama has been locked in her chambers since last evening, when the maester said the babe was nearly ready to come out. You asked and asked Papa, but he wouldn’t let you in to see her. When the door had opened and you tried to go inside, you were too surprised to move at the sound of her yelling. You think that the babe must have been hurting her very, very much. It makes you afraid. But then, Uncle took you away to your rooms and read you a story in High Valyrian, which sounded nice even though you didn’t understand it all.

“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!” You are not listening to Papa’s words very closely.

“Soon, princess,” Brella says, stopping for a moment when the horns echo out again. “You must wait for the babe to be born, first. How exciting—a new little brother, all for you!”

You don’t want a brother if it means that Mama has to be in pain. Papa would be very happy—you are three whole name days, but you still know he wants the babe to be a boy and not a girl, that you were supposed to be a boy and he was sad you were only a second daughter—but you are happy with the way things are.

It would be very rude to say so in front of Papa, so you keep quiet and nod, letting your nursemaid bring you off your seat and down to the floor so that you may sit amongst Alysanne and Hana and Marya.

 It has been very difficult to teach Marya to be nice to Alysanne, because she doesn’t like it when Hana makes new friends and Alysanne is a very pretty new friend. But she has decided she rather likes Alysanne after all, and so you can serve their tea without being scared of anyone being silly or bad to each other. Brella is very helpful in braiding Marya’s hair to look like ’Nyra’s does, and then she pins Hana’s back like Alicent’s. You decide that Alysanne should have hair that looks like yours because you look nearly the same, like she is your baby and you are her mama.

You are interrupted very quickly when Septa Marlow bends forward to speak straight into Brella’s ear. “It is unseemly to coddle her so. She is nearing the end of her infancy—you ought to be preparing her to pass over into my care, not indulging in frivolities!”

You shiver. Septa Marlow is mean. The last time that ’Nyra said something rude to her, she was rapped across the palm by Septa’s willow switch. It left a bright red mark that made you cry when you saw it, but ’Nyra only muttered something nasty under her breath and smiled in a not-very-kind way. You wish you could be as brave as her.

“When she is five summers old, she will pass into your care,” Brella says. It is polite, but the way she looks at Septa makes you think she is not being so nice after all. “Until then, I shall do as I see fit. And that means allowing the princess to indulge in these frivolities while she can.”

Septa wants to say something rude back, you can tell—but then, the whispers start. It makes you look out onto the field so that you can see what’s happening.

“… of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!”

Uncle rides out on his horse—a great stallion named Varlet that you sometimes give apples to if he is very, very good and doesn’t buck anyone out of the saddle—wearing his nicest armour with the tail of feathers that comes out of the helmet. You think it makes him look a bit like a bird from one of those old books in the library. Uncle takes Varlet up and down the line of men on their own horses, but you don’t know why. You cannot see his face.

Your dolls don’t seem very exciting anymore. You pass them back to Brella and move past Papa to where ’Nyra sits at the very front. Even though there is an empty seat next to Alicent, you go to ’Nyra anyway.

All you have to do is hold up your arms to her and she smiles. “Do you want to see Uncle’s bout?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. You can hear the sound of hooves on the dirt, which means you are missing it, so you stamp your feet and wiggle. Maybe she will hurry up if you do. “Please, please!”

“Oh, alright.” She rolls her eyes and lifts you up so that you can sit on her lap, tucking her head next to yours and wrapping her arms tight around you so you don’t fall off. She is warm like Caraxes and Syrax are, like a dragon, only this time she doesn’t smell like smoke and rotting meat but like flowers and soap. “Can you see?”

You look down. Uncle is at one end of the field and the man he has chosen—Ser Gwayne, you think, from the green he has on and the funny shape of his helmet, like a tower—on the other, their jousting poles held out in front of them. “I can see,” you say.

When Uncle and Ser Gwayne start riding, you really do try to keep your eyes open. But, as they get closer and closer, you cannot help but shut them because you don’t want to see anyone get hurt, or worse­—the horses. Sometimes, it happens. All you can see is the insides of your eyelids when a big CLANG happens, but ’Nyra doesn’t clap so you think it might not be finished yet. Then, you hear a horse neigh and a big thud, and lots of applause. This time, ’Nyra does clap, so you open your eyes and see that Uncle is still on Varlet but Ser Gwayne is on the ground.

Your sister stops clapping when she sees Alicent with her hand over her mouth. Ser Gwayne is her brother, so she must be very worried for him. You reach out and pat her arm, which makes her stop and stare at you for a moment before giving you a small smile. ’Nyra grabs at her hand, too, which seems to help.

Uncle brings Varlet right up to the balcony with his jousting pole all the way up high, so ’Nyra puts you down and grips onto your shoulder to steer you forward. You are still very small, so the railing is too tall for you to reach, and that means you could fall very easily if you lean too far down. You grab onto your sister’s skirts.

“Nicely done, Uncle,” she says, holding onto the rail.

“Thank you, princess.” Uncle looks at you, and his face changes—he is friendly now where he wasn’t exactly when he was looking at ’Nyra. He doesn’t say anything to you, but he does wink, which makes you giggle and him smile. He turns to Alicent. “Now, I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favour would all but assure it.”

She goes toward the table where two wreaths lay, one for her and one for ’Nyra. You are not old enough for your own yet, or so Papa says. Taking the green one in her fingers, she comes back to the balcony. Instead of putting the wreath on the jousting pole, though, she holds it out to you. “Perhaps your niece would like to give you my favour?”

Beaming, you accept the wreath and let Alicent pick you up under the arms. It doesn’t feel very nice, but it makes you tall enough to put the favour over the pole and watch it slide all the way down to the bottom, near where Uncle is holding it. He grins, then rides away to have another bout.

’Nyra takes you back to where she was sitting, placing you back on her knee. “Are you going to thank Alicent? She was very nice, letting you give Uncle her favour.”

“Thank you, Alicent,” you say.

She brushes some of your hair out of your eyes. “You’re welcome, princess.”

You find it strange when Papa rises from his chair after something Lord Hightower says in his ear, a troubled look on his face. He was the one who had been the most excited about the tourney, so why is he getting up to leave?

’Nyra doesn’t notice, holding tight to you when you start squirming. For a while, you stay with her—but the jousting starts to get frightening. When the knights knock each other off their horses, they start using swords and axes and maces and trying to really hurt each other, striking and kicking so hard that it makes your heart race really fast in your chest and your belly rock like it does when you need to be sick. To take your mind off it, you start listening to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys talking to each other.

“… and we expect them to act with honour and grace,” the princess is saying to her husband. The sound of her voice makes you shiver a little. Whenever she stares at you, it is unkind. You don’t think she likes you very much. “It’s a marvel that war didn’t break out at first blood.”

Everyone gasps when the knight below brings his axe down on the man below him, hitting him over and over so that blood sprays everywhere. The man twitches at first, then goes still, the dirt below him turning dark red very quickly.

You cry and cry, loud and ugly. You don’t like it here anymore. You want to go back to the keep and find Mama and let her hug you until this cold, awful feeling goes away and warmth and happiness comes back.

“Nurse!” ’Nyra says, but you aren’t really listening. You can see that people are pointing at you from the stands and whispering, which makes you even more upset because you truly tried to be good and quiet and not make a fuss this time.

“Oh, princess.” Brella lifts you off of ’Nyra’s lap and carries you to the back of the royal box, past Papa’s councilmen and all the lords and ladies that are gathered, heading toward the stairs. “Come now, my sweet. Time for a nap, don’t you think?”

“I want Mama,” is all you can say. “I want my mama!”

 

 

 

It is darker than normal when you wake up from your nap. Usually, the sun is still up, the colour of Papa’s crown as it shines through your window, hot and blinding even though supper is not far away. But now, you have to blink a few times before you realise that you cannot see because night has come.

Your chambers are empty, save one other.

“Papa?” you ask, rubbing your eyes and yawning. You can just barely see him through the shadows. “What—what—”

There is a sharp clack and a fizzle of orange fire, which Papa cups in his hand and takes to the candle beside your bed. As he lights a small flame, you look at his face. Even in the darkness, you can see how sad he is, the shine that forms lines down his cheeks and the red puff of the skin around his eyes.

Oh, no. Something bad has happened. Something… something terrible.

“Whe—where’s Mama?” you ask, voice wobbly. It feels like a hand has reached down through your throat and your stomach to peel your insides out, to turn it all over so that you’re bleeding and broken where the maester cannot see. “Mama—”

“Sh, my girl.” He is trying to sound soft and kind, but you hear how he cracks a little, how the words seem almost stuck on the tip of his tongue. “Listen to me. Come here.”

You still don’t know why it is, but the rule of life is that you obey ’Nyra who obeys Mama who obeys Papa, which means that you have to obey Mama and Papa even when the others aren’t there. So, when Papa asks you to do something, you have to listen. You’re a good girl, after all.

Kicking away the covers that have made you too-too warm, you crawl on your hands and knees to the edge of the bed where Papa sits. He is solid and real under your fingers, smelling like the maester’s medicines as always, but also like something sour. Like metal.

He grabs you and puts you on his knee like ’Nyra did before, during the tourney, only the hand on your back is large-large, almost covering from your neck to your bottom. You can feel his thumb moving up and down as he speaks, up and down, up and down.

“Something… something has happened. To Mama,” he says, taking lots of pauses and shaking under you like he is cold. You reach up to pat his face. Your hand comes away wet.

“Is she okay?” you ask. That horrible feeling comes back, and you have to swallow so that you don’t get sick all over Papa. “Where is Mama?”

“Mama… she couldn’t bring the babe out. A boy—Baelon.” This time, you can hear him cry, but it’s quick, not long and loud like yours.

A brother. I have a baby brother. It doesn’t feel very special or interesting. Maybe meeting the babe will make you more excited?

“Where is he?”

Papa cries more. “He… he lived for three hours. Three. Then he—”

“—died.” That’s the word for when someone goes through death. Papa didn’t look like he could say it, but you can. “Sorry,” you tell him quietly. You know how much he wanted a boy. “Mama must be sad, too.”

“She—she—Mama didn’t survive the birth.”

You frown. What does that mean? “So… she is sick?”

Papa shakes his head, eyes scrunching. “No.”

“Where is she, then? I want to say ‘sorry’ to her, too.”

“She—died. She’s dead, my girl. Only, she passed before Baelon.”

You have to stop and really think, think so hard that your head hurts and you feel dizzy from holding your breath. Being dead means going away and never coming back. Mama is dead. Which means…

After Papa says those terrible, awful, horrible words, he pushes his nose into your hair and hugs you so so tight until you feel his tears sliding over your head. You hug him back, pressing your face to his chest and letting his shirt soak up all the crying from your eyes. You don’t know if you understand it all—but you know one thing for certain, one thing that makes you cold and sick and afraid.

Mama went away. Mama will never come back.

Mama is gone.

Notes:

Chapter notes: "Hakorje mandia kesā, sīlāvose" literally means You'll be the most annoying big sister, surely. Fancy a 20-year-old Daemon roasting a toddler, lol. What a shitdick. I LOVE HIM.

I hope you liked this chapter! I'm hella nervous about it, tbh. I've never tried to write as a child character before, so this was a new experience.

If you have any ideas or thoughts about this series in general, feel free to head over to my Tumblr to leave me an ask! Also, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on this chapter, or even just leave a quick little message. I adore feedback! Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 3: Pyre

Notes:

Hello, all! My apologies for the lateness of this one - I didn't end up doing what I thought I'd be doing, which was covering each episode in a single chapter, so I was a bit stuck on how to fill in the gaps at first. I hope you end up liking how I've decided to fill in this one. This is still Episode 1 and largely canon-adjacent, just with the addition of baby!Reader! There's some discussion of death and theology here, which is a little beyond baby!Reader's understanding - at least, I hope that's how it plays out. There's some High Valyrian in here that isn't translated, so I'll be adding that in the end notes for you all.

TRIGGERS: character death, exploration of child grief, dysfunctional family dynamics.

 

THE PRINCESS

 

 

It is very quiet now that Mama has died.

Brella is quiet. Septa is quiet. Ana and Peony, the maids who come to make your bed neat again and pick up all the dresses you’ve worn, are quiet. Ser Harrold is quiet—but then, he usually is. None of Papa’s guards seem to want to make a sound now. Neither do Papa’s councilmen, like Lord Corlys or Lord Lyman, who you sometimes see walking down the halls with very sad looks upon their faces.

You wonder if, when Mama died, she took a part of all these people with her.

She has taken a part of Papa, and of ’Nyra, too. Suppertime is so very quiet that you are afraid to breathe in case everyone can hear it. They both just stare at their plates, eyes puffy and red like yours are when you cry, which means they have been crying, too. They eat their food like someone else is moving their mouths, and when they swallow, it looks like the most painful thing in the whole world.

Papa and ’Nyra haven’t spoken to you since the day of the tourney. You try not to be sad about it, but it’s hard. Now that Mama has gone away, they are your family, and it hurts that your family won’t look at you or say anything to you. It’s almost like they have forgotten all about you.

“They’re grieving,” Alicent tells you, taking your hand in hers as you walk towards the sept. The stairs are very hard to climb, so she had to help you up, and it was nearly like having Mama again when she pulled you into her arms and held you tight. “Their sorrow has made them blind to all else.”

You don’t really understand what she means. “To me, too?”

“Hm?”

“Their sorrow. It’s made them not see me?”

Alicent stops. Something very soft and sad makes her face droop, and she bends down so that she can look you right in the eyes. “Oh, princess. They see you. And they love you. But your mother”—she takes a breath that sounds shaky—“she was very important to them. They miss her very much.”

“I miss her, too.” You wonder when Mama will return. How long is ‘never’? No one has ever explained it to you. Hopefully it is soon.

“I know you do.” Alicent stands and grabs onto your hand again, leading you toward the table where so so many candles are.

The room is very hot, all the little fires making you sleepy even though it is only morning time. There are two stools right before the table, and Alicent kneels on one. You try to do the same on the other, but it means you cannot see the candles anymore.

“How about you stand on it instead, princess?” Alicent asks. She lets you hold onto her shoulder so that you can get up on the stool like she said, which makes it much easier to see. Then, she folds her hands together in front of her chin and bends her head, so you do the same.

It isn’t very interesting to stare at your fingers at first, but after a while, it’s nice. You count all the little folds in your skin—there are a lot—and trace the edges of your thumbnails with your mind over and over. Time goes funny, and you cannot remember why you were ever sad before you came here.

It might be minutes or hours or days before Alicent speaks. “Would you like to light a candle? For your mother?”

“Why?” you ask, frowning. Is candle-lighting how to get Mama to come back? Will she see the light and know it’s me and return with baby Baelon? Is that why so many people pray in the sept?

Alicent picks up a candle that hasn’t been lit. “To remember her. You light the candle and… she’ll see it.”

“From where?”

“From one of the Seven heavens.”

“Where’s that?”

“I… do not know.” She stares at the candle like she is trying to light it without moving. “Somewhere far away. My mother is there, too.”

“Oh.” She sounds very sad, so you reach out to grab hold of another unlit candle. “Can I light this one? For Mama?”

That makes her smile just a little. “Of course, princess.”

Alicent takes one of the lit candles and tilts it into yours, making sure not to spill any of the hot wax on you. You hold very still, because fire is dangerous which means you can get hurt, even though you touched it once and it didn’t feel like anything but warm. The little string at the top catches fire, burning orange and gold and swaying gently.

She lights her own, too. “Now, you place it on the altar, like so.” She carefully sets both candles down and closes her eyes for a moment, and you think she must be thinking of her own mama.

You nudge your candle back to where you took it, watching the flame dance about. I lit a candle for you, Mama, so you can see it. Do you? Do you see me?

Where are you, Mama? When are you coming back?

The candle doesn’t answer. It just sits there, the little fire bobbing about and then finally falling still. All you can hear is the sound of your own breathing. When you are done, Alicent helps you step off the stool, and you leave the sept with the candles still lit behind you.

Just outside, you find Uncle Daemon waiting for you.

While ’Nyra and Papa are grieving and Papa’s council are planning and everyone else is doing whatever it is they do away from you, Uncle has been making sure that you are ‘well’ by telling you stories and teaching you more High Valyrian and sitting at the table to watch while you and Brella play with your dolls together. He never stays for a long-long time, but it is still very nice.

“Farewell, princess.” Alicent lets go of your hand and turns to curtsey to Uncle, who bows his head but says nothing, just stares with a not-exactly-kind look. Then, she leaves, her footsteps fading away and then dropping as she goes down the stairs. You listen until the noise disappears entirely.

Uncle’s brow raises. “What were you doing in the sept with only Hightower’s daughter for company? Where’s your sister?”

He never calls her by her name. You wonder why, sometimes.

“She took me because ’Nyra is napping again from crying so much, and I was by myself. So, we went to the sept so I could light a candle for Mama,” you say quietly. “So that she’ll see it and come back.”

At that, he softens. He crouches down so you can see his face more clearly. “She’s not coming back, sweetling. You know that, don’t you?”

“Why not?”

“She…” He grunts. “Do you remember the stories about Aegon the Conqueror, and his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Right.” He rises, gripping you below your arms and lifting you high so that he can carry you away from the sept. It makes him uncomfortable, though you don’t know why. “Tell me what happened to Rhaenys.”

“She tried to—to get Dorne to say that Aegon was their king, so she rode Meraxes to them.” Uncle hums approvingly, so you keep going. Your voice wobbles with each step he takes. “But they were angry at her for burning the grass and the trees and the buildings and the people and the sheep and the horses and th—”

“Yes, yes, she lit Dorne aflame.” Uncle rolls his eyes. He bounces you extra hard in his arms so that it feels like you’re about to fall, and you squeal and wrap your arms tight-tight around his neck so that you don’t. “Leave the boring bits out. Tell me the rest.”

“She—Dorne took a big, big arrow and hit Meraxes in the eye, and Rhaenys and Meraxes fell all the way to the ground from up high and died.”

His lips twist at the way you say the last word. “You’ve been paying attention. Good girl.” You’re out in the courtyard now, away from the sept. It isn’t any louder out here, which is strange, because it is usually always loud and full of people. “Did Rhaenys ever return to Aegon and Visenya?” he asks, moving towards the doors that lead to Maegor’s Holdfast where your rooms are.

“No…” you say, unsure. You don’t think she did. “Why didn’t she go back?”

Uncle sighs, slowing down so he can look at you properly. “That’s what it means to die, sweetling. Rhaenys didn’t go away. When she hit the ground, her body ceased to function. She stopped seeing, feeling, thinking, moving, breathing. She became… nothing.”

Your belly twists. You don’t like what he’s telling you, not one bit. Whatever your face is doing, it makes Uncle keep talking.

“It’s like your dolls—you can touch them and see them, can’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“But when you speak to them, do they speak back?”

“No.”

“Do they have beating hearts?”

“No.”

“Do they eat or piss or shit?”

You gasp. “That—that’s naughty, kepus!”

He rolls his eyes again. “No, they don’t. They’re things, not people. And your mother… she’s no longer a person. She’s a body, one we must put to rest today.”

The funeral is soon. Uncle has been reminding you lots and lots, and when you asked, he said a funeral is what people go to so they can say goodbye to the person who has died and put their body back where it is meant to go. And because Mama is a Targaryen like you and Uncle and Papa and ’Nyra, her body has to be put on fire so that she can go back to the wind.

She’s not a person anymore. She’s a nothing. It scares you.

You sniffle. “But… I don’t want her to be gone like Rhaenys did. I want her back.”

“I know.” Uncle hugs you then, pulling you so close that your nose gets stuck in all his hair. When you breathe in, all those hairs go up inside your nostrils and make them itch. You hope he never lets go. “I know.”

 

 

 

Put on the dress, then sit in the carriage, then walk up the hill, then stand quiet. Put on the dress, then sit in the carriage, then walk up the hill, then stand quiet. Put on the dress, then sit in the carriage, then walk up the hill, then stand quiet.

You keep saying it over and over in your head, just like Uncle had said. He is the only one who would tell you what is going to happen at the funeral, because he knows that you like to know things even when you’re afraid of them. It makes you feel better, makes you feel a little less scared.

Uncle never told you how many people would be here, though.

Everyone comes to watch you and ’Nyra and Papa and Uncle walk through the keep to the carriage—the maesters, the maids, the pageboys, the lords and ladies that like to stay in the city—but they are silent as you pass. You wonder if pressing yourself against the wall and thinking really hard about being made of stone will turn you invisible, which is when you can’t be seen. You wish you could. There are too many gazes on you, and it makes all the hairs on your arms and legs and neck stand up. Uncle has to press you forward when you slow down to look for an escape.

You sit in the carriage beside ’Nyra while Papa and Uncle sit at the front, because Papa is the king and Uncle is his heir. She is very pale, almost blending with her hair except for her red eyes. You slip your hand into hers and she squeezes hard, but you try not to show her that it hurts. She looks less sad holding onto you, so you don’t mind at all that her fingers pinch.

It is the first time in a long time that you have been able to see any of the people outside the walls of the keep. Before Mama died—before Mama’s belly got too big and she had to stay in bed—she used to take you just beyond the gates to where the really poor commonfolk would line up every sennight on the day of rest to get their alms, which Mama says is an important part of being good. She would say that you have to give coin and food and whatever else the people might need so that they are well and happy, because that means they will support the king’s reign and be peaceful. You don’t know what that means, but Mama is always right.

You miss it—giving people things, letting them pat your cheeks or your hair and calling you the People’s Princess. Because Mama is the queen and giving alms is what the queen is meant to do, no one else could take you when she stopped going out of her chambers. And, when you went with her, the people were always very loud and cheerful and smiling, and they thanked you with tears in their eyes when Mama let you give them the pouches of coin yourself.

As the carriage takes you through the city today, the commonfolk are quiet.

None of them are smiling, or happy. They watch on as the horses take you through the streets, and some of them even cry when they see the long box that the cart ahead of you is carrying. It is the biggest, nicest box you’ve ever seen, made with dark wood and borders that look like real gold, glinting in the sun. Uncle told you that the box has the bodies inside it, the ones of Mama and baby Baelon.

You think that the people miss Mama very much. Maybe they miss her almost as much as you do—but not the same amount. You think you miss Mama most of all, even more than Papa or ’Nyra, because at least they have Lord Otto or Lord Lyman or Lord Corlys or Alicent or Betha Strong or Ser Harrold to keep them company. All you have is Mama and sometimes Uncle, and now Mama is gone.

After a while, the carriage starts to take you up and up, which means that you are almost at the point where you will need to stop and get out and walk the rest of the way. This is because the horses cannot pull so much weight up Visenya’s Hill. Uncle said it would be hard for you to walk, being so small when the hill is so large, but that you have to so that everyone can see how brave you are. “Targaryens don’t show weakness,” he says.

He is right—the walk is hard. At first, when you get out and take ’Nyra’s hand and start to follow Papa up the hill, it isn’t so bad. But then, it gets steeper and steeper, almost so steep that you feel like you need to use your hands to climb the rest of the way. Your legs burn so much that you want to cry, but you don’t. Uncle said you cannot be carried, either, so you don’t ask ’Nyra to pick you up. You must be brave. You must be brave.

By the time you reach the top, the men who were made to carry the box have opened it up and taken out the things inside. There are two funny-shaped objects covered in brown cloth lying in the middle of the pyre that has been built for the funeral—one is big, bigger than you, while the other is very small. They are the bodies of Mama and Baelon, and you have to hold on tight to the memory of Uncle’s words to keep from running over and trying to shake them awake.

“What remains of them will be set upon the pyre, yes—but remember, they’re not people. They’re just skin and bone and meat now. You must let them burn as all Targaryens burn.”

’Nyra’s hand feels like ice around yours as a man in a strange dress with a hood comes forward, past all the lords and ladies and past Uncle and Papa to stand right in front of the pyre. Two other men wearing dresses that look almost the same go with him but stay one step behind.

“Tubī Arryno Lentro Dārie Aemme se Targārio Lentro Dārilaros Baelon perzyrty mōrqittot…” he says. You don’t know all the words, but you think he must be talking about the way Mama is a queen and baby Baelon is a prince, which seems silly to mention now that they’re not real anymore. “Sȳndor zijosy rēbarose, Dāria Aemma eglio ilvot trēso Dārilaros Baelon zȳhos gūros se tegot…”

Syrax is standing on the very top of the hill above everyone else. Because it would be very rude to look around at the others—Papa’s councilmen and Alicent and the men who live on Dragonstone, your family’s special home, and Princess Rhaenys too, who is very scary, as well as so so many people you don’t know at all—you keep your eyes fixed on the dragon, admiring how pretty she looks in the sun. Usually, she makes lots of noise and is very mischievous, which is another word for naughty, but today she is quiet like all the rest. You wonder how she knows about funerals when she cannot speak in Valyrian or the Common Tongue or any other words that people can understand.

“Targārio ānogro rȳ ōrbrar ojāris, sētenondi hen ībī iemnȳ nȳmas,” the man says. His dress has what looks like an eye sewn on the chest, which seems an odd thing to want to wear. No one else in the keep wears eyes.

The two men behind him step up with jugs in their hands, and they walk around the pyre pouring what is in the jugs over the cloth. It turns the brown even darker brown. After they bow, they move back, and no one speaks for a while.

Finally, the man with the eye on his chest says one last thing. “Hen perzȳ sīdas. Va perzȳ āmāzissi. Hen prānot istas, vapār drējī mōrī iksis.”

Something about fire, you think. Maybe he is saying your house words in High Valyrian. Fire and blood.

It is silent then, nothing but the sound of the wind whistling filling your ears. Everyone is still, from the lady with the kind eyes that remind you of your own on the other side of the pyre to the funny men to the side. No one speaks. You wonder what is supposed to happen now.

Uncle puts his hand on your shoulder, leaning in to whisper in ’Nyra’s ear. “They’re waiting for you.”

At first, you think she hasn’t heard him—she doesn’t move or do anything at all, just keeps staring where Mama and baby Baelon are. You nearly jump when her fingers tighten on yours. “Ñurho valonqro paghyro jēdunna, lo tolijī kepa ñuha kirimvī rhēdos pendan.”

It makes no sense, but Mama told you once that it is rude to listen to other people’s conversations, so you try not to listen too hard.

Uncle speaks too low for you to hear him, to which ’Nyra replies with something you do understand. “Trēsy dōrī kesan.” I will never be a son.

She sounds very, very sad. Poor ’Nyra, you think. I will never be a son, either. I’m just a daughter, a girl, like her. Maybe Papa would be happier if ’Nyra or you had died instead of Baelon, if your body was wrapped in the brown cloth on the pyre and you weren’t real anymore.

’Nyra lets go of you. She looks to Papa, but all he is doing is staring at the pyre where Mama and Baelon lie. Her eyes are very red, which means she has been crying. When she steps forward, Uncle takes your hand and pulls you back to stop you following her. He is warm, so you try to hug onto his leg in a way that doesn’t make you weak like he told you not to be.

Syrax makes her chirping noise, all of a sudden paying attention to what her rider is doing. ’Nyra tries to speak, but it doesn’t come out. “Dr…”

She looks at Papa again, so you do too. He still hasn’t looked away from the pyre. You wonder if he knows you and ’Nyra and Uncle are even here, because he hasn’t so much as glanced at you since the night he came to your rooms and told you that Mama and Baelon had died. Not once.

“Drakarys.”

Syrax rumbles, and then begins to climb down toward all the people. For a moment, you’re worried she might try to eat someone, but the dragonkeepers are here with their spears to stop anything bad happening. She opens her mouth, and fire comes bursting out.

The pyre lights up, and Mama and Baelon disappear in bright white-orange.

“Mama?” you whisper, eyes stinging and throat feeling strange, like you want to be sick but not. “Mama?”

The only thing that you can hear is the sound of burning.

Papa bends his head, and ’Nyra looks away. You think that you may be the only one who keeps watching the fire as it takes your mama away from you forever.

 

 

 

(When you are grown, you will not remember this day. You will not remember the ache in your bones or the wind in your hair. You will not remember the faces of the commonfolk you passed along the way, or the sorrow in Rhaenyra’s voice when she called down dragonfire upon the hill. You will not remember the cold that leached into your blood as you stood beside what was left of your family, a slow freezing that will take its toll over the days and moons and years of your existence.

Even so, the sight of the bodies on the pyre and the smell of burning flesh will remain etched into the very fabric of your person forevermore.

At night, you will sometimes feel as though ash clings to your tongue, the taste of rot lingering in your mouth. In dreams, you will see brown cloth and a faceless babe wiggling beneath wrappings as it burns to nothing. You will wake in a panic, near to choking on the air you cannot seem to make yourself breathe, looking about wildly in search of the horrors that had plagued your slumbering thoughts. Melancholy will follow you, lurking just beyond reach, haunting, nameless.

But you will not remember this day.)

 

 

 

After the funeral, Uncle Daemon leaves.

You don’t know why, because he didn’t say goodbye and no one will tell you anything. When you ask ’Nyra, she tells you she doesn’t “want to talk about him” and walks away with Alicent. You ask Brella, but she just says, “Not right now, princess.”

You don’t ask Papa, because he is still grieving for Mama and baby Baelon. For you, that means he doesn’t want to tell you about anything at all. But whenever someone says Uncle’s name in front of him, he gets very, very angry and storms off with his boots making a lot of noise on the ground, so Uncle must have done something very naughty.

A big ceremony is happening today, though, which makes it harder to be sad that Uncle isn’t here. ’Nyra told you that Papa has decided to make her the heir, even though Uncle is supposed to be. Maybe that is why he left. It has been very busy in the keep because everyone came for Mama and Baelon’s funeral, but they are being made to stay for the ceremony so that they can swear fealty to Papa and ’Nyra. And, for the first time ever, you have a special role, too.

“… promise to be—to be faith—faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhae-nyra. I pledge fealty to them and shall def—defend them against all e-ne-mies in good faith and without de-ceit. I sw—swear this by the Old Gods and the New.”

Alicent claps, smiling. “Well done, princess! Much better!”

’Nyra comes out from behind her screen wearing a pretty red dress, like the colour of the dragon with three heads on your house sigil. “Just try not to stutter so much, little sister.”

“Trying,” you say grumpily—the words are hard—but ’Nyra isn’t paying attention. Instead, she is looking into the mirror as Alicent helps her with the laces at the back, staring at herself in a way that doesn’t look very happy.

Alicent stops and hugs her. “You will be fine. This is what you were born for.”

“I wasn’t, though,” ’Nyra says, frowning. “Was I?”

They both go quiet, so you say, “You look very nice today.”

That makes ’Nyra smile, finally. “Thank you.”

It doesn’t take long for Alicent to finish lacing up her dress and helping her with her gold cape and jewels. When she is done, ’Nyra leaves the room and Alicent moves toward you so she can take your hand. “Come, princess,” she says. “Let us walk to the Great Hall together.”

When you get there, the room is full of people. You wonder if every single lord and lady in the whole of Papa’s kingdom is here, all together in this one place. It is only because you are a princess that you don’t have to stand with all of them, and Alicent leads you over to Ser Harrold so that you can stay next to him by the Iron Throne. There is even a little chair just for you there, in case your legs get tired.

“Princess,” Ser Harrold says. His voice is funny, like a growl, and it makes you giggle every time you hear it. And, every time you giggle, he smiles, which makes all his wrinkles deeper, which is even funnier. He does it again now.

A big bang at the door has everyone go very quiet.

“Presenting—Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen!”

No one speaks when ’Nyra comes through the doors all by herself, chin lifted straight up and walking down the middle of the two groups of people. Everyone stares at her, even Papa, and you think that it’s only right that they do because she looks so so pretty today. She curtseys to Papa at the bottom of the throne, and then turns to the people.

Without a word, Lord Corlys comes forward and kneels. “I, Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named…”

You decide to sit in the chair while you wait. All the lords here have to say the same words you do when they pledge fealty, but you are going last because you’re the most important person to say it, which is what Alicent told you.

Lots of men and some ladies come up to the front to kneel and say the words to ’Nyra while Papa watches. It takes a long time, so you spend it looking around at all the different faces and dresses and coats that you can see. There are all sorts of things sewn onto the chests of people’s robes—you see a black stag on a yellow coat, a yellow lion on a red one, a grey wolf on a white one, a flower, a bird, even some boring ones like plain stripes or dots. Some of the ladies are wearing dresses that look very strange—the neck comes far far down so you can almost see some parts that are not proper for a lady to show. When those ones say the words, most of them are actually saying them while looking at Papa instead of ’Nyra, which is very rude because today is all about ’Nyra and not Papa. No one tries to make them stop, though, so maybe only you notice it.

When it is your turn, Ser Harrold taps you on the shoulder. All of a sudden, you feel very scared. So many people are looking at you now, and it makes you feel small and weak like you’re going to be smacked if you do anything.

But you must be brave. If Uncle were here, you’d want him to be proud of you.

You kneel in front of ’Nyra a little closer than everyone else did, but you think that no one will mind very much because you are her sister. Besides, your legs are feeling very shaky, and you might fall over if you have to go any further.

For a moment, the words won’t come out and you panic, but ’Nyra smiles. It is the only smile she has shown the whole time, and it’s just for you.

You find the words.

“I promise to be faith-ful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra. I pledge fealty to them and shall defend them against all e-ne-mies in good faith and without… deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New.”

You rise up, feeling like water is rushing in your ears, almost like it does whenever you have to take a bath. A sound like a heartbeat is all you can hear as you walk back to your spot, but you don’t sit down. ’Nyra said that you have to stay standing for the final part, the words that Papa has to say.

Your sister turns around to face the Iron Throne and bends her head to Papa. He says nothing.

Then, Papa stands, his sword Blackfyre in his hand and pointing down into the ground. “I, Viserys Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm”—so many titles go after his name, you think, glad that you only have ‘the People’s Princess’ after yours—“do hereby name Rhaenyra Targaryen Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.”

Everyone bows their heads, so you do, too. When ’Nyra turns around, all the lords and ladies and knights and guards clap.

Beyond the noise in the hall, you think you can hear a dragon roar.

Notes:

AAAAAAAH, I'm sorry for milking the death thing so hard. I just figured the widdle baby would have some questions about the whole thing. It was hard to quantify death when I got into that mindspace, so I hope that Daemon's attempt at explaining works, lol. I did some research on how to explain the concept to a child, which was weird to translate into this fic, lol.

Now, the funeral. I actually ended up translating some funeral rites based largely on the Velaryon ones from Episode 7. I did the whole thing, which I will provide below, but only snippets made it in above. Also, the line that Rhaenyra says in HV - "Ñurho valonqro paghyro jēdunna, lo tolijī kepa ñuha kirimvī rhēdos pendan" - this is the verbatim line from Episode 1 that essentially translates to "I wonder if, for those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness."

 

FUNERAL RITES:

 

"Tubī Arryno Lentro Dārie Aemme se Targārio Lentro Dārilaros Baelon perzyrty mōrqittot, vapār jedo mōriot Gaelithoks pōjyz perzyssy sitta rāelilza luo dāriot, hannagon Visenio Hinon gierūlti."
We join today upon Visenya’s Hill to commit Queen Aemma of House Arryn and Prince Baelon of House Targaryen to the eternal flames, the realm of Gaelithox, where He will keep their fires lit until the end of time.

"Sȳndor zijosy rēbarose, Dāria Aemma eglio ilvot trēso Dārilaros Baelon zȳhos gūros se tegot hen eglio ilvot lanto taloti hembis. Pōja muña se valonqar hen ñuqir se jeson āmāzīlusy daor, yn ānogrosa gierī ozletaksi humbilza."
As she passes into shadow, Queen Aemma takes her trueborn son Prince Baelon with her and leaves two trueborn daughters upon the earth. Though their mother and brother will not return from ash and dust, they will all remain bound together in blood.

"Targārio ānogro rȳ ōrbrar ojāris, sētenondi hen ībī iemnȳ nȳmas. Hen perzȳ sīdas. Va perzȳ āmāzissi. Hen prānot istas, vapār drējī mōrī iksis."
Smoke courses through Targaryen blood, and magic rings within their bones. From the fire did they rise. To the fire they must return. As it was in the beginning, so shall it be until the very end.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! If you have any ideas or thoughts about this series in general, feel free to head over to my Tumblr to leave me an ask! Also, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on this chapter, or even just leave a quick little message. I adore feedback! Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 4: Stepmother

Notes:

Hello, all! This one, in comparison to the last, kinda flew outta me! This will very likely be one of the last encounters with SMALL baby Reader, a.k.a. the three-year-old, primarily because canon impels us to move on to Episode 3 and thus three years later AND also because it's been bloody difficult trying to write as a kid this age. Turns out descriptive imagery isn't in the toolbox so much when you're writing as a child.

So, keep in mind that this is Episode 2 from Reader's POV; a lot of the action here is centred on Viserys, Alicent, Rhaenyra and Daemon, and thus the canon events are sorta sidelined by Reader's Big Adventures as a Toddler, lol. She lacks the degree of awareness to understand the events going on around her and also to take part in it. Because she's a baby, of course she's not gonna fly with Rhaenyra to Dragonstone to challenge Daemon, as much as we might personally enjoy seeing a toddler scream "You're NAUGHTY!!!!" at him. In fact, she doesn't really get the full picture, which was a bit frustrating to write, but I'm happy with the result. It feels as authentic as I could make it.

Anyway - on with the CHAPTER!!!!

TRIGGERS: continued discussion of child grief, Viserys's courtship shenanigans with various underaged females, ranidaphobia (fear of toads), childlike angst.

 

THE PRINCESS

 

 

You never really thought a lot about the things you used to do with Mama. Now that she is dead, you begin to see all the ways that your days and nights had so so much Mama and not much of everyone else.

When Brella woke you up and got you into your dress, you would go straight to wherever Mama is to break your fast. Sometimes, that was in her rooms or in her solar where the sun shone in from the window and made you yawn. Other times, she would be with Papa in the council rooms or with ’Nyra, so you’d go there instead. Mama always helped you by cutting up your food with the knife because you are too little to touch it, and then she watched you with kind eyes while you used the fork very carefully. After you finished all your food, you would sit on the floor with Brella and learn each of your letters by tracing the etchings in your hornbook and thinking of all the things that started with that letter. Your favourite letter is ‘M’ for Mama. You also like ‘R’ for ’Nyra because her full name is Rhaenyra, but you stutter when you have to say the whole thing. Then, you would play with your dolls for a while, and then have some more food, and then take a nap. When you woke up, Brella would teach you some of the steps to the dances that grown-up ladies do—one day, you’ll be grown-up and do them, too, so it is important to know them and practise all the steps so that the lords think you are pretty and marriage-able. Mama would then take you outside to play, or even just walk around the gardens so that you could touch all the flowers and feel warm in the sunshine. Brella would give you a bath, and then you would eat supper, and then Mama or maybe Uncle would come and read you a story and you’d go to sleep.

But Mama is gone now, and Brella is the only person that is the same from your days and nights before Mama went away and became not-real.

You never saw much of ’Nyra before, because she is ten years older and that means she doesn’t want to play with little girls like you all day. ’Nyra comes by lots now, almost as much as Mama did, and she sits and plays dolls or teaches you more words in High Valyrian. It is nice, even though she always has to leave for her council meetings because she is the heir now. But you don’t mind. Usually, Alicent stays behind to practice your dance steps with you or to trace over the letters in your hornbook. When you get upset—letters are very hard and sometimes you want to throw the hornbook away, but Brella tells you “no” which makes you frustrated—Alicent sings songs her mama taught her, and when she hugs you, it is like it was with Mama, special and warm and love-feeling on the inside, like butterflies.

Even though ’Nyra and Alicent and Brella all try so so hard to fill your days and nights with all the things you used to do, like it is the same as it was, it’s not the same. You dance and play and eat and learn and sleep but Mama isn’t there to help with any of it like before. It makes you cry sometimes, sudden and coming from nowhere at all. You just stop and cry and cry and no hug or song can make it any better, and you cannot say exactly why you are crying because you don’t know how to put it in words. You don’t know how to talk about the way you miss Mama when you see the flowers and she’s not there to tell you their names, or when you learn the dances and she doesn’t hum the music that you do the steps to, or when you want a hug the most and no one can do it exactly right like she can. So, you cry, and you have to wait for all the tears to get themselves out before you can stop.

It isn’t all sad, though. Some things are good, too.

Like Papa. Since he had come to tell you that Mama and Baelon died, he has ignored you, which means he doesn’t look at you or talk to you or even think you exist. Brella and Alicent said it is because he is grieving, because he is feeling sorrow, so you try not to be so upset that he doesn’t love you anymore. But one day, instead of ’Nyra coming to see you, Papa does.

When Brella suddenly stands and curtseys, you see him in the doorway of your rooms, and your dolls don’t seem very important anymore.

“Papa?” you ask, almost sick with the fear and excitement of him finally being there.

He smiles, a small one, and comes inside. As he looks around, it’s like he cannot remember where he is, but you suppose that he doesn’t spend a lot of time in here with you, so he finds all your things strange. Papa pulls out one of the chairs by the table—you never sit there, but all the rooms in the keep come with tables so you aren’t allowed to have yours taken out—and holds out his hand to you like Mama did when she wanted to give you a hug without getting up.

You put Alysanne down on the floor beside Marya and Hana and Brella and go to your papa. His hand feels funny, not like you think it used to. Uncle’s hands—man’s hands, he always says—have hard skin in parts, which makes holding them scratchy. Papa’s aren’t like that. His are soft where Uncle’s are not, but there are bits where the skin doesn’t seem to want to stick down all over, and instead they come up and show the really red parts deeper inside, like when you fall over and the stone stings against your knee and makes you wail.

“Oh, my girl,” Papa says, and then he’s lifting you onto his knee. He is looking at you, just looking, and his eyes are shiny-bright. “My girl. My little Aemma.”

Lots of people say you look like Mama, whose name was Aemma before she was Mama, and you love love that Papa thinks you are like her. She is who he loves the most, so maybe he will visit more if she is gone and you are like her.

You don’t say that to him, though. “I miss you, Papa,” is what you say instead.

“I know.” He swallows hard. Maybe he has venison stuck there again. “I am sorry. I should have come much sooner. You are only… only a child.”

“I’m a big girl.” You try not to pout, because Uncle says only silly little babies do that when they’re angry or upset, and you’re not a baby.

That makes Papa laugh. “Oh, of course you are. My mistake. Tell me—what have you been doing as of late?”

He’s never asked you that before. Papa would only ever give you hugs or say nice things about you to other people back when Mama was not dead, so it’s very exciting that he wants to know about you now. You tell him all about how ’Nyra is teaching you High Valyrian and how you are learning your letters with Brella, which he seems interested to listen to. When you tell him about how Alicent helps you learn the dances, he starts talking again.

“The Lady Alicent? She has been spending time with you, has she?”

“Yeah,” you say.

“And what do you think of her?” he asks, staring very closely at you. “Do you like her?”

The question is strange. She has been ’Nyra’s friend for a long long time, so Papa should ask your sister instead of you if he wants to know if Alicent is good. But you think about it anyway—you think about how she takes you to the sept to light candles for Mama, how she always sounds like she wants to hear what you are saying, even though you’re only little. You think about how warm she is, and how her hugs make the sad go away so well.

That stays in your mind longest of all, which is why you say what you say to him. “She’s good, like Mama. I like her lots.”

He makes a noise but doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he looks away from you, his eyes going far away like he’s seeing something different than what’s in front of him. It makes you wonder again about why he is here.

“Is there a bad thing that happened?” you ask.

He frowns, his knee jumping a little bit under you. “What makes you say that?”

“You don’t come and see me, Papa, but you’re here, so maybe you have to say something bad again.” It is hard not to think about the last time, when he told you Mama was dead and Baelon was, too. It’s even harder not to think about how long that was before now, how this is the first time in a while that you have seen him up close. “Do—do you still love me?”

Papa says your name in a very sad way and hugs you so hard that your arms feel pushed in too close. “You are my daughter, my blood. The very best of your mother and I. ‘Tis through my own weakness that I have not done my duty as a father, and naught of your own.” When he pulls away, he cups your face in his hands. “Never, ever doubt that I love you.”

It makes you feel so warm inside, like your heart is going pitter-patter or someone has wrapped a big blanket all around you. Papa’s words are safe words, because they mean he has not forgotten you and he still wants you and loves you. You are very, very glad, so you put your hands over his and squeeze to show him that you love him, too.

“Okay, Papa,” you say. He looks like he might cry, and you don’t want him to be so upset, so you think of how Alicent sings songs to you when you are sad to distract you, which means she tries to make you feel more happy. You cannot sing very well, but you do have nice toys. “Can I show you my dolls?”

All of a sudden, his sorrow goes away and he smiles, showing his teeth. “Why ever not? Go on, then.”

Beaming, you wiggle off his lap and get Alysanne and Marya and Hana to show Papa, and you are very happy because he loves you again and the whole world doesn’t feel so sad anymore.

 

 

 

You’ve known Laena and Laenor Velaryon for as long as you can think of.

It is very hard to think far far back, because you are only small and so there is a lot of time that you were only a baby for, and babies don’t really have memory, which is what Brella has told you. But Lord Corlys is one of the men on Papa’s council, who help him run his kingdom well and make everyone happy. Because Lord Corlys is master of ships, he spends most of his time in the keep, and he is Laena and Laenor’s father, which means that Laena and Laenor also spend time in the keep.

They are both very nice to you. Laena, the older one, always makes sure to smile and give you a curtsey whenever she sees you, and Laenor likes to say that your hair is braided well or your dress is pretty. You are little, though, and that means they don’t really want to spend much time with you, so ’Nyra knows them better. When Princess Rhaenys, their mama, brings them to court, she and Lord Corlys usually spend their time with Papa and Mama while Laena and Laenor spend time with ’Nyra and sometimes Alicent.

Today, something strange is happening. It looks like Laena has come without Laenor to spend time with Papa.

They are walking in the gardens together, and Brella has told you that it means you cannot go out to play there. Instead, you have to be in the sitting area that looks over the gardens with ’Nyra and Princess Rhaenys. Both of them are watching Papa and Laena very carefully. You are glad you don’t have to do that—Brella has brought your hornbook outside so that you can do some more learning while you wait for Papa to finish.

You sit on a cushion on the stone next to Brella, the hornbook in your lap. Over and over, you trace the letter ‘T’, the big one and the little one next to it. “Tree. Trail. Toe.” You wiggle yours underneath the leather of your slippers. “Toy. Toad—”

“Toad?” Brella’s eyebrow is raised high. “Wherever is this ‘toad’ that you can supposedly see?” She looks around, chin tilting and eyes crinkling like a glare.

“In my mind.” You do see it there—brown, with big bulging eyes and feet that look like claws are at the end of them—and shiver. All the books make them look so horrible. “The toad is up here,” you say, pointing to the spot between your eyes and your hair. “It’s squishy and cold and has spots on it.”

Brella shakes her head. “That is not the game, is it? Real things only, please.”

“There’s no more ‘T’ words. I need more so I can go to ‘U’.”

“Hm.” Brella stares past you for a moment, and then her eyes fall on yours again. “How about I help? Over there”—she points to where Princess Rhaenys is sitting—“the bit that is dangling off the pillow? Tassel.”

“Tassel,” you say, stretching the ‘ss’ sound out like a snake. “Tassel.”

“And…” She stops, and from the way the skin between her brows scrunches, she must be thinking very hard. “Ah! What am I?”

“You’re Brella,” you say, confused.

“No—that’s who I am. What am I being, right now?” She hasn’t helped you any more with these words. She might have made it even harder to guess. “If I’m helping you to learn,” she says, “then I am tee… What?”

It’s almost like your head is on fire from how much you have to think. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath and push like you sometimes do when Brella is showing you how to use the privy like a big girl. It is hard, because ’Nyra and Princess Rhaenys are talking and the sound is distracting.

And then, you remember the word. “Teaching! You’re a teacher!”

“Exactly, princess! Well done!” Brella smiles.

“… to elicit some anger from me, you should know that you’re failing, princess.”

You look to the side. ’Nyra is being very loud, her voice so easy to hear even from where you are. Princess Rhaenys is no better.

“Quite the opposite. Whether it’s to my daughter or to someone else’s, your father will remarry sooner than late,” she says with a funny twist to the lips that doesn’t look very friendly at all. “His new wife will produce new heirs, and chances are, better than not, that one of those will be male. And when that boy comes of age and your father has passed, the men of the realm will expect him to be heir, not you. Because that is the order of things.”

You do not even have the time to try and make sense of what she’s said—Princess Rhaenys has used a lot-lot of words—when Brella stands and grabs you under the arms. Your hornbook falls onto the blanket laid out on the ground with a quiet thud.

“Come along, princess,” she says, already pulling you toward the stairs.

“But—”

“This conversation is not for us to hear.” She takes your hand and moves slowly onto each step so that you can go down them one at a time. Soon, you are at the bottom and your shoes are on the trail that goes all the way around the gardens.

You tug your hand free of Brella so that you can run to the grass, smiling wide because it’s like a cloud under your feet, so it is very fun to twirl around on. When you reach it, your footsteps go from hard and quick to soft and slow, and you pretend there are so so many pillows on the ground that you are jumping on.

“Be careful!” Brella calls, but you are not paying much attention.

You swing your arms out wide and spin so fast that the world stops being full of things and is only colours—blue and green and brown and yellow—mixing together in your eyes, and your heart speeds up and gets so loud that you can hear it inside your ears. When you stop spinning, your eyes keep trying to move quick and your whole body wants to tip over. You let it, giggling when you collapse and the grass pokes you in the back of the neck like tiny little swords, or needles. The sun is warm warm on your face and even through your dress, and it makes you so sleepy, so you get up before Brella decides you should go and have a nap.

Then, you see Papa walking with Laena, Lord Corlys with them. They are all going back towards where ’Nyra and Princess Rhaenys are. Where you are.

“Papa!” you say loudly, feet already moving before you know what’s happening. “Papa!”

You cannot see him up close, but you imagine he is smiling, so you run even faster, trying not to listen to Brella calling out behind you. She doesn’t like it when you run.

It takes only a moment to know why. Your eyes are still going funny and your body still wants to tip over, so when your toes get stuck in the place where the grass becomes the trail that Papa is on, you fall.

Your hands are stinging when you realise you are on the ground again. It hurts so much that you cry before you even see what has made it hurt. Rolling over so that you are sitting, you lift your palms up. They are so red, like the colour of the dragons on your house sigil, and they are covered in all the tiny rocks that the trail is made up of, but they’re not coming off. You cry harder.

“Oh, princess.” A little hand comes in right next to yours, gently grabbing onto your fingers. When you look up, you see Laena next to you. She doesn’t look scared or upset, which makes you feel a tiny bit better.

Brella is breathing very hard. “I am so very sorry, Your Grace—I did tell her not to run—”

“Not to worry, nurse,” Papa says as he crouches down beside you. “Children hardly do as they are told all the time. Sh, my girl, you’re alright.”

He pats you on the back, but that doesn’t stop the stinging in your hands or the tears that are coming fast from your eyes and making your nose feel runny.

“I can help, if you’d like.” Laena gives you a small smile, her other hand on your shoulder. “Just need to brush off your palms, and you’ll be fine. Here.” She holds on to your wrist and runs her fingers over the rocks in your hands, which doesn’t feel nice but doesn’t hurt either, and they come away very quick. The stinging isn’t as much after. “See? All better.”

“Say ‘thank you’ to the Lady Laena,” Papa says, looking between her and Lord Corlys strangely.

“Thank you, Laena.” You sniff hard to try and stop your nose from running so much. Now that the pain is less, the tears are slower.

“As you can see, Your Grace,” Lord Corlys says, “she conducts herself beyond her years. Her age is inconsequential. She’d make for a worthy bri—”

Papa stops him from finishing his words. “Not—not now, my lord.” He smiles the way Uncle sometimes smiles at Lord Otto, meaning it is not very nice at all. “We’d best save that discussion for… another time.”

“Your Grace.” Lord Corlys steps back, bending his head low.

Laena stands and leans down to help you up, wiping away the last tears from your cheeks with the sleeve of her dress. “Are you alright now?”

“Yeah,” you say. She is very kind, you think, feeling warm on the inside.

“Nurse,” Papa is saying, “take her to Mellos, just in case.”

“Understood.” Brella picks you up so that your head settles where her neck meets her shoulders and turns around. Over her shoulder you can see Papa and Lord Corlys talking while Laena just stands there, watching them.

And, across the gardens, ’Nyra looks over at them from where she is on the balcony. You cannot see her face clearly. From so far away, though, she seems almost… sad.

 

 

 

There are whispers all around the keep.

One of the things you like best about being small is that people forget you’re there. It helps you to see and hear things that you wouldn’t usually be told. You don’t understand why you cannot know the things that others do, especially if they’re about your family.

Like now.

Uncle has been gone for a while. He left after Mama’s funeral, and he didn’t even say goodbye. You don’t like to think about it, because it makes you hurt in your chest when you do. When he left to see Lady Rhea, who he hates because of reasons-you-don’t-know, he still made sure to send you letters that Brella would read out to you. This time, he hasn’t sent you anything, and because no one will tell you where he is, you cannot send any to him to remind him that you’re still here and waiting. It’s one of the reasons you cry sometimes, though you’ll never tell that to ’Nyra or Alicent or Brella or Papa.

Even if Uncle is making you sad right now, you still love him, which is why you listen closely when his name keeps getting used by the lords and ladies around you.

“Prince Daemon has seized Dragonstone…

“… even now occupies it in spite of the king’s…”

“… he stole Prince Baelon’s dragon egg, the shame of it!”

Some of it, you don’t understand. But, slowly, a picture forms in your head. One where Uncle has gone all the way to Dragonstone, which Brella says isn’t even that far, to take the egg meant for your brother.

Uncle was angry when Papa made you and ’Nyra choose an egg for Baelon. He yelled at Papa about how he never gave ’Nyra or you an egg as a baby because you were only girls, and what would he do if the baby was another girl? Would he put the egg back and wait for Mama to have a son? Papa didn’t like that at all, and he pretended that Uncle didn’t exist for days until Mama made them say sorry to each other and get along again. But before they said sorry, Uncle asked you if you wanted him to get a dragon egg for you, because dragonriding is in the blood of all Targaryens and you are a Targaryen, too.

 

“Say the word, sweetling. I’ll take Caraxes right now, should you wish.”

Uncle is walking you back to your rooms after you spent time in the gardens, your hand in his. From the way he frowns as he stares out to the end of the hall, he must still be very angry from the fight he had with Papa in the morning.

You think about his words. “You and ’Nyra didn’t get a dragon from an egg. You found one that was already—already there.”

“I did. But if your brother is to receive a dragon in the cradle, you ought to have the opportunity to claim your own first.”

It would be nice to have a whole baby dragon, all for your own. But Uncle says that sometimes they don’t hatch, that the egg turns to stone and stays that way for so so many years that people forget it has a dragon inside it, and they think it’s just a shiny rock. You don’t want that to happen to you. You don’t want to wait and wait for something that will never come.

“I want a big dragon,” you say, thinking of Caraxes with his long-long neck and his funny noises, more like a bird than a scary monster. “One I can ride already.”

Uncle smiles, squeezing your hand tighter. “Alright, then. For now, you’ll wait, and you’ll get nice and strong. And when you’re older, you’ll go to Dragonstone and find yourself a hatchling, or a young dragon, or perhaps even one of the larger ones.”

“Like you and Caraxes?” You look up at him. “You got him when—when you were thirteen?” You don’t know how much that is, but you know it’s more than ten, which means it is a big number.

“That’s right,” he says, his eyes shining in that way that means you did a good job. You love it when he does that because it means he thinks you are very clever. “And I’m sure that when you’re of suitable age, you’ll have your own chance.”

 

The talk makes you think straight away that maybe he is trying to get a dragon for you like he said would that time, even though you really want a big dragon that makes your little-ness not seem so little. But then, you hear more.

“… he’s taken his whore to wife…”

“… styled himself the ‘rightful heir to the Iron Throne’…”

“It’s clearly an act of sedition!”

A new picture: Uncle has gone to steal Dragonstone, to steal an egg, and to steal being the heir from ’Nyra.

Stealing is naughty. Once, you stole a lemon cake from the platter after Mama said you couldn’t have anymore, but Mama caught you and you weren’t allowed to have any sweets the whole next day. You wonder how Papa will help Uncle to learn not to steal, if it will be as bad as that.

 So many letters could have come from a place like Dragonstone by now. It means that he hasn’t sent any because he didn’t want to, not because he couldn’t. That makes the hurt in your chest even worse.

Because of Uncle’s being naughty, you spend the day with only Brella. Papa is in meetings with his council and Lord Otto has gone to Dragonstone to tell Daemon he is bad for stealing. You don’t know where ’Nyra is, or Alicent. Brella is extra nice, though, and she lets you have three lemon cakes with your midday meal even though it makes you very giggly and want to run around everywhere. You do all the normal things: learn your letters and practice the dancing steps and play dolls and go outside to the gardens. It isn’t very fun with only one other person, but sometimes people are busy which means they don’t have time to do the things you like doing.

When the sun is starting to go down, Papa comes to see you again. But he’s not alone at the door—he has Alicent with him.

“Good evening,” he says, smiling wide as he goes to the seat he always sits in when he visits your rooms. Alicent follows, but she isn’t smiling as big as Papa.

“Hello, Papa.” You watch with a frown as Brella curtseys and leaves the room. She doesn’t usually leave you by yourself.

Papa holds out his hand, so you go forward and take it. “I have some news to share with you,” he says, patting your hair. “What do you know of marriage, my girl?”

You try to think about all that you can remember. “That—that you and Mama were in one, and Uncle is in one with Lady Rhea. And people aren’t supposed to have babies unless they’re in marriage, but sometimes they do and that’s bad.”

“Oh, my! Well, it sounds like you know a great deal, indeed!” Papa is laughing now, and Alicent’s face has gone bright red. She won’t look at you, which is strange. She is being very quiet.

“You know that I am king?” Papa asks, which makes your eyes go back to him.

“Yeah.”

“Well, a king must have a queen. ‘Tis important for the stability of the realm.” He nods like he is agreeing with himself, even though you don’t know what he means so you can’t say he is wrong.

“Mama was the queen,” you say. It is the only thing you can think of.

“Yes.” Alicent comes forward. Her hand starts moving toward you, then changes to go near Papa’s shoulder, but then she puts it back down in front of her. You wonder what she was trying to do. “An excellent queen,” she says quietly.

“She was.” Papa sounds sad, but he takes a deep breath. “But the time has come for me to take a new wife—to marry again. I have chosen the Lady Alicent to be my new queen.” He stares at Alicent, who smiles even though her fingers are twisting around and around each other like she does when she is worried or scared. “Do you understand what I am saying, my girl?”

When Mama was real and not dead, she was the queen. That meant she had to stand beside Papa and wear a crown sometimes at feasts or balls. She had to have tea with the ladies who come to court and make sure all the maids and servants and all the other people who work in the keep got their coin for doing their job. She had to give out alms and talk to all sorts of different people all day and try to have babies who are boys and not girls.

Because she was Papa’s wife and he is the king, being the queen meant she was your mama. You miss her lots and lots.

Papa wants Alicent to be the queen, now. If she is the queen, then maybe she has to do all those things, too. Maybe it means she will do all the things that Mama did with you that made you so happy.

“Uh-huh.” You stare at Alicent. “Does that mean that we’ll break our fasts and learn more dance steps and play outside together?”

She smiles. “If you like, princess.”

You think you would like it very, very much.

Notes:

Yooooo, guys! I hope you liked the chapter! There are some sad bits, but I hope there are also some kinda funny bits, too. For some reason, I just really love the whole idea of Daemon telling little Reader that pouting is something babies do and essentially bullying the toddler. It's SO petty of him, and I love that. We're not gonna see any Daemon next chapter, I don't think, because it'll be post-Ep-2/Ep. 3 canon stuff, and he's off in the Stepstones doing his thang.

You might notice that the flashback scene towards the end of the chapter has some crossover with the flashback in Chapter 2 of gevivys (beauty) - this is deliberate! If you read the flashback from this chapter and then straight after, the flashback from gevivys, it reads as a whole scene with switching POVs. I thought it'd be fun, I don't know, lol.

All I will say is, don't get too attached to Brella. (OMINOUS CACKLING) No, but like, Reader's aging out of the need for her nursemaid soon, and Septa Marlow will be taking over. It'll be appropriately traumatic, don't worry. Probably will happen sometime in the next chapter, because I don't want to clog up the chapter/s for Episode 4 with nurse/Septa drama. FORGIVE MEEEEE!

If you have any ideas or thoughts about this series in general, feel free to head over to my Tumblr to leave me an ask! Also, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on this chapter, or even just leave a quick little message. I adore feedback! Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 5: Forgotten

Notes:

I am so sorry about how long this one took, my bros. A vague reason is that I've decided to start collecting supplies for bookbinding, so that when I am done with this instalment I can bind up the first four instalments of this series into a single hardcopy book. Sourcing supplies in an area where bookbinding doesn't seem to be a very marketable hobby has been a little time-consuming, lol. But I am STILL HERE AND GOING NOWHERE! I am just very one-track-mind, lol.

Triggers: continued discussion of child grief, Viserys's shenanigans in impregnating an underaged Alicent (canon, this is NOT MY ADDITION).

I'd say 'have fun', but we've got a very sad baby!Reader for this instalment, pretty much. On with the SHOW!

 

THE PRINCESS

 

 

When Alicent gets married to Papa, they have a big ceremony. So so many people come from all over the kingdom to see Papa take a new queen, and the days of the wedding—there are lots of days to them starting in marriage—are full of more noise and colour and movement than you could ever think was real.

Her dress is very pretty, and Papa looks very nice in his new coat, but neither of them look so happy as people who are going to be in marriage should be. Papa keeps playing with the ring on his finger that is from Mama, while Alicent just looks like she is afraid. You think it might be because of how loud everyone is being.

’Nyra isn’t happy, either. She keeps you on her lap the entire time with an angry look and doesn’t speak to Alicent very much at all, but at least she tries to be kind when she does. She ignores Papa, and because you are all sitting at the high table and everyone is watching you, he cannot tell her she is being rude and naughty.

Because you don’t want to look at Alicent’s unhappy face or ’Nyra’s angry one, you play with your sister’s necklace, letting the shiny metal take all your attention. It is Valyrian steel, which is what Papa’s and Uncle’s swords are made out of, so it is very special. Uncle gave it to her. When you let your fingers swirl over the ruby in the middle of the big pendant over and over, you pretend that it’s a part of him and that he’s here, after all.

After the big ceremony is done, life goes back to almost-normal. Now that Alicent is Papa’s queen, she is something called a stepmother, meaning that Brella and Septa and all the people who are made to look after you and ’Nyra have to talk to her about you both. She is like your mama. You wake up and break your fast with Alicent, and she cuts up your food instead of Mama, and she takes you outside to play and tells you about the names of the flowers. Then, when it is time to sleep again, she reads you a story. You think that she likes it very much because she always seems sad until she sees you, and then her face goes bright like the sun.

‘Nyra doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like it at all. When she learns that Alicent is acting like your mama, she goes very red like she’s going to scream, but she just goes very quiet instead and storms out of your rooms. For that whole day, ’Nyra takes you to the gardens and to see Syrax and to the library to learn some more High Valyrian, her new sworn shield Ser Criston behind her all the time. She never once lets you go see Alicent to do the things you normally do. When you finally get to be in the room with her at suppertime with Papa and ’Nyra, which Papa has said you all must do now so that everyone can get along, all she does is give you a small smile that doesn’t make her eyes go bright like usual and ask about your big day with your sister.

That is how things are for a while. Either you will go through your days with Alicent or with ’Nyra, and never both in one day because ’Nyra is still so angry at Alicent for being in marriage with Papa. You keep asking why, but your sister doesn’t tell you anything. She just goes quiet and frowns and mutters things you cannot hear. Meanwhile, Alicent will always stop, take a big breath that sounds shaky when she lets it out, and say, “I have no quarrel with Rhaenyra. She is as welcome to my rooms and in my company as you are, princess.”

You think that might be a lie.

 

 

 

One day, though, everything changes.

’Nyra decides to take you to the library so that you can look at more books in High Valyrian. Even the books written in the Common Tongue make no sense to you yet, and Brella told you this is because you are not old enough to learn reading properly. Still, your sister says that it is still good to try when you’re young, so she sits beside you and points out all the funny-looking symbols and tells you what they mean all together. You fall asleep in there instead of having a nap in your bed, but ’Nyra just puts a blanket over you and keeps reading. When you wake, you listen to her voice as she speaks the words from the pages aloud. You don’t understand all of it, but you think you’ve learned more and more since Mama died and she stopped being friends with Alicent. It means she has lots of time for you. Maybe that shouldn’t make you happy, but you cannot help it.

At supper, you see Lord Hightower, Alicent’s papa, beside her. That means that you have to be next to ’Nyra tonight, so you follow her to her side of the table and sit in the chair that the maid pulls out for you. The chair is higher than the others, made special so that you can reach the food that is put before you. Looking around, it is easy to tell that something is different from how happy Lord Hightower looks and how smiling Papa’s face is.

“My two daughters,” he says a bit too loudly, cheeks bright red. His cup is in front of him, and the gold shines red from the drink inside. Wine, you think. It is for men and women, not little girls, and it makes the people who drink it act strange like Papa is now. He waves his hand in a ‘hello’ as he lifts his cup to his mouth and takes a sip. “Ah!”

’Nyra starts eating her food without a word. Everyone has plates with different foods on it, but you have a bowl in front of your seat. Because you are small, the cooks always give you pottage for your supper so that you can eat it with a spoon and no one has to cut things up for you. You don’t always like it—there are lots of lumps and you can never tell what taste is going to be in your mouth with each bite—but it is warm and makes your tummy nice and full.

The room is full of the sounds of chewing and clack-clacking when the knives and forks hit the plates. You pick up your spoon and scoop up some food. There are dark bits, which means the cooks have put meat in it. You scrunch your nose.

Papa coughs between bites. He is still smiling a lot. “It seems like an age since I saw you last!”

“We had supper with you yesterday evening,” ’Nyra says.

“Ah, yes!” He takes another drink of his wine. Maybe he shouldn’t, because he is blinking very much like you do when you’re trying to stay awake. “Perhaps the waiting has made it seem longer.”

“Waiting?”

“I am sure you have noticed Otto’s presence by now.”

’Nyra doesn’t even look at the man. “My lord.” Her voice seems cold.

“Princess.” Lord Hightower bends his head, but he doesn’t sound very happy either.

Alicent puts her hand on Papa’s arm. ’Nyra watches so closely that you wonder if her eyes can make holes in other people’s skin. “I—we—have some news, Rhaenyra.”

“Oh?” She sounds bored.

“Well…”

When Alicent doesn’t say anything, ’Nyra makes a huffing noise. It is very rude.

“Well?” she asks, looking between Alicent and Papa. “What is it, then? Everyone’s acting rather strange.”

“Alicent is with child,” Papa says.

‘With child’ is what people say when a baby is growing in a lady’s belly. It’s what Mama told you before Baelon grew very large inside her.

’Nyra freezes, almost like she has forgotten how to move. No one says anything. Papa’s smile—the one that his words made so much bigger when he said them out loud—begins to fall, more and more with each moment that ’Nyra does nothing at all. Then, it goes away completely, and he’s no longer happy like he was.

It’s quiet again. Not the nice kind—the kind that means that someone is about to yell or be naughty.

“A baby?” you ask. Maybe you can stop the bad from happening if you help everyone remember that you’re still here.

Alicent looks at you, the fear leaving her face a little. She nods. “Yes, princess. You’re to have a brother or sis—”

“Half-brother.” ’Nyra’s lips move, but the rest of her stays still. She cannot stop staring between Papa and Alicent. “Or half-sister. Either way, they will not be your full blood.”

“You are correct, princess.” From the way Lord Hightower speaks and how silent Alicent and Papa are at ’Nyra’s words, you think she must have said something quite mean. He gives her a little smile, one that makes her hands squeeze really tight on her knife and fork. “Even so, these are glad tidings, indeed. Let us all pray for the queen to be delivered of a son.”

“I’m sure that would be of great benefit to the Hightowers, my lord. A son… to solidify your claim to my father’s throne.”

Lord Hightower stops smiling. Alicent gasps.

Papa makes a small noise. “Rhaenyra—”

All at once, she stands, the plate in front of her clattering loudly with how quick she rises. “Congratulations, Your Grace.” She doesn’t sound very happy for Alicent, even if the words are nice. “Forgive me—I feel suddenly unwell.”

“Daughter—”

’Nyra ignores Papa and storms out of the room, leaving her food only half-eaten. The rest of supper is very quiet, the loudest noise of all being the sound of your own breathing.

Isn’t a baby meant to be happy news? you wonder. You look around, but no one here is very happy—except for Lord Hightower. Though he isn’t smiling, he has his head held high like he has had every one of his wishes granted all at once.

 

 

 

“What do you think, princess?” Brella asks.

You stare down into the cradle at the baby. Your brother. Aegon. He is squirming, face bright red, squished and crying. He hasn’t stopped even once since you came into the room. He might have been crying since before you did, even. Aside from the bright hair on top of his head, you don’t think he looks very much like you.

“He’s nice,” is what you say, but you don’t know if you really mean it. It’s more for Alicent, who is watching you from over on the bed. She looks very tired. If you said something less kind, she may cry.

Alicent smiles. “Thank you, princess. Nurse—bring him to me, please.”

She doesn’t mean Brella. There is another woman here, Gwenys, who Lord Hightower and Septa Marlow assigned to help give Aegon milk and take care of him when Alicent cannot. Gwenys comes and picks up the baby, walking over to give him to Alicent. She rocks him in her arms which doesn’t stop him from crying, but she still keeps on bouncing him softly. He is very unhappy.

Now that Alicent is holding Aegon, you know that she’ll forget you are there. Ever since Papa told you and ’Nyra that he was in Alicent’s belly, neither of them have had much time for you. It feels like all the people in the keep—from Papa and Alicent and Lord Hightower to the servants and maids and stableboys—have been more excited for the baby than they ever were for you. The only person who has remembered you is ’Nyra, and so you are with her on most days. It sometimes makes you sad, because it really was very fun to play pretend that Alicent was your mama for a while, but ’Nyra says that it wasn’t going to last, anyway.

“She is to have her own child to care for, now,” she told you in the days after learning about the new baby. “You were good practice—but you aren’t her blood, not really. Not like you and I. Her son will be born, and you’ll be given to a nurse or a septa to raise.” When you cried, she bent down and wiped away your tears. “It doesn’t make her a bad person,” she said quietly. “But this is the way of the world, sister. Men and women, kings and queens… they all want sons. Us daughters must stick together, yes?”

’Nyra was right. At first, Alicent tried to keep pretending to be like your mama. But then, the baby made her very ill, so she stopped asking you to come to break your fast so you wouldn’t have to see her being sick into the pail by her bed. Then, she spent so much time sleeping that she didn’t have the energy to come outside with you, or to dance with you, and soon, the only time you would see her was at suppertime. Even that wasn’t always. And now the baby is here, you don’t think she will be going back to the way it used to be.

Maybe that is why he feels like such a stranger to you. At least with baby Baelon, you got to feel him kicking in Mama’s tummy. Aegon wasn’t here for so long, and then all of a sudden, he was. He is. You don’t know him at all. He’s just a baby, come to take your papa and almost-mama away from you like all the rest.

Brella’s hand on your shoulder is what helps you walk towards the door, Alicent and Aegon staying in the room behind you. With your back turned, it’s easier to pretend that Alicent is very sad by you leaving.

 

 

 

The more moons pass, the more faded Mama’s face is in your memory. You try to hold onto the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners when she smiled, or how her hair would curl a bit like yours after her bath, or the way she’d smell like roses when she hugged you tight. It slips away, out of reach. Putting rose oil in your bath helps you, but only a little bit—and the longer that Mama is gone, the less you can remember of her.

Papa doesn’t like to talk about her. When you ask him, he just spins the ring on his finger around and says, “Another time, perhaps.” You know that ‘another time’ really means ‘never’.

There is no one else in the keep that really knew her like you and your family knew her, except ’Nyra. She tells you stories sometimes, but you don’t ask a lot because she usually likes to tell the ones that have you in them. When she finishes, she always smiles and asks, “Do you remember?” You never can, and it leaves you feeling like someone has scooped out all your insides.

So, Mama fades, and becomes part of that place in your mind where the things that are being forgotten go. Even though you try and try and try, there is nothing that can stop the forgetting. One day, you think she might be nothing more than a quiet sort of sadness, like looking out the window at the rain and wondering why it makes your chest hurt so much.

Seeing Alicent with Aegon is the only thing that reminds you of her. Even though Alicent’s hair is red where Mama’s was silver, and Aegon is loud and angry where you are quiet and shy, the way that she kisses his cheeks or hums little songs under her breath to him makes you think of how Mama would do the same for you. He doesn’t seem to be very happy when she does these things. If it were you in his place, you know you’d be better than him. You wish she’d realise that.

It seems like no time at all goes by when Alicent is with child again, meaning she’s going to have another baby. If it is anything like Aegon, you do not think you’ll like it very much. Sometimes, you feel very naughty for it, but you cannot help how he makes you feel. All he wants to do is make a fuss and take everyone’s attention, and he keeps crying and being naughty even as Alicent’s belly grows bigger and bigger with your new brother or sister.

When Helaena is born, Papa and Lord Hightower aren’t as pleased as they were with Aegon. You can tell because, while they are both in the room when you come to meet her, neither one is looking at her as she lays in the cradle. They had both been looking down at Aegon last time. You think it is because Helaena is a girl, like you and ’Nyra. You decide that you have to love her if they won’t.

She is a quiet baby, but so still that it makes Gwenys worry and worry, even though all she is doing is lying in her cradle and staring straight up. Maybe she knows how rude her big brother is, you think, and she wants to do and be all the things he isn’t.

You weren’t allowed to hold Aegon because he was so disagreeable, which means he would probably have screamed and cried if you did. He still screams and cries, which is why Alicent has to spend all her days with him even though she’s just had a second baby, so Helaena is by herself with Gwenys most hours.

Helaena isn’t like Aegon. This time, Gwenys has you sit in a chair with a pillow under your arm and brings the baby to you. “Mind her head,” she says, tugging your arm forward so that Helaena fits nicely in your arms. “There we go.”

She is a big baby, round and heavy and warm, but you don’t mind because she gazes up at you with large blue eyes that look like they might turn purple when she gets older. The hairs she has on her head—and there aren’t many, not like Aegon had—are silver, and you know that she will look very much like you when she has grown more. When you stroke a finger over the skin on her hand, her whole fist grabs onto it, strong even though she is so young. It’s like she knows who you are, even without any words being said.

You wonder if this is how ’Nyra felt when she met you—a burning that tingles all through your arms and legs, not in a way that hurts, no, but in a way that makes you want to squeeze tight and never let go.

Helaena doesn’t cry. She falls asleep while you’re holding her, her face turned into you so that you can feel her tiny breaths through your dress. It is special and warm and love-feeling like Alicent used to be, like Mama was when she was not-dead. The hurt goes far away, still there but not so much, not so heavy in your chest.

For a little while, the sadness—of forgetting Mama, of being forgotten by so many others—fades away, too.

 

 

 

When you are five summers old, you have to say goodbye to Brella.

All the while you are breaking your fast, she looks like she is about to start crying. Even though you wonder why, you don’t ask. When someone cries, it means that something bad has happened. So much bad has already happened, and you don’t know if you want to hear any more. You eat in quiet, scooping porridge into your mouth while the sound of sniffles fills the room. The taste of honey would make you feel happy, but not when Brella is so upset. Your food sinks to the bottom of your belly like one of the hot bricks you sometimes get under your blankets when it’s very cold at night, only there’s nothing nice about it. It’s hard and rough and makes you feel sick.

After you have finished every bite—you have to eat all of it, or you don’t get to play—Brella takes you by the hand and leads you to the chair. “There is… there is something I have to tell you,” she says, slow and shaky.

I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. You wish that you were like ’Nyra, that you could say the words out loud—but you cannot. You don’t want to know, but you say nothing, and you wait for whatever bad thing is coming to show itself.

“I…” Brella swallows and looks down at your hands, still holding onto each other even though you are sitting and there is no need. “Tell me again how old you are, princess.”

“Five.” It’s a very small number, but you are still proud because you’re almost a big girl now.

Brella laughs, nodding. “That’s right. Five. My goodness. How time flies!”

You find that silly. Time doesn’t fly. It isn’t a thing-you-can-touch, and only things-you-can-touch can fly, like dragons or birds or insects. Still, you try not to show your thinking on your face as Brella squeezes your hand tighter.

“Being five summers old is a very important milestone when you’re a prince or princess,” she says. “Do you know why?”

“No,” you say. “Why?”

Here, she stops. “It… It means—gods, I don’t know if I can say it.”

“Well, then. It appears that I must,” comes a voice from the door.

You turn. Septa Marlow stands with her hands joined in front of her, her mouth pinched into a line so small it is like it has disappeared from her face. Her grey wimple makes her skin look just as colourless. She steps forward, and the sound of her shoes touching the ground seems as loud as thunder.

“You are of an age to begin your lessons, princess. Thus, it is time for your nurse”—she looks at Brella and her lip curls, though you cannot tell if she’s happy or angry—“to depart, and for me to take over your care.”

The sick feeling gets worse, and you wonder if you might bring up all your food from how bad the pains are in your belly. “But—but Brella will still stay, though? For Aegon and Helaena?”

Septa Marlow huffs. “There is no need, silly child. Their nurse has already been appointed, and Gwenys will suffice for any future children borne by the queen. Brella is to collect her things and return to the Vale.”

Brella has taught you some of the places on the map that shows Papa’s kingdom. You live in King’s Landing, which is in the Crownlands, and it is at the bottom of the map. The Vale is where Mother—Mother, not Mama, Mama is for babies and I am not a baby anymore, you have to keep telling yourself—came from, that it is a bit up and to the side from the Crownlands. It isn’t that far in the drawings, but Brella says that maps show a smaller picture of what is really a very, very long distance.

If Brella has to return to the Vale, it means she will be very, very far away.

You think you might be frozen, like ice. You cannot say anything. All that you can think, over and over, is no, no, no, please, not Brella, no, no, no. The fire-burn of tears warms behind your eyes, but you know that you cannot let Septa see you cry. She’ll think you are weak.

Brella sniffles. “I can write to you,” she says, pulling you closer to her. “And, when you’re old enough, you can write to me. How about that?”

You nod, but her words don’t make you feel better. Paper isn’t the same as a person, not really. Even if she puts letters on paper and sends them to you, it won’t be like one of her hugs or the way she laughs when you miss a dance step or fall over in the grass. It won’t smell like her or look like her. It won’t make you feel safe like she does.

She will turn not-real like Mother. Only, maybe it is worse—because you’ll know that, somewhere a long way away from you, she will be real, but that you cannot have her anymore.

“I don’t want you to go,” is what you say, but it comes out like a whisper, not strong like you wanted it to.

“I know, my darling,” Brella says, hugging you tight so that you can feel her heart beating through her skin and yours. “I know, and I’m so sorry—”

“If you could unhand my charge, nurse.” Septa’s eyebrow is raised. “Although—now that it occurs to me—‘nurse’ is no longer the appropriate moniker, is it?”

Brella glares at her. “There’s no need to be so—”

“Your time here is at an end.” Even though she looks like she’s trying not to show her feelings, Septa lifts her chin in the air like ’Nyra used to when she would win at cyvasse against Alicent. “Say your goodbyes.”

“What—here? Now?” Brella’s mouth is open like she’s very surprised. “I’d thought the princess would be coming to see me off at the harb—”

“That is not a good idea. She is too… attached.” Septa says it like it is a curse. “A public display of histrionics does not a respectable princess make, no matter her juvenility.” You have no idea what most of these words mean, but the way they make Brella sink in her seat cannot be a good thing.

She tucks your hair behind your ears as she looks down at you, her eyes wet. “Be good,” she says, very soft so that Septa cannot hear them well. “Make sure you write to me, yes?”

She brushes her thumbs over your cheeks—out, in, out, in—the way she does when she really means ‘I love you’.

“Please stay,” you whisper, trying not to let your lower lip wobble like it wants to so badly. “Please don’t go.”

Brella hugs you again, her whole body shaking. Your face is smushed up against her shoulder, the smell of her herness filling your nose with so much warm. You wonder if, by clinging on tight, you can stop her from leaving. She cannot leave. She is what you have left now that Mam—Mother is gone, now that Papa has Alicent and ’Nyra has Papa and Uncle has his war somewhere away from you. She cannot leave. She cannot.

It feels like she has been holding on for forever and also for no time at all when she lets go, stands up, and walks away without a word. The door shuts.

She didn’t even say goodbye.

Is it worse or better, watching her go away? you wonder through the cold that settles in your body, in your arms and legs, the sharpness of it so much that you feel like shivering even though the sun is shining hot outside. You never saw Mother die. She was here, and then she wasn’t. But you have to watch Brella leave, knowing there is nothing you can do to stop it all the while.

“Dry your tears, girl. ‘Tis about time your coddling came to an end.” Septa pulls you by the shoulder off the chair. Her hand doesn’t feel warm like Brella’s does. Her stare—fixed on you—travels up and down, her mouth crinkling at the corner like she is thinking about something. “Why she was allowed to linger past your name day, I will never understand.”

You cannot think of anything to say, so you keep quiet. It doesn’t seem to make Septa like you any more than she did before, which you don’t think was very much. The tears keep falling, though you try and try to make them disappear.

“Now,” she says, clapping her hands sharply. The loudness of the noise makes you jump. Teardrops shake onto your dress. “We have a long day ahead of us. The queen has requested an update on your progress, so you will be learning no less than three hymns before the end of the sennight. I should like to provide her with”—she looks you up and down again, and this time it seems like she is thinking something unkind about you—“some indication that you will shape up to be a lady of high standing.”

‘I’m a princess, not a lady,’ you want to say. You don’t.

Septa begins striding away, then stops and turns around to face you. “I expect you to follow when I walk, and to acknowledge me when I speak by saying ‘Yes, Septa Marlow’.” She almost spits the words at you. “Understood?”

“Yes, Septa Marlow.” It doesn’t sound as strong or as clear as when she said it. You wish you could sound less afraid. Still, she seems to find it good enough. She says nothing afterward, just waits for you to trail along after her.

“Hmph.” She clicks her tongue. Staring down at you again, she adds, “And stand up straight.”

You do as you’re told.

 

 

 

Septa Marlow is as frightfully mean as you always feared.

One thing you learn quickly is that everything you do and say is wrong. When you laugh, it is too unbecoming; when you smile, you show too much teeth; when you walk, you are too hunched over; when you eat, you are too gluttonous. You’re a simpleton when you ask to play with your dolls, so they sit at the foot of your bed slowly being covered by dust; you’re graceless when you try to dance, so you practice after you have been put to bed to try and get better before each morning; you’re impertinent when you say what you’re thinking instead of keeping it to yourself, so you learn to let your thoughts stay inside your head. There is little that she doesn’t pick on and tell you that you need to change.

“Use full words, please!” she says whenever you forget to speak in the proper way that she expects. She always raps her willow switch on the table in front of you after that. Lucky for you, she has not yet used it to hurt you. “It is ‘does not’, not ‘doesn’t’. There is no need to employ such low-class mannerisms as a lady of your standing!”

“Yes, Septa Marlow.” There is no point trying to tell her that she’s wrong.

It isn’t all bad, though. Having Septa Marlow take over means that you are now expected to learn all sorts of things, and a lot of it is very interesting. New words, new houses, new hymns, new dances—you start to learn how to sew, how to put letters together to read them, how to count numbers and add and take them away to make different numbers. Septa says that there are so many things a noblewoman like you needs to be able to do by the time she is ready to be married, so that she can run her husband’s household and take care of him and her future children. That is a long time from now, but practice makes perfect.

The only time you are not with Septa is when you are with your family, like today.

Because Aegon has lived past being a baby—and Septa says that babies die a lot from the weather or from being sick or from being fed too much or too little or sometimes for no reason at all—Papa has announced that everyone must go on a hunt to celebrate his name day. You have to sit in the wheelhouse with he and Alicent and ’Nyra and Aegon and three other nurses, but not Helaena. She’s only a baby still, so she must stay in the keep with Gwenys.

It is not a very fun ride. Being in a wheelhouse with them all means putting ’Nyra very close to Alicent, whose belly has grown big with a baby again. Lots of people have lots to say about how many babies Alicent has had since she married Papa, and most of it is not very nice towards your mother. She could only have two girls, and it took her a long time to have you after ’Nyra.

Papa thinks there is another boy in Alicent’s belly. You hope not. Aegon is loud and rude. You think it might be worse if there were two of him instead of just one.

“… whole of our family off to celebration and adventure in the kingswood,” Papa is saying. You swing your legs back and forth, though you must stop each time you roll over a big bump in the road. You stay quiet, because Septa says a lady does not talk unless she is asked a question.

A very big bump in the road makes Alicent’s smile fall.

“Should you be travelling in such condition?” ’Nyra asks. She sounds worried, even though she is no longer friends with Alicent.

“The maester said that being out in nature would do me well,” is what Alicent says back.

Papa starts talking while he finishes giving Aegon a sip from his cup. You wonder if it’s wine. “Well, you will be with your own child sooner than late, and make me a proud grandsire.” He is smiling, perhaps at the thought of it.

‘No, I will not,’ the look on ’Nyra’s face seems to say. You cannot help but agree with her. Having babies seems like such a tiring thing to do.

“It’s not so bad.” Alicent has to speak louder to be heard over the rattling of the wheels and the hoofbeats of the horses. “The days are long, but Aegon came quickly and without fuss. Helaena, too.”

The nurse who is holding Aegon in her lap—Delia, you think her name is—waves a toy dragon in front of him. He smacks at it with his hands, frowning. You would never treat your toys like that.

“You should ride out with me today,” Papa says to ’Nyra. “Join in the chase, while you”—his eyes go to you—“sit about with your lady stepmother. Hm?”

“Okay, Papa,” you say quietly. Proper ladies do what their fathers tell them to.

’Nyra’s hand finds yours. “I’d rather not. The boars squeal like children when they’re being slaughtered.” From the way her fingers squeeze yours and her stare fixes on Aegon, you know she doesn’t mean you when she says that. “I find it discomfiting.”

“It’s a hunt, Rhaenyra.” Papa smiles. It is a careful sort of smile, not a happy one. Aegon’s yell distracts him for a moment, but he is quick to return to speaking to ’Nyra. “How would you like to participate?” he asks her.

“I’d be leaving my sister alone with the vultures of the realm,” ’Nyra says, “so I’m not sure why I must.”

Trying to understand what everyone means by what they say is very difficult—you aren’t sure if she’s saying that the ladies coming along are vultures, or if she’s trying to say Alicent is. You don’t even know what a vulture is, so you aren’t sure if it is a bad or good thing to be.

“Because you are my eldest daughter. The princess.” Papa looks like he is finding it harder and harder to stop himself from telling ’Nyra off. “And you have duties.”

“As I am ceaselessly reminded.” Your sister says it softly, but it is easy enough for you to hear from your place next to her.

Papa doesn’t, though. “I’m sorry?”

Instead of making up a lie or saying that she did not say anything at all, ’Nyra repeats herself louder. It is terribly rude, but you enjoy watching as you have always enjoyed watching her being brave against other people. “As I am ceaselessly reminded.”

“You wouldn’t need to be reminded if you ever attended to them.”

“No one’s here for me!”

Papa doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. Neither does Alicent. They both just fall silent along with the nurses. Even Aegon stops making all his annoying noises, instead sitting so still that he could be sleeping if his eyes were not open.

You make sure to hold onto your sister’s hand even tighter. If there is anyone in the whole world who does know what to say, it is you. If only you were brave enough.

‘I understand, ’Nyra,’ you want to say. ‘No one’s here for me, either. No one’s ever here for me.’

Notes:

Hello, all! I know this chapter seems like a bit of a patchwork creature of short scenes, but I'm HOPING it conveys a sort of sense of repetitiveness, of almost boredom. There are several time jumps here, so Reader is approximately 6 years old by the end of the chapter. Next chapter, we will be getting Uncle-Daddy back! YAY!

A note: you may be confused by the arrival of Helaena here. According to show canon, Alicent was pregnant with Helaena in Episode 3. However, this would make Aemond like 16 in Episode 8, which.... doesn't really work. So, I've elected to shuffle things up a bit, have Alicent be pregnant with Aemond instead in Episode 3 canon, so Helaena's already born. For a little more detail here, feel free to check out my timeline notes on this series.

If you have any ideas or thoughts about this series in general, feel free to head over to my Tumblr to leave me an ask! Also, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on this chapter, or even just leave a quick little message. I adore feedback! Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 6: Kindred

Notes:

Hey, guys! Another wait, but I give to you an 8k+ length chapter that I hope will make up for that. We get UNCLE DAE-DAE back this chapter! A couple notes on that: I've extended out his return to at LEAST a couple weeks, maybe longer, instead of the single night we got in the show. Fits more with book canon, but also gives me the opportunity to do what I want re: storyline. Please keep that in mind when going forward.

Triggers: kid injuring themselves, mild blood mention.

On with the SHOOOOWWWW!

 

THE PRINCESS

 

 

“Shoulders back,” Septa hisses from above you.

Although there are so many people around you, you are the only one that hears her. Everyone else is too busy whispering among themselves, wondering why Papa has called the lords and ladies staying in the keep to attend him—and why they are being made to stand outside the Great Hall.

You can feel Septa looking at you, so you do as you are told and straighten your back, pushing your shoulders into place the way she wants. She hates it when you slouch. Usually, you’re better at keeping to her rules, at being a good lady, but you find yourself distracted today.

Is that ’Nyra? you wonder, trying to look past the rather wide nobleman’s form beside you to further back in the crowd, to where you are sure you’d seen a head of silver hair far too tall to be Aegon or Helaena.

It shouldn’t be her. ’Nyra has been on a tour for moons now, sailing around the kingdom in search of a husband. According to Papa, she has rejected every single one. That doesn’t surprise you—she has always said that she would never want to marry and have many babies like some ladies are made to do. Still, an order is an order, and Papa is the king. That means that ’Nyra has to do as he says, and so she must find a man to marry and have babies with whether she likes it or not.

She cannot be back, then. She still has two more moons left.

Suddenly, the doors swing open. The Kingsguard at the front of the crowd march into the Great Hall, clearing the way for you and Septa to follow. She takes a firm hold of your arm as you walk to the steps leading to the Iron Throne, to where Papa stands holding onto Blackfyre. Because Lord Hightower has taken his station to the right of the throne, you go to the left, where Ser Harrold has made a space for you. Septa releases you and makes herself invisible in the crowd, leaving you alone. You clasp your hands together tightly, trying your best not to bury your fingers into your skirts and twist like you do when you are always nervous. You do not like crowds very much, even though you are a princess and all princesses ought to enjoy the attention.

You watch the lords and ladies fill each side of the hall, and you see it again. The silver-haired head. Her. It is ’Nyra, you realise.

A part of you wants to shout her name, to smile so wide your cheeks hurt and run to her and give her a hug so strong it nearly cracks her bones into pieces—but you won’t. Septa Marlow would be terribly angry if you behaved so poorly. And, from the way she won’t look at Papa, and the way he is frowning at her, she is in plenty of trouble. You do not think he knew she was coming back, so she must have done so without him allowing her to.

A great clang comes from beyond the entry, getting yours and everyone else’s attention. All eyes turn to the doors as footsteps echo out, fast at first, and the room falls quiet. Then, a new set of steps can be heard, slower and quieter.

He appears. Uncle.

The first thing you notice is his hair. It used to be long, you think. It isn’t anymore. You are sure you very much liked to play with his long hair when you were smaller. Most of his hair—short now, shorter than even Ser Criston’s—is covered by a strange crown that looks like it’s been tied together rather than forged like gold ones are. His armour is plain, with only a dragon scale pattern showing that he is a Targaryen. The grandest and most familiar thing about him is his sword, Dark Sister, shining bright at his hip and in his hold around the grip. A heavy-looking hammer swings from his other hand.

When he sees you, he smiles. You wish you could do the same.

You were so little before, when he knew you and you knew him. You don’t remember it well. One thing you do remember is how your sadness at him leaving turned to anger. He never said goodbye. He never even wrote to you. He could have written. He could have, and he didn’t.

Ser Harrold draws his blade when Uncle comes near, pointing the tip into his breastplate. The other Kingsguard knights draw theirs, too. Uncle Daemon stops, staring down at where the steel meets his own body. He gazes up to Papa behind you.

Holding out the hammer, he says, “Add it to the chair.”

It makes a loud clattering sound when it falls heavy upon the stone floor. You want to hold your hands to your ears, but it’d do naught but earn you a scolding from Septa later. As he steps back, you notice that ’Nyra has moved further up in the crowd. She is fighting not to smile as she stares at him.

Ser Harrold sheathes his sword and picks up the hammer, moving back to where he was previously.

“You wear a crown.” Papa looks very grand in his robes, his own crown making Uncle Daemon’s look silly indeed. “Do you also call yourself ‘king’?”

“Once we smashed the Triarchy, they named me ‘King of the Narrow Sea’.” Uncle’s smile is what Septa would call arrogant as his words set off gasps in the crowd. You do not think she likes him very much. “But I know there is only one true king, Your Grace.”

He kneels. The other Kingsguards’ blades follow him down. “My crown and the Stepstones,” he says, taking off his crown, “are yours.”

Papa looks to the door. “Where is Lord Corlys?”

“He sailed home to Driftmark.”

“Who holds the Stepstones?”

“The tides… the crabs, and two thousand dead Triarchy corsairs, staked to the sand to warn those who might follow.”

You shiver. How awful. What a frightfully monstrous thing to do to another person, and he did it to two whole thousand of them. Septa says that noble knights treat their enemies with respect—you are not sure if Uncle Daemon would count as a noble knight, then.

Papa walks down the stairs to the Iron Throne, using Blackfyre as a sort of cane. It clacks against the ground as it hits each step.  He stills right before Uncle, accepting the crown and passing it to a nearby member of the Kingsguard.

“Rise,” he says.

For a moment, you are not sure what he means to do. He’d looked unhappy. Perhaps he is going to hit Uncle. Maybe he’ll have him thrown in the cells.

But, after Uncle stands, Papa’s hand comes to rest on his arm, and then up further to his shoulder. Uncle moves forward, his head falling onto Papa’s shoulder in a hug. The lords and ladies in the room applaud.

You follow along, though you are sure the sound of your own claps are very quiet compared to all the others. Truthfully, you don’t know if you are as happy as everyone else seems to be.

 

 

 

Septa Marlow does not let you stay back to speak to ’Nyra. Instead, you are made to go back to your chambers and find an appropriate dress for the feast Papa has announced is to happen in an hour’s time in the godswood. All the while you are being dressed by your maids, you can hear her muttering about how unseemly it is that a party is to be held in such a godsless place. You tell her in your mind that the godswood is not godsless, but rather is for gods that she doesn’t believe in. Saying such a thing aloud will only earn you a strike to the palm with her willow switch, though. You’ve only ever been struck once for asking Alicent why she named your youngest brother Aemond when it is almost the same as Daemon, and so she ought to have named him that instead. It is not a lesson you want to repeat.

By the time Septa allows you to go down to the godswood—thankfully, you get to go without her, because she refuses to ‘step foot in that blasphemous space’—the nobles are wandering around, laughing and drinking as they celebrate the return of the king’s brother. You spy platters of lemon cakes, pastries, cheeses and breads undercover and to the right. Papa, Alicent and Uncle Daemon stand closer to the heart tree, appearing merry in their conversation.

Before you can decide where to go, you are set upon by ’Nyra.

“Little sister,” she says, stepping in front of you with a smile. She looks very well in her rose-coloured gown, her hair pulled back like always.

Your own mouth curves to match hers as you fling your arms around her, breathing in the smell of her, of seawater and flowers and something that you cannot describe, but is just part of who she is. Her hands press warm against your back and you don’t think you’ve ever missed anything, anyone this much before. She is home.

She laughs as she pulls back. “I missed you, too.”

If you speak all the words on the tip of your tongue—‘I am so glad you are back, I love you, please please don’t ever leave me alone here again’—you think you might cry. If you cry, you will be sent back to your rooms, back to Septa Marlow. You do not wish for that to happen.

“Are you done already?” is what you decide to ask, squeezing her hand so as to tell her the things you cannot say. She squeezes back, so she understands, though at the same time she is tilting her head a bit like she does when she’s confused. You realise that your question probably does not make much sense to her. Septa says you must learn to be clearer when asking things. “With the tour?” you add, to help her see what you mean.

’Nyra shrugs. “I found little to be desired in the men of the stormlands. Or the north. Or the westerlands. The entire realm seems to be made up of insipid little beasts masquerading as suitors.” She sniffs, scowling. Her hand tightens on yours, but it does not hurt. You think she can tell that you don’t really know what she means, because she smiles down at you and gives you another, different answer. “I am done with the tour. But I have not found a husband, no.”

Your sister pulls you along to the table away from the lords and ladies gathered, grabbing a lemon cake and handing it to you. You frown—there is no candied lemon slice on top, like there is usually. In fact, none of the lemon cakes have candied lemon slices on them. They are your favourite part. You hope the cooks are not trying something new. It does not stop you from eating it, though.

“Will Papa be very angry with you?” you ask her in between bites, taking care not to speak with your mouth full.

“Most likely,” ’Nyra says. She does not sound concerned by it. You must look bothered, because she laughs and adds, “Do not worry yourself about it—I’ll be fine, as I always am.”

You wish you were as brave as her. If Papa is ever as upset at you as he sometimes is at ’Nyra, you would cry.

As you watch her, you realise she is staring over your head at something. You glance behind you. It is very easy to see Uncle and Papa and Alicent from here. No wonder she is so focused on them.

’Nyra pats your head without looking at you. “Wait here a moment.”

She walks away, leaving you by yourself at the table to go and speak to Alicent and Papa and Uncle. From here, it looks like Uncle is the only one who appreciates her walking over. You wish she’d brought you along. Being by yourself makes you feel afraid sometimes.

A nobleman strolls over, his laughter booming and making your heart race quick. You slowly edge your way towards one of the pillars, hoping to use it to hide behind. When you were smaller, it worked. But you are too old now, you think, because the nobleman pauses in reaching for some of the food and stares at you even though the pillar shields most of you from his view. He smiles. You smile back because it is polite, but you don’t know him. Still, it makes him chuckle, take his food and leave, so there must be something useful about being polite all the time anyway.

Gazing out at all the people is making your head feel funny again, like panic, so you turn around and face the climbing plant that is scaling the wall. You wonder if the heat from the brazier will make it less green, if the fire can burn all those leaves even from here. Does fire have to be touching something to burn it? you wonder.

It is an interesting thought, and one you might try to find an answer from Septa for later. She can be stern and even mean, but she does like your curiosity. That means wanting to know things, she says.

“As far as hiding places go, this one is terrible.”

You jump, startled by the closeness of the voice. You have to look up to see who has disturbed you.

“Uncle Daemon,” you whisper.

He grins, a piece of his hair flopping over his eyes in a way that you think the ladies might like. You try not to think about that, though, because it only leads you to remembering what Papa had made Septa Marlow tell you only a moon’s turn ago about how men’s parts and women’s parts go together to make a baby. It is enough to make you want to avoid all men forever.

“That’s right,” Uncle says, getting your attention once more. He makes no move to come closer, just stands there and looks at you. It gives you a chance to watch him back.

He seems very stern, you think. You don’t know if he was always that way, or if his war made him more frightening. When you try to bring those memories back, there is nothing but feelings of happy-fun-love. You don’t think you and he look very much alike, even though you are both Targaryens, but there are parts of him that match you. The hair, silver like yours. The purple eyes. It makes him a little less strange to you.

“Did you miss me?” he asks. That hollow-feeling soreness in your chest seems suddenly wide open, throbbing and aching.

‘I did. Sometimes I used to think I dreamed you up in my head. Like you were the person I had to pretend was real so that there was someone in the world I could talk to. Someone who would listen to what I was saying, like I really meant something.’

‘I don’t even know if I remember you, or if I’ve just spent so long waiting for you.’

These are all the things you keep locked inside you, wishes like sand in an hourglass that swirl around in their glass prison. And, like the sand, they will never get to escape from where they are trapped.

“Your hair is different,” is what you say instead, quiet and sad-sounding. You try not to pout as the words come out. “I don’t like it.”

It is how you try to say what must stay hidden, words that secretly mean other words. You think he understands, though, what is stuck in your chest and in your heart, because his smile fades. He sighs, something soft making its way onto his face.

“It’ll grow back,” he murmurs. “Time heals all wounds.”

He twitches after saying that. For a moment, you swear you can see something red and angry peek out from under the collar of his coat, like a scar or a burn. It is there and gone in an instant. You wonder if you ever really saw it at all.

Then, he stands up a little straighter. “Come out from there,” he says, brow furrowing even as one side of his mouth turns up. “Let me look at you.”

This is what all the adults who Papa says used to know you ask of you when they meet you again. For some reason, they like to make a kind of list in their minds of all the ways you have changed, as though it is a good thing that you’re so different from when you were very small. To you, it just means that they never really cared to keep knowing you the whole time.

You inch your way out from behind the pillar so that you are facing him, so that you are close enough now for him to reach out and touch. He takes hold of your chin, pulling your face up so that he can inspect it. You are tilted side to side, all angles being carefully examined in a way that makes you nervous, almost like you want to run away.

“Ūbrilta iksā, riñītsos.” You’ve grown, little girl.

It sounds like praise. His palm is soft on your cheek as he strokes away one of the strands of your hair that won’t stay put, calling up a wisp of a memory of gentle hands and deep laughter and love love love, a spark just out of reach.

You tremble. The sand threatens to explode out of its glass trappings.

“I learned my letters,” you whisper, eyes stinging furiously. A group of ladies walks by. You do not want them to know what you are saying, what should be kept secret, just between you and Uncle. “Ynot bardutos daor.” You did not write to me.

Now, he frowns.

“Gimin,” he says, crouching down. I know. Balanced on one knee before you, his eyes and yours can meet so much easier—but he doesn’t let them. Instead, his stare slides past yours. You feel his fingers playing with the loose tendrils that escape your braids. “Ñuhe vīlībāzme vīlīptan… harrī aō bē olvī iotāptan. Nēdenka sagon yne beldā.” I thought of you often, while I was fighting my war. You helped me to be brave.

You cannot even imagine it—how someone silly and small like you could ever help someone so strong like him. Warmth floods through you, so quick that you wonder if your skin has flushed for him to see. “Really?”

He taps you on the nose. “Would I lie?” he asks.

You think about it. From all you can remember, he has never been anything but truthful, even with the hard questions. One of the things you can recall is when you asked where Mother had gone after Papa told you she was dead. Back then, you didn’t understand what dying was. Now, though, you know it as one of all the different ways that people can be taken away from other people, from those they love and who love them.

Uncle told you that Mother was never coming back, and he was right. He never lied to you then. He cannot be lying to you now.

“Ūndegon avy arlī, rōvēgrie biarves issa,” he tells you, cupping either side of your jaw with his hands. To see you again… it is a great happiness.

Your eyes are burning again, blurring your sight. You can still see how kind he looks, though, all the hard lines of his face made soft and glad by simply speaking with you, like you are the only thing that matters to him. Maybe your dreams and play-pretence were more real than you ever thought.

“Are—” You swallow hard. “Are you staying?”

It is suddenly all you wish. Please, please, please, please please please…

Uncle Daemon nods. “For as long as you want.”

You don’t know if he pulls you to him or if you push forward. All you know is that he smells the same as he did, even though you cannot possibly still remember that, like smoke and leather, and his arms feel solid and safe around you, like love. Like home.

 

 

 

Uncle makes good on his promise to you. He stays in the Red Keep, in his old rooms, and soon your days are filled up with more than just Septa and ’Nyra and the evening meal with Alicent and Papa.

You become very good at sneaking away from Septa. It is not difficult. Since Uncle has come back, Alicent has been asking for you in the nursery more often. You don’t think she likes that he has returned, but it is still nice to have her asking about your lessons, about your needlework or your prayers or your sums. Baby Aemond often gets upset when he hears voices talking—he likes silence most of all—so your visits never last long. Alicent always tells you to go back to your rooms when he starts, which gives you the chance to give Helaena a kiss on her cheek and slip off to find Uncle. Septa Marlow never need learn that you did not spend the entire time with your lady stepmother.

Uncle Daemon is usually with ’Nyra, sometimes out in the gardens or walking in the halls. It isn’t strange, exactly, but the way that your sister jumps away from him when you arrive makes you wonder what they are talking about at times. The only thing that stops you from thinking too much about it is that Uncle never seems very bothered. He just smiles like nothing at all has happened and asks how you are.

He watches ’Nyra with a heavy stare as she leaves for council or to see Syrax or simply to give you time with Uncle, too. Sometimes, she looks back, and her stare is just as heavy on him. But then, he always says, “Yne aōlo bē tolī ivestrās”—tell me more about yourself—and you forget why it bothered you so much.

You realise there’s not a lot of ‘yourself’ that would be interesting. You talk about your lessons with Septa and how you are already very good at adding and subtracting numbers, so she is showing you how to multiply them and divide them. You talk about how you can embroider the Targaryen sigil on handkerchiefs, though sometimes the stitches aren’t as neat and even as they could be. You talk about how you’ve learned all the names and house words of the lords and lords paramount, and what they supply Papa’s kingdom with—how the Reach has lots of grain and the westerlands has lots of gold mines and the north has lots of lumber and timber for building things. You talk about how you can sing all the hymns and you pray in the sept every sennight like a good lady, though this only makes him scoff and shake his head. You talk about how good you are at showing the courtesies of a lady like curtseying and only speaking when you are spoken to and keeping your back straight and chin up so everyone knows you are of good breeding.

When you hear these things aloud, you are sure it is very boring. It makes you think that the only thing that has him listening so closely is that you tell him all of this in High Valyrian.

“Gīmije suene ābrāzma. Drējī sȳz,” he says on one day, sitting side by side with you on a bench looking out into the godswood. An accomplished young lady. Very good. With lips tipped up at one corner, he does not look exactly pleased by all you have been taught. But when he adds, “Muño ēngos sȳrktys ȳdrā,” you know that there is at least something he is happy with. Your mother tongue has improved.

Pride flushes you from head to toe, warm and exciting. “Rhaenyrosa gūrēñan.” I am learning from Rhaenyra.

You don’t find it as hard to say her full name anymore, but she always looks at you funny when you call her Rhaenyra. It is important that you use the proper words in front of Uncle, though. You hope he doesn’t notice when you stumble over some of the rolling ‘r’ sounds.

“Skorion Alysanno bē?” is his next question. What of Alysanne?

It takes you a moment to understand what he is talking about. At first, you wonder if he’s asking you about your great-grandmother, and you have no idea why he would. Then, an image of a doll with violet eyes and silver hair flashes through your mind, “perhaps—Marya and Hana, was it?—could do with another friend”, and you think to the three little ladies you used to carry around everywhere until you were made to leave them sitting on the chest at the foot of your bed, then inside the chest, stuck in the dark and left to be forgotten.

There is something about that which makes you terribly, terribly sad.

“I am not allowed to play with dolls.” It is like Septa is speaking through you, though you are soft where she would be stern and hard. “I am too old.”

This makes him freeze, but not like ice. Like something burning hot and angry, only it is shown in the fire of his eyes and the clenching of his fists and nothing else. When he nods, it is as though he is a puppet and someone else is pulling his strings jerkily. “Se zaldrīzesse? Kipagon vasīr gūrēntō daor?” And dragons? Have you learned to ride yet?

You shake your head. “I am too young.”

Too young, too old… No matter what, I am never exactly right as I am.

Normally, you can ignore the twisting of your tummy when you think about how ’Nyra had claimed Syrax already when she was your age. But now, with your thoughts turning over and over about all the things that Uncle wants to ask that you cannot give a good answer to, it only makes you feel worse.

At that, he stands and holds out his hand. You make no move to grab onto it—you just look up at him, confused.

“Well?” he asks, brow lifting. “Do you want to learn?”

“To ride?” You frown. “How?”

He rolls his eyes. “By riding a dragon, silly girl. As it happens, I’ve claimed one of my own. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

“You’ll… you’ll let me ride Caraxes?” Your breath comes out funny, in rhythm with the skipping beat of your heart.

“Not alone. But you ought to know what it feels like to take flight before you claim your own mighty beast.” He mutters something under his breath, too low for you to hear. It sounds frustrated, and quite possibly rude. Then, he lifts his eyes back to you and shakes the arm he has held out. “Are you coming, then? Or will I be going to the Dragonpit alone?”

You take his hand.

 

 

 

“Are you sure he will like me?” you ask Uncle, biting your lip as he pulls you closer and closer to the entrance of the Dragonpit.

As always, it is a big, frightening hulk of stone, with columns that look like they’ve been standing tall since the beginning of time. A hundred of you wouldn’t be enough to match its height. When ’Nyra takes you to see Syrax, sometimes you try to count how many of you would be needed to reach the top, but you always lose track after ten. You know from far away that the dome of it arcs high, high above, though from where you are, you cannot see it. A dark black hole looms between the two main pillars, seeming larger the longer you stare into it. From within, you can hear the growls and shrieks of a dragon, maybe two, maybe three—Syrax and Caraxes, and perhaps others, for it seems too much noise to only be the pair inside.

“He does as I command,” he says. “You will not be harmed.”

Uncle Daemon tugs you forward, into the blackness. Dark turns to dim light.

There, not far from the entry, stands Caraxes. That he is out and not hiding away in one of the dens already makes this a much different visit than usual, for Syrax is not often found in the open like this. It has been a long time since you saw him properly, though you know from stories that Uncle used to take you to visit him when you were a baby, then when you were little. Papa never let him take you riding, though. You wonder how he got permission now.

The dragon has a long, long neck, almost the same amount of long as his body. It makes him look amusing, though you will never laugh at him, for he is also fearsome. Jagged spikes jut out along ridges that go all the way from his shoulders to his head, turning into large horns above each eye. His teeth are sharp, and there is more than one row of them, which you can see when he opens his mouth to make a hooting noise in your direction. He is deep red in colour, scales glittering black and orange in the torch flame that shines across his form, darker around his mouth. You don’t know if it is how he usually looks, or if it is blood. You hope he has already eaten.

“Come along.” Uncle seems annoyed by your slowness. He lets go of your hand and pushes his palm between your shoulder blades, forcing you forward. “We’ve not got all day.”

One of the robed men, the dragonkeepers, moves in step with you, gaze switching nervously from you to your uncle. “Dārilaros ñuhys! Avy māzīlē gīmīloty daor—se aōha tala—” My prince! We did not know to expect you—and your niece—

Uncle waves him off impatiently, glaring. “Īlon henujās! Avy baelagon ajorrāeloty daor.” Leave us! We do not require your assistance.

The keeper bows, edging backward. You try to turn your head to see where he came from, where he has gone, but the strength of Uncle’s hand pushing you on and the way his body blocks your view prevents you from glimpsing anything properly.

Caraxes makes an odd sort of whistle-hoot noise when his head bends before you, his giant nostrils flaring as he scents his visitor. You try to keep your heart beating slow and steady. If he smells fear, he might attack.

“Calm, calm,” Uncle is murmuring, though you don’t know if he’s saying it in the Common Tongue or in High Valyrian. “That’s it…”

The dragon nudges you softly, snout pressing against you in a way that you find familiar. Syrax does the same when you go to see her. It brings a smile to your face, and you are laying your hands on his scaled flesh to stroke him before you can remember why you were ever afraid in the first place. He allows you to pat him for a few moments. Then, he seems to grow bored, turning away at the sound of distant echoing roars. His claws skitter on the stone.

Uncle Daemon takes hold of your shoulders and steers you to the side, along Caraxes’s body. “Iōrās,” he calls out. Stand.

Caraxes shifts his weight with a grumble, unfolding the wing closest to you all the way out. You look on, fascinated. Uncle prods you with his foot.

“Well?” he asks. You glance up. He appears to be waiting for something. When you offer no response, he jerks his head toward the dragon and says, “I cannot mount him for you. Climb up.”

“By myself?”

His expression makes you think he finds you dim-witted. “I will follow. There are some things you must do yourself, little girl.”

There is something about it—‘little girl’—that makes you feel better, somehow, as though he is reminding you that he knows you are only small, that he knows he is not asking too much of you. It helps you to feel brave. When you step onto Caraxes’s wing, you know he is right behind you. For how thin wings look, they are surprisingly strong, because it is easier than you thought to make your way up and up to where the saddle is buckled. There is enough room for you to slip onto the very front, behind the horn, as you wait for Uncle to settle behind you. Because you don’t have a riding habit yet, you must gather your skirts to either side to make sure your knees are covered.

Uncle’s body is warm, his arms folding around you to hold onto the grips either side of the horn. There are no reins like ’Nyra used to have when she was younger for Syrax, but that makes sense. Not only is Uncle old, but Caraxes’s neck is so, so long that you don’t think reins would really work anyway.

His chin comes to rest beside your head. “Ready?”

‘I have been ready for my whole life,’ you want to say.

You grab onto his hands and close your eyes, feeling the way his legs bracket you in and his chest presses firm against your back, like a shield. “Yeah.”

“Sōvēs!” Fly!

Your brain rattles and your limbs shake as Caraxes lunges forward, faster, faster, through the entry of the Dragonpit and out into the open air, faster, toward the edge, and then—

He—

Drops—

And you are flying.

Your belly swoops low, but your heart is in your throat and there are tears in your eyes because this, this is all you ever wanted and never even knew you could have, not really. Wind rushes in your ears, drowning out all other noise, and your legs feel impossibly cold, stockings doing little to protect you from the speed and height, but the sky is bright and blue and the sun shines golden and it bathes you in light, white, freedom. Beneath your heels, you can feel the heat of the dragon, the flex of his muscles as he takes you on and on and on.

Laughter bubbles up, up, up and out of your throat, given to the air, heard by none but felt so deep in your bones, no, past your bones, to the very very centre of you where you are something truer and greater than just a princess, just a girl. Like magic. Like fire. You fling your arms out wide, forearms resting on your uncle’s, and you cannot hear his own laughter, but you can feel it in the way his skin thrums against yours, and oh, no one has ever understood you as much as he does now, in this moment. He knows. He knows.

There is no direction, no goal, no end point. You fly across the city you have lived in all your life, and even the keep looks like a dollhouse, like Papa’s miniature that he tends to in his rooms. The streets look like string winding together and apart and around houses the size of sand grains, fading in and out among the clouds. You fly across open fields where there is so, so much space, more than you ever thought could be real, and more green than has ever been in one place at one time. You fly across trees packed so tightly together that you cannot see the ground below their tops, forests of leaves so dark that even the sun cannot make them glow in the daylight. The air tastes like salt and then earth and then something sweeter, purer, more real than books or hymns or dances.

It may be minutes. It may be hours. It may be days afterward, but one of the things you have learned is that everything good must come to an end.

The Dragonpit draws closer, closer, closer. With each drag onward, bits of who you are, who you must be, return to you. The princess. The girl. The lonely soul crying out for someone, anyone. They burrow their way inside your blood where they have been made to belong.

Caraxes slows, and the world seeps back in. You can hear Uncle’s voice again. “Ninkiot!” Land!

The shock of the thud as the dragon hits ground jolts you forward, but Uncle Daemon’s arms are firm around you. Sand and dust fling up all around you from the damage Caraxes has done to the stone ground below. ’Nyra says it is because they are very heavy creatures, and stone isn’t as hard to something so strong, but like paper. Your teeth clack together painfully and your eyes feel suddenly too tight for your skull for a moment, and then it is over.

Uncle ignores the keepers yelling from below. “Paerī, paerī…” Slow, slow…

Caraxes growls as he follows the command, snapping his teeth at the keepers who come forth to grab at the buckles wrapping under his wings to restrain him.

“Kelītīs.” Halt. The dragon lumbers to a stop, hooting and shaking his head like a hound might. Your whole body wobbles with the movement, making you giggle. Uncle chuckles, slapping the exposed side of his mount with a smile. “Sȳres taobus.” Good boy.

“Thank you, Uncle!” It comes out in a breathless rush. You twist yourself to the side as best you can so that you are able to show him just how grateful you are. You are sure your eyes shine bright and wild. He smiles as he takes in your expression. “Thank you, thank you!” you say.

“You had fun?” His palm strokes along your back in a comforting rhythm.

“Yeah!”

Words escape you. There is no way to describe what it means to you. All you can do is lean into him, wind your arms around his waist and hug him as tight as you can, which is not very much at all. Still, it makes him grip you back, his breath puffing hot through your hair all the way to your scalp, the firm imprint of lips falling there like ’Nyra’s do when she kisses you goodnight.

He releases you with a grunt, patting just above your rear.

“Go on, then,” he tells you, nodding toward Caraxes’s flattened wing. “Get down there. I’ll be a moment longer.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Dismounting is not the same as climbing up. You try to plant your feet and walk your way down, but you feel yourself tipping forward when you try. Eventually—and not without Uncle laughing at you as you figure it out—you learn to sit on your bottom and almost slide your way down, using your legs to slow your speed. It is terribly fun. You nearly try walking back up so that you can do it all over again, but then you think about how you are putting all your weight on Caraxes’s arm, and what it would feel like if someone was stepping all over your arm like that. It wouldn’t be fair to the dragon to do something so unkind when he had taken you on such a lovely trip in the sky.

You stand up, jumping just before you reach the joint of his hand. In your excitement, you do not see how close Caraxes’s tail is, how easy it would be to tangle one’s skirts on the ridged tip.

What happens after comes in flashes. A sharp, scorching pain up your arm. A feeling of wet bursting across your skin. Deep, deep red, spilling across the stone. A throbbing that goes straight to your bone, beating in time with the sound of the sobs that burst from your chest, no, lower, somewhere where pain lives. Panicked whistling noises. A vision of wide-eyed, fearful Uncle Daemon, a bumpy wheelhouse ride and a soothing melody vibrating from the person holding you so, so tight.

The next thing you know, there is more pain, there is a needle, and a maester, and Papa and Alicent and Lord Otto, and you are bundled up on Uncle’s lap while the tug-tug of thread goes in and out of your skin.

“… she tripped, brother,” Uncle is saying, keeping his words low even though you can tell he is angry. “It’s not like she was maimed dragonriding, for fuck’s sake—”

Lord Otto sounds far away from his place near the door. “It was wildly irresponsible of you, Prince Daemon. She is but a child—”

“How dare you disobey me!” Papa stands above Uncle, growling, teeth gritting with fury. “I told you she was too young, and you took her anyway!”

Alicent places her hand on his arm, trying to pull him away. “Husband, perhaps—”

“Can you all shut up,” Uncle snaps, hand cupped over your head and turning you into his neck so that you cannot see, you cannot see. “Do you really think now is the time to—”

“Kepus,” you cry, and you feel the pressure of a hand that is not Uncle’s on your back, a yes, my girl, but you did not ask for Papa, you asked for kepus, Uncle, you want the soft melody back and the quiet, so you shrug it away and press your nose closer to the man in front of you, the sting-pull hurt of something cold and wet splashing over your arm bringing even more tears.

“Sh, precious, you’re alright,” Uncle murmurs, and you can feel his voice as well as hear it, tingling through your skin. “The maester is nearly finished.”

“Hurts.” The tug-sting is over, but it is followed by a press-sting as the bandage is wrapped around and around.

“I know.” His hand keeps your face turned into him, solid against the back of your skull. “Drējī usōven, dōniapos.” I am sorry, sweetling.

“Not your fault,” you tell him, or maybe you only think it, or maybe you say it over and over again on repeat as he carries you to your rooms, puts you to bed, hums you to sleep.

 

 

 

Septa is terribly angry when she learns that you have been sneaking off.

“No more of that, young madam.” Her stare feels like a leaden weight on your chest, disapproval washing over you like the waves of Blackwater Bay. “I shall be accompanying you to all your extracurriculars for the foreseeable future.” As she turns back to her knitting, she shakes her head, muttering, “Wilful, disobedient girl!” You think if Papa were not there, she would have struck you.

“Your uncle is a wretched influence,” he tells you. His eyes search yours like he is trying to find some sort of agreement from you, but you cannot obey him, not in this. It is the first time you have ever gone against something he has said, and it makes you feel terribly naughty. “He injured you—”

“No!” you protest. “I fell over, I promise! I was not watching where I was going, and I tripped—”

“That matters not.” His tone is forbidding. “He never should have taken you without permission—”

“I just wanted to fly.” You cannot explain it to him: the need that you feel now that you know what it is like to leave who you are behind and join the skies, to feel the strength and the heat of a dragon below you and know you are just as powerful as he. He wouldn’t understand. He’d ridden Balerion for less than a year, and never again did he seek out dragonflight. “Uncle showed me,” you say. “I wanted to, Papa. Please.”

He sighs, goes silent for a time. When he lifts his head to watch you again, something sad and yet amused plays upon his expression. “You look so like your mother when you make that face.”

It is not the first time he has said so, and you know it won’t be the last. Still, you smile, because little girls who have lost their mothers are supposed to smile when people tell them how alike she is to the woman who has died. Sometimes, you feel like a ghost of her, like you aren’t really meant to exist as yourself.

“When you are bigger, you can claim a dragon. I swear it.” Papa takes your hand, the one that is not attached to your injured arm. “But you will need to give your old papa some time, for his heart cannot take all this stress.”

He winks, and you giggle. Still, you cannot help asking. “Why?”

‘Why was ’Nyra allowed at my age and not me? Am I not good enough? Not Targaryen enough?’

All that stops you from speaking these things aloud is that, deep down, you know it is not that you are not Targaryen enough. It might be that, for the first time, Papa has seen that you are too Targaryen.

“You are my little girl,” Papa says, and you think you can almost see a tremble to his lips. He must have been very worried, more than you realised. “My little Aemma. The thought of losing you… I cannot bear it.”

So, you hug him and tell him that you will not try it again, not yet, and you feel the anger and the worry and the fear flee him as he relaxes bit by bit. In your head, though, you are thinking about a time—somewhere far in the future, or perhaps nearer than you know—when you can be a dragonrider too.

Septa is true to her word. Most of the time, you are made to stay in your chambers, even though the wound on your arm isn’t all that large and the maesters say that it will not scar over too terribly. “The prince conveyed you here swiftly, princess,” they tell you as they clean and redress the ragged cut. In all, it is only the size of two gold coins put side-by-side. “You are very fortunate, indeed!”

You do not feel fortunate. Septa’s eyes remain fixed on you, so sharp that the hairs on the back of your neck stay upright. She watches you as you sound out your letters, as you embroider more dragon sigils, as you practice the hymns she has made you learn. She watches ’Nyra sternly as she sits in to visit with you in the afternoons—not even your sister is allowed to bend the rules of your punishment. Still, it is better than spending each day entirely with Septa and Septa alone.

Uncle comes in the evenings. That first night after you cut open your arm, he voiced the notes to an old song you think you can remember from when you were really little. Every night since, though, he comes to read you a story in High Valyrian and kiss you on the cheek and say goodnight. You think he might feel guilty about you hurting yourself, so you make sure to give him a very tight hug every time he arrives to your rooms. Sometimes, you see him in the day when he drops ’Nyra to your door, their conversation low and their heads bent close together. If he wasn’t Uncle and she wasn’t ’Nyra, it would look like they were courting, which is when a lord and lady spend time together to see if they are a good fit to be married. You know better.

But, one day, ’Nyra does not visit in the afternoon. Uncle does not come to read you a story or kiss you goodnight. It feels like you have faded from the world, like you only exist in these chambers and nowhere else. But you wait. You wait. You go to bed wide-eyed, trying to stay awake in case she wishes to see you off before you sleep, in case he is just running very late. You are not successful.

A muffled crackling noise and the feeling of something rough against your cheek is what wakes you in the morning, the sun casting weak rays through your balcony. You lift your head from the pillow, blink the crust from your eyes. Looking down, you take in what has disturbed you. A note.

It does not say who it is from, but you know. You know.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, featuring Reader's first foray into dragon-ing! YAY! But also yikes, for she does a heckin' big injure.

If you've posted a comment either here or on Tumblr, please know I've seen them! I'm just panicking because there's a whole bunch I need to answer and the more I panic, the less I do about it, lol. I WILL get to them, I promise!

If you have any ideas or thoughts about this series in general, feel free to head over to my Tumblr to leave me an ask! Also, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on this chapter, or even just leave a quick little message. I adore feedback! Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 7: Gone

Notes:

Heya, all! My apologies for the wait, but my cat was attacked and needed surgery so I've not been in the best mental space until recently. She's okay now - got infected in her hind area which she needed surgery to flush and drain the abscess. She's wearing a cone, and her whole ass is shaved which is pretty funny to look at. She's acting like there's absolutely nothing different about her current circumstances, lol. Anyway, here's another 8k+ chapter for you, which I hope suffices!

On with the show!

Triggers: Episode 5 shenanigans. Nothing much else, really.

 

THE PRINCESS

 

 

These are the things you have learned—

One: Uncle took ’Nyra somewhere at night.

Two: that ‘somewhere’ was terribly improper, a place that not even a maid would go if she wanted to be seen as respectable.

Three: he was caught kissing her and doing things with her, even when there were lots of people in the room at the same time.

Four: he left her there, and it was only because of Ser Harwin that your sister made it home safely.

Five: Uncle asked Papa if ’Nyra could be his wife, and Papa said ‘no’.

These are not things you tell others that you know. Septa will likely strike you with her switch if she hears you repeating any of it. If anyone finds out what you have managed to find out, they will start minding their words more carefully around you. That is not what you want.

Because you are small and quiet, it is very simple for you to collect secrets. For example, Lord Bar Emmon’s lady wife has been dallying with a knight from House Massey. Lord Rosby is in debt to bankers in Essos for borrowing large sums for gambling. Lord Darklyn has a bastard son that no one knows about. You overhear little things here and there, spot details that others might miss, and you learn, tucking information away inside your mind just in case. You make sure that these secrets are proper ones, too—from the hands and mouths of those they are about.

After the accident that gave you a small scar on your arm, Papa made it a rule that you must come visit him each day so that he can keep an eye on you. This is how you had heard ’Nyra and Papa talking in his chambers.

“… have exposed yourself. Now, we must both suffer the consequences.”

“Were I born a man, I could bed whomever I wanted. I could father a dozen bastards, and no one in your court would blink an eye…”

“… an end. You will wed Ser Laenor Velaryon, and you will do so without protest… You are my political headache!”

“… my duty as heir… you must first do yours as king.”

You had waited for a beat, then knocked, hoping that the look on your face was innocent enough that they did not think you had heard. It worked—you had been let in and conversation had turned away from things-you-are-not-allowed-to-know to things-you-are-allowed-to-know. After that, it was not so difficult to piece together what must have happened from the rumours flying around the court.

Now, you understand why ’Nyra and Uncle were sharing all those long looks. Why they would stand so close to each other. Why they would jump apart whenever you came. They are in love, or maybe they just want each other in the way grown-ups sometimes do, the way that means they wish to put their parts together and make babies. Whatever the reason, whatever they feel, it had been enough for Uncle to ask Papa directly, enough to be exiled for.

You keep Uncle Daemon’s letter—‘I will be back soon’—to yourself. If you tell Papa, he will just make it impossible for Uncle to return.

If Uncle marries ’Nyra, will they go to live on Dragonstone? you wonder. Will they have many babies together? Will they bring me if I ask very, very nicely? You would like it best with them, you are sure of it.

Thoughts of what life might be like with Uncle and ’Nyra entertain you on the days you are made to wait for ’Nyra and Papa to return from Driftmark, which is where Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys and Laenor live. Even though your sister wants Uncle, she has agreed to marry Laenor. You don’t know what to think. You hardly remember Laenor. It doesn’t matter, you decide. Uncle will stop it from happening.

Lord Lyonel has gone with them as the new Hand of the King. It was not hard to find out that Lord Otto had his spies follow your sister out of the keep and report back to him, or that he had then gone straight to Papa to tell of what Uncle and ’Nyra did. Your sister often says that Alicent seduced Papa to become queen and give him half-Hightower children so that they would inherit what rightfully belonged to her, and that Lord Otto made her do it. She has been telling Papa that for a while now. It seems he has finally listened, for Lord Otto has been made to go back to his family seat even though his daughter is the queen, and he has princes and a princess for grandchildren. He has gone too far in spying on ’Nyra.

This all means that, even though Uncle is no longer here, Alicent still wishes to keep an eye on you. She does not have many friends in the keep now that her father has left, and it has made her nervous. You are only seven summers old, but you understand the way of things well enough—you understand that she wants to be your friend now that she’s realised she is alone.

I’ve been alone this whole time, other than for ’Nyra, you think. It is an unkind thought, so you push it down and tell yourself that it really isn’t Alicent’s fault that she forgot all about you with three babies to take care of.

Septa Marlow takes you to the nursery each morning as always so that you can see the queen and your brothers and sister. In truth, you quite like this arrangement—because they are so little, it gives you the chance to play with them, to pretend not to be so grown-up for a while. Or, rather, you play with Helaena. Aegon is at a stage where he likes to throw things, so you mostly avoid him. Helaena is a quiet companion, so playing with her mostly means passing her toys and watching her arrange them in neat little piles that make no sense to you but seem to give her a great deal of joy.

“Here, ’El,” you say, passing her the next item. She stops her normal routine when she sees what you have for her. “This is Marya, and this”—you take the other doll out from the makeshift wrappings you devised when still within your own chambers—“is Hana.”

Helaena babbles to herself as her pudgy fingers twist through the brown hairs sprouting atop the wooden doll’s head, surprisingly gentle for one as young as she is. She beams, a gummy spreading of lips that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle, and pats Marya’s wooden face.

“Dolly,” she whispers. “Marya?”

You nod. “Yes, it’s a dolly. Her name is Marya.”

Sometimes, you find that you need to repeat things to her. She often poses questions like this, as though she is unsure if she has heard you right, as though she wants approval. You wonder if you did that at her age.

“That is very kind of you, darling.”

You look up. From her seat by the window, Alicent surveys you and your sister with a small smile. Aemond sleeps on in her arms, seeming to care little for playtime. Is he not too old for that? you think. She can barely fit him in the cradle of her arm, but you suppose that Alicent has always been quite small-bodied.

You smile at her words. She has taken to calling you ‘darling’ as of late. You know not why. Still, it brings a flush of warmth tingling through your blood. “I thought she might like them,” you say.

It makes sense. Your dolls were only laying there, doing nothing at all, and Aegon keeps breaking your little sister’s toys. Because she is so quiet, you sometimes wonder if her nurses just don’t realise that she is there and that she needs just as much to play with as her older brother. Your dolls are rather sturdy. They were made for you when you were three summers old, so they ought to withstand anything he can subject them to.

It is as though your thoughts summon his attention to you.

“I want them, Mama!” Aegon cries, pointing in your direction. It takes you a moment to realise that he is not pointing at you, but at the dolls in yours and Helaena’s laps. “I want!”

“They are for Helaena, Aegon,” Alicent says, but it is no use. Aegon takes a deep breath, and you brace yourself as the scream pierces through the quiet of the room, quickly followed by the squawk and sobbing of Aemond.

Gwenys stands from her place beside Aegon and lifts him into her arms, trying her best to hush him. There is little point. Now that he has it in his mind that he is being denied something he wants, there will be no dissuading him until he is spent from crying too much. As usual, she heads for the door, taking with her the low sounds of her soothing voice drowned out by the wails of your brother.

Alicent has not moved at all, aside from swaying Aemond gently and patting his back. She rarely ever tends to Aegon. There are times when she looks at him as though he is a complete stranger, as though she did not make him and carry him and birth him. You sometimes catch yourself feeling sorry for him, for the fact that his mama so clearly loves his younger brother more than she loves him. In some ways, you and Aegon are very alike—Papa loves ’Nyra more than he loves you. He loves ’Nyra more than he loves any of his other children, but that is because she is the heir and that means she is the most important. It is one of those facts that belongs in the drawer in your mind labelled ‘the way things are’.

Still, Aegon does not do any of the right actions that would get Alicent or Papa to love him more. He throws things and breaks things and yells and runs, and sometimes he will say the nastiest words like ‘I hate you’ to everyone when he is in one of his moods. At least you try. You use your manners and follow instructions and keep quiet and calm, which Septa says is what makes a lady respectable. Perhaps that is why Alicent is calling you ‘darling’ now.

“Dolly?” Helaena whispers again.

She is staring at Hana, so you prop the doll in her lap beside Marya. Your sister clutches them to her, burying her face in their hair so gently that it makes your chest feel tight and a lump grow in your throat.

You watch Helaena hug the dolls that used to be yours but now are hers, ignoring the little voice in your head that reminds you of the one you didn’t bring, the one you have kept all to yourself even though you’ve no need for it now. Of Alysanne, the doll with silver hair and purple eyes, no longer tucked away in a chest but resting beneath your pillow, hidden from the sight of all but you.

 

 

 

It seems like barely any time passes between the return of Papa and ’Nyra and the beginning of the wedding celebrations. Of course, that is not true, for there are days upon days of preparations—ravens to send out and replies to be received, journeys to be made to the capital and rooms to be cleared of dust to house the visitors, banners to be erected and decorations to be installed—that sweep seemingly all of King’s Landing into a frenzy. Not even you are free of it. Thankfully, your only role is to stand up straight with your arms out as the seamstresses pin and hem your dress for the event.

“What do you think, princess?” Lina, the head seamstress, asks. You don’t know if she is speaking to you or to ’Nyra, who looks on with a smile.

“Lovely,” ’Nyra says, answering your unspoken question. She steps forward to brush light fingers against the neckline of the gown. It tickles. “Silver ribbons for the hair, I think. Could a belt be fashioned in the same colour?”

“Of course, princess,” the seamstress is saying, but your attention has drifted to the guard that stands watch at the door.

Ser Criston has been strange as of late. Though he is usually always more quiet than not, there is something very unhappy about the way he surveys those in the room now. He is ’Nyra’s sworn shield, and yet his eyes seem to slide right past her, almost like he wants to pretend that she doesn’t exist. What surprises you the most is that ’Nyra notices—she gives him fleeting looks every so often, especially when he is fixed and still—but does nothing about it. She is not one to let an insult lie.

You have always liked Ser Criston. Before, when you were allowed to go about more freely, he would let you sit by him and talk while ’Nyra was busy pestering the minstrels to play more songs about Nymeria.

 

Your sister claps as the final note rings. “Again,” she demands.

Samwell sighs, flexes his fingers, and readies himself to play once more. As he plucks the strings of his mandolin, he lets his voice carry the melody forth.

 

“She fled with her ships and her people,
Her heart broken for those who had died.
But if they remained, they would perish
Under the dragon’s eye,
Under the dragon’s eye.

 

A hundred fell to the sea’s cruel sweep,
A hundred more to the Summer Isles’s tide.
The queen lost many souls fleeing from
Under the dragon’s eye,
Under the dragon’s eye…”

 

You turn away from your sister and glance to the side, to where Ser Criston is sitting next to you on the bench. “You’re Dornish, Ser Criston. Are you not?”

It is what all the ladies at court say—even Ser Harrold has said so. It certainly makes sense, for the knight’s colouring looks the same as Nymeria’s in all the illustrations of her you have seen.

Ser Criston smiles at your question. “Not exactly. I… my father is Lord Dondarrion’s steward.”

“Oh.” You frown, thinking hard. “He’s from… the stormlands?”

“Yes, princess. Well done,” he says. You beam at the praise. Ser Criston turns to listen to Samwell’s song for a moment, the tale of Nymeria floating faintly through the air and carrying a great sadness with it.

You wait for him to continue. When nothing comes forth, you try again. “Why does everyone say that you are Dornish, ser? You should tell them they are wrong.”

He laughs, a quiet sound. “They aren’t. My mother—she was Dornish.”

You have learned much about the difference between ‘was’ and ‘is’. ‘Is’ is for people who are living, who breathe and think and talk and laugh, like you, but ‘was’ is for those who are no longer here. Who have died and left the living to mourn them.

“What house was she from?” You keep your voice gentle. You don’t wish to make him sad.

Ser Criston shakes his head. “She was lowborn. A member of the commonfolk. My father encountered her on an incursion into Dornish territory. He fell in love with her at first sight, or so he’s always said.”

“That sounds nice.” You have never seen or heard him be so free with telling someone about himself before. Even now, after serving in the Kingsguard for as long as you can think of, this is the first you have learned of who he is beyond his ability to use a sword. “What was she like? Your mama?”

At that, he says nothing. You sit and listen to the music, to the tale of a queen who is forced to begin again in an unknown land. You wonder if Ser Criston sometimes feels as strange in King’s Landing as Nymeria did in Dorne all those hundreds of years ago.

“I cannot recall my mother well, princess,” he finally says. You just barely stop yourself from startling at the sound of him. He stares out at the grass, at nothing, appearing for all the world like he is unspeakably lonely. “She passed on when I was… very young. I know she was beautiful. I remember dark eyes”—like his, you think—“and the shape of her smile. At least, I think I do.”

He looks angry, or perhaps upset. It is hard to tell. You are not surprised, though, for men are often angry when they are made to think of sad things. There is little you can do to change his mood, but you still let your palm come to rest on his arm, patting it kindly. He peers over at you. His face softens. You and he take shelter from the sun in silence, looking out as the final refrain of the minstrel’s song flows through the godswood.

 

“… Th’ Dornish have yet to bow or to break
Under the dragon’s eye,
Under the dragon’s eye.”

 

You know what it is like to long for someone you cannot recall. You understand. In brief moments, Ser Criston has been a creature with a spirit much like yours. But he always disappears within himself and the member of the Kingsguard returns, ready to do his duty no matter what. He is another of those that your sister sometimes strays a little too close to, so perhaps he is upset that she is in love with Uncle Daemon and not him. That would be very scandalous, you think, suddenly feeling rather sorry for him.

“… Well? Do you like it?”

You startle. Everyone is staring in your direction, so you shake such thoughts from your mind and glance over at yourself in the mirror. The dress itself is a shade of pale purple that gleams from the silver threads woven into the fabric; the collar is beaded with pearls and tiny diamonds; the bodice decorated with flowers and vines in dark purple and grey thread the colour of steel. It is far more elegant than anything you have worn before. You look like a real grown-up lady in it.

All you can do is nod, your eyes shining bright with excitement. Even though you will be wearing it to the feast for ’Nyra’s wedding to Laenor—to someone who is not Uncle—you are filled with a sudden impatience for the eve to come sooner.

 

 

 

The screech and roar of unfamiliar dragons drifts in from the distance, their dark shadows in the sky a balance with those of the Velaryon ships upon the water. The banners have been raised; the Great Hall prepared; the food made ready. Those who live within the keep’s walls, including you, linger around the room in wait of the guests that come from all corners of the realm.

You kick your feet beneath your chair as lords and ladies file into the hall, the booming voice of Ser Harrold announcing them each in turn.

“House Redwyne with their lord, Oren Redwyne!”

“House Hayford with their lord, Mathis Hayford!”

The arrivals become of greater importance the longer the festivities continue. Soon, the incoming nobles are declared with all sorts of titles after their house and name. “House Lannister with their lord, Jason Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, and Master of Casterly Rock!” Ser Harrold calls out.

You do your best to avoid notice as Lord Jason walks down the steps, surrounded by people in different shades of red and gold to match his house. He makes his way forward, up, up, up the dais to stand before Papa and ’Nyra. Neither look very pleased by his presence, though he doesn’t seem to realise this.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” he says, smiling as though he is an old friend of them both. “You have made a fine match for the princess.”

Papa does not reply, just stares with his mouth frozen in an upturn. It forces ’Nyra to speak. “Thank you, Lord Jason. I could think of no better man than Ser Laenor.”

Uncle. Uncle. What about Uncle? you think, but you do not say it aloud.

Lord Jason makes a soft noise. You cannot tell if he agrees or if he is still upset that she refused him. “Well. If this is only the welcome feast, I admit I cannot imagine what you might have planned for the wedding.”

“My daughter is the future queen.” Papa looks at your sister with a great deal of love. She turns toward him, a glow of happiness on her cheeks. “I wanted this to be a wedding for the histories.” You wonder if your own wedding will be one for the histories someday, or if Papa only intends for his heir to have such treatment.

 “Where is the queen?” Lord Jason asks, glancing around. “I had hoped to pay my respects.”

It is a question you yourself had been thinking of. Alicent is not one to be late to important gatherings. It is very unseemly for a lady to do so. If she were still under Septa’s care, she would probably be scolded most terribly for it.

Papa pauses for a moment. “I understand the queen is still readying herself for the celebrations.”

“This is why men wage war,” Lord Jason says with his chin tilted high. “Because women would never be ready for the battle in time.”

He laughs at his own words, though he is the only one. It is not a very good jest, for you can think of at least three ladies from history—Visenya, Rhaenys, Nymeria—who had waged war and done well at it. Papa and ’Nyra do not seem to find it funny either, for they merely look at him like he is stupid.

“Your presence is always such a pleasure, Lord Jason.” Your sister tries to be polite, but you can hear the bother in her tone.

Lord Jason’s smile disappears. He bends at the waist in a short bow. “Princess. Your Grace.”

As he rises, his eyes flick to you. It is like he has only just spotted you here, two seats down from the king. He looks you up and down as though you are a prize horse. The curve of his lips as he does so is very off-putting.

“Good evening, princess,” he says to you.

Papa clears his throat loudly before you can respond. His hand is clenched tight around his cup, causing one of the scabs to crack slightly. A thin film of blood spreads slowly across the knuckle. It all serves to startle Lord Jason, who quickly averts his gaze and slinks back down the steps to where his brother sits.

The next group to greet Papa and ’Nyra begins their approach, only to be interrupted by another man. He cuts in front of them all. You do not recognise him. “Your Grace. Princess Rhaenyra. Congratulations are in order.” After he says this, he turns to you. “And my greetings to you, princess.”

It is the first time someone has addressed you so far without making you uncomfortable, so you cannot help the warmth that spreads through you.

“Hello, ser.” It is as good a guess as any. You hope you have not erred.

Papa’s smile is much more real. “We are very honoured to have you as a guest, Ser Gerold.” His expression changes, dims, his brow twitching. “I must say,” he adds, wiping the back of his hand on the kerchief resting by his plate, “I was most distressed to hear of the Lady Rhea’s tragic passing. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Rhea? Uncle has a wife named Rhea, you think with a frown. You notice Papa’s kerchief is streaked with red.

“Lady Rhea was a unique character,” Ser Gerold says. “Her kind… is not soon to be seen again.”

’Nyra surveys him with kind eyes. “If there is anything the crown might do to aid House Royce…”

It is Uncle’s wife who has died is the thought that crosses your mind as the drums begin to beat, signalling the arrival of someone very important. The guests that were lining up to pay respects separate to either side of the hall as the doors open and Ser Harrold cries, “Lord Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark.” At that, the Velaryons make their way into the hall in a sea of glittering black and gold. There are more of them than you ever thought possible—far more than your own house has. “And his lady wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen; and their son and heir, Ser Laenor Velaryon, the future king consort.”

Everyone claps as they walk toward the dais. Papa and ’Nyra stand and you follow—those who had been sitting do the same, rising to their feet in welcome of your Valyrian kinsmen. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys bow and curtsey before you, Laenor stepping forward to do the same. ’Nyra leaves her seat to move around the table, and you are surprised to see her grinning at Laenor as he comes to meet her. She takes his hands; he kisses hers, and the applause begins anew.

As Laenor takes his seat beside ’Nyra—as Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys take theirs beside him, and the audience moves to find their own seats—someone comes in unannounced.

Uncle.

The room goes very quiet, and then the murmuring starts. Papa’s face is like thunder as Uncle Daemon strolls down the walkway with a smile and comes to a halt before him, as though daring him to make a fuss of his return. For a moment, you wonder if he will have the guards throw Uncle from the keep.

Papa gestures to an attendant, who brings another chair to the end of the table. He will let him stay, then, you think. But Uncle does not sit in it. Instead, he looks at Lord Lyonel next to you, his brow raised.

“Well?” he asks. Lord Lyonel says nothing. Uncle scoffs. “Move. I would sit by my niece, lord Hand.”

“My prince—” The Hand of the King stops at the sight of Uncle’s barely concealed glare, a threat all on its own. He clears his throat and rises, the chair skidding back with a squeak as he steps aside. Uncle settles in the empty seat, shoulders hunching in that way he gets when he is trying to show everyone how carefree he is. He glances down at you and winks.

Papa turns from his brother to those gathered in the hall. “Be welcome, as we join together in celebration. Tonight is only its beginning…”

“Āmāzī,” you whisper, only just loud enough for Uncle Daemon to hear. You have come back.

He leans into your space to whisper his reply. “Kīvio sētetan, gōnton daor?” I made a promise, did I not?

You nod, thrilled. He remembered. He kept his promise. Your hand finds his below the table, hidden from view. He is warm as he always is, like fire, and he squeezes tight even as his expression shows a picture of boredom. Though he lets go quickly, the warmth remains.

“With House Targaryen and…” Papa suddenly falls quiet, staring out at the end of the hall. Everyone’s eyes, including yours, turns to follow his line of sight.

Alicent stands alone in the entry. That is not the strange part, of course—but what she is wearing is unlike anything you have seen her in before. Her gown is a shade of emerald, off the shoulder, a deep cut in the neckline exposing an indecent amount of flesh for a respectable noblewoman. It is beautiful, but alarming, for the oddity of it is matched by the almost angry look she wears as she silently approaches, people rising in turn when she passes.

She stops to greet ’Nyra. “Congratulations, stepdaughter. What a blessing this is for you.”

It is cold, completely different from the way she normally speaks to your sister. It seems ’Nyra notices, for she cannot come up with a response before Alicent is kissing Papa on his cheek, taking her place like nothing is out of the ordinary.

“Please be seated,” Papa says with a cough. The hall echoes with the sound of shuffling. “Where was I? Oh, yes.”

He grunts. This time, he lets his voice carry to fill the room. “With House Targaryen and House Velaryon united, I hope to herald in a second Age of Dragons in Westeros.” The guests applaud. “And after tonight’s small affair”—everyone laughs—“seven days of tournament and feasting.”

More clapping. “At the end of it all…” He is starting to sound out of breath, which is worrying. He has been unwell as of late. “At the end of it all, a royal wedding… between my daughter, my heir… your future queen… and Ser Laenor Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark.”

Papa sinks to his chair like he has just run up and down every step in the keep, and you can see his chest rising and falling like he is trying to find air. The sound of it is drowned out by the music that begins to play. ’Nyra and Laenor leave their seats to perform the first dance, impossibly graceful in their movements. They look rather lovely together, you cannot help but think. Still, it is not he she should be dancing with. Glancing over at Uncle, you see he appears to be thinking much the same thing. You are unsure if it is a petty sort of amusement playing along the corner of his mouth or a snarl threatening to reveal itself as he watches your sister with a man who is not him.

The dance comes to a close and everyone claps, followed by a rush of lords and ladies rising to join ’Nyra and Laenor on the floor. Alicent stands. You observe her making her way to the Hightowers at one of the lower tables. You stay in your seat.

“Pōnte imazumbilā?” Uncle asks, jerking his chin toward those dancing in the middle of the room. Will you join them?

“Mirtys drējī rhēdiō daor,” you say with a twist to your mouth. I don’t really know anyone. In truth, you would like to go and dance, but you dislike the idea of doing so with a stranger. Or worse, with someone who looks at you like Lord Jason did.

Uncle grunts. “Konir drives qubys issa.” That’s a poor reason.

You feel your cheeks heat with your embarrassment. It is not very brave of you, you know. “Usōven, kepus,” you say with a small voice. I am sorry, Uncle. A sting prickles behind your eyes.

“Aōma lilinna.” He gazes down with a softness he uses only for you. I will dance with you.

“Really?”

Uncle Daemon shrugs. “Lo jaelā, darilaros.” If you like, princess. His head turns to face the gathering dancers again. You know, though, that he is really looking at ’Nyra, smiling and beautiful in her white gown. “Yn ēlī, mirros gaomagon ajorrāelan.” But first, I have something to do.

You wonder what he intends. Will he take Laenor to the side, ask him to run away and leave ’Nyra a woman without a betrothed once more? Will he grab hold of her and force her to the High Septon’s rooms, make him wed them before anyone can stop him? Will he declare his love for all to hear, give Papa no choice but to do away with the Velaryon match? Each thought, wilder and wilder, circles through your mind. Whatever he means to do, it will surely be worthy of a great deal of court gossip.

But then, a voice interrupts. “In the Vale, men are made to answer for their crimes. Even Targaryens.” Ser Gerold takes one step, then two up the dais.

Uncle remains unimpressed. “Who are you?”

“Ser Gerold Royce of Runestone.”

“And?”

You can see the clench of the man’s jaw. Uncle is being horribly rude. “I am cousin to your late lady wife.”

“Ah, yes,” Uncle says. “Terrible thing. I'm positively bereft. Such a tragic accident.” You want to sink to the ground, to hide away from this conversation. It goes against everything Septa has taught you about courtesy.

“You know better than anyone,” Ser Gerold says, “it was no accident.”

You glance between Uncle and Ser Gerold, worry churning your belly to sickness. The salted flavour of roasted boar turns sour in your mouth. What does he mean? you think.

Then, there is a faint brush of fingertips against your arm. You startle, peering to your left. Papa is leaning across Alicent’s seat. Though he has just touched you, he is staring across at Uncle and Ser Gerold. His eyes slide to you, and he nods to the dancers.

Go, he mouths. Your lips part with your rising protest, but he frowns hard at you. Now, he mouths again.

Scurrying from your chair, you crane your neck to find someone to take company with. There are not many options—’Nyra is busy dancing, though now with Ser Harwin, Lord Lyonel’s son, and Alicent is still speaking with her kin. Everyone else is a stranger to you. For a moment, you wonder if anyone would notice should you sneak to the doors and make your way back to your own chambers.

“Hello.”

Laenor Velaryon has broken away from the throng. Standing beside you, he looks every bit as lavish as a man about to be wed ought to be. His coat is richly embroidered in black and gold, and the pendants upon his gold chain glimmer. There is so much detail to his attire that you do not know where to look. He is smiling down at you, his face gentle.

“Hello,” you say, wary.

“It has been quite a while since last we met, hasn’t it?” There is a way about him that makes me feel as though he’s an old friend, you muse. His expression is open, his arms relaxed at his sides. “You were rather a great deal smaller.”

“I am seven summers old now.”

“And I am eighteen. Strange, how time changes us.” He folds his hands before him. “Would you care to dance?” he asks.

You shake your head, though a part of you wants to accept. He is very easy to be around, you are finding. Perhaps he is not so bad a choice after all. “I am waiting for my uncle.”

“Ah.” Silence reigns briefly. Then, he bends closer to your height, his pointed finger directed out to the crowd. “However… I do believe he’s occupied, princess.”

You stare out onto the floor and watch as Uncle makes his way from Laena Velaryon, shifting between bodies like a snake slithers in grass, straight toward your sister. You watch him murmur something indistinct to Ser Harwin—he takes the man’s place—he swarms up against her, and the pair seem intensely concentrated on their conversation. They are barely dancing, swaying together in a vague rhythm to the music.

“Wonder what that’s about,” Laenor says.

You think you might know, but you say nothing. It is hard enough to keep the threat of jealousy from rising like poison at the sight of Uncle with ’Nyra—with her and not you. He promised you a dance.

Laenor sighs. “Look,” he says. You glance up. “I get the feeling you are not exactly pleased by this match. No”—he waves off your protest with a laugh—“it’s alright. I cannot say I was very happy, either. At first. But your sister… she’s quite the woman. I’ll be… content with her, I think. I just hope I can offer her the same.” He lightly places his hand on your shoulder, firmer when he realises you do not plan to shake him off. “I trust that you’ll set me right, should I behave in a manner less than what she deserves.”

He is painfully earnest as he looks at you, like he truly does intend to seek your guidance. You cannot say that of many people. At the very least, he is good at pretending you are important enough to need a high opinion from. It is more than you expected.

“I will,” you say.

It is too quiet, and you think he probably hasn’t heard you over the noise. But he smiles, pats your arm, and disappears back into the mass of people. You feel oddly thrilled by his kindness.

Now that you are alone once more, your eyes drift back to where you had seen Uncle and ’Nyra, near to the middle of the dancers. You spy two shocks of silver, bright against all the darker heads of hair—you see Uncle take ’Nyra’s face in his hand—he leans in—

He pulls away.

What is he doing? you think, frowning. Uncle is stepping back—’Nyra reaches out, though for nothing—he’s stalking off—

You don’t even realise you have followed him, that you have sidled along the edge of the wall to the door and slipped behind the guards, out of notice, until you are facing the looming dimness of the passages outside the Great Hall.

Behind you, someone screams. Then another. Another. More yelling. The door closes and the noise disappears, as if it never was.

 

 

 

You did not realise just how many guards had not been in attendance at the feast until now. They jog seemingly in pace, the crash of armour too loud, echoing as they rush toward the room you have just left behind. Perhaps they have been drawn by the sounds that had taken your attention also.

It forces you to seek a hiding place. You dart into the nearest alcove, and though it is not covered, you pray that it is too dark for anyone to take notice. Thankfully, it works. Your Papa’s men thunder rumble past with nary a look your way.

A creak from the door. A faint thudding, and whispers, and a gruff voice sounds out, clearer than the rest. “Something to cover it with… for the body… and fetch the High Septon to… wedding will take place when he arrives…”

“Now?”

“Yes, now! So, go and…” A wail, and then it is quiet again.

A manservant hurries his pace, footfalls ringing in the near-silence as he takes the steps up and up and up. You watch him disappear from view, surely having gone to carry out the order given to him. To fetch the High Septon, withdrawn into his own rooms somewhere far, far from your own, awaiting the day he is called to perform the ceremony. Tonight’s ceremony.

Tonight? The wedding is tonight? There was to be seven days before ’Nyra was married to Laenor! That is what Papa said earlier… is it not?

It takes a moment for you to remember how you have come to be here, so caught up are you in your whirling thoughts. A part of you wishes to return, to make sure that Papa and ’Nyra and Alicent are safe. ’Nyra is a princess, you remind yourself. Alicent is the queen, and Papa is the king. Everybody will want to keep them protected. Besides, there is little you could do that the guards could not. You are only a little girl.

Then, it strikes you. Your purpose. Uncle. Where has Uncle gone?

You peer out, and immediately snap back into shadow. The hall is not empty as you had assumed, though it was perhaps silly of you to think otherwise. It is always full of life and activity. There are guards stationed by the stairs, by each archway projecting a further passageway, branching out from the main corridor; two or three messengers await, milling nervously opposite the doors you had just exited from; maids and servants walk by, uncaring of the chaos within, busying about with their duties as normal. Any one of these people could see you and know in an instant who you are. Your hair, your dress: it is all too easy to identify. And if they see you, know you, they will pass you off to a waiting guard, who will ensure you are returned to your rooms, to Septa Marlow.

How will you discover where Uncle is then?

You wait, hoping that the bevy of bodies will thin with each passing minute. As you wait, you listen to passing snippets of conversation from those who walk by. Then, you hear it. Uncle’s name is like a clanging bell out of the mouth of a nearby maid. Your ears strain to catch the rest. “… for Prince Daemon’s belongings to be… King’s Landing tonight… waiting in the courtya…”

“Yes, ma’am…”

Footsteps. Your mind races. No, no, no… Not again. Not now. Not so soon.

Belongings. Tonight. Waiting in the courtyard. You may be young, but you are no fool. Those words, in that order—it can really, truly only mean one thing.

It means that Uncle is leaving.

 

 

 

You wait. You wait through the fractured exchanges drifting to your shoddy hiding place, the morsels of what life must be like for those who live and work in the keep. You wait through the spilling of people into the hall, the nobles who had witnessed whatever it is that had been hidden from you. You wait through their bewildered conversation—“a knight of the Kingsguard!” and “such a terrible omen!” and “what a ghastly sight!” being some of the choice fragments you can hear—and through their slow scattering back to whichever lodgings they had managed to secure themselves. You wait through the barking orders of the Kingsguard to “find the princess!”—it seems all have finally realised you are no longer in the room—the thud of their boots easy to detects as they grow fainter, fainter, fainter.

Finally… quiet.

Well, not entirely. The doors are open once more, and you can just barely hear voices within, the sound of something heavy being dragged out. Grunting, as with some great effort. None of these are important. What is important is that finally, finally, the way is clear enough to steal out of the alcove and just across to the staircase, to sidle out of the hall and down the corridor. You thank whatever gods had favoured you that something shocking or maybe even horrid had occurred and given you a free path to the courtyard.

Your mind immediately rebels. What a terribly wicked thing to be glad for. If you had spoken it aloud—if Septa had heard you—you know you would pay the price for such sin.

When you arrive, the sight that awaits you is one you had hoped against hope you would not be greeted by. Even though you had heard the proof, the crushing weight of disappointment still feels heavy in your chest.

“Where are you going?” you ask, standing on the steps that lead to sand, to dust. To Uncle.

There he is—tightening the bridle on Varlet’s muzzle, reins in hand. Dark Sister is at his hip again. He must have fetched it from his rooms before commanding the servants to pack up his things, to send them along who knows where.

“Fu—” He cuts himself off, spinning toward you. A bad word, you presume. You see his face relax as his eyes scan you, recognising you even in dim torchlight. “Go back inside, sweetling,” Uncle says.

You cannot help the rush of tears that prickle behind your eyes.

“You—Uncle Daemon, you cannot leave now!” You cast around for some reason, any reason you can find that might persuade him. “The—’Nyra is going to be married in the Great Hall soon. You have to be there. You said you would dance with me.”

This makes him release the reins, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, his eyes like slits beneath the steel shelf of his brow. The horse nickers cautiously behind him, toeing at the ground. After a moment where he does nothing but stand, silent and still, he moves, taking large strides toward you. Up, up, up the steps he goes, and then he is crouching before you.

“Talītsos”—little niece, he says, and as he speaks, his fingers reach out to swipe loose hair back behind your ear—“the king has asked me to leave. I must do as he says, correct?”

‘When have you ever cared what Papa says?’ you want to tell him. ‘What about ‘Nyra? You are leaving her behind.’

‘What about me?’

Instead, what comes from your mouth is this: “When—when will you be back?” Your lower lip begins to shake. One of the tears falls, even though you tried so hard to keep them from doing so.

His thumb brushes it away. You can still feel the sting of it in the cool night air, though his skin leaves a trail of heat over your cheek. “I’m afraid… I’m not coming back.”

His face is unbearably soft as he says this, but it does not banish the shock, the dread that rises. You feel ill. You feel ill. Bile burns in the back of your throat.

“But… you promised,” you say. You wonder if you look as lost as you sound.

Uncle smiles, though it is weak. “I know. If I had a choice, you know I’d stay.”

You cannot count the number of people who might hear such a thing and take it for a falsehood. He is a rake, a villain, a rogue. He lies, steals, cheats. He is mad, he is cruel, he is the very worst thing that has happened to House Targaryen since your great-great-great-uncle.

But you know he means it. You know.

“Will I ever see you again?” you ask, close to a whisper. Any louder and you’ll burst into sobs, and that will surely bring the guards—you can hear them faintly calling your name—right to you.

Uncle takes your hand. His eyes are bright, sad.

“Kostilus,” he says slowly—perhaps—using the language of Old Valyria the way he does whenever he wants to voice something fond, something gentle and warm. “Kostilus daor. Jēda ivestrilus.” Perhaps not. Time will tell.

That is not good enough. That is not nearly good enough—but what can you or he do? If Papa has decreed that Uncle must leave, then he must, for he is the king. There is nothing to be done. Nothing at all.

Before you even realise it, you’ve thrown your arms around him, burrowing as close as you can get. He smells the same, of salt and smoke and love love love. “Aōma ozmijīnna, kepus.” I will miss you, Uncle.

Instead of replying, he just hugs you tight, so tight that your ribs ache and you think you can feel his pulse against your skin, even through so many layers of fabric and leather. You can barely breathe from the force of it. It doesn’t matter. You try to carve out a space in your mind for the memory of this moment, this single point in time where he is here and you are loved and the rest is trivial.

But, like all good things, it comes to an end. He pulls away. He stares at you, almost as though he means to say something. He doesn’t. He cups your cheek, and then he stands. He walks back to Varlet. He mounts his horse.

The grief of it bursts from you like an almighty cannon, wrenching with heaving, painful gulps. It surges with loud, ringing sobs, your nose stoppered up so wholly that you cannot breathe, so much so that it blocks out all sound, all feeling. You do not hear any last words. You do not hear the gate open. You do not hear the striking of hooves on the ground as Uncle Daemon rides away, getting smaller, past the gate, out of reach, going, going…

Gone.

It will not be long before the guards are drawn to you by the sound of your tears. It will not be long before they march you back inside. It will not be long before you must sidestep a crumpled Targaryen banner in the entry of the Great Hall, before you are brought into the grasp of Papa and ’Nyra, before you are made to listen to their panicked reproaching.

“Don’t ever run off like that again!” Papa will cry out, grabbing you by the shoulders with unsteady, shaking hands. He will loom over you, an expression battling between relief and anger playing out over his grey face. “We thought… we thought…”

“It does not matter what we thought, Father,” ’Nyra will say, lips tipped up in a smile despite her wet eyes and dishevelled hair. “All that matters is that she’s safe.” You will wonder why she appears so untidy, but there will be no time to ask.

As the High Septon performs the ceremony, as ’Nyra and Laenor repeat their vows in stunned, shaking voices, you will stand beside Alicent, in front of Papa. And, after your sister kisses her new husband on the cheek, Papa will collapse to the ground, knocking you lightly on the way. Alicent and ’Nyra and Lord Lyonel and Lord Corlys will crouch to his aid, booming voices clamouring for the guards to fetch help. Papa will be taken out of the hall on a pallet, speedily dispatched to his chambers for tending to by the maesters. Everyone will rush about, fretful beyond measure for the king’s health, while you are overlooked once more.

You will find yourself staring at the discarded banner of your house, the red of the dragon darker, deeper, like blood. You will feel a twisting in your belly at the sight. You will return to your rooms where it is dark, where you are alone, and you will ready yourself for sleep with no joy for the day that is to greet you when next you wake.

All of this will happen. But right now—here, on the steps leading to the courtyard which leads to the city which leads to a world far, far out of reach—you will watch the gate, wondering if Uncle will change his mind, waiting for him to come back.

Notes:

We all knew this was coming, people! I AM STILL SORRY ABOUT IT! God, that feast scene just drags on and on, doesn't it? Thought it would never end. Hope it's not too tedious for ya!

If you have any ideas or thoughts about this series in general, feel free to head over to my Tumblr to leave me an ask! Also, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on this chapter, or even just leave a quick little message. I adore feedback! Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 8: Birthright

Notes:

Holy shit. I did it. Welcome, one and all, to the END OF THIS INSTALMENT. It was a real wrench - I wasn't sure how I was gonna handle a whole bunch of plot points, so I hope I've covered the main bases. A couple points: I've gone back and retconned Luke and Daeron's ages, as I realised I'd aged them down by like 3 years according to show canon. They should've been born when Reader was like 9, not 12. So please be aware that reading this may be a bit confusing if you've picked up Reader's approx. age; I have in fact done edits throughout the series to reflect this! (Let me know if I've forgotten any, lol!)

Everybody's been waiting for this one. We get our baby boi Cannibal in this! I hope you enjoy it, aaaaaah. I know lots of peeps have been excited, so I can only hope to have done it justice.

Triggers: more abandonment issues, reference to pervy suitors.

 

THE PRINCESS

 

 

Scarcely any time passes between that eve and the arrival of Rhaenyra’s firstborn son, Jacaerys.

’Nyra’s world changes when her baby comes. She is as perfect a mother as you think any woman could be, spending nearly all the hours of the day looking at him or holding him or caring for him. Having a babe has changed her, softened her hard edges and given her a calmness she had once lacked. All she wants to talk about is him. When she is not talking about him or being with him, she is in council meetings, or she is with Papa performing whatever tasks the heir to the throne is expected to do. She tries to find moments to spare for you, though it is far less often than it used to be, and she always brings her boy with her.

Jace is a pretty babe, dark-haired and dark-eyed, so unlike either of his parents, and he always seems quite serious in expression—but there is something that holds you back with him. Even though you love him—and he is one half of ’Nyra, so of course you love him—it is like a wall exists between you and him. His mother is your sister, and his father is your cousin, and you… you have no place there. You are on the outside looking in at a life you cannot have.

A part of you wants to stare down at the babe and tell him that you were here first. That you will always have known his mama for longer than he ever shall, that nothing can take away the fact that she belonged to you before she belonged to him. But you don’t. ’Nyra is a new mother, and her child should be all that matters. If you were her babe, that is what you would want. She does not need the petty jealousy of her little sister to ruin things. It is better for you, for her, for him that you find other ways to fill your days.

Daeron’s birth makes it easier.

It is almost like Alicent barely even notices the arrival of her third son, though you do not blame her. She had screamed so loud that even you had heard her in your own chambers. It was not like that with Aegon or Helaena or Aemond. The commotion had been enough to rouse you from your bed to creep toward the queen’s apartments, to hear Grand Maester Mellos tell Papa that her belly might need to be laid open like—

No. No. The throb of nausea is so vile just thinking of it. You put it out of your mind, doing your best to ignore the prickle of an old hurt and the word ‘Mama’ on the tip of your tongue, hushed and afraid.

Alicent is weak after the birth, and so you take it upon yourself to visit your new little brother, to keep him company where everyone else would have left him to attendants. He is so, so quiet, as though he is ashamed of the way he had entered the world, the way he had hurt his mother coming out. It is like he is an apology for the pain she was made to go through. He is sweet, barely crying though he goes for times without the attention he deserves, and he never fusses when you reach into the cradle to lift him up. You are not quite strong enough to carry him around places, but it is relatively easy to take him to the chair to prop him on your lap in the nursery while Helaena plays.

When Alicent heals, she makes no attempt to disturb your routine, and it is like you have your very own baby to match ’Nyra’s. Sometimes, you imagine that Daeron is yours like Jace is hers and that you are ’El’s mama too, and that you have the important task of being their whole world. Even though the idea of having babies is beginning to scare you a great deal, being a mama is nice. Playing pretend is nice.

But then, the wet nurses come or Alicent comes, and your brother and sister are taken away. It reminds you that you really are alone, after all. ’Nyra giving birth to her next son, Lucerys—Luke—only worsens that feeling. Her family is growing and growing while yours seems to only exist on borrowed moments. Still, you take what love you can and bury the rest of it—the despair, the resentment, the soft tender parts of you that cry out for someone, anyone at all to really, truly see you—far, far below the surface, so deep that no one can touch it, not even you.

 

 

 

You seek solace in knowledge.

Books become your very best friends. The older you get, the easier reading becomes. You leave behind folktales and children’s myths to begin browsing through tomes with smaller letters and larger, more difficult words. Stories turn into histories and treatises on all manner of topics, with dragons, direwolves, men, and the fall of Old Valyria being but some of your preferred subjects of study. You learn the names of the Lannister kings before the Conquest; you gather as many legends on the Age of Heroes as you can; you peruse chronicles detailing the first coming of the Andals to Westerosi shores. Through books, the very land you live upon seems to unfold like a map through time itself, all the secrets of the continent opening themselves up to you through tooled leather and yellowed pages.

It makes Papa immensely proud. “If a woman is to sit the Iron Throne after I am gone,” he says, “then perhaps a woman ought to be her right hand!”

You can tell this makes his other councilmen nervous by the way they share glances. For all that Rhaenyra has been heir for years now, there are still many among the court who believe your brother ought to succeed him. But Papa does not seem to want to change his mind, for he is as determined to see your sister continue to attend small council as he always has been.

Still, you take it to heart. Being Hand of the Queen someday means that you will get to stay with your sister even if you are made to be married. It means you will be important in a way that you haven’t really been so far. But a good Hand has to know so so much about all the lands and people a king or queen might encounter during the years of their reign. You outgrew Septa’s lessons moons ago, and the more you read, the more it becomes apparent that books aren’t enough to teach you all you need to know. There is no one and nothing that can help you become the cleverest possible version of yourself in King’s Landing—at least, not one willing to do such a task. The maesters would not abide by schooling a girl in the higher arts.

Thus, you firmly decide upon the gift you would like for your name day. Standing in the king’s solar two moons before the occasion is to take place, you impart your desire to your audience of one.

“I wish for a tutor, please,” you tell Papa. “Someone who can teach me anything I wish to know.”

Papa laughs. “And what is it you wish to know, my girl?” he asks. You are unsure if he is amused or delighted by your request.

His question makes you think. What do I want to know? There is no single answer you can produce. How do you describe the feeling of wanting to know something you don’t know enough about to be sure you want to learn it?

“Anything,” is what you reply with. “Everything.”

“Anything and everything.” Papa takes a drink from his cup, his nose scrunching when the liquid inside hits his tongue. You do not think it is wine. He returns the cup to the table beside him, reaching his hand out to you. You move forward to take it. “A lofty request. But you are soon to be ten summers old!” He grins. A scab at his temple cracks with the motion. “That, I think, is a milestone worthy of celebration. Very well, daughter,” he says with a grunt. “If a tutor is what you want, then a tutor we shall find.”

He stays true to his word. Not long after you make your appeal to him, all manner of strangers the realm over make their way to King’s Landing to seek an audience with you and Papa. It is the first time you are allowed to remain by his side in the Great Hall, though it means you must balance atop a twist of melted-together swords to rest your rear against the edge of the armrest, one of the few places upon the throne that cannot cut you should you make contact with it. Papa insists, however, for these people have gathered to seek employment with you, and so you must be the one to approve them.

There is frightfully little to approve. Several of those who come to answer Papa’s ravens ignore you wholly, their eyes sliding over you as though you are not even there. One of them, a man named Robert, outright refuses to answer your query as to what would make cyvasse lessons so appealing to a girl of your station. It is enough to put you off the game entirely. But his conduct is by no means the worst. There are younger lads who possess no more skill than the average knight’s squire, clearly hastened to the Red Keep by the promise of a lucrative wage and companionship with the king’s daughter. More than one septon shuffles in to lecture you and Papa on the merits of providing a holy education to the female mind, sinful as it is. Even noblemen like Lord Rosby come to offer to take wardship of you, suggesting that growing up with another girl your age is more than enough learning for a princess. You suspect his proposal has more to do with the large sum he owes over east.

You and Papa reject them all, sending them away with nary a further glance. Those who grow angered by the refusal are easily frightened off by Ser Criston’s hand coming to rest on his pommel at the foot of the steps. Since Alicent had appointed him your sworn shield some moons after Rhaenyra’s wedding, he has taken to his task with a dedication that would worry you if not for the fact that he is made to take breaks. You think that if he were allowed, he would set up a pallet beside the door to your rooms to keep constant guard over you.

Four days after your tenth name day, someone different arrives. Someone new.

“Presenting Ser Lysan Marios of… er… the Free Cities!” the guard announces.

You crane your neck in curiosity as this Ser Lysan makes his way into the hall. He is dark-skinned, light-haired, and his robes are an odd assortment of various fabrics stitched together. It appears well-made, if unusual, and the colours are bright. Reds, blues, yellows, greens, oranges—it seems as though every shade is represented in the patches making up his attire, though you note that purple is missing. Not a noble, then. The man ambles slowly inside, helped by the use of a cane.

“I am from Volantis, Your Grace,” he says when he is finally within earshot, bowing lowly. His voice is deep and rich. If a hug were to have a sound, you think this would be the closest you might come to finding it. “But I do suppose ‘of the Free Cities’ works just as well as any other epithet.”

“You have come a long way, ser,” Papa says. He is smiling like he always does when these visits begin. You wonder how long it will take for it to fade this time. “You are welcome here in King’s Landing.”

Ser Lysan laughs. “I certainly feel welcome! Such pleasant people you have here, Your Grace. Not a single one has attempted to steal my books thus far—and I confess I have brought plenty!”

This is what spurs you to finally speak up. “Books?” you ask. “What kind?”

When his eyes meet yours, it is like they twinkle, like stars. His mouth widens, exposing pearl-white teeth. “And this must be the young princess to whom I would be most glad to embark upon the journey of erudition with! Salutations to you,  princess!”

He bows again, attempting to cast his arm wide in a flourish—but it appears he had forgotten he was carrying one of his aforementioned books in hand, for it promptly clatters to the floor when he flings his hand out. You giggle, charmed. You cannot help it. He seems so kindly.

“Oh! Oh dear,” he mutters, crouching to the ground to collect his quarry. “My apologies, Your Grace, princess. Oh dear…”

Ser Criston darts forward as if to help, but the man has already taken hold of his prized tome by the time he is close enough.

“Ah—might I ask what areas you are learned in, Ser Lysan?” Papa asks, clearing his throat. His brow has furrowed ever-so-slightly, which means he finds the man before him a little confusing. It is more than a little funny. “My daughter has yet to decide upon an avenue of study.”

The embarrassment slides straight off Ser Lysan’s face. It is as though a bolt of lightning courses through him, such is the sudden shift of his expression into one of sparking joy. “Oh! What am I not a scholar of? I have studied in the physicians’ arts with the healer’s guild of Lorath; I have attended the great histories of Westeros and Essos with the esteemed intellectuals of Braavos; I have amassed a more-than-considerable lexicon of tongues across the known world—”

For a reason unknown to you, this piques your interest. “Languages? You know different languages?”

He nods. “Oh, yes! I am quite proficient in your ancestral tongue, princess. Valyrio Eglio udrir jaehenka issa.” High Valyrian is the language of the godly. He winks. “I am also well-versed in the eastern dialects of Valyrian, though admittedly they have not the lyricism of their originator. But I must confess, it is my particular interest to devote my academic prowess to the Lekh Dothraki, the tongue of those who ride.”

Papa’s knee twitches beside you. “The Dothraki? How have you come to make dealings with them?”

Ser Lysan waves him off. “Oh, I would not profess to be so grand as to make dealings with the horse-riders of the east! Ah, but mine wife was a Dothraki woman, who gave herself to me in payment for preventing a Volantene herbalist from poisoning her brother. A strange and alarming custom, I once thought. She was the most marvellous of creatures.” He sighs. For a moment, he is silent—then he jerks nearly full-bodied, as though he is awakening from some reverie. “The Dothraki are a misunderstood civilisation, Your Grace,” he says to Papa. “It is my hope that, in time, I am able to repay my wife’s goodness and bring knowledge to those who are ignorant of their ways.”

“I see,” Papa says. He coughs awkwardly. I don’t think he has ever met someone so inclined to talking, you muse. “And… what of your wife now? I had thought the Dothraki were opposed to crossing the sea.”

“They are.” Ser Lysan’s expression becomes shadowed, drawn. “It is my great sorrow that she has passed on to the nightlands, to roam the skies among the starry khalasar of her people.”

“My condolences.” This sounds more genuine. You know that Papa too still mourns your mother, even though he has Alicent now.

“My gratitude, Your Grace. But”—at this, he lightens, forcing a smile to his face once more—“that is not what I have come to discuss, is it?” He turns to you. “My apologies, princess! If I am so fortunate as to be deemed worthy by you, you may well find such tangents a price to pay for the lessons I have to impart. I am not well known for brevity, I am afraid.”

He’s the one. He’s my tutor. You know it. The way he speaks so happily about all the things he has learned; the way he cares so much about showing that some people are not always what everyone else thinks of them; the way he talks to you as though you are a person rather than just a means of earning coin or living in a palace. You want to know what it is like to be surrounded by that happiness, to spend your days learning from a person such as he rather than continue to quail under the yoke of Septa Marlow.

You readjust to curl into Papa, to lean forward and whisper into the shell of his ear. “I like Ser Lysan, Papa.”

“You do?” He exhales, a long-suffering sigh of resignation. His stare narrows at you as though irritated, though it slowly morphs into a grudging sort of smile. “Naturally.” If he were ’Nyra, he would be rolling his eyes by now. To Ser Lysan, he projects his voice far louder and says, “It appears my daughter has no taste for brevity, ser. If you wish to take up this post, we would be… honoured… to accommodate you.”

Ser Lysan’s brows raise in surprise. “Oh! No, Your Grace! The honour is mine!” He bows a third time, and it really ought to be excessive, but you cannot help how amiable you find him. “I pray I will not disappoint you, princess.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Ser Lysan,” you say, fighting the urge to leave Papa’s side and go forth to follow the man before you wherever he might go, to let yourself be enthralled by his tales and his rambling, half-formed thoughts. “I hope we shall have a very good time together.”

You are not to know it at this precise moment—but you will.

 

 

 

“We have made our introductions, princess, and I have learned the lay of the land as best I can, so to speak.”

Ser Lysan is settled in the chair opposite you, having just completed his surveyance of the room around him. You have been granted a solar for the very first time, a whole new chamber to fill with the tools necessary to begin your education. It is empty for now, though the bare necessities are present—namely, the considerable size of the bookshelves just waiting for their occupants to rest safely upon their surfaces. These will, in time, be filled by both your own and your tutor’s collections, or so he has assured you.

The crinkle of a page rouses you from your thoughts. Ser Lysan has unrolled a scroll of parchment, the nib of his quill already inked and prepared for some unknown purpose. He stares assessingly at you.

“What is it you wish to know?” he asks, hand poised to write.

It blurts out of you before you can think to stop it. “You can only be called ‘ser’ if you are a knight, but you have said you are a scholar. How is it that you have come to be called ‘ser’, then?”

You wince. Your question is far ruder than you had intended it to be. Thankfully, Septa is not here—she has begun spending more time with Helaena as of late. She would surely have reprimanded you. The query only serves to make the man smile indulgently at you, though. He lays the quill to the side upon his blotting paper. The ink pools dark across the fibres.

“If you must know, princess… I was a soldier in the Battle of the Borderland. The triarchs sent us in to attempt to wrest control of the Disputed Lands from Lys, Tyrosh and Myr. They were once under Volantene rule, did you know?”

Ser Lysan gazes at a spot on the wall just past you, and it is like he is seeing something altogether different. Something from another time and place.

“At first, we were sure of victory. Volantis has long held dominion in the east for a reason, after all. Our armies were larger, our armour finer, our steel sharper. But then…” He sighs. “Those cities joined forces. Formed the Triarchy. No one saw it coming. We ought to have. Such is hindsight, is it not? We understand now the things we missed then.”

Ser Criston shifts by the door, clearly uncomfortable. You wonder when he will interrupt, when he will instruct Ser Lysan not to tell you such dark-natured stories. You can only hope it will not turn violent.

“One morn—the sun had barely risen—our garrison was set upon by the Triarchy’s forces,” the man continues. “It was… carnage. So few of us survived. Of those of us that did, even fewer still were able to stand. The alliance’s warriors enjoyed leaving a rather particular token behind on the battlefield, as we were to learn. Severed legs are quite effective deterrents, it turns out.”

“That’s enough,” Ser Criston barks, face set in a glare. Secretly, you are glad for the interruption. The tale had grown far too frightening for you.

“My apologies!” Ser Lysan says, coughing lightly. “I forget myself sometimes. To answer your question, princess—I was able to make my way back to the main encampment, to warn the commanders just in time for our troops to pull back from the region. Many a life was lost, but thousands more were saved that day. I was knighted in the field.” A wan smile curves his lips. “That is where my title of ‘ser’ comes from.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you say. “I… I am sure it is not a pleasant memory. I am sorry.”

“It is quite alright. I became stronger for it. I learned that if I wish to survive, I must fight for it with everything I have in me. The fires of adversity strengthen the spirit.” He pauses, eyes locked onto your own. They are dark, almost black, like all the light in the world has been quenched. “Let this be my first lesson unto you—if you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.”

Silence lingers for one moment; two; three. All of a sudden, he is cheerful again, shuffling his papers like nothing of import has occurred. You share an uncertain look with Ser Criston, who looks positively bewildered by the shift. Ser Lysan is an eccentric man, you decide. This is no bad thing.

“Back to my previous question, princess.” Ser Lysan picks up his quill once more, dipping it in the inkwell and tapping it against the rim to return the excess to the bottle. “I am knowledgeable in a great deal about the world in which we live. What is it that you would have me instruct you in? Histories, statecraft, linguistics?”

Before you is a man who has lived. He has come from a strange land bearing a strange name, learned in all manner of strange subjects. He fought for Volantis. His wife was a Dothraki woman. He bears the title ‘ser’ and yet wears a patchwork robe. What you know of him is bleak and terrifying, and yet here he sits before you, as jovial as a young man in his cups. There is a steady peace to him despite all he has seen, all he has likely experienced.

How has he come to be so merry? You think about the manner in which he’d brightened at the talk of his learning. Could one achieve such simple tranquillity through knowledge alone? Can books, can foreign tongues and foreign disciplines empower you with that sense of fulfilment you crave, that sense of belonging you have felt absent all your life?

You want dearly to discover the answer. It is this that permits you to finally settle upon your response to him.

“Anything,” you breathe. “Everything.”

 

 

 

You are not as brave as your sister. She is able to stand face to face against even the staunchest of her detractors—as of late, this being your very own lady stepmother, determined to discover what she believes to be ‘the truth’ of Jacaerys’s parentage, for a boy so dark of hair cannot possibly be Laenor’s, by her reckoning—without so much as a quiver in her lip. She can endure shouting, the strike of a switch, the endless train of whispers that seep through every crack in the walls of the keep with barely a pause in her breath to mark the ignominy of it. She can easily spurn the threat of humiliation and continue on her way with her head held high and some cutting remark poised on the tip of her tongue like a steel barb waiting to meet its target. These are not things you are capable of. But then, you are only a girl, younger than Rhaenyra was when she was made heir.

Yet old enough to finally—finally—claim your own dragon.

It had taken you years to wear down Papa, the scar on your arm serving as a perpetual reminder of the dangers that lie ahead in seeking out your birthright. Whenever you had made the request—“oh, please, Papa! I swear that I am ready!”—he had only to look upon the mark bisecting your flesh before his eyes hardened, the musculature of his neck clenched and poised to shake in refusal.

Once, his rejection had been sufficient to prevent your asking for several moons’ turns at the least, but Ser Lysan has been of great influence in his two years serving as your teacher, your companion, and your dear friend. “If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.” These words have remained as carvings in stone within your mind since that very first meeting. It is not within your power to unleash fire and fury the way your sister might—but you have come to learn that such a thing was never in your power. Your strength lay in other qualities. Your courtesy. Your placidity. Your modesty. These are strengths in their own way.

You had continued to ask. Over time, the nature of your appeals changed from churlish, infantile insistence to restrained, unaffected enquiry. Upon rebuff, you had smiled and said, “Very well, Papa. Thank you for listening.” You had repeated this same tactic over and over, sennight after sennight, until, at last, Papa had been worn down to his bones from weariness.

“You’ll not let up, will you, my girl?” he had asked, utterly fed up.

Instead of responding, you had simply maintained your carefully blank gaze, prepared to don your quiet acceptance like armour when his denial should strike. He had sighed, rubbed his eyes. The pull of his skin had cracked open another fissure in the lines of his face, red slowly beading up to the surface.

“Fine!” he had finally exclaimed, his hand thumping down upon the table so hard that you had wondered at his not feeling it. This was before the maesters agreed to remove it from his person, and so the flesh was mottled grey and black from rot. “Do as you will, daughter. Far be it from me to dissuade you.”

Thus, the ravens had been sent to the dragonkeepers residing on the ancestral isle of House Targaryen; the ship had been made ready; your retinue arranged; and you had been sent off on your first great journey.

The moment you step foot upon the shore in the low light of early evening, you hear it. You feel it. Like a rattling in the core of your bones, or an unearthly siren song catching faintly on the wind. It is not a sound, though, nor a sensation that you can describe in any language you know. All that you are sure of is that there is something here, something… expecting you.

Come, it says. I am waiting.

The keepers linger past the shoreline, scarcely a stone’s throw away. “Urnēbās, darilaros!” one says, eyes darting nervously about. Be watchful, princess! “Va īlō Zōbrios issa.” The Dark One is near.

“The Dark One?” you ask, frowning. “Who is that?”

Septa Marlow pales so starkly that she looks like she has applied paints to her skin. She seems entirely distasteful of the island itself, a curl to her lip that she only gets when seeing or hearing something she does not like. Meanwhile, Ser Criston’s fist tightens on the grip of his sheathed sword. He too glances around, tracking the skies like a shadowy shape will make its appearance at any moment. He seems familiar with the name.

It must be a dragon, you think. Very few living creatures reside upon the island, save for those that had been introduced by your blood long ago. Dragons are the only wild things that can weather such inhospitable climes.

The keeper leans in. “The Cannibal.” He shivers. “He is most wroth as of late. Beware of the beaches—too many of our Order have been lost to his appetites.”

The Cannibal. It is a story you have heard only when one had sought to frighten you—that of a winged beast so monstrous that not even his own kind would endure him. A creature so malevolent that he found his joy through death and destruction, ripping apart the younger members of his species so thoroughly that, at times, it was as though blood rained down from the heavens. The Cannibal, a being so malignant that any man who attempted to ride him had vanished cleanly from the face of the earth, consumed whole or left to rot away in some deep, dank pit below the mountainous terrain.

And yet—for all his supposed cruelties—no cities, no villages, no lands have been brought to waste beneath his flames. It is the one part of those tales that had never made sense to you. If he were as awful as that, surely there would be no one and nothing safe from him?

“Let us not waste our time, then,” Ser Criston says firmly, hand pressed between your shoulders to spur you onward. The weight of it grounds you in the present. He turns to bark orders at the attendants making their way ashore. “To the keep!”

You are taken past the Great Hall, catching a glimpse of the Painted Table on your way to a smaller chamber. You know the name of Aegon’s table is not quite correct, that it is made mostly of wood and rock, and that the rock itself is what Ser Lysan has told you is thermoluminescent, ‘thermo’ meaning heat and ‘luminescent’ meaning light. The table glows like lava when you ignite the candles below it, casting the great map of Westeros into fire. You should very much like to see it. But this visit is not to take in the sights of your family’s seat.

Much to the keepers’ confusion and consternation, you reject the offer to examine the eggs they have concealed within the hatchery. Or rather, you feel that the eggs would reject you if you should try to seek your companion in one. It is difficult to explain even in your own mind, so you make no attempt at voicing these thoughts—these almost-whispers at the back of your mind, like a soft brush of fingers at the base of your skull.

Septa Marlow huffs her displeasure. “This is most unbecoming of you, princess. You ought to know better than to refuse a gift such as this.”

‘They are not for me,’ you want to say. ‘The thought of them does not rouse me.’

You know not why you feel certain of this—that the mere prospect should stir you beyond simple anticipation. But it is as though you have always known this, for you do not find yourself disappointed by the missed opportunity nor by the censure.

A faint recollection sparks from your earliest youth, an old fear of what should occur if an egg comes into your possession and refuses to hatch, turning to stone over years and years. You do not wish for such a future. No—it is for the best that the eggs are left for another. Another time, another day, another person. Perhaps when it comes time to have your own children, you will revisit the notion.

To make matters even more complicated, however, there are no hatchlings upon the isle. It is what you had counted on all this time, but it seems that this is not to be, either.

“Zōbrios pōnte iprattas,” Acolyte Zūgis tells you, wringing his hands for good measure. The Dark One ate them all.

What a nervous man, you think. Since meeting him on the beach, he has been continuously anxious, ready to jump clear out of his skin at the slightest disturbance. You wonder if his path is best suited to dragonkeeping if he is so afraid of it.

“Pōntālosa sikagon kostis, yn jēdraro toliot dorolviktys se dorolviktys sittaksi.” His mouth twists. Sometimes they hatch by themselves… but that has become rarer and rarer over the years. Your stomach twists at this. There was once a time where dragons hatched aplenty upon the isle. No more, it seems. “Vermithor dārligon kostā, darilaros. Yn uēpys issa se zaldrīzāeksio bōso jēdo syt mijetas. Qopsa kessa, se avy hinikilāks.”

You can try to claim Vermithor, princess, he concludes. But he is old and has long since been without a rider. It will be difficult, and dangerous.

Neither Septa Marlow nor Ser Criston understand High Valyrian—but the name Vermithor agitates them, nonetheless.

“A dragon of such size and stature is not appropriate for a well-bred lady,” Septa exclaims, fingers like claws clasped together before her. “What of Silverwing? Good Queen Alysanne’s mount? Does it not reside here? ‘Tis far more suitable beast.”

The keeper shakes his head. “We believe Silverwing is gravid. She has shown much aggression as of late. The last of us to attempt approach…” The silence that hangs at the end of the sentence leaves no mistaking his meaning. He clears his throat. “Well. It is far too perilous at present. Vermithor is the princess’s best option.”

“The princess is a child,” Ser Criston says, expression flat and eyes flinty. “Vermithor is a dragon of war. I am sorry, princess”—he kneels before you, angling his head up so he can look directly at you, and one hand folds around your elbow—“but I cannot let you risk yourself so.”

You know what you are being told, albeit in a roundabout way. The despair renders you mute. What am I to do? What am I to do? You nod, an agreement to your sworn shield’s words, though your heart is scarcely in it.

“Perhaps on the morrow,” the keeper says, “we may… reattempt with the eggs, then. We have several, though they have been kept for some years now.”

Ser Criston makes his agreements to Acolyte Zūgis, entering into discussion with him and Septa Marlow as to the following day’s schedule. None of them so much as turn their faces to include you, despite the fact that you are central to their plans.

While they talk, another thought comes to mind. You wonder why none have so much as dared to broach another possibility—that there are three wild dragons upon the isle. Silverwing and Vermithor are not your only options.

Sleep is hard to come by, that same, pulsing sensation tingling through your limbs and keeping you awake.

Come, it seems to say. I am waiting.

 

 

 

You rise before the sun comes up. Septa Marlow is likely to be awake at this time, but she will not venture your way until the skies are bathed in light. Ser Criston does not begin his shift until an hour after you rise. His replacement is usually whomever can be spared.

It is even easier than usual to make your escape.

Dragonstone is an old fortress, and so there are a great many secret passages winding between rooms. You need only to check behind the tapestry along the inner wall to determine that an opening has been concealed. Brandishing the candle from your bedside, you slip into the looming maw that awaits.

Inside, it smells of damp and salt, and you can hear a faint, steady drip. It continues no matter which direction your feet take you, and you feel your breath stream from your mouth and nose in a cloud of warmth that gives the skin of your face and neck momentary respite from the wintry chill. The walls are rough-hewn, made for function rather than appeal, so you are careful where you place your hands.

Because you are so unfamiliar with the layout, you wander for what seems an age before you finally surface upon the outdoors, a dim glow emanating from between metal grates at the end of a dark tunnel. The hinges squeak shrilly as you push them open, shutting behind you with a clang. Your slippered feet sink into the sand upon the beach.

You do not know where you are headed—to find Vermithor or Silverwing, to find one of the wild ones, or simply to wander. All you know is that one of them is calling to you through the magic of old, the magic that ’Nyra and Papa have always said lives in the blood of the Targaryen line. It is how Papa knew that he was destined to be Balerion’s last rider. It is how ’Nyra found the courage to mount Syrax when she was so young. You feel it now, singing in your blood as it has since you crossed into the shallows surrounding the island.

Come and find me, it says. I am waiting.

You trudge along the beach, allowing the sand to sink into the opening of your shoes, to fill the small spaces between shoe and skin with stinging grit that collects between your toes and rubs to rawness. The wind whips at your hair and your robe—you did not bother to change from your evening wear—and the sound of the waves crash like thunder.

You walk. And, as you walk, you wait for the purpose to reveal itself, a part of you hoping that whomever you are meant to claim will find you.

You ought to be more careful of what you wish.

A dark shape swoops across the sky above you, casting you even further into shadow, and you hear the rumble of something powerful. The beat of its wings is great enough to be heard from a distance, you think, and stirs up the sand before you into a cloud of dirt and dust. The beast growls, deep and terrifying, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

It lands ahead.

Oh, no. Oh, no.

The Cannibal.

He is enormous, far greater in size than Syrax, than Caraxes, than any dragon you have ever seen or read about. His scales are black—no—blacker than black, the complete absence of colour or brightness, and each muscle honed from years upon years of eking out his existence ripples below the skin. His lips peel back, exposing at least two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Perfect for tearing me to bits, your mind supplies in your panic. His stocky frame hunches low, claws sunk into the sand, as though poised to attack, and he hisses, a rattling threat that fills you with the urge to run.

His eyes glow green. You feel it again.

Come. I am waiting.

What is it Ser Lysan said, again? If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.

Come. I am waiting.

It may be courage, it may be madness, but you are moving onward before you realise it. The dragon hisses again as you approach, and any moment you expect to be bathed in dragonfire or snapped up in his almighty jaws, but your footsteps remain as rapid as your heartbeat.

The attack does not come. The fire does not come.

Something more is at play here. You may only be twelve summers old, but this you know. A dragon as fierce as the Cannibal would never let a person so close as this under ordinary circumstances. Old magic thrums through the air, a tether forming between you and the form ahead. A bond. A claim.

You reach out a hand. Skin to scale. Heat that ought to burn courses through you, but you are safe. You feel his pulse, your pulse, pounding through dermis, reforming your own to match.

Your eyes well. “Gierior glaeson ñuhon avy rhaenagon jumptan,” you whisper. I have waited my whole life to meet you. In the rumble he releases, you think he must believe the same of you.

Dressed only in your nightgown, you make the climb up his wing. He lets you, chuffing irritably as you seek out the correct handholds and footholds to make your way up. It is entirely different from mounting Caraxes. This dragon is much, much larger, and so you are forced to actively coordinate your movements to ascend the perilous terrain. Still, there is enough of memory remaining to you of that day, years ago, that you can draw some reference from. You rely on those recollections to hoist yourself up. Finally, you are able to settle somewhat awkwardly between the blunted spikes below his neck.

From far off, you can hear faint voices. Atop the crest of the Cannibal’s shoulder, you look to the horizon. The sun has risen. The world is awake, which means that Ser Criston and Septa Marlow will be leading the search for their wayward princess.

It startles the dragon. Before you are ready—before you would even have dared to tell him to fly—he shifts, growling so deep that the vibrations buzz through your legs, your toes. You jostle where you have perched, gripping frantically to the spike in front of you as he sets off on a crawl that morphs to a run, building momentum to flap his wings up and up and up—

“Princess!” echoes through the breeze as you rise. Below, you see the forms of the guards, of Ser Criston, of Septa, growing smaller and smaller as the dragon—your dragon—takes to the air.

You keep hold of the Cannibal’s spike as he soars through the skies, letting the wind billow your hair about. It is both the same and so, so very different from your first flight. It is freezing up here, for one thing, and you can discern no sound but that of the air whistling so stridently in your ears that it is like a shriek, and the dragon below you is warm enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay. Your belly swoops and twists with each wingbeat, the momentum rocking you forward every time, but none of the discomfort is enough to tamp down the sheer exhilaration.

The Cannibal turns, revolving away from the distant line where sky and sea meet toward the island again. The change in direction gives you a momentary reprieve from the rush of air hindering all noise, and you hear something else.

Beneath your legs, beneath your skin, you feel it as the Cannibal bellows to the world, a roar that pierces the still of morning and announces to all that his wait is over. That he has claimed his rider, that you have claimed your mount—that you have done what no one else has been able to and emerged victorious.

That feeling—the one that has plagued you—has changed, you realise. You have found me, it seems to say.

Yes, you think, turning your head to admire the expanse of this creature, this being who is and was always meant to be yours. I have.

 

 

 

When you land, Ser Criston and Septa Marlow nearly shake you from your body with the force of their panic, their vexation, their “You do not ever run off like that, do you hear me, princess?” and their “Just wait until your father hears of this!” They try to dissuade you from your course, but the keepers wring their hands and mutter that the deed has been done—there is no unbinding what has been bound by the magic of old.

Still, their refrain is just as shocked, just as bewildered. “The Cannibal, princess,” they say, shaking their heads. “The Cannibal…”

“No,” you reply. “His name is Athfiezar.”

Dothraki is fairly new to you, ‘tis true, for Ser Lysan did not agree to teach you until well into your acquaintance. And there is a certain irony in the choice—many a person will surely raise their brows in question of your use of such a savage tongue, which is rather best suited for a dragon of his reputation. But the word—the name, for he has long gone without one, and it seems only right that he should have something of his own, free of the censure of old—seems apt enough. Love. That pure, uncorrupted kind, the kind you think you have been searching for your whole life, the kind you find in small moments that are never, ever enough for the gaping maw that is your heart awaiting someone to fill it. You just know the Cannibal—Athfiezar—is a creature with a soul like yours. How long has he gone without love?

Never again, you think. Not with me.

You hold onto that thought as Papa rails at you upon seeing the hulking behemoth touch upon the top of the Dragonpit, heralding your return to King’s Landing.

“You could have died! What in the blazes were you thinking, girl?” he yells.

He has never yelled at you before, and perhaps you might have cried once, but you keep firm to the memory of Athfiezar’s eyes upon yours, the life palpitating through his immense form into yours like some sort of cycle, elemental, mysterious. No matter what Papa says, no matter how he says it, it is as the keepers said. The deed is done.

The news spreads like wildfire, bringing with it a most unwelcome attention. For much of your life, you had been largely ignored by court and commons—now, with having claimed such a dragon for your own, many a considering eye falls upon you. Their thoughts are louder than if they spoke them: perhaps we have gotten the wrong measure of this one. Perhaps she is worth more notice than we had given her. Invitations to tea come to your door with a regularity that is almost predictable; and, maybe worse, many an enquiring lord approaches Papa with the pivotal question upon their lips: “When is she to be wed, Your Grace?”

Your mother was wed at eleven—it is not impossible that you should be given to some man to settle a treaty or forge an alliance in due course. It is your duty as princess, after all. One day, yes, but not now. Besides, all they truly desire is the power you have suddenly amassed. They do not want you.

You retreat into yourself, using all the courtesies Septa had imbued into you like plate steel to shield yourself from the worst of it. Save for your two freedoms—your Ser Lysan and your boy, Athfiezar—you commit to being the most polite, the most recalcitrant, the most dull creature you can be. You help ’Nyra with her boys where you can, for a useful girl is best kept than discarded, and your sister is the heir which means her rule will someday be law. You take on two ladies, noblewomen from houses in the Reach, in accordance with your stepmother’s wishes. You try your very best to devote time to each, spreading yourself between what is rapidly developing into entirely separate factions in the keep—the princess and the queen, the blacks and the greens, or so they are called. Such silly names, you think. And, over time, it all becomes less performative and more intrinsic. Your propriety is your defence, and you use it well.

But it will not last forever. One day—one day soon—you will be called in by Papa. You will be told that your life is no longer to be your own, but passed on into the care of a man you will call husband. You will be asked to choose he who will be your master, he who will use your womb to give his house sons and daughters of royal blood, and you will be expected to be glad for the opportunity to make the decision, that it was not taken out of your hands entirely.

You wait for the day, spending what evening hours you can in the sept entreating the gods for their intercession. Please, you think, on your knees before an effigy of the Maiden. Please. Deliver to me a husband who will love me as I am.

You wait, you hold your breath, and you pray.

* * * * * * * *

“The claiming of the Cannibal came as a great shock to the realm, not least because of she who had claimed him. King Viserys’s younger daughter by his late Queen Aemma Arryn was by all accounts a diffident, well-mannered girl most unlike her elder sister… Several parties were of the view that the princess ought to be wed quickly to keep her mighty mount out of the hands of those considered less than desirable. However, it was not until the year of 126 A.C. that the king finally consented to the courtship of the girl, with many a man seeking her hand. Of those suitors, only three were truly deemed worthy—Lord Jason of House Lannister, Lord Denys of House Tyrell, and the princess’s own half-brother, the Prince Aegon.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

Notes:

TADAAAAAAA!

I hope this concludes at a good point to feed into the next instalment, the daddy Dae-focused one! On a brief read-over, it flows alright; would love to hear other's perspectives though, as I've been tweaking bits and bobs over the course of this instalment to ensure it all works.

I won't be starting the next instalment JUST yet - I've actually been working on a typeset to hand-bind all the works in this series into one hardbound novel. I'm learning bookbinding, aaaaah! It's actually printing as we speak, haha. I'm going to spend a few days putting that together, and will probs post updates/the completed book over on my Tumblr (link below). For now, I'm officially marking this arc of the story complete! Most if not all the gaps have been closed, and I'm free to move ahead and build up in chronological order. THE SERIES ISN'T OVER! MORE WILL COME! Just not straight away, teehee!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! If you have any ideas or thoughts about this series in general, feel free to head over to my Tumblr to leave me an ask!

Also, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on this chapter, or even just leave a quick little message. I adore feedback! Thank you so much for reading!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of terms of endearment