the girl in the green dress

by DestroyerOfNations

Summary:

Only fools wake a slumbering dragon. Let this fool not be wearing green as well?

Chapter 1: choices made in anger cannot be undone

Summary:

Shackles thrown off, a prince has a new duty—a new loyalty.

Doubts swirled through his mind. Would he truly go through with what he had planned?

It would mean war, no doubt. His brother would never stand for it and neither would the Sea Snake for that matter, fond of Daemon he may be. The betrothal between Rhaenyra and her cousin was the culmination of decades of ambition, bruised ego’s and envy colliding with one another.

When word reached Daemon that Viserys had chosen to sell his daughter and heir to House Velaryon to right his own errors, he had been rightfully incensed—not too unlike Jaehaerys after all, that one.

To be honest, Daemon would have been able to put his pride aside if he did not know the nature of young Laenor’s affections. Not that he cared—Daemon had seen war and cared little for one’s sexual proclivities. However, he also knew that if the boy was unable to sire any children upon Rhaenyra, he would only be weakening her already unsteady claim. Viserys may have named her heir and kept her as such, even after siring a half-breed on his Andal bride, but the realm – or at least some its men – would not suffer a woman ruling them lightly and would do all they could to ensure it did not happen—with House Hightower and their false gods at the forefront of it all.

A load of poppycock, to be honest, for all sons of House Targaryen knew that it was Visenya and Rhaenys who were the true rulers of the kingdoms after the Conquest—far more suited to the intricacies of governance than their brother-husband, who held the formal title of king. Same thing went for Jaehaerys. Though he may despise his grandmother for selling him to House Royce, he was not blind to her wisdom and knowledge—though rarely displayed toward those of her own blood, if her kin’s betrothals and her children abandoning her and her husband were anything to go by.

Daemon may have coveted the crown once upon a time—what man would not? He was far more insulted by his brother believing lesser men over him than the actual choice to name Rhaenyra Princess of Dragonstone. The Rogue Prince did not believe in these Andals’ hatred of women and fear of their ruling. No, he believed as the Valyrians of old did, that female dragonlords were no different from male. One had a cock and the other a cunt. That was it.

If not for Corlys’ boundless ambition and Jaehaerys’ righteous fear of the Sea Snake ending their house’s dynasty and supplanting it with his own house, Daemon might have been persuaded into supporting his cousin over his brother. Though he loved Viserys, the wielder of Visenya’s blade was not blind to his many shortcomings—his first and true wife’s death being only one of them.

No, Daemon had instead chosen to stand by his brother, and all had gone to shite since. Viserys had always been too kind and trusting, and in need of others’ validation, and he had only gotten worse with time, for now it was only one’s whose validation he craved—Ser Otto Hightower. The most treacherous of serpents Daemon had ever come across.

During his three decades breathing life, the Rogue Prince had fought brigands in the Riverlands, Dornish outlaws in the Marshes, Ironborn reavers on the western coast and Triarchy corsairs on the Stepstones, but none had been as vile and treacherous as the former Hand of the King.

In the two moons since he had been forced to flee the capital in light of his brother’s pitiful fury, it had come to his ear that the Hightower cunt had been dismissed and banished to the Oldtown once more. Whatever it was that had Viserys at long last drop the shutters in front of his eyes must have been serious enough, for his lips had been very near-attached to the man’s arse for the past decade-and-a-half.

Not that it truly mattered for he was still wed to the Andal serpent’s sprog, having sired on her abominations—undoubtedly future threats to his niece’s rightful ascent to the Conquerors’ Throne.

The Hightower was built on greed and vanity—the need to be the greatest structure in existence. Their house had once been amongst the most powerful of House Gardener’s bannermen, if not the most powerful. None could deny their leading role in the development of the petty kingdoms of Westeros and their successor states. All kingdoms, bar the ones of Winter and of the Iron Isles, had septs, septries and motherhouses on their lands, populated by adherents by a faith that had its strength and base of power and influence in Hightower domain. The kings and lords were advised by maesters, who were educated and sent out from the Citadel—in the Oldtown as well.

For all intents and purposes, House Hightower had its talons deep within all the separate kingdoms of Westeros—even the Principality of Dorne—thus making it a powerhouse with before unseen influence.

Until the dragons.

Though the Order of Maesters and the Faith of the Seven remained powerful institutions, now a more fiercer power existed. Emigrated from the shores of Dragonstone—the westernmost outpost of the fallen and damned Freehold, House Targaryen succeeded in making all the kingdoms, bar Dorne, kneel to them.

Rather than look toward the Oldtown for guidance, now the King Upon the Iron Throne was the supreme authority—higher even than the High Septon and his Most Devout, or the maesters sent out by the Citadel to guide and influence the lords and ladies of the realm.

It would only get worse with time for the Hightowers for on the shores of Blackwater Bay a city developed, enveloping the wooden Aegonfort and later the Red Keep—King’s Landing. Slowly and steadily the Targaryens were sapping House Hightower and Oldtown of what little strength and influence remained still to both.

Unlike his brother and grandfather, Daemon was not blind. Whatever reason the Hightowers had to move at court and feign devotion to foreign dragonlords, whom they derided as faithless apostates only a century earlier, could not be good.

Despite what many believed of the Rogue Prince, as a young lad he had spent many a hour in the libraries of the Red Keep and Dragonstone, learning the folklore and heritage of the peoples of whom they were the last true remnant.

The Freehold was a poisoned empire built on the bondage of men and dragons alike, and would not do to be truly replicated, Daemon knew, and yet, it also held values like the purity of the blood of the dragon high above all, which he wholeheartedly agreed with.

A son of a Lord Freeholder, least of all a dragonlord himself, wedding an Andal would not merely have been frowned upon—it would have been outright forbidden only centuries prior. Any progeny begotten during such an uneven and unnatural union would not have been permitted to survive past childbirth, as cruel as it may sound.

And yet Aegon the Dragon allowed his son of three and ten name days to be wed to a Hightower woman of three and twenty name days—the niece of a leader of men, who believed himself to be the moral authority of all. Higher even than the king, many of the most pious whispered.

The cursed union between dragon and prey had blessedly proven unfruitful and the future reign of the man who would be dubbed Maegor the Cruel ended as it started, with a usurpation.

Though this time it was the usurpation of a woman.

With his mother’s aid, Jaehaerys stole the crown from his nieces’ golden heads and succeeded his uncle upon the Iron Throne, disregarding his fallen brother’s blood. Both of the true heirs would die without offspring. One in the Oldtown after living her life worshipping false gods and the other cursed and broken after her time upon Balerion’s back above the Smoking Sea.

It was nigh a century later that his brother had made the mind-numbingly foolish decision to follow in the footsteps of the man Otto Hightower enjoyed comparing Daemon to—by wedding his servant’s daughter. One who brought little to the Crown besides righteous fury from the Vale and disgust from those who believed their daughters or sisters were of a higher stature than the sole daughter of a second son, risen too far above his station.

Self-hatred warred with self-pity within the Rogue Prince’s heart and mind but nonetheless, he knew—he must return to court. If not, Rhaenyra would inevitably fall victim to the ambitions of her father’s treacherous whore and her scheming sire—banished he may be.

What mother would wish to see ascend a child of not her own blood to the throne of her husband? No, it was a foregone conclusion that she would turn on the young woman who had given her a higher station than she deserved, and which she had repaid by slipping in the bed of her mistress’ father.

Laenor, kind and honourable he may be, would be no great help in thwarting her foes and averting any scandals or throat-slitters sent Rhaenyra’s way. If the boy would be allowed to sail the seas and fly the skies for all eternity without the need for duty, he would grab the non-existent chance with both his hands and never let go.

No, Daemon was needed. If not for he, at least for Rhaenyra. The girl was yet kind and open, she would soon enough be faced with the harsh pitfalls of court intrigue and the nobility’s ambitions.

For nigh all his life, Daemon had been in service of his house. When Jaehaerys had need of one to hunt down a violent brigand or quell an Ironborn reaver, he would send Daemon. The same things went for Viserys, though he went a step further by exiling or deriding him when Otto whispered falsehoods in his ear. The Rogue Prince may despise the late Conciliator but at least the man was appropriately grateful when Daemon successfully did his bidding and kept the peace in his expansive realm.

For mayhaps the first time in his life Daemon would cease to serve his brother and instead opt to prioritize another—Rhaenyra.

Which is why he had been careful as he travelled anonymously and without any trace to the Vale of Arryn by ship, and then alternately by foot or lone horse to Runestone to at long last liberate himself of the unwanted shackle at his leg. If he were to wed Rhaenyra, he had to ensure the humiliation that resided still at Runestone was erased.

And so it was done.

By having left Caraxes at Dragonstone, Daemon had at least created the illusion of plausible deniability. Gerardys was a loyal man, who would gladly testify and vouch for his presence at his house’s true ancestral home.

No, none would ever formally tie him to Rhea’s brutal death—crushed underneath her horse whilst hunting with her cousins in the hills surrounding that pathetic wasteland.

As of that day Prince Daemon Targaryen vowed to cease being weak in the hopes of being bestowed with his brother’s love and approval. Instead he shall do all to protect the one who had never withheld either from him.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Laenor was a good and kind man, Rhaenyra knew. Her cousin was of pure Valyrian blood and was the great-grandson of a king. He flew a mount of his own— though not hatched in the cradle like hers, he did bond with a hatchling when he was a mere toddler. Not that it mattered, her uncle had never received a cradle egg, and the Rogue Prince was the finest dragonrider House Targaryen had seen in centuries.

To any other princess or lady, the Velaryon heir would be the perfect lord husband, bringing with him the most powerful fleet in the known world and the greatest fortune west of the Narrow Sea.

But Rhaenyra Targaryen was not any other princess or lady.

She was the Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne. In due time she would sit the throne built by the Conquerors with the steel of their vanquished foes. She deserved the finest in the realm and though he was a grand warrior, or at least could one day become one, Laenor was no Daemon.

Her uncle had no peers upon dragonback or with the steel at his side. If she ever were to have need for a shield and sword, she had wished for her husband to be able to provide that and without dread that he may perish.

With Daemon she would not have any fear, while she could not proclaim the same for her younger cousin.

That is not to mention his proclivities—not that Rhaenyra truly minded. She was aware that while the Faith and their many adherents spat upon those who engaged in loving one’s own sex—whether it be men loving men or women loving women, but the Realm’s Delight cared little for the opinions of those who devoted themselves to false gods.

If man loved man, who was she to frown upon that? Who were their Andal gods to deny a man their heart?

The sole issue with Laenor’s preference was her need for an heir. Rhaenyra may not like it but if she wished to succeed her father, rather than allow the Hightowers to place Alicent’s little brat upon the throne, she would need her own heirs, begotten of a lawful union.

Dragonriding children—which is more than Alicent had brought forth so far for both Aegon and Helaena’s eggs had grown cold in the cradle mere days after their birth.

She truly feared whether Laenor would be able to do so for her.

What would come of her if she failed to bring forth sons from her womb? No doubt the lords and ladies of the realm would grow even more bold and openly demand she be replaced by that little wailing devil.

It truly galled her how these little men believed that because Alicent’s spawn was born with a little cock between his legs he was better suited to governance, as if men did not burn the world with their greed and anger.

Wars were rarely started by women. No, it was men who grew to be wanting of another’s lands or gold, or even women, and thus devastated thousands merely to get a hold of that which they desired most.

It was high time for a woman to sit the throne, mayhaps peace might be established at long last and men would finally be able to come to understand that the ones they expected to run their homes and bring forth their heirs were not inferior to them and could do nigh all they could.

Sitting at the high table, Rhaenyra watched as these same lords that would oppose her rise to the highest seat in the land arrived to celebrate a union they had wished for their own—no doubt believing that they could rule through her or even in their own right, usurping House Targaryen’s dynastic rights and powers, including the power of their dragons.

At the top of the stairs, Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of King Viserys’ Kingsguard, stood regal and true, “House Lannister with their lord, Jason Lannister. Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West.”

‘Arrogant cunt,’ Rhaenyra thought to herself. Lord Jason Lannister was the worst of what the nobility and gentry of the Seven Kingdoms had to offer: arrogant and vain beyond compare, a tad craven and certainly not particularly kind, and yet wealthier and more powerful than most.

“House Hightower with their lord, Hobert Hightower. Lord of Oldtown, the Hightower and the Port, Defender of Oldtown and the Citadel, Voice of Oldtown and Beacon of the South.”

Rhaenyra could not hide her distaste for the banished Otto Hightower’s elder brother. Though she only had the displeasure to meet him a bare few times—generally whilst the man was visiting court or negotiating trade agreements with the Crown, she had despised every single one of those moments. If his younger brother was obnoxious, Lord Hobert was markedly worse. Though not a lord paramount or a warden, and especially not a king, the Voice of Oldtown clearly believed his house to be above them all—though not even the Beacon of the South was foolhardy enough to voice it aloud.

It was just her bad luck that she found Lord Jason Lannister approaching the high table. For a count the princess curled her lip in disgust before smoothing it out before any caught sight of it.

“Congratulations, Your Grace. You have made a fine match for the Princess,” the Warden of the West addressed his king, words flowing from his lips ever so smarmily.

“Thank you, Lord Jason. I could think of no better man than Ser Laenor.”

Neither could Rhaenyra, though he still was not what she would have chosen. She had no need for a good man, but rather a strong and unyielding one.

It was Lord Jason’s irksome chuckle that had the princess paying attention to the conversation between liege and vassal once more.

“Well... if this is only the welcome feast, I admit, I cannot imagine what you might have planned for the wedding.”

“Well, my daughter is the future queen. I wanted this to be a wedding for the histories.”

Rhaenyra allowed a smirk on her lips when she noticed the man’s sour gaze at being reminded that she was bound to be his queen one day. Though if Rhaenyra was in luck, he would perish long before then.

“Where is the Queen?” the man was not yet done with his arse-kissing, “I had hoped to pay my respects.”

How one may could be so oblivious Rhaenyra could not grasp. Her father’s deadpan responses must have alerted the Lord of the West that the king no longer wished to entertain him but Lord Jason ignored the tension and cold replies.

“I understand the Queen is still readying herself for the celebrations.”

Yet another vexing chortle, “This is why men wage war... because women would never be ready for the battle in time.”

Jason Lannister truly believed himself to be amusing for he let out a few laughs at his own insulting jape.

Did he have no true grasp on what to say and what not to in the presence of his future queen? Even her father seemed annoyed at the man, though he gave the Lannister lord still the hint of smile.

“Your presence is always such a pleasure, Lord Jason,” Rhaenyra did not even attempt to hide the sarcasm and disdain from her dismissal.

“Princess... Your Grace,” and off the man was at long last.

Before Lord Hobert and his kin could approach the king and his heir, they were cut off by two quite unexpected guests: Gerold Royce, flanked by his liege, Lady Jeyne Arryn of the Eyrie. Rhaenyra had not expected her cousin to make the trek from her mountain home in the Vale. She rarely left the Eyrie for fear of usurpation by her male cousins. Which granted was not an unwarranted one. It was not like she could have counted on her father’s strength to deal with her usurpers should a coup befall her.

“Your Grace, Princess Rhaenyra, congratulations are in order,” the knight spoke before his liege lady, who shot the man an annoyed look.

“We are very honored to have you as a guest, Ser Gerold,” the king addressed the man before turning to his late queen’s niece, “As well as we are for you, My Lady.”

Rhaenyra knew there had never been a close relationship between her mother and her Arryn kin, especially not Lady Jeyne, for she had left the Eyrie far too young for that to have been possible.

Any ties between House Arryn and the Crown had been swiftly severed upon Queen Aemma’s passing and no Valelord had even been present at the king’s wedding to his second wife—which had angered Ser Otto, who had demanded the Lady Jeyne be brought before the court for the insult dealt to the King and his new Queen. His demands had been quickly denied by the king, who at least on that one occasion showed some strength.

“I thank you for the invitation, Your Grace,” the Defender of the Vale’s cold demeanour melted away when she turned to the Princess of Dragonstone, “Cousin, I am gladdened to meet you at long last,” a deep flourish followed her pronouncement.

Behind her Rhaenyra saw the sneer on Lord Hobert’s lip, which was swiftly replaced by a genial smile upon his noticing her eyes upon his person.

“Thank you, good cousin,” Rhaenyra gave the young woman, who ruled a kingdom in her own right, a warm smile, “I am certainly joyful at making your acquaintance as well.”

Her father cleared his throat, no doubt to include the Royce knight into the conversation, “I must say, I was most distressed to hear of the Lady Rhea's tragic passing. I'm very sorry for your loss.”

“Both your loss,” Rhaenyra chimed in, for she knew that Lady Jeyne had spent the early years of her reign under the regency of Lady Rhea’s father, Lord Yorbert, the now dead Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn.

Rather than allow the Lady of the Eyrie a chance to reply, Ser Gerold swiftly answered his king, “Lady Rhea was a unique character. Her kind... is not soon to be seen again.”

The princess did not know what to think of the death of her uncle’s lady wife. Though her unexpected passing was a tad suspicious, there was no reason or evidence to believe Daemon was involved, and yet she could not shake the feeling he was.

“If there is anything the crown might do to aid House Royce–

Rhaenyra’s empty offer of aid was cut off by loud drum rolls.

Lady Jeyne, Ser Gerrold and the ones waiting behind them swiftly left the dais, allowing for the royal family’s clear sight of the grand doors.

The heir to the Iron Throne could not deny the magnificent image House Velaryon cut standing high above them all, dressed in their finest.

“Lord Corlys of House Velaryon,” the Lord Commander loudly announced, “Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark. And his lady wife, Princess Rhaenys of the Houses Targaryen and Velaryon. And their son and heir, Ser Laenor of House Velaryon, the future king consort.”

Loud applause followed House Velaryon’s descent from the stairs and following trek down the aisle toward the high table.

Rhaenyra and her father had stood to await their arrival, as did the newly-appointed Hand of the King. First Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys bowed, before Laenor stepped forward and bowed solitarily to her.

Oh, how Rhaenyra wished she did not have to, but she still made her way across from the high table toward her betrothed, who climbed the stairs to greet her, “My betrothed,” Laenor replied to her with the same words and placed a soft kiss on her hand. Even Rhaenyra found the gesture charming and so did most of the crowd if their applause was anything to go by.

The remaining Velaryons and their own court bowed as one—at its head her betrothed’s lover.

And yet it was not the Velaryons’ arrival that caused the most titters but rather what happened next. As the Kingsguard were readying themselves to close the doors—without the queen having arrived yet—a group of eleven men arrived, with at their head her uncle, dressed in the finest of black and red cloth and his ever-trusty Dark Sister at his side.

She could almost feel her father’s displeasure as his brother arrived with his finery-wearing but armed men at his back—one of whom was a veritable giant. Daemon stopped at the top of the dais and waited for something. It was only when the giant man looked at the Lord Commander that the princess understood—her uncle wished to be announced. If it was not so deeply arrogant and Ser Harrold had not seemed so deeply insulted, Rhaenyra would have laughed aloud.

All around their guests stared as one of the gold cloaks whispered in Ser Harrold’s ear and her uncle put his hand upon the steel at his side whilst staring ahead.

“Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, Defender of the Stepstones and Lord of Runestone,” the displeasure clear to hear in the Lord Commander’s voice but her uncle smirked, seemingly caring little.

Rhaenyra’s looked around and watched as shock warred with amusement on her cousin Rhaenys’s face, whilst her own father had dropped his head in his hands—none could exasperate the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms quite like his younger brother.

It seemed like shock had also gotten a hold of the Arryn delegation because Lady Jeyne’s mouth was catching flies, while Ser Gerold was blinking owlishly, ostensibly baffled at her uncle’s audacity.

With a flick of Daemon’s fingers the ten men dispersed, taking up sentry around the throne room, no doubt to be summoned at the simplest of commands.

“Niece,” he addressed her directly, his tongue curling around every word, making it seem sensuous, “I believe congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you, uncle.”

“May your marriage prove fruitful,” Daemon glanced at Laenor now, narrowing his eyes at the young man as if to issue a silent threat, which if his stiffening was anything to go by was more than understood by the Velaryon heir.

Rhaenyra noticed her cousin’s flinch and her lord husband’s anger, though he said nought. Lord Corlys Velaryon understood better than most the folly it was to stand against the Rogue Prince.

Without Rhaenyra noticing, a chair had been placed at the other end of the table, and going by her father’s tight jaw, it had not been his choice. It appeared as if even now her father was quite unwilling or incapable of standing up to his younger brother—whether it be love or fear that had him back down from conflict with Daemon, Rhaenyra cared nought. Her uncle had come home and the Princess of Dragonstone was doing all she could to keep the smile off her face.

And failing.

───※ ·♛· ※───

It was just like Daemon to arrive late and make a spectacle of himself. Though judging by the empty chair at her cousin’s side, he was not the sole one bound to come late to the large welcoming feast.

Daemon’s threat to her son had not gone unnoted by either Rhaenys or her lord husband, and while she knew Corlys was quite fond of Daemon, she doubted it had gone over well with him either.

Though House Velaryon still had its spies at court, they had not been able to relay any reason as to why Viserys seemed willing to prostrate himself in such a manner by begging for their son’s hand. The lack of knowing why had made the Lady of Driftmark deeply uncomfortable. Though by the glances between uncle and niece as they sat at the high table, seized by uncomfortable silence as it was, it certainly had to do with them both, which did not settle her fearful nerves.

Rhaenys feared little in this world—she had the most powerful navy at her back, more gold than any in these Seven Kingdoms and flew a magnificent beast, but Daemon frightened her at times. Any bonds that had lived between them had long withered and frayed, so if he felt that her son stood in his way, she feared what may come of her beloved boy.

The Queen-That-Never-Was recognized now why the King was so desperate to nigh beg for Laenor’s hand in marriage. Viserys would never allow Daemon to wed his daughter and heir, not even when both seemed to have a deep want for the match. If Rhaenys knew anything about her kingly cousin, it was that the odd push-and-pull he had with his younger brother would never cease. For whatever reason, Viserys slighted Daemon at every turn, and it seemed that toxic cycle would go on for yet another turn.

The heartsick eyes between uncle and niece struck Rhaenys’ heart. It had galled her how she had been allowed a love match, as Viserys had, while Daemon had been condemned to one of familial duty and mutual disdain. If her son had not been involved, she might pulled for the two.

The king stood from his high chair, “Be welcome, as we join together in celebration. Tonight is only its beginning. We honour the crown's oldest and fiercest ally, House Velaryon. Reaching back to the days of Old Valyria and the Age of Dragons. With House Targaryen and House Velaryon united once more, I hope to herald in a second Age of Dragons in Westeros.”

The royal guests hooted and hollered, some clapping politely while others outright banged on their tables.

“And after tonight's small affair...,” loud laughter followed the king’s pronouncement, “…seven days of tournament and feasting. At the end of it all...,” the king paused, seemingly a tad emotional, “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.”

Loud applause rang through the throne room. It seemed all were joyful at the prospect of the royal wedding, though Rhaenys knew better. Most of the men present would kill for the chance at their house wedding into the royal family, thus uplifting them.

No, none were truly merry for the bride and groom to be, but eating and drinking on the Crown’s dime was enough for the lords and ladies from North to South to swallow their struck pride.

Drumming had the Princess and her knightly betrothed make their way of the dais to commence the first dance—one of few Valyrian traditions still remaining to House Targaryen.

Her cousin gazed at his niece with heart-eyes and a gentle curl to his lips. It surprised Rhaenys that none noticed the Rogue Prince’s affections when their mutual affection had immediately become so clear to her.

As Laenor and Rhaenyra twirled around the throne room, Laena stood from her chair, “What are you doing?” Rhaenys whispered.

“I am going to dance, mother.”

Rhaenys followed her eldest’s eyes to where Daemon sat on his chair, nursing a cup of wine whilst keeping an eagle-eyed look upon his niece, “Sit down!” the Lady of Driftmark pulled on her daughter’s arm, “Daemon is one you do not wish to involve yourself with.”

Laena begrudgingly sank back down in her chair, “Why not? He is a prince and rides a dragon?!” she hissed at her mother, “He is infinite times better than what father has gotten me.”

“I will talk to your father soon enough, Laena,” Rhaenys was desperate. It was bad enough that Laenor had gotten into Daemon’s crosshairs, she would not allow Laena to befall the same, “Promise me you won’t approach my cousin.”

Laena caught onto her silent despair and desperation, “I promise,” and clutched her hand.

After the Princess of Dragonstone and her betrothed had danced for a while, they were joined by many more, with lords and ladies flooding the impromptu dancefloor.

Merriment and joy was aplenty. It seemed like even the most envious cared little that eve, and instead chose to appreciate the celebrations on the Crown’s coin.

Dance followed after dance. At one point Corlys asked her to dance but upon her kind refusal, he took down Laena, with father and daughter joining their kin.

Rhaenys merely studied. She could not look away now that she knew the truth.

It was not until the Defender of the Vale walked the few steps to the high table mere minutes after Princess Rhaenyra sat herself down in her high chair once more, that the Queen-That-Never-Was glanced away.

“Your Grace,” Lady Jeyne bowed to their king, “My Prince, Lord Hand, Princess,” she addressed all that remained seated, “I wish to speak of the matters of Lady Rhea’s succession,” the young woman clearly did not like Daemon if the coldness in her eyes was anything to go by.

“There is nought to speak off,” the condescension was dripping from Daemon’s words, “The laws of these lands are on my side. Runestone is mine, as is all my Bronze Bitch owned.”

Ser Gerold bristled at the insult, as did the Warden of the East, “How dare–

“Careful,” the Rogue Prince threatened, “I am not above blessing my niece’s betrothal celebration by spilling the blood of beasts.”

Lady Jeyne ignored the explicit threat, “Runestone is an ancient seat, it should remain in the hands–

“You are more than allowed to pay me for it. I have no need for that hovel or its ugly bronze armor. Though I shall keep that Valyrian steel sword.”

“How dare you!” Ser Gerold blustered, “You have no right–

“I have every right. I spent the last nine and ten years wed to a dog. What was hers is now mine and any who wishes to claim differently can do so to Caraxes.”

“Daemon–

Her cousin interrupted his kingly brother, “Do not test me on this, Viserys. You won’t like how it ends.”

There were few her lord husband respected but the new Hand of the King was certainly one of them, so Rhaenys knew him to be a competent man, and so she had faith that he could be the voice of reason, “The King–

“The king does not command me,” the Rogue Prince sneered. Whatever it was that had at long last driven a permanent wedge between king and prince had to have been serious enough, for Daemon had never spoken of or to his brother in that manner before, “I have a war dragon and he most certainly does not.”

“You speak of treason, my prince,” the Lord Hand spoke in a soothing but firm tone.

“You call it treason, I call it regicide.”

The king sank into his chair as if all the wind had left him. Rhaenys never thought she’d see the day Daemon turned his back on the brother that always took him for granted. Her younger cousin was a tad like a beaten dog who came back to its owner for yet another trashing.

“Uncle…,” Rhaenyra tried.

“By law, I am the Lord of Runestone for my late lady wife designated no heir and she had no direct descendants, only distant ones—like that blowhard cunt,” Daemon gestured to the ever-reddening Ser Gerold, ignoring his niece, “If Lady Jeyne wishes to buy its lands and titles from me, she may, but it shall not come cheap.”

The Defender of the Vale seemed to at last understand that appealing to the prince’s goodwill would not do her any good, so she tried for the king instead, “Your Grace, the Vale has remained a faithful ally of the Crown even in light of…,” the woman hesitated, “…more recent events. Runestone can under no circumstance leave the hands of the Valemen. I urge you to–

“It is not up to him!” Daemon stood from his chair. Around them people were noticing the argument and were ceasing conversation, “You speak about my lands and titles to another man again, I shall fly to the Eyrie and put an end to your beastly lineage myself.”

Gasps were heard from those who sat closest to the high table but the Rogue Prince ignored them all, “By the laws and precedent of these Seven Kingdoms when a lord or lady has no heirs in the first, second or third lines and leaves no formal final testament, their titles and holdings are inherited by their living spouse.”

“I urge you to see reason, my prince,” the Lord Hand was glancing around the hall, no doubt assessing their strength should violence break out.

“I tire of this conversation and so it ceases. The final time my brother slights me has passed. If the king wishes conflict, he may have one,” Viserys seemed unable to look at his brother, “It shall not end in his favour. He believes for me to be Maegor the Cruel come again, and so I shall be.”

The threat was clear to all—Maegor had slain two of his own nephews. For the Hand it had gone too far for he gestured for the Kingsguard to approach.

Daemon had to do nought for his gold cloaks barred them passage, bringing most of the celebrating to a sudden halt—bar the few oblivious.

“Please, let us cease this conversation for the eve,” the king sounded tired, whispering so none could hear them, “It is your niece’s betrothal feast.”

Daemon looked at his niece, who had tears in her eyes at the prospect of violence, and his eyes softened, “We shall let it be for this eve.”

Before Ser Gerold could interject, his liege lady did, “The Vale is willing to do the same,” both lady and knight left the dais.

At the king’s physical command, the Kingsguard fell back. As did Daemon’s gold cloaks when he gestured to them.

Viserys waved to the musicians to start their music once more, “A little disagreement between kin, nought to concern yourselves with. Please, enjoy the merriment of this auspicious occasion.”

Rhaenys doubted there was anyone who could not see through the king’s brittle smile but nonetheless they all did as they were bid.

For a few minutes there was only silence at the high table. None dared to even raise their cups to drink.

“Command the Kingsguard against a prince of the blood again, Lord Strong, and your house shall go the way of your predecessors,” Daemon threatened after the celebrations recommenced, “House Hoare. House Qoherys. House Harroway. House Towers,” as the prince summarized all those who had ruled the lands of Harrenhal before Lord Lyonel, he paused between each of the houses mentioned, “One might almost believe Harrenhal to be cursed.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

Sat at her vanity, clad in the finest of silks, Queen Alicent felt mayhaps for the first time truly powerful. She may have been queen for well over three sunturns but she rarely felt as such.

Now she did.

In just a short while she would make her way down to the throne room in her silken green gown and show the world at long last where she stood. No longer would she allow herself to be beaten back into the shadows by her fallen friend.

Rhaenyra had made her choices.

She had broken faith with her by lying to Alicent and laying with Ser Criston—a fine and honourable man broken by the princess’ greed and want.

The Queen Consort would no longer allow herself to be strayed from the path of the good and the righteous in the defense of the false Princess of Dragonstone. It was as her father said: the Seven Kingdoms would never accept Rhaenyra as queen, and thus she had a duty to her son. Aegon’s birthright would not be stripped from him by the temper tantrums of a spoiled princess and her weak-spined father.

Tonight, all would see. The beacon on the Hightower would burn green and call all its loyal vassals and allies to war.

A knock at her bedchambers, where Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting were readying her hair, roused the queen consort from inner dialogue, “Enter,” she ordered about whoever had disturbed them.

Opening the doors to her bedchamber was Ser Steffon Darklyn—a man who always looked upon her with cold eyes. Her father had claimed it was because he misliked the now former Hand of the King and did not approve of her new status as queen consort. House Darklyn was amongst the oldest and most loyal of House Targaryen’s vassals and it showed in all the White Cloak did.

“Ser, you are disturb–

The man had the audacity to interrupt her, “The King has commanded for you to come down immediately…,” he paused before adding her titles, “Your Grace.”

“I am still readying. I shall come when–

“His Grace The King wished for me inform you that if you do not come now, you are not allowed to enter the throne room and join the celebrations for the remainder of the eve.”

Alicent felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. She could not believe her lord husband dared to insult her like this. Around her, Alicent’s maids gazed upon her with sympathy, making even grander her public humiliation.

The knight merely kept standing at the door, gazing upon her with those same lifeless eyes.

“I shall come now, of course,” Alicent strived to not show her displeasure.

Her eldest of maids placed the tiara once worn by Queen Alysanne upon her head before Alicent turned.

Alicent walked to the doors, ignoring the knight, and exited her bedchambers. The queen consort knew her way to the throne room by heart—she had lived in the Red Keep her entire life, if not in Maegor’s Holdfast.

The royal castle was a large one and as such it took quite a while before she arrived at the entrance to the throne room—Ser Steffon still a silent presence at her back.

Though she did not intend for it, Alicent did feel nervosity take a hold of her heart. Battle lines would be drawn tonight.

With a swift gesture she ordered the Kingsguard to announce her arrival by slipping through a thin sliver of space left between the grand doors.

It was only a count or ten later that the wooden gateway to the throne room was opened and the queen consort stepped forward.

“Her Grace Queen Alicent, Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms,” Alicent was sure she did not imagine the animosity and derision in the Lord Commander’s voice, who while never warm, had certainly never been outright hostile toward her.

As she stood atop the steps, the Hightower queen noticed that all around the throne room mouths had dropped open.

Making her way down she stared ahead—bar for meeting Ser Criston’s proud gaze, as well as those of her uncle and his kin. Even her brother had righted his look and looked upon her with some form of affection.

It was only when she was midway the throne room that she let her eyes fall upon the high table. All had stood as etiquette demanded, though all were gazing at her with some displeasure. It was not until she had reached the Hightower contingent that she noticed a lone figure still seated, staring at her with fire in his eyes and a violent sneer upon his lips.

Prince Daemon was here.

And Alicent felt her heart drop.

Notes:

Notes: I made some changes to what happened in canon. I had Alicent go a tad further and choose for a more than late entrance, making greater the insult. This story is a bit out there but nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it.

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Chapter 2: black is the queen of all colours

Summary:

There is not a sane man alive who would raise his sword to an enraged dragon—for fire melts all, from stone to steel.

Why would Alicent do this? What did she have to gain by purposely arriving late to his daughter’s betrothal feast? Making matters even worse, she wore that blasted green gown despite the seamstresses having crafted her a nigh-invaluable dress in the colours of House Targaryen on Viserys’ command—to show the Kingdoms they stood united as a House and as a dynasty, as the king had informed his lady wife the supper after it was delivered to her.

By wearing her family’s colours, his consort had openly declared allegiance to her father’s house over her husband’s—a grave insult on its own. Making matters even worse was the colour. King Viserys prayed that none might take this as a declaration of war upon Rhaenyra—even if Alicent might have meant it as such. After all, green is what the beacon burned when the Hightower called its banners to war.

Viserys could not understand where Alicent got the audacity to do such a thing, nor why. Unlike her banished father, his lady wife had never felt the need to try and advance her son’s position. Where Otto had tried to convince him multiple times that for the good of the realm Aegon should be named heir, his queen consort had always kept quiet. While she did not oppose her father’s words, she did not openly support them either. This was an abrupt escalation and it baffled the king.

The king’s eyes flitted around the throne room as his consort painstakingly slowly made her way toward the high table, where the Targaryens and Velaryons sat. Many seemed displeased with her actions—giving Viserys a tentative measure of peace—though others seemed amused or downright pleased.

The Lannister blowhard was smirking widely, no doubt still insulted that he was not chosen as Rhaenyra’s consort and at the king’s harsh dressing down of him at Aegon’s second name day celebrations. The Hightower contingent was the most pleased with their scion’s loud and unsubtle signal. Alicent had allowed herself to be turned into a symbol of her father’s ambitions and her familial house’s greed. Viserys understood now why Lord Hobert and his kin wore green that eve, despite it not being their house colours—his queen had conspired with her Hightower kin behind his back.

Viserys was pleased to see that both the Vale and the North were properly annoyed at the display. As was his great-uncle, who was looking at his wife as if she was vermin. The king could not proclaim to have ever had a close relationship with Lord Boremund Baratheon, his father and then Viserys becoming heir had made that nigh impossible for Rhaenys was his niece—born of his beloved sister’s womb. Nonetheless, he had remained a loyal vassal, and as such it gladdened Viserys that House Baratheon would continue that tradition.

The high table was silent—none dared to speak. Rhaenyra seemed to be in shock at Alicent’s inexplicable actions, while the Velaryons were outright insulted. It was the sudden screeching of a chair and its harsh banging on the floor as it was thrown back that had many tear their gazes away from the queen consort, who had paused at the violent sound, and turned it to the high table.

Predictably it was Daemon who had decided to make a ruckus, though the rage upon his face was something Viserys had never witnessed before. The Rogue Prince swiftly marched toward the king, bypassing the Hand and the empty chair of the freshly arrived queen, and grabbed Viserys by the upper arm, jostling him around, “What are you going to do about this mockery aimed at your daughter?”

Though Daemon whispered, to Viserys it felt like a shout. The king was unable to answer, instead merely stuttering an insufficient reply, “I… I don’t,” Viserys furrowed his brows in confusion. No full sentence seemed willing to be spoken. It was almost as if all reason or thought had left him in the face of his brother’s fiery rage.

“Either you intervene or I shall. Your Andal whore has spat upon your heir, humiliating her for all to see! At her wedding no less!” Daemon whispered-hissed in his ear whilst still painfully gripping his arm, “You must ensure none see her little rebellion as viable.”

Viserys wished to protest but mayhaps for the first time in his life, he was frightened of his brother and loudly winced at the pain he was inflicting upon him—Daemon had never physically harmed him before.

When the king did nought, his brother let out the harshest and most guttural noise of disgust before harshly pushing him down in his chair, “You are so pathetically weak. Making you king was the gravest error I ever made, for the insult I levied onto the Gods that day by raising up a toothless dragon is unforgivable.”

Slouched in his chair, the fifth Lord of the Seven Kingdoms watched from his throne chair as his brother marched down the dais toward Queen Alicent. Though all stood, as etiquette and tradition dictated, none seemed willing to intervene and stop the enraged dragon from approaching their queen consort.

It did not take long before he arrived where Alicent stood frozen, staring at the feral dragon with wide eyes, and with an open-handed smack to her face, Daemon dropped her to the ground.

Loud gasps rang through the throne room, but none seemed willing to intervene, not even the Kingsguard, bar Ser Criston Cole. From the side of the throne room, where he stood guard over the royal family, the Kingsguard readied himself to intervene and come to the queen consort’s aid when a sword was put to his neck by the giant Gold Cloak Daemon had brought with him. The same happened with Sers Willis Fell and the Cargyll twins.

The Lord Commander and Sers Lorent Marbrand and Steffon Darklyn seemed far more hesitant at coming to the queen consort’s defence—they knew his brother better than most, having fought by his side during the Helman Rebellion of 99 AC and the Arryn Coup of 102 AC.

Even the queen’s own family was unsure of whether to intervene—all knew who Daemon was and no doubt feared what he would do to them if his gaze settled upon them.

Though Viserys had been forcibly seated, all around the high table others still stood, and where before displeasure, shock and anger had warred for dominion over their expression, now some sort of glee had taken over Rhaenys and Corlys, while Rhaenyra seemed hesitant—no doubt still possessing some affection for her former friend.

Daemon pulled Alicent from the floor, where he had dropped her with his harsh strike, before ripping the crown from her hair and throwing it to the ground.

Alicent cowered before his brother—who looked as imposing and fright-inducing as Viserys had ever seen him—so, he could not blame her.

A pin could be dropped and all would hear it, so when Daemon finally spoke, he had everyone’s attention, “Do you know why your husband is king?” shaking her by way of her arm, almost as if she was a common criminal, which to his brother she might as well have been. From the moment Rhaenyra had been born, Daemon had refused any harm to befall her and that eve, Alicent had attempted to inflict a great blow to her.

Once, when Rhaenyra was eight name days old and Daemon was visiting from his journeys across the Narrow Sea, she had her hands caned by one of her septas for her disobedience, and Daemon had cut the woman’s hands off—Viserys had been forced to exile him afterwards, to not invoke the Faith’s ire but none had ever laid a hand on the Realm’s Delight ever again.

And now, yet again, his brother was the one coming to his daughter’s defence, even if it meant harming his brother’s consort.

King Viserys felt for his queen, who almost resembled a skittish little bird, about to fall prey to a wild cat. When she did not answer his brother’s question, Daemon raised his hand, forcing a flinch from his lady wife, “He…The King…,” Alicent stuttered, seemingly having fallen prey to the same ailment that had plagued Viserys when he had come face-to-face with the Rogue Prince, “The Great Council–

It seemed as if that was what Daemon wished to hear for he interrupted her, “Ah, yes. The Great Council. Let me tell you the truth of this great council. It was nought but a sham. Jaehaerys gave these cunts,” his brother gestured around him, “the illusion they had a choice, but there never was any. His little rats, your father at the forefront, did his dirty work by whispering in the ears of the feebleminded, who promptly did as their king commanded.”

Some of the lords were insulted if their expressions were anything to go by, but none spoke. Instead, his brother carried on with his barrage.

“No, no. My brother is king because I allow him to be king,” Daemon spat at the queen consort, “I could have killed him anytime. Hells, I could kill him right now. Do you believe any would oppose me?! Mayhaps the Faith? Or the Hightower?”

None of the air trapped in his lungs seemed willing to leave. To Viserys it seemed almost as if time stood still.

“The Hightower could burn, as Harrenhal did, with a single command. Your cunt house reduced to ashes in the wind. If I were to decide to do so, the High Septon and his Most Devout nonces could be butchered within days,” all around the throne room people either gazed upon the Rogue Prince with abject terror or grand admiration, “You think you have power? You think by wearing this little dress you have made a grand statement?”

Daemon let go of the queen’s arm, who promptly slumped onto the stone floor, before his brother suddenly grasped Alicent’s dress, tearing parts of it from her body—baring the thin chemise she wore underneath to all.

Gasps rang through the throne room for such humiliation was unseen before—not since Maegor had one dared to. His brother had shamed the queen consort for the world to see, and Viserys was too cowardly to intervene. Terror had seized his throat and spine both and he seemed unable to use either any longer.

To the left of the throne room, Ser Criston Cole struggled underneath the giant gold cloak’s sword, which got Daemon’s attention, who swiftly unsheathed Dark Sister and pointed it toward the Kingsguard, “You wish to fight for this traitor’s honour, Dornishman?”

An almost imperceptible nod from his brother had the gold cloak lower his sword from Cole’s neck and step back.

“Then prove it. Are you willing to die for her for death is what shall come your way if you raise your sword against me?”

Ser Criston seemed to care nought for the Rogue Prince’s threatening words for he unsheathed his steel and roared at the man before charging him with his sword held high.

It was over within counts.

Daemon swiftly ducked the man’s reckless charge and rather than use his sword, Viserys’ brother unsheathed his dagger and plunged it into the back of the knight’s head before using it to hold the Kingsguard upright as Dark Sister slit the foolish man’s throat.

With a loud thud, the white cloak fell to the ground.

Viserys had always known his brother was a grand warrior but not like this. Where the dead Kingsguard only four years prior had beaten his brother both in the joust and the melee, now he had been butchered like a common brigand for all to see.

Around the throne room terror shone in the lords’ eyes for most of them had never been confronted with a dragon’s fire.

Daemon turned around and pointed Dark Sister at the queen, “Choose one.”

The sobbing Alicent said nothing.

“I said: choose one.”

Between snot-filled hiccups, she managed to croak, “I don’t understand.”

“Your family is wearing green as you are, which makes me wonder how planned this entire endeavour was. Choose one of your family to die for your treason.”

At their table, the Hightowers collectively took a step back with Lord Hobert even walking against the table, bringing forth a loud clanging.

“Choose one or I shall choose for you.”

“I will not,” his wife was either truly brave or truly foolish.

Daemon sneered at the girl before striking her with the back of his hand, bringing her to the ground once more.

Gasps and shrieks of terror were interrupted by the Hand of the King, “Enough, my prince,” who raised his voice for all to hear, “The queen has made an error in judgment but you are committing a grave treason by laying your hands on her.”

Rather than Daemon, it was Rhaenys who answered the Lord of Harrenhal, “It is not my cousin who committed treason but rather the king’s Andal consort,” the disgust while she spat out the world Andal was evident, “Lady Alicent attempted to incite rebellion tonight, with the aid of her kin. There must be recompense toward my family and the Princess of Dragonstone both.”

Alicent looked devastated, while her family kept their heads lowered.

“That is not your decision to make, princess, nor is it the prince’s,” the Hand replied.

“I am making it my decision,” his brother sneered before lifting his hand toward the two gold cloaks who stood at the doors.

Ser Harrold was gearing to intervene, as was Ser Willis, both still standing at the door, but the man at their backs with unsheathed swords had them temper their impulses.

When the two men opened the doors, dozens of gold cloaks filed into the throne room, invading the peace with its former Commander’s blessings—for a count Viserys feared he would die that day, at the hands of his ambitious brother. However, the City Watchmen merely took up guard along the throne room, reinforcing his brother’s control over the current proceedings.

“I shall ask you one final time, good-sister,” Daemon sneered at his wife, “Which of your kin shall die?”

With baited breath the lords and ladies watched the brutal spectacle unfold. Viserys was disappointed by the cowardice displaced by the men who claimed to be anointed knights. Amongst his own small council, Ser Tyland Lannister was a knight and yet he still sat beside his brother, cowering with fright rather than doing as his oath commanded and picking up his sword in defence of the weak.

Alicent just kept on with her snivelling—refusing to condemn anyone.

When Daemon suddenly straightened his back, Viserys knew carnage would follow in his wake.

With a swift hand, the Rogue Prince unsheathed his Valyrian steel sword—a beautiful sword once carried by Queen Visenya. The Hightowers shrunk back as one, flinching with every step Daemon took.

“Hobert Hightower,” Daemon rested the tip of Dark Sister on the stone floor, resting both hands on its pommel, whilst standing before the Oldtown contingent, “In the name of Her Grace Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne, I, Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, Defender of the Stepstones and Lord of Runestone, find you guilty of conspiracy to commit treason and sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?”

The Voice of Oldtown trembled with tears running down his fat cheeks, “Please, I beg you, my prince. My house does not know about such matters. It was my brother,” Ser Gwayne let out a loud sound of dismay, “he told us all to wear green. We had no idea as to why.”

For a count, Daemon merely narrowed his eyes at the man while Viserys felt his heart drop. The following movement was too swift for Viserys to follow but the screams indicated exactly what happened—the Beacon of the South was dead. His head cleaved in half.

Viserys could not care though, instead, he was stuck on Hobert’s confession of Otto’s involvement. The king knew his old friend was disappointed in Rhaenyra’s continued heirship and wished for his grandson to ascend to the position, but open rebellion? Viserys never would have thought the man capable of such treachery.

While the king was stuck in his mind, Daemon pointed his sword at the dead man’s lady wife, “Do not believe for one rotten second that I fell for your husband’s mummers’ play. Your house has risen above its station and it seems it has fallen to me to rectify this error,” the woman’s weeping and her family’s pleading did nothing to halt Dark Sister.

“Kepus,” Rhaenyra standing and speaking had all stand at attention, even the king was broken out of his inner contemplation, “Do not do this.”

“Issa iā nāpāstre. Zirȳla lentor issi nāpāstri [She is a traitor. Her family are traitors],” Daemon did not take his eyes off the trembling woman.

“Nyke gīmigon [I know],” it hurt Viserys to hear the solemnity in his daughter’s voice. It seemed as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, and the king had no clue how much of that he had forced upon her.

“Issa sȳrkta syt mirre ziry mōris tubī [It is better for all it end today],” Lady Hightower went the way of her husband with her head sliced in half and her kin screeching at watching their matriarch butchered.

Daemon had no idea what he had done. His brother had started a war with the South for the Reach would side with the Hightowers, King Viserys had no doubt. As would the Citadel and the Faith for that matter. Even with their open treachery, both ancient institutions would no doubt side with the Hightower after this brutality. The West would follow, as would the Riverlands. Who knows about the others?

“Kesan daor qringaomagon ao hae ziry gōntan [I will not fail you as he did],” his brother nodded toward him, forcing a flinch from Viserys.

All would whisper of his weakness after this day. His peoples would never respect him anymore.

“Luthor, Harwin, take a dozen men and bring me my brother’s half-breeds. I am certain they are in their nursery,” though whispered, all heard the threat within clearly.

Viserys wished to weep but could do nought but stare at the man he could no longer recognize as his brother. The queen consort let out a loud wail at the loud threat posed toward their children, whilst the giant Gold Cloak marched toward the doors, twirling his broadsword in his hand.

“Uncle, no!” his daughter shouted.

The Hand issued his own command, “Harwin!”

The Hand’s son, known as Breakbones all over the realm for he was considered the strongest man within Viserys’ Seven Kingdoms, ignored his father, so Lyonel re-issued the same command to his son.

Ser Harwin turned his eyes to the dais before marching toward the doors, alongside the giant man.

His Hand fell back onto his chair, the wind taken out of his sails for his son and heir had disregarded his order in favour of the one given by the king’s brother—a man who had not been Commander of the City Watch for four long years.

“Kepus, kostilus, [uncle, please],” Rhaenyra had resorted to begging. In High Valyrian it might have been, so not many understood, but it still raised the hair on Viserys’ arms to hear the desperation in his only daughter’s voice.

‘First daughter,’ Viserys thought to himself with shame creeping in for forgetting Helaena for the barest of counts.

“Pōnta kessa daor keligon. Pōnta kessa dōrī keligon ēva nyke mōris ziry [They shall not stop. They shall never stop until I end it],” Daemon raised his chin high, certain of himself.

“Issi riñar [They are children],” Rhaenyra nigh whispered, yet the silence that reigned the throne room meant all heard her words nonetheless, though few understood them.

“Stop,” both men had ceased their trek toward the throne room doors upon Rhaenyra’s first speaking, so it was an empty gesture more than anything, “Leave the children be. For now. But the City Watch shall guard their chambers. None but the princess and I shall have access to them.”

A tense silence reigned over the throne room while his brother stooped down and grabbed the dead Ser Criston’s white cloak before using Dark Sister to sever it from his shoulder, and using the cloth to clean his sword and sheathing it in its scabbard.

“Lord Ormund, with your father’s death, you are the new Lord of Oldtown, and yet, you wore green as well.”

“My prince, I swear to you. I had no idea as to why–

“I believe you,” his brother replied, which had the new Beacon of the South cease some of his shivering, though Viserys suspected Daemon was lying to the young man, “But there must be restitution. The Crown fines House Hightower two million gold dragons. One shall go to the royal treasury and one to the treasury of Dragonstone. Its war fleet, which consists of a few dozen war galleys, I believe, is hereby seized by the Crown as reparations, and will make its way to the capital within the fortnight. Beyond that, for the next two decades, the Hightower shall provide the Crown with grain at half price. Within the next year, you shall also deliver three tonnes of grain to the North free of charge,” Daemon paused, “Winter is coming.”

Though it was only for a count, a slight smile appeared on the face of the Warden of the North before it was gone once more.

“I understand, my prince,” Lord Ormund Hightower answered.

“Ser Otto Hightower is hereby summoned back to the capital to answer for his crimes of treason and attempted usurpation of the rightful heir.”

Alicent had been silently weeping on the floor of the throne room, ignored by all, until the latest proclamation had her raise her head toward him, “Husband, please.”

Viserys was weak. In the face of danger, he fled and so he turned his gaze away from his lady wife.

“He will kill my father! He will kill your son!”

“Your son?” Daemon questioned, “Do you not have a daughter as well? Why no concern for her? Perhaps because she has no cock and thus you see no way of using her to usurp my niece?” The mocking tone was thick and obvious to all, “Your son will never be King. I shall never allow a half-breed to sit the Conqueror’s Throne. I will sooner cut out the boy’s heart myself.”

The King shivered at hearing the violent threat levied at his son.

“Balon, take the queen consort to her chambers. She is not to receive any visitors, nor is she allowed to leave. Luthor, ensure that there are at least three hundred gold cloaks within the Red Keep at all times to ensure the peace,” both men sagely nodded at Daemon and did as they were bid, with the former pulling up the queen consort from the ground.

Next Daemon gestured for Ser Harwin to approach with the man swiftly making his way to his erstwhile commander. His brother whispered in the man’s ears while the heir to Harrenhal nodded in assent. Upon the last whispers falling from the Rogue Prince’s lips, Ser Harwin swiftly marched out of the throne room with half a dozen men following behind him.

“Look at me,” his brother gazed around the throne room, “All of you will look at me,” almost as one, the frightened men and women Viserys had invited to celebrate his daughter’s nuptials turned their eyes to the Rogue Prince, “You think you matter. Let me disavow you of that notion. You are standing in the presence of the Blood of the Dragon. As our mounts, we answer to neither Gods nor men. Otto Hightower is guilty of a crime far worse than treason,” the pause sucked all the air out of the room, “Sacrilege. By sending his daughter into the king’s chambers, he had a hand in the bestiality that followed.”

Viserys knew his brother disapproved of his union with Alicent, as he did of his own forced one with the former Lady of Runestone, but he never expected such public vitriol from him. Daemon had always been a proponent of the ways of old—dragonlords only wed dragonlords, and if that was impossible, the blood of Old Valyria. But the comparison to bestiality was outrageous and insulting beyond measure.

“You may believe his ambitions were not ill-founded. Some of you may think that young Aegon should be named his father’s heir. Luckily, I do not care what you think. Your opinion is as irrelevant as your histories,” Daemon’s hawk-eyed stare landed on Lord Rickard Stark, “What say you, Lord Stark? Do you stand still by your king’s pronouncement of Princess Rhaenyra as Heir to the Iron Throne?”

Lord Rickard was a harsh man, though competent. The North was a well-run kingdom, and the Warden of the North governed it with minimal interference from the Crown. Viserys did not know him very well. In the decade-and-a-half since he had been proclaimed Prince of Dragonstone and subsequently Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, he had met the man three times, and all three times, the King had felt sufficiently intimidated by the Northern warrior-lord.

“My oath remains as steadfast today as it did four sunturns prior. House Stark and the North stands with Princess Rhaenyra, my prince,” the man’s gruff voice chilled Viserys—Rickard Stark was the personification of Winter Is Coming.

“I never believed otherwise, my lord warden.”

Daemon gave the man a shallow bow, which shocked Viserys. There were few people his brother truly respected and it seemed as if the Lord of Winterfell was one of them.

“Lady Jeyne, what of the Vale? Does House Arryn and its vassals remember its oaths? Recognize and honour its blood?”

“It does, Your Grace,” the Defender of the Vale was not a great admirer of the king’s brother but Viserys saw her throw a kind smile in his direction, “The Vale of Arryn and its bannermen recognize only Princess Rhaenyra as Heir to the Iron Throne, and should any try to usurp her, we shall raise our banners in her defence.”

“Good,” Daemon gave the young woman a shrewd look before returning her smile, “Lord Boremund. You are brother to our late grandfather. Kin to House Targaryen. Do you remember your oath?”

The Lord of Storm’s End was a harsh man, far more so than Viserys remembered their grandfather being.

“I do, my prince, and it remains strong and unbroken. Should any dare to question her right to the throne or see to usurp her, they shall see our fury unleashed,” the gruff man rasped.

“Good man,” Daemon nodded.

“How about you, Lord Grover? You were not present four years ago and as such did not take your oath in person.”

The king wondered how his brother knew that for he had been exiled when he named his daughter heir in front of the court. Viserys had wished for Daemon to give his own oath but the Rogue Prince had already fled King’s Landing upon dragonback, with his whore in tow.

“You sent a letter claiming ill health and made your vow through the pen. It does us all good to see your health has improved these days,” the Lord Paramount of the Trident was an old and frail man but still pious above all, the king knew, and as such he feared that Lord Grover might not be so willing to do as he was bid, “Mayhaps you’d like to give the Princess her oath in person now.”

Lord Grover did not rise but his son and heir did, “My prince, my father’s oath remains as unbreakable as it was four years prior. He is of such an advanced age, I see no reason to make him do it again,” Ser Statler Tully was a man of fifty name days already, and yet did not seem to possess an ounce of wisdom.

“I do not care what you see reason in. Your father was able to travel to the capital today and eat and drink on the Crown’s coin, and as such he can find it in himself to kneel before the Princess of Dragonstone and say his oath of fealty,” Daemon followed up the statement by placing his hand on his sheathed steel, “Your vassal houses remember their oaths. Do they not?”

It was Lord Blackwood who answered the prince’s call, “We do, my prince. House Blackwood stands by the king’s heir, no matter who may oppose her. We will take up arms against any and all who may attempt to displace her,” the Lord of Raventree Hall followed that up with a deep bow toward the dais. Viserys might have believed the bow was meant for him, if not for the man’s words, “We stand by the Princess of Dragonstone. This I swear by the Old Gods and the New.”

Lord Blackwood was followed by Lord Frey, who in turn was followed by Lord Mooton until all of the Riverlords present reinforced their vows. Most of them did as Lord Blackwood and bowed deeply to his daughter, though there were the few that did not, like Lord Humfrey Bracken and Lord Balder Vance. If Viserys noticed, the king was certain his brother did as well.

“How about you, Lord Strong?” the prince turned to the high table, where the Hand sat stupefied still.

The Hand of the King shook off the confusion before standing, “House Strong remembers its oaths, my prince. It recognizes only the Princess Rhaenyra as the rightful Heir to the Iron Throne.”

Viserys knew that his new Hand was a traditional man, who disapproved at first of naming Rhaenyra over Daemon, but over time the Lord of Harrenhal had grown quite fond of the king’s daughter. The Hand had even gone as far as arguing against a match between the Princess of Dragonstone and her younger brother of only two name days.

Daemon turned back to the table where the Lord of Riverrun and his kin sat, “If his bannermen can say their oaths and remember, I am certain Lord Grover can do the same.”

The elderly man had some fire in him still for he rose unaided from his seated position, and stumbled toward the high table.

His brother raised his hand, halting Lord Grover’s son, and instead followed the old man himself, “I believe you remember the oath?”

“I do, my prince,” the anger was clear for all to hear but his brother seemed to care little. With the aid of his cane, the Lord Paramount of the Trident went down on one knee, “I, Lord Grover of House Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord of Riverrun, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra.”

With Daemon’s aid, the elderly man stood from his kneeling position and shuffled back to his seat.

“Lord Lannister?”

Viserys wished to groan for he knew his brother would take the opportunity to antagonize the Warden of the West. Daemon respected few but he rarely openly outed his disgust. The men of House Lannister were an exception. He had once claimed that there had not been a single exceptional individual amongst their bloodline since the Conquest, stating that since Loreon kneeled, it had been a parade of sad sacks and weaklings.

“My prince?”

If his shaking was anything to go by, Jason Lannister was close to soiling himself for all to see.

“Your father was the one to take the oath of fealty. Mayhaps you wish to retake it?”

His brother’s voice took on a saccharine quality but Viserys knew better than to trust it. One step out of line and the Lord of Casterly Rock would follow the Lord of Oldtown into an early grave.

“Of course. Certainly, I would. I would be honoured,” the man was nervous, stumbling over his words and wringing his hands. Having barely reached his thirtieth name day, Lord Jason’s trek to the dais was far swifter than that of the Lord Paramount of the Trident. Much like Lord Grover, he kneeled before addressing the king’s daughter, “I, Lord Jason of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra.”

“Good man,” Daemon let out a fake laugh and clapped the man on the shoulder.

Just as Lord Jason was retaking his seat, Daemon turned to Lord Hrothgar Greyjoy, the famed Lord of the Isles—great lord of the smallest of King Viserys’ constituent kingdoms. Known as the Black Bastard for he was born out of wedlock and had only ascended to the headship of House Greyjoy, at the expense of his uncle, by his own father’s will.

It had nigh caused a crisis when Lord Sargon had named his natural son heir in his final days. Already a famed reaver then, Hrothgar had slain his uncle and his kin upon his father’s death, thus eliminating all opposition. King Jaehaerys had wished to acknowledge Sargon’s brother Quellon as Lord of the Isles despite the former’s formal pronouncement of his bastard’s legitimization, on grounds of the late great lord not having had the authority to do so, but Hrothgar’s brutal actions had forced his hand. The Conciliator had wished to keep the peace amongst the Ironborn and thus the popular Black Bastard was named head of House Greyjoy and great lord of the Iron Islands.

In his thirty years upon the Salt Throne, Lord Hrothgar had been a loyal vassal, forcing his reavers to target the shores of Dorne and the lands of the Summer Sea, rather than the shores of the Seven Kingdoms. When once in a while a traitorous Ironborn pirate broke his edict, Hrothgar was the first to fight for his king and slay those who attacked Viserys’ peoples.

“Lord Reaper, what say you?”

Daemon had never been overly fond of the Ironborn, he considered them little above common pirates—if better armed and trained. Over the years he had been sent out to quell a few recurrent Ironborn attacks, mostly from those who still believed in the old ways—the days of the Ironborn attacking the mainland and stealing gold and women.

“My oath holds true, my prince. As will my son’s,” the Lord of the Isles had a raspy voice that brought a chill down the king’s spine.

“I never expected anything less.”

A lie, Viserys knew but Daemon was no fool and he would not alienate the Black Bastard.

The Reach contingent was getting nervous for there was only one great lord whom Daemon had not yet singled out: the Lord Paramount of the Mander. Though not overly fond of House Hightower, they were tight with the Faith and thus would be careful not to condemn the High Septon’s fiercest allies.

“Lord Matthos, does your oath still stand true?”

The Warden of the South was a proud man. Once a great knight and now one of the wealthiest lords of the land, only surpassed by the Sea Snake and Lord Lannister, “Of course, my prince.”

His brother seemed amused at the man’s indignation, “Even in light of my brother siring a son on his…,” the pause was painful, especially because the distaste on Daemon’s face was clear to all, “… Hightower bride? Despite your foremost bannermen’s wish to see the boy named Prince of Dragonstone? Against the Faith’s teachings that discard women and uplift those born with a tiny little cock?”

The man stuttered, incapable of forming a response.

“The Hightowers are your responsibility and they have been allowed to plot underneath your nose. How come?”

“Lord Otto was the King’s Hand! Even the King did not…,” Lord Matthos swiftly realised he was close to disparaging his sovereign, forcing a flinch from Viserys.

“None is disputing my brother’s blindness. Certainly not me,” his brother snapped back, uncaring of how his words made Viserys look, “But they are your vassals first and foremost. They walked into the halls of my ancestors wearing the colour—calling to war their allies. What will you about such insult to your liege?”

The elderly man used his fingers to pull on his colour whilst sweat beaded on his brow, “I…”

Daemon said nought, merely raising his brow at the man.

It was the elderly lord’s son who broke the tension by whispering in his father’s ear for a few seconds.

“Tariffs on goods exported by the Hightower shall be taxed triple for the next decade, upon its galleys’ arrival in the capital, they shall not be allowed to keep a war fleet any longer, and any marriages of their sons and daughters will need to gain approval by both their liege lord, as well as their sovereign.”

Lord Ormund Hightower flinched at his liege’s formal pronouncement but did not speak up. None of the Hightowers did. No doubt cowed into submission by Daemon’s brutality.

“That seems fair, my lord,” his brother’s mouth twitched, no doubt smug at having forced House Tyrell to pick a side in his conflict with Otto, “Your oath, Lord Matthos?”

The man of nearly seventy name days puffed himself up, “Our oath stands now as it did four years prior. No son could make us forget our oath.”

At Daemon’s nod, the man sat back down.

“It heartens me to see the great lords of the realm united in their support of the royal heir. However, I would be remiss if I did not voice one final warning,” Daemon had never looked so intimidating before with his back straight and his hand on a Valyrian steel blade last truly worn at the side of Maegor the Cruel, “Princess Rhaenyra is heir to the Iron Throne. In due time she shall succeed her father as ruler of these Seven Kingdoms, conquered as they were by Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys. She will not supplanted as heir nor usurped as queen for any who tries shall burn,” Daemon’s voice was almost as sharp as the blade he carried at his side, “If I hear whispers of treachery I shall descend upon your keeps and extinguish your house. I shall kill men, women and children. No matter how far away the blood relation, I shall show you no mercy. It will matter nought who you are: lord, maester, septon or knight. Death shall come for you as it did for Lord Hobert. As it will for his treacherous brother.”

The throne room had never been quite as silent as it was then. Viserys was almost forgotten—none gazed upon his figure, pathetically as he sat at the high table. Instead, they stared with wide eyes at his princely brother.

His brother turned his back to all and trudged back to the high table, where the King and Hand sat with open mouths gaping at him, while the Velaryons looked almost smug.

“What have you done?” Viserys whispered at his infamous rogue sibling.

“I have saved your reign and ended any plotting against your heir,” Daemon sneered at him before sitting down in his chair and picking up his cutlery to commence his meal as if nought had changed, “Once more I have saved your undeserving arse. Be grateful.”

Notes:

One chapter. One scene.

Wow, this was one long scene. I thought about showing the aftermath but such a scene deserves to stand alone, in my opinion. It was heavy and will have great repercussions.

What do you think? How about that upcoming wedding? It seems like Daemon has changed course, originally planning on wedding Rhaenyra himself. Alicent's audacity fucked up those plans. Or did it?

What do you think he has planned now? What do you think he should do?

As always, please leave a kind review, bookmark this story and push that kudos button. Chapter three will follow toward the end of May or early June, so please keep tuned!

For news about my stories (WIPs, one-shots and drabbles) and for links to my social media, please check out my Linktree: https://linktr.ee/destroyerofnations

Chapter 3: the mother of all

Summary:

She knew her cousin was a violent man but she had never doubted his devotion to their House, to their Blood. So why did his own brother?

“This is madness!” the Grand Maester raged, “Prince Daemon committed treason! He laid hands on the Queen! Humiliated a kind and pious woman for all to see! The mother of the King’s sole male heir!”

“Queen Consort,” the Lord Commander corrected Mellos, who turned his enraged eyes to the Westerman, “Also, what does it matter that she is mother to the king’s sole male heir? Prince Aegon is not the King’s chosen heir. Princess Rhaenyra is the King’s heir. Unless you wish to imply something about the princess’ status as Heir to the Iron Throne?”

The Grand Maester blanched and the Sea Snake only barely managed to contain his snort. Ser Otto’s sycophants on this council were too obvious and clear in their intentions, even now, with the man himself banished, and yet it had been Daemon who had pushed back against their schemes, rather than the man who should have long ago—the King.

“The Lord Commander is correct. Queen Alicent is the queen consort and Princess Rhaenyra is the King’s heir,” the new Hand replied, “Not Prince Aegon. However, this matters little to the matters at hand. For all intents and purposes, the Prince did commit treason.”

“If anyone committed treason this eve, it was the queen,” derision dripped from Corlys’ words, “She attempted to stoke the flames of rebellion against the Princess of Dragonstone—against the King’s chosen and true heir!”

“It was a dress!” the Grand Maester insisted, “None had thoughts of the beacon atop the Hightower burning until the Prince mentioned her dress! None saw it as rebellion! The Queen most certainly had no such intention!”

“And yet, all of House Hightower wore green?” Lord Beesbury was the most senior of small councillors and had been a staunch defender of Prince Daemon in the past, “Green is not House Hightower’s colour, and yet they all chose to wear it?”

It seemed like the Grand Maester had no response.

“The queen was continuing where Ser Otto left off in undermining Princess Rhaenyra,” Ser Harrold had never been this vocal before, “Was Prince Daemon wrong in what he did? Yes. He committed a grievous sin but he did so in defence of his niece. In defence of the king’s daughter and heir.”

“Exactly,” the Master of Coin added, “Prince Daemon never felt resentment toward his niece, even in light of the king’s own unexpected choices.”

“What choices,” Ser Tyland snapped, clearly far braver whilst not in the presence of the Rogue Prince.

“Odd how we did not hear you during the feast,” the Master of Coin’s tone was dripping with derision, “And yet now, you are piqued and annoyed. Maybe the Prince should be called here to see if you are as lionhearted while in the presence of Prince Daemon.”

Corlys did not even attempt to stifle his snort at Lord Beesbury spitting out the word lionhearted.

Ser Tyland turned away from his fellow councillors with a blush on his face.

Viserys finally spoke, ignoring his new Master of Ships, “What do you mean, Lyman?”

“You named Princess Rhaenyra heir at the Hand’s insistence. Going against the precedent set by the Great Council of 101 AC. Now, I am not denying you had the right to do so. You are the King. What you say goes,” the elderly lord paused, “But you insulted your brother. Who for all your reign was the sole deterrent of anyone who might believe they should not answer to a king without a dragon. Your brother fought your battles and your wars, even when you refused yourself to see the urgency of them.”

The King said nothing. He just stared ahead. If Corlys did not know the man as well as he did, he might have believed he was unaffected by Lord Beesbury’s words.

“Prince Daemon was your fiercest champion during the Great Council and yet you turned him away afterwards. Kept him shackled into a union neither he nor his wife wished for.”

“They took vows!” the Grand Maester snapped.

“Our late Good Queen took vows, Grand Maester,” the Master of Coin barked back, “Unlike you, I was actually present that day.”

Mellos was braver than the Master of Ships, or at least more foolish than he for he did not keep quiet and instead changed course, abandoning his previous argument for another one, “The King made him Master of Coin and Master of Laws. Good men were forced out of their seats around this table to accommodate the Prince! You were dismissed from your office, so the Prince may have a seat around his brother’s Small Council table!”

“I was and I felt no shame about it. It was the Prince’s right as the King’s brother. I supported him then, as I support his right to a seat now.”

“He failed in those positions. He was a spendthrift and a tyrant!”

“According to the Hand,” Corlys chimed in, “Prince Daemon was dismissed because the Hand found him to be a spendthrift and a tyrant.”

“The king dismissed his brother, not the Hand,” Mellos pointed out, “Are you claiming the King to have been wrong,” the man must have believed he won the argument and emerged victorious from their verbal spat for he sat back in his chair with a smug smirk upon on his face.

He underestimated the Master of Coin, “Yes, the King was wrong.”

Ser Tyland seemed to have regained some courage, “The King is above–

“You do not speak for the King, Ser Tyland. None do but mayhaps the Hand at times,” Lord Lyman drawled. It seemed like the Master of Coin was hellbent on humiliating the Master of Ships today, “I stand by what I said. The King was wrong.”

For a while, silence reigned as Viserys said nought but just stared at the aged Lord of Honeyholt.

Lord Lyman Beesbury was a good man—a grand knight in his day, gifted with numbers and coin, and a competent administrator. And yet, the man was never supposed to be Lord of Honeyholt. As the third son of Lord Cleyton Beesbury, he had instead dedicated himself to the sword and later to trade. Born from Lord Cleyton’s second wife, Lyman was significantly younger than both his older brothers, with there being an age gap of a decade-and-half between him and his closest brother.

When Lord Cleyton had passed, he had been succeeded by his firstborn son, Orland, who was an unwed man of four and forty and was rumoured to have been simple. Lyman had served as his Castellan for five years until Orland had unexpectedly passed in the year nine and seventy. To this day, whispers are rife that it had been the middle Beesbury brother, Raymun, who had a hand in their lordly brother’s unfortunate passing. Nonetheless, nothing could be proven beyond whispers, and so Raymun succeeded Orland and famously exiled his younger brother from Honeyholt.

Forced to leave behind his home, the then-knight had travelled to King’s Landing, where he came into the employ of the Crown. First as a Captain in the City Watch, though he was swiftly promoted to Captain of the Guards of the Red Keep, and later as a tax accessor. By the year three and eighty after the Conquest, Lyman had been named the King’s Counter and excelled in that role, becoming widely respected among the royal advisors. So much so that his brother and liege lord had demanded he take his nephew and future lord under his wing.

A man of honour and duty, Lyman did as he was bid by his brother and brought his nephew to court and brought him into his household. Ser Braxton Beesbury had been the heir to Honeyholt and was an arrogant young man, though skilful at the lance and the sword. Known as Stinger amongst his peers, it was rumoured he had sired two bastards before the age of nine and ten.

It was twenty moons after he arrived at the capital that Stinger became embroiled in one of the greatest scandals that ever plagued the House of the Dragon. Ser Braxton Beesbury had become one of Princess Saera Targaryen’s favourites, which had been found out and had led to his imprisonment. Stinger was slain during a trial by combat and just like that, Ser Lyman Beesbury became the heir to Honeyholt.

Angered with his younger brother’s inability to shield his heir from the royal repercussions brought forth by Stinger’s own actions, Raymun took another woman to bride, only a fortnight after his first lady wife mysteriously perished, and attempted to displace his brother as his heir by siring another child. He would fail for only two moons after his sole child died at the hands of King Jaehaerys, Lord Raymun Beesbury perished from a common fever, and Ser Lyman Beesbury became Lord of Honeyholt.

In the aftermath of his nephew’s disgrace and his own ascendance to the lordship of his family’s ancestral lands, Lord Lyman had offered to resign from his post as the King’s Counter, which had been refused by the King. Corlys knew it was at Prince Aemon’s behest that Jaehaerys had kept the new Lord of Honeyholt on. Over the years Corlys’ late good-father and the future Master of Coin had become tight friends with their families regularly intermingling.

It had been the death of the Prince of Dragonstone, which had led to Lord Lyman Beesbury’s elevation to the Small Council. Prince Aemon had served as Master of Laws for a decade when he unexpectedly perished. Lord Godwyn Lefford of the Golden Tooth had been serving on the Small Council for quite a few years by then and had been asked to succeed Prince Aemon as Master of Laws, leading to Lord Lyman being named the Westerman’s successor in the office of Master of Coin. He had served the Crown in that role for four and twenty years by now.

“The Prince failed in those offices!” the Grand Maester seemed hellbent on vilifying Daemon for all to hear. Not even the Lannister was not that big of a fool.

“The Hand told us he failed in those roles,” the Master of Coin remained surprisingly patient with the man. If it had been Corlys he was speaking to in that abrasive and arrogant manner, the old cunt would have been thrown out the window already, “I remained in the capital during Prince Daemon’s six moons as Master of Coin. I aided him in his proposals and his numbers. He failed nowhere.”

“Lies!”

“Be quiet already!” Corlys snapped, “You were not here. You do not know anything!”

If the Sea Snake had not known better, he would have believed the elderly man to be a child with how petulantly he was sitting in his chair—arms crossed and lips jutted. Corlys remembered Laena looking exactly the same when she was five name days old and was disallowed any strawberry cake.

“It is time for the truth to be said aloud,” Lyman addressed them all but looked at the King, “Daemon’s ideas were what angered Ser Otto. His wish for a new tax and tithe system, which would unburden the smallfolk and lay more burden on the lords and knights. He also wished to make it law for the houses to sell their wares during winter at a set price to ensure no people and no kingdoms went hungry during the cold season. That is what galled the former Hand. He did not wish for his father’s house to suffer any adverse financial consequences. His loyalty too often has been toward House Hightower rather than the Crown.

“I did not know about any of that,” the king said.

“Because you did not wish to know, Your Grace,” Corlys appreciated the treasurer’s blunt honesty, “It was easier to believe Ser Otto.”

“And what of his actions as Master of Laws?!”

“What of them?”

“He executed the son and heir of Lord Reyne! In cold blood!”

“Ser Sebaston was found abed with a girl of only seven name days!” even Lord Strong had grown angered with the Grand Maester’s words, “He was a nonce! A child diddler! The girl was traumatized and took her life only a decade later, still haunted by the man’s vile deeds!”

“He had the right to a trial!”

“His trial was when a dragon stood before him and deemed him guilty,” the King finally grew a spine, biting back at his scholarly advisor, “He died because he was guilty.”

“You exiled the Prince, Your Grace,” the Grand Maester’s voice took on a placating tone, “You must have believed him–

“I made an error,” Viserys admitted, “It seems as if I have made a great deal of errors when it comes to my brother.”

“The Prince still attacked the Queen!” the Grand Maester was desperate now. He looked at the Master of Ships in the hopes he would come to his aid, but Ser Tyland had sensed the shifting tides and thus wisely kept quiet.

“Your Grace,” the Lord Commander had always been a stern man but had a fondness for his two former charges—Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra, “Your brother is a good man. He is your greatest champion. I ask you to think of how he has always been the first to defend you in your time of need.”

“Think of your father,” Lord Beesbury added, forcing a flinch from the King, “His bond with your uncle is a matter of legend.”

Mellos’ face was puce with anger and frustration, but the man said little more.

“I know I am not the most imposing of dragons,” the king addressed them all, “My brother is almost a dragonlord of old—fire and blood define his entire being. He would be able to fit amongst the greatest of the lords freeholder, of that I have no doubt. Me less so,” Viserys paused and looked straight at the Grand Maester and then the Master of Ships, “But make no mistake, as I told Lord Lannister not that long ago, I did not choose to name Rhaenyra lightly. She will follow me upon the Iron Throne and if that means angering some of you, or even my own lady wife’s kin, I will do so without any regret. I may no longer ride a dragon but I am still one myself.”

“What of the Prince?” Mellos was a damn fool.

“My brother is none of your concern!”

“He killed a great lord, Your Grace,” having realized that focusing on the queen yielded no significant results, the Grand Maester changed course, “He killed an innocent woman and punished House Hightower without royal approval. The demands made of the Oldtown–

“The punishment will stand, Grand Maester,” the King interrupted the elderly man, “As will the order that Ser Otto return to the capital to answer for his daughter’s choice in dress.”

“Your Grace, I see no reason why Ser Otto would have known anything about the Queen’s–

“Lord Hobert openly admitted that it was his brother who told them to wear green,” the Hand of the King interrupted the elderly man.

“Well…,” the Grand Maester stuttered and twirled his hands in a confused manner. Corlys wished to laugh for he looked ridiculous whilst putting up his mummers’ play.

“I will deal with the matters regarding my brother myself. This Council is no longer needed.”

All stood, though Mellos did so begrudgingly.

“What of the City Watch, Your Grace,” the Lord Commander wondered.

“I will speak to my brother soon and resolve the matters of their allegiance. Until then, do nought.”

The King’s final command was clear to all: do not start any unnecessary conflict. For now, Daemon seemed in control still.

As they all trickled out, after obediently bowing to their Sovereign, Corlys looked back at Viserys, who had dropped his head in his hands in despair.

Perhaps for the first time since the Great Council the Sea Snake no longer felt any resentment toward the man.

He just felt pity.

───※ ·♛· ※───

“You may have started a war today, Daemon!”

After the end of the quiet and subdued feast, the City Watch had escorted all of their guests to their accommodations—either in the Red Keep or in the city below. Her cousin had stormed off and neither hide nor hair had been seen of him since the Small Council retreated to the council chambers.

When Corlys had been asked to join the men, Rhaenys and her children had banded together and ensured Rhaenyra was taken care of while all-around madness reigned.

Barely an hour after the feast ended, news reached her that the City Watch had closed the gates to the City and shut down the harbour and the public rookeries.

Though he had not proclaimed himself king or anything, for all intents and purposes, Daemon had pulled a coup. He was in command of the Red Keep and King’s Landing.

Twenty minutes prior, Ser Erryk Cargyll, one of Kingsguard, had told her that Daemon had returned to his chambers. After sending her children and Princess Rhaenyra back to their chambers under an armed escort, Rhaenys swiftly made his way to her cousin’s suite.

At the door, she had been halted by two gold cloaks but upon starting a ruckus, Daemon had exited and invited her in.

The Queen That Never Was had swiftly turned to her princely cousin and had started shouting at him, while he stared at her as if amused.

“Do you have nought to say?! Sixty years of peace, Daemon!”

“False peace! Better there be war now than when my niece succeeds my brother.”

“Why? Tell me why it is better now!

“I live now! I shall fight this war and I shall end all her foes! None shall dare to even blink at her the wrong way lest I end their house. I will let there be no question as to what happens when you dare oppose my niece!”

She did not expect that much fire from her cousin. While impulsive at times, Daemon’s dragonfire was generally better contained. He may lash out but never with this much rage.

Whatever happened, it could not have been good.

“What happened here, Daemon?” Rhaenys was careful not to crowd her cousin, who was staring out onto the city from the balcony, “Why is Viserys so desperate for Rhaenyra and Laenor to wed?”

For a while, her cousin spoke not. Daemon was a stubborn cunt, she knew. If he did not want her to know, he would tell her nothing and whatever secret was kept from her would continue being kept from her.

It was not like she could command it from the king. Incompetent as he was, even Viserys was not unaware of the power he held.

“I dishonoured her,” though his voice seemed even, Rhaenys detected the small quiver in it.

“Rhaenyra?!” the Queen That Never Was was outraged, “She is your niece!”

Daemon turned his face to her and the disbelief was evident, “We are Targaryens! The Blood of Old Valyria! We have wed kin for thousands of years! It has kept us strong and ensured our Blood lived on!”

Rhaenys changed course, “She is a child!”

“She is nine and ten! Three years older than you were when you wed your dirty old man.”

If what they were speaking of was not quite this serious, Rhaenys would have sniggered at her cousin’s dig toward her lord husband.

“She is a woman grown.”

“Mayhaps, you are right,” the Lady of Driftmark acquiesced, “But that is no justification for dishonouring her! She worships the ground you walk on and you have used that devotion and that love to endanger her even further!

Rhaenys grew tired of the man’s apathy and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him to her and forcing him to look her in the eyes.

It was clearly a reflex but she still flinched when Daemon’s hand went to the hilt of the dagger at his side. If it had been any other man she would have earnestly feared for her life.

“Endanger her? I–

“You what? You dishonoured her! The Heir to the Iron Throne. A girl whose position is already threatened by a living brother and–

“That thing is not Rhaenyra’s brother!”

Daemon was all that was great and all that was horrendous of the Blood of Old Valyria—the Blood of the Dragon. Her cousin believed in the superiority of their blood and thought them above most if not all men.

“Say that to the Hightower! To the Faith and the Citadel! To those falsely pious whoremongers in their keeps all over these Seven Kingdoms! Give them your spiel of how we are gods-come-flesh and their laws and traditions matter nought in light of that! Tell them that because his mother is Andal, young Aegon is unfit to sit the Iron Throne!”

Daemon just stared at her with open mouth.

Rhaenys sighed deeply, “His Andal blood is exactly why they wish for him to succeed Viserys. They wish to rid themselves of the Blood of the Dragon by having us mate with them. By dishonouring her, you gave them even more weapons to use against her when the time comes.”

Daemon looked uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Daemon. Whatever it is that you are fearful of telling me, spit it out,” Rhaenys demanded.

“I am not afraid!”

His words would have been more believable if his eyes were not flitting around the room, hoping to find an avenue of escape.

She raised her eyebrow at her cousin—who knew better than to make her wait.

“I did not actually dishonour her,” he begrudgingly admitted.

“What?” Rhaenys was confused, “You told me you dishonoured her.”

“Viserys think I did.”

“Tell me all,” she demanded, “And leave nought out.”

“When I returned from the Stepstones, he welcomed me back.”

The sneer was not wholly unexpected for Viserys exiled first and upon his brother’s return a few moons later would pretend nought had happened. It must have been the sixth or seventh time since her eldest cousin took the throne. Rhaenys understood Daemon’s anger at the King.

“She was isolated, and Viserys seemed to be cross with her for ending her tour early. Not to mention how fearful she was at having to wed and bring forth heirs. She dreaded continuing the cycle of death. Like Aunt Daella passed in the birthing bed, so did her mother. She feared being used as a broodmare and subsequently being displaced,” the Rogue Prince spat.

“And so you dishonoured her?” Rhaenys did not understand the man’s reasoning.

“I brought her with me to see the City. I took her to a play.”

“And then?” she did not believe for one second that was all he did. Her cousin always told the truth, just not all of it, “How is that dishonouring her.”

“The Hightower cunt told Viserys that we were caught coupling in a brothel on the Street of Silk.”

Her eyebrow raised almost involuntarily, “Were you?

“No!” Daemon insisted.

“But?”

“There may have been some kissing and some minor…,” her cousin looked away with a deep blush on his cheeks, “… fondling.”

“Daemon…”

“I will be the first to admit that my intentions were not wholly pure but I did not dishonour her. Not that it mattered to my brother,” Daemon seemed almost insulted, which was amusing to her.

“You took his daughter to a brothel—the girl who displaced you,” she gently reminded him.

“What does that matter?”

“For nearly two decades now, Ser Otto and his sycophants have whispered in your brother’s ear, creating non-existent threats, so he might come to fear you,” when Daemon opened his mouth, she raised her finger to stop him, “Viserys might be a weak fool at times but he knows you would never harm him or Rhaenyra. But you can’t blame him for believing that you tried to dishonour her in vengeance,” she looked her cousin straight in the eye, “Was he wrong?”

“Yes!” the disbelief must have shown on her face for he quickly amended his words, though begrudgingly, “No.”

“Why do you do these things, Daemon? You are more competent than any at court and yet you always lash out at those who love you most—Rhaenyra foremost. Even I heard of your words the day of Aemma’s laying to rest.”

“I did not mean them like that!”

“Perhaps not but did you think of how they might sound to a grieving husband and father? A grieving daughter?”

For a short while neither spoke. It was not an uncomfortable silence but tension still reigned.

“I asked Viserys to wed her to me.”

Rhaenys’s mouth fell open, dumbfounded as she was, “You asked your brother for his daughter’s hand in marriage mere hours after you had seemingly defiled her? You have the emotional ability of a fucking teapot!”

“I did not defile her!”

“By you want to! I have seen the looks you throw her way! You desire her!”

“Should I be ashamed of what we are, cousin? Uncles and nieces, and aunts and nephews have wed for millennia amongst our people!”

“No one demands you to change! But–

“They all want us to change! They no longer pretend! They look down on our ways! Even Viserys threw in my face the fact that she is my niece!”

“Viserys is a fool. None denies that, least of all, but even in your want you must have understood that he would not just give her to you.”

“It is not about her. It is about me. He believes I covet his ugly chair.”

“Do you?”

“Mayhaps once, but never enough to kill for it.”

“I know. You made that clear to all,” Rhaenys replied, “Though perhaps a tad more threatening than you intended. I think they might fear usurpation more now than they ever did before.”

“Only those who fear strength near the Iron Throne.”

She reluctantly agreed, “Yes, it is those same lords who would prefer Aegon be named heir that fear you most. Their terror at having you at your brother’s side is clear to all with working eyes, but you have stoked that fear even further this eve. Rebellion is inevitable. Mayhaps not on the morrow or even at the turning of the year, but soon. Soon they will band together under the banner of moral decency and opposition to our ways, and they will attempt to harm us all.”

“Good.”

Rhaenys sighed in response, “What of Rhaenyra? Will you have her fly into war?”

Daemon’s eyeballs bulged and his eyebrows narrowed, “Never!”

“Then who will?”

“How about her husband? Is that not his duty? To give her heirs and defend her when needed!”

“So you wish for my son to die for your war?!”

“As I was willing to die for your husband’s?!”

The scoff was impossible to contain, “My husband’s war? They put a crown on your head! You received four-fifths of the spoils! It was your war!”

“Whose ships can pass once more, cousin? Whose treasury no longer suffers? Mine or yours?”

“Do not pretend you got nothing out of it!”

“No one is claiming the opposite, Rhaenys, but you pretend as if I had anything to lose by having these Triarchy cunts plague the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea,” Daemon’s retort cut as the sharpest dagger, “When your husband asked for aid, I gave it to him for we are kin. I may have wished for glory, yes, but I fought for your house. I fought for the lands your daughter will one day inherit.”

“Laenor is Corlys’ heir.”

The pitying look was far worse than anything he could ever say aloud.

“It is not a bad thing for Laena is the elder, the Driftmark should have been hers from the start.”

“The Iron Throne should have been hers,” Rhaenys mumbled.

“Really? This still? Is that why you allowed for Corlys to sell your son to my brother?”

“We did not sell him!”

She wished to smack the smug amusement from his face but kept tight control of her worst impulses. It would not do either of them any good if rational conversation made way for violence.

“Did you not? You know what he is. He will be miserable. He will be forced to be something he is not. To lay with a woman even though he yearns for the touch of a man. You have condemned him to a half-life.”

Any control that had remained to her Rhaenys lost at his sanctimonious, if truthful, words, “Am I supposed to believe this concern is for any other reason than your own selfish wants? You wish for her to be yours! You wish to wed her and my son stands in your way! How far will you go to rid yourself of this hindrance? Will you slay my son as you slew Lord Hightower? Mayhaps you shall have him poisoned during supper instead?!”

The soft furrowing of Daemon’s brow broke her heart. He used to do the same when he was a young boy and someone hurt him. But as swiftly as the furrow appeared did it disappear.

“If I wished Laenor dead, he’d be dead right now,” his face was blank with not a hint of emotion to be detected, “I don’t know if you have noticed but I command this keep. I command this family.”

“Daemon, please,” she tried to take his hand in hers but he pulled away, turning his back to her.

“You are no different from him, you know. Daemon is a monster unless we need him. My husband’s house is suffering from Triarchy corsairs, send Daemon on dragonback to take care of it. Pirates plague the western shores, send Daemon. Brigands make the Kingsroad unsafe, Daemon shall take care of it,” Rhaenys took a step back when her cousin started pulling at his tunic, tearing it from his torso, “Look at me, cousin.”

The Lady of Driftmark could not. She had heard of the scars and the burns and did not wish to see them, so she closed her eyes.

Daemon cared little for what she wanted and harshly grabbed her chin, forcing open her eyes, “Look upon me, cousin. Look upon me and despair,” he used his other hand to point to a massive scar on his nearest shoulder, “You see this one? I was seven and ten name days. Vickon the Terrible, remember him? His axe cut through my chainmail. Or how about this one,” now he pointed to a series of scars on his right pectoral, “This one I got when putting down the Sunflower Rebellion. Viserys had become heir only two moons prior. You know what Viserys said when I returned victorious with our foes’ heads on spikes at the head of our war column?” her cousin did not wait for her answer, though she had none, “He claimed I had been too brutal by executing them all. I should have spared the up-jumped knight who had dared to kill faithful bannermen and steal their lands and holdings. I should have known then what kind of king he’d be.”

“Daemon, please…”

“Look upon me and despair,” he hissed in response, “I have bled and I have burned for our house! For our blood! Look at this one!” Daemon let go of her chin and used the freed hand to point at the horrendous burn on his chest, “This I got in the Stepstones! Next time you see your husband and son, ask them how many scars and burns they scrounged up on the battlefield. How many your pissant brother-by-law endured whilst he was whining about going hungry and being cold.”

Rhaenys closed her eyes, unable to glance at her cousin’s scared and burned body any longer. If she could have plugged her ears, she would have.

“When he needs it I am the first on the battlefield to defend him and his,” Daemon kept on with the verbal barrage, “Meanwhile he sits in his keep, sipping Arbor Gold, putting dead baby after dead baby in his wife’s belly, until it kills her. And yet, when I ask to be unburdened from the shackles of a marriage I never wished for, nor spoke the vows of, it is too much. I am asking for too much. I am not asking for a crown or a keep. I care little for lands and gold, but…”

Rhaenys opened her eyes at the sound of a muffled sob and was met with tears running down her cousin’s cheeks. She could not remember the last time she had witnessed Daemon weeping. Not even his father’s death had brought forth any tears—at least not any public tears.

“You are my blood, Rhaenys. Laenor is my blood,” Daemon hiccupped, “I would never…”

“I know,” she soothed, pulling him to her, running her hand down his bare back, “I am sorry. I know you would never hurt us. I should not have said that.”

“Why doesn’t he love me?” Rhaenys just held her cousin as he wept, and perhaps for the first time in her life felt hate in her heart toward her King.

───※ ·♛· ※───

As a young boy, Laenor had adored spending time in the royal gardens. His mother and, during the rare times she joined them at the capital, his grandmother, used to bring them here to learn to walk.

Oddly the flowers and trees were even more beautiful in the midst of the night. Moonbeams reflected on the leaves and petals, making Laenor’s heart sing with joy.

His family, bar the Lord of the Tides, spent half the year in King’s Landing and the other half on Driftmark, so the Red Keep was his home as much as the High Tide.

During his father’s time as Master of Ships to King Jaehaerys and his successor, King Viserys, the Queen That Never Was governed the Velaryon isle almost singlehandedly. While his father’s travels had made them the wealthiest house west of the Narrow Sea, his mother had multiplied their gold by at least three through trade.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen was born and raised to be Queen. If not for the shortsightedness of the late Conciliator, she would have sat the Iron Throne after the man’s passing, and the Seven Kingdoms would have thrived under her queenship.

Now, an inept fool sat on it instead, and the realm was quietly bleeding because of his blindness.

It was not that Laenor hated his cousin.

He truly did not.

King Viserys had always been kind to him. Same went for his late queen. The three years older Princess Rhaenya had been a regular playmate to both he and Laena when they were in the capital. The King Upon the Iron Throne and his family were truly kind to him—to them. They were invited as guests of honour to every feast, tourney and hunt, but despite all this, Laenor still had anger in his heart.

Not for the King but rather for his choices.

His brother turned away in favour of a pious Andal from the Oldtown. His wife killed in his hunger for a son. That same wife dishonoured when he announced his intention to wed a girl beneath his station—alienating his daughter and insulting House Velaryon and the realm at large. When pirates targeted his people’s ships and took sons and daughters of Westeros as slaves, he turned away and had his brother clean up his messes.

No, he did not hate the King. He was disgusted by the man’s weakness. The same weakness that would see him forced into a union with someone he neither loved nor desired. His father had been overjoyed at another generation of Velaryons near the Iron Throne, as well as the prospect of dragonriding grandchildren to inherit his lands for without Targaryen blood running through Velaryon veins that gift would cease to be passed from generation to generation soon enough.

Laenor wished he was strong enough to deny the great Sea Snake. Sometimes, late at night, he dreamt of standing up to his father—telling him that he would not be sacrificed at the altar of his ambition. That he will set flight upon Seasmoke and never return. That he will take the vows of a Kingsguard or a Night’s Watchman and dedicate his life to service.

Then he wakes and all is as it was. He was still betrothed to his cousin and his life and being was still sold to the king, all because his father wished to right past wrongs.

“Are you certain you do not wish to rest, Mother? It has been a long day and I am certain tomorrow will be an even longer one.”

It had been a surprise when his mother had shown up at his bedchambers asking if he wished to take a walk in the gardens with her. Though he was dog-tired, he had gladly accepted her offer. So, dutiful son as he was, Laenor had pulled back on his coat and had clipped his sword and dagger to his side, and the two had made their way from the Holdfast to the Gardens. Better he go with her than her going alone. Even in the Red Keep their family had foes.

His mother smiling at him had always given a warm feeling deep inside, and that had not changed as he grew older, “No, my darling. There is no place I’d rather be than here with you.”

Laenor grinned at her, pulling the arm looped through his closer to him, which had her fold into his side as they walked the silent paths of the royal gardens.

Every once in a while they would come across a Gold Cloak standing guard at Prince Daemon’s command, and they would get bowed to, but they were generally left to themselves.

“Have I ever told you how I fell in love with your father, darling?”

The heir to Driftmark smiled at his royal mother, “You have, mother. It is my favourite of your stories.”

“All the lords of the realm vied for my hand,” she explained, though he had heard the story a million times before, “Granted, they probably did so because they believed I would be queen one day and they would use my womb to become King and supplant our house.”

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen did that often—call House Targaryen our house, rather than House Velaryon. Decades of her Targaryen disregarding and mistreating her, and she still saw herself as more of a Targaryen than a Velaryon. Hells, she had been wed to a Velaryon longer than she had ever been unwed.

“Though I was a great beauty back then.”

“You still are,” Laenor pulled up her hand and placed a soft kiss on the back of it.

“I want the same for you, my love,” she said after grinning from ear to ear at his soft gesture of devotion, “To have what your father and I have.”

Laenor stayed calm, “I am certain I will. My cousin is a beautiful and kind woman.”

“So, you wish to wed her still?”

Laenor did not understand the sudden questions on what he wanted, “My duty is to House Velaryon, mother. While I may not love her yet, I am certain that one day I shall,” the lies spilling from his lips sounded to hallow even to him.

His mother suddenly halted, forcing him to find his balance or fall on his face, “Mother?!”

“Answer me honestly, Laenor,” she demanded, “If you had a choice, would you choose to wed Rhaenyra?”

Laenor gaped at her, unable to answer her query.

“Wedding her comes with as many negatives as it does positives. While you shall become King Consort, the King and Council shall wish to see her with child soon, to ensure the succession.”

The young knight swallowed deeply, still unable to muster the simplest of responses.

“She is a kind and beautiful woman but she holds affections for another,” his mother confessed to him.

He narrowed his eyes at her, “How do you know?”

“I have eyes, Laenor, and so do you.”

It finally dawned on him, “Daemon!”

“Yes, so you must be certain that you want this, darling,” she took his hands in hers and pulled them to her chest, “She shall always covet him. Can you stand to be her second choice?”

“I… I….,” Laenor did not know how to answer her, “Am I in danger?”

“Daemon would never harm you, but he loves her, I know, and she shall always be his foremost thought. He will choose her over you, over me, over his brother and even over himself.”

“What if I do not wish to wed her? Father had made his wishes well-known.”

“I am the Blood of the Dragon. I fly a great wyrm. The sea means nought compared to the beauty of the sky and the destruction of dragonfire,” his mother grabbed his face and looked at him, “If this is not the life you want for yourself then tell me now and I shall unburden you from it. Your father’s wants are of no consequence to me. Your happiness is paramount.”

“I do not wish to wed, mother,” Laenor confessed, “Not Rhaenyra, not anyone. I do not wish to hide who I am.”

“Then you shall not,” and kissed his forehead.

───※ ·♛· ※───

What should have been the most joyful of occasions had turned into chaos and madness. His daughter wedding a good and honourable man should have been cause for joy—cause for merriment and celebration. All the lords and ladies should have been forced to stand witness to the House of the Dragon united once more. No more division amongst the Blood of the Dragon.

And yet, none of that had come to pass.

Instead, his wife had openly declared war upon his daughter, no doubt in the hopes of gaining allies for their son. Her hopes were swiftly shattered like the cheapest looking glass.

He wished to be angry at Daemon but Lyman had been right. His brother had always been his greatest champion and Viserys had always discarded him afterward.

The eve before Daemon had committed great evils but he had done so in defence of Rhaenyra. Where the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms had been weak, his brother had once more been strong. The problem was that his strength almost inevitably came hand-in-hand with great cruelty.

Alicent was wrong but her humiliation was witnessed by all. Every lord paramount and lord vassal present witnessed her standing in her shift, forcibly disrobed. Why was ensuring the continued loyalty of the great houses and their vassals not plenty? All were forced to reiterate their support of his heir. Why did his queen have to be humiliated?

Even when he means well, he causes such havoc and chaos. How could he have such a man by his side as he rules these Kingdoms?

The worst part would be convincing the Velaryon’s nought was amiss, which is why when his cousin had asked for a meeting with him, he had offered for them to break their fast together in his solar.

The cooks had created a grand buffet for them. All of Rhaenys’ favourite breakfast foods were present: blackened bacon, salted ham and poached eggs with salmon. He would charm her and her husband both.

A knock had him standing from his throne chair at the head of the table, “Enter,” the king bellowed.

It was Ser Harrold who entered first, “Lord Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark, and his lady wife, Princess Rhaenys of the Houses Targaryen and Velaryon. Their son and heir, Ser Laenor of House Velaryon, the future king consort, and Lady Laena Velaryon.”

“Cousin, please join me,” Viserys hurried toward his guests, pulling Rhaenys into a quick embrace before clasping Corlys’ outstretched forearm in greeting, “I hope you are all hungry for the cooks did their finest work so far.”

“We certainly are, Your Grace,” his former Master of Ships replied, “We are beyond grateful at the invitation to break our fast together.”

“Of course, Lord Corlys,” Viserys sat back down in his chair, as the others followed, “When my cousin asks for an audience, I grant it to her, but why not combine business with pleasure?”

If Viserys had paid better attention, he would have noticed the Sea Snake’s frown and the quick glance shot toward his ice-cold wife.

“Please, take as you please,” the King told them as he piled his plate with sausage, egg and bacon.

None of his companions did so for the Queen That Never Was has raised her hand high, “I believe we should talk first, Your Grace.”

Viserys signed and laid down his knife and fork, “What about, cousin?”

“The end of our children’s betrothal…,” you could have heard a pin drop, “cousin.”

Notes:

So, the engagement is over as swiftly as it began.

A more emotional Daemon. He can’t always be a monolith without emotions, can he? I thought about who he would unburden himself to, and I quite like Rhaenys (book!version), so I chose her.

Viserys is making some headway but he’s still a little lost. He’ll admit Daemon did good by protecting Rhaenyra but can’t help but equate his actions with cruelty.

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Chapter 4: a king's lament

Summary:

A broken betrothal forces the King to look at options previously ignored, but what of his daughter’s wants?

“I knew I’d find you here,” for a count or two the king had deluded himself into believing he had managed to sneak up on his younger brother but the unsheathed dagger held in his hands swiftly told him differently, “How do you do that? Always know when someone is present?”

“You clomp around like a bull in a smithy,” Daemon replied, “You do not have the slightest awareness of your surroundings. You would not be able to catch a deaf man unaware.”

“Well, luckily for me, I do not need to,” Viserys jested in the hopes of lightening the glumness that surrounded the two sons of Baelon the Brave, “I am king and I have the finest knights in the realm to guard me.”

“Yes, because nought says king more than being unable to defend oneself,” Daemon looked at him, “The fifth Targaryen to sit the Iron Throne, and the first to be unable to defend himself and his. At least the Abomination could hold a sword aloft, if not particularly well.”

Viserys refused to take the bait and instead kept quiet. They would not fall into patterns of old—biting and snapping at each other until banishment inevitably followed.

“Nothing to say, brother?” Daemon was no longer pretending to be civil, and instead just fell into outright hostility, openly taunting him, “No empty exile for my vile and treasonous words?”

“No exile.”

Daemon beheld him with hesitance, the disbelief shining bright in those dark purple eyes of his. It pained him to see how the lack of trust was so strong in his younger brother.

“You were right,” Viserys admitted, “Otto was a snake.”

“You don’t say,” his brother sneered before looking away, hand on the pommel of his sword. Viserys doubted he even noticed he did it. For Daemon his sword had become almost an extension of his arm, and laying hands on her, soothed him.

“Please, Daemon, at least allow me to say what I need to before I lose the courage to do so,” Viserys nigh begged. When his brother nodded, the king carried on, “I do not wish to hurt those around me, but I always do,” the king ignored the loud scoff, “I know I insulted you when I named Rhaenyra heir.”

“You think this about the throne?” Daemon turned to him with clenched fists.

“No, I do not, but it has to be said,” he admitted, “I claimed the throne after the Great Council and barely a decade later I disregarded and discarded its precedence to name my daughter heir over you.”

“It’s not about the Iron Throne, Viserys. It never was,” Daemon’s hands had unclenched, though the coiled tension in them was still there, “You believed him over me. He had me followed and then came reporting to you in the hopes of maligning my honour and driving a wedge between us, and rather than question as to how he knew the words I said, you immediately jumped to attack me thus doing exactly as he had wished you’d do.”

“I was grieving, Daemon.”

“Grieving for whom?” Daemon looked at him with angry eyes, “The wife you cut open or the dead son whom you killed her for?”

“I…,” Viserys had no response.

“You are more Andal than Valyrian these days. Say what you want of our grandfather, fool as he was, but he never would have even considered doing as you did.”

“The maesters–”

“The maesters are not your friends,” Daemon sneered, “They are trained in the Oldtown and funded by the Hightower. To whom do you believe they owe their loyalty?”

“Not all are our foes, Daemon,” Viserys tried to have his brother see reason.

“Of course, they are! A century ago we descended upon these shores with three dragons and an army ten thousand strong, and toppled their kingdoms and destroyed their armies. We forced them to kneel to us and seemed to believe that all would be peachy afterwards. That they would not resent our dominion over them. The Conqueror, his sons, and his grandson all refused to see the truth! And of course, you followed right in their footsteps!”

Viserys just blinked at him, no sound coming forth from his lips.

“They hate us, Viserys. They hate our culture and our Gods. They may fear our dragons but they hate them even more. Your own wife declares our customs queer.”

“And yet they have chosen to wed us,” Viserys reminded him.

“House Hightower has chosen to wed us, you mean. You believe it to be a coincidence that Maegor wed a Hightower, and now you did?” when he did not respond, Daemon struck his final blow, “Not that much difference between you two. Kinslayers, the both of you.”

The wind was knocked out of the king, and the man fell back against the wall—mouth agape.

“Are you insulted, brother?” Daemon taunted, “Or perhaps worse—angered?”

Still, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms uttered not a single word.

“I have fought for you! First to put a crown on your head, and then to ensure it remained there!” his brother ranted, “And yet you trust others over me. The Grand Maester cut open your queen and he remains seated at your table! Your wife dared to declare war upon your chosen heir, and not a peep from you. Yet again it is I who has to show some strength because you possess not an ounce of it!”

“Daemon…”

“You wed your servant’s daughter, thus allowing him to rise so far above his station that some believe hemight be your lover!”

“What!” Viserys spluttered, ‘Did people actually believe that?’

“In the streets of the capital, they sing songs of you and your Hand,” Daemon mocked, “My favourite is the Buggering Hand.”

The king grew beet-red and clenched his fists in anger, “You lie!”

“How would you know? When was the last time you spent a minute amongst the poorest of your own people?”

“I am the King!”

“Yes, and you are a king without a dragon, so your continued kingship very much depends on them not storming your keep and tearing you limb from limb.”

“Grandfather–

“Jaehaerys was a cunt but he was not stupid,” Daemon sneered while speaking their grandfather’s name, “He made sure to build bathhouses and public fountains. You have done nothing of the sort. The dead cunt and his wife were seemingly beloved by the people of the King’s Landing. You, brother, are not.”

“The lords stand with me,” he blustered.

“Matters little when the smallfolk outnumber the nobility ten thousand to one,” his brother pointed out, “As long as we have dragons we control the people, but fear is not enough. They must love us. Jaehaerys and Alysanne understood that at least superficially.”

“I understand that,” Viserys added lamely.

“No, you do not,” Daemon sighed deeply once more, “If you did, you would not have done as you did. The people do not like the Hightowers. They whisper of you taking to wife a daughter of a second son. They talk of your unnatural allegiance to the man, and his daughter may have been your mistress long before Aemma died.”

“She was not!” Viserys shouted, “You know that, Daemon.”

“Yes, but the people do not. You are not particularly well-liked, brother.”

“And this is the first time you mention this?” Viserys had grown more upset with every new revelation, “You never thought to inform me that my people hated me?”

“I did not say hate, Viserys. I said you are not well-liked. They dislike your choices.”

“As you do,” the king pointed out the obvious.

“I do. I could never approve of the tainting of the Blood of the Dragon. Millennia of wedding only the Blood of Old Valyria, and you have ended it by wedding an Andal.”

If the words were not so insulting, Viserys would have laughed at the almost comical look of distaste on Daemon’s face.

“The bond with our mounts depends on our blood. We are the last dragonlords alive. There may be some lesser descendants, like the Velaryons and the Celtigars, and bastard Valyrians, like the Baratheons and the Old Blood of Volantis, but none share our blood truly—not in the ways that matter. We are unique.”

“Rhaenyra is my heir, Daemon. Her descendants will sit the Iron Throne,” he pointed out once more.

“And yestereve proved to all that there are those who would wish to usurp her when the time would come for her to ascend the steps to your iron monstrosity.”

The cutting coldness with which his brother delivered his words was far worse than any shouts or insults.

“The Hightower wants for their blood to succeed you. The smallest child could have told you this would happen,” Daemon looked at him as if he was the biggest fool in the known world, “And yet, you did not see. Or perhaps you did, but you did not care.”

“I do!” Viserys insisted, “I did not name Rhaenyra on a whim. I believe she will make a fine queen.”

“She will,” his brother agreed, “She will make a finer queen than you ever were a king,” Daemon’s words stung, as always, “But that will all depend on her actually wearing a crown. Your wife’s actions jeopardized that all.”

“You already set her straight, Daemon, and ensure the loyalty of the great lords,” Viserys retorted, “I will not even punish you for your treatment of her.”

“Punish me?” his brother’s booming laugh echoed off the walls, “In what world do you believe you have power over me? I am a dragonrider and I wield a Valyrian steel sword. Not to mention your City Watch is still loyal to me over you.”

Viserys sputtered with indignation, “I am the king.”

“That means little to me, let me assure you. I am done caring about silly matters like who wears a crown,” Daemon mocked him, “Not that I ever did before.”

“Except for when I exiled you,” Viserys finally snapped back.

“Exile? We may have called it as such, but in reality, it was just me choosing to leave. At no point could you have forced me to leave, Viserys. Do not delude yourself.”

The king could not answer and instead just gaped at his brother with open mouth.

“When you brought me in front of the Iron Throne on accusations made by your treacherous Hand, do you genuinely believe that I could not have cut you down? Sitting there with Blackfyre in your hands, pretending that you have the slightest clue on how to wield that beautiful blade?”

When Viserys said nothing, his brother carried on with his verbal tirade, “I could have killed you that night. Who would have stopped me? Ser Harrold? Ser Ryam, who was dead six moons later. Daemon narrowed his eyes at him. The glint of malevolence in them sent a shiver down the king’s spine, “You live because I allow you to live. You believe because your entire life revolves around your ugly throne, that all must covet to live out the same sad existence. I have loved you and you have given me no love in return. Merely condemnation as if I am not the sole reason you have that ugly crown to call your own.”

Viserys closed his eyes, unable to look upon his brother, whose voice broke when he accused the king of not loving him.

“I stood against my cousin, whom I dearly love because you asked me for help. No, you begged me. Remember?”

The king did remember. Corlys had raised his banners and called for the readying of the Velaryon fleet, and so Viserys had asked for his martial brother’s aid, and Daemon had delivered. A fortnight later an army two thousand strong was ready to defend his claim, which had led to Jaehaerys calling the Great Council.

“I disobeyed my king’s orders and brought my Blood Wyrm to Harrenhal to show the lords that while their future king did not fly a dragon any more, his brother did and he would defend him against anyone—even his own blood.”

“I know, Daemon,” he whispered, though his brother showed no sign of having heard him.

“I broke Rhaenys’ heart. She did not speak to me for half a decade afterwards. I defended you. I fought for you. And still, you gave me nought in return. I asked you for an annulment and you allowed your Hand to whisper falsehoods in your ear until you denied me. Mayhaps I should have slain you then.”

Viserys flinched at the harsh words uttered but found himself to refute any of them.

“Do you want to know the truth, Viserys?” his brother grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look into his eyes, “I killed her. Rhea. I made sure none saw but I did. I bashed her skull in with a rock, and made it look as if she fell from her horse.”

It struck the king deep to hear Daemon speak like that. He could have never imagined that the young boy who followed him around all over the Red Keep would grow up to be capable of such evil.

“And now I rule her lands,” Daemon smirked, “I shall carry her family’s sword and wear their bronze armour. And there is little anyone can do about it.”

Viserys knew it to be the truth.

“I am the Lord of Runestone, and while I originally planned to use it as a way to barter myself what I wished for, now I refuse to give it up. It is compensation for nine and ten years of being shackled to that woman.”

“Is that why you had readied the Gold Cloaks? To ensure none were to deny your dominion over your dead wife’s lands?” Viserys truly dreaded Daemon’s answer.

A snort was followed by his reply, “No, Caraxes is enough defence against anyone daring to deny me my rights. No, the Gold Cloaks were for another reason entirely.”

“But you did not go through with it,” Viserys refused to voice aloud that which they were speaking of.

“I did not,” Daemon admitted, “It would have been selfish of me. I am done being selfish when it comes to Rhaenyra.”

“Grandfather would have disowned her after what the two of you did,” Viserys said.

“She never would have been named heir if Jaehaerys still lived,” the Rogue Prince sneered, “That would have been admitting that a woman has the right to inherit over the man. He chose our father to succeed him, not because he believed he was better suited to governance and ruling than our cousin but rather because he feared what it meant to have the daughter of the dead heir succeeding him. He feared the people remembering his nieces—those he usurped!”

“Grandfather conquered–

“Conquered what?!” Daemon shouted at him, “If anything it was Rogar Baratheon who defeated Maegor. Mayhaps he should have been king! What say you, brother? A Baratheon king! Let us sail to King’s Landing and put the crown on Boremund’s brow,” his brother seemed unwilling to let him a word in edgewise, “And he certainly did not kill Maegor. No, that was the cursed throne you so love. More than any of us.”

Viserys flinched but Daemon cared nought.

“You wish so badly to be like grandfather that you forget how it all ended for him,” Daemon looked at him, “He died alone. His last remaining son chose to remain in the Oldtown rather than return to the viper’s pit that is the Red Keep to sit by his bedside while he passed, while the daughter that still lived never even thought of him beyond recognition of his passing.”

“I do not think I am strong enough to do what is needed,” Viserys admitted.

“I do not care. I’ll be strong enough for the both of us,” Daemon vowed, “I do not need your love, brother, just your permission. Let me defend your daughter. Let me assure that none dare harm her. That none dare usurp her.”

“Daemon, look at me,” when his brother did as he was bid, Viserys said the words that came so difficult for him, “I love you,” the Rogue Prince glanced away, unable to keep the eye contact going, “I do. I know I have not shown it. I have been a far worse brother than you. You deserve better than me. This entire family does, truly,” the king admitted, “But I shall endeavour to be better for you are correct. I have failed my daughter. I have failed you.”

Daemon blinked at him but said nothing.

“You may do what is necessary to protect Rhaenyra. Fire and blood if that is what it takes,” Viserys gave his brother his blessing to unleash his chaos.

Nought would be the same.

───※ ·♛· ※───

His skin was itching with barely repressed rage but Corlys was careful to keep it contained. His wife did not even have the decency to return with him to their chambers after she humiliated him before the King, so they could at least about what she had done. No, instead she had chosen to spend some time braving the skies, alongside their children—avoiding him in the process.

It was odd being wed to a dragonrider, and being a father to two more, and yet not being able to fly himself. When he was a young man, he had not cared—dragons were an oddity, far removed from his world. Born to a lesser branch of House Velaryon, Corlys had always been meant to make his way into the world on his own and without aid from his head of house.

And so he had.

After getting knighted at the age of seven and ten, Corlys had left the shores of Westeros behind to sail for the unknown. The first few of his voyages would captivate the lords and ladies of the realm—he had been the first Westerosi to see the shores of the Shadow Lands, trade with the so-calledsavages of the isle of Leng and meet a Golden Emperor of Yi Ti. Songs would be composed about him, plays written and tales spun—the Sea Snake would be born from those stories.

Five and ten long years later, he had returned to Driftmark wealthier even than his kin, with a trade fleet three hundred ships strong, trade connections all over Essos and more gold than the Lannisters of Casterly Rock.

His life would change soon, for Lord Daemon Velaryon had found himself without a direct male heir, and to ensure the prospering of their house had chosen Corlys to succeed him as Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark.

Ser Corlys Velaryon went from six and tenth in line to the Driftwood Throne to first. Inevitably, his naming as heir to the Tides had created quite a bit of bad blood.

Corlys, his father and his grandfather were all coloured—the result of his great-grandfather wedding a woman from the Summer Isles. Corlys’ grandfather had done the same, while the Sea Snake’s father had wed a woman from the isle of Naath—Corlys’ mother, the Lady Dendera.

Though none would admit it, many of the lords and ladies of the realm looked down on those with a dissimilar skin colour. The Seven-Pointed Star even declared those with black skin to be descendants of Shaitan, the great devil. As an adherent of the Fourteen Fires, it had always shocked how a holy book could preach hate like that.

Nonetheless, the bad blood mattered little for King Jaehaerys formalized his elderly uncle’s proclamation and recognized him as Lord Daemon Velaryon’s heir.

In the years after Corlys’ return to Westeros, he would be groomed by Lord Daemon, and would eventually succeed even him. A year after he became Lord of the Tides, and eventually Master of Ships to the Iron Thron, his beautiful lady wife would select him to be her consort.

If his becoming Lord of the Tides and a small councillor had vile whispers be spread about him, a Targaryen princess, the daughter to the Prince of Dragonstone, selecting him as her consort, had made it infinitely worse.

Corlys could not have cared less. The hateful words of falsely devout men and women meant nought to him—he was wealthier and more powerful than them all. The king listened to him on matters of trade, commerce, and naval affairs.

Rhaenys had not been the only noble maiden to be offered to him. Many of the lords who despised him for his skin colour and his wealth and influence, were more than willing to put their daughters in his bed if it meant having access to even a small portion of his legacy.

But still, even Corlys, as arrogant and vain as he was, could admit that Rhaenys choosing him was unexpected and that she was of a far greater station than he. The Velaryons were often called the second house of the realm but they were still not dragonriders.

The Sea Snake would be the first to admit that Rhaenys being Prince Aemon’s sole child and thus presumptive heir had made her very valuable, but he did love her. More than anyone he ever had before. He was loathe to admit it aloud but he loved his wife more even than his family, bar his children. Rhaenys had seen something in him, beyond his wealth and power, and he had loved her for it every day since.

When the Conciliator had shattered his wife by naming his second son Prince of Dragonstone rather than her, he was more pained for Rhaenys than he was about his own ambitions being dashed. The insult dealt to her had made hate fester in his heart for the Old King and his heir—not even Viserys had been spared from the spreading wildfire of hatred that had a tight grip on Corlys’ heart.

Except for Daemon. The second son of Baelon the Brave was more like Corlys than he was any of his Targaryen kin. The Sea Snake could not find it in him to hate the man—especially not when he became the only one to come to his aid against the Triarchy scum, who were attempting to beggar his house.

Over the past three decades since his wife had been displaced from her rightful seat as Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne, Corlys had perfected his mask of aloof respect and smiling indifference. Whilst serving under the man who wore the crown that should belonged to his beloved, that mask had been all that stood between him and the release of his pent-up anger.

Viserys Targaryen was truly unworthy of the crown. Imagine having a man like the Rogue Prince at your side and spurning him every chance you get. Madness, truly. And yet, for the longest time, Daemon had remained loyal, but the day before had signalled a change in allegiance—from the King to his heir.

Having Daemon at her back would deter many in their quest to depose Rhaenyra as heir. Which would have only bettered the chance of the progeny born of the union between the princess and Laenor succeeding her. Rhaenys and Corlys’ grandson would have sat the Iron Throne.

Until Rhaenys’ sudden bout of madness.

Viserys had spurned their family many times before. Laenor and Rhaenyra’s betrothal was the first step in righting the wrongs of the past, and now his wife had shattered those hopes and dreams

He could not understand why.

Corlys sat himself in the armchair in front of the cold fireplace—it was too hot to have it lighted. The Lord of the Tides gazed pensively at the burned and charred coals within the hearth, lost in thoughts and memories.

His children were his pride and joy, and he wished for them to have more than he had as a child and a young man. He did not wish for them to have to struggle as he did—be forced to build something, failing time after time, only to succeed through bloodshed and dumb luck.

It had taken Corlys nearly five years to make a profit for the first time, and then it had only happened because of a fluke. He had intended to sail for Great Moraq but because of unfavourable winds and strong sea storms had been forced to stop on the island of Marahai.

The crescent-shaped isle was flanked by two small volcanic isles—home to several gem deposits, which had laid the foundation for Corlys’ fortune. After that, successes were rife. After all, wealthy men were always more willing to witness with other wealthy men.

The door creaking had the Sea Snake snap from reminiscing and behold his wife enter. Clad in her leathers, Corlys thought she resembled a Valyrian goddess.

Her chin up, she sent a cold gaze his way, “Husband.”

“How were the clouds?” he chose kindness rather than conflict. There was no need to explode at one another. Nigh a quarter century the two had been wed, they understood the highs and lows of wedded life better than most.

“They were pleasant,” she sat down across from him and raised her right brow at him, “Have you been waiting for me?”

Corlys snorted, “These are my chambers too, Rhaenys. Did you expect me to stay with your cousin while he further fattened himself?”

A small smile broke through but was gone as swiftly as it had appeared, “And yet am I mistaken if I were to say you wish to speak with me?”

He narrowed his eyes at his wife, “Why would I wish to speak with you, wife? Mayhaps because you shattered a decade-and-a-half worth of our plans?”

“Your plans,” Rhaenys pointed out.

“My plans?” he asked incredulously, “You wished as I did to right the mistakes of the past.”

“Those mistakes can never be righted, Corlys. Another man sits the throne I should have sat. I will never sit it now. It is a wound that has scabbed over but will never heal.”

“Then why, my love?”

“Our children should not suffer for the mistakes of the past.”

“Suffer?” Corlys scoffed, “Our son would have been king!”

“Consort,” his wife chimed in, “King Consort, and he would have been miserable. You know who our son is.”

Corlys glanced away, “He would have gotten past his… preferences.”

“You are ashamed of our son, but I refuse to be the same.”

“I am not ashamed of him!” he snapped at his wife, “He is who he is. I am a sailor, I know what men do with other men. None demanded he lay with the princess every night. He only needed two heirs! He could have even kept that yellow-haired bedfellow of his.”

“He would have been miserable, Corlys,” his wife implored, “He is not like you. He does not wish to wed. He wants to live his life as he wishes! He dreams of freedom, not glory.”

“No man is free,” Corlys snorted with derision.

“Our son will be,” his wife was sure of herself, which made him uncomfortable.

“Why?” he was hesitant in his posing his question, fearful of her answer.

“With Ser Criston’s death, the Kingsguard needs a new sworn brother to fill his open slot.”

Corlys saw red, jumping from his seat, bellowing loudly, “No! He is my heir! Do you wish for my brother to succeed me? He will bring ruin to House Velaryon.”

His wife regarded him coolly, “You have a daughter. You wished for me to inherit, so why should not be able to do the same.”

He slumped back down, “Vaemond will not–

“The laws of the land state that a daughter inherits before the uncle.”

“Except when it comes to the crown,” the bitterness dripped from his words.

“Except when it comes to the crown,” his wife agreed, “Viserys will announce our son becoming a Kingsguard at the tourney, and will do the same for Laena becoming our heir.”

Corlys said nothing in response for what was there left to say—the decision had been made for him.

“Laenor will be much happier, husband,” Rhaenys promised, “As will Laena.”

The Sea Snake sighed, resigned to his fate.

───※ ·♛· ※───

“Your great-grandmother enjoyed this garden the best out of the royal garden, much like you do,” unlike with his brother, Viserys had been able to startle his daughter and heir. Though to be fair, his daughter was deeply lost in thought.

“Father,” Rhaenyra jumped from the small bench situated deep within the royal gardens, “I did not hear you.”

Though she hid it well there was a hint of an accusation in her words.

“I apologize,” he replied, “I asked the servants to point me to where you had walked.”

His daughter gave him a tentative smile, “Do you wish to talk?”

“I just wish to spend some time with my daughter before she leaves me in a fortnight,” Viserys referenced the deal struck with House Velaryon. After their wedding, Rhaenyra and Laenor would settle on Dragonstone to govern the isle, to prepare his heir for the duties that would come her way once she became Lady of the Seven Kingdoms.

For a count, Rhaenyra’s mask slipped but she swiftly got a hold of her emotions, “Do you wish to sit?”

After Viserys seated himself on the small stone bench, he patted the space to the right of him.

Though she seemed hesitant, Rhaenyra sat down next to him.

For a short while neither said anything—enjoying the rays of the sun and the beauty of their surroundings.

“What will happen to myuncle?” his daughter broke the silence. King Viserys knew that the emphasis on the possessive adjective was no coincidence. Rhaenyra truly saw his brother more as hers than his. The truth is that he probably was. Somewhere along the way, Daemon had started to love Rhaenyra more than he.

He could not even begrudge Daemon his shift in allegiance. Viserys had given him no reason to remain devoted to him.

“Nought, daughter,” the king chose to be honest with his heir, “Daemon was right to do as he did,” he ignored the shocked look on her face, “I may not have liked how he went about it, but the outcome of his defence is not something I can regret.”

The stupefaction did not leave his daughter, if anything it became worse when her mouth fell open and she started resembling a gaping fish. It took all for Viserys to not start sniggering.

“I have wronged your uncle,” Viserys said, “Much like I have wronged you.”

“You have not–

“I have,” he interrupted his daughter, “I hurt you by wedding your friend.”

His daughter said nought in reply.

“Alicent had been a great comfort to me in the months after your mother’s death,” he chose to ignore the clenching of her jaw for the time being, “I would like to say it was my grief that allowed Otto to manipulate me, but it did not start then. For too long I allowed the man great power over me and the kingdoms.”

“And over me.”

“Yes,” he replied honestly, “Over you as well.”

“What will happen now?”

“I have spoken to Daemon–

“Pleasantly, I presume.”

Viserys snorted, “Not particularly, no. Your uncle is much like our dragons—temperamental and unforgiving.”

“Not without reason,” Rhaenyra pointed out.

The king let out a deep sigh, “No, not without reason. My brother shall remain at court to deal with our foes.”

“The Hightowers, you mean?”

“Yes, Otto will be called back to the capital to answer for his crimes of attempted rebellion and insurrection. Daemon will ensure that none will ever dare question your position ever again.”

“Why?” the confusion must have shown because his daughter elaborated, “Why is he doing this?”

“Because he loves you.”

His daughter blushed and glanced away, “And you will let him do what is necessary?”

“I will.”

Tears sprung to his eyes when Rhaenyra looped her left arm through his right and laid her head on his shoulder. It had been a long time since his daughter had initiated any genuine physical contact with him.

For a while they just sat there, arms entwined and eyes resting.

The beauty of the Winter Garden had always awed Viserys—planted by the Good Queen, it was home to flowers not usually found within the Crownlands. Much like Alysanne, his aunt Gael and daughter both spent their time reading surrounded by the snow roses.

Viserys did not profess to be a great lover of nature, though he did enjoy the thrill of the hunt, but even he could appreciate his captivating surroundings. The soft whites and cremes brightened his mood considerably.

Though he had developed some of his own doubt regarding the union, it did dismay him to have his cousin break the betrothal between their children. Laenor had never truly deserved Rhaenyra—none did.

“I saw your cousin and her family this morn. We broke our fast together,” when Rhaenyra merely hummed, Viserys elaborated, “She asked to break the betrothal between you and Laenor.”

That got her attention—her arm was pulled from his and he looked him straight in the eyes. The soft violet of her irises was so much like her mother that it pulled on his heartstrings.

“Rhaenys insisted, and so I granted her her wish.”

“But what of the celebrations,” Rhaenyra spluttered, “All the lords and ladies of the realm have travelled to the capital to attend a royal wedding! Even the Northern lords have come. Who am I to wed?”

Viserys ignored her query and instead posed his own, “The choice shall be yours. Who do you wish to wed, Rhaenyra?”

His heir glanced away but not before he saw hope bloom in her eyes, “I don’t know.”

“This is the only time I shall ask you, daughter. Tell me who you wish to wed and I shall allow it.”

“No, you will not,” the Princess of Dragonstone seemed certain in her answer for she had the same stubborn clench to her jaw that she had when she was a girl of eight name days old, and she had been refused a visit to the Dragonpit amid the hour of the bat.

“I will,” Viserys insisted, “Say his name. I need to hear it spoken aloud.”

“I want to wed Daemon.”

Viserys grabbed her face and stroked his thumbs over her cheekbones, “Then wed him, you shall.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

Lord Lyman Beesbury was a loyal man. He had always performed his duties to the best of his abilities—both to the Crown and his liege lord—though he could not claim to be particularly fond of the latter.

House Hightower had ruled the Beesburys of Honeyholt for as long as his house existed—first as Kings of the High Tower and then as Beacons of the South. Their tithes were high and their aid non-existent, but nonetheless, Lyman remembered and honoured his family’s vows to serve and protect them, and so he did.

Since the Targaryens landed on the shores of the Westerosi mainland and shattered the independent kingdoms that once ruled their lands, uniting them all under one banner and kneeling to one king, House Hightower had become bitter with their fate. Cast down from their role as the second most important house of the Reach and forced to serve a great house which they considered to be below them—an upstart steward’s house as the former Lord Hightower liked to call them, though never in the presence of any Tyrells.

House Hightower was no longer exceptional. They were the same as the other vassal houses of the Reach. The only boon they still had was the presence of the Starry Sept and the Citadel in the Oldtown—which they never let their vassals forget, nor their equals.

Lyman and Ser Otto had never seen eye to eye. The Master of Coin disliked the hold his liege lord’s son and then brother had over their king. Aemon and Baelon had both been stronger than Viserys and would have made finer and better kings, the Lord of Honeyholt had always believed. Alas, his friends had perished long before their time, depriving them all of their leadership and wisdom.

Ser Otto losing his Hand-pin and being banished from the capital might be the best thing to happen to the House of the Dragon since the birth of the young Princess Rhaenyra.

Lord Strong would excel in the role of Hand of the King. The Riverman was a truly objective man, who only thought in the ways of law and order, rather than his ambition, like Hands of the past. Were Lyman a younger man he would have petitioned for the office himself but he was set in his ways and his chair. Better to leave the Hand pin to younger and hungrier men.

As Lord Ormund Hightower walked past them, he gave the young lad a shallow bow—no need for any disrespect. It would not do well to heap the sins of his father and the uncle onto the man before he had a chance to set his own course. For the sake of peace, the Lord of Honeyholt prayed his liege broke with the errors of the past because the Rogue Prince had been unleashed at long last, and he doubted the young heir-turned-lord wished to deal with the repercussions of sowing rebellion and dissent.

“My lord,” one of the attendants who oversaw the royal stand guided him to his chair with the remainder of the council, “Please follow me.”

The entire royal family, bar the King, the Princess of Dragonstone and her betrothed, had arrived. The Velaryons sat in their places of honour, while Prince Daemon had sat himself to the side, almost entirely separated from the rest of his family.

The Queen sat in her chair, next to the one designated for the King, still as a statue.

“Would you like something to drink, my lord,” the friendly servant asked.

“Do we have some Arbor Gold?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

To his left, the Grand Maester was conversing in whispers with the Master of Ships—unaware of the cold stare from the Rogue Prince. The king’s younger brother had changed since his return. There had always been a quiet menace to him but now he made shivers go down his spine.

While he could not deny the prince’s actions had been effective, even the Lord of Honeyholt, fond as he was of Prince Daemon, had felt ill at ease with how he had treated the young queen—nought more than her father’s puppet.

“Lyman, do you have any favourites?” the new Hand queried, “Without Prince Daemon or Ser Criston, we might find ourselves faced with an unexpected winner.”

Since winning large by betting on a young Rogue Prince during his first squire’s tourney, he had always done the same—he must have won at least ten thousand gold dragons of the prince’s skill since that first tourney. Only three times did he lose his initial bet—in 98 AC against Ser Clement Crabb, in 103 AC against Ser Harrold Westerling and once more in 112 AC against the traitor Criston Cole.

“I have no idea, my friend,” Lyman answered honestly, “What of your son? Mayhaps young Breakbones will emerge victorious.”

The Hand laughed aloud—a joyful sound, “No, Harwin much prefers the mêlée, as his father did at his age.”

“Then mayhaps I shall put my gold on him.”

“You should,” Prince Daemon interjected, “He will batter his opponents.”

Silence descended upon the stands until the Sea Snake added, “Breakbones it is, then. Fifty gold dragons on young Ser Harwin.”

Other bets followed until Lyman was the last man remaining without any gold bet, “Two hundred gold dragons on Ser Harwin Strong,” some gasps but the Master of Coin, “Who knows battle better our prince? I would be a fool not to follow his advice.”

The man in question merely beheld them with narrowed eyes. However, before any more words could be uttered, the Lord Commander entered the stands and walked toward the front to signal the herald who blew his trumpet and announced, “His Grace King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, and his royal daughter, the Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne.”

The stands exploded with sound—all around men and women clapped for their king and his chosen heir.

───※ ·♛· ※───

As if her humiliation the evening before had not been bad enough, at her husband’s command, Alicent had been forced into a black and red gown, and her children in golden clothing, before they had departed for the tourney grounds outside of the city walls.

While she had walked through the halls of her own keep, escorted by two Kingsguard, the lords and ladies had either gazed at her with derision and disdain, or pity.

The queen consort hated it.

She hated them.

She wished, nay prayed, for all of them to die. These false friends had stood by and witnessed her humiliation the day before—not even her blood had intervened. Not her uncle, nor her brother or cousin. Not even when Lord Flea Bottom had murdered her aunt and uncle had Ser Gwayne Hightower said anything—so much for his vow to protect the weak.

Ser Tyland Lannister, one of her father’s fiercest allies, had assured her of his continued loyalty to their righteous cause, and who had told her that her father’s dismissal was a disgrace and a grievous insult, had lowered his head and refused to look her in the eye while she passed him in the halls. The same for the Grand Maester.

All had shown their true colours.

Only her father had remained strong in the face of the brutal monster that they called Daemon Targaryen. A false knight and a demon prince—no doubt sent by the great devil to wreak havoc on those who basked in the Light of the Seven.

To make matters even worse, her husband was forcing her to spend time in the presence of the man who brutalized her.

Alicent had been amongst the first to arrive in the royal box, though had asked not to be announced—there was no need to invite even further mockery. It had taken her a while to realize that while she was early, she had not been the first royal to arrive. No, that dubious honour belonged to the Rogue Prince, who had spent his time socializing with the neighbouring boxes.

Lord Tyrell, a seemingly devout man, laughing with the prince had felt like a deep cut to the queen consort. The man had always been kind to her and had been humiliated by the prince only the eve before, much like she had, and thus she could not understand how he could pretend nought was amiss—a demon walked amongst them.

Eventually, the Lords Tarly, Oakheart, Rowan and Merryweather joined the Lord of Highgarden and the Prince, and they all spent the next few minutes laughing and jesting amongst each other as if they were long-lost friends.

Her lord husband’s arrival had Alicent clench her jaw and fall into old patterns, abusing her finger beds.

Why did they cheer her on? Rhaenyra had proven to be a dishonourable and lustful creature, much like her uncle. She did not deserve their devotion, much like she had not deserved poor Criston’s love and affection.

If not for Rhaenyra the good knight would still live.

“Good noon, all,” the king’s voice boomed over the tourney grounds, “Today is a joyous occasion for it commences the celebrations for my daughter and heir’s wedding.”

Alicent clenched her jaw and kept on with her picking until she had drawn a flinch from herself by pulling and jabbing too hard, prompting a small trickle of blood to drop onto the stone ground—none noticed.

“In the past day, I have spoken to my kin, including the Princess Rhaenys and her son, Ser Laenor,” her husband was a surprisingly gifted public speaker. As such it did not shock her that the lords and ladies were captivated, “Ser Laenor is a fine and honourable knight and dragonrider, who wishes to serve his blood. Hence why I accepted his request to throw off the remainders of boyhood and truly serve his King and Princess by taking up the white cloak of the Sworn Brotherhood of the Kingsguard.”

Whispers broke out all over the stands, even amongst the king’s guests in the royal box. Alicent’s mouth nigh fell open but she managed to contain her undignified response before anyone saw it.

Not that anyone was paying attention to her, for all eyes were trained on the King.

“Please, Ser Laenor, if you would,” her husband spoke.

Alicent had not even seen the young Velaryon knight enter, already clad in the Kingsguard armour, bar its cloak.

Ser Harrold handed Viserys Blackfyre—the sword of kings—before stepping back. The King held the sword in front of him with the tip resting on the stone floor of the royal box, “Kneel, young knight.”

Ser Laenor did as he was bid by the king and went down on both knees before the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

The man did not even have to be prompted, reciting the Kingsguard Oath by memory, “I swear toward the King, with all my strength and give my blood for his. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard his secrets, obey his commands, ride at his side and defend his name and honour.”

“Ser Laenor, you kneeled a boy, but you shall rise as a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard,” the King spoke before signalling for Ser Harrold to attach a white cloak to the new royal guard’s shoulder.

Upon Laenor standing, the stands erupted in such thunderous applause, that Alicent could feel the ground shake. The ovation went on for almost five full minutes, which had

Before the queen consort could even think of anything besides the thought that Ser Laenor didlook quite dashing in his armour and cloak, her husband addressed the crowd once more, “Of course, ladies and gentlemen, you all came to the capital with the hopes of attending a royal wedding. Well, you shall be gladdened to know that Ser Laenor’s new role has not changed your reason for being here.”

Alicent did not like where this was headed. The young woman felt goosebumps break out and a shiver travel down her spine. Almost as if the Gods were attempting to warn her of some grand calamity coming her way.

“After careful consideration, the Princess of Dragonstone has selected a new betrothed, whom she will wed at the end of our fortnight of celebrations.”

Her heart sank when Alicent saw the smirk on the Rogue Prince’s lips.

“The Princess of Dragonstone shall wed her uncle, Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, Defender of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, and Lord of Runestone.”

Alicent picked her fingernail so hard that the nail broke, cutting through the soft skin beneath. What had been a steady trickle before, had turned into a heavy stream dripping onto the stone floor—still none noticed.

No, they were too busy cheering and clapping. Unaware that their king had just condemned his wife and children to death.

‘So this is how decency dies… with thunderous applause.’

Notes:

Look at our Viserys… maybe he’s still redeemable after all?

A shaitan or shaytan is an evil spirit in Islam. I am areligious myself, but I do like the word and its spelling, so I used it as a part of the mythology around the Faith of the Seven.

Did anyone catch the Star Wars reference?

The next chapter will be posted in about six to seven weeks.

As for now, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Don’t forget to review and push that kudos button! 😁

For news about my stories (WIPs, one-shots and drabbles) and for links to my social media, please check out my Linktree: https://linktr.ee/destroyerofnations

Chapter 5: a rogue's delight

Summary:

As the Realm’s Delight prepares to wed her Rogue Prince, the girl in the green dress grows ever more desperate to reunite with her sire.

With the sun setting and with the hour of the heron having long passed them by, the royal party had returned to the Red Keep. Victors of the axe-throwing and archery competitions had gone homewards with a hefty pouch of gold, and the members of the royal family had retreated to their chambers in preparation for the grand feast that eve.

The King had insisted that his daughter’s wedding celebrations would be the most opulent ever thrown, with winnings for the full seven days of tourney totalling almost two hundred thousand gold dragons.

The joust, as the most prestigious of the games would field fifty thousand gold dragons for its winner, while the victor of the mêlée would receive five and thirty thousand gold dragons.

Both exorbitant sums. Ridiculous really, but Viserys could not be convinced otherwise.

The winners of the horse racing and sailing competitions would receive twenty thousand gold dragons, and those of the archery and axe-throwing challenges received five and ten thousand gold dragons. Finally, the winners of the quintain and riding at rings competitions would each receive ten thousand gold dragons.

No tourney in history had ever fielded such extravagant rewards, and Alicent felt sickened that it was to celebrate such a monstrous and disgraceful union as the one between uncle and niece. Her husband had spat in the faces of the pure-hearted and devoted followers of all that is good and holy.

Alicent’s skin prickled with righteous indignation and fury.

How dare he?

How dare they?

Only three moons before, Rhaenyra had vowed nought had transpired between her and her uncle, and Alicent had trusted and believed her friend—blinded by the shattered bonds of a youthful friendship. The princess’ assurances are what had the Queen defend her to her kingly husband, which eventually led to the man dismissing her dutiful father as his Hand of the King.

Rhaenyra had humiliated her—and by extension, her father.

Her father was right—the princess should never be allowed near the Iron Throne. She and her hedonistic husband-to-be would turn the Seven Kingdoms over to the shadowy remains of their heathenish Freehold.

Alicent would not stand for such a fate to befall her people. As a woman of faith, honour and duty, she would stand against them all. Even her own lord husband, if need be, for he had proven to be as horrible as his brother by allowing him to wed his daughter.

What kind of father would allow his own brother to wed his daughter?

Such deviancy and unnatural behaviour did not belong on the shores of Westeros—the land settled by the holy Hugor of the Hill and blessed by the Seven-That-Are-One. Their homeland was one of piety, community and devotion to a higher purpose. Things, Alicent was sure, none of the Targaryens could ever grasp the meaning of.

And Prince Daemon was the worst of them all.

All said so. Her father, her brother, the Grand Maester and even Septon Eustace. All were united in their distaste of the prince, and their horror at him being near the halls of power. War would come of Prince Daemon sitting the Iron Throne for that is exactly what he would do: overpower and overthrow his wife, if need be.

The King’s previous actions had also painted quite the picture of his brother, so the Queen Consort could not understand why he would allow him this close to the Iron Throne—only days after he publicly humiliated her in the presence of all the great lords and ladies of the realm.

Alicent feared for her children’s lives—her precious and fated Aegon and her much-beloved and angelic Helaena. They were the true future of House Targaryen. It should be his eldest son who succeeds King Viserys in due time, but the man had refused to honour his duty and fealty to the laws of Gods and men.

Besides, now that he was to wed the heir, Prince Daemon would do all to ensure that Aegon succeeding Viserys did not come to be—even kill him, Alicent was sure.

Her husband’s unexpected bout of madness had endangered both her life and that of their shared blood.

If only her father were still here. The wise Ser Otto Hightower would know exactly what to do or say. If only Alicent had listened to him from the beginning, then their lives would not be in jeopardy right now.

Her father needed to return to the capital, and if it meant Alicent had to lie with her husband to convince him to do so, she would do her duty.

In her ever-growing anger, Alicent grabbed one of the Valyrian clay vases that decorated the queen’s chambers and threw it at the wall, dashing it into hundreds of tiny pieces.

To her left her ladies-in-waiting gazed at her with wide eyes but Alicent cared nought and instead she grabbed one of the vile tapestries that littered her bedchambers, depicting images of savagery and hedonism, and tore it from the wall.

No longer would she be forced to reside amongst the symbols of the cursed Targaryens’ savagery and apostasy. They were a godless people, who broke the Laws of Gods and Men, the holy laws of decency and faith, to slake their unnatural lusts.

Her son and daughter, and the baby in her belly, would never be forced into such unions—nor would they ever be forced to kneel before the vile whore that was Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Her lusts were deviant and freakish—a sign of her inherent immorality and promiscuity. Only moons before she had lain with her own sworn shield, despoiling his pure white cloak, knowing that his devotion to her would never have him say no.

Not to mention, how she had stood by as her uncle went on to slay the man whom she had dishonoured. Not a single mention of how

She was a dishonourable slattern—a tart. Barely above the whorish flesh-peddlers that littered the streets of Flea Bottom.

Fury enveloped every bit of Alicent’s body. It almost felt like she was on fire herself—as if a Dragon of the Gods was trying to burst through her skin and burn down all of the Targaryen heathenry.

The queen consort saw clearer than ever. This was her purpose. The Gods had given her a glorious and holy purpose—to protect their godsfearing lands from the heathen dragonlords with their demon creatures.

To the women littered around the queenly apartments she seemed almost mad—limbs twitching, breathing heavily and eyes flittering around erratically.

Her foremost lady-in-waiting was her cousin, Delena, daughter of Ser Martyn Hightower, the Captain of the Guards at the Hightower and Alicent’s lordly uncle’s foremost military advisor. Lady Delena seemed frightened of her queen, stepping back until she bumped into the wall furthest away from the royal consort.

The queen deluded herself into believing she had calmed, turning to the women, disregarding their fear, instead seeing only devotion, “Delena, summon Acolyte Aladore, I wish to send a letter.”

“Your Grace?” the young woman had never called her anything by anything but her honorific since the first time she had been humiliated by the former Hand, who had declared her too presumptuous and familiar with her queen.

“It is time for my father to return to King’s Landing—with all the might of the Hightower at his back if need be.”

Delena did not wish to be the one that said the unvoiced aloud but it seemed like none of her fellow ladies had the guts to do so, “Your Grace, Ser Otto has already been summoned to the capital.”

The queen blinked owlishly at her, “What do you mean?” before erupting in a rage-filled fit, “How do you know this?! Why did you not inform me of this?!”

The lady-in-waiting tried to placate her mistress, placing her hands before her to ensure distance was kept between her and the rapidly unravelling consort, “At the engagement feast Prince Daemon commanded for a raven to be sent to the Hightower, demanding Her Grace’s father return to the capital immediately,” Delena did not voice the remainder of the Rogue Prince’s command, ‘to stand trial for his crimes of sedition and treason.’

“The prince has no power at court!” Alicent spat, “The king will put an end to this!”

“The prince is marrying his niece, Your Grace,” the elderly Lady Redwyne was brave enough to chime in, “The king has decided to embrace his brother once more.”

“I am his wife—his queen!”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Delena replied for it was better to leave her to her angered delusions, “I will summon Acolyte Aladore swiftly. Do you need anything more from me?”

The smile sent her was incredibly disconcerting—almost reptilian, with her cousin’s eyes twitching, “Not for you, cousin.”

Lady Delena swiftly fled the royal apartment. At the doors, Ser Arryk Cargyll gave her a look of sympathy, no doubt having heard their queen’s unhinged rambling.

Alicent now looked toward her remaining ladies, “Lady Joselyn, I would like to spend the remainder of the eve in solemn contemplation. Summon Septon Eustace to my chambers.”

The dowager Lady of the Arbor bowed to her queen before leaving as well.

“Lady Beony,” the granddaughter of Lord Peake was amongst the youngest of Alicent’s ladies at only five and ten name days, “Go to the king’s apartments and tell him that I shall not be joining for the feast this eve, for I require spiritual guidance from our esteemed Septon Eustace.”

If Alicent was paying attention to anything besides her own delusions and internalized fallacies, she would have noticed how nervous the young woman was, “Yes, Your Grace.”

Without the queen even noticing, one of her other ladies had slipped out alongside Lady Beony, no doubt to aid the nervous girl.

Alicent muttered to herself, “I will not be forced to share a table with those beasts ever again!” before turning to her two remaining ladies, “Lady Meredyth?”

The queen consort was confused, she was certain the elderly Lady of Uplands, who was the consort of Lord Clifford Mullendore—a Hightower vassal, had been present, “Where is Lady Meredyth?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” the most senior of the two remaining ladies replied.

Unwilling to admit she thought the Lady of Uplands had been present and thus looking like a fool, she kept her doubts unvoiced, “The two of you, summon servants to clean up this mess.”

The two women genuflected briefly before hurrying out of the royal apartments.

None remained behind in the queenly apartments but the queen consort but Alicent knew, spiritually she was alone no longer. She knew what the Gods needed from her—starting with removing all of the Targaryen heraldry and Valyrian relics from her suite. There was no need for her piety to remain under her siege in her own rooms.

With a smile Alicent kneeled before the sole Seven-Pointed Star affixed in her chambers—her lady mother’s before she passed. Her father had gifted it to her upon wedding the king, to ensure she did not forget she was a Child of the Gods.

“Breathe in me O Holy Mother,” Alicent recited the Mother’s Devotion by memory, “That my thoughts may all be holy. Act in me O Holy Mother, that my work, too, may be holy. Draw my heart O Holy Mother, that I love but what is holy. Strengthen me O Holy Mother, to defend all that is holy. Guard me, then, O Holy Mother, that I always may be holy.”

“Your Grace,” so overcame with Faith and enraptured by the holy prayer she recited, the Queen Consort had not heard the door open and Septon Eustace slip into her chambers—a true man of devoutness and godliness, “It heartens me to such piety from our noble Queen Consort, even during times where our faith is under siege by ungodly influences.”

Alicent was grateful to have such a man of True Faith to guide her through her crisis, “I thank you, High Reverence. It is more than ever now, that I am in need of your saintly guidance.”

“If my guidance you need, then my guidance you shall receive,” the man gave her a kind smile before taking from his robes his septonical stole and draping it around his neck, “Let us pray and ask the True Gods for their aid in battling those who would wish to harm us,” the Septon went down on his knees beside her, “Let us recite the Father’s Prayer.”

Alicent nodded before gripping the man’s hand in hers and bowing her head in contemplation before both recited aloud, “When evil darkens our world, give us light. When despair numbs our souls, give us hope. When we stumble and fall, lift us up. When doubts assail us, give us faith. When nothing seems sure, give us trust. When ideals fade, give us vision. When we lose our way, be our guide! That we may find serenity in Your presence, and purpose in doing Your will.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

“Ah, Daemon,” his brother welcomed him to his solar, standing from his ostentatious throne chair, “You made it.”

The Rogue Prine raised his brow at his kingly brother, “You summoned me, brother. I did not know I was allowed to refuse a summons from my king,”

“You are not,” Viserys jested, “That would be treasonous.”

“More than just treasonous, Your Grace, “ Daemon smirked, “To insult my good-father-to-be in such a manner would be quite the folly.”

His brother grew beet red and tried to splutter out a smart retort but failed miserably.

Daemon’s grin grew even larger, “The future grandfather of my children, no less.”

His brother choked and broke out into loud coughing.

For a bit Daemon was amused but when Viserys’s coughing only got worse, the prince strode with large steps toward the drinks cart and poured his brother a cup of lukewarm water.

The king quickly gulped down the water while Daemon patted his back.

Eventually, the king got a hold of his coughing, steadying his breathing, “Must you always vex me like this, Daemon?”

“I shall cease vexing you when you stop being so easily riled up,” Daemon sat himself down in the chair across from his brother’s.

“I almost choked to death.”

Daemon rolled his eyes, “Stop being so dramatic. It was a little cough.”

“It was just a little cough,” Viserys muttered to himself, “That’s easy for you to say.”

The Rogue Prince was amused by his brother’s petulance and childish antics, “What is that, brother?”

“Nothing,” his brother folded his arms over his chest as if a child of five name days who was denied a piece of cake.

“Are you a child?” Daemon asked incredulously.

“Are you a child?” the man mimicked him.

“I will smack you as I did when we were children,” the prince warned.

“You can’t strike your king!” the smugness was almost too much to bear.

“I am pretty sure I can,” Daemon slapped his brother over the head, “You see?”

Viserys gazed at him with open mouth.

“Oh, close your mouth, and tell me what you summoned me for.”

His brother narrowed his eyes as if debating whether to continue with his childish behaviour. To be honest, Daemon did not mind the light-hearted teasing and taunting between brothers. It had been some time since any of that had taken place—probably since before Viserys became king. Maybe even since before the Great Council.

“You are marrying the Princess of Dragonstone,” his brother announced—not a question, just a statement.

Daemon still could not believe it, to be honest. He had since slept a night but it still seemed a dream.

“With that come certain demands,” the king continued, “Duties and responsibilities.”

Daemon’s ire grew, “If this is where you demand my faithfulness, do not bother. I have what I always wanted.”

His brother beheld with an eagle-like stare, “What is that?”

“A Valyrian bride,” Daemon raised his chin. It was the only thing he had ever wanted, and which had been snatched from him by his grandparents—and if he was honest with himself, by his father, who had not protested the match with his sheep from the Vale.

“Daemon,” his brother sighed, “I am sorry.”

“What for?”

“For not granting you an annulment when you asked for it.”

“Why did you not? Was it just Otto’s words that had you deny me?”

“Aemma…”

Daemon turned his head away. It was no secret that the late dowager queen had a fondness for her homeland—where she was raised until she flowered. While he loved his cousin, the Rogue Prince could not profess to have been particularly close to her. Rhaenyra’s declaration that she had loved Daemon the most of all—even over her father and mother—had created a hint of maternal jealousy from the Arryn queen toward her good-brother.

“And then Otto. He believed that by granting you an annulment we would insult the Vale even further after…”

“After you refused to abide by the mandatory mourning period of a year?” Daemon sneered.

His brother did not deny his words, “Yes.”

“Is it guilt that has you allow me to wed your daughter, then?” Daemon wondered.

“No,” Viserys replied, “I merely allowed my daughter to wed whom she wished to wed. It was you she wanted, so I gave her my blessing.”

“Only three moons prior, I was a plague sent to destroy you,” the prince threw Viserys’ words back in his face, “You accused me of desiring your ugly chair.”

The king grew a tad defiant, “Are you proclaiming you never wished for it? Are you denying you ever desired to be crowned king?”

Daemon’s voice was ice-cold, “If I wished to be king, I’d be king right now and your head would have decorated a spike outside the Red Keep’s walls.”

Viserys looked at him with sad eyes but Daemon would not be swayed.

“I could have put my own name forward at the Great Council—I am a dragonrider, had a small army at my back and was wed to a wealthy and powerful lady. I might have stood just as much chance as you did.”

“And yet, you did not.”

“And yet, I did not.”

“Why?” his brother grilled him, “Why did you not do so?”

“Because you are my brother.”

His frank honesty had the king avert his eyes, “Do you ever regret it?”

“No.”

“Not even when I kept Otto as Hand or dismissed you from the Council.”

“No,” Daemon replied, “I hated you for it, but my loyalty never wavered. You are my brother and I am your shield and sword.”

“I wish…,” Viserys whispered, had cast down as if too pained to look at him.

Daemon chose to ignore his brother’s moment of weakness, “At the end of these festivities, all I have wanted will be mine. I cannot regret how we came to be here.”

“Yes,” the king used the sleeves of his gold-threaded robes to wipe away his accumulated tears, “About that…”

Daemon narrowed his eyes but kept his mouth wisely shut.

“While I have allowed you independence as much as possible before. As Rhaenyra’s consort, you will require your own Kingsguard.”

“No,” after jumping up from his chair, now Daemon covered his arms over his chest, “I refuse.”

“You do not get to refuse. As you so righteously pointed out—you are to be my heir’s husband and the father to her children. Your safety is paramount.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed with indignant disbelief, “I am a warrior with no peers and carry a Valyrian steel sword at my side. Do you truly believe me incapable of defending myself?”

“It matters little what I think, brother,” Viserys’ voice echoed the honesty behind it, “It was not my choice.”

“What?”

“Your betrothed insisted.”

Daemon sank back down in his chair, “I can’t believe this.”

A mischievous grin played on his brother’s lips, almost mocking him, “She wants her husband-to-be to remain safe.”

Daemon kept a tight lid on his temper, “And who will be the one minding me?”

“Don’t see it as minding, but rather as a valuable friend to be by your side, as Ser Ryam was to our grandfather,” Viserys stood from his grand chair and sauntered toward the door.

“Ser Ryam was a cunt,” Daemon bit back.

His brother snorted as he opened the door wide, “Please, enter,” he addressed whoever stood outside.

Upon the Sea Snake’s get entering, Daemon exploded, “Him? He is a child.”

“He fought with you on the Stepstones, did he not?” Viserys defended himself, “You have espoused his becoming a Kingsguard.”

“I am pleased to be granted the honour to guard you, cousin,” Laenor mocked him.

“Gods, save me,” Daemon sank deeper into his seat while his brother laughed.

───※ ·♛· ※───

“Are you done pouting?” a spark of resilience had ignited at Daemon’s continued pouting, “You are to be my prince consort, uncle, so please forgive me for attempting to ensure your continued safety.”

“I am an anointed knight,” he hissed back, trying to make sure their chaperone and guards did not hear their whispered argument, “I was knighted by King Jaehaerys himself and granted me Dark Sister to wield for the remainder of my days. If you believe I need some snotnosed child to protect me, you are sorely mistaken!”

Rhaenyra’s eyes blazed with anger, “No one is denying your skill with a sword.”

“And yet, here we are.”

“How is it that we have been betrothed for barely a day and you are already starting an argument?” Rhaenyra sighed, running the rips of her fingers through her loosened hair, “None meant to insult you. Neither me nor my father.”

“Whether you intended to insult me or not matters little when you go behind my back to your father to foist upon me something I did not ask for.”

“I want you to be safe,” Rhaenyra refused to compromise on this.

“At no point did either think of consulting me, of summoning me and asking me what I thought of this all.”

It was less about the Kingsguard being assigned to him than it was about the agency being lost.

“Two decades ago my grandfather and grandmother decided for me, one my father and brother did not protest. Since then your father made it his life’s mission to repeat the same pattern. I had hoped that with…,” Daemon licked his lips, “…recent events, my words being like whispers in the winds were behind me.”

“They are,” Rhaenyra assured him, coming to a standstill and grabbing his hands. In the distance she noticed how Rhaenyra and their Kingsguard had ceased their walking as well, keeping their distance, “You have made a great deal of enemies in the past few days, uncle. First by dealing with Alicent’s petty little rebellion and having the great lords restate their vows to me, and now by becoming my betrothed–

“A position many of them would kill for, I am in danger,” Daemon finished, “Do not believe that I do not understand your reasoning, Rhaenyra, for I do. It is the ease with which you went behind me to assure my obedience that rankles me. We have not yet been wed and I am already being whipped into submission by my soon-to-be wife.”

“That is not what happened.”

“Is it not? For decades I have protected myself. When the kings I served out of familial duty had need of me, I served. Whether it be exterminating brigands in the lands of the hills and the rivers, putting an end to Dornish excursions into our lands or even burning an Ironborn reaver fleet or two, I did as I commanded. I have fought in the East, destroying entire khalasars and sellsword companies. I have fought a war with and brought to heel three of the nine Free Cities despite your father’s weakness, and yet I still breathe. If you believe some Andal lordlings could ever cause me harm, you do not know me half as well as you think you do!”

“You think it is for you I do this?!” Rhaenyra dropped his hands and narrowed her eyes at him—despite being almost twenty centimetres smaller, the prince took a step back at her anger, “I have chosen you above all else. I have chosen to rule with you. To rectify errors of the past. To wipe clean the slate—dirtied as it was by my father, your brother. I do not wish to lose you to assassins in the night or some bought-off tavern wench while you spend your eves drinking with your gold cloaks.”

“I have not yet died,” Daemon pointed out.

“But they will try and they will try. They shall never cease trying because they know you are all that stands between the Crown and a bloody coup. If they kill you, they are closer than ever to toppling us.”

“You have a dragon,” her uncle finished lamely.

“Kind of you to include me but we both know you are the martial strength of this house. I will have to govern but you will have to war.”

Daemon glanced away, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Rhaenyra was confused.

“Okay. I will allow my cousin’s whelpling to shadow me.”

Rhaenyra crashed her body into her uncle’s, pushing all the air out of his lungs, “Thank you.”

“No bother. To be honest, he’s not that bad. A talented knight and exceptional dragonrider. It would not be a bad idea to tie him to us—to you.”

Rhaenyra just beamed at him.

For a while, the two continued with their trek through the gardens, this time with Rhaenyra’s arms looped through her uncle’s.

Whilst growing up, she rarely saw her uncle—ever on the move as he was, and yet he always was her favourite. She did not know when it was that familial love turned to desire. The first time she had told her former handmaiden that she wished to wed her uncle, he had been conveniently banished. Now, of course, she knew it was because Alicent went snitching to her cunt father, and he pulled whatever strings he had to have the king rid himself of his brother for the time being.

Otto Hightower feared her uncle. She had seen it on the Bridge of Dragonstone, and she had seen it when he returned from the Stepstones.

While Rhaenyra truly loved Daemon, and she certainly desired him, she was not blind to what he could mean for her claim. Only two days prior he had viciously defended her in front of all of the most powerful lords of the realm—humiliating the Hightower, killing a Kingsguard and only barely stopping before killing Alicent’s spawn.

He was her greatest champion, and together they could do great things, she knew.

“Gaoman daor jaelagon naejot udrāzma hae ñuha kepa [I do not wish to rule as my father],” Rhaenyra said.

“Se skorkydoso iksis bona? [And how is that?]”

“Mērī [alone],” Rhaenyra raised her head, gazing at him as they walked along the blossoming flowers and plants, “Kosti udrāzma hēnkirī [we can rule together].”

“I have no interest in sitting your father’s ugly chair,” her uncle reverted to the Common Tongue, “I will fight your wars but governance bores me. It would kill me in time. Force me to remain still in some throne chair and I would wither away and die.”

‘How melodramatic,’ Rhaenyra thought, though she could see the truth in what he said. Daemon had always been an agent of chaos—a dragon-come-flesh, “I would not ask such a thing from you.”

“I will aid you, Rhaenyra, as I should as your consort–

“King,” she interrupted.

“King Consort,” Daemon was confused.

“Not King Consort, just King,” the Princess of Dragonstone vowed.

“That would undermine your entire claim, Rhaenyra!”

“Then you’ll be there to defend it, won’t you?”

He sighed deeply, “I will.”

“Good,” her Rhaenyra turned her head from his and gazed across the greenery, “There is something else we must discuss.”

“What is that?”

“My maidenhead.”

Her uncle hesitated for a tad but he never stopped walking, “Mmhh… what about your maidenhead, niece.”

“It is no longer there,” honesty was the best policy, she had decided. Besides, it is not as if her uncle was as pure as driven snow himself. She had met his Lysene bedmate, and over the years had heard more than one story of his affairs with ladies of the court—more often than not leading to yet another banishment from court.

“Is that right? Please, do tell me where it went,” he did not sound angered, if anything he seemed almost amused.

“Ser Criston.”

“Ugh,” the sound of disgust was loud enough that it startled Princess Rhaenys, who was walking twenty metres behind them, as well as their assigned Kingdguard—Ser Erryk Cargyll and Ser Laenor Velaryon, “Really? By the Gods, why?”

“You left me wanting,” Rhaenyra shrugged her shoulders.

“He was such a pathetic little man,” the prince complained, “Why would you even–

“Who else?” Rhaenyra asked, “He was standing guard at my door and he was not exactly unpleasant to look at. He was convenient.”

“Ah, the romance of convenience,” her uncle mocked her.

“As opposed to the romance of my uncle’s fingers up my cunt in a brothel?” she bit back, refusing to let him shame her.

“At least there is pleasure to be had in a brothel,” the Rogue Prince always had a cutting retort at the ready.

Rhaenyra felt the need to defend herself, “It was pleasurable enough, I assure you.”

“I guess we’ll see,” his ominous reply confused her.

“What do you mean?” Rhaenyra asked, though a tad hesitantly.

“We’ll be wed soon enough and with a wedding comes a bedding. I guess you’ll soon enough know the difference between pleasure and contentment.”

Rhaenyra blushed red while her betrothed laughed.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Ser Gerold Royce was not a pleasant man, and not even Jeyne could pretend otherwise. Her chosen sister’s cousin was vainglorious and dismissive of anyone without a cock. Not even his liege lady was spared his snide and cutting remarks, nor his loud accusations of weakness from the Defender of the Vale.

She would try but when faced with a dragon one does not merely continue charging. No, one ducks, and that is exactly what Jeyne would do if need be. The mess they found themselves in was because Rhea had neglected to formally name an heir, or leave a will.

At least not one that was formally filed with the Citadel. Ser Gerold had attempted to place before her a will that the Lady of Runestone had allegedly not yet sent out to the Citadel and instead had left in one of the drawers of her writing table.

A bald-faced lie, of course, and one she would not be foolish enough to bring up in front of the King and the Rogue Prince, whom she would be meeting soon enough.

“I am the rightful Lord of Runestone,” spittle flew everywhere, the man more erratic than ever, “You must have them recognize me!”

“Lower your tone,” Jeyne’s sworn shield snapped at the anointed knight. Ser Hardyn Corbray was arguably the greatest warrior the Vale had seen in nearly half a century and he was particularly fond of the girl he had watched grow up, “Or I shall remove your filthy tongue from your cunt mouth,” he swiftly turned to her, “I apologize for the salty language, my lady.”

“No need,” Jeyne stared at Ser Gerold—who was quite the pathetic figure, but better he be Lord of Runestone than the Rogue Prince, who had dishonoured Rhea at every turn, and who might have had a hand in her death if Ser Gerold was to be believed, “Ser Gerold will mind his manners in the presence of the Defender of the Vale. Will he not?”

Ser Gerold apologized, though he did so with the sourest of looks thrown her way.

“I shall do as I can, but make no mistake, if the King sides with his brother, which he might very well do since they have clearly reconciled, there will be nothing else I can do. All of what House Royce owns shall be Prince Daemon’s.”

Upon Rhea’s death, Jeyne had appointed a steward to oversee Runestone until the rightful heir could take up governance. House Royce gold and other properties were safely held at the Gates of the Moon, as was Lamentation and the bronze armour worn by generations of Royce lords and kings.

“Please,” the knight resorted to begging, “I am certain he had an active hand in the killing of my cousin.”

“Certain?” the Lady of the Eyrie was growing tired already and it was barely noon, “You were all hunting with her, were you not? Did you see Prince Daemon? Hear him? Perhaps his dragon?”

The man lowered his eyes to the floor in an attempt to hide his anger.

“You know nothing. He very well could have killed her. We do not know. What we do know is that for all intents and purposes, he is the rightful Lord of Runestone. Not you,” Jeyne put up her finger when the knight was about to interrupt her, “The law is the law. I shall go speak with the king and the prince but as I said before, it will be the king’s decree that I must follow,” Jeyne stood from her chair and left the angered Valeman behind, “As much as I may mislike it.”

The king and his family had a luncheon earlier that day, no doubt to further celebrate the unexpected royal engagement. Luckily, he had found a spare moment in his day to meet with her about the unresolved matter of Runestone.

As much as she did not wish for an ancient seat to leave the hands of a Valeman, even the Defender of the Vale had been impressed by the Rogue Prince’s defence of his niece and thus was not entirely opposed to a union between the two.

Prince Daemon Targaryen was a great deal of things: beloved and hated, admired and despised, but above all he was a warrior of great renown, perhaps with no true peers alive. To have him stand beside the first ruling queen would be a deterrent to anyone who might attempt to usurp her—which the Hightowers and their allies would try, of which she had no doubt.

The Rogue Prince was a mad dog but as long as it was her cousin who held the leash he could be an incredible asset, as his war in the Stepstones had proven. To bring to its knees not one but three Free Cities was an incredible feat.

It was not long before they arrived at the king’s solar, where they were met by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, “My lady,” the man gave her a shallow bow, “The King and the Prince are expecting you.”

When Ser Hardyn attempted to follow her into the room, he was stopped by the Westerman, “You’ll go no further.”

When he opened his mouth, Jeyne tried to set his mind at ease, “I will be fine, good ser. You can wait here.”

Her sworn shield bowed, “As you command, my lady.”

The King was seated in the largest of the chairs while his younger and more menacing brother stood behind him, hand on his sword, “Be welcomed, Lady Jeyne.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she bowed deeply to her king and then did the same to the Rogue Prince. There was no need to needlessly antagonize him, “My Prince.”

“Please, be seated,” King Viserys gestured to the chair across from him, which the Defender of the Vale swiftly inhabited, “Would you like some refreshments? Perhaps some wine? My brother brought with him a nice Pentoshi red.”

“I would not mind trying some, Your Grace,” Jeyne replied.

It was the prince who gestured to a maid standing in the corner of the solar, and who swiftly poured three goblets of ruby red wine before handing them to the two men and their guest. The maid blended back into the surroundings—it was almost as if she was not there.

All three sipped from their goblet before the King commenced the much-dreaded conversation, “You asked for an audience? I believe it is about Runestone, no?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jeyne answered truthfully. No need for subterfuge.

“Runestone is a sensitive matter, you see,” the king’s voice was gentle but Jeyne did notice a steely quality to it, which it never had before. Perhaps it was more than just a reconciliation between the two brothers, but an outright partnership. That could spell trouble for those who wished harm on the House of the Dragon for there was nothing so terrifying than Prince Daemon with the complete backing of the Crown.

“I understand, Your Grace. I am willing to negotiate a favourable deal for the prince.”

“My brother and I have spoken at length as well, and we might have a proposition that would have Runestone leave the hands of House Royce.”

‘Colour me intrigued,’ Jeyne thought to herself, “Please, do tell.”

“It is no secret that Prince Daemon was not overly fond of the late Lady Rhea,” the king explained, “Though let us not pretend that she was particularly warm to him either.”

“We shall not. Lady Rhea was a complicated and stubborn woman.”

“I am certain you knew her better than I, seeing as her father was your regent for quite a while during your youth.”

“Lord Yorbert was an honourable man, and his daughter was a fine friend for a great deal of years.”

The Prince snorted at that, which had Jeyne narrow her eyes at him.

The king held up his hand and the prince seemed to back down. Jeyne had never thought much of King Viserys, his actions toward her late aunt’s memory were too grave for that, but he must possess some unnatural power to be able to control his brother in that manner.

“The law is clear. My brother is the rightful Lord of Runestone, and proprietor of all that comes with it,” the king stated, “However, we do understand your concern with it all. So, as I said before, I have sat with my brother, heir and Hand and we have a proposal for you if you are willing to hear it.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” she retorted, though both knew she had no other choice.

“Prince Daemon is willing to relinquish Runestone and its lordship, but in return, he wishes for half of its treasury, House Royce’s ancestral sword and armour, and its manse in King’s Landing.”

That was a heavy blow, Jeyne had to admit to herself. House Royce was a wealthy house, so half of its treasury was nearly four million gold dragons, “I do not know if I can agree to the sword and armour, Your Grace.”

“The offer is non-negotiable,” the prince spoke for the first time, his voice tight with fiery and barely contained rage.

“I understand it might be a bitter tonic to swallow, Lady Jeyne, but Lady Rhea knew the laws of these lands and she still chose to keep my brother as her legal heir. To take of him his rightful property would be wrong. It is only at the Princess of Dragonstone’s urging that he conceded to this proposition.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” her people would not like this, she knew and her position was already unsteady. That which plagued the Heir to the Iron Throne was a blight on her reign as well—the greed and prejudices of man.

“What say you?” King Viserys asked, “Is the offer satisfactory?”

“No,” she honestly replied, “But since there is no further negotiation permittable, I shall accept it.”

“I shall expect my gold within the next three moons, as well as my sword and armour,” the prince’s gruff voice ruffled her feathers but she had no choice but to agree.

“Of course, my prince.”

“Good,” the king smiled, “I assume you wish for Ser Gerold to succeed my brother as Lord of Runestone?”

“Your Grace?” the Lady of the Eyrie was confused, “I thought it was to be about Lady Rhea’s succession.”

“Ah, yes,” the king put up his finger as if to denote he had forgotten something, “One final thing I forgot to mention. Formally, my brother shall be recognized as Lady Rhea’s successor and be included in the history books as Lord of Runestone since her untimely passing. We shall record it as a voluntary abdication of the title.”

That was truly the least of Jeyne’s worries, “Of course, Your Grace.”

“So, Ser Gerold?”

Jeyne smiled wickedly, “Does it have to be him? Mayhaps another more suitable candidate might be better?”

───※ ·♛· ※───

The past few days had gone by swiftly—the tourney a resounding success with only the final to be ridden still. Ser Laenor Velaryon would be facing Ser Borros Baratheon. Cousins by blood. The king was looking forward to it.

“Your Grace?” the Lord Commander’s voice had him wake from his thoughts, “Your guests have arrived.”

“Please, do tell them to enter.”

“At once, my king,” he bowed before opening the door and letting in his guests, “Queen Alicent of the House Hightower, Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, and Lord Ormund of the House Hightower, Lord of Oldtown, the Hightower and the Port, Defender of Oldtown and the Citadel, Voice of Oldtown and Beacon of the South.”

Viserys did not imagine the pride on his lady wife’s face at being introduced as a Hightower—the omittance of House Targaryen in her announcing no doubt a purposeful slight on her part. Some petty defiance, as if Viserys would care.

The apologetic look sent his way by his Lord Commander all but confirmed it to him that Alicent must have demanded he announce her as did.

“Please be seated,” Viserys was far more gruff with these two than he had been with Lady Jeyne only a few hours prior.

“Husband,” Alicent gave him a shallow bow, while her cousin’s nose nearly went down to the floor, “You asked to see me.”

“I did.”

“We are honoured to be invited, Your Grace,” Lord Ormund was like a skittish little mouse, eyes flitting around the solar to ensure no predators were lurking nearby.

“You are welcome–

Alicent interrupted him, “I do not understand why you summoned us together, husband.”

“If you had let me finish, instead of cutting me off in the midst of my sentence, you would have had an answer to your question already,” Viserys was annoyed with his lady wife’s attitude. He would have expected some more remorse but it seemed as if she was ever so defiant, “Do not interrupt me again, wife, for you will not like the consequences of such actions.”

Alicent blanches at his voiced threat. No doubt finding it unexpected for it was never in Viserys’ nature to be so brazen in his anger. He had always been a more genial figure, but even he was growing tired of Alicent’s attitude.

“I shall no longer hold you both in suspense. We must address the events that transpired during my daughter’s engagement feast and its confusedness.”

“Now you wish to speak?! Only a day after you gave your daughter’s hand in marriage to the monster who assaulted me in front of all!”

“Be careful of what words you use, woman, for that is my brother you so speak off. A prince of the blood! A dragonrider!”

“He beat me and he disrobed me and you say nought?! You rather take umbrage to me calling such a man a monster? Is someone who commits monstrous acts, not a monster, husband?”

“No, Alicent. Not a monster,” Viserys made sure to speak slowly, to hammer true his words, “But a dragon.”

“Both are the same,” she swiftly replied, “Godless abominations.”

Viserys scoffed while the new Lord of Oldtown was leaning away from the queen consort in the hopes of not being associated with his cousin and her treasonous words.

“It seems as if you have not learned from your actions, wife, so it seems like I shall have to ensure you do,” Viserys looked at Lord Ormund, “That both of you fully understand where House Targaryen and the Crown stand on this all.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” the young lord grovelled to his cousin’s disgust.

“As King I am formalizing the sentence imposed upon House Hightower by my brother, Prince Daemon, and your liege lord, the Lord Paramount of the Mander,” Alicent made a loud sound of disgust but the king ignored her for now, “House Hightower shall pay the Crown monetary compensation in the amount of two million gold dragons. Its fleet is seized by the Crown, and shall not be allowed to be replaced for House Hightower is no longer allowed to keep its own war fleet unless decided otherwise by the Crown. For the next two decades, the Oldtown will provide the Crown with grain at half price, and will deliver three tonnes of grain to the North free of charge.”

“This is madness!” his wife interrupted.

Viserys narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists before leaning forward, “Interrupt me one more time, wife, and I shall strike you in front of your cousin.”

Alicent did not expect such forceful words because she flinched.

“As I was saying, beyond these penalties, there were some more from Lord Matthos, including a tripling of the tariffs on goods exported by the Hightower, and royal approval for all marriages of your sons and daughters,” when Lord Ormund only stared at him and said nothing I return, Viserys snapped, “Do you understand?”

“I do, Your Grace,” the man quickly answered, “We accept this sentence.”

“Good.”

“Your Grace, I would like to take his moment to apologize one final time for my house’s errors of the past. We allowed ourselves to be manipulated by my uncle–

“Leave my father out of this!”

“Quiet!’ Viserys shouted, unwilling to resort to violence toward the mother of two of his children—one more on the way—thus proving his previous words were but an empty threat, “I accept your apologies, but now that we have come to the subject of my former Hand–

“Please, Viserys,” his lady wife tried, “My father is a good man, you know he is. He served you faithfully for three and ten years and before that King Jaehaerys for an additional three. You know his character.”

“I thought I did,” Viserys confessed, “But your actions have proven to me, that I did not. Not truly.”

“Then as your wife, allow me this boon. Allow my father to return to the capital. He is grandfather to your firstborn son.”

Viserys was floored—his wife was delusional, “What exactly do you think this is, Alicent?” even Lord Ormund was staring at her as if she had two heads, “What do you think we are talking about here?”

“My father,” Alicent snapped at him.

“Your father shall return to the capital but it will not be to be reunited with you, but instead to stand trial for his crimes of sedition and treason.”

“No!” Alicent jumped up, clutching her stomach, “My father did nought wrong!”

“Your father has undermined my heir at every turn!”

“Your heir is a whore!”

Viserys was wrong for it seemed as if he was capable of violence, harshly striking his wife in the mouth, dropping her to the floor, “You ever speak of Rhaenyra in that manner again, I will have you hanged from the highest tower of the Red Keep!”

“Does the truth hurt, husband!” Alicent kept spewing her bile, “First, she lay with her uncle. Vile and ungodly! And then she corrupted good and kind Ser Criston, whom she had killed by your monster of brother!”

Viserys had no idea what she was talking about and to be honest did not wish to know, “Keep your delusions to yourself or any patience I have shall evaporate along with any affection I may have had for you.”

“He did this! I know he did! He convinced you to turn on my father! Prince Daemon did this!”

Viserys ignored her rambling, “Ser Otto Hightower shall return to the capital to stand trial for the crimes of sedition and treason, and he shall do so within the next two moons. If he fails to do so, House Hightower will be stripped of all lands and titles, and Prince Daemon will lead an army to expel them from Oldtown. It shall be your duty to ensure it does not come to that, Lord Ormund.”

The Beacon of the South looked as pale as a corpse but Viserys was done caring.

“Please, husband. If not for your love for me, then for your love of our children.”

“Alicent, from now on you shall not be allowed to come near my children unless you have received express permission–

“No!” she screeched.

–from me,” Viserys just carried on, ignoring her interruption, “Any duties you have shall be shouldered by the Princess of Dragonstone and the Lady of Driftmark.”

Alicent fell to her knees and wept.

“Ser Harrold, please escort both from my solar. I have pressing matters to attend to.”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” with a surprising gentleness, the Lord Commander lifted the queen consort from the ground and guided her from the king’s chambers, Ser Ormund following closely behind.

Viserys put his fingers to his temples, massaging them gently in the hopes of chasing away the blinding headache that was coming on.

Notes:

The prayers are just existing prayers—the first one by St. Augustine of Hippo and the second by the British rabbi John Rayner. I just made some small adjustments to have them fit the story.

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Chapter 6: a day of blessings and good fortunes

Summary:

After a ceremony pandering to court jesters and fools, two souls are bound in fire and blood.

Laena’s heart fluttered with anticipation as she listened to the soft crinkling and rustling of fabrics behind the partition. Beside Laena sat her lady mother, while the Strong sisters and Rhaenyra’s estranged aunts Amanda and Elys sat across from them. The latter had been quiet for almost the entire time since they had gathered. Not that Laena could blame her. How does one speak to their niece, whom you had met mayhaps thrice in their life?

Not that Rhaenyra was impolite to them, far from it truly. She had insisted that her maternal aunts be present while she prepared for her wedding—to honour her mother and her house, she had proclaimed.

In the five days since the Princess of Dragonstone’s betrothal to her brother had ceased to be and her new engagement to Prince Daemon had been announced, the royal seamstresses had been working their fingers to the bones. Where before the princess was to wear a neutral crème-coloured gown, Prince Daemon had proclaimed he was wearing his house colours, and so Rhaenyra had insisted she do the same—Targaryen red and black.

The seamstresses had accepted their new assignment with strained smiles, while the dress they had designed and handsewn for the Targaryen-Velaryon wedding was hung in the princess’ wardrobe for a future occasion. No complaints had slipped from their lips and instead, they had worked tirelessly to complete their new royal commission.

Yesterday late in the eve, the princess had first moulded her new dress, and Rhaenyra had assured her that it was beautiful and most importantly, it fit her exactly as it should.

Now, as they were mere hours away from her cousin exchanging sacred vows with her uncle, the princess’ powders and oils had long since been applied, and her hair had been braided into a stunning do, Rhaenyra was putting on her bridal gown—with the aid of her ladies and servants, of course. Neither Laena nor her mother had been asked to aid Rhaenyra with putting on the dress, the Princess of Dragonstone telling them that she wished for them to experience the beauty and splendour crafted by the seamstresses the first time as she walked beyond the partition.

Laena had laughed aloud, for it had been exactly like her cousin to assume she would be the belle of the ball—mostly because she always was. As a young girl, the Velaryon girl idolized Rhaenyra for that exact reason—always following her around the Red Keep. Her confidence was awe-inspiring and for a young Laena, it was addictive to be near.

She still did, to be honest. How could she not?

Even her mother, the famed Queen That Never Was, had been charmed by the Heir to the Iron Throne. Not a lick of resentment remained within her mother’s heart.

In the days following Princess Rhaenys’ declaration that her son would not wed his cousin, and Laenor’s subsequent ascension to the Kingsguard, awkwardness had ruled the Velaryon household. While her father knew better than to openly disagree with his dragon-riding consort’s decisions, he had kept his distance in the days after.

Neither Laena nor her mother were blind to the Sea Snake’s ambitions—Laenor cared little. While he truly loved Princess Rhaenys, none would or could deny that, wedding the heir of the heir had been an incredible boon for a man like Corlys Velaryon.

Born twelfth in line to the Driftwood Throne, tragedy had him become Lord of the Tides but ambition and skill had him become the wealthiest and most powerful lord in all of the Seven Kingdoms.

Many believed that King Jaehaerys chose first the Spring Prince and then Prince Viserys as his heir because they were men, but her mother had once confided in her that while her sex had played a significant role in the insult dealt to her, the Sea Snake’s open ambition had played a grand part as well. King Jaehaerys had feared the fall of the House of the Dragon and the subsequent rise of the Velaryon dynasty.

The folly of a hateful man, Laena knew. Her mother may have wed into House Velaryon but she was a Targaryen through and through. She never would have allowed her father’s house to be displaced by that of her husband, and if her husband had tried to do so, it would have ended with House Targaryen’s words. Princess Rhaenys was devoted to her lord husband and children, but she never forgot by whose blood she became a dragonrider.

It is why she had declared House Velaryon would rally behind Rhaenyra, as Daemon had, and there was little Lord Corlys could do about it—not that he wished to, the Lord of the Tides knew better than to openly fail to support his princess.

One of the seamstresses popped her head beyond the partition hiding the Princess of Dragonstone from the two dragonriders, “The princess is coming out now.”

Satin and crepe weaved together to create a visual spectacle. The seamstresses must have worked their fingers until they bled to stitch the black dragons upon the red silk.

Tears welled up in Laena’s eyes, unable to contain the sudden burst of joy from seeing her cousin in her wedding gown for the first time —such beauty and grace, “Ao jurnegon gevie, dārilaros [you look beautiful, princess],” Laena breathed for she truly did. Rhaenyra looked like one of the Valyrian etchings her family owned—a sensual but powerful dragonlord from the Freehold of old.

“Laena is right,” her mother chimed in, “You look absolutely beautiful. I am certain that if your mother was here, she would say the same.”

The heir to the Iron Throne looked at the floor, a blush forming on her cheeks and tears gathering in her eyes, “Thank you, cousin.”

“None will have eyes for anything or anyone but you,” Laena assured her, unable to divert her eyes, struck by the princess’ ethereal beauty.

“Especially not your husband-to-be,” Rhaenys laughed, her eyes crinkling with mirth.

Rhaenyra’s blush grew even more pronounced. Laena knew now more than ever that theirs was a love match.

“I wonder how he is doing,” the Princess of Dragonstone wondered aloud as she twirled in front of the large mirror.

“Corlys is with him, princess. Doing whatever it is that men do before a wedding,” her mother snorted, “Pretending that people’s eyes will be on anyone but you perhaps.”

Both Rhaenyra and Laena sniggered, and even the seamstresses and lady’s maids grinned.

“You think Daemon would be insulted if I wore my flower crown,” Rhaenyra joked.

Three days before the royal tourney had come to a close with Ser Laenor Velaryon coming out victorious by defeating the vainglorious Ser Borros Baratheon in the finals. Unhorsed by Laena’s brother during his third try, the heir to the Stormlands had demanded his sword and the two had made battle.

Proving he was worthy of being named to the Kingsguard at the tender age of seven and ten, Laenor swiftly disarmed his cousin—humiliating him for all to see. His disgrace had only worsened when his own lord father had congratulated the new kingsguard.

Ser Borros had not been seen since. At supper the day before her mother had confided in them that Lord Boremund and Ser Borros had a massive row, and the latter had returned to Storm’s End to lick his wounds. Truly infantile if you asked Laena, but that was the way of men, she supposed—misplaced pride and vanity above all else.

Of course, that had been the later aftermath, in the immediate aftermath, her brother had received a sudden burst of confidence for he first thanked the king and then his patron Prince Daemon, who had rolled his eyes at the young knight. Quite unexpectedly, he had crowned the Princess of Dragonstone his Queen of Love and Beauty.

The crowd had exploded with cheering and clapping, with even Daemon joining the ruckus, applauding her brother’s choice. To be honest, Laena believes that the Rogue Prince might have colluded with Laenor, but the new Kingsguard had evaded any of her inquiries regarding the matter.

“Actually,” her mother answered, “Prince Daemon asked me to give you something.”

The Heir to the Iron Throne looked inquisitive but aloof still, while Laena nearly jumped up and down in her chair, curious as to what her cousin was about to receive.

“My grandfather was a vain man,” the Queen That Never Was explained, “so, for all his children, he had golden circlets made. The Spring Prince’s was granted to your father, and is…,” Princess Rhaenys waved her hand, signalling for one of the maids to step forward with a wooden box in her hands, “…wherever it is, but Princess Alyssa’s was given to your uncle,” opening the box, her mother lifted from a velvet cushion, a beautiful golden circlet within its midst a beautiful ruby, “The ruby is new. Daemon insisted on it.”

Rhaenyra teared up, “I do not know what to say.”

“You need not say anything,” Rhaenys placed the circlet on her cousin’s head, “You need just wear it.”

“If you want to,” Laena chimed in, “You don’t have to do anything. You are the Princess of Dragonstone.

Her mother threw her an exasperated glance as if to imply she was simple. Rhaenyra’s blinding smile proved Princess Rhaenys right. Not that Laena minded. The young woman just wanted to be sure that it was her cousin’s choice.

“I adore it,” Rhaenyra whispered.

It was Amanda Arryn, wife to the Lord of Heart’s Home, who cleared her throat, “Niece, I know that House Targaryen has many maiden cloaks but I thought perhaps you’d like this one?”

Out of a large silk satchel a maiden cloak was brought forth—the three-headed dragon quartered with the Arryn falcon.

“Is that?” her mother seemed almost at a loss for words.

“Yes, it is the same cloak that Queen Aemma wore when she wed the king,” Amanda confirmed.

“I thought it was destroyed or lost,” Princess Rhaenys choked out, “None could find it.”

“Our sister asked it to take it with us to the Eyrie after she wed,” Elys Arryn explained, “We thought the princess might like to have something of her mother, so she feels close to her on this special day. So, we brought it with us when we travelled here.”

“I would love to,” Rhaenyra pulled the cloak from her aunt’s arms and held it to her face as if inhaling whatever smells remained behind—none probably, after all, it had been a quarter century since her mother had wed her father—but Laena understood. She could not imagine marrying a man without her mother standing beside her.

“Thank you,” the emotion clear to all, “Aunt Amanda, Aunt Elys.”

“You are welcome, princess,” the eldest of the two responded.

“Let us hope your union with Prince Daemon is more fruitful than the one between your mother and father,” the youngest interjected—the bitterness clung tight to her words.

“That I can assure you,” Rhaenys’ voice was stern, “Daemon is no Viserys.”

“No, he is not,” Rhaenyra smiled, “Let us go. I believe it is time for me to be wed.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

Corlys had always found it quite odd how spartan Prince Daemon’s chambers were, with the prince preferring an uncluttered living space. Not that he had seen them often but during his years at court, the two had once or twice shared a cup of pear brandy while talking of matters of the Crown.

Then, just like now, there were no opulent silks, fancy tapestries or expensive art within Daemon’s living quarters.

Only that which he truly needed.

To be fair, while a young man, Corlys had been very much the same. As a sailor, he was away more often than not and he would rarely enjoy the comforts of his own chambers, and thus he had never found it necessary to overly decorate his chambers.

That had of course changed when he had wed his lovely lady wife and the High Tide had been completed—a true symbol of House Velaryon’s wealth and power. A testament to how far they had risen—from minor Valyrian gentry to the second house of the realm.

None could claim higher standing than House Velaryon—not even the falsely pious cunts from the Oldtown, no matter how hard they may try. His house had been amongst the Targaryens’ foremost allies, going back to Aenar fleeing the Freehold and settling on Dragonstone more than two centuries prior.

Wedding the future Lady of the Seven Kingdoms had been the culmination of centuries of ambitions and dreams—though queen his wife would never be. While his beloved wife had seemingly moved past the slight dealt to her not once but twice, Corlys had more difficulty forgiving. It did not help that since then his daughter had been ignored in favour of the daughter of some second son with no lands and titles to his name.

Daemon had once jested to Rhaenys and he that it was not Alicent King Viserys yearned for, but rather her father—the ambitious upstart Ser Otto Hightower. They knew it was merely an amusing exaggeration but it did not lessen the sting felt or the humiliation endured.

Corlys knew his duty. He had been told more than a thousand times by his predecessor that no matter what, House Velaryon was to remain the House of the Dragon’s staunchest ally—not that the arrogant dragonlords made that vow easy to maintain.

Time after time his house was spurned.

By Jaehaerys and Viserys both.

For years he had born the indignity but when the king had come to Driftmark begging for his son’s hand, he had seen a path forward—a path of justice and redemption. By wedding Laenor to Rhaenyra he had hoped to clean the egg on his family crest—put there by decades of Targaryen arrogance.

The king had been inches short of falling to his knees and pleading the Sea Snake. If he was honest with himself, he could even admit to enjoying how the king prostrated himself before him. The arrogance that had powered him before and had him choose Alicent Hightower as his consort had gone with the wind.

The smirk on Corlys was wiped away when he accidentally elbowed his goblet of wine from his side table onto the ground, spilling that little that remained within it on the carpet

“Whatever you spilt, you clean up,” Daemon commanded from bedchambers—his voice echoing through his apartments.

The Lord of the Tides grunted for he knew that the Rogue Prince was serious. The powerful admiral, dressed to the nines in his most expensive fineries, grabbed a hand towel and cleaned up the puddle of wine. He had once been a landless sailor, he had cleaned his fair share of decks. What was a little spill compared to that?

Even though his rooms were bare, the prince took maintaining them quite seriously—as he had with his tents during the War. Not allowing anyone to enter them without his leave, he had cleaned his own clothes and maintained his own bed.

Bar his voluntary and involuntary exiles, Prince Daemon had always lived at the Red Keep, and had always had these same chambers—even as a young boy—and thus the lack of anything even remotely emotional was downright strange. But then again, so was the Rogue Prince. Even the four years spent fighting the Triarchy and their dogs had not made him any less of an enigma to the Sea Snake.

Corlys had learned to appreciate the prince though. While he had never been openly opposed to his ascension if Verys never had an heir of his own, it was the War that had him see Daemon for more than what he was before—his brother’s sword, if unappreciated.

Daemon Targaryen was strangely well-read if the tomes on his reading table were anything to go by. Whilst the prince was relieving himself, Corlys had surreptitiously looked through the books and scrolls that littered the table, finding an eclectic collection with subjects ranging from trade and coin to Valyrian poetry.

During their time at the Stepstones, Daemon had grown particularly close to Corlys’ son and former heir, talking in High Valyrian of ancient tomes. Their bond is why it did not surprise him that Laenor had been named the Rogue Prince’s new sworn shield—his son had probably requested the assignment.

It had even amused the Sea Snake just a tad when he heard of his friend’s dismay at having been assigned a guard. To a man like Daemon Targaryen, it must have felt like a slap in the face to be forced to rely on another for his security and safety—even if it was Laenor, a fellow dragonrider and his own blood to boot.

Though Corlys had been incensed at Rhaenys unilaterally deciding to end his son’s betrothal to the Princess of Dragonstone, even he could admit his son looked more content than he ever had, wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard.

His ambition was not yet so overpowering that he could not be happy for his son.

“What do you think?” the prince’s gruff voice pierced his thoughts.

Before him stood Daemon clad in black and red—only black and red. Not a single other colour in sight. His black doublet buffed and shiny—red threads traced across it, creating long-necked dragons. It was truly stunning and yet more than his doublet, it was the red velvet cloak that caught his attention, as well as the silver circlet upon his brown—the only bit of non-black and red.

He looked every bit as Corlys had imagined the Lords Freeholder of old would have looked. A truly impressive sight.

“You look very handsome, my prince,” Corlys jested good-naturedly. The deadpan look had the Sea Snake snigger.

“Amusing,” the Rogue Prince replied, “A regular court jester, you are.”

“An alternate route to infamy,” he replied, “From Lord Admiral of the Realm to jester.”

“Remember that annoying cunt that was always following Rhaenyra around?” the prince narrowed his eyes as if trying to recollect something, “The odd-looking clown? Brought to court while my aunt Gael’s was a girl by Alysanne?”

“Mushroom?”

“Yes!” Prince Daemon loudly exclaimed, “Mushroom! Gods, what happened to him?”

Corlys’ eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets, “You threw him from one of the windows of the Holdfast onto the spikes below, remember? Rhaenyra’s two and tenth name day? You gave her a jewellery chest filled with precious gems? You were deep into your cups, and you did not like how he clung to your niece? Viserys was so angered, that he told you to return to Runestone? You did not, and instead went warring in Essos for a year?”

The prince ignored the part about his brother, “He always looked at my niece with wanting eyes,” Daemon replied, “He was a nonce.”

Corlys hummed, for he had never been fond of the court fool himself. For their wedding, the man had composed a song for Rhaenys and him, which he had titled The Old Man and the Princess Fair.

The court had been amused but the mocking diddy had earned the fool Corlys’ enmity for the remainder of his life—until thrown from a window for looking at the Rogue Prince’s young niece with covetous eyes.

“Well, let us leave,” Daemon clapped his hands, “I believe it is time for me to be wed at long last.”

Corlys smacked the man’s shoulder and remarked, “Let us hope this marriage goes better than your first.” When his friend gave him a sour and unimpressed stare, the Sea Snake guffawed.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The throne room had been transformed into a shrine to the Targaryens—sickening the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. Banners hung from the walls, both the standard ones, as well as Prince Daemon’s personal ones. Even a few Arryn banners were hung, to honour the princess’ Vale ancestry, her husband had proclaimed.

Only the most powerful lords and ladies had been able to get seats for the wedding ceremony—not even all of Alicent’s family were present. Gwayne had been forced to remain at their family’s manse in the city, for as a son of a second son, with no lands and titles to his name, there was no place for him within the Reach contingent. Not even being the brother of the queen had saved him from the humiliating exclusion.

No doubt devised so by the Rogue Prince to bring even further shame to her noble house. Every day Alicent cursed Prince Daemon’s victory in the Stepstones. The Gods should have been done with that faithless sinner then and there, but instead, he had lived.

He had lived and returned to court to corrupt the already corrupted, and Rhaeynyra had joyfully gobbled it all up, like the little whore she was.

For the longest time, she had believed Rhaenyra to be pure and kind, and that it had been Daemon who had made her stray from her righteous path, but she now knew better. Her behaviours after Alicent had done her duty to house and realm should have opened her eyes, for no truly good woman would have condemned her for doing as she was bid, but it had taken the queen consort a tad longer. The false heir’s vile obsession with her atrocious uncle and her willingness to spread her legs to anyone who wished to indulge were just symptoms of an illness that Rhaenyra had always had—impropriety and unholiness.

All of the Valyrians truly.

Not just the Targaryens, but the Velaryons too. Even the Celtigars, who had been received with great honours a sennight before and who had brought with them carts filled to the brim with gifts for the Realm’s Delight—rare silks and cloths, gemstones, paintings and even a Dornish sand steed. Lord Bartimos Celtigar had spared no expense for his liege lady, whom he had loudly proclaimed the future of the realm, bringing a sneer to Alicent’s face.

What future?

With Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne and Daemon pulling her strings like a master puppeteer there would be no realm left. They would turn the Red Keep into a brothel and a den of unnatural sin, and sooner rather than later the pious Seven Kingdoms would fracture.

Had you asked her only a moon prior if that had not been preferable—a world without the unnatural Targaryen influence and their forced kneeling of them all—Queen Alicent might have acquiesced, but now she knew better.

It was her Aegon’s destiny to hold these Kingdoms together and bring them under the warm wing of the Seven-That-Are-One. Her pious son would be the catalyst of a renewed divine renaissance—a Seven Kingdoms where false gods were toppled and sacrilegious trees cut down.

King Aegon, the Second of His Name, would be the first Hightower king of a united Westeros. No doubt, he would one day even bring the apostatic and libertine Dornishmen underneath the Hightower banner.

Their beacon would shine bright over the land—signalling peace and prosperity. Perhaps in a perfect world her treacherous kin, who had bent the knee to the Rogue Prince and his whore princess a sennight prior, would be cast down from the chambers at the top of the Hightower, and the royal court would return to the divine Oldtown.

Alicent would do all in her power to make her Aegon see the light.

She had a solemn duty—a holy purpose, the Queen now knew. Forced into the bed of a lecherous old man, she knew now that her suffering was to bring forth a storied king, who would cast the faithless Targaryens down from their perch.

Aegon would be the end of the dragons and their ilk.

“You could at least pretend not to have been forced to sit here,” her lord husband snapped at her, from where he sat beside her, at the front of the throne room.

Chairs were placed all around the throne room, while the dais in front of the Iron Throne had been readied for the poor holy man, who had been forced into conducting this vile ceremony. In the back, some more men and women would be able to stand and watch the monstrosity unfold.

The royal family had been sequestered to the side, away from the lords and ladies, and sat in more luxurious armchairs—black and red, of course. Alicent nearly snorted with disgust for the Targaryens never hid their fascination with the colours and fire and blood.

Even she had been once more forced into a red and black dress—at her lord husband’s insistence. Alicent had not protested. Why would she? The black symbolized her grief and her pains about the downfall of the realm.

“I apologize, husband,” her words dripped with sarcasm, “I am merely saddened that my lord father cannot witness all this splendour.”

The king snorted, “Oh, do not worry, darling, he shall be here soon enough.”

For a count Alicent allowed herself to feel some hope, ‘Had her husband at long last seen the light?’ But then she remembered his formal edict Ser Otto Hightower return to court to stand trial.

Not that he would, Alicent knew better. No, her father was rallying their armies, she knew. The good and pious people of the Oldtown and the Reach would flock to the Hightower banner, and once these sham festivities were over, so would their allies upon returning to their homes. Let’s see Prince Daemon’s forced vows held once the Lannisters, Tullys and Tyrells returned to their homes.

They would all descend on the capital and overthrow the Targaryen dynasty, and Ser Otto Hightower would serve as Regent and Hand to her son while he was in his infancy. Alicent would raise him to be a devout and pious man, who would defend the rights and liberties of the righteous and the true.

Soon, she knew.

Let her husband crow and believe he has come out of this all victorious. Let Rhaenyra wed her uncle and pervert the vows made by her people. Let her bed him and pretend to be pure upon the wedding night.

None of it would matter soon enough.

Viserys had turned away when she ignored his remark, and so instead she glanced toward the already assembled lords. The Lannisters sat toward the other side of the throne room—the twins sitting side by side. While Tyland evaded her inquiring eyes, Lord Jason gave her a reassuring but nigh-imperceptible nod—he was loyal still.

She did not even look toward her kin—turncoats as they were. All to keep their power.

Ormund’s father and mother were brutally murdered, his queenly kinswoman shamed before all, and his uncle forced to stand trial before all, and he did not protest. Instead he kneeled and reaffirmed his vows, which should have been obsolete the moment Viserys had a son and refused to name him his heir.

For millennia, the Voices of Oldtown had been defenders of all that was righteous and pure—champions of the holy letters. More so even than the Gardeners of Highgarden, the Hightowers of Oldtown were the true children of the Gods. Since then, her treacherous kin had shattered thousands of years of faithful service, all to keep a tight grip on their lands and gold. Her uncle and cousin were never deserving of any of it. Her father would have made a far finer Lord of Oldtown.

One of Viserys’ senior attendants suddenly appeared before them—some ancient knight from House Bar Emmon—whispering in the king’s ear.

Her husband smiled widely at whatever he heard, “Duty calls,” before standing and deserting her to sit alone.

Alone.

Alone in the world.

It was truly how she felt right now. Abandoned by all her kin, bar her kind and honourable father.

All in favour of some girl who did not understand their place in the world.

Alicent sighed and was about to shake her head in disappointment when loud music started and the Velaryons came hurrying down the aisle—Princess Rhaenys, Lord Corlys and Lady Laena—with at their back, the late Queen Aemma’s two sisters and their husbands and heirs.

They left open a few seats between where she sat and where they sat as if she was some leper they had to avoid.

Two days prior, Alicent had torn apart her entire chambers when she had been barred from attending her stepdaughter’s fittings while the Queen That Never Was, her daughter and the Arryns were allowed in.

She was the queen! How dare they deny her queenly rights!

Not wholly unexpectedly, her husband had disagreed with her, claiming that Rhaenyra could make her own decisions on whom she invited into her bridal party, uncaring of how insulting it was to Alicent to be left out.

When they were younger, Rhaenyra and Alicent had loudly fantasized about how their weddings would look. As the sole daughter of a second son, Alicent had never believed herself to have many great prospects, least of all a king, so she had set her mind on a kind and pious knight with lands of his own and a keep for her to manage.

Rhaenyra’s dreams had been more fanciful for she had been told her entire childhood that she would one day wed her brother, who would be king and she his queen. When she turned eight name days old, all of that ceased and Rhaenyra proclaimed to no longer wished to wed. Instead, she would travel the world on dragonback, with her uncle by her side.

The queen should have known then and there—the unnatural bond between uncle and niece was a stain on the Crown, and now, more than a decade later, it was formalized through the exchanging of vows.

A sham to any who truly worshipped the Seven. The gods would never bless such a union, no matter if so sanctioned by a corrupt septon.

The music quieted a tad and they all stood and turned toward the throne room doors, where Ser Laenor Velaryon appeared, wearing his stolen cloak of white.

A true disgrace, Alicent now knew, and not merely because the cloak he now wore had belonged to a true knight. A few days ago, whilst walking in the gardens, Larys Strong had apprised her of the man’s foul nature. No wonder the Velaryon knight wished to guard Prince Daemon, the two were probably sword-swallowers for each other.

Let him guard the prince for now, and be kept away from her children, lest he contaminate her precious Aegon and sweet Helaena. Sooner rather than later, the monster would lose his head for daring to lay with another man—amongst the most grievous of sins in the eyes of the Seven-That-Are-One.

“His Royal Highness Prince Daemon of the House Targaryen, Prince of the City, Defender of the Stepstones and Lord of Runestone,” the newest knight of the Kingsguard announced his patron.

The first title had always been an informal designation but the king had formally named his brother Prince of the City the day before, also formalizing the title of Defender of the Stepstones.

All around them, breaths hitched as the Rogue Prince appeared at the top of the steps, and even Alicent had to contain herself.

The prince looked beautiful.

Though she would never admit so aloud for doing so would be a stain on her unblemished reputation, as a young girl she had been enamoured with the Rogue Prince. Not yet aware of his monstrous nature hiding behind his angelic visage, she had dreamt of wedding him and becoming his queen. When she was ten name days old, she had even dared to mention it to her father, who had looked contemplative as if pondering a potential marriage to his ancient foe, but eventually dissuaded her from mentioning it any further, proclaiming the prince unsuited for a kind-hearted and pious girl, like her.

And that had been that.

At least in the open.

Alicent had never ceased hoping that one day the prince might be hers.

When she had first flowered at the age of three and ten, Alicent had confessed to her mother and septa that she had touched herself in her special place whilst thinking of the prince. Her pious mother had been horrified, as had the septa, and they had punished her by striking her fingers with a rod and forcing her to recite the Sinner’s Lament, a prayer, seven and seventy times whilst kneeling on little stones.

That had not been the last time it had happened. Eventually, Alicent had thrown off the yoke of her childish infatuation and ceased her sinning—turning to the light of the Seven with the aid of her septas.

Even with all her piety, Alicent felt throbbing down below when the prince appeared. If she had not known better, she would have claimed he looked like a king. Clad in black and red with a billowing cape behind him and a Valyrian steel sword at his side, he seemed like a warrior-king of old.

Arrogantly, the prince sauntered toward the front of the throne room, ignoring all that looked at him. Instead, he just stared ahead at his true goal—the Iron Throne. Prince Daemon placed his hand on Dark Sister’s pommel, as he tended to do, Alicent had noticed often over the years.

It was yet another sign of his infernal nature for what man brought to a wedding a sword?

The tune changed becoming a bridal march and all once more stood, awaiting the king and princess.

Not wholly unexpected it was the Lord Commander who announced them both, “His Grace King Viserys of the House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, and Her Grace Princess Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne.”

All gaped at the stunning princess. She even managed to make her husband look anything else but a pathetic old man, infecting him with her radiance.

Alicent hated it.

Breaking with tradition, Rhaenyra wore on her shoulders her bridal cloak—a vibrant piece of cloth combing the colours of House Targaryen with those of House Arryn.

Alicent hated that even more.

Slowly but steadily father and daughter made their way down the aisle, while the lords and ladies stared.

They had never stared at her like that, Alicent sneered. Resentment bubbling deep in her belly.

It took almost five minutes before the two made it on the dais, toward the prince.

Rather than a septon, an ancient man whom she had never seen before stood before the three Targaryens, “Be welcomed all,” he spoke in a gravelly voice, “We are gathered here today on this beautiful day to join in blessed and holy union Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, both dragonlords and children of Valyria.”

The grunt of disgust escaped her throat before she could hold it—of course, this was one of these heathenish Valyrian priests from Dragonstone her father had warned her about. All knew that Daemon still prayed to his dragon gods, as if the True Gods had not cast Freehold down, destroying their false empire. Alicent had expected better of her husband—it was almost as if he was no longer trying. By wedding them not under the light of the Seven but rather the blessings of cursed gods, they would alienate even more lords and ladies.

The queen ignored the angry stares from those beside her, allowing a smug smirk on her lips. Why would she not? If her husband wished to make it easier for them, why should she concern herself with it?

The priest droned on, talking of the duties of marriage and all that came with it—the ceremony was not that different from one done by a Septon.

Time trickled by and Alicen opted to lose herself in her thoughts, rather than pay true attention. Eventually, her lord husband sat down next to her, after handing his daughter over to his brother.

The priest recited verses of ancient Valyrian tomes, invoking long-lost loves in the hopes of blessing the two standing before him—though they could never, Alicent knew deep in her heart.

Alicent truly wished to have someone she loved by her side right now—her father, her brother or even her beloved Aegon and Helaena. The first banished, the second humiliated and the last two barred from the ceremony because they might weep and ruin all, the king had proclaimed.

If her children chose to weep it would be because they were touched by the Gods to do so, as vessels of the Seven-That-Are-One’s displeasure.

While she missed the priest’s words, lost in her delusions as she was, Alicent did notice how the prince carefully removed Rhaenyra’s maiden cloak—yet another reason she wished to snort for that little trollop was no maiden at all. With great care, he folded it and handed it over to one of the attendants, before grabbing the stunning cloak used by generations of Targaryens and draping it over his new wife’s shoulders.

“Repeat after me,” the elderly man stated, “With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my princess and wife, for my prince and husband.”

The prince and princess repeated his words before sharing a languid kiss in front of all, which scandalized Alicent.

“I declare Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon henceforth one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

As the two turned to the packed throne room, it exploded with noise. The lords and ladies of the realm had stood and started loudly applauding the new spouses.

It was only when her husband stood and harshly pulled on her arm that Alicent followed, giving them three slow claps before ceasing.

Now, with all the noise masking whatever she did, Alicent no longer hid the loud groan of disgust, ‘Disgusting.’

───※ ·♛· ※───

Luthor placed his fingers in his mouth before loudly whistling, catching the captains and serjeants’ attention, “It is a very important day for the Crown, and in their infinite generosity, our Prince-Commander,” though he had not been so in quite a few years, “and the Princess of Dragonstone decided to share the wealth with the people of King’s Landing. All over the city taverns will open their doors and serve the people of King’s Landing.”

With a population of three hundred thousand, the choice to feed its people was a costly one, Luthor knew, but he was also aware of exactly how much gold his friend and patron had amassed over the years.

It would cost him hundreds of thousands of gold dragons to keep the wine and mead flowing, and the sausages and mash, and pigeon pies going, but the Rogue Prince had insisted. As he had insisted that the Gold Cloaks ride in the city, announcing the generosity came not from the King or the faith, but rather from the Realm’s Delight and her new royal consort.

“You will keep the peace,” Luthor ordered, “Though you may have yourself a cup or two of wine,” he added with a wink to raucous laughter, “And you will let all know that it was by the grace of the Princess and Prince of Dragonstone that they share in the royal festivities. You will tell them that Princess Rhaenyra wished for her people to celebrate this day of love as she does.”

“Is there a limit, captain?” one of his more junior serjeants shouted, “If food and drink cease to flow, the people might become rowdy.”

“The Prince and Princess have set aside a hefty budget,” Ser Harwin Strong—one of his finest friends—assured them, “The proprietors of the eateries and taverns have also been told not to stop serving until daybreak has come. They will settle their debts afterwards.”

The men cheered loudly for their families would be spending that eve feasting on Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra’s coin, as would they.

Luthor banged his cup on the table, “Beyond the opening of all taverns and eateries, I have another announcement to make,” all looked at him, “Prince Daemon wishes to thank you all for your loyalty, even now, after four years away at war.”

Some of the men had joined Daemon and had returned with a hefty pouch of gold and silver, a knighthood under their belt and an elevated position with the Watch, while others had remained behind and had received none of that—leading to some silent discontent and jealousy amongst brothers.

“The Prince has returned from the Stepstones ever so wealthy, having plundered the Triarchy for all they had,” the giant knight explained to the men's amusement, “All soldiers of the City Watch will receive a one-time bonus of one gold dragon, twenty silver stags and one hundred bronze stars.”

For a count, all were silent until they exploded with cheers—the ground shook beneath them, which frightened the knight a bit because they were currently on the third floor of the Red Keep’s barracks.

“Your coin will be ready for you all on the morrow, but for now go out and ride,” Ser Harwin shouted, “Spread the news of the royal wedding and of our princess and prince’s generosity and love for all.”

The men roared and did as they were bid, leaving to summon their men and ride out to the city and announce the eve of merriment to the people of King’s Landing.

Harwin clapped him on the shoulder, “It is going to be a long night.”

Luthor laughed loudly, “That it is. Would you not rather be at the keep eating the finest of foods than be in the city below, eating rat sausage and pigeon pie?”

Harwin snorted, “I quite enjoy myself some rat sausage and pigeon pie.”

“Then what about the Dornish red and Arbor gold served at the royal feast?”

“What good is fine wine if not enjoyed with friends,” Harwin was a large man, though even he was dwarfed by Ser Luthor.

“Then let us ride out with our men and enjoy us some sausage and pie, and wine!” Luthor laughed, large body shaking with mirth.

“Let’s,” the heir to Harrenhal declared.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The hallways of the Red Keep were strangely deserted—all invited remaining within the Throne Room and the Great Hall to celebrate the royal wedding, which had been an extravagant but glorious affair.

His cousin had not spared any expense, commanding seventy courses over five hours and barrel after barrel of the finest wines. It heartened her to know that these celebrations were originally planned for her son and his former betrothed.

The Master of Coin must have been sweating when the numbers kept adding up. If it had been Laenor Rhaenyra had wed, her lord husband would have shouldered half of the costs of the wedding, but Daemon was a son of House Targaryen, and thus the Crown would have to carry the full burden of the extravagant wedding celebrations.

Even now, the king had planned an additional seven days of celebrations to finish up his daughter’s marriage. Of course, Rhaenyra and Daemon would not be present for they would be self-isolating at Dragonstone for the sennight, enjoying the early days of matrimony.

Rhaenys almost wished to tell Viserys what exactly his brother and daughter would be doing at Dragonstone, but chose not to poke the hornet’s nest for what father would like to hear his daughter being defiled by a known rake like Daemon Targaryen?

“I have never seen any of these,” Laena whispered to her brother.

“None has,” her husband chimed in, “The last Valyrian wedding officiated was before the Conquest when the three conquerors joined as one.”

“What about Maegor?” Laenor wondered, “Did Visenya not wed him and his second wife, Alys of Harroway?”

“Yes, but not according to the full rites,” Rhaenys answered, “Maegor did not wish his second marriage to be one of equals, which the Valyrian rites are designed to be, so the words were adjusted to his wishes. Not that he could have if he wished to for Alys was not of the Blood of Old Valyria–

Laena snorted aloud at her words, interrupting her. Her daughter was a true lover of Valyrian history and probably would love to have a Valyrian wedding of his own one day, but that would mean wedding one of her Valyrian kin because blood could only be shared by those with the blood of the ancient Freehold.

“Well, no matter,” her lord husband declared, “Tonight you will witness a full Valyrian wedding ceremony. They both insisted and the king caved.”

“He always does,” Rhaenys replied with a strange fondness for her cousin, “Viserys never can say no to Rhaenyra.”

None replied but all three snorted in unison, as if in agreement with her statement.

It did not take long before they had descended deep within the bowels of the Red Keep, where a ceremonial chamber was dug around the skull of Balerion the Black Dread.

Born in the Freehold, the great black beast had been the last living being to see the might of the fallen Valyrian empire, once ruled over by dragonriding Lords Freeholder—House Targaryen amongst the most minor of them.

In two centuries of life, he had seven riders: Lord Gaemon the Glorious, Lady Rhaella Targaryen, Lord Aelyx Targaryen, King Aegon the Conqueror, King Maegor the Cruel, Princess Aerea Targaryen and finally King Viserys I Targaryen, who would only fly him one time before the great mount perished.

In times long past, dragons could live up to half a millennium, becoming mountain-like beasts. In recent times, they barely lived to the end of their second century. A sad result of the fall of the Freehold and the lessening of magic, Rhaenys knew.

Her husband was a true believer as well, but Jaehaerys had refused to allow a Valyrian wedding ceremony, instead forcing them to wed in front of the High Septon. It had been just the first of many slights levied at her beloved husband.

Their arrival at the shrine had Rhaenys cease her inner recollections, instead gazing about husband and wife standing before each other, barefoot and clad in Valyrian marital robes with a hand-woven headdress on the princess’ head.

Rhaenys smiled for they did look quite smitten with one another, gazing into each other’s eyes. During the feats, the two had been unable to keep their hands to each other as they danced—only occasionally allowing for a different partner. Daemon had spared both Rhaenys and Laena a dance, while the Princess of Dragonstone had danced with her father, Rhaenys’ husband and the aged Master of Coin.

Coincidentally, Lord Beesbury was also only one of two non-Valyrians present that eve—not even the queen or the princess’ Arryn aunts had been allowed to stand witness. Only those of Valyrian blood and the Hand of the King and Master of Coin.

Rhaenys, Corlys and their two children went to stand beside the king and the two small councillors.

Eventually, the Valyrian priest welcomed them all in High Valyrian, commencing with the ceremony. While Lord Strong paid attention, out of respect, it was clear he understood to nothing of what was said.

The Lord of Honeyholt on the other hand, was famously fluent in the language of her ancestors. Decades of friendship with her father and uncle both had assured his mastery of the ancient language.

After several minutes, the priest pulled a cup and dragonglass shard from his pouch and started with his almost song-like blessings, “Hen lantoti ānogar…va sȳndroti vāedroma… mēro perzot gīhoti… elēdroma iārza sīr. Izulī ampā perzī… prūmī lanti sēteksi. Hen jenȳ māzīlarion… qēlossa ozūndesi… sȳndroro ōñō jēdo… rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi. [Blood of two… joined as one… ghostly flame…. and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers… forged in fourteen fires. A future promised in glass… the stars stand witness… the vow spoken through time… of darkness and light.]

Along the way, the two cut their lips and smeared the Valyrian glyphs for fire and blood upon each other’s foreheads—fire for Daemon and blood for Rhaenyra, for the former would be the deadly fire that protected the latter’s blood, brought forth from her womb.

The kiss the two shared was even more passionate and languid than the one in the throne—husband and wife no longer hiding their affection for each other.

Rhaenys glanced at her cousin, who had furrowed his brows—no doubt uncomfortable with it all—but did not glance away. The King seemed at peace with his choice made and the unbreakable union that came forth from it.

Perhaps the House of the Dragon was not yet so lost after all.

Notes:

Well, Daemon and Rhaenyra are married. Alicent is still delusional. Not much has changed, has it?

At first, I thought about ending the chapter with the wedding night, but I liked the magic of the Valyrian rites better, and besides, they’ll be at Dragonstone soon enough, where these two won’t be able to keep their hands to themselves. 😊

I hope you enjoyed this fresh update after the long wait of five months. 😢

The next chapter won't take this long, though as I have many more stories (current and future) to update and post, I have penciled it in about six to seven weeks from now.

Don’t forget to leave a review to let me know what you think, push that kudos button and bookmark this story! Also, make sure to check out my other stories and my Linktree! 😁

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Chapter 7: happy wife, happy life

Summary:

The court once again learns how far Daemon will go to protect his niece-wife, after which the newly-weds abscond to Dragonstone.

As the soft glow of the morn enveloped the queen’s bedchambers and balcony curtains fluttered with the morning breeze, the most senior of Queen Alicent’s servants gracefully moved toward her ward’s bed.

Falia Flowers was born the bastard of Ser Robeson Hightower, the famed former master-at-arms at the Hightower and Alicent’s cousin two times over—widely considered to be the Oldtown’s finest warrior in centuries—and his baseborn lover, whom his father had disallowed him to wed.

After his bastard’s birth, Ser Robeson had been exiled from Oldtown by his uncle, who served as the Voice of Oldtown and was a devout man, unwilling to bend on his beliefs, not even for his favourite nephew.

In the decade after, Ser Robeson became one of the finest swords in the Reach—a knight of such renown that he had received a keep with lands from House Tyrell for services rendered. Upon his childless uncle’s passing and his own father’s ascendence to the Lordship of Oldtown, Ser Robeson was allowed to return to the Oldtown. The famed knight famously refused to do so without the same permittance for his baseborn daughter, whose mother had died a few years prior.

The Beacon of the South had allowed his son to return with Falia, though he had refused any attempt at legitimization.

That had been fifty years ago, and since then Falia Flowers had become somewhat of a matronly figure at the Hightower, nurturing and overseeing the many children born to House Hightower.

When Alicent’s lord father had been summoned to the capital to serve the Crown, the family had taken Falia with them. Though the scripture considered bastards to be illborn creatures born of lust destined for the eternal fires of the seventh hell, as are those who conceive them, Queen Alicent had always been fond of the woman.

It had caused a split in her entire being for Alicent knew that upon her passing, her beloved maid would go one way while upon Alicent’s death, her piety and devotion meant that she would ascend to the Heavens, and the two would never see one another again.

One time when the young Hightower queen had been only nine name days she had wept for days when the septa told her what happened when bastards faced the judgment of the Seven-That-Are-One. It had only been her own lady mother’s kind words that the Gods were merciful, not cruel and that they judged a person not merely on their birth but rather the lives they lived that Alicent ceased her weeping. The septa had never returned to Alicent’s side, though Ser Otto Hightower had not talked to his wife for a full fortnight after. Not that Alicent or her mother cared for her fears had been alleviated.

At her ladies’ insistence, upon becoming queen consort, Alicent had become more distant with her maid, for it would not do for the foremost lady of the realm to openly show affection to a bastard. Queen Alicent had listened to their sage counsel. However, in the privacy of her chambers, she refused to treat the woman any differently than she had before—to the disgust of her noble ladies-in-waiting and the annoyance of her lord father.

Falia gently pushed a strand of hair away from her queen’s silky soft forehead, and leaned in closer, softly murmuring in Alicent’s ear her customary wake-up call, “Your Grace, it is time to waken. Dawn has come and the Seven have shown their light on us all.”

The queen stirred and her sleepy eyes fluttered open, blinking away the remnants of her kind and warm dreams. With her maid’s aid, the queen sat up straight, “Good morn, Falia.”

“Good morn, Your Grace,” her maid smiled at her, “I hope you had the most pleasant of dreams.”

“I did, Falia,” with the maid’s aid, she threw off her bedcovers and sat on the side of her bed. The elderly woman went on her knees and glided her slippers onto her feet.

“Did you enjoy the wedding festivities, Your Grace?”

“I surprisingly did.  feast was at least pleasant enough. A lot of lords and ladies were asking after Aegon and Helaena and were disappointed they were not present,” Alicent preened.

“Of course,” Falia smiled, “I cannot blame the lords and ladies.”

“Has the king asked to break our fast together,” Alicent tried to hide the hopefulness from her voice—Viserys had been distant and that would not do. Not if she wished to protect her family from the vile apostate that was the Rogue Prince.

Falia glanced away, uncomfortable with something.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and fear enveloped her entire being, “What is it?”

“I…”

“Spit it out!” Alicent snapped at her surrogate mother figure, though she felt bad almost immediately.

“His Grace has been meeting with some of the Most Devout and the small council since the break of light,” Falia admitted.

“What happened?” the queen queried, dreading the answer.

“Prince Daemon. It seemed like he took umbrage to the High Septon’s demand of presence during the bedding and struck the holy man, shattering his jaw.”

Alicent’s mouth fell wide open, ‘How dare he? To lay hands on the man chosen by the Gods to serve them as their voice was sacrilege of the worst degree!’

Before the queen could form a response, Falia carried on, “The lack of bedding ceremony angered many of the Most Devout, but the prince and princess refused to budge. Making matters worse was that their passions were heard throughout the Holdfast during the night.”

Alicent grew bright red, even though she had no real understanding of what Falia meant—her own marriage passionless and the queen having lived a rather sheltered life so far.

“What will come of the Prince?” Alicent wondered, “The King can’t let such a brutal and wanton act of violence go unpunished! The lords will revolt in defence of the most holy man!”

Falia opened her mouth and closed it again, repeating it a few times before she answered, “It seems like the prince does not care for he has since refused to wake and join the king’s council for the time being.”

“Irreverent creature,” Alicent hissed—her blood boiling with fury for the slight the High Septon had to ensure, “How is the High Septon?”

“The maids have told me they had to give him milk of the poppy for the pain he is in and that it will take many moons before he will be able to speak again.”

Alicent moaned with despair, ‘To steal from the world the High Septon’s sermons and his confessional wisdom was almost as worse a crime as the violence.’

“I am certain he shall heal as he should,” Falia tried to console her lady, “I believe the Grand Maester has been awake all night to ensure so.”

“A faithful man Grand Maester Mellos is,” Alicent mumbled, “I must keep both he and the High Septon in my prayers.

“Would you like the black gown or the red gown, Your Grace?” the elderly maid tried to shift the conversation away from where it had gone. The walls of the Red Keep had ears and the Rogue Prince had already proven to be not very fond of his good-sister.

Alicent’s eyes were glassy as she stared into the distance, lost in thought, “Mmhh… what?”

“The black or red gown, Your Grace?”

Alicent resented having to choose between the Targaryen colours, “Is there none else available? If not green, mayhaps some grey?”

Her beloved lady’s maid laid her hand on her shoulders as if pitying her, which had Alicent suppress the sneer that threatened to show on her face, “The King has given his orders, Your Grace.”

The queen consort moaned in resignation, “I shall wear black today, then. Let the court know what I think of this cursed union between kin.”

Falia said nought in response and just nodded. After summoning a bath and cleansing her queen with soft soaps and tepid water, the elderly maid prepared Alicent for the start of her day by kneading through her red hair luxurious oils and rare kinds of butter.

To become queen and having access to all these expensive luxuries had been a true revelation for Queen Alicent Hightower. Though she never had to want for anything in life, her father was merely an unlanded knight with no great wealth to his name and thus she did not receive the same excesses the spoiled Princess of Dragonstone did—though Rhaenyra did share them with her.

Alicent shook away the thoughts of her former friend—fallen from grace as she had. There was nought she could do for Rhaenyra now that she had chosen a life of debauchery and libertinism.

“You look absolutely stunning, Your Grace,” her maid complimented her after finishing up with her luscious red locks.

Alicent agreed with Falia—she was a true miracle worker with her hair. As a young child, Alicent’s late lady mother had never been able to handle her veritable mane, but her lady’s maid never had that same problem.

“Thank you, Falia.”

With the maid’s aid, she stood from the stool in front of her vanity, after which they slipped on her black gown and black silk slippers.

“Would you like to wear your tiara this morn, Your Grace?”

The lack of tiara on her brow the past few days must have been noticed, and Alicent made sure to use the absence as a way to show her displeasure. With her influence curtailed and her freedom to wear gowns of her choice stifled, the Queen Consort had little other option that to resort to small acts of disobedience.

“No, thank you, Falia.”

The lady’s maid nodded before she aided her toward the door, where Ser Arryk Cargyll was awaiting her—in recent days, the faithful knight had been more distant. Alicent believes it to be because the Cargyll twins had grown quite close with the Rogue Prince through their sparring in the courtyard, and she does not doubt the monster does all he can to slander her name in front of them both.

His bow is still as deep as before, if a tad shallow, “Your Grace, would you like me to escort you to breakfast hall?”

Alicent shook, “No, I wish to see my husband. Take me to the council chambers.”

Though she issued a command the Kingsguard hesitated, “Your Grace, the King is no longer meeting with his council. He has commenced breaking his fast, and has asked me to escort you to do the same amongst family.”

‘Family?’ Alicent wished to snort, ‘What family?’ but the queen consort kept her thought to herself, “Thank you, good ser.”

With the knight at her back, the queen consort walked through the silent halls of Maegor’s Holdfast.

It was not until she passed by Prince Daemon’s chambers that she heard the first sounds.

Though she had little true knowledge of the pleasures the bedchambers could bring, even she could not feign innocence when the pleasurable moans rang through the door—Ser Laenor and Ser Erryk standing guard outside.

Both men looked tired but had no other expression on their faces, which Alicent did not understand. How could they just stand there as the princess and prince made such ungodly noises while copulating?

Looking back at her own sworn shield, Alicent was vindicated when she saw the blush on Ser Arryk’s face.

Seems like some still had decency within their hearts, even if it only showed itself through the reddening of the cheeks.

“They have been going at it the entire night,” Ser Laenor laughed.

That one was truly foul, Alicent knew. She had heard the rumours in recent days of how he preferred the company of squires and knights over that of women.

A sword swallower—cursed by the Gods and soon to be condemned to an eternity of hellfire.

Making matters even worse was his arrogance. Raised by the Sea Snake and the Queen That Never Was—both of whom never had a kind smile for her and instead raised up their noses at her as if she was beneath them—Ser Laenor had that same Valyrian superiority.

Even now, as he was supposed to stand guard, he still believed it was his right to make bawdry jests in the presence of the queen.

It was Ser Erryk who shot his fellow white cloak a glance but Alicent ignored them both, instead opting to keep on strolling and trying to ignore the moans of passion, interspersed with blasphemous shouts toward the Gods, as she walked away.

It took some time but eventually, she made it to the small hall her husband preferred for the breaking of their fast.

As usual, Aegon and Helaena were already present, sitting in their high chairs—no doubt brought down by their new governesses. Only a few days before Alicent’s chosen governesses had been dismissed and sent back to their homes in the Reach, and replaced by six women chosen by Princess Rhaenyra—two of them even had her blasted white hair. No doubt some Valyrian bastards.

One of them was summoned from Dragonstone—reportedly, she had been Prince Daemon’s governess until he grew too rambunctious—two from Driftmark and three from Claw Isle, the Celtigar stronghold.

The last of the three Valyrian houses had served House Targaryen for more than two centuries now, but in recent years they had retreated from court. Much like House Velaryon, the Celtigars had been minor Valyrian nobility and did not have the ability to claim dragons, and thus had been forced to look for other ways to strengthen themselves.

The Celtigars had quite a bit in common with the Velaryons of Driftmark—both houses were known for their trading—though only one of them regularly wed into the House of the Dragon.

Her father had told her that there had long been enmity between Lord Bartimos Celtigar and Lord Corlys Velaryon—both having strong relationships with the Free Cities through their merchantry.

Yesterday’s feast had proven that wrong for Lord Bartimos and Lord Corlys had spent nearly all eve sitting with Rhaenyra and her demon prince, no doubt plotting against her and her children.

All those blasted Valyrians were the same. The Doom should have taken them all.

As such, it did not surprise Alicent to see the Velaryon and Celtigar lords, and their respective families, at the breakfast table as well.

All stood from their seats and bowed to the queen consort. If they did so a tad shallowly, none spoke up about it.

“Husband,” Alicent addressed her husband, “How is your morn?”

Viserys clenched his jaw, “To be amongst my Valyrian kin can brighten any morning, my darling wife.”

Just like her husband to evade her question, “And yet, I have been told that the small council met early this morn.”

Her husband narrowed her eyes at her, no doubt annoyed that she found out about what happened during the night. The king preferred to stick his head in the sand but Alicent would not allow him to do so this time. The prince had gone too far.

“What will be done?” the queen consort asked her husband as she finally seated herself next to him, “The prince has committed a grave crime against a most holy man.”

The Sea Snake snorted at her words but Alicent ignored him for she knew he was a man who lacked honour—worshipping false gods at his altar at the seas.

“The prince does not appreciate people speaking about him behind his back.”

Alicent’s spine stiffened as her eyes snapped toward the doorway, where Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra stood holding hands. The two had clearly not bathed with Rhaenyra’s hair tangled and the prince’s forehead sweaty.

As they came closer, Alicent turned her nose away—they smelled of sweat still. How dare they couple and then force them all to behold their stench.

Daemon pulled out Rhaenyra’s chair before sitting down next to her. Both husband and wife piled their plates with eggs, bacon, sausages and many more breakfast foods.

As he speared on his fork a lamb sausage, the prince looked at her, “That holy man you speak of thought he had the right to lay his hand on a dragon. I merely disavowed him of that notion.”

Alicent shook with anger, ‘How dare he? The High Septon was a servant of the Seven-That-Are-One! He had no carnal desires!’

“My brother is right,” her husband spoke with a clear voice, “He laid his hand on my daughter’s breast,” explaining at last what happened the day before, “And dared to try and go even further. He should be gladdened my brother only broke his jaw and did not outright remove his head.”

Her husband was such a pathetic coward—bowing to his hedonistic brother and whore daughter’s every whim.

“Then what of the bedding ceremony?! They did away with an ancient tradition! How are we to know their union has been consummated!”

“Did you not hear them, Your Grace?” the Queen That Never Was had the audacity to smirk at her, “Neither Corlys nor I could catch any sleep with their loud passions ringing through the hallways of the Holdfast.”

To her right, the king grew bright red as he started choking on a bite of bacon and egg.

It was the Lord Commander who cleared his airways by smacking his back.

“I can assure you, Lady Alicent,” the prince once more mocked her by using the wrong title, “My wife and I properly consummated our marriage. I am certain that shall be proven in nine moons time.”

Alicent glanced toward her husband, hoping he might come to her defence but she was about to be disappointed because he had latched onto something else entirely, disregarding the prince’s crimes.

Upon seeing the bruises on his daughter’s throat and clavicle, the king groaned, “Ugh… really, Daemon?”

Her good-brother snorted, “There was once a time when giving a lady pleasure was your foremost thought. What happened to that?”

“I became king,” her husband deadpanned.

“Pity,” the prince retorted before looking at her, “Poor Alicent.”

It was just like the lecherous Rogue Prince to prioritise carnal pleasures over service, honour and duty. Still, Alicent grew red at having the prince look at her with the remnants of pleasure still in his eyes—sweaty hair plastered on his forehead.

“Enough, Daemon. Your actions last night were not wholly unjustified but do not taint the morn before your departure to Dragonstone with petty japes,” the king commanded of his brother and the man acquiesced with a nod, though he sent a cruel smirk her way, as if to say he got away with it.

Which he truly did. As always the Rogue Prince got away with his crimes.

What happened next turned Alicent’s stomach because her stepdaughter grabbed a strawberry from the table and held it up to her uncle’s mouth, who pulled the fruit as well as the tips of her fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them.

It was truly vile to behold, Alicent thought to herself, ignoring the tingling in her nether regions.

While her husband spluttered with indignation and Alicent glanced away, unwilling to behold such ungodly acts, Lord Corlys broke out into laughter, “If it makes the king redden like this every time, this might just be as pleasant for us all as it is for them.”

While the king kept growing redder and redder, the Rogue Prince took that moment to grab his new wife by the back of her neck, pulling her to him, locking their lips together—engaging in what had to be the most hedonistic display of public affection Alicent had ever seen.

“I can assure you, Lord Corlys,” the Princess of Dragonstone chimed in after pulling back from her new husband’s lips, “Not quite as pleasant.”

While the king groaned, Prince Daemon guffawed.

Alicent did not know who Rhaenyra was anymore. She was too far gone.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Soaring through the skies was amongst Daemon’s favourite pastimes. It was something he had in common with his beloved niece.

They never had much time to spend together during the little time Daemon was in the capital over the years. The Rogue Prince was a restless man, who preferred to spend his days warring, flying and sailing—two of those he had in common with the Sea Snake, which is why they were such good friends.

Upon Rhaenyra becoming a dragonrider, the majority of their time spent together happened in the skies above King’s Landing and Blackwater Bay.

Daemon and Rhaenyra had been at Dragonstone for six days now, and it had only been yesterday that they had left their chambers for longer than a few minutes—their marital passions overwhelmed uncle and niece, preferring to spend their waking hours copulating.

“Where are you taking me?” his lady wife asked.

Daemon had made sure to blindfold her as they walked through the hallways toward their destination.

For the first nine years of Viserys’ reign, Dragonstone had been more or less Daemon’s. Though he was merely an heir presumptive, the king had actually not minded his brother overseeing the isle of dragons. It was Daemon’s coin that ensured its smooth-running and Daemon’s men that now guarded it.

Over the years the Rogue Prince had discovered a great deal about the ancient keep—secrets not written down anywhere—only sharing them with Maester Gerardys, his closest confidante.

What many did not know about the maester of Dragonstone was that he was a bastard of Lord Daemon Velaryon—sired on some Hull barmaid. His late father had not recognized him but had sponsored his admittance into the Citadel, where he had excelled at matters of coin, building, warcraft, healing and the Higher Mysteries. Predictably, his studies of the last had made him a great deal of enemies and detractors, so when the chance for a position at Dragonstone became available, the bastard had jumped on it.

That had been twenty years ago.

Since then Gerardys had become the confidante of two princes: the Spring Prince and his son both.

Upon Rhaenyra and Daemon arriving on Dragonstone, they had met with the maester, who had congratulated them and offered them a Valyrian blessing chain—handwoven and made with materials gathered, not bought.

Rhaenyra still wore it around her neck, and if Daemon had used it to grip her neck as he fucked her from behind, none had to know that.

Soon, the princess and her prince would sit with the loyal old man, but for now, they vowed to enjoy each other’s bodies. Upon their return to the Red Keep in eight days, duties would be foisted upon them, so they wished to enjoy each other as much as they could, while they could.

“Daemon!” his little niece stomped her foot, forcing a peel of laughter from him, “Tell me where we are going!”

“We are nearing our destination, little dragon,” Daemon assured her, “Show some patience.”

Descending deep into the bowels of Dragonstone, where none but those of Valyrian blood were allowed—not even the maids and guards—Daemon and Rhaenyra walked through a veritable maze of stone hallways. The gate which barred any from entering had only one key, and Daemon never lost sight of it, carrying it around his neck at all times.

Ancient armour—many of it Valyrian steel—and ornamental gargoyles decorated the hallways and the walls. It awed him to see how much of their history still remained in their hands, while at the same time, he was angered by how little the kings who sat the Iron Throne cared about it—his brother included.

Valyrian steel was rare, and there were at least two dozen pieces of armour here. It was where Daemon had gotten his famed armour and helmet two decades prior.

As they had finally reached their destination, Daemon pushed open the creaky steel door—Valyrian steel as well, Daemon knew—and removed his niece’s blindfold.

As expected, Rhaenyra’s mouth fell open as she beheld the mountains of gold and other valuables, “What is all of this?”

“This is all mine,” Daemon replied, “Well, all ours, I guess.”

“How did you get this?” she wondered.

Daemon was amused, “Did you think I spent my days in the East drinking and whoring?”

His wife looked taken aback, “Well, no, but I did not expect this.”

“Well, feast your eyes because like I said, it is all yours now,” Daemon explained, “What is mine is yours, and vice versa.”

Rhaenyra gazed back at him with a soft smile before catching his lips with hers whilst playing with the soft hairs at his nape, bringing forth a purr from his throat.

The two kissed like that for a short while before the Princess of Dragonstone turned her eyes to the mounds of gold and gems, “How much is this?”

Daemon looked around before grabbing a small scroll that lay on an ornate writing table at the side of the hidden vault. Unfurling the parchment, Daemon listed all he—they—owned, “Six million, one hundred and eighty-five thousand, three hundred and ninety-seven gold dragons; four hundred and ninety-eight thousand, three hundred and twenty-five silver moons; two hundred and sixty-five thousand, eight hundred and eighty-nine silver stags; one hundred and ninety-six thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two copper stars; six hundred and ninety-four thousand, three hundred and fifty-eight copper pennies; three million, five hundred and ninety-seven thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight Braavosi iron coins; two million, three hundred and sixty-four thousand, nine hundred and eighty-eight Pentoshi golden coins; one million, nine hundred and seventy-eight thousand, three hundred and sixty-five Lyseni coin; three million, four hundred and eighty-nine thousand, six hundred and fifteen Volantene honors and two hundred and fifty-six thousand, eight hundred and eighty-seven Meereenese marks. And those are just the currency,” Daemon said.

“That’s more than the Crown!” his wife exclaimed.

“Significantly more, yes,” Daemon replied before continuing with his reading, “Nine chests with gems, including–

His wife interrupted him by pulling it from his hands and throwing it across the vault.

“I haven’t even yet spoken about the manses and keeps I have amassed,” Daemon complained.

“Have you ever fucked on a mountain of gold, kepus?” his wife nigh made love with her tongue and lips as she verbally caressed the last word.

Daemon smirked, “I can't say I have, princess.”

The innocent smile on his lady wife’s face was nullified by how swiftly she pulled off her dress—standing before him as bare as the day she was born.

Which, to be honest, Daemon should probably not have thought of it, as he held her that same day.

Snapping him from his musing was his wife grabbing his member through his trousers, caressing it and bringing it to hardness, “Are you going to stand there thinking or are you going to fuck your wife?”

Daemon responded by divesting himself off his clothes as he could and pulling his wife in his arms—her legs wrapped around his lower torso and his cock nestled in between her soft and already moist folds. The Rogue Prince laid Rhaenyra down on one of the piles of gold, bringing forth a shiver from her, before kissing her on the lips and then slowly going down her body.

When he took her left nipple in his mouth and sucked on it before gently biting, a soft keen showed him just how pleasurable his new wife found it all.

Slowly but steadily he made his way down her body—kissing her soft belly and her womanly hips. Her lower lips glistened with arousal and her thighs quivered with anticipation of what was to come next. Glancing upward, he beheld Rhaenyra biting her lip and gazing at him through hooded eyes—she was truly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

And so his feast began as Rhaenyra moaned with pleasure—none able to hear her grunts and groans, deep within the dungeons of her own keep.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The past few days had been quite pleasant. The king had ensured that those lords and ladies who remained in the capital after the royal wedding and were waiting to return homewards until the new Princess and Prince Consort of Dragonstone returned from the former’s dominion in the Narrow Sea, were properly amused.

There had been a hunt and a fair, as well as some boat and horse racing. The king spared no expense, even without his heir and her consort present to behold it all.

The Defender of the Vale had planned not to return to the Eyrie until a satisfactory outcome had been negotiated with the Crown regarding the Royce lands. Her bannermen were leal but they would not have looked upon her with any respect should she have failed to convince the King that Runestone had to remain in the hands of the Valemen.

Despite the prince’s opposition, Jeyne had believed she could convince the Crown to grant her this boon. Of course, it had not turned out to be quite as simple as she had hoped, with the Lord of Runestone resistant to giving up what he believed was his.

In her desperation, she had hoped that by reminding her cousin, who held her uncle in the palm of her hand, of their blood ties, that she may convince him to yield Runestone.

Blessedly, there had been no need for such tactics because the Prince had given up his title and his lands voluntarily, even if at great cost to House Royce. There had been no need to convince Princess Rhaenyra that it would be in the Vale’s best interest for Runestone to remain in the hands of a Royce, rather than her beloved uncle.

The Lady of the Eyrie knew not why she had won, only that she had.

Was it because Daemon was a lovestruck man, if she had ever seen one? Or another reason altogether?

His love for his niece had almost endeared the man to her a bit. Unlike the union with Rhea, the one with Rhaenyra was clearly one of mutual affection and respect.

Now, she just remained because she liked spending time here.

“My lady,” someone interrupted her as she sat alone at a table—the men out hunting. Jeyne had grown tired of the false sport. Sixty men chasing one boar was a tad ridiculous to her, but she nonetheless did her duty and pretended enjoyment.

Before her stood a messenger—the raven symbol clear on his cloak, “A raven arrived at the Red Keep earlier today. The Grand Maester asked me to ride for you and deliver it.”

“Thank you, good ser,” after grabbing the scroll, Jeyne handed the man a few silver stags, more or less dismissing him.

Unfurling it, Jeyne commenced with her reading.

Dear Jeyne

I write bearing terrible news. The guards of the Eyrie have turned traitor by releasing Ser Arnold. The Mad Heir has taken over the Eyrie and proclaimed himself the rightful Defender of the Vale. Those amongst us who survived their slaughter fled toward the Gates of the Moon, which remains ours for the time being.

I urge you to ask the Crown for aid, and that you return as swiftly as possible to take back that which is rightfully yours.

Your beloved Jess

The missive fell to the ground as that same ground crumbled beneath her feet, ‘I have been usurped.’

Notes:

Notes: A bit of a filler chapter to set the stage for what comes next. As for the cliffhanger... Jeyne is a tad fucked, isn’t she? I guess that explains why she rarely leaves the Eyrie. 😇

Also, nothing too explicit yet, but there is a sex scene on the beach next chapter. We can’t miss out on beach sex, can we? 😈

Next chapter will probably be posted about six weeks from now, dependant on the schedules of my other stories—current and future.

Hope you enjoyed what you read! Don’t forget to leave a review to let me know what you think, push that kudos button and bookmark this story! Also, make sure to check out my other stories and my Linktree (https://linktr.ee/destroyerofnations) for my socials and more! 😁

Chapter 8: the heart of dragonstone

Summary:

On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra and Daemon spend their days fucking and plotting—they’d be damned if they let Alicent’s spawn usurp them.

None would ever describe Prince Daemon Targaryen as a carefree man—the ancient fires of Valyria burned too bright in his beautiful purple eyes for that. Built somewhere in between the famed lean warrior’s build, favoured by Targaryen warriors like Gaemon the Glorious, and King Jaehaerys I and his two sons Prince Aemon and Baelon, and the more stocky warrior’s build that Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel had, Daemon had always been a force to be reckoned with.

Knighted at the age of six and ten, only then because King Jaehaerys refused to allow his grandson to take his vows before he reached his majority, the Rogue Prince was the personification of the Valyrian warrior and dragonrider spirit.

It was that same spirit he shared with his new niece-wife, whose inner fire was nigh as well-known as the prince’s. In recent years it had dimmed, with her erstwhile handmaiden betraying her and wedding her father only six moons after her mother’s death, as well as Daemon’s banishment, but it had returned tenfold when he did.

By just beholding them for more than a few counts you could see that the Princess and Prince of Dragonstone were cut from a different mould than the man who sat the Iron Throne. King Viserys was a jolly and peaceful man, but also easily manipulatable—his long relationship with his former Hand of the King proves that.

When four years prior, the King had announced he would wed Lady Alicent Hightower, the Hand’s daughter and a woman seven and ten name days old, many houses had been disgusted. The great houses of the Vale, the North and the Stormlands had not sent any representatives to the hastily planned royal wedding, showing their disapproval of the king’s choice of bride. In contrast, House Greyjoy of Pyke had sent some minor cousin—and a priest of the Drowned God, insulting the High Septon in the process.

While the heads of the Houses Lannister, Tully and Tyrell had all attended the royal wedding binding the king to a daughter of a second son, all noticed the discontent that ruled the realm when only a third of the most powerful lords of the realm attended.

King Viserys was considered a weak man by many. Many hoped his daughter would be different, and with the Rogue Prince by her side, she very well could be.

Even in their hopes, the lords of the realm were misguided, for while Prince Daemon Targaryen was strong where his brother was weak, his strength came from his family, Rhaenyra first and foremost. It was not merely Daemon giving his niece strength, thus empowering her claim but it was the other way around as well—two sides of the same coin, the new bonded pair was.

“I don’t like sand,” Rhaenyra admitted as they strolled the beach of Dragonstone, “It’s so coarse and it feels cold on my feet.”

“Dragonstone is quite chilly during autumn and outright cold during winter,” her husband explained, “Especially with the Dragonmont inactive.”

“When is the last time it was awake?” the Princess of Dragonstone wondered. Once every few decades, the ancient volcano would awaken and spew some ash and lava, blessing the isle for volcanic ash was a great fertilizer and lava meant the expansion of their lands.

“When you were born,” her husband replied, clutching her hand in his, “Clearly a good omen.”

Rhaenyra beamed when her uncle kissed the side of her head. She never believed she could ever be this happy, but here she was.

“Perhaps one day I shall take you with me to Pentos or Volantis, where the beaches are always warm and walking the sand feels like walking on silken pillows.”

“I would love that,” she grinned.

Daemon smiled back at her, “Perhaps even before we think of children?”

Rhaenyra’s smile grew a tad sour—the prospect of childbirth remained a sore spot for her, “You do not want a son immediately?”

“I did not know you could choose whether to birth a son or a daughter,” Daemon jested, “That is quite the gift you have.”

Rhaenyra threw him an unimpressed look.

“You know what I think of the Andal succession, not to mention the alterations done to it by Jaehaerys and the Great Council. Valyrian succession is superior.”

“So, if we were to have a daughter first, you would defend her claim over that of her younger brother?” Rhaenyra knew the answer already—her uncle was as clear as the morning sky.

“I would,” he admitted, “Perhaps we can right the ship all kings since the Conquerors have been steering wrong.”

Rhaenyra smiled widely—butterflies fluttering deep in her belly, “Perhaps, we can.”

When her new husband sent a toothy grin her way, the Princess of Dragonstone felt her heart skip a beat. Rhaenyra had never seen Daemon smile like that—as if recognized at long last.

All knew of the troubled relationship between King Viserys and his rogue brother. Rhaenyra’s father had difficulty containing the chaos that defined Prince Daemon—not understanding that one should not stifle a dragon’s greatness but rather nurture it. Her uncle had been the reason why her father wore a crown these days, and yet King Viserys had since turned his brother away at every turn—usually at the behest of his Hand.

It had galled a young Rhaenyra how little time she got to spend with her uncle. In the fifteen years that preceded her becoming Heir to the Iron Throne, her uncle had been at court at most four years in total—because of his discontent at the unwanted union with the late Rhea Royce, as well as his troubled relationship with both his kings and their Hand.

There was none Rhaenyra loved like she loved Prince Daemon Targaryen, and she would show him every day going forward.

“We can,” Daemon assured her, “I will aid you with whatever you need. You will be the finest monarch these kingdoms have ever seen.”

Rhaenyra blushed and looked down at the sand.

When her husband halted and used his finger to lift her chin, the blush grew even more pronounced.

“You will be the herald of a new time, Rhaenyra,” her husband looked her deep in her eyes, “A chance to break the cycle of fools that came before you—men who hate women and bow to foreign gods.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“It is no coincidence that the Targaryen king these Andals consider our finest is the one who kneeled to their High Septons and their Seven-That-Are-One. Five kings have sat the Iron Throne and all five would have been better served if a woman sat it instead—Rhaenys and Visenya, Rhaena, Alysanne and yes, even your mother,” she had never seen Daemon so sincere, “Men wage war, while women keep the home, the Andals claim. You can do better than both. Do not allow yourself to be forced into what they consider to be the correct sphere. Why should a woman not wield a sword?” he laid his hand on the pommel of Dark Sister, no doubt remembering how it was made for a woman’s hand, “Why should a woman not captain a ship? Rule a kingdom? An empire?”

“What of you?” Rhaenyra wondered aloud, despite knowing the answer already, “The crown will sit on my brow, not yours. Would you rather not be king yourself?”

“If I wished to be king, I’d be king right now,” Daemon snorted before catching her lips with his—goosebumps breaking out on Rhaenyra’s skin.

The smooth entangling of their tongues and the clashing of their teeth sent shivers down the princess’ spine. Her husband kissed like she imagined a dragon would—with great passion and fire, so none may deny his love.

Not that she ever would.

Even with her eyes closed as their lips met in a dance of love and desire, Rhaenyra heard the soft thud of Daemon’s sword belt falling on the sand. She jumped a bit when she felt Daemon grab her bottom with both hands, softly kneading the flesh.

When he released her lips and his mouth wandered toward her neck where he left the gentlest of bites, she moaned aloud—unable to hide her desire for him.

With a grin on his lips, her husband gave her a sudden shove, which had her fall down onto her arse on the sand—knocking the wind from her.

Looking like sin personified, her uncle dropped to his knees before her, “Careful, princess,” Daemon smirked before slowly raising her dress, placing soft kisses on her legs as he slowly travelled higher and higher—goosebumps forming on every patch of skin he touched.

Her thighs quivered more the closer he came to her sex. Rhaenyra had blushed deep red when Daemon had done the same on their wedding night—using his mouth on her genitals—but the pleasure it had brought forth had been beyond this world.

Of course, her husband had taught her to return the favour, which Rhaenyra had greatly enjoyed as well. To have a quivering Daemon beneath her hands had been a true revelation. Her uncle had turned to putty in her hands with a few twists of her wrist and deep sucks.

As he reached her inner thigh, the Rogue Prince used his tongue and teeth both, forcing yet another shiver from her, as well as a loud moan, “Please, uncle.”

After throwing a smirk her way, he ripped off her small clothes, which had her shriek, before he fell forward and feasted on her. Rhaenyra’s eyes rolled back in their sockets as pleasure washed over her.

She wished for this to never end.

The swift lashes of his tongue between her lower lips had her legs twitch and her arse clench—her uncle was a true magicdoer in the marital bed.

Or on the beaches, in this case.

It did not take long before Rhaenyra started closing in on her peak, but it was his wettened tongue venturing a tad lower and breaching her pink hole that had her erupt in pleasure—shrieking her joy to the sky as colours exploded behind her shut eyelids.

A minute. Ten minutes. An hour.

It could been any of those—Rhaenyra had no more grasp on space and time in the wake of her coming.

Eventually, like a mewling kitten, she opened her eyes, beholding her husband sitting across from her with a smug smirk on his lips—his chin wet with her arousal.

“Is that all, husband?” she taunted him, “Have you grown soft with old age?”

Daemon snarled before pushing open her legs and divesting himself of his trousers, “Are you ready, little dragon?” without waiting for an answer, he shoved his member in—breaching her tender walls.

The agony of being breached with one violent thrust combined with her fluttering walls still recovering from the pleasure had her fall head-first into another climax.

Pain and pleasure combined, just the way she liked it.

───※ ·♛· ※───

His family had lived on Dragonstone since long before the Targaryens settled on the isle—long before the doom of their infernal empire.

Nineteen generations on Dragonstone is what House Broome could boast of. The last seven of those had brought forth anointed knights, and Ser Alfred Broome was only the last in a long line of proud Broome men serving the dragonlords of House Targaryen.

His own grandfather had been castellan under the Conciliator, and was eventually succeeded by Alfred’s father—both had proudly served the great king. Upon Prince Viserys being named heir to the Iron Throne, his arrogant brother took command of the isle and dismissed his father—dishonouring him and casting him down from his rightful seat.

His father had drunk himself into an early grave after that. Not that the Rogue Prince would have cared. No, the prideful cunt cared little for anyone, not in his favour.

Maester Gerardys? Yes.

Ser Alfred Broome? No.

The first kissed his arse every chance he got while Alfred and his father had refused to do the same.

It took more than a dragon to gain their allegiance. The Broomes were the true stewards of Dragonstone, having been there for far longer than the Targaryens ever were. So, why should they kneel upon one arriving on their shores?

Making matters even worse was their new liege.

A girl.

King Viserys had dared to name a girl his heir, insulting the Seven-That-Are-One. The scripture was clear to all—a man rules the land. What kind of foolishness could they expect with a woman on the throne?

Women were ill-fit for governance, prone to hysteria as they were.

Immediately after her investiture, Alfred saw the wisdom in naming Princess Rhaenyra heir to the Iron Throne, if only to keep the Rogue Prince away from it, but it had been nearly three years since the king’s firstborn son came into this world and King Viserys had still not named him Prince of Dragonstone.

Making matters even worse was that the girl had wed her uncle, thus bringing Prince Daemon too close to the Iron Throne again.

Alfred could not understand how any self-respecting man could risk besmirching his own legacy by naming a girl his heir, while he has a son born from his loins already. A boy to hold his name and succeed him.

Prince Aegon Targaryen.

All had heard of the prince’s birth. Ravens had been sent out over the realm, prompting celebrations in Alfred’s home.

The prince’s birth should have led to a resurgence of tradition and piety on the Isle of Dragons, but that did not happen. Instead, Alfred was forced to patrol the shores of Dragonstone and the halls and courtyards of its royal keep while its liege and her vile husband-uncle spat on all that was good and holy.

In the five days since they had been on Dragonstone, all had heard the two fornicating all over the castle.

It was truly shameful.

Alfred’s lady wife, who served in the kitchens, had told him that the princess had been caught in the library whilst on her knees before her husband.

Beasts. Both of them.

Even today, as Alfred stood guard upon the balcony overseeing Dragonstone’s training yard, the princess and her uncle were breaking the laws of decency.

Below him, Prince Daemon was teaching his wife how to hold a sword.

Why would a woman need to know how to hold a sword?

It was her lord husband’s duty to ensure her safety, as Alfred did for his family. Unless this was the prince’s way of acknowledging he was unfit to do so?

The great Prince Daemon Targaryen admitting he cannot protect his lady wife. The anointed knight had to fight to keep the mocking smile from his face.

As quickly as it had appeared, the amusement disappeared. For the life of him, Ser Alfred Broome could not understand why the king would allow that monster to wed his daughter when there were far better men all across the realm.

Pious and loyal lords with gold mines or grand fleets or fertile lands. All are truly better suited to be a royal consort.

News of what had transpired during the princess’ engagement banquet had reached even the shores of Dragonstone. How the prince had humiliated the pious queen and had forcibly disrobed her in front of all the lords of the realm, and of the blood spilled in his niece’s name.

Some knights had grinned at Prince Daemon’s violent actions, while many of the maids had declared it honourable and romantic.

Alfred had seen it for what it truly was—a powerplay.

The announcement of the end of the betrothal between the Sea Snake’s heir and the Princess of Dragonstone, and her subsequent engagement to her uncle had only proven it.

Princess Rhaenyra was the Rogue Prince’s way to the Iron Throne.

Sure, he could have usurped his brother but to become a kinslayer would damn his soul for all eternity, and not even Prince Daemon was that foolish, surely? No, instead he chose the long way by wedding the king’s heir, which had only been possible because of King Viserys’ shunning of ancient Andal ways and traditions.

King Jaehaerys the Wise had made his will clear to all and for his successor to deny him was the gravest of sins. The previous Lord of the Seven Kingdoms knew the truth of the matter. Men should inherit before the daughters, especially something as important as a royal crown.

“Yes, perfect, darling,” Prince Daemon laughed as he beheld his young wife execute a perfect parry.

While Alfred was not the sole man-at-arms standing guard, he was the only one not completely enamoured with the abominations. Even his own wife had forced him to raise his hands to her when she called the two adorable after their arrival.

The Broome knight narrowed his eyes as he watched husband and wife practice strike after strike, parry after parry.

In what world would she need any of this?

It was the noise of disgust that erupted when the prince gave his lady wife Dark Sister to handle that had all eyes turn to him.

Though he grew bright red, Alfred refused to look away. He’d be damned if he allowed these monsters to think he feared them.

“Is something the matter, Ser Alfred?” the princess asked with that sickly sweet voice of hers.

She was beautiful, he could at least admit that, but she was wasted on her uncle. The children these two would bring forth would be affronts to the Gods.

A few days before, Alfred had watched the princess dance prance the halls wearing only a short slip—legs and feet bare and a deep cleavage—and he had hardened in his trousers—unable to control his arousal. That eve he had laid claim to his wife—roughly fucking her in their wedding bed.

“No, there is not,” he answered.

“Princess,” the Rogue Prince interjected while his niece tried to calm him, “You shall address your liege with her title or you shall be punished.”

His sneer must have shown because the Princess of Dragonstone narrowed her eyes at him.

“I apologize, princess,” the insincerity was difficult. to hide.

“Come down here,” the prince commanded.

For the first time, Alfred felt a measure of apprehension but he was a proud man and he would not be seen backing down to these monsters.

In an attempt to show how unconcerned he was, Alfred strutted down the balcony staircase, toward the Princess of Dragonstone and her consort.

“You do not like me, do you?” the prince asked him, “Is it because of your father? I know he drank himself near-stupid after I dismissed him as castellan.”

Alfred clenched his jaw and glanced away, not deigning him with an answer.

“Your father was a thief, who stole from Dragonstone’s treasury,” Prince Daemon accused, “His wife and children were the sole reason I did not execute him and instead only relieved him of his post. I even granted him the kindness of continued employment on the isle, rather than banishment.”

“Lies!” Alfred shouted, “My father was an honourable man and a finer knight than you could have ever hoped to be—knighted by King Jaehaerys himself!”

“Even shit floats,” the prince taunted him, “But no matter. I care little for the dead. What I care about is the living.”

The princess took over, “You have proven arrogant in your open mislike of my uncle and me, and while before we cared little for your lack of standing amongst the senior staff meant that you had no true influence, now we grow tired of it.”

“You shall kneel before your princess and repeat the vow of fealty you once gave my brother and my father before him,” Prince Daemon commanded.

“I shall not!” Alfred erupted, “I shall not be forced to kneel before a girl!”

“A woman,” the Rogue Prince sneered at him, “I can assure you, cunt, my lady wife is a woman.”

The anointed knight was nonplussed when the prince first looked toward his wife before he struck, and only when she nodded did he do so—nothing more than a trained dog.

With a harsh punch to his stomach, Alfred fell to his knees.

“It seems like you are capable of kneeling after all, Ser Alfred,” the Princess of Dragonstone taunted him.

Rather than answer her, Alfred raised his head and looked at her with nought but hatred in his eyes, before gathering all the saliva he could in his mouth and unleashing it upon her.

Even though most of it missed her body, a bit of it still reached her, forcing an angry shriek from her.

The last thing Ser Alfred Broome saw or felt was an enraged Rogue Prince pulling him up by his hair and bashing his head against the nearest wall.

Darkness.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Dragonstone was a remarkable structure—its stones and gargoyles singing with magic long forgotten. Oh, how Gerardys wished to have access to even a tenth of what the Valyrian stone-moulders had access to.

Over his one and twenty years on the isle, Maester Gerardys had mapped out nearly all of the ancient keep, bar its cellars. He knew every bit of its long history, could point out exactly where every tome and book was located in its grand library, and knew every tale associated with the castle.

How could he not? Dragonstone was the last true remnant of the Valyrian Freehold. Though Volantis had some structures still, over the years they had been altered to pander to the egos of its rulers, and prayed to its ancient Gods—though with little true knowledge of its long gone scriptures, the remaining of the colonies had bucked off its Valyrian heritage—only keeping its bastard tongue.

His fascination for the Freehold and its great and terrible, born from his secret heritage, had made him a great deal of foes at the Citadel. Even the Archmaester of the Higher Mysteries, not particularly loved himself, had openly disdained Gerardys.

Not that the scholar cared. His goals had been met when he received his chain. His father’s line had died out with him—giving way to that of a third cousin—but the late Lord of the Tides had been proud of his baseborn son.

After a decade on Driftmark, where he served first his father and then successor, he had been assigned to the Isle of Dragons—petitioning the Old King for the posting and with the aid of the Sea Snake, had received it.

Though it now had a princess, many on the isle had not forgotten Prince Daemon’s stewardship and upkeep of them for the past decade-and-a-half. Even when his brother had been its titular prince, it had been the Rogue Prince who had funded its upkeep and ensured its smooth running.

Gerardys and most of the keep’s main staff were overjoyed when the news of the new royal engagement reached the isle. The now-dead Ser Alfred Broome had been one of the few who had shown his distaste.

Never having been fond of the man, Maester Gerardys would not pretend to grieve the arrogant man-at-arms.

According to the maids’ gossip not even his wife and children grieved the man, which did not shock the maester for if he could act so callous with royalty, how would he dare act at home?

“What do you think, maester?” the princess addressed him.

“I apologize, Your Highness, I was lost in my own thoughts,” Gerardys admitted, “Could you repeat your question.”

The young woman smiled at him, “I was speaking of my father’s injuries. Grand Maester Mellos believes it to be untreatable but his lacerations and wounds keep spreading and worsening.”

“I would need to look upon the king first before I can diagnose his ills,” he reminded his liege, “But I would like to remind you that the Citadel has greater healers than Grand Maester Mellos, who only had a single healing link.”

“You have three,” Prince Daemon pointed out, “Should you not wish for the king’s maester to have such knowledge and experience?”

“Yes, they should,” Gerardys admitted, “But the Conclave has never been known for its reason.”

“Perhaps one day you might be grand maester,” the Princess of Dragonstone suggested, which had him laugh good-naturedly.

“I do doubt that, Your Grace,” he elaborated, “I am not particularly beloved by my fellow scholars, so I do not see them ever raising me up that far. Besides, most Grand Maesters have been chosen from the archmaesters.”

“Well, grand maester or not,” the princess replied, “We could use a man with your expertise and mind in the capital.”

“I live to serve, Your Grace,” he bowed his head.

“I know,” Princess Rhaenyra smiled at him, “When we return, you shall come with us to inspect the king.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

“Now that we have spoken of what needed to be spoken of, let us at long last enjoy our meal,” the prince said before tucking in—Princess Rhaenyra and Gerardys following closely behind.

───※ ·♛· ※───

“Come on, princess,” Daemon laughed, “Take a bite. It is quite enjoyable, I promise.”

If she was not so disgusted with what exactly he was holding out to her on his fork, she might have thought about how odd it was how he did the exact same thing when she was a young girl and he had brought forth lemon cakes from the kitchen, “I believe you, husband, but I just have no particular hankering for blood sausage.”

The Princess of Dragonstone feigned some retching, which brought forth a deep laugh from Prince Daemon, “You do not know what you are missing,” and he ate the piece of sausage he had held out to her.

“Ugh, vile,” Rhaenyra scrunched up her nose in disgust, “I don’t understand how you could eat that.”

“In the North, they eat this every morn. It gives a lot of energy and it ensures nothing of the butchered animal is wasted—not even its blood,” Daemon pointed out.

“Well,” Rhaenyra replied, “Here in the south, we don’t eat an animal’s remains.”

Her husband looked at her as if she was the village idiot, “What do you think sausages are made of? The finest meat an animal has to offer?”

Rhaenyra had no answer.

“No, they take whatever is left over and grind it into a meat paste and put it into a cleaned-out intestine.”

Again, Rhaenyra feigned a hurl, though this time it felt a tad too close to home, “Why do you tell me this?”

“Why not?” her husband mocked her good-naturedly, “You are a woman grown and a woman grown must know where her food comes from.”

“I know where it comes from,” the Princess of Dragonstone deadpanned, “The kitchens.”

“Spoiled little princess,” he shook his head with mock condemnation, “How will you ever survive in the real world?”

“I guess my strong and handsome lord husband shall have to protect me,” she fluttered her eyelashes at him, “What would I do without you, my handsome prince?”

“Eat sausage without knowing where it comes from,” he quipped.

Rhaenyra’s face scrunched up, which had Daemon snigger.

“If not blood sausage, at least try some beans,” Daemon pointed toward the small part of the table which had been reserved for the breakfast foods asked for by him at their arrival. Her new husband had an odd taste.

“Beans?” Rhaenyra laughed, “Unless you would like to sleep next to a flatulent pig this eve, I shall hold off on the beans.”

“Your loss,” Daemon scooped up some spicy white beans in a tomato-red pepper sauce and shovelled them into his mouth, “Delicious,” he said, spraying chunks all over the dining table.

“Disgusting, uncle,” Rhaenyra exclaimed, “Have you no manners?”

“Have you ever spent four years with a few hundred rowdy men eating pork sausage and beans for every meal? You’d lose any semblance of etiquette, princess,” Daemon pointed his spoon at her.

“No, that’s what I have you for,” she cheekily retorted.

Daemon gave her the sweetest of smiles—making her heart flutter.

“Yes, you do.”

A throat clearing had the newlyweds snap from their wedded bliss.

“I apologize for intruding, Your Highness,” Maester Gerardys bowed to his liege lady before turning to her husband, “My Prince. We received a raven from the capital early this morn, but since you chose to stay in a bit,” Rhaenyra blushed at the memory of how they had spent the first hours of their day, “I have not yet had a time to deliver it.”

“What does it say?” Daemon wondered.

“It holds the king’s seal, my prince,” the maester replied, “I would not dare to open a scroll with the king’s seal affixed.”

Rhaenyra laughed, “In the future, you may do so, good man. I doubt my father has anything important to say,” upon her holding out her hand, Gerardys handed over the small scroll. The Princess of Dragonstone broke the seal and started reading the king’s missive.

To my dearest daughter and beloved brother

It deeply saddens me to have to write to you as you enjoy your post-nuptial weeks but grave news has reached King’s Landing from the Vale.

Your cousin’s choice to leave the Eyrie to join us in celebrating your wedding has led to her usurpation. In the Eyrie, supporters of Ser Arnold Arryn have taken up arms against Lady Jeyne’s men and have taken the castle, sending out ravens declaring him its rightful lord and overseer—the same with the Vale proper.

The Small Council has come together to deal with this issue, but it has been rightfully pointed out that the Eyrie’s strategic strength means it cannot be breached and only sieged. While the Crown has offered Lady Jeyne this option, thus starving the traitors out for a few years, she has declined and instead asks for a martial solution. She pointed out that in the year two and one hundred after the Conquest, Daemon put down a coup upon dragonback, which led to the Mad Heir’s imprisonment, and has asked for his aid once more.

As much as it pains me, I must beseech you to return to the capital as swiftly as possible. The Crown needs its princess and prince.

Your loving father and brother

King Viserys of the House Targaryen, the First of His Name
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms
Protector of the Realm

Rhaenyra’s wide eyes must have concerned her uncle because he quickly stood from his chair and started reading over her shoulder.

Both husband and wife glanced at each other for a few seconds after with the latter handing the scroll to the maester to read.

“How does one person get usurped not once but twice?” her husband whined, forcing a laugh from her, “We have to shorten our bridal weeks, and why? Because Lady Jeyne keeps getting overthrown?”

Rhaenyra raised her eyebrow at him, “I would think you’d have a tad more sympathy for your former liege lady.”

His disgusted look had Rhaenyra grin.

“What do you want to do?” the prince sighed, no doubt knowing the answer already.

“I guess we’ll have no choice but to fly home,” Rhaenyra replied—liking it no more than her husband.

Notes:

Rhaenyra and Daemon on Dragonstone—living it up. Sadly, after only eight days of wedded bliss, they are brought back to reality.

Our favourite war-criminal duo is going to set their sights on the Vale.

Next chapter will be posted in five to six weeks! Keep a look out!

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Chapter 9: a dragon pair unleashed

Summary:

While none could dispute the ferociousness of the dragons of House Targaryen, it was its she-dragons that were the more dangerous.

Notes:

Enjoy chapter nine. Our newlyweds on the warpath. 😁

Make sure to check out my other stories and take a look at my Linktree: https://linktr.ee/destroyerofnations

Four hours a night.

Four hours a night at most.

Jeyne was antsy—her nerves turning her into a squirming mess. Even the night brought her no solace, no peace. She slept four hours a night at most since news of her usurpation had reached her.

At least Jess was safe, she had told herself. It mattered little that they took the Eyrie for that was just a castle. If they had hurt her beloved, Jeyne would have been destroyed, and they would have truly won.

The past few days had been filled with talk by men who had no true knowledge of the intricacies of the Vale, nor of women ruling. The Master of Ships had claimed that the Crown should not intervene for if Jeyne were incapable of keeping her own power, why should they protect her so?

The rightful Defender of the Vale had nearly attacked the Westerman but had kept her most bloodthirsty of impulses contained, and instead had reminded the man that the Iron Throne had aided his grandfather and father both when they begged for it when a Ironborn usurper had plagued their coastline with his fleet.

With a smirk on her face, she had proclaimed that all over the kingdom, they knew of how the late Lord Tymond Lannister had fallen to his knees before the Iron Throne to beg for King Jaehaerys’ aid—who had sent his heir and Prince Daemon to aid the Lord of the Isles and the Warden of the West to put a stop to the Ironborn aggression.

The Burning of Harlaw had been one of the first exploits that would earn Prince Daemon the epithet of The Rogue Prince. Against his king and father’s wishes, the prince had put to the flame nearly a thousand fighting men—earning King Jaehaerys’ ire.

That bloodlust had frightened many over the realm but had proven useful for Jeyne when in the year two and one hundred Ser Arnold Arryn launched his second usurpation attempt—the first having fizzled out five years prior when her grandfather had died, and she had succeeded him.

Prince Daemon had burned the Mad Heir’s armies outside the Eyrie and had subsequently peacefully taken her holdfast—liberating her and hers.

During his entire time in the Vale, the young Warden of the East had seen the prince perhaps once, and he had been gone before his own lady wife came to take up temporary regency over the Vale in her name until her aunt Amanda travelled from Goldengrove to serve as her permanent regent.

Jeyne had loved Rhea like a sister and had hated Daemon for how he treated her, though she was unaware that the Lady of Runestone had despised her princely husband in equal measure.

It was difficult for Jeyne to reconcile the man who had liberated and saved her with the man who treated Rhea so horrendously. Though she never showed it, the prince’s japes had truly hurt her. No woman wished to be compared to a sheep.

Prince Daemon Targaryen would never be king, yes, but he would be wed to a queen and from his seed the future of House Targaryen would blossom. For a man who never truly expected to wear a crown that must be quite the consolation prize.

A few years prior, when Jeyne had reached her majority, her aunt, who would be returning to Goldengrove, where her husband still ruled as its lord, had organized a grand celebration—feasts, tourney and hunt—to celebrate the young Lady of the Eyrie taken sole command over her realm. At that feast, a sixteen-year-old Jeyne had openly wondered why Daemon had never taken up arms against his brother for he was a brother, and the king was not. Rhea had laughed at her, proclaiming that her estranged husband loved none in the world quite as much as the king—disgustingly much, she had sneered.

It seemed like the king had been usurped by his own daughter. Where a decade before the Rogue Prince was the king’s sword and shield, now he was the princesses.

They looked almost disgustingly in love, Jeyne noticed.

The king and council had received no raven back from Dragonstone, instead, its princess and prince consort returned upon dragonback—the Blood Wyrm and his Golden Princess singing a dragonsong in the sky above King’s Landing.

Upon his daughter being sighted, King Viserys had swiftly ordered the court to prepare for her arrival—his brother seemingly an afterthought. The Small Councillors had been summoned, as had Lady Jeyne, and even Queen Alicent, Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena were present as they prepared to welcome back to the capital the Heir to the Iron Throne.

The Warden of the East had feared some derision from the prince at being called back more than a sennight before they had planned to return—because she had once more been usurped—but he had not even glanced her way. Only the princess had given her a kind smile, Prince Daemon had instead joyously reunited with the Master of Coin—famously his favourite of his brother’s council members—and the Lord Commander.

Now, as they walked the halls of the Red Keep, the prince, whom Jeyne had always feared so much, seemed less serpentine and more besotted. Whispering in each other’s ears whilst clinging to each other—they were almost brazenly enamoured with each other.

The reunion between father and daughter had been hearty, as had the one between brothers. For a while, they had spoken until Rhaenyra had asked Lady Jeyne to escort her and her new husband to their chambers.

None had protested, though the bitter twist of the queen’s mouth showed she wished she could without losing her head.

It was not long before they reached the prince and princess’ new chambers—asked and received after they were wed for neither wished to sleep in their old chambers nor did they wish to be parted from each other.

Jeyne knew how rare it was for a lord and lady to share chambers for most of them only did so during coupling. Whispers had spread around the Red Keep when their demand had been made, and while some had sneered, many more had seen it as a symbol of how deeply infatuated they were with one another.

It was Ser Laenor and Ser Erryk who stood guard at their door—bowing deeply to both. Jeyne wonders whether the former must not find it odd to kneel to the woman he was once betrothed to.

Before she could more on the matter, the three entered the spacious apartments that had once belonged to Prince Aemon and his Baratheon lady—true heir’s chambers.

“Please, cousin,” the Princess of Dragonstone addressed her, “Be seated.”

Jeyne waited until Rhaenyra sat in the grand armchair before she sat across from her. Meanwhile, the prince walked toward the drink cart and poured three goblets of wine—one for each.

The prince sat on the arm of his princess’ chair, sipping from his cup and looking at Jeyne with eagle eyes.

“I can’t say I was impressed with your demand that my lord husband come to your aid once more,” her cousin stared at her, “It would be the second time he was forced to do so.”

“Princess–

“My uncle is not a guard dog you get summoned with a whistle,” Princess Rhaenyra bristled, “A dragon is no slave.”

“I truly meant no disrespect, Your Grace,” Jeyne bowed her head to show her deference.

“The moment you and I struck a deal about Runestone, Lady Jeyne,” the prince spoke, “I ceased to be your bannerman.”

“I know,” the Defender of the Vale sighed—there was no command for her to give.

“The Crown can’t keep coming to your aid every time you get usurped, cousin,” the princess pointed out, “You would have no true authority because all would remember the only reason you are the great lady of the Vale was because of my husband’s repeated defence of you.”

“I am not entirely opposed to aiding you,” the Rogue Prince said, “Make no mistake, I do agree that such a coup cannot be allowed to stand, but there is no true force behind it, others will try to do so again and again and again.”

Jeyne knew they were right, “Perhaps we can be of use to each other in more than just this,” she suggested, “My heir was slain during the coup. I had left Ser Joffrey behind to govern in my stead and while he defended me and my rule valiantly, the Mad Heir had him thrown from the Moon Door.”

“Ugh,” the prince seemed almost disgusted, “What is the purpose of that thing besides showing once’s cowardice at not being able to execute a man with a sword?”

Jeyne replied not, ignoring the prince’s command for now, “I am without an heir.”

“I know,” Rhaenyra nodded, “Do any other of your grandfather’s descendants still remain?”

The Defender of the Vale deflated, “No, none but you and I, and my aunt’s children.”

“There are Arryns in Gulltown, no?”

“I would rather not name any of them,” she admitted, “Arrogant, vainglorious cunts.”

Prince Daemon snorted, “Then what of any of your aunts’ children. Did Lady Amanda not give her husband seven sons?” and waved his hand, “What are their names?”

“I had a different idea,” she admitted.

“What?” the princess seemed curious.

“You.”

It was the prince who laughed, “Rhaenyra is heir to the Iron Throne. To have–

“I know,” she interrupted the prince—flinching when he glowered at her, “Perhaps your second child could be named my heir in due time.”

The princess looked as if she was contemplating it while Prince Daemon stared at her with curious eyes.

“My firstborn would be named my heir while my secondborn would hopefully be their consort,” the princess explained.

“Your thirdborn then,” Jeyne was desperate, “In time he or she could take the name Arryn and succeed me as Defender of the Vale. They would have Arryn blood through their grandmother.”

“Negligible,” the prince chimed in.

“He or she could wed a Valeman,” Jeyne said, “That would dispel any unpleasantness from the Valelords.”

Princess Rhaenyra’s curiosity was clearly piqued, “Are you certain of this?”

“Yes,” Lady Jeyne replied, “Of course, this offer comes with certain assurances from you both as well.”

“Let me guess,” the prince said whilst leaning forward—a coveting gleam in his eyes, “We come to your defence?”

Lady Jeyne smirked for she knew she had won.

“Okay,” the princess said, “We shall liberate the Eyrie.”

The prince nodded, “Good, for I must travel to the Vale anyway. I have a Valyrian steel sword and bronze armour to retrieve.”

Jeyne flinched—did she make a deal with the devil?

───※ ·♛· ※───

The eve before had been filled with joy and merriment. King Viserys had demanded there be no talk of the coup in the Vale, and that they only celebrate his daughter and brother—returned from the former’s seat.

Though she had been gone only for a few days, Viserys had missed her.

Despite his anger at how she ended it all, during Rhaenyra’s tour barely half a year prior, the king had become lethargic, so much had he missed her. He was no fool, he knew that she would return to Dragonstone soon enough to serve as its liege but until he wished to keep her as close as he could.

The feast had been pleasant and merry enough. Viserys could admit his errors for while he had doubted the match between his daughter and brother, even he could not deny how in love they were.

The Princess and Prince Consort of Dragonstone had spent hours twirling around the dance floor, interspersed with moments of feasting and schmoozing. Both Rhaenyra and Daemon proved to be popular with every few minutes a lord or lady trying to curry their favour.

Viserys could not remember the last time he saw Daemon so happy—if he ever had been. The Rogue Prince was a cold man for all but his new wife.

As the feast had come to an end, Daemon and Rhaenyra had bid him goodnight before departing hand in hand.

The following morn, news of his heirs’ passions had reached him and Viserys had been gladdened that Rhaenyra had demanded the late Prince Aemon’s chambers on the other side of the Holdfast. He could not imagine having to overhear his little princess in the throes of passion.

That same morn, they had broken their fast as a family with even the Velaryons joining them.

Of course, the issue of the Vale loomed large over the court, so that noon, King Viserys had called a small council meeting, inviting Rhaenyra, Daemon and Lady Jeyne, as well as Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys.

“To use dragons seems like an incredible escalation,” the Master of Ships was one of two dissenting voices almost a full sennight since news of the fall of the Eyrie had reached the court of King Viserys, “One that could have far-reaching consequences for the peace in the realm.”

“I agree with our esteemed Master of Ships,” the second dissenter chimed in, “Such action is irreversible.”

Viserys wished to roll his eyes at the Grand Maester’s brown-nosery.

“Really?” Lord Corlys asked with a wry grin, “You do not believe rebels pulling a coup and taking over a great house’s stronghold warrants a strong response?”

Mellos and Ser Tyland both flushed at the Sea Snake’s sardonic and sarcastic query.

“Whether we believe such invocation of firepower seems warranted is not quite so relevant,” the Westerman tried to argue, “Do we know where Lady Jeyne’s bannermen stand on this matter?”

“I do not see how that matters,” the woman in question replied.

The grand maester seemed sympathetic to her plight, giving her a genial smile. Still, even Viserys could see the mummery hiding behind it, “Ser Arnold is a usurper, surely, but the laws of these lands have been made murky in recent decades, so any claim he has cannot be so easily dismissed.”

Before either the Warden of the East or her king could respond, Rhaenyra turned eagle eyes to the elderly scholar, “The king’s word is law, Grand Maester Mellos,” her harsh sneer sent shivers down Viserys’ back.

She was so much like his brother.

“I mean no disrespect, princess, but the laws of these lands are ancient. For centuries, for millennia—

“Your laws ceased to matter when the Conquerors landed on these shores and forced your kings and lords into submission,” Rhaenyra drawled, “The king’s word supersedes any written law.”

The elderly man’s mouth fell wide open—shock warring with indignation, “King Jaehaerys—

“Is dead,” his brother mocked, “His soul is long gone. If he ever had one,” even now Daemon could not help himself, levying yet another insult at their grandfather—his hatred for the Old King ever strong, “Any edict of his matter nought now that his successor sits the Iron Throne. King Viserys makes his own rulings and is not bound by those made by the late King.”

“King Jaehaerys was an exceptional man, whose wisdom—

“Wise? Perhaps, but exceptional? No,” his brother chortled, “For all his wisdom, the man died alone—abandoned by all who still lived.”

Viserys flinched for his brother’s harsh words were not wholly untrue. The Conciliator had passed with no family but his heir and said heir’s consort at his bedside.

“Still—

“King Jaehaerys acknowledged Lady Jeyne’s ascension to the paramountcy over the Vale of Arryn in the year seven and ninety after the Conquest,” the Master of Coin interrupted the grand maester. Viserys wished to kiss the man’s feet, “Unlike many of you, I sat around this table when the late king made his royal edict, recognizing the Lady and her inalienable rights as Defender of the Vale. There was no hesitance whilst he did so, and I wholeheartedly object to the invocation of his name in an attempt to lessen exactly how serious Ser Arnold’s coup is.”

Neither the scholar nor his Westerlander ally had any reply to that.

“What say you, brother?” Viserys turned to the infamous Rogue Prince—both brother and good-son, “You put an end to the coup in the year two and one hundred. Can you do so again whilst limiting the bloodshed?”

“From what I hear this coup might not be put down quite that easily,” his brother had turned to his king, “Ser Arnold spent the last four and ten years imprisoned in the sky cells. He must have gone near-mad by now,” his cold eyes beheld the Lady of the Eyrie, “No?”

“His sanity has been fraying in most recent years, yes,” Lady Jeyne begrudgingly admitted.

“Then why was the man not released?” the Grand Maester seemed more indignant at the repeated imprisonment of a known usurper than the actual usurpations.

“Perhaps because he attempted to usurp his rightful liege not once but twice,” Rhaenyra mocked the man, “One does not release such a man. To be honest, after the second time in two and one hundred, he should have been executed for his repeated crimes.”

It was Daemon who elaborated, “It was not my choice. King Jaehaerys was at death’s door, and as such, his Hand had taken over most of the governance of the realm.”

Daemon’s disgust was heard by all.

“Despite my ravens to the Prince of Dragonstone to see reason, the king’s ruling,” the air quotes had his daughter smirk and the king flinch, “stood and I was disallowed to carry out the execution.”

None spoke—the information given sinking in. If Ser Arnold had been executed none of this would have happened, the prince had inferred, and he was probably right, Viserys knew.

“Four and ten years ago, the knight capitulated once I circled the Eyrie upon dragonback and burned a few of his encampments—opening the gates and throwing down his weapons,” Daemon explained, “A madman might not be quite so willing to bend.”

“Then he breaks,” Rhaenyra replied decisively, “He reaped what he sowed.”

“Princess…,” the Grand Maester muttered.

“The Princess of Dragonstone is correct,” his brother’s usage of Rhaenyra’s title had Viserys sit up straighter, “The Mad Heir and his cronies knew what they were doing. They must suffer the inevitable consequences usurpers and oathbreakers all must eventually face.”

“And what are those?” the Master of Ships seemed to dread the answer already.

“Fire and blood,” his heir replied—a harsh smile casting a shadow on her beautiful features.

None responded.

───※ ·♛· ※───

No matter how much she had pled and begged her mother to reconsider, Princess Rhaenys had declared her decision final—Laena would not be joining her cousins as they flew for the Eyrie to put to an end the coup that had seen the Maiden of the Vale displaced from her seat.

There was little more that Laena wanted than to fly Vhagar into battle. To find glory as her father had and her Targaryen ancestors before him, including the woman whose famed mount she now flew.

Vhagar was meant for greater things than to fly between Driftmark and the capital, and yet she would not be allowed to do as Queen Visenya had.

“It was not your mother’s decision.”

Prince Daemon Targaryen was somewhat of a hero of hers. The Rogue Prince had blazed his own trail and had done so without any regard for what others thought of him. When Laenor had first told her of the prince’s exploits on the Stepstones, she had refused to believe him. However, her father had assured her that her brother’s words were truthful.

Imagine being so bold as to barter your own life just to gain glory and defeat your foe. Laena wished she could do the same.

Laena also knew that much like Rhaenyra had been the Sea Snake’s hope as a bride for her twin brother—who had swiftly put an end to that plan—the prince was his wish for her.

While other men might have bristled at their daughter wedding a man more than twice their age, Lord Corlys Velaryon understood the true way of the world—the Blood of the Dragon is thick. Laena and Laenor Velaryon flew dragons not because of the common Valyrian blood of their father but rather the magical Valyrian blood of their mother.

Prince Daemon Targaryen could have been king, but he chose not to give in to his own wants and ambitions, instead serving his brother and king—even when he only disrespected and dishonoured him in return.

That loyalty had been rewarded now when he was allowed to wed the heir to the Iron Throne—the most beautiful woman in the realm. His son would be king one day. Sure, it would probably be long after he was gone, but his legacy was secure.

“What do you mean?” she asked the frightening man—his eyes a violent violet, unlike anything Laena had ever seen.

“Your mother thought about agreeing to your wish to join us in flying to the Vale but I denied her.”

“Why?” she felt almost insulted, “I fly Vhagar—the greatest dragon alive today! I can wield a sword! Bow and arrow! What is it–

No words, just the raising of his hand. That was all it took for Lady Laena Velaryon to cease her angry rant.

“You do fly Vhagar,” the prince admitted, “And you are no less of a warrior because you are a woman,” the assurances felt empty so far, “The capital is a pit of serpents and dogs waiting to feast on my brother’s corpse—weak as he is.”

“He has allowed you to wed the princess,” she pointed out.

Daemon laughed, “That he did. I am not refuting his love for us but they know he is weak. Viserys has no dragon and the sword he carries because of him being king, he cannot wield.”

“What do you need of me?” Laena wondered.

“Nothing,” the prince answered truthfully, “Your presence in the capital is plenty to ensure no tomfoolery.”

“My mother remains behind as well,” the eldest of Lord Corlys’ children reminded the Rogue Prince, “Is she not plenty?”

“Your mother is more than plenty,” he laughed, “But Meleys is no Vhagar.”

Laena contemplated his words and weighed her own before replying, “Next time, can I fly with you? No matter when?”

“The next time will not take so long,” he warned, “The Oldtown has still not responded, and it has been nearly a full moon.”

“I do not care,” Laena was as stubborn as a smile, her mother always said, “I wish to defend my house.”

“Which?”

Her look just made the prince laugh.

“Husband,” the Princess of Dragonstone already sat upon the back of her yellow mount, “It is time to leave.”

To her left Laenor had already climbed atop Seasmoke as well. If Laena did not know better, she would have proclaimed the two cousins to look perfect together.

“Certainly, wife,” the prince demurred to his lady wife before turning to her, “Do not disappoint me, Laena Velaryon.”

“I will not,” she vowed before watching as the Rogue Prince pulled himself up by the rope that hung from Caraxes’ side, and all three dragons took to the sky.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The Eyrie was theirs and yet it did not feel as such.

Leobert and his brothers had planned for years, but even then, their plans had only come to fruition because the Falcon Cunt had grown arrogant and had left the Eyrie for the capital—the first time in four and ten years.

The exact same amount of time their honourable lord father had been left to suffer in the Eyrie’s sky cells. The man they had liberated had not been the same man who had been imprisoned.

Leobert was ashamed to admit that he was glad that their mother had perished three years before because it would have broken her heart to see her beloved so broken.

Lord Arnold Arryn had once been a proud and strong man but now he was frail, seemed almost childlike and was prone to burst out into tears unexpectedly.

Their father would never be the same. When one of their cousins had suggested that Leobert claim his father’s lands and titles instead since the man was no longer fit to execute his lordly duties, the eldest of his sons had erupted into an explosive rage and had beaten his kin to death with his bare fists before throwing his body from the Moon Door for the animals to feast on.

No, his father’s blood rights had been usurped by a little girl with the support of the Royces, Graftons, Corbrays, and the apostatic dragonlords upon the Iron Throne.

It was Lord Arnold’s birthright to succeed his cousin. The scripture was clear, as was the precedent set by King Jaehaerys and the Great Council—men inherited before women.

Of course, the Targaryens were hypocrites—ignoring their own laws when it came to one of their favourites.

The late Rodrik Arryn had been the Conciliator’s goodson and amongst his most loyal supporters, while Lady Aemma had become Princess Aemma and Queen Aemma before dying in the birthing bed. No doubt the latter influenced the Crown to support a girl’s claim over the true and rightful successor.

Now that the queen was dead and all knew of King Viserys’ indecisiveness, as well as Prince Daemon’s most recent exile, there was none who could stand against them.

Or so they had thought.

The clandestineness of their cause had forced them to limit their communications. Still, after weeks of silence, their most recent intel had brought news from the capital—the Rogue Prince had returned and had wed the Princess of Dragonstone.

Yet another abomination. The king had a son born from his loins—its mother a pious woman who knew and understood the ancient ways and traditions of their Andal forebears—and yet his daughter remained heir.

And now she had wed her uncle—yet another vile insult to the Gods.

The Targaryens were godless heathens and their wedding of siblings and aunts and uncles was an affront to the land they ruled over.

Against their will, if Leobert may add.

If it was up to him, they would throw off the shackles of Targaryen bondage today and crown his father King of Mountain and Vale.

And yet, he also knew how unfeasible that option was. Instead, they would have to negotiate. Unlike four and ten years before, they would not yield the Eyrie to the dragonriders. They would force House Targaryen to come to the table.

Their offer would be that the Crown and Council acknowledge his honourable father as the rightful Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, and in return, Leobert would set aside his marriage to his cousin Marlene and wed Jeyne, thus uniting their lines.

Lady Jeyne was only two and twenty years old, so she could still give a few heirs. It would be the best option for her as well. After all, all had heard of the woman’s perversions. The touch of a man would cleanse her body and soul and put her on the righteous path once more.

Bulldykes were as horrendous as sword swallowers—cursed by the Gods. Leobert would be the Seven’s vessel and save Jeyne’s soul from eternal damnation.

The heir could not understand how a woman can lay with another woman since they lack a cock. There is no way to put seed in the other’s belly.

“Ser Leobert?” the new captain of the guards stood before him—one of their loyalists, hence why he received the lofty post despite being lowborn.

“Yes?” he tried to contain his sneer. The man might have understood the true ways of things but that did not make him equal.

“A rider has arrived from the commander sieging the Gates of the Moon,” the man held out his hand, clutching a scroll.

Leobert nodded and grabbed the scroll before dismissing him with a swift nod of the head.

The man swiftly made his departure—others following behind him. He narrowed his eyes at all fleeing the chambers until only he and his brother remained.

He let it be for now, unfurling the parchment.

To Lord Arnold Arryn, Lord or the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, and his rightful heirs

Despite our offer for clemency should they yield the castle, the rebels remain defiant and have grown more aggressive in recent days, using oils to burn my approaching men. Their archers kill anyone who tries to approach, and our minor catapults have failed to do any lasting damage to the thick walls of the Gates of the Moon.

In an attempt to end the conflict as swiftly as possible, we tried to send in a lone assassin but the following morn he was placed on the battlements—crucified.

I ask for aid. Of the three hundred under my command, only three and twenty and one hundred remain.

Your faithful servant

Ser Harys Lynderly

Leobert sneered as he crumpled up the parchment and threw it in the fire, “Incompetent!”

“Leo? What is the matter?” his baby brother asked—only six and ten name days old, he had been two when their father had been imprisoned.

“I told you not to call me that!”

Leo was the name of a boy, not a man.

His brother flinched but apologized.

“Ser Harys is failing miserably! The man cannot even take a castle defended by a woman and her maids!”

That was a gross understatement both knew because Lady Jessamyn had fled with three dozen household guards in tow—as well as most of the treasury, which had rankled Leobert.

Not just rebellion against the rightful Lord but moreover theft?

“What now? If we had Lady Jessamyn, we could use her to make the usurper kneel.”

Did his brother think he was a fool who needed his own ploys explained to him?

However, before he could say anything a roar had the ground shake and the glass windows thrilled in their panes.

Running to the window, Leobert’s heart stopped.

Dragons.

Not one dragon but multiple—three to be exact.

His entire childhood he had been told of the monster that had toppled and imprisoned his father, and so he most certainly recognized the Rogue Prince’s ugly beast, but he had no idea who the other two were—sat upon the dragons' backs.

Still, while his heart beat a steady drum of fear and trepidation, deep inside he knew that they would not die because to burn the Eyrie would be to burn House Arryn, and why would Jeyne wish to rule over ashes?

Leobert looked toward his frightened brother, feeling disgusted at how he shivered but tried to console him nonetheless, “No reason to fear, brother. That is what the monster wants. It is how he made our father kneel four and ten years ago. We shall not so easily be cowed into submission.”

His brother nodded but said nought in reply.

With a few swift words, his guards were sent off barking orders to remain inside and ensure no hostility, unless they tried to land in any of the courtyards.

Demanding Jonothor return to his chambers, a nervous Leobert nigh ran through the halls of the Eyrie, passing by equally worried guards.

It seemed like their gamble had paid off for the dragons were merely circling the keep.

It was not until a smug Leobert made it to the battlements that he saw he had been wrong, for while the Eyrie was not set aflame, their armies which had set up camp below the ancient keep were burning.

Hundreds of men had fallen to dragonfire. So far down below, Leobert could not hear their screams, but he could smell the fire.

Staring at the three dragons—red, yellow and teal—he wondered whether this was when he would die. Would he perish screaming as flames licked his skin? His flesh melting and his bones shattering?

Luckily for him, it was not, for as one the three winged firewyrms flew westward—toward the Gates of the Moon.

───※ ·♛· ※───

They felt their approach long before they heard it—the ground shook.

Outside the Gates of the Moon, their foes were getting antsy themselves, which had her realize that whatever was happening was not of their doing.

It was only when she stood atop the highest tower of the Gates that she saw first what was happening—the Giant’s Lance burned.

Her love had sent dragons their way.

Jessamyn felt smug. After all, what coup could stand against the might of dragonlords and their might steeds?

She wondered whether it was Prince Daemon once more, or did the King send Princess Rhaenys to his will? Perhaps the Princess of Dragonstone was the one coming to her cousin’s aid? Or her new betrothed—Ser Laenor Velaryon of Driftmark?

Whoever it was, they were burning all in their path. The waycastles that littered the Lance between the Gates of the Moon and the Eyrie were now populated by the usurper’s men, and so their burning was no true loss.

Castles could be rebuilt.

“My lady,” her second materialized at her side, “What should we do?”

“Nothing,” she said, “They will come to us.”

And so, they did.

More fire cast the lower part of the valley in an eery light but Jessamyn adored it for it was the proof of her lady’s love for her.

Jeyne was an exceptional woman, but she was plagued by pride, just as lords were, and thus asking for aid from the Rogue Prince must not have come easy for her.

And yet, she still did it.

To save her.

As the dragons came closer, the men sieging the Gates of the Moon became more desperate to flee but there was no way but up for them. Any time one of them tried to scale the walls of her temporary residence, Jess had her archers shoot them down.

She wished to see.

It took some time but Gods, did it not disappoint.

Three dragons quickly put an end to the Siege of the Gates with all hundred-plus traitors burning. Their screams and the crackling of fire combined was the sweetest of symphonies.

It served them well.

Good fine knights had died during their coup. Honourable men and women had fallen to ensure their Lady Jess managed to escape with her guards and the Vale treasury while traitors infected the halls of the ancient Kings of Mountain and Vale.

Oh, how she wished she could mount a dragon of her own and remove the stain of their treachery from the world.

Alas, she was but the daughter of a lord vassal, and mounting a dragon was not in her future.

Eventually, Jess made her way down the tower steps to greet the dragonriders that had come to save her and her men.

Not wholly unexpected Prince Daemon stood before her—holding his arms was a slip of a girl, yet more beautiful than any woman Jess had ever seen before. That must be Princess Rhaenyra.

Behind them a tanned knight stood tall—his white cloak billowing behind him.

“Lady Jessamyn,” the prince looked at her with those fire-filled violet eyes of his—sending shivers down her back, “I believe you have my sword and armour.”

Jess had to think for a bit, but yes, Lamentation and House Royce’s bronze armour were at the Gates of the Moon, as was their treasury.

“Leave the girl alone,” the Princess of Dragonstone smacked her uncle’s arm, “You can have your gold and weaponry later. First, we’d like to bathe and eat. My husband and I, as well as our cousin Laenor, have been flying for quite a bit, and that is not to mention the soot from our dragonfire clinging to our skin.”

It took Jess a few counts to clear her head—a thick fog had taken over her mind, “Certainly, Your Grace,” she went down on one knee—her men following her example, “Please be welcomed to the Gates of the Moon. The keep is yours, as is the Vale of Arryn.”

If she had looked upon the princess’ visage, she would have been taken aback by the smug and prideful smirk on her face—echoed by her uncle-husband.

───※ ·♛· ※───

As quickly as his daughter had returned to him, she had left once more. Viserys had been distraught when Rhaenyra had announced she would join her husband and cousin as they flew to the Vale, and had considered refusing her, but Daemon had told him not to.

Certainly, he knew that Daemon would protect Rhaenyra with his life, but still dread enveloped his entire being.

He had never expected for his daughter to go into war—even upon dragonback.

At Daemon’s command, Queen Visenya’s ancient dragon armour was polished and buffed, and refitted to ensure the Princess of Dragonstone could wear it as the late rider of Vhagar had.

The first time King Viserys had seen his daughter in the black steel with the three-headed dragon etched on the front, he had not known whether to be proud or afraid, for truly, she looked like a dragonlord of old.

Rhaenyra was so much like her new husband—fire and chaos ruled both. While he would not begrudge them their union of love, he did fear what they would do once a crown rested upon his daughter’s brow.

Would the world burn to satiate their bloodlust and ambitions? Rhaenyra had never been quiet about her wish to see Dorne join the Seven Kingdoms. Once she had even said he should launch another war of conquest and put Daemon in charge of it—proclaiming that unlike the Conquerors, her uncle would not fail in bringing the Dornish to heel.

Perhaps not Dorne but the Triarchy?

Viserys knew his brother still burned at the many years he had been forced to spend upon the desolate rocks in the Narrow Sea.

Would Myr fall first to dragonfire? Or would they prefer Lys?

Greatness clung to Rhaenyra—Viserys was not blind. His daughter was meant for great things, but great evil could be great as well.

One only has to look at the legacy of Maegor the Cruel. None forgets his epithet but over the years many a book had been written by errant maesters—excommunicated from the Citadel—extolling his strength in dealing with the Faith Militant.

Maegor was a great warrior and dragonrider but an evil man. Greatness and evil could go hand in hand, he knew.

“Your Grace,” one of the grand maester’s acolytes stood before him—in his hand a scroll, “A missive has arrived from the Gates of the Moon.”

Viserys snatched the scroll from the young man’s hands, who promptly scurried away like a rat. The King looked toward his shadow—the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, “Summon the small council and Lady Jeyne both.”

The man nodded, leaving him in the capable hands of Ser Steffon Darklyn—the second most senior knight of the order of white cloaks.

Gods, did Viserys wish to open the missive but he knew it was better to wait until the council had gathered. With the Darklyn knight at his back, Viserys made his way toward the council chambers—nodding to lords and servants both.

Viserys was inevitably the first to arrive.

One by one the council members trickled in—Lord Beesbury, Ser Tyland, Lord Strong, Lord Wylde, the Grand Maester and finally, the Lord Commander and Lady Jeyne.

“I have received a letter from the Gates of the Moon,” the king announced after all had sat around the table, put their orbs in their receptacles and had their cups filled with wine by the maids.

The Defender of the Vale’s spine stiffened but Viserys ignored her. The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms broke the seal and started reading aloud.

Dear father

We have flown over the Eyrie for the first time but have left the castle unharmed. There is no reason to resort to such drastic measures immediately.

However, the usurper’s armies, stationed below the Arryn stronghold, as well as his encampments along the Giant’s Lance and within the waycastles of Stone, Snow, and Sky were not quite as blessed.

Bar those that remain at the Eyrie, the usurpers’ armies are gone. Not a single straggler remained behind to live the tale.

We have since liberated Lady Jessamyn and her loyalists at the Gates of the Moon. None of them have been harmed—they kept the castle on their own, and I am certain they could have continued doing so for many more moons.

My husband was overjoyed to have his sword and armour at long last. He cared little for the gold that was his.

I shall send more letters soon.

Your beloved daughter

Princess Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen
Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne

A gust of relief calmed the king’s entire being. His daughter was safe.

To Viserys’ right, the Defender of the Vale seemed to share his feelings for her relief was palpable.

“Thank the Gods,” the Master of Coin said, “Now let us hope the usurpers see reason soon.”

Silently Viserys agreed. He wanted his daughter home as soon as viable.

Notes:

Here, you go, chapter nine. I have a love/hate relationship with the Vale, but I do like Jeyne and Jessamyn. Leobart (OC) was a cunt, wasn’t he? Religious purity as an excuse for his hatred of women. Of course, a man like that can’t understand why a woman would lie with another woman. How could he? I doubt he has ever given another person an orgasm. Not to mention his ridiculous coup, which was bound to fail.

Next chapter will be posted in five to six weeks! So, keep a lookout! In the meantime, don’t forget to leave a review and share with me and your fellow readers your theories and observations, push that kudos button and bookmark this story! Also, make sure to check out my other stories and take a look at my Linktree: https://linktr.ee/destroyerofnations

Chapter 10: a bountiful gift

Summary:

Rhaenyra and Daemon return home after dealing with one mess to deal with another, but the princess and her rogue bring joyful news.

Notes:

Enjoy chapter ten! 😁

Make sure to check out my other stories and take a look at my Linktree: https://linktr.ee/destroyerofnations

Despite her mother hailing from the erstwhile mountain kingdom, Rhaenyra had never stepped foot in the Vale of Arryn—spending most of her life isolated at the Red Keep. Her mother had been quite protective of her. Not that the Princess of Dragonstone could blame her, the late Queen Consort had lost so many children, so her sole living child had to be protected ever more for it.

In an ideal world, Queen Aemma Arryn would have stood witness as her daughter wed her husband, but alas, she did not, and Rhaenyra had to make do with her father, aunts and cousins. Not that she was not grateful for them, but their presence was not the same as her mother’s. Queen Aemma could set her at ease like no other—not even her lord husband could boast that.

Rhaenyra felt great joy finally seeing her mother’s homeland. Daemon had begrudgingly admitted that the Vale was beautiful, even though he had despised being tied to it through his marriage to the late Lady of Runestone.

He had been right. Flying over the Vale had shown her the majesty of the ancient Kingdom of Mountain and Vale with its snow-tipped mountain peaks and its open, fertile fields. The Vale was home to all. The finest had been their flight over Gulltown, as its people cheered for their princess and prince. Daemon had shown her all he could of the old Kingdom of Mountain and Vale, as their armies readied themselves and marched on the Eyrie.

Now, a full moon had passed since they burned the waycastles of the Eyrie and then liberated the Gates of the Moon, where they were welcomed by Lady Jessamyn Redfort—her cousin’s lead lady-in-waiting and lover.

Lady Jess proved a delightful host. Despite the lack of provisions, that eve, they feasted on game and poultry, and drank barrels of ale bought at the nearest tavern and transported by Daemon and Laenor on dragonback. Though her uncle had grumbled at using his noble steed as a carrying mule, he had done as Rhaenyra asked of him. Her puppy eyes still worked wonders, to her delight.

Though she was not a warrior by any stretch of the imagination, Jess was cunning and resourceful, perhaps more so than the men she commanded. So they had put her in charge of their assembling armies, to the joy of the Defender of the Vale’s remaining household guard, who had served under the Redfort lady for the past two moons. Of course, she had been aided by their cousin, whose white cloak attracted a lot of attention and forced all to stand just a bit straighter in his presence.

They had all arrived at the burned Sky, the last of the Eyrie’s waycastles, two days before and had sent a missive, demanding the usurpers kneel and capitulate.

They received no answer.

That morning, a last message had been sent, reiterating their previous demand, or face dragonfire.

Once more, they received no answer.

There would be no third missive. It had been two more than Daemon was even willing to send, but he had bowed to her wishes for a semi-peaceful resolution. Unlike her father, Rhaenyra had never feared her uncle’s chaos, nor his willingness to do as commanded. Daemon loved her above anyone else, and that showed in all he did. She knew he would never do anything to usurp her authority, and in return, she would seek and cherish his counsel above all else.

She wished to be like the conquerors, for Aegon had only been as strong as his queens. She hoped Daemon and she would be the same.

But still, the famously tempestuous Daemon Targaryen’s willingness to listen to her had raised some eyebrows from the assembled local lords and knights. Even Jess had remarked on it when it was just the two of them, but Rhaenyra had laughed her away, claiming her uncle was still the dragon he always was. When push came to shove, Rhaenyra would gladly unleash her uncle and his fire and vice versa.

With a nod from her, the infamous Rogue Prince stepped forward, “Lords and Knights of the Vale of Arryn. High above you, a usurper sits your rightful lady’s throne. He has killed fine men and women, righteous men and women. That mad dog and pups call themselves the true Arryns. We shall show them what we think of that!” A chorus of chaotic noise followed the prince’s words, with knights and men-at-arms banging their shields and stomping their feet. “The Crown has forgotten nor who the Vale's rightful lady is, nor he the Princess of Dragonstone!” he shouted, “Remember this moment when your princess came to put to the flame the usurpers of her family’s lands and seat. We have not forgotten our true queen! My lady wife is as Arryn as she is Targaryen!”

She knew that must have hurt her husband to say. If there was anything Daemon believed, it was the superiority of their ancestry and their culture. He had no love for Andal culture and customs, though he had always adored Queen Aemma.

“For Princess Rhaenyra! For Queen Aemma!” he bellowed, raising high his new Valyrian steel sword—Lamentation. It was only at Rhaenyra’s request that he had not worn the Royce’s bronze, instead asking him to send it to Dragonstone for safekeeping, which he had done with no complaint.

The men mirrored her prince’s chants, bringing tears to Rhaenyra’s eyes. She hoped they never forgot her mother like she never would.

With Daemon’s aid, Rhaenyra mounted Syrax and took to the air, Caraxes and Seasmoke both following closely behind. Below them, the men continued with their shouting.

Looking at her husband, she went into a freefall, “Dracarys [dragonfire].”

───※ ·♛· ※───

Even with the Princess of Dragonstone not in the Red Keep, she and her ghastly uncle–no, husband—were all anyone talked about.

It was Rhaenyra this, Daemon that. Alicent could not believe how swiftly the winds had changed since that fateful engagement feast. The queen consort had been allowed to leave her chambers, but her sworn shield was changed to the hostile Ser Steffon Darklyn—one of the knights who practically worshipped the unnatural dragonlords of House Targaryen, Rhaenyra foremost.

All of their longtime allies had since fled court, the royal consort had noticed. None of the Lannisters, Tyrells, Tullys, Peakes or Redwynes remained within the Red Keep. Alicent still held out hope that they had merely returned home to call their banners to defend her, their rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, and the true Hand of the King, but with how her cousin, the new Lord of Oldtown, was acting, she knew chances were slim. They were all cravens at heart.

She never could have expected such moral cowardice from seemingly faithful men. Even the High Septon kneeled to the King, which horrified Alicent. How dare her husband force such a holy man to kneel before him? The High Septon was the Voice of the Seven! To have him kneel to heathen kings was a sin worse than almost any other the Targaryens committed.

It had been nigh half a year since her father had been exiled from King’s Landing, and no more news had come from him—Mellos had been ignoring her, bar for her womanly exams, so there was no news to be gleaned from him either.

Her belly was only ever-growing, and it would not be long until she gave the king yet another son he could ignore in favour of Rhaenyra.

Alicent had never been fond of having to wed the king—a gluttonous old man—but she had done her duty to House and Realm. The Seven Kingdoms needed a male heir, she knew that now. Rhaenyra and Daemon could never be allowed near the Iron Throne. They would plunge the realm into madness with their chaos and heathen practices.

Alicent had only seen Balerion’s skull a few times—always with Rhaenyra by her side—and she had heard that in the last moon, the shrine had become home to a Valyrian priest from Dragonstone. Of course, as any pious woman would, she had protested this, but her husband had dismissed her concerns. Yet another reason she despised being wed to that weak-spined man. Rhaenyra wanted a priest, and she got one, even if it would bring doom upon them all, but when Alicent asked for a new sept to be built in the city, so the people could be saved by the Light of the Seven, she was laughed away by the Small Council. Even the formerly loyal Ser Tyland Lannister had shared the traitors’ mirth.

Viserys had claimed building a sept on Visenya’s Hill would bring the late woman’s wrath down upon them all, nullifying anything the sept would supposedly do for the piety of the city.

Alicent had never been so disgusted by the weak man calling himself king, exempting perhaps those moments he spent above her at night, rutting like a pasty, sweaty beast.

House Hightower had to remain steadfast in their opposition to the Targaryens' unholy ways, which were a blight on the Seven Kingdoms. In due time, her son would be the one to liberate them all and lead in Hightower rule over the Seven Kingdoms. At her counsel, they would abandon the blasted city and keep built to honour the Conqueror and his sister-wives, and return to Oldtown, for governance should happen from a place of true piety.

If their allies would not aid them, they would do so single-handedly, strengthened by the might of the Seven-That-Are-One. Soon her father would return with the largest army the capital had ever seen, to put an end to Viserys’ reign.

“Have you heard the news?” Lady Ceira Lannister was the sole Lannister, besides her small councillor son, left behind in the capital.

“What news?” The Queen Consort narrowed her eyes at the Dowager Lady of Casterly Rock.

The woman looked at her pityingly, which only made Alicent wish she could tear the elderly woman’s hair out. “The prince and princess liberated the Eyrie.”

Yet another sign that the peoples of Westeros would rise against Rhaenyra should she become queen. Alicent did not understand how Viserys could not see that. “How do you know so?”

“My son told me.” A veiled sneer at how she knew more than the queen consort, but Alicent ignored her lack of decorum and respect... for now. “Ser Laenor arrived from the Eyrie early this morn, proclaiming it freed.”

“What of Lord Arnold and his kin?” Alicent wondered, uncaring that calling him a lord was treasonous. “And his loyal and pious men?”

Lady Ceira stared at her, “All were executed.”

Alicent’s mouth fell wide open.

“By dragonfire.” The dowager lady added.

Alicent closed her eyes and recited a silent prayer for their souls, so they may be welcomed in the Seven Heavens like the divine warriors they were.

“Lady Jeyne will leave for the Vale on the morrow.” Lady Ceira ignored her moment of piety, though Alicent discerned yet another look of pity, this time interspersed with another unidentifiable emotion.

“So that is it?” Alicent wondered. “A righteous man presses his rightful claim, and he and his kin are killed? Is that the King’s justice?”

“Quiet!” the elderly woman hissed at her. “You might possess no self-preservation, but I do, and so does my house!”

“How dare–

Lady Ceira interrupted her, “How dare I? The princess has won! She has her uncle at her back! When your father had her made heir, she could have been supplanted by a son, but now? With the Rogue Prince as her husband?! Your father was a fool believing he could stand against them!”

Alicent slapped the woman across the face before grabbing it in a tight vice grip. “Watch how you speak of my father, who is ten times the man your whoremonger husband and son are! If House Lannister does not remember its duty to the Sacred Tenets, House Hightower will, and when we rid the realm of these abominations, we will make sure the Rock burns as well.”

The dowager lady looked appropriately frightened, “Your Grace–

“Let me be the one to interrupt you now. Aegon will be king, that I can assure you. You are either on the right side of history or the wrong,” Alicent sneered. “The Faith has plenty of allies, as does House Hightower—even in the capital. Watch yourself lest they turn their eyes to you and your serpentine son.”

Alicent pushed the woman away, who fell back into her chair.

“Now, kindly fuck off,” the queen consort sneered, no longer caring to temper her words.

The elderly Westerwoman stood and nigh ran from the queen’s solar, leaving behind an unraveling consort.

“They will all see,” Alicent muttered to herself, staring at the tapestry of the First Septosium, where the inaugural High Septon was elected by the Most Devout. “Ours cause is righteous. Not even dragons will save them.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

The tide had turned.

Ser Tyland Lannister was many things, but a fool he was not. Born as the second son to the heir of Casterly Rock, he always had to work harder than his brother. He never would have the glory of a lordship unless he was blessed enough to unexpectedly earn one. No, his life would be one of service.

Their entire squirehood, all anyone said was how handsome Jason Lannister was, conveniently forgetting how, as his twin brother, Tyland looked his mirror image. Not that he had to miss out on female companionship. No, many a minor lord or landed knight seemed more than willing to throw their daughters at him, knowing how Lannister lords of the past often gave their lesser sons great inheritances and lands.

His late father was not like his predecessors, though. During his time as heir, long before he wed their mother, he had been considered as a husband for Princess Daella Targaryen. Of course, it had been Lord Rodrik Arryn of the Vale who had been chosen by the princess, the king’s long-time Master of Laws and close friend, but Lord Tymond Lannister had never forgotten the slight against him, growing bitter and resentful.

Five years later, he wed the daughter of Lord Bryndemere Reyne, then the second wealthiest man in the West. Lady Ceira was almost a decade older than her husband, but she still gave him two hale and healthy sons. Tyland knew his father had only wed his mother because of the massive dowry her father provided—nearly two million gold dragons and a silver mine.

Lord Tymond was a greedy man and gluttonous—his brother took after their father in that way. When Princess Rhaenyra denied them both her hand in marriage, he had swiftly commenced negotiations with House Westerling of the Crag in the hopes of binding their house to House Lannister.

In recent decades, House Westerling had overtaken the Reynes and the Leffords as the second house of the West, and through Lord Roland’s father’s hard work, they even rivalled their overlords.

The Lord of the Crag was not quite as gifted as his father with coin and trade, and so he had been overjoyed when his liege lord had come knocking. It would not be long before the engagement between the Warden of the West and Lady Johanna Westerling was announced—a woman far too good for the likes of his brother, who preferred to spend his days whoring and gambling.

Like father, like son.

House Lannister would have been far better off if Tyland had been the one born first. Nine minutes was what separated him from his father’s legacy, now borne by his brother. Tyland was not above admitting he was prone to arrogance as well, much like his brother and other Lannisters, but he had spent years learning from the finest maesters and septons the matters of coin and trade, as well as law and warfare.

Though unexpected to his brother, Tyland becoming the youngest small councillor in decades was not quite so unexpected to him. He had worked very hard to nurture a reputation for excellence and competence. To be named to King Viserys’ small council as Master of Ships after the Sea Snake had famously broken with his wife’s kin was the cultivation of years and years of hard work and dedication to something more than whoring and gambling—his brother’s two greatest skills.

The sole damper on his happiness had been the lack of an admiralty title bestowed upon him. Every Master of Ships that had preceded him had also been named Lord Admiral, but not he. Of course, Jason had mocked him with that, finding the slightest flaw in Tyland's accomplishment, claiming that King Viserys was only giving him a place on the small council until Lord Corlys returned to the king’s favour.

Despite Tyland’s outward bravado and arrogance, he truly feared that happening as well. Especially now, for like he said, the tide had turned.

Upon his being named to the royal council, Tyland had swiftly aligned himself with the seemingly all-powerful Ser Otto Hightower—then the second man of the realm.

Much like he, Ser Otto had been born a second son, but he had manoeuvred himself into becoming indispensable to the Targaryen dynasty, going so far as to have the king he served wed his daughter. Or was it Viserys who served him?

For the longest time, the lines between King and Hand had been blurred. Until Daemon.

Tyland had never truly cared that much about the Rogue Prince. He was certain the stories were an exaggeration, even though the Hand insisted they were not.

If Ser Otto were to be believed, Daemon was the Great Darkness, as prophesied in the Book of Yohan. Anyone else at court was far more muted about the man, and Lord Beesbury and Ser Harrold were openly fond of the wayward prince.

Did Tyland believe women were unsuited to ruling? Maybe, maybe not. To be honest, his opinion on the matter mattered little. He was a son of House Lannister and as such, he did his father’s bidding—and now his brother’s.

His brother had commanded that he support the Hightower cause, and so he had. To no avail.

Ser Otto Hightower had grown too bold, and it had cost him dearly. It had cost his entire house dearly.

Where others saw Prince Daemon’s actions as those of a rogue, of a madman, he saw them for what they were—consolidation. King Viserys was a kind man, yes, but foremost, he was a weak man, and his brother was not. Maybe neither were meant to rule, but at least the latter was not so easily manipulated as the former. Prince Daemon, even on the outs, had shown that their dynasty was not easily supplanted. This had only been proven when, barely a few days after his return, he had been betrothed to his niece, who remained Heir to the Iron Throne. From exile to the father of the next king in a mere few days. Not so much a brute as an expert player of the great game.

While his brother had openly knelt to the princess and reiterated their house’s fealty to her and her claim, Jason remained resentful still. Still, he had not protested when Tyland announced his decision to change course and ingratiate himself to the Princess of Dragonstone and her new princely shield and consort.

One problem was that both Princess Rhaenyra and her husband were paranoid, and trusted few, so there were few ways to gain said trust.

As such, when his mother came running to him, telling tales of the queen consort’s treasonous words, it was as if the sky opened up and the Gods spoke to him. Queen Alicent's carelessness would be his gain. He would spin it all in his favour, make himself look like a loyal servant, and finally gain a true foothold in the capital.

Of course, as the princess and the prince were in the Eyrie still, he was forced to make due with the king.

Clearing his throat, the Master of Ships looked at the Lord Commander standing sentry outside the king’s door. “Good ser, I understand it is unexpected, but would the king be willing to receive me? It is important.”

The famed Ser Harrold Westerling stared at him for a good five counts before nodding and knocking upon the king’s door and entering when he received kingly permission to do so.

It did not take long before he came back out. “The king will see you now, Ser Tyland.”

The Master of Ships felt like a dwarf standing next to the legendary knight. “I thank you, Lord Commander.” And took the opportunity to flee his vicinity.

There was no introduction, but Tyland cared nought, entering the king’s solar. The man in question was sitting at his famed model of the ancient city of Valyria, wearing spectacles while he painted a dragon. “Ser Tyland, the Lord Commander told me you wished to speak with me. It could not wait until the council meeting in the morning?”

The Westerman bowed deeply. “I apologise, Your Grace, but no.”

The king looked at him with a tilted head. “Please be seated." He pointed to the chair across from him.

Ser Tyland sat down and looked at the king while he worked. The man seemed to truly enjoy working on the model. Perhaps, he would have been better suited to the life of a historian. Alas, a crown was placed on Viserys’ brow, and now all must answer to a man who would rather tinker with his miniature buildings.

“You have made me curious,” the king finally spoke.

The Master of Ships cleared his throat, “As His Grace probably knows, my mother often spends her days with the queen consort. These days, she is truly the last remaining with Lady Hightower and Lady Redwyne distancing themselves.”

“Your mother does not feel the same urge?”

Tyland grew bright red, “My mother has a mother’s heart. She does not wish for anyone to feel alone, not even those she disagrees with.”

“So, she does?” the king asked before elaborating, “Disagree with the queen consort?”

“Very much so,” Tyland assured the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. “House Lannister remembers its vows, which is why I am here.”

The king once again tilted his head while looking at him. While King Viserys did not possess the same ethereal beauty his brother and daughter possessed, he looked quite like Daemon now—like a dragon stalking his prey. “Do explain.”

“As she does most mornings, after breaking her fast with me, she spent the noon with the queen consort. Often they have their midday meal together, as they did today. After, they argued.”

“About what?” The king seemed resigned to whatever answer he was about to receive.

“My lady mother spoke ill of the former Hand, calling him a fool and an oathbreaker,” a lie, “and the queen reacted with great force.”

“How?”

“She slapped my lady mother and grabbed her face, leaving marks,” Tyland answered honestly.

“I apologise for that, Ser Tyland,” the king replied. “The queen was out of order.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but that is not why I am here.”

“Then why?”

“The queen threatened us, claiming that the Faith and House Hightower have plenty of friends in the capital still,” the Westerman paused for dramatic effect. “She was insistent that Prince Aegon would be king.”

“Thank you for bringing me this news, good ser,” the king patted his hand. “I shall appropriately deal with the matter.”

“I merely did my duty, Your Grace.”

“You are a faithful servant, Ser Tyland.” The king sounded genuine enough, though whether he truly was, the Westerman knew not.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Jeyne had always been proud of ruling the Vale—a stunning land with leal lords and ladies—but it was her dominion over the Eyrie which made her proudest of all. Though not an exceptionally large keep for some of the seats of the other great houses were significantly larger, the Eyrie was beautiful like no other, with its stunning white stone and seven tall towers. House Arryn took great pride in its seat being nigh-impregnable and impervious to outside interference through its glass houses, farms and abattoirs.

Now, as the Defender of the Vale returned to her home, carefully traversing the Giant’s Lance on the back of a donkey, she beheld her once proud home. Six of the seven towers looked as pristine as ever, while the seventh and tallest was a blackened ruin.

The Sun Tower had been the oldest of the Seven Towers of the Eyrie, and the one built first to house the then-King of Mountain and Vale’s council and their offices. It had a stunning library, and the top had been reserved for a telescope to gaze at the sky and behold the wonders of night and day.

A twinge of unease sprouted in Jeyne’s chest, but she ignored it. She had given Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon’s permittance to do all that was unnecessary to oust the usurpers, even use dragonfire if need be, so she could complain not now. The fact that they contained it to one small part of her ancestral keep—and her three waycastles—meant they showed great restraint.

Would she have liked for it to have been ended without dragonfire? Surely, but Jeyne Arryn was no fool, and she understood the pride of men. Arnold and his cunt heirs never would have bent the knee without their men turning on them as they had upon the Sun Tower burning.

A tower could be rebuilt, and she would do so, making it even more splendorous than it was before. Perhaps give it a new name, even? The Dragon Tower after the princess and her consort, who liberated her lands and her people from the yoke of usurpers and murderers.

They were a mere hundred meters away from Sky, the last of the Arryn waycastles along the Giant’s Lance, where they would scale a chimney-covered ladder up to the Eyrie. That sole way of entry made it the best defensible castle in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, including Casterly Rock, and perhaps barring the Valyrian Dragonstone, which was forged through their ancient magicks.

It felt truly good to be home.

A little less than two moons ago, a letter had arrived from the Eyrie, announcing its liberation at the hands of the Princess of Dragonstone and her princely consort, and had requested that she return. It was only Prince Daemon’s seal on the letter that had her not doubt its validity, and so the Velaryon fleet had sailed her to the shores near Iron Oaks, from where they had trekked toward the Blood Gate.

Eventually, at the Gates of the Moon, she was reunited with her beloved, who told her that she had insisted she return to the Gates to welcome her lady while the princess and prince ruled the Eyrie in Jeyne’s stead.

Jessamyn was full of praise for Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, telling her that they allowed her to decide on how to deal with the usurpers—she had them executed by dragonfire rather than thrown from the Moon Door as Arryns of the past would have done—and had allowed her to sit the Falcon Throne at times and command the household staff and guard until Lady Jeyne returned, claiming that as the informal consort of the Vale that was her right.

Even though she was devout and tried to adhere to the teachings of the Seven-That-Are-One, Jeyne was not ashamed of her love for Jessamyn, who was a kind and generous woman and a fine companion. She knew the Faith disagreed and that they could never wed, but at least, the Lady of the Eyrie refused to hide her in the shadows. Though many in her household knew of her affair with Jess, as did many of her loyal bannermen, and none had ever disavowed her for her love—the Valemen were truly loyal to her house—they had never been able to be truly open with their love for each other, as other lords and ladies could.

“I know it looks bad, my love.” Jess grabbed her hand in front of the Arryn men escorting them through the mountains—the Velaryon men had marched back to Iron Oaks after they arrived at the Gates of the Moon and delivered the Defender of the Vale into the loyal hands of her household guard. “The library was relatively unscathed—most of the books survived the fire, though the telescope and the council chambers did not.”

Jeyne cared little, “Stone can be re-laid,” she squeezed Jess’ hand. “At least we are all safe.” Jessamyn smiled at her, love shining in her eyes.

In the distance, Jeyne could see Targaryen and Arryn banners flying high—their welcoming committee.

It took them another two hours before they had climbed all and reached Sky—the last of the burned waycastles of the Eyrie.

“Be welcome, Lady of the Eyrie,” Prince Daemon said, standing before her, once again clad in his customary black and red. “Your seat is yours once more.”

Lady Jeyne bowed to the Prince Consort of Dragonstone—perhaps she’d grown a bit fond of the man in recent moons. “The Vale and House Arryn thank you both, my prince.”

“Cousin,” he said. “We are cousins now.”

Jeyne hid her smile lest he see it. “Where is your lady wife?”

Prince Daemon smiled. “Up there, she has a surprise.”

“A surprise?” she exclaimed, “What is it?”

“That would sort of defeat the purpose of it being a surprise, no?” the prince deadpanned, which had Jessamyn laugh aloud while Jeyne grumbled.

“Just a question,” Jeyne whined.

The prince ignored her petulance and led the way. “Let us not keep her waiting. Besides, we have prepared a grand feast for you, and I am hungry.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

“I am certain they will not be long, Your Grace,” the Hand of the King assured his monarch, who was bouncing almost up and down where they were awaiting the carriage to arrive from the dragonpit.

Two days prior, a raven had arrived from the Eyrie, bearing a message, apprising the king of the news that his heir and her husband would be returning to the capital in a few days.

King Viserys had insisted the royal coach be kept at the dragonpit in case they returned unexpectedly, which they had. An hour or two ago, the Blood Wyrm’s screech had put an end to the small council meeting, for the king’s joy could not be contained.

“What is taking them so long?” Viserys repeated the same sentence over and over. Usually, the ride from the pit never took more than an hour, at most, so he could understand the king’s confusion, though the Lord of Harrenhal could do with his parroting.

“I am certain that—

The grand gate being opened had Lyonel cease speaking, for lo and behold, the royal carriage had arrived at long last. The king seemed almost like an overeager puppy, while his consort stood behind him with the sourest of faces the riverlord had ever seen.

Lyonel Strong could admit to feeling some sympathy for young Queen Alicent Hightower. It mustn’t be easy going from a princess’ lady-in-waiting to queen consort of the realm, all because your father willed it so, but her attempts at lashing out were tiring to all. The king had to bar the girl from her own children’s nursery because she was heard whispering falsehoods to the boy, only three name days old, calling him little king and whatnot.

Alicent Hightower was a victim of one man’s greed and another’s lust, but she was getting quite annoying, and that was saying quite a bit because the new Hand tended to be more patient than most men.

Finally, the king stepped forward, and so did the Hand. Both watched as the coach door was opened by one of the guards and Prince Daemon walked out, clutching in his hand a sword and scabbard—Lamentation, no doubt. The Rogue Prince held out his other hand, which was clutched by Princess Rhaenyra, wearing a stunning dress—a bit flowy and almost Dornish in nature—of the brightest blues and golds. Even a stern man like Lyonel Strong could admit how elegant she looked. The difference between husband and wife was stark because the prince wore simple black riding leathers, while his niece would not look out of place at a ball or a feast.

“Rhaenyra,” the King exclaimed loudly, rushing forward. It had been only a bit more than two moons, but one would think she had been gone for years by the king’s reaction.

“Father,” the princess greeted her father and hugged the man tightly.

Behind her, Prince Daemon stood stiff as a board. That man was an enigma if there ever was one. Lyman Beesbury had once described him as the most clever of Targaryen men he had ever met, and the Reachman had met the Old King and his two sons, which made Lyonel ever more curious about the King’s younger brother. When the Hand had prodded more, the Master of Coin had confided within him that Daemon was extremely well-read; he just did not like the small council, nor its trappings.

His intelligence and martial skills should have made him the perfect heir, but all that greatness was only one part of who Prince Daemon was, because he was equal parts chaotic and violent. His actions at his niece’s engagement feast only proved that.

Then again, it also showed great cunning from his side, forcing the great lords to kneel to Princess Rhaenyra once more. That ingenuity had gotten him the Valyrian bride he had famously always wished for. That and a new Valyrian steel sword, some ancient First Men armour, and quite a bit of gold. After years of being shackled to a woman he hated, Prince Daemon had finally come out on top.

“Brother,” the man greeted his king, who swiftly embraced him as well. Prince Daemon looked truly unnerved by his brother’s open affection.

“Good to have you both back,” the king exclaimed. “Court has not been the same without you both.”

That was not a lie.

Though the council had come together multiple times to speak of the threat from the Oldtown, without the princess and her warrior husband, their talk remained exactly that, talk. No decision could be made until their foremost war commander and the two dragonriders returned from dealing with matters in the Vale.

Though a decision had been made the eve before, one which the queen would not like, though Prince Daemon certainly would.

“It is good to be home, Father,” Princess Rhaenyra said. The Princess of Dragonstone greeted everyone, except her former friend, who was still staring daggers at her. Of course, this took another few minutes, especially Lord Lyman and the Velaryons, who were very welcoming.

Lyonel had to contain a snicker when the Rogue Prince rolled his eyes in exasperation at young Ser Laenor Velaryon swiftly returning to his side. He looked like a wee puppy trying to get his master’s attention. That lad had the worst case of hero worship he had ever seen.

After a while, they all went their separate ways, with the King, the Hand, and the Prince and Princess making their way to the king’s solar, while the others went on their merry way until the grand welcoming feast that night. While usually, during such occasions, the Queen Consort would join them, now she had been sent back to her chambers by the King, escorted and guarded by Ser Steffon Darklyn.

In the king’s solar, King Viserys swiftly started blasting questions at his daughter and brother both, whom had difficulty answering them all.

“You look beautiful, Rhaenyra,” the king beamed at his daughter, “Your mother favoured blue as well. You look so much like her.”

The princess glanced away for a count before plastering a smile on her face. “Thank you, Father. Lady Jeyne’s seamstress made this dress for me.”

“Well, it is stunning, even if a bit different from your usual dresses,” the king remarked.

Lyonel had noticed the same. The princess usually favoured more form-fitting dresses over the airy one she was wearing now.

“Well,” the princess cleared her throat, “about that.”

King Viserys blinked owlishly, clearly confused, “About what? Your dress?”

Princess Rhaenyra looked at her smirking husband, and the truth dawned on the Hand, though the King remained bewildered still.

“At the Eyrie, Rhaenyra was experiencing some illness for a bit. Especially in the morn, so we had her examined by a maester.”

“You are fine now, love?” The king clutched his daughter’s hands in his.

“Yes, father,” the princess smiled. “The maester said I am with child.”

The king gaped at his daughter and brother, with only odd-sounding croaks escaping his mouth.

Prince Daemon laughed loudly, as did his lady wife, and even Lyonel allowed himself a small smile.

“A baby,” the king whispered before a wide grin took over his face. “That is brilliant news! We must celebrate!”

“I agree,” the Hand exclaimed. “The heir is having an heir of her own. Though it does complicate matters in the Reach a bit.”

“Nonsense,” King Viserys exclaimed.

“What matters in the Reach?” Prince Daemon asked.

“Nothing important,” the king replied.

“What matters, father?” The princess had grown stern.

The king shifted in his seat but answered, “A raven has been sent to Oldtown. House Hightower has been stripped of all lands and titles, and all ranks and holdings.”

“And?” the prince asked when he saw his brother hesitate.

“I declared Otto an enemy of the Crown.”

“Well, fuck me,” Daemon exclaimed, which was echoed by his pregnant wife.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Next year it would be Ser Harrold Westerling's twentieth anniversary as a Kingsguard—fifteen of those as a Sworn Brother and five as the order’s Lord Commander. All in all, twenty years of wearing a white cloak, though he had worn a black one for seven years before as Prince Daemon's sworn shield and sword master.

His relationship with the Rogue Prince had always been a source of speculation amongst courtiers and servants. Harrold could not claim to be overly fond of some of the Prince’s behaviours, but that did not erase all the affection he once had for him.

Daemon had been a precocious but active child. He had been nine years when he came into Harrold’s care, and already so talented on the training yard, regularly besting squires five to six years older. Harrold had known from the very beginning that his charge would be an exceptional warrior, and he had not disappointed since.

The contrast with his elder brother had been great. It was not that Harrold did not like the young Prince Viserys, but he was just so average, with no great intelligence nor any martial ability, and it showed in his behaviours, indulging in wine and foods without any exercise. For all intents and purposes, he should have blended into the background and become a man of leisure once his uncle’s reign commenced. Alas, that is not what happened. Daemon had placed a crown on his brother’s brow, and nought had been the same since.

For the longest time, Harrold believed that Daemon would have made a finer king than his elder brother, or at least a stronger one, and truly he still did, but Rhaenyra and Daemon together? They might be unstoppable. Uncle and niece were two sides of the very same coin. Each contained equal parts chaos and brilliance, and he truly believed they would complement each other, much like the Old King and Good Queen had done in the early times of Jaehaerys’ long reign—before strife came between the two.

Harrold had high hopes for what would come next despite also knowing he would probably not be here to witness it. He was more than a decade older than the king, though Viserys was in iller health than he.

One day, Princess Rhaenyra would become Queen Rhaenyra, the First of Her Name, and if Harrold was truly honest with himself, he hoped he would be around to behold her walking the steps up to the Iron Throne and have her own crown placed on her head.

“Lord Commander.” Ser Steffon Darklyn had escorted the queen to the king’s solar at his command.

“Brother,” Ser Harrold Westerling greeted his fellow white cloak before turning his attention to the queen, “His Grace is expecting you, My Queen.”

Steffon bowed deeply and took over guarding the outside of the king’s chambers, while Ser Harrold followed Queen Alicent inside and remained posted at the doors.

“Alicent,” the king greeted his queen whilst remaining seated at his writing table, “Please, be seated.”

The queen did not return his greeting but did sit herself where her husband gestured for her to sit.

“You must wonder why I have called you here,” he asked, but allowed her no time to answer. “Your father’s failure to answer his king’s summons to stand trial,” the king held up his hand to silence the protesting queen, “has forced me to make an uncomfortable decision. House Hightower has been stripped of all lands, titles and holdings.”

The queen’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Your father was given plenty of time. More than three moons have passed, during which half a dozen letters were sent to the Oldtown, but we received none in return. He forced my hand.”

“You can’t do that! House Hightower has ruled those lands for millennia!”

“I can and I have,” the king replied. “Beyond that, an attainder for your father’s execution has been drawn up. If he is unwilling to return to the capital on his own, I shall send Daemon to do so.”

“You are a monster!” a weeping Queen Alicent shouted. “A monster like your brother!”

“Don’t speak to me of my brother!” The king grew angry in return. “He is ten times the man your father is!”

“Maybe, but at least my father was not born of the ungodly union between brother and sister,” the queen mocked the king. “Your entire existence is an insult to the Gods.”

“I was not so much an insult when I made you queen, was I?” Viserys sneered. “You did not mind it then.”

“I always minded it,” Queen Alicent sneered. “I always minded you!”

“I never expected you to love me, but–

“Love you?” the queen spat, “You are a dirty old man! A dirty old man who laid with his daughter’s friend! Love you?! I hate you!”

Harrold was this close to stepping in but remained standing at the door, unable to look at the king but also unwilling to glance away from the spectacle between king and queen.

“You knew exactly what my father was doing by sending me to your chambers, and yet you still let me in every eve, choosing me over Laena Velaryon! You did this!”

And her father, of course, Harrold thought to himself. The Lord Commander felt a twinge of sympathy for the young woman, who had always been a polite young girl, loyal to her princess and kind to anyone she met, no matter their station in life. All of that had been thrown overboard the moment she became queen.

“You filled me with your demon seed, all to get yourself a son, and then you dishonour him?!” the queen screamed. “You killed your first queen to get yourself an heir, and now that you have one, you ignore him for your daughter!” The king remained silent, stupefaction on his face. “You are a curse, Viserys Targaryen.” The queen stood from her chair. “You are a curse on these Seven Kingdoms, and I accurse you and detaint you. I will share a bed with you no longer! I will no longer take any part in your freak show!”

As the queen stormed out, Ser Harrold Westerling felt more sympathy for her than he did for his king, for she was not entirely wrong. The king had made his choices, and now he had to live with them.

───※ ·♛· ※───

“Do you have to go?” his wife whined.

Daemon grabbed Rhaenyra by the neck and kissed her, teeth clashing and tongues dancing. It did not take long before their kissing turned languid and soft.

His wife panted with a blush on her cheeks. “We have only just arrived. My father can wait another day, no?”

“My king demands my presence, and I do as I am commanded, wife.” The Rogue Prince loved to emphasise his niece’s new title for it always had her redden.

“And what of your princess? Your lady wife?”

“She gets me every other moment of the day,” he answered honestly. “My brother needs me.”

“I need you,” Rhaenyra pouted, grabbing him around the waist and hugging him tight.

Daemon kissed her crown. “I know. I promise I shall return soon.”

Rhaenyra reluctantly disentangled herself.

“Perhaps my cousin would like a visit?” the prince suggested. “With Corlys having sailed to Driftmark to ready their fleet, Laena and Rhaenys might like some company?”

“That’s not a horrendous idea, uncle,” his wife smiled. “Of course, I shall be telling her it was mine own idea to visit her.”

“Of course, you will.” He grinned as he pecked her lips one final time, “I will see you tonight, my love.”

Daemon nodded to Laenor, who followed behind him. By now, he had somewhat gotten used to the young knight at his back, though he would never truly like that. Besides, he could have had worse company assigned as his sworn shield, like the Fell knight, who walked around with the sourest of gazes at all times.

Walking through the halls of the Holdfast, he nodded to the odd guard and servant they came across—Daemon was well-liked by the servantry and the castle guard. It did not take them long to arrive at the king’s apartments.

The Lord Commander nodded at him before allowing him entry and announcing him. Viserys sat slouched in one of the armchairs in front of the unlit fireplace, clutching a cup in his hand. By way of his posture, Daemon deduced the king already had a few drinks.

“Ah, Daemon,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Is everything alright, brother?”

The king seemed hesitant. “I would like some advice, Daemon.”

“From me?” He was sceptical.

“Yes, from you,” Viserys snapped. “Why else would I ask you to join me?”

Daemon nodded and sat down across from his brother. “Ask and I shall see if I have any real advice for you.”

For a short while, his brother just stared at him. “With House Hightower cast down, I wonder what I should do with Alicent.”

“Have her thrown from the top of the Holdfast onto the spikes below,” Daemon suggested—only half of him meant it.

His brother rolled his eyes at him. “No, really, I spoke to her and I don’t see our marriage remaining as it is.”

“She openly tried to declare war on your daughter, and you are to have her father executed,” Daemon reminded him. “Besides, the marriage was never really healthy to begin with, was it?”

“She told me she never loved me,” his brother admitted.

“You couldn’t have believed she loved you, did you?!” Daemon asked, incredulous at his brother’s naiveté. “She was a maiden your daughter’s age! She was probably dreaming of a famed knight deflowering her after their blessed wedding, not an old man rutting into her over his little model of a dead city.”

His brother flinched, “Rhaenyra married–

“My wife wed a man who can fight wars, flies a dragon, and does a bit more physical activity than merely lifting a fork or a cup to his mouth,” Daemon smirked and prodded his brother’s belly. “And does not carry with him the weight of another person.”

Yet another flinch.

The prince sighed, “You have many good qualities, but you chose a wife who would not see them. Had you chosen a woman a tad more…,” he licked his lips, “… grown, they would have seen the good with the bad. The little Hightower girl was pushed into your chambers by her greedy father, and never had a true choice og her own. You know what the Seven-Pointed Star says about obeying father and husband.”

“She was so kind,” Viserys whispered. “When she came to my chambers.”

“Another thing,” Daemon ignored his brother's despair, using it to air all his grievances. “How blind can you be? What kind of young woman volunteers to spend time with a man more than twice her age to console them? You should have known better.”

“I did know,” his brother admitted, “I just liked–

“The attention,” Daemon interrupted, “I can understand that. Alicent is a pretty enough girl.”

“You are being oddly sympathetic.” Viserys was suspicious.

 “What? Do you want me to mock you instead? Because I can do that too.”

“No, no,” his brother sighed loudly. “I do not know what to do.”

“You can set your marriage aside,” the prince suggested, “but that would make your two children bastards unless you legitimise them. after”

“No, don’t think so."

“The silent sisters?”

The king shook his head.

“There are not many remaining options, but you can exile her to Dragonstone or somewhere,” Daemon postulated. “A queen does not have to remain at court. Look at our grandmother. Whenever she and Jaehaerys had a spat, she’d run to our island home.”

“No more suggestions of killing her,” Viserys remarked, “Have you grown fond of Alicent, brother?”

“I would not say fond, but I do feel some sympathy, yes,” Daemon replied. “Though not enough that if she were to become a true threat to my wife and unborn child, I would not throttle her myself.”

The king replied not to his open threat.

“I feel for her, even with knowing who she is,” Daemon admitted. “In an ideal world, she would have the opportunity to do what she wished, but that is not how the real world works.”

“Exile then?” the king said.

“Yes, exile.”

---

Teaser the girl in the green dress, ch.11: the greed of little men

A knock on the door had Otto sit straighter in the Lord’s Chair, “Enter.”

His guests had arrived— Septon Harbard, the next High Septon, Otto was certain, and Archmaester Dareon, the new Seneschal. Along with them arrived Maester Alfador, his father’s former private secretary and amongst Otto’s staunchest supporters.

“My Lord,” the maester bowed to him. “Our guests were coming up as I came to deliver a raven from the capital.”

Otto rolled his eyes. “Another impotent threat from the king, no doubt.”

The maester handed over the scroll while the two men sat themselves down in the chairs across from the lord’s solid gold writing table.

“Would you like me to stay, My Lord?” the maester asked.

“Yes, but first have the servants up some wine and something to eat,” he commanded.

The maester bowed and left again.

“Do you mind if I read this first?” the acting Lord of Oldtown asked. “It will surely amuse us all to hear the king’s words.”

The Chamberlain smirked and told him to go ahead, which was echoed by the archmaester.

Otto broke the seal, unfurled the parchment, and commenced reading aloud.

To the traitor Otto Hightower

You have failed to present yourself in the capital to stand trial for your crimes. Now there shall no longer be a trial. House Hightower is hereby stripped of all lands and titles, all ranks and holdings. Your kin will be executed, and your house shall cease to exist.

Should any of your allies believe your cause to be a worthy one, and choose to stand with you, they shall go the way of your brother and his blood. This is the last letter I shall send. There will be no negotiations and no forgiveness. The Hightower and Oldtown are henceforth enemies of the Crown and shall be dealt with accordingly.

With Fire and Blood.

King Viserys of the House Targaryen, the First of His Name
King of the Andals, of the Rhoynar, and of the First Men
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms
Protector of the Realm

Otto stopped talking and stared in horror at the king’s words. Glancing up, he saw the same dread mirrored in his allies’ eyes.

Alfador returned as swiftly as he had left and upon seeing their faces frowned, “What did I miss?”

Notes:

Chapter ten… Rhaenyra is having a baby! Yay, yay. What do we think? Boy or girl? And what about the name? Any guesses?

Only a few more chapters to go! This is where I would usually say that the next chapter will be posted in five to six weeks, but in about three to four weeks, summer will be here, and I tend to go on a hiatus during the summer, so keep a lookout! In the meantime, don't forget to kudos, bookmark, and leave a review! Share your theories with the class! 😊

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