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"Another princess, my queen,” the midwife announced. The tension in the room felt no less painful than the labour she had just endured for almost two days—another girl. Alicent had been so sure it was a boy this time. She’d carried low, and everyone told her that meant she was carrying a boy.
“It can’t be,” she cried out. “Give him to me! I’ll check myself.”
The midwife’s face was the picture of pity, and she placed the babe in her arms without argument.
“Your Grace,” Grand Maester Orwyle intoned, stuffy and smug as usual. “I examined the babe myself-”
“I could feel he was a boy. A mother knows!” Alicent interrupted, but when she removed the blanket swaddling her baby, she could see that she had guessed wrong. She was moved to tears in her frustration and shame.
“Your Grace, We must present the child to the King,” Orwell reminded her.
But Alicent didn’t want to. She didn’t want to see the wretched disappointment on Viserys’s face or read the scorn of her Father in the letter he would no doubt send once he caught word of another princess. He’d given his only daughter to the king like a gift wrapped in the silk of her mother’s gowns, but Alicent had failed to do the one thing he asked of her. She had no sons to replace Rhaenyra with a proper male heir. She couldn’t have another child; this birth had been her worst, longer and more bloody than even her first. She feared she might die in the birthing bed if she fell pregnant again. Viserys was incapable; besides, they had been trying for years for this babe, with only brief moments of virility from him.
She was too weak to keep them from taking the babe from her arms, no matter her feelings, and Orwyle scooped her up and carried her through the door without another word.
With his departure, Alicent couldn’t hold in any more sobs. The midwife and her assistants did not comment, and they didn’t try to comfort her; she would have screamed at them to leave if they did.
To Alicent's surprise, when Viserys visited her later that night before he retired to his chambers, he did not scold her or throw accusations. Her husband’s one virtue was his guileless kindness, even if it didn’t stop his thoughtlessness from hurting her and their children.
“Do not fret, Alicent,” he told her once he’d settled into the chair at her bedside. “The gods, it seems, have decided I will have no sons- but I have an heir, and Rhaenyra has three strapping boys. Our line is secured.”
He nodded as if pleased with himself before he continued hesitantly, “Also…Maester Orwyle advised against trying for more children.”
Not like you could give me any more, Alicent thought viciously but did not say. If only you’d been wise enough to follow that advice with your first queen, neither of us would be as unhappy as we are, she also didn’t say.
There were many things she could not say, and only one she could say: “I understand, Viserys. Only, I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a son.”
He gave her a paternal smile and patted her hand where it was laid across her stomach. At his touch, she felt a familiar sickness in the pit of her stomach. “Just rest, Alicent. And let the servants know if you need anything.”
***
The Maester told her that the little insects she found feasting on the leaves of her favorite pear tree were called greenflies, but she read in Archmaester Crey’s Natural Philosophy that they were properly named aphids. Crey wrote that they were pests, and when Helaena asked one of the gardeners, he confirmed that they were. Helaena took them to her room to keep them from killing her pear tree.
She scooped as many as she could find into a little glass jar—one of Aerea’s empty vials of scent, which Helaena had saved from being discarded—and placed them on her shelf beside her spider and the stinging ants in their large colony which Grandsire had gifted her for her nameday. She ensured the aphids would have plenty of leaves to eat in their new home.
They don’t lay eggs like spiders or ants; Helaena was excited when she discovered this, observing an aphid birthing minuscule little copies of itself.
Mother had listened to Helaena’s description of the birth dutifully later that day, sitting on the low couch in her solar. Mother was very good at listening and asking questions when Helaena lapsed into silence, overwhelmed with delight. Aemma, Mother’s little copy, was much the same. She wasn’t as good at hiding her distaste, but she was always kind enough to keep it to herself.
People thought that Helaena was simple, but Mother and Aemma always listened. Her older sisters treated her like a babe, and Aerea mocked her when she was outraged. Helaena was a child, only eight, but she was not stupid. Aerea was only nine, but she tried to act much older, imitating Rhaenyra as much as Aemma imitated Mother. She followed Rhaenyra around like a shadow, and some days, she spent more time with their nephews than with Helaena and Aemma.
Mother didn’t like it, so Aemma didn’t like it. Helaena didn’t understand it but did not worry too much about it.
“Mother, why don’t you like Rhaenyra?” Helaena had once asked after Mother had fought with Aerea about spending so much time playing with Jacaerys and Lucerys.
Mother was sitting at her desk in her solar, Aemma at her feet playing with her little porcelain dolls. Father had gotten them for all of them, but Helaena found them eerie, and Aerea said they were childish, so they were Aemma's.
Mother looked up sharply, brow furrowed. “Helaena, you can’t ask such a thing.”
“It’s not polite,” Aemma scolded.
“But you do dislike her,” Helaena said, confused. She’d just been curious and didn’t understand why the question was inappropriate.
“Rhaenyra is your father’s heir, Helaena. Whatever my opinion of her, she will be queen one day, and we must rely on her kindness when your father dies.”
“But you dislike her,” Helaena repeated. “Why?”
“Helaena,” Mother sighed. “You…Come here, Helaena,”
Helaena crossed the room, sitting at Mother’s feet beside her sister. Mother looked at both of them solemnly. “You must not repeat my words to anyone.”
They nodded in unison.
“Your older sister is not an…honorable woman. She has done bad things, but your father loves her dearly, so he does not scold her.”
Helaena was not surprised. Father loved Rhaenyra best, of course, but Aemma gasped.
“But if we’re naughty, we get scolded!” her sister exclaimed at the injustice.
“Yes, Aemma. That’s the proper thing to do. But your Father is soft-hearted and lets Rhaenyra get away with far too much.”
“That’s not fair,” Aemma insisted. “You must tell Father to scold her.”
“Father loves Rhaenyra best, and he loved her mother very much,” Helaena told her little sister. “He doesn’t want to scold her.”
Mother looked sad, but she did not correct Helaena.
“You should scold her then. You’re Queen- she has to listen to you,” her sister said, voice pleading.
“I told you, Aemma, Rhaenyra will be Queen one day. If I tried to scold her, she may take offense and seek retribution when crowned.”
Helaena knew Mother was worried for nothing; Rhaenyra would not hurt them, not over some slight insult. Perhaps she might if they were boys, but Helaena did not think so. And they were not boys.
She said as much to Mother, but it didn’t seem to soothe her fears.
***
Alicent had to bite her tongue when Rhaenyra offered a betrothal between Jaecaerys and Aerea. She wanted to protest—the boy was a bastard and two years her daughter's junior—but she could not. Aerea might be her most challenging child, constantly running off from her septa and ignoring Alicent’s expectations of her, but she was a darling little Valyrian beauty. And clever, besides, even if she was shamelessly lazy. Rhaenyra’s eldest bastard didn’t deserve her beautiful girl. Still, Viserys was already agreeing.
It was a small consolation, but marriage to Jacaerys would make Aerea queen one day. and hopefully keep her other daughters safe in the future. This was what Alicent told herself to keep from spitting in her husband's face.
“Alicent,” Rhaenyra said. Her gaze was pleading, as it sometimes was when they were in each other’s presence. “Wouldn’t it be nice to share grandchildren?”
They had spoken of such a dream when they were girls, and Alicent could curse her for trying to manipulate her with those tender memories.
Brown-haired grandchildren, tainted with bastard blood, she thought but didn’t say.
Instead, she inclined her head and pasted a smile onto her face. “Yes, of course.”
To her husband, who gave them both a childish smile of delight, she continued, “It would be a good match, husband.”
“Of course it will!” Viserys exclaimed. “Jacaerys is a good, dutiful boy. He’ll be a good influence on Aerea.”
Alicent bristled. Her daughter may be a troublemaker, but she was still a Targaryen princess.
“She acts out for your attention, Father.”
Alicent looked at Rhaenyra in shock. Usually, she delighted in Viserys’s blatant favoritism of her and her children. Was it only because Alicent had agreed to the marriage that she defended Alicent’s children? It should have comforted her, a sign that this sacrifice would be worth it, but she was only frustrated with Rhaenyra’s selfish nature.
Viserys had a similar expression of surprise on his face when Alicent turned to see how he might respond.
“Yes, well,” he blustered but seemed at a loss for words.
“I was much the same as a girl,” Rhaenyra admitted. “Perhaps we should begin holding dinner as a family again. I’m sure my sisters would be delighted to dine with you, Father.”
Once again, she had to restrain her immediate impulse, which was to protest. This betrothal was undoubtedly the first step in some manipulation of Rhaenyra’s, even if Alicent could not predict what she was trying to achieve. Viserys would be thrilled at the idea, however, and Alicent could think of no reason she could give to reject Rhaenyra’s suggestion.
“What an excellent idea! Yes, absolutely. Alicent, shall we go inform the children?”
She hesitated, primarily fearful of how her children might react. Aemma, her passionate, fearless little girl, could not hold her tongue when upset, and Alicent could only imagine what insult she might levy against Rhaenyra. Not to mention Helaena, who was prone to a blunt manner of speaking that did not lend itself to politics or politeness.
“No, husband, do not tire yourself walking across the Keep. I’ll tell the girls myself. I was just about to see them after speaking with you.”
Viserys didn’t insist, as she knew he would not. Rhaenyra narrowed her violet eyes but did not attempt to contradict her.
Good. Alicent had held her tongue enough.
With her husband’s leave and a false smile to her stepdaughter, Alicent swept out of the King’s bedchamber to tell her daughters the news.
***
Aemma hated so much for such a little girl.
She hated many things: her father, her nephews, her half-sister, her septa, the Red Keep, and the dragon keepers. She also hated that she was a princess instead of a prince.
It took much energy to hate as much as she did. Aerea always mocked her for it, but Aemma thought it was as easy as breathing. Her family had much to be angry about. Her real family, not the King or his precious heir; they were simply cruel captors who happened to share blood with her.
No, Mother and her sisters were their own family. They were a single unit surrounded by enemies and fools, and Father was chief among the fools.
She knew what Mother would say if she heard Aemma speaking these thoughts aloud, or saying she hated anyone, so she tried to hide it. She knew it was sinful and unladylike to harbor such intense rage in her heart that she should try to be as innocent as the Maiden and as patient and merciful as the Mother. But it wasn’t in her nature. She wanted to be as strong as the Smith and wise as the Crone. She wasn’t as soft or silly as Aerea or as quiet and dreamy as Helaena.
She was a Targaryen princess and should not be treated like an afterthought. None of her family should be an afterthought, but Father treated them this way, so the court treated them the same. None of them were Rhaenyra, the King’s delight.
Aemma thought that if Rhaenyra had asked to learn the sword, the King would have allowed it immediately. When Aemma asked, he’d only laughed.
He said the training yard was no place for a princess.
But she was a descendant of Queen Visenya. Fighting was in her blood. Even Queen Rhaenys had fought alongside her brother when they conquered the Seven Kingdoms. They’d ridden to war on dragonback! Aemma didn’t have a dragon, though, and thanks to her father, she would not have a sword either.
She’d tried bringing it up at dinner, hoping for an ally in her Mother or even Rhaenyra. She was so desperate, but Father only laughed again and told her that he’d already said his piece on the matter and she should not ask again.
Mother had agreed with him; her mouth twisted in distaste at the thought of her daughter taking sword lessons.
With a mutinous glare, she slumped into her chair.
“Visenya had a sword,” sweet Helaena observed. Helaena was her favorite sister. Daena was a darling little girl, but she was half a stranger, having been in Oldtown for most of her life.
“They also had dragons,” Aerea scoffed.
“Unlike Aemma,” Lucerys snorted.
Indignant, Aemma hissed, “When I get a dragon, I’ll let it eat the both of you.”
“Aemma!” Mother snapped. “You mustn’t say such things! And you need to stop taunting your sister, Aerea.”
“Yes,” Rhaenyra said, frowning at her son, “Luke, apologize to your aunt; that was unkind.”
Aerea and Lucerys both mumbled pathetic apologies. After a sharp look from her mother, Aemma gave one as well, though hers was much better, and she didn’t mumble. Princesses didn’t mumble.
Helaena, seated beside her, reached out a single finger and stroked it along the jut of her cheekbone. “You’ll have a dragon,” she assured her. Aemma gave her a fond smile, but Helaena did not look happy. “You’ll have to close an eye.”
Aemma escaped from dinner as soon as was polite.
***
Aerea thought it was stupid that Jacaerys had to leave court and live on dreary old Dragonstone, and she was disappointed to see him go. It was very nice to have her nephew around. He fetched things for her if she asked nicely, and he liked to tell her how pretty she was, how beautiful her hair was, how well she smelled. Sometimes, she felt drunk on his attentiveness, and even if she suspected his Mother had told him to court her, she didn’t think he was pretending. He wasn’t just being nice because they would be married one day. He was kind to her because he was Jace and she was Aerea.
She hadn’t even gotten to ride with him yet. Sunfyre had been big enough to ride for years, but Vermax was still growing. She wanted more than anything to fly with Jacaerys, both of them alone up in the sky.
When Aerea asked Nyra why they had to leave, her big sister looked uncomfortable and only said that Dragonstone was her seat and it was her job to take care of it. Aerea was five-and-ten, though and she knew a lie when she heard one. If she was lying about it, it was because something terrible had happened or the court was spreading rumors about her sons. There were always rumours about the boys, and Aerea ignored them because she did not care what the lesser houses thought of them.
When she asked Mother, she was sure she’d get the truth from her because Mother hated Nyra, so she would delight in sharing information about Rhaenyra’s downfall. Mother hated Rhaenyra because she had bastards, and someone who read the Seven-Pointed Star as much as she did obviously took that as a slight against the gods themselves. But Aerea didn’t understand why it was such a problem. Nyra was the heir; her blood was what mattered, not Laenor Verlaryon’s. And the man didn’t seem to mind that his sons were not his. If he didn’t care, why should anyone else? If it was anyone’s business, it was his and Nyra’s.
Aerea thought Rhaenyra should ignore them or tell Father and let him handle the nasty little gossip.
She said this to Helaena and Aemma days before Jace was to leave, feeling mainly put out because he couldn’t walk in the gardens with her as Nyra was making him pack for the journey.
Aemma glared at her- perhaps she was still angry about the pig incident, which had been very funny- and opened her mouth, no doubt to start one of her annoying rants where she just repeated everything Mother said and offered none of her own original thoughts.
Aerea rolled her eyes.
“Passing bastards off as true-born children is treason,” Aemma began, reeking with self-righteousness. “Cuckolding one’s husband is a sin. I’m happy they’re leaving. Jace and Luke are stupid because they listen to you and always do your bidding.”
“It’s only treason if Father says it’s treason. He’s the king!” Aerea scoffed. “Who cares if they’re bastards?”
“The lords won’t let Jacaerys become king. There will be war!” Aemma insisted.
“You don’t know that, stupid, you’re just repeating whatever Mother says.”
“Mother knows!”
“Mother just hates Rhaenyra. She wants Nyra to leave. She’s happy that people are calling the boys bastards!”
“Girls!”
They all jumped, their heads whipping to the doorway, where Mother stood. Her face flushed in anger, and her eyes wild with panic. She marched across the room and smacked Aerea across the mouth.
Aerea reeled back, clutching at her face. Aemma and Helaena hurried to their feet, fear stark across their pale faces.
Mother did not hit them. She made them memorize passages from the Seven-Pointed Star or made them write lines for hours, but she never hit them. The room was silent as they all recovered from what had just happened. Mother looked pained, and Aerea fought not to cry.
Finally, Mother seemed to collect herself enough to speak, though her voice was strained. “Aerea, we are in danger the moment your sister is crowned. I have told you girls this countless times! She will not risk a challenge to her rule.”
“Then we won’t challenge-”
Mother’s eyes were wild as she reached for Aerea’s arms, grabbing them and shaking her.
“You are the challenge! You are the challenge, Aerea, you and your sisters. You challenge her by breathing, but the nature of your birth and the coloring of your features. You are evidence that her boys are not legitimate! Everyone in the realm can look at you and see how Valyrian blood prevails!”
Aerea was struck by fear at her Mother’s behavior. This was a desperate, terrified madwoman, not the perfect Queen Alicent.
“We cannot put forward an alternative. The realm would not pass over one woman for another, but to so brazenly speak of her boys and call them bastards? Do you wish to put yourself at risk? Your sisters?”
“You said we’re a challenge just for being born! Why would she betroth me to Jace if she was going to kill me as soon as she was Queen?”
“It would unite the bloodlines, appease anyone who might protest. But what might Rhaenyra do if she thought the risks of letting you live to announce her shame to anyone who might listen were greater than the benefits? She must believe we will not threaten her or her sons. We must cleave to her and hope she is merciful!”
“But-” Aemma stuttered, lowering her voice and darting her eyes around the room as if she feared spies in the walls or the cupboards. “But Aerea can’t marry a bast-”
Mother looked ill as Aemma stumbled on the word. “She must if we are all to survive past your father’s death.”
“Aerea will be a good queen,” Helaena assured them.
Mother sighed. “Yes sweetling, of course she will."
***
Helaena did not know what to think when Lady Laena died. It hadn’t occurred to her that it would happen, but she’d woken up in a panic and knew it had.
Mother rushed in, still in her sleeping clothes, probably summoned by the maids who’d run off when Helaena had started screaming.
“She burned herself! Why would she burn herself? They weren’t going to cut her open!” she sobbed.
Mother hushed her, though she didn’t try to hold her or stroke her hair- Mother was good at soothing Helaena by now because she knew Helaena hated to be held and could not tolerate having her hair stroked.
She couldn’t get the dream out of her head. It had been a dizzying series of scenes, all horrible. First, a woman heavy with child was engulfed in flames, and Helaena had just known that it was Laena Velaryon, even though she’d met the woman perhaps thrice. Then, two strong men were clawing at heavy wooden doors, unable to open them because they’d been barricaded, all while they choked on thick black smoke. And finally, Helaena saw Aemma's face a bloody ruin, crying out for a dragon.
Mother continued whispering soothing nonsense to her until Helaena’s breath slowed, and she felt her eyes growing heavy.
She turned then and asked, “Will you sleep beside me tonight, Mother?”
Her mother paused, for Helaena had never asked her for that kind of comfort before, but she nodded quickly.
They fell asleep a few hands apart, but in the morning, Helaena woke to find her mother’s arms around her, and she felt a rare surge of comfort at her touch.
At that very moment, the raven carrying news of Laena Velaryon’s death reached the Red Keep.
***
Aemma was very cross at having to travel by ship while her sisters got to make the trip to Driftmark on dragonback. Sunfyre and Dreamfyre soared above the ship lazily, performing leisurely loops and turns simply for their riders' amusement.
Each year that Aemma didn’t claim a dragon, she felt more desperate to do so. Mother and Father had been discussing the matter of betrothal, and she feared that once she was wed, she would lose her chance forever. Mother had spoken of marrying her to a Lannister or a Tully, and she’d even heard Father suggest a Dornishman, though Mother had shot that down viciously. Would Father let her have a dragon if she didn’t remain a Targaryen?
She had shared her fear with Helaena before they departed for Driftmark, but her sister had only repeated that vague promise: You’ll have to close an eye.
As High Tide came into sight, growing more significant with each blink of her eyes, Mother joined her at the ship's prow.
“Your Grandsire is very pleased to return to his position as Hand of the King.” There was a note of unease to the words.
Aemma had noticed Mother’s tension when Grandsire had first returned to court. It had only been a handful of days after word of Lord Strong’s death that Father summoned Grandsire back to court to take up his old position. Grandsire had visited Mother’s solar the very hour that he’d arrived, and he’d looked over the lot of them with a smug smile, congratulating Aerea on her betrothal. She did not think she liked Grandsire.
Aemma looked at her mother with concern.
“That’s good, right?” she asked, “Grandsire will keep us safe?”
“Nothing can keep us safe better than endearing ourselves to Rhaenyra," Mother reminded her.
Aemma nodded seriously, as she always did.
Mother sighed heavily, and peered out at the sea. She was patient, waiting for her mother to continue.
"Aemma, your grandsire is a cunning man. He may suggest things to you or try to convince you to do certain things. You must come to me if he does.”
Aemma gaped at her Mother. “What things?” she asked.
Mother bowed her head. “He could ask for many things, and they may seem simple and insignificant. Forging friendships with certain lords or saying certain words in select places to select persons. He may not be content to have Aerea as Queen Consort years in the future.”
“He would—" Aerea swallowed, lowering her voice to a murmur, for Grandsire and Father were also above deck, and she feared they might hear her. "Would he have Aerea usurp Rhaenyra’s position in the succession?”
Mother gave a terse nod.
“But you said the realm would not care to replace one woman for another.”
“Men become blinded by their ambition. And there’s no one more ambitious than your Grandsire. He wants a Hightower on the throne, not standing beside it as a wife.”
“I will do exactly as you ask, Mother,” she promised and received a grateful smile in return.
As they reached Driftmark's shores, Aemma pondered the issue of her Grandsire, still considering her mother’s warning, even as Velaryon servants led them to their guest chambers.
Aerea would not be a good ruler. She was too frivolous.
Rhaenyra was not honorable or pious, but she could be just and clever. Aemma thought a Queen should be just and reasonable; they should be brave and learned. Aerea was none of those, but Rhaenyra was some of them. Even though she detested her half-sister, she could not argue that Aerea was more deserving or appropriate for the Iron Throne.
If Mother thought the best course of action was to respect the succession and Rhaenyra’s rule, then Aemma trusted her judgment. One day, Aerea would be Queen consort to Jacaerys, where she could do less harm with her foolishness.
Aemma would prepare to ignore Grandsire at every opportunity. Mother always said men couldn’t be trusted to keep them safe. Not a father or a husband or a son. Only men like Ser Criston or Ser Arryk were suited to it; they were honorable and good.
Mother had once told her that even septons couldn’t be trusted, and there were many septons in Mother’s family so she must know.
“Why are you sitting there like a brainless sheep?” Aerea sneered, breaking Aemma from her thoughts.
The three princesses had been placed in a single guest chamber, which Aemma resented greatly. The chamber was spacious and richly appointed, but nothing could overcome the pain of sharing a room with Aerea for the first time since they’d been in the nursery. The day that they’d all gotten their own rooms had been a day of celebration for both of them. No doubt such an accommodation was a slight on their family by the Velaryons, ever-faithful minions of Rhaenyra.
Aemma smirked. “I was practicing my impression of you.”
Aerea was almost a woman grown, only waiting for her betrothed to reach manhood before she would become a woman wed, but she still spit her tongue out at Aemma like a child.
Oh, why was it the Seven had cursed her with a fool for a sister?
She almost felt sorry for Jacaerys because he’d be stuck with Aerea until one of them died.
Luckily, they didn’t have very long before Mother called them to ready themselves for Lady Laena’s funeral.
Once they’d dressed, Mother corraled them in front of the chamber door to assure herself they were presentable, and she only needed to send them back once. Helaena had neglected to braid her hair, Aerea had chosen to go without her corset, and unfortunately, Mother had spotted the dagger Aemma tucked into her leather girdle. She confiscated it. Aemma had thought her cloak would hide it and cursed her mother's sharp eyes as she tucked the blade away with the rest of her things.
Once they were fit to appear in public, Mother led them to Father’s chambers, where he spoke with Grandsire, so they could all arrive together.
The funeral was held beside the sea, and the guests stood precariously on a stretch of rough rocks because the Velaryons worshipped the Merling King instead of the Seven or the gods of Old Valyria.
Aemma did not think she would want her body sent to the bottom of the sea upon her death. To be cold and alone, fed on by the fish for eternity, held little appeal. Burial was a similarly bleak prospect, only trading the fish for worms to feast on your corpse. She would never tell Mother, but Old Valyria was superior to the Faith in this. To have a mighty dragon reduce you to smoke and ash, which would be placed in a stately urn for your descendants to look upon and admire- that was what Aemma wanted.
Being a princess with Valyrian blood, Aemma was not expected to follow the burial customs of her husband’s house like most wives; like Lady Laena, her wishes would be honored. Aemma found this strangely comforting.
After the ceremony, there was a brief period of free time so the servants could prepare for the reception. Mother fussed over their hair, which had become disheveled in the salty wind blowing from the sea.
“All of you,” Mother said before they could leave her side, “You will conduct yourselves as proper young ladies. Do not disgrace me or your father. Lord and Lady Velaryon mourn their daughter today, and you will not cause additional grief.”
They all nodded dutifully, and Mother smiled.
Shortly afterward, the Velaryon staff led the whole group of guests to a series of terraces accessible by several sets of stairs. The terraces overlooked the sea, and tables were set with food and wine. A pair of musicians played a delicate, melancholy tune that Aemma recognized but could not name.
To the right of the terrace, Aemma spotted an unnaturally tall mound of sand on the beach. As she watched, the mound moved, and she recognized the subtle rise and fall of a breathing creature. Vhagar. It could only be the mighty Vhagar resting near the ceremony held in memory of her most recent rider.
She tried to hide her excitement, but her whole body shot through with energy. She wanted more than anything to rush forward and see the dragon in all her glory. It was a foolish, childish impulse, but that did not mean Aemma did not struggle to resist it.
Mother hummed, sending her husband a significant look before trailing her gaze over to their hosts.
Father understood, veering away from the spread of food as if scolded. “Yes, now let us once again offer our sympathies.”
***
Aerea hadn’t expected to find Jacaerys looking quite so devastated. She had rarely seen him crying before.
Feeling uncharacteristically soft towards him, Aerea approached him.
“Jace,” she murmured.
He perked up at the sight of her, offering a watery smile. He had snot on the sleeve of his doublet, which made her stomach turn. She gave him a fetching smile.
“H-hello, Princess,” he said.
Aerea rolled her eyes. It had only been a year since his family left court, but her silly betrothed acted as if they were strangers.
“Princess?” she grumbled, “Have you forgotten my name?”
He shook his head, “No, of course not! You look lovely, Aerea.”
She glanced down at the drab gown her mother had chosen for her. It was so dark a green that it was almost black. The collar reached her neck, and the sleeves landed past her wrists. Only the heavy silver beading across the bodice saved it from looking like peasant wear. It depicted a dragon taking flight. If it was golden, it could have been her dear Sunfyre.
“Thank you,” she said doubtfully.
The dress didn’t even fit her. Her mother’s dressmaker made no secret of her distaste for Aerea’s figure. The pinched old woman seemed to think that if she made Aerea’s dresses too tight, she might deign to slim down, having gotten it into her head that a proper lady was slim and svelte, like Mother. No one else seemed to care as she did.
She and Helaena had always been plump. Mother told them they carried it well, and Aerea agreed. Better to be full-figured than thin and boyish like Aemma. That poor girl had Father’s features and the hips of a starving waif.
“I’m happy to see you,” Jace assured her, “Only…I’m very sorry to lose Aunt Laena. Father is as well.”
He looked nervous as he said it, but Aerea knew boys on the cusp of manhood were strange creatures with even stranger urges. Perhaps he’d found Lady Laena desperately beautiful. She had been, Aerea remembered. He probably felt guilty thinking such things of a dead woman.
It would not occur to her until years later that he was mourning Ser Harwin Strong as well as his aunt.
Aerea inspected him critically. Aside from the salty tear tracks on his face and the snot, she approved of her betrothed. He was still young, still a few inches shorter than her. Still, he had the makings for a handsome man, with a sharp jaw under all his baby fat and a touch of his mother’s Valyrian beauty in his eyes and nose. Indeed, he would be broad and handsome, considering who his parents were. Aerea had stopped growing herself, so they would look very well together once he sprouted.
“I understand,” Aerea cooed, very predisposed to her nephew at the moment.
In the past, he doted on her, but Aerea saw no reason not to take over that duty during his time of mourning. It would be good practice for when they wed, and he bore the burden first of heir and then as king.
“Let us sit, Jace, and you can tell me about Dragonstone. Or Vermax! How big has he gotten now?”
***
Helaena watched the spider scurry across her palm, admiring the ticklish sensation of its many legs as they whispered over her skin.
The sensation was a helpful distraction from her thoughts. The visions of Aemma’s bleeding face, as she screamed, had been dogging her steps since the morning they learned of Lady Laena’s death. She didn’t know what it meant, and she could glean no context for the terrible image, but she knew she’d be able to do nothing to stop it. That fact sat like a stone in her belly.
“Is that a spider?” A boy's voice drew her attention away from her many-legged friend.
He looked to be of an age with Lucerys, perhaps closer to Daena’s age. He had the Velaryon coloring, his dark skin gleaming even under the cloudy sky, and dozens of tiny silver-blonde braids hung to his shoulders.
“Baelon,” she realized. “You’re Uncle Daemon’s son.”
He nodded.
“I’m very sorry you lost your mother,” she told him gently.
He flinched at the mention of Lady Laena, and Helaena regretted her lack of tact.
“Have you ever seen a sea star?” he asked instead of responding to her condolences. “A live one?”
Helaena shook her head. She’d read about them but had yet to acquire a specimen. She was given to understand from Maester Edwyle that they could not live very long out of the sea, so she couldn’t properly keep one in her rooms. Helaena did not appreciate dead creatures as much as living ones, though she’d collected a few.
“Do you want to?” he asked.
“Yes!” she responded immediately. She set the spider aside among the stones and stood.
He seemed surprised at how quickly she agreed, but when Helaena reached out her hand to him, he accepted with a blush on his cheeks.
“I’ll show you where to find them,” he said.
Helaena gave him a beaming smile.
***
Aemma was drifting to sleep when she heard Vhagar’s mournful song. She sat up immediately, struck by the beauty of her singing.
Cautiously, Aemma rose from her bed, careful not to make any noise. She glanced across the room to see Aerea sprawled across her bed, sleeping as profoundly as a person could. Aemma thought that she would sleep away her days if her sister could. Still, Aemma did not want to risk waking her and dealing with her irate questions. Helaena was asleep as well, but Aemma knew that Hel would not tell on her if she woke to find her gone.
She pulled her dress from earlier that day from where it was hung and hurried to pull it on. It was challenging to lace without help from a maid, but she eventually managed and threw her cloak on.
Her slippers were next, and she almost crashed to the floor, trying to step into them while also braiding her hair out of her eyes.
Finally ready, she slipped out of her room and down the corridor. Aemma crouched in the shadows, and by the grace of the gods, she went unnoticed.
She found the ease with which she left the castle surprising, though perhaps the guards were more concerned with someone trying to sneak in rather than out. Still, the rough stone tunnel that led down to the beach, discovered after the Velaryons and their guests had retired, was strangely unguarded.
She pushed ahead, however, and did not dwell on her good fortune. When she came to the end of the tunnel, she was facing the western side of the castle, near the terraces Lady Laena’s wake had been held on. Rolling dunes hid the beach from her, but she remembered spying Vhagar, large as a mountain, curled up under mounds of sand to the west during the wake. She must be near there.
She ran towards where she thought the dragon might be, and it did not take long to crest the dunes and see the massive sandy form emitting that sorrowful song.
Vhagar had buried herself in the sand, but her gleaming hide showed in small flashes of bronze, and the dark waves washed some of the sand away as it crashed against her side.
Aemma forced herself not to stop and stare, knowing she did not have all night; at any moment, the Kingsguard could discover that she was missing and then the beach would be crawling with guards searching for her.
She dashed as close as she dared until she was close enough to smell the stench of dragon and hear each rumbling breath that Vhagar took. Aemma slowed then, not wanting to startle her. Allowing herself to pause to catch her breath, Aemma stared up at Vhagar with covetous awe. She walked unsteadily across the shifting sands until Vhagar towered above her. This close, the dragonsong was loud enough that Aemma felt it in her chest and under her feet. Vhagar's scales were more visible from this vantage point, and Aemma admired the green as it gleamed in the moonlight, with little flashes of her bronze markings only adding to her beauty. There were countless ropes and chains wound over her massive neck, left there by her previous riders.
She reached out a trembling hand towards the woven net which acted as a ladder up to Vhagar’s saddle. Just as her fingers brushed the rough rope, she was startled back a step as a green eye the size of a dinner platter flicked open. It immediately trained on her.
Though terrified, Aemma did not step back any further, even as Vhagar lifted her head and snaked it around to bear her massive teeth. However, she did sigh relief when the dragon turned away and laid her head back down.
Determined, Aemma reached for the ropes once again, and once again, the dragon turned on her. This time, she did not stop at a brief show of force; she opened her great maw, and Aemma saw the makings of a gout of flame building in her throat.
“Dohaeras!” she shouted, panicked. “Dohaeras, Vhagar! Lykiri!”
Vhagar paused, mouth closing slightly.
“Lykiri,” she repeated, bolstered by Vhagar’s hesitation.
They stared at each other for a long, taut moment. Vhagar’s eyes were full of consideration as if she were taking Aemma’s measure and deciding whether to give her a chance to become her rider. Her hopes built when Vhagar’s flames died, and her mouth closed.
“Lykiri,” she said once more before reaching out again for the ropes. This time, Vhagar allowed it, and she made the long climb up Vhagar’s back, pulling herself up to grip the pommel and settling into the tough leather dragon saddle. She grabbed the reins, wrapping them several times around her arms.
“Soves!” she called out breathlessly once she was secured. “Dohaeras Vhagar! Soves!”
Vhagar rose faster than Aemma thought possible for a creature her size, sending Aemma crashing into the pommel. She barely held on as the dragon shook the sand and seawater from her scales.
With massive, booming steps and wings clawing into the ground to lend her more speed, Vhagar prepared to take flight. Aemma let out a scream of terror and pain, hanging on desperately to the reins. The leather bit into her arms and bare wrists, but she was past the point of returning to the ground. She would claim Vhagar and fly, or she would die.
The thought had not occurred to her until that moment.
As Vhagar took flight, Aemma could not stay seated on the saddle, hanging from her wrists onto the reins, her feet dangling over open air. She screamed once more, desperate to live.
You need this, she told herself; you need this more than anything in this world. Fight for it.
The thought spurred her into action. Still screaming, Aemma used all her strength to pull her body up and regain her seat. Moments after she succeeded, Vhagar went into a dive. The hoary old bitch was still testing her, and Aemma needed to prove herself. She pulled as hard as she could at the reins, and while she knew she should be calling out commands, all she was capable of were wordless shrieks of effort. She pulled up several times, but it was not until Vhagar’s claws brushed the ground that she righted herself, leaving deep scars on the earth.
Aemma screamed again, but as Vhagar’s flying became smoother, more observant of Aemma’s comfort, she knew she’d succeeded. She was now the rider of Vhagar, the largest living dragon in the world. Her screams became whoops of joy and breathless giggles.
A profound sense of warmth and love grew in her chest, and she was elated to realize that it was Vhagar. The dragon was satisfied with her new rider, and Aemma wept to know that she was worthy of such esteem. It was the greatest moment of her life, and she could not wait to spend the rest of her life with her dragon.
Before tonight, she hadn’t understood what it meant to be bonded to a dragon. She’d assumed it was like a horse and their rider, a fondness and trust, but just the superficial kind shared between an animal and its owner. Shame filled her now at the thought. That was not how it was at all. A bond like this was so intimate and euphoric that she could not hope to put it into words.
But such joy could not last forever.
***
A banging at the door woke Aerea, and she shouted at them to leave her alone. Her orders were not followed. When she did not respond immediately, Ser Arryk barged in and told her that something had happened, and her mother wanted her in the main hall now to ensure she was safe.
The brute drug her there when she protested, and she was surprised by the utter chaos that was occurring. Her mother was shrieking and crying, and her father was trying to shout her down. There was a Maester bent over a head of silver hair, and for a moment, Aerea wondered if one of Helaena’s creepy crawlies had finally bitten her. Then she spotted Helaena cowering by the fireplace, arms wrapped around her middle.
It was Aemma then. And there was—Aerea almost vomited when she saw the state of her face. A long slash bisected her eye, the two edges of her skin flapping as the Maester sought to stem the rush of blood.
Swinging her head towards her Mother, she saw genuine anguish. The poor woman was weeping openly, shouting for answers and retribution.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, shielded by a cluster of lesser Velaryons, were Rhaenyra’s sons and Daemon’s twins. They all looked like they’d been in a tavern fight. Lucerys clutched at his bloodied, bent nose, and Jacaerys suffered from a fat lip and a thin cut along the edge of his hairline. The twins were equally as beaten up.
But none of them had a wound like Aemma. The idiot must have fought off all four of them before they’d gotten her eye. Aerea was impressed, even proud of her sister. She might be betrothed to Jace and be fond of him, but Aemma was her sister. She could not forgive this so quickly.
Ser Arryk, having succeeded in finding his quarry, deposited Aerea next to Helaena. The younger girl clung to Aerea momentarily, overwhelmed by all the shouting. Then Helaena sniffed and cringed, slinking away. Aerea leaned against the fireplace, watching in confusion and fear at how the hall could descend into chaos at the hands of five children.
No one knew what to do—including the King—and they all waited for someone to start making sense of what had happened.
“How could you allow such a thing to happen?” Viserys finally asked, breaking the stalemate. He was speaking to Harrold Westerling. The Commander of the Kingsguard was covered in blood—Aemma’s blood—and the look of guilt on his face almost rivaled the anger that was brewing on Mother’s.
“I will have answers,” the King pressed when the Commander remained silent.
Ser Westerling began, voice soft and sorrowful. “The princess was supposed to be abed, My King.”
Aerea didn’t listen to the rest, her gaze straying back to her little sister. The Maester had started stitching the skin around her eye, and she winced at each piercing of the needle into the already inflamed flesh.
Mother crouched beside her chair, her back to Aerea.
The King shouted, even as Mother pressed the Maester for details.
“It will heal, won’t it, Maester?” she asked the old man desperately.
Aerea peered over her shoulder, face twisted. It looked so terrible; she found it hard to believe it would.
The room fell silent, everyone waiting for a proper answer for the man.
“The flesh will heal,” he finally intoned, voice reluctant. “But the eye is lost, Your Grace.”
He finished the last stitch, and the slick sound of it piercing her sister’s cheek sent Aerea reeling back into the fireplace, stomach swimming.
Helaena looked equally ill, weeping softly as Mother’s breaths became panicked.
She rounded on Aerea, and half-asleep as she was, she could do nothing to defend herself from the slap that Mother delivered to her face, fast and hard.
She reeled back once again. “Ow! What was that for?” she cried, clutching her cheek. Mother drew her close, speaking from between gritted teeth.
“That was nothing compared to the abuse your sister suffered while you were sleeping peacefully, you foolish girl.” Mother’s nails dug into her arms, breaking skin even through the sleeves of her dress. “Why didn’t you stop her from leaving her bed?”
Those brown eyes cut into Aerea’s own, fierce and burning with resentment and disgust.
Aerea cowered away, hiding her tears behind her cloud of disheveled curls, as Lord Corlys burst into the room with a shout, his wife at his heels.
The Velaryons rushed towards their grandchildren, shielding them from the Queen, who’d rounded on the quartet as soon as she’d finished with Aerea.
Rhaenyra entered seconds later, collecting Jace and Lucerys and holding them against her. Her touch was soft on their wounds, and Aerea turned so she didn’t have to see.
Talya, mother’s maid, stepped in front of her and Helaena even as Mother shielded Aemma from the sudden onslaught of accusations from the bastards and their cousins.
Aerea bowed her head and tried to go far away.
She could have—she could have protected her, surely. Aemma was a fierce little girl, and Aerea was a lazy princess who preferred eating cake to fighting, but she was also heads taller than the rest of the royal children. Even if she couldn’t have fought them off, she was older. If she were there, she might have thought to call the guards before her sister could lose an eye.
Gods, she was a despicable wretch, a waste of meat and bone. Aerea gripped her wrists tight enough to bruise, shuddering with the effort not to cry.
Rhaenyra called for Aemma’s torture, and Aerea blinked across the room at her sister’s gall. How could she—but then Viserys crouched over his daughter’s chair, voice gone hard as steel, as he questioned her.
“Aemma, who spoke these lies to you?”
Aerea could have laughed. Lies? What lies were there? It was plain as day those boys weren’t Laenor Velaryon’s sons. Aerea ducked her pounding head, anger and disbelief coursing through her.
“It was Aerea.”
Her head shot up, eyes darting for the person who’d said her name. Aemma stared at her from her chair, a look she could not describe on her thin face.
“Me,” Aerea breathed. She stared down at her face, eyes wide. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Would Viserys have her sent to the Silent Sisters? Would she be executed? What would the punishment be for these treasonous lies?
“And you, girl ?” Viserys said, his voice rumbling in his sunken chest. His cane hit the floor with a solid thwack as he rounded Aemma’s chair, drawing close to Aerea. His stinking breath hit her face. "Where did you hear such calumnies?”
Aerea was frozen, unable to meet her father’s eyes, but he had no patience for her terror.
“Aerea!” he roared, inches from her face. She jumped, but he pressed further. “Tell me the truth of it!”
She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, and her voice when she answered him was more a sob than true words. She couldn’t tell him the truth—she couldn’t doom her mother.
“Just some- some lords. They were whispering about it.”
It was silent, and Aerea was sure he would hit her or order her seized.
“Who!” he demanded.
“I don’t- I don’t know! I don’t remember.”
“You heard members of the court speaking treason and didn’t say a word? Do you disdain your sister and your betrothed so much?”
Aerea shook her head frantically. “No! No, of course not. I didn’t mean- I didn’t think!”
Her father turned from her in disgust, and Aerea could not restrain her sobs.
Rhaenyra’s eyes welled with her own tears, and Aerea hated her then. Why was she crying? She’d gotten everything she’d always wanted, got to fuck who she wanted and marry who she wanted and pass her bastards off as trueborn children. What did she have to cry about? Aerea was nice to her and treated her and Jacaerys as family, but her big sister said no word in her defense. Why should she be crying when it was Aemma who was hurt?
“This interminable infighting must cease!” he yelled, turning back on her again, eyes wild. One of his hands landed like a claw on her shoulder, and she let out a wretched sound as he shook her. “All of you! We are a family!”
Everyone jumped at the volume of his voice, and Mother looked as if she might come between father and daughter.
But Viserys’s following words stopped her in her tracks.
“Now make your apologies and show goodwill to one another,” he said, and his voice was a broken thing. “Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!”
“That is insufficient,” Mother said, her voice equally broken.
Viserys turned, and when Mother opened her mouth to continue, he turned a sharp gaze on her.
Perhaps he would have let her rage in another world, but in this one, Viserys slammed his cane on the ground. “I am the king! I say that it is sufficient! I will not watch this house fall to petty squabbles and jealousy!”
“She is your daughter!” Mother shouted. “Your blood, Viserys! She has been damaged permanently!”
“I cannot give her back her eye!” Viserys raged.
Whatever Mother might have said in response to that was interrupted by Rhaenyra. “Father, let us think of a solution. I am…heartily sorry that this has caused the loss of my sister’s eye. Let us build a bridge between our two families!”
The hall turned as one to stare at Rhaenyra. Aerea let out a scratching, broken laugh. What could be paid for Aemma’s eye? Would she scoop out Lucerys’s and offer it to Mother on a silver platter?
“Let Aerea and Jacaerys marry as soon as possible. Let them foster a bond and heal this divide between our families.”
Mother gave a wretched laugh. “In payment for my daughter’s eye, you’d take my other daughter from me as well? Marry her to a boy? The brother of who took my child’s eye?”
“They are already betrothed. Aerea will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms one day,” Rhaenyra bit back sharply. “A far higher position than a lady of a castle, be it great or small.”
“No—” Mother hissed, but Viserys grasped at her arm, giving her a jerk until she fell back against him.
“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” the King commanded his wife. “And do not presume to tell me what decisions I can make about my children.”
“How can the betrothal stand after what has happened?” Mother asked.
“Silence!” Viserys roared once more. “Princess Rhaenyra has suggested a sensible solution in search of peace. We accept.”
“Thank you, Father,” Rhaenyra said.
“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will,” Mother said. “Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”
The room stopped, and Aerea’s wide gaze landed on her mother’s sworn shield. The man seemed unsure, hand on the pommel of his sword, but eyes wide with dread.
Little Luke panicked, and Mother pushed on.
“He can choose which eyes to lose, a privilege he did not grant my daughter.”
“You will do no such thing!” Rhaenyra commanded.
Aerea watched what happened next with awe. Her mother, her proper, pious mother, descended into madness. Stealing the King’s own dagger and attacking his favorite child.
In defense of Aemma, yes. But in defense of her as well.
The hall descended into yet more chaos.