Chapter 1: From the grave to a cradle
Chapter Text
Percy hadn’t meant for this to happen. Truly.
Yes, he had agreed to help a doomed world regain its footing in exchange for a quick trip out of the Underworld. Save the world by preventing this one event—all he had to do was ensure the right people lived long enough to sit on the throne.
It would be quick, they said.
Nothing too troublesome for the Hero of the Silver Age, they promised.
There will be dragons, they bribed.
Had he known he was going to be saddled with more than just the responsibility of deterring a catastrophic war and the entire course of destiny with only the somewhat minimal help of his cousin, he would have told that Valyrian god to go take a hike.
Annabeth’s so going to kill him for this.
Alicent was eight moons with His Grace the King’s child—the latest and hopefully last, her father’s wishes be damned; she had given the king more children than Aemma Arryn ever hoped to bear or Viserys knew what to do with—when her two eldest children simultaneously decided to lose their minds.
When the tantrums first started, Alicent had deluded herself into thinking that her two children were simply upset from the lack of attention. Unlike with her other children, this babe was proving to be trouble even before he—for it was most definitely another son—left the safety of her body. Her ankles had swollen miserably large, she hadn’t been able to keep food down for nearly five moons turn, and so Maester Mellos had forced her on bedrest very early on. Where she had yet to leave nearly four moons later, leaving her children to be absolute terrors.
Not that Viserys would know. He spared not a thought to her children, spending the sparse moments he could crawl out of bed with Rhaenyra and her wretched bastard. Well, bastards. There were two of them now—the youngest born only seven moons ago, the exact mirror of his older brother. And the Hand’s eldest son.
Aegon was born a terror. Clingy, and prone to tantrums from the moment he knew that crying would grant him the attention that Alicent knew she hadn’t been able to give him. His temper and tears had only gotten worse with every child Alicent was forced to carry, and the sparse attention that his father had stopped granting him. But it was Helaena that surprised Alicent enough to force herself out of the bed she had been glued to.
Her Helaena was a hard babe at first, but had mellowed out after her first birthday to the point of near silence. The direct opposite of Aegon, her two eldest had never really gotten along. Aegon wanted a brother he could play with, and Helaena rather spent her day watching birds than playing with her annoying older brother. The birth of Aemond had finally provided a healthy balance.
So when a frazzled nursemaid broke propriety to march into the Queen’s bedchamber unannounced, Alicent was too shocked to care much about manners. The young nursemaid—Mara, one of Aegon’s newest—had burst into tears the moment she saw Alicent, nearly throwing herself onto the floor at her feet. Between blubbering sobs and a handkerchief being pressed to stem her tears, the young girl begged for the queen to interfere with her children. Little by little, the story clicked into place, and Alicent…had perhaps never been so horrified.
Ser Criston was helping her stand—well, he was mostly carrying her at this point, for her belly was simply too large—when the doors to her room burst open unannounced for the second time that day. Ser Harrold Westerling came marching in, followed by a hobbling Viserys, who had both of her elder children clutched in each hand. Aegon was babbling up a storm at his father, who actually looked interested for once, and Helaena—Helaena was smiling. A large grin, that stretched from cheek to cheek. Alicent didn’t think she’d ever seen her daughter smile so exuberantly.
At the sight of her and her grossly protruding belly—really, had she known he was going to show up in her chambers she would have at least attempted to look presentable—Viserys dropped both children’s hands to hobble towards her, rancid breath washing over her as he ordered Criston to settle her back down on the chaise.
“Good morrow, husband,” Alicent greeted, dropping a quick kiss on the less disgusting cheek. Truly, Mellos had not been doing a fine job with healing the lesions on the king’s skin. The blisters and rot had begun spreading down his neck, with nought a change despite the constant medications and creams she had forced herself to apply when able.
“Now, what did I hear about our children causing a fuss?” Alicent asked, flashing steely eyes on her two children, both of whom were grinning innocuously. They were even holding hands, a sight Alicent did not think she would ever get to see. Not even at their inevitable wedding, where she was sure she would have to drag Aegon to.
Viserys chuckled, moving to sit across her. “Nothing to worry about, my dear wife. It seems our children simply had a request I was only too happy to grant.”
“A request?” Alicent’s brow furrowed, sparing a glance at the two giggly children. “Of what kind?”
Viserys opened his mouth to answer—
“Father said yes to taking us to Dragonstone,” Helaena interrupted softly, her lavender eyes brimming with life. Her daughter seldom spoke, but when she did she did so beautifully. “To see dragons.”
No. Helaena was too young, too sweet still for a dragon. “Viserys, husband, we have spoken on this,” Alicent panicked. The thought of her pure, innocent Helaena near another one of those violent beasts made her want to vomit. “Helaena is still too young—,”
“Peace, Alicent,” Viserys interrupted with a wave of a wrinkled hand. “Only Aegon will be claiming a dragon. Or another egg, should he wish. But the boy is six, and old enough to try.”
Immediately, all the fight left Alicent, leaving her to sag on the chaise. Aegon’s egg had once been Baelon’s, and had never hatched. Earlier this year, it had begun to turn to stone. Helaena’s did hatch, but the cream yellow hatchling hadn’t survived more than a moon’s turn before succumbing to death. Aemond’s silver egg remains to be seen, sleeping warm underneath his bed.
One look confirmed that her son was happy, the happiest she had ever seen him. Alicent’s heart began to melt. Aegon was so lonely, born with a melancholy no amount of siblings had been able to fix. He had cried miserably when his egg began petrifying, and even more so when Jacaerys’ dragon had hatched.
“Aegon then,” Alicent agreed. Perhaps a dragon was what her son needed most right now, and a dragon would most certainly show her son was the right choice of heir.
She beckoned Helaena closer. “And you, my sweet? Another egg, perhaps?” But her daughter merely shook her head stubbornly. From the corner of her eye, Alicent saw her husband tense in surprise at their daughter’s vehemence. Interesting. Even he didn’t know Helaena was not after another dragon.
“Not for me,” Helaena insisted, pointing a hand at Alicent’s belly. “For my valonqar.”
“But the babe already has an egg, sweetling. You helped choose one moons ago,” Alicent said, confused. Her husband seemed similarly unmoored, though said nothing. The babe’s egg had been chosen from Dreamfyre’s latest clutch by the children themselves—an admittedly beautiful thing, of cobalt blue with copper swirls.
“Hel believes we chose wrong,” Aegon chimed in from next to his sister. He was practically bouncing with glee. Helaena nodded, almost desperately. Looking at her son, she wasn’t sure if he actually believed his sister at all, or if he was just taking advantage of the situation to claim a dragon.
Not that it mattered. Viserys still looked utterly delighted at the chance to visit Dragonstone, strange reasons or no. Especially when Rhaenyra was there visiting her castle and introducing Lucerys to the masses. Alicent sighed. From there, the matter was settled. Viserys and the children sans Aemond would visit Dragonstone in two days' time. Under no circumstances, Alicent had pressed her husband, would they be allowed to stay longer than a sennight.
Aegon returned from Dragonstone with a dragon clutched in his arms—a hatchling no bigger than a particularly skinny hound, its bright golden scales and soft pink wings glittering like diamonds in the setting sun. Sunfyre, the boy proclaimed proudly to anyone who would hear him, the little dragon squeaking his approval. Little Sunfyre would set fire to the curtains in the nursery twice before the moon turned, brilliant golden flames let loose while Aegon clapped with little worry while his nursemaids screamed.
Helaena returned with an egg almost as large as she was, of pale blue and sea glass green with ridges like waves crashing into the shore. A strangely Velaryon-looking egg, Alicent noted with raised brows, something that even her husband and his slight wince confirmed was unplanned. But her daughter had chosen this egg for reasons that neither of her parents could comprehend, or Aegon cared for. Her son got his dragon, and Alicent ended up with a Velaryon colored dragon egg for a Targaryen prince.
Perhaps it was a sign of her son’s future. Helaena had whispered something along the lines of “sea prince” when she dropped the egg off with the Dragonkeepers. As to what it meant, Alicent could only pray to the Seven that it would protect her children.
The night Percy Jackson finally died was as ordinary as it was peaceful. Eighty seven years old and having outlived nearly all his friends, with a full life to show for it—a loving wife, a beloved sister, beautiful children and grandchildren to keep the house alive with mirth and joy. A lifetime of adventures, however big or small; a hero for the ages.
His soul passed through the Underworld with a speed made only possible by the blessings of treasured friends. That, and the uncle-god who wanted him far, far away from his throne room.
Not that Percy could blame him. None of his many trips to Hades’ Palace had ever gone well.
And Percy’s time in the Fields of Judgment had passed quickly. With a quick snap of Nico’s fingers—gone were the wrinkles and sunspots; like this, Nico looked like he did at thirty five and happy—a judgment was made. Elysium, for the twice-damned Hero of Olympus.
“The Isles of the Blessed,” Hazel piped up from next to him, golden eyes blazing with joy. She looked beautiful, with her crows feet and slight gray on cinnamon curls. “For the soul that had found Elysium in all its times in the cycle of life.”
“Go in peace, Perseus Jackson,” finished Bianca di Angelo, older than he had ever seen her get to be.
(The mind of Percy Jackson would never remember all the people he used to be. Time and infinity and Chronos is a concept not even the brightest demigod minds could grasp. Forward, backwards—a never-ending loop. What is, will be; what exists then, begets the now.
Was Perseus Jackson born because of the Great Prophecy, or was the prophecy made because he was to exist? Was Percy Jackson named for Perseus, or was Perseus named for him?
Does it really matter? The soul of Percy Jackson will continue to live on in the stars that bear his name.)
They say that when a person dies and judgment is cast, be it to eternal damnation or peaceful absolution, their soul reverts back to the visage it wore when they were at their happiest. Nico still looked the age when he and Will adopted little Bianca. Hazel grew happier as she aged, because it was a reminder she lived past thirteen. The moment Percy stepped foot in Elysium, the wrinkles faded and his shock of white hair bled to black. His spine straightened, the aches in his back and knees and hips, all the injuries that hampered his life, faded to nothing. In eternity, Percy looked no older than he did the day he married Annabeth.
Jason still looked no older than sixteen, brilliant and golden and so very young.
A crowd had formed on the Square that housed Elysium’s gates. Elysium was beautiful, and everything a hero could dream of. From where he stood, all Percy could see were miles of hills interspersed with palaces and cities, myriad of flowers surrounding them like a blanket. Marble streets and fountains at every turn; restaurants and stores, even an arcade and amusement park or two. A modern Olympus, filled with everything its heroes could ever wish for.
As Percy stepped off the dais, he was swarmed from all sides by happy souls and screaming laughter. Friends he had lost so long ago he could barely remember their faces. But never their names; someone had to remember all those who fell in defense of Olympus.
Beckendorf. Silena, after her second turn in life. Clarisse and Chris, finally together again. The Stoll brothers. Katie, Lou Ellen, Jake. Lee Fletcher and Michael Yew. Leo. Reyna, frozen at seventeen, with eyes that spoke of a lifetime lived. Frank, forever twenty nine and slamming him into a bear hug alongside Jason, their laughter hiding the sobs Percy shed the moment he saw them.
(Sally Jackson had opted for rebirth the moment she entered the Underworld, that much Percy knew. Though her soul was on track for Elysium, Percy knew she would never make it there. Sally Jackson loved life, and she deserved to live it to the fullest far, far away from the games gods play.
From what little Nico knew, her soul had been reborn somewhere in Asia.)
Frank and Jason had won the lottery to be the ones to send him to the Isles. Located in the center of the deepest valley, on a lake so clear it shimmered like diamonds on a sunny day, the Isles of the Blessed glistened into being. Paradise took form as miles upon miles of sandy beaches, resorts and villas dotting every edge. If he squinted, he thinks he might’ve seen a pod of dolphins floating by the northmost edge, alongside a variety of other marine animals that would never coexist together anywhere but in death.
The afterlife was a paradise built on the beliefs of the fallen—those whose greatest wishes were never fulfilled in life. Percy tried not to think about how the souls of fallen demigods greatest wish was to go on an eternal vacation. And maybe swim with sharks and dolphins, untouched by time and mortal fears.
Settling down into one of the many nondescript villas—well, the one he found closest to cabin 3 anyway—Percy threw himself down onto the world’s comfiest bed. Here, Percy could finally be at peace; free from all responsibilities and duties, no sacrifices left to be made. Here, Percy Jackson could settle down and spend time with the friends he had not seen in almost a lifetime, until the day Annabeth, his two children, and Estelle made their way here, too. Though knowing Estelle, it would be a long time before he saw his little sister again. If it were up to Thalia, Estelle would live long enough to replace her as Lieutenant, and knowing Thalia, Estelle was destined to live forever at this rate.
But for Percy, this was the end. Death was the ending to a lifetime of fighting. Death was peace, and in death, he intended to rest.
Except—
No one told him how utterly dull death was.
Everyday was the same day—he’d get up, take a swim with the dolphins and sharks and whatever menagerie of weird, ancient marine creatures littered Elysium’s Lake, and then head off to meet with his less-recently departed friends.
It was fun in the beginning; a lottery system had been implemented to arrange individual ‘catch-up’ days with him, so everyone had an equal chance. He’d go to the arcades and the multiple malls and museums; visit each and every house owned by someone he knew for dinner—which normally ranged from junk food snucked in by a Hades kid to whatever home-cooked meal someone made. Then he’d go home to his overwater bungalow for the night, and pass out till dawn.
And then he’d repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
Jason and Beckendorf, by virtue of being there the longest without rebirth at least once, were most sympathetic. They too, were bored out of their minds and at wits end.
“There’s only so much you can do here, Perce,” Jason had said apologetically, after Percy spent the better part of the morning lamenting over his boredom while sipping on his daily boba.
But while Beckendorf still had Silena to distract him, he and Jason weren’t quite as lucky. Reyna was preparing for rebirth soon, and Leo had been lucky enough to get a job from Hades to oversee Daedalus’ road and bridge constructions. Last he heard from the two crazy engineers, they were in the midst of planning a whole new wing for Asphodel. Percy had offered his own help to his uncle, but had been shot down over afternoon tea with Persephone. Apparently, the Underworld staff of ghouls and skeletons were kind of scared of him, given the amount of times he’d accidentally terrorized them.
And Jason—
Well, the guy spent the first fifty years of his time in the Underworld working. He built statues, volunteered for any available committee; played mediator and kept the peace between everyone. Then, he crashed. Hard. Turns out, working nonstop everyday without gratification could kill even the dead. Now, his cousin just spent most of his days relaxing and catching up on the childhood he never got.
Which brought Percy back to where he was now: bored. Bored and alone because Frank was busy with Hazel, and Jason—his assigned buddy of the day—bailed on him for some reason or another. And a bored Percy was a dangerous, impulsive Percy.
So when a random dragon-lizard looking god from a completely different reality popped in on his doorsteps like an unwanted Jehovah’s Witness, Percy was desperate enough that he didn't slam the door in their scaly face.
Daeron Targaryen was born on the 18th day of the 8th moon, 119 years After Aegon's Conquest. A head of palest silver strands, just like all the queen’s children, except for a single tuft of black hair laid right at the center that set him apart from all known Targaryens. And his eyes shone, not the violets or lilacs or lavender of his siblings, but of purest green. Like his mother’s dress; like wildfire. Green, like the emerald beacon on the Hightower.
And with a first tremulous cry, his dragon hatched.
Chapter 2: a boy and his dragon
Summary:
In which Percy argues with a dragon-lizard-looking god, Daeron terrifies people by being Daeron, Alicent laments over the oddity that is her youngest, and the little blue hatchling gets a name.
(spoilers: it doesn't go very well)
Notes:
Hello!
First things first, thank you so much to everyone who left a kudos and/or commented on chapter 1. It meant a lot to me, and is perhaps the only reason I was motivated enough to post chapter 2 early. Y'all are amazing.
Secondly, as I mentioned on the previous chapter, I'm not the biggest fan of how the women in HotD were characterized. I think the show tried too hard to erase any of adult Rhaenyra's flaws, and added so many issues to both Alicent and Helaena that they stopped making sense. So in this, Rhaenyra's derived more from Milly's version of her, and Alicent doesn't lose her s1 anger.
Lastly, this chapter starts off a few months before the events of 1x06, but a large chunk of it is a flashback to 2 years prior. Everything that starts in the 'present' is set up to lead into Driftmark, where Percy's fuck around and find out energy reaches its peak (for now). I think whoever did the timeline for the show did a terrible job keeping track of their ages, so I'm making my own. Daeron's age will be covered in chapter, but for references:
In flashback:
- Aegon = 11
- Helaena = 9
- Aemond and Jace = 7
- Luke = 6
- Daeron = 5By Driftmark:
- Aegon = 13
- Helaena = 11
- Aemond = 10
- Jace = 9
- Luke = 8
- Daeron = 7Also, just a reminder but English is not my first language, and this work is completely unbeta-ed. Many apologies if there are mistakes!
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The young Prince Daeron was a strange, beastly little thing.
Oh, no one would ever believe her if she said it aloud. The prince was certainly a charmer, with his crooked grin and large emerald eyes that never failed to make him look like a scorned puppy. Those eyes always got him out of trouble—trouble that he usually caused—while his siblings toiled under the scoldings of their queen mother for stealing yet another of Princess Rhaenyra’s beloved lemon pie.
The ladies of King’s Landing certainly would never believe her either, assuming they deigned to give her a single thought. All bought into his boyish charms and quick laughter, as did the lords and knights with his natural talents with the sword. The prince was only seven, but had shown more inclinations with the sword than all his brothers and nephews combined. Many in the Keep would even whisper that had the boy been born first, he would have been made heir in a heartbeat.
The other nursemaids would never say a thing out of fear, but she knew the truth. How could she not, when Elissa herself had been there the day the king’s youngest son was brought into the world. Daeron Targaryen had come into the world swiftly, with hefty screaming rage. Elissa had only been twelve then, young even by servant standards, but her sister had gotten lucky enough to receive a job as one of the nursemaids chosen in preparation of the birth of the new prince.
So Elissa had gone with her, and subsequently roped into helping the maester and maids help the queen in her labor. She had been young, but she was quick and experienced, and so it was she who was left to swaddle the prince’s swinging and kicking limbs into towels and cloth while the maester worked to stop the queen from dying.
The bruises she received took a whole moon to heal. But bruises alone she could have lived with. The life of a servant was seldom kind, especially one that looked as visibly Dornish as she did.
It was the babe’s eyes that terrified her. Not the vividness of the green, or the way it nearly shone in the moonless night. They said that Targaryens were closer to gods than men, and Elissa had spent enough time listening to Mara moan extensively over caring for the queen’s older children to know that it was true. The dragon that refused to leave Prince Aegon’s side certainly didn’t help. So near-luminous eyes, while strange, were no more so than the menagerie of purple-eyed children her sister was hired to care for.
No, it was the way the babe had gazed right into her eyes without the blank fatigue and bleariness of newborns. Something ancient was brewing in the prince’s eyes, so old and knowing that it made her whole body breakout in gooseflesh. Elissa had never been more happy to hand over a babe to his mother than she did Daeron Targaryen.
Young Daeron may have the face of a prince and the manners of a knight, but he was no Targaryen. No, there was something far more ancient roiling underneath his skin—something that could make even dragons cower and nations weep. He was other.
It terrified her to realize that he knew it, too.
Having the entire history of the Valyrian Freehold and their subjugation of Westeros, past and future, downloaded into your brain against your will, like the world’s most disturbing picture book was an experience Percy wouldn’t wish even on his worst enemy. It was pure torture, having to sift through a thousand years of wars, dragons, and territory disputes. Or the slave empire, blood supremacy, and copious amounts of incest. If Percy had to witness another pair of white-blonde siblings going at it like rabbits, he was going to find a way to drown himself in the Lethe.
Really, the only thing worth the headache and nausea invading his senses were the dragons. Magnificent creatures, if monstrously large and absolutely terrible for the economy. And dangerous.
Hades, what is with gods and their inability to ask for consent before conscripting innocent demigods on their weird, vague quests to save the world?
He had opened his humble abode to a deity, kindly offering them coffee and some of Hazel’s lemon bars, like he did for all the many gods who used to appear at his door like pathetic wet dogs over the years. Offered to hear him out, and listened as the god pleaded his cause and bribe: a quick trip away from the boredom of the Underworld, in exchange for help preventing a war.
He told them he’d consider it. And instead of thanking him, the dragon-lizard-god thing grew to twenty feet and slammed an entire nation’s lore into Percy's brain without so much as a by-your-leave.
“You couldn’t have gone with a simple ‘Hear me out’?” Percy groaned from his place by the grizzly talons for feet, some thirty minutes after the images began making themselves home in his head. If he were still able to bleed, he was pretty sure he’d be suffering hemorrhages from all his facial orifices.
“Or even a ‘Help me, O’ Hero of Olympus. You’re my only hope’,” he continued to snark, trying very hard not to heave all over the pretty blue carpet. Gods, what did he get himself into this time?
The damned lizard had the audacity to shrug. Or their version of it, completed with big, membranous wings. “I needed to catch your attention.”
“So you started with the incest?” Percy asked incredulously. Picking himself off the floor, he grimaced as the images once again began flooding his corneas in droves of blonde hell.
A world with dragons and magic, and their god chose to focus on explicit inbreeding as a selling point instead, Percy thought, shuddering.
The god gave him a flat look. “You’re half Greek god,” they waved a dismissive, clawed hand, “Copulation between close blood is practically your bread and butter.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Percy replied, “Not exactly the same, but sure, let’s go with it.”
Dragging a hand down his face, Percy let out a muffled groan. “I’m going to severely regret asking this, and I’m not saying yes yet, but what exactly is it you need me to do?”
Alicent loved her children. She truly did. She might not be the best mother, but she certainly tried her best.
She just somehow managed to birth four very odd, very different beings.
She did not quite understand it; she had siblings of her own, and while they all had widely different childhoods, they at least shared some similarities that were ingrained into them from birth. Even Rhaenyra’s sons, from the little time Alicent spent with them, were quite similar. To other children, to each other. But her children were strange, even for Targaryen standards.
Aegon’s temper swung like a pendulum most days; like a flipped coin that never landed, he moved between sweetness and rage quickly. Quick to love, yet easy to hate. Melancholic. Too draconic, Alicent had heard the maids whisper one time. Too much a dragon, and not enough a boy.
They weren’t wrong; Alicent had grown at Rhaenyra’s side, and had recognized the traits as they made themselves known. The fiery temper, the wrath that was quick to make home in those violet eyes and beautiful face. The overindulgence on sweets and anything beloved; the sloth and spoilt rebellion. The wonder that truly only existed when atop a dragon. Aegon was a Targaryen, through and through.
Her Helaena’s joy was a wonder to see, ever since that trip to Dragonstone. Gone were the moments of quietness so deadly she feared Helaena would stop breathing if left alone. A gladness that had only grown more and more once she claimed Dreamfyre and experienced the wonders of the sky. But while joy had clearly found its way into her daughter’s heart, the strange riddles and vacant eyes never left. And she never stopped calling Daeron her “sea prince”, no matter how odd and misplaced it was. Daeron, ever the sweetest, never once stopped her.
Aemond was her kind boy, and had he been anyone else’s son, she would have considered him the best of her children. He was dutiful even from a young age. Pious. Compassionate. Her son was born to be a prince, studious and diligent. But Aemond’s quiet visage hid a temper that rivaled his own brother, though it burned perilously cold instead of burning flame. A grudge-holder for the ages, that spawned a secret shame, born from being the only one of his siblings and nephews that had yet to hatch or claim a dragon. Alicent had never been able to ease that pain.
Viserys was of no help. Her husband’s health deteriorated horribly after Daeron’s birth, and while he was still able to do his day-to-day duties, the majority bulk of running the kingdom had fallen to Lord Lyonel and Alicent. What little time he had for her children—especially after the trip to Dragonstone—decreased to none in recent years. Little Daeron was seven now, and he perhaps had seen his father only a handful of times since his birth. She wanted to say that it was because of his health that Viserys avoided her children—Daeron especially—but even she could not lie to herself.
Viserys only started avoiding Daeron after what her children called the Naming Incident.
A dragon’s naming was a special ritual, often done by parent and child, should the rider be too young still to do so themselves. A dragon must accept the name just as the rider must accept that often the name chosen was not the one wanted. And once named, neither time nor a different rider could change the name chosen.
Aegon had named Sunfyre himself upon the rocks of the Dragonmont. Viserys had lamented to her his disappointment over missing such an important milestone, but none could deny that the dragon was aptly named. Helaena’s hatchling had died unnamed, but her daughter had begun referring to it as Dandelion in the years that followed. Aemond’s egg never hatched, to the utter disappointment of both son and father. Perhaps that was just another thing Alicent’s children failed in comparison to Rhaenyra and her brood. Viserys had been there for the naming of both Vermax and Arrax.
Daeron had been Alicent’s last hope.
A dragon that hatched the day of his birth—a feat so rare and special that the king had immediately called for a celebration. And while Alicent was rather familiar with dragons, even she had to admit that her Daeron’s was special. The egg had hatched upon Daeron’s first cry, and with the commotion of her labor, had managed to escape from the cradle to her bedchambers. Alicent had woken from her labor to a babe placed in her arms, and the tiniest dragon she had ever seen perched calmly on her bedpost. Ser Criston had stood right behind it with a cage at hand, but the dragon never so much as blinked from its watch.
Later, once Alicent had calmed down and her babe named, she would admit that her son’s dragon was beautiful. The hatchling was a more vivid shade of blue than his egg suggested, more dusk than ocean, with a green chest and wings, and brilliant swirls of gold on its head like a wreath. Two tiny green horns, so very similar to Aegon’s Sunfyre, jutted out from behind the gold. But it was its eyes that gave her pause—a sky blue that shone with intelligence she never considered a dragon could possess. The hatchling slept in her rooms that night, in the same bassinet as Daeron, curled together. And no matter where Daeron went in the years since, his dragon followed like a silent protector.
Viserys had waited, Alicent knew, for the day his youngest son would be ready to name his dragon. They’d all started to refer to him as Sky, even Viserys, for the scales that shone as vividly as the evening sky. But the years passed, and no invitation came from Daeron to grant his father the chance to partake in their sacred ritual. Nor was there ever any indication that Daeron had already named his dragon without him.
It all came to head the eve of Lucerys’ sixth nameday feast. It was a small one, only for family, before the grand one was to begin in a few days. The Velaryons had arrived early, and Alicent had not been the only one to notice the looks Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had shot Daeron when they spotted Sky—who was so exceedingly well behaved that he was often allowed to accompany Daeron for meals—sitting calmly by Daeron’s cushioned chair. His siblings had noticed, too—Aegon stepping forward scowling, to hide his brother from what he perceived to be slights, Aemond standing stiff at his side. But Alicent had understood their piercing gazes, even if as a mother she misliked her child being stared at.
Daeron’s dragon was a peculiarity. Even Jacaerys—Lucerys was still so young he was basically a living wall decoration—was starting to question why his uncle had a dragon that bore his colors. After Sky hatched, Alicent had read up extensively on dragon colors, and the symbolism that came with it. Everything had a meaning, nothing was ever truly innocent. Least of all in the games gods play. And she was right.
There was a reason why Syrax and Sunfyre were similarly colored. Yellow dragons were already so rare that it was a boon that Syrax hatched to Rhaenyra. And why Aegon, of all Targaryens, ended up claiming a golden dragon for his own. A warning, perhaps, or even a declaration of all that is to come.
Daeron’s dragon being sea-colored began to make sense the moment he could talk. Her youngest was born brilliant—learning to walk and talk and read faster than all his siblings. Often when he spoke, Alicent would even forget that she was speaking to a boy of only five namedays, and not one much older.
“A prodigy in the making,” Maester Mellos had once proclaimed. “He would do wonderfully at the Citadel.” A possibility that only grew with her fear each strange, passing day that Viserys would announce a betrothal she could not stop.
Moreover, from the first day he learned to read, Daeron had been obsessed with the sea. If he wasn’t training his dragon alongside Aegon, the boy would be found reading books on sea creatures and ships. And when he wasn’t reading about the sea, the boy could be found in one of the Keep’s shallow pools, swimming despite being untaught. More often than not, her youngest would even be seen bugging the Master of Ships to take him to see the ports, to the utter dismay of his siblings, who preferred trips to the Dragonpit.
Her son loved the sea, and perhaps in a better world he would’ve been born a Velaryon and not a Targaryen, for only they could love the sea as much as he did.
But Corlys and Rhaenys did not know that. All they saw was a prince with a hatchling the color of their house, who perhaps was destined to be a part of said house. Convenient, too. Laena Velaryon had two daughters by Daemon, the younger of which was only a bit older than Daeron. And the Velaryons would never skimp out on a chance to attach themselves to the Iron Throne, third son or not. Just look at what became of Rhaenyra and Laenor’s marriage, with only two bastards to show for it yet no repercussions.
“Ah, he does not have a name yet, so we have been referring to him simply as Sky,” Viserys had chuckled, when Princess Rhaenys began politely interrogating him over a plate of roast pig. Ser Laenor just flashed her sons a small grin, one that Aegon returned.
Daeron frowned. “Yes, he does.” Said dragon silently crawled up the back of Daeron’s chair, ever careful to not scratch the upholstery. Sky had grown a little too large by then to comfortably lay on Daeron’s shoulder, but that hadn’t stopped the hatchling from laying his head on there, depthless blue eyes blinking.
Before Viserys could ask, their son—her youngest, the pride of Otto Hightower’s blood—had proclaimed loudly, and without a hint of guile, “His name is Jason!”
Someone choked on a lamb skewer.
Notes:
Next up:
Percy attempts to barter, curtains get burned, a dragon gets (re)named, Corlys is the sneaky link, and Rhaenys the only adult with a functioning braincell. Also, we gear up for Driftmark, where Daeron hatches the first of his plots.
Comments and kudos are welcomed!
Please be nice, though.
Edit: I know I’m super duper late, but life has been super rough lately. I just recently received some really dejecting news about my future, so it’s been kinda hard to continue writing. Nonetheless, this work will NOT be abandoned (mostly because it’s almost completely done, just need editing and a few extra scenes for better flow).
Thank you all for your comments and encouragement. I will try to get chapter 3 out by the weekend!
Chapter 3: the calm
Summary:
Percy barters, and curtains are burned. A dragon gets (re)named, and Corlys reveals himself as the sneaky link, while Rhaenys holds the only functioning braincell. Helaena is sweetly terrifying, and Driftmark is on the horizon.
Notes:
I am so so so sorry for the late update!
Right after my last edit on the previous chapter, my life went to literal hell, and I wasn't able to find time or privacy to continue writing and updating this fic. It's finally settling down enough that I get some time to myself to upload this to the html editor. Phew!!
A small change:
In previous chapters, I mentioned that this would only go AU starting 1x07, but that has changed to an AU post 1x05. Essentially, 1x06 was scrapped/changed after the events that occurred during this chapter. But don't worry, the barebones still exist! Also, this will be the last chapter before the events of Driftmark, where Daeron makes his first major move.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Absolutely not,” Percy rejected flatly.
“You will go,” the god ordered, flames crackling in his maw.
Percy squared his shoulders. Holding his head high, he glared, “No. Not unless you explain to me why I have to reincarnate in the body of yet another incest prince who needs to win a war predestined by gods!”
The Dance of the Dragons—a war so destructive it cut a bloody swath through the whole continent. Brothers against sister, dragons against dragons; betrayals and death and destruction repeating in endless cycles until hundreds of years of history were defined only by the endless drip of Targaryen blood. Funny how life worked in circles. Percy Jackson was born to lead the demigods into battle—a herald of the New Age. Born blessed with tremendous power, yet cursed with the responsibility of babysitting millenia old gods. And here he was, asked to do it all over again. The ant and the boot, only this time he was the egotistical, overly superior blood-obsessed boot, and not a mortal raised to kill a god.
And yet—with all that knowledge and power that once bled ichor in his red veins, even Percy was appalled by the greed that plagued the Targaryen dynasty. Truly the definition of ‘They didn’t have to, but did’.
The dragon towered over him, red reptilian eyes mere glowing slits of pure, unadulterated anger. Tendrils of smoke bellowed from their nose; sharp teeth bared, each the length of Percy’s forearm, framing the giant maw poised to snap his head off any moment. Even their wings flared high above their head, heat rolling off them in droves until even the curtains caught alight.
If he were anyone else, he might’ve caved at such a terrifying sight. But Percy was Percy.
He had spent the better part of life staring down megalomaniac, tantrum-throwing gods with little more than an unimpressed glare. He didn’t understand why this one thought he’d cower in death when he never did in life, 20 foot tall dragon form or no.
Percy merely flicked his wrist, a jet of lake water rising to douse the battered fabric. Unflinching.
He doused the dragon too, just in case.
As the god spluttered—whether from the steam that coated their whole body or the indignation of being drenched, Percy didn’t care—he merely lifted a brow. “Are you done, now?”
When no answer came, just more fuming and spluttering, Percy sighed. “Look, I never said I wouldn’t go. But I need to know why I should intervene and save them.”
“I have granted you the memories and histories of my people. Surely you can see the merits of saving my children,” they protested. They’d begun shrinking during the exchange, reverting back to their more humanoid, less talon-y form.
Percy scoffed. “Your children being the dragons, or the blood-obsessed invaders?”
“Your offer was for me to prevent, if not lead, a catastrophic war,” he continued, head cocked, “But from what I have seen, your people brought strife constantly, most of which left their continent like…that.” He waved wildly at the images poured into his mind.
For the first time since they arrived, the Valyrian god seemed hesitant. “Just as you demigods inherited your parents' might and temper, so too, did my children inherit the fire that birthed the dragons themselves. The Blood of the Dragon burns with a madness born of magic, and its children—mortal, despite all their might—are never more so affected.”
“You are correct, Perseus, in that my children made many mistakes. They conquered peoples, waged wars and battles, and deaths trailed in their wake like ash.” Those lizard eyes softened. “But for all their mistakes—and there are numerous—they are still my children.”
“So please, Perseus Jackson,” the god quietly begged. “You may be our last hope.”
Percy closed his eyes. “Swear upon yourself that if I go,” he said, opening his eyes to his most wolfish glare. “You’ll return me before anyone realizes I’m gone.”
“It’ll be as if you never left,” the god promised. Jittery anticipation shimmered in those red slit eyes, and even their wings shook with impatience.
Percy wanted to pretend that he thought long and hard over the decision. Really. He might’ve been bored and impulsive, but he was not an idiot. Annabeth would be upset if he missed her entrance to Elysium, but the god already swore to return him before she even knew he ever left. And his children would never forgive him if he didn’t go. To them, he was the pinnacle of heroism; the altar at which new generations of demigods lambasted themselves at. He couldn’t let them down.
Finally, Percy nodded. “Then we have a deal.” The Valyrian god’s eyes lit up. “But,” Percy interrupted, amused as the light dimmed again to wariness. “I don’t want to go alone. A quest normally has three participants.”
The god’s lips pursed. “Fine,” they finally relented. “You can take one person with you, and I cannot guarantee that they’ll be reborn human.”
Percy laughed, already having someone in mind. “Works for me.” A vacation would do wonders for his cousin.
After all, what is a dragon to the Slayer of Titans?
“The dragon…told you his name was Jason?” Alicent had repeated slowly. Her eyebrows were surely reaching her hairline as she stared, baffled.
One cursory look showed everyone else in varying levels of confusion, amusement, and even a hint of disgust. Alicent’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Rhaenyra hiding a rather smug, dismissive look. Her lips curled in a silent snarl, unseen by all the looks aimed at Daeron. Already broken nails turned bloody, as she brutally picked and picked.
“Yes, mother. Though he also answers to Jase,” Daeron had answered, his high, boyish voice earnest. Oh, her utterly brilliant boy. Alicent had almost cackled then, a well-placed hand poised to cover her twitching lips.
Her son’s guileless face faded to utter befuddlement under scrutiny. The furrow of his brow deepened with every snort of laughter from the Blacks that came with his proclamation, until it was a pointed, wolfish thing. Luminous eyes flashed; the barest jut of tiny fangs. Perched high on Daeron’s chair, Sky hissed, smokey tendrils billowing.
Lucerys whimpered.
If Alicent had been any less a queen, she would have slammed her utensils down, grabbed her son and left. Seven hells, her son was only five. Andal name or no, his control over Sky—Jason—was second only to Aegon himself, and his Valyrian certainly superior to Rhaenyra’s bastards, both of whom could barely string along a sentence much less command their shoe-sized dragon.
Jacaerys’ nose crinkled. “But I do not want to share my name with a dragon,” he’d pouted at his mother. Rhaenyra ran a soothing hand through her son’s hair, whispering absent, soothing nothings and praises. Alicent bit down a snort at the ridiculous sight.
To which her youngest shot him a look of pure exasperation—the kind that explicitly stated that he believed Jace was an idiot; truly, she had only ever seen that face on Aegon aimed at Aemond, or Helaena to Aegon.
“Well, it was his name first,” Daeron had shot back with a huff, throwing himself backwards into his chair in a manner most unbecoming of a prince, and very much unlike him. Daeron wasn’t wrong—Jace had only started being called so after Lucerys was born.
Next to him, Aegon had thrown down his spoon to muffle the laughter she could see attempting to leave his lips, if the shaking shoulders were any indication. Farthest from the commotion, Helaena continued to eat her raspberry tart, completely unbothered. Aemond, next to her, looked rather terrified, lilac eyes moving frantically over their guests.
“Jason is a fine name, little brother,” Rhaenyra then said, looking terribly amused. Her eyes glimmered with disdainful mirth. “But perhaps a little too…Andal for a dragon—we are Targaryens after all. And Lord Tyland may take offense over…Jason.”
“Perhaps a more Valyrian name would be appropriate,” she suggested, a tad condescending. Viserys had nodded, smiling appreciatively at his daughter as Rhaenyra simpered under his half-rotted eyes. Alicent fought hard not to roll hers.
Daeron frowned. “What does Jase have to do with Jason Lannister?” she heard him mumble skeptically over his half-eaten bowl of stew.
Ser Laenor then coughed, breaking the tense atmosphere. “Or even just something that describes him,” he’d chimed in between bites of bread, a conspiratorial smile adorning his lips. “Seasmoke is hardly a Valyrian name; I only chose it because he was the same color as morning fog.”
“Perhaps something similar to your sibling’s dragons, my prince,” Lord Corlys then suggested, when Daeron appeared intrigued at the advice. Ambition had glinted in those dark plum depths, enough to make Alicent’s fingers tighten over her cup so she would not be tempted to throw it at his head. “A sea-colored dragon is quite rare indeed; I am sure there are names aplenty befitting such a noble beast.” And there it was.
“Sea prince,” Helaena muttered over her tart. Heads had all swung towards her daughter, who shrank back under the scrutiny. Aegon scowled. He reached over a still Aemond to push another tart closer to his sister, who granted him a vacant smile for his efforts.
But Lord Corlys had just nodded encouragingly, “Exactly, my princess.” Princess Rhaenys shot her husband a wary look, and Alicent had almost scoffed aloud at the audacity of the Sea Snake. She wouldn’t be surprised if a betrothal was negotiated before the night was over.
“Perhaps Tessarion would be a fitting name, my son?” Viserys had suggested last, almost helplessly.
If this whole situation wasn’t his own doing, Alicent might have found some pity for him and his desperate attempt to bond with his son. But Tessarion was a good choice—after the Valyrian goddess of prophecy and change, and lesser known as the god of seawater; a fine choice befitting his color, and respectful of Daeron’s distant Velaryon blood and their pushy insistence.
But Daeron had only shook his head. “In another life he would be, Father,” her son whispered solemnly, running a finger down a blue snout. He then turned. “Thank you for the suggestions, Lord Corlys. But I am afraid Jason cannot be named after the sea.”
“It is simply not in his nature, even if it is in mine.”
Silence met his audacious proclamation. Finally, Princess Rhaenys spoke. “Perhaps we should allow the boy to convene with his dragon alone?” And return the attention back to the boy the feast was called for , was left unspoken but the intention was not. Her interruption had broken the tension that had begun increasing with every rejected name, and the guests began returning to their meals with a fervor.
Rhaenyra and Corlys had gone back to coddling and cooing over the bastards, while Laenor drank himself into a stupor. Rhaenys and Viserys continued conversing, but she knew the princess’ well-trained eyes were still focused on Daeron.
Alicent continued her meal, urging Aemond to do the same. Her poor boy looked close to tears from the tension. Helaena hadn’t stopped devouring the little tarts, and Alicent made note to stop her soon before she vomited. Aegon was back to munching on his buttered loafs as well. Her gaze shifted back to Daeron.
Boy and dragon continued to stare at each other, unblinking. Too soft for anyone to hear but her—“Tempest perhaps,” Daeron had suggested mischievously, to which his dragon growled. They continued staring at each other.
“I suppose you would not agree to Blackjack,” she heard her son murmur. Jason looked mutinous, if a dragon could, at the mere suggestion, tipping Daeron over into giggles.
The sound drew attention, but not at the level it had before.
Until—
“Jelmāzmo,” Daeron mumbled, and the dragon bumped his head softly to her son’s chin. Daeron laughed brightly, before turning to face the rest of them.
“Stormborn,” her son announced proudly, as all heads swiveled back to him. Emerald eyes nearly glowed with triumph. The newly named Stormborn had then stood up, flaring green wings over his rider’s head like a crown. In her periphery, Alicent saw both Viserys and Rhaenyra frozen in their seats. “His name is Stormborn, Your Grace.”
After that fateful naming and Lucerys’ ruined feast, nothing had stayed the same. The Velaryons had only stayed long enough for their departure to be considered respectable. It was made very clear that they would not return for many years. Rhaenyra remained only a little longer; she and Viserys had a meeting behind closed doors that lasted the whole night. Little was known about their conversation, but the princess was gone by the time the sun rose. Alicent would not have cared less of the princess’ desperate flee, had she not taken with her whatever love remained in Viserys’ cold, feeble heart.
Viserys’ distant fondness for her children faded with each day Rhaenyra refused to return to King’s Landing. Days turned to many moon’s turns to years—Rhaenyra and her household made their home on dreary Dragonstone. The only word heard from Rhaenyra was a single letter sent to the king about a potential betrothal between Helaena and Jacaerys; protection and legitimacy for her bastard heir guised as uniting the family. Alicent had shred that letter mercilessly in front of Viserys’ appalled gaze. No child of hers would ever play the pawn in Rhaenyra’s losing game.
Had her former friend birthed daughters instead of plain-featured sons, an arrangement could have been made to betrothe one of them to Aegon. A bastard princess for a queen was a salvageable scandal, but a bastard king was courting war. As long as her sons lived, Jacaerys could never be king, and Rhaenyra knew that most vehemently. Not even the Velaryons may be bought for allies despite Rhaenyra’s desperation; not while Alicent had a play of her own to secure Driftmark’s throne.
No actions came without consequences, and Rhaenyra faltered at the lack of acknowledgment. But a shameless woman would never give up their pride, and Viserys forever blind to her folly. Even when the princess announced the birth of yet another of her bastards—Joffrey, for Laenor’s ill-begotten…companion—she did not return to present her newest pug-nosed whelp to the king, with nary a word on punishments for her insult.
Of course, the same could not be said of her most dear Sworn Shield.
From what Alicent had heard, the Hand had been most wroth when news of Prince Joffrey’s brown hair and pug-nose made its way to the Small Council. Alicent quite liked Lord Strong, having worked closely with the man for years, but he was as willingly ignorant when it came to his eldest’s treason as Viserys was. He had always known, but had not cared until it was too late, and the damage could not be undone.
And so, while the king rejoiced over his newest grandson—sending gifts and toys and jewelry to an unreceptive daughter—Lord Lyonel quickly resigned from his position, forcibly dragging Ser Harwin from Rhaenyra’s bed back to Harrenhal with utmost shame, where both perished within its walls soon after. A purely coincidental accident, Larys Strong had assured her, when word arrived from Harrenhal a forthright later and she had looked askance at him with acute judgment. The castle is cursed and dislikes traitors, he later confessed rather grumpily, when the glare of poison green eyes dragged it out of his soul.
Even now, six moons after Daeron’s seventh nameday, passed with little acknowledgement from his own father or even a celebration for such a splendid day. Alicent didn’t even know why she was still surprised over Viserys’ lack of care—he hadn’t celebrated a single one of her children’s namedays since Lucerys’ wretched feast. Or even accepted her offers of joining their special nameday meals.
No, as far as Viserys was concerned, his younger children were hers, but never his.
Which brought them to where they were now: on a quickly moving ship headed towards Driftmark to attend the funeral of Laena Velaryon. Aegon and Helaena had stayed an extra day behind to arrive on dragonback; despite her worries, her father was correct that they’d need to show their strengths. Stormborn was still too small to be ridden long distance, and so Daeron remained with her and Aemond—who had little choice in the matter.
Viserys had taken one look at his companions for the next two days—at Aemond’s timid smile and Daeron’s all-knowing eyes, and shuffled down to his bedroom quicker than she had seen him move in almost a decade.
Alicent stifled a cackle, choosing instead to pat Daeron’s head of fluffy waves. Serves him right, she thought.
Daeron never grew out of his unsettling yet charming visage. Beautiful as a Targaryen and as talented with the sword as a Dayne, paired with the famed compassion of Hightowers, her youngest was easily the nobles and smallfolk’s favorite of the king’s children and grandchildren. Her husband was of a different mind.
Even now, Alicent wasn’t sure which of her younger sons were his least favorite—when he remembered their existence, anyway. For all that Aegon did not receive a shred of excess attention, Viserys always seemed to consider the fondness he once had for his firstborn son. At least, until he remembered that it was her womb that Aegon clawed his way out of, and not Aemma Arryn’s. Daeron, he had nurtured some affection for before Stormborn’s Naming, but that too had faded with every passing look at those unflinching wildfire eyes.
Aemond, though, had always carried the brunt of Viserys’ lack of care. Born too close to Jacaerys to be celebrated individually, and without a hatched dragon to boot. Despite Aemond sharing his father’s love for books and history, Viserys was never able to reconcile that his second son was not a dragonrider. It reminded him too much of his own secret shame. Nor did it matter that Aemond looked most like him.
All he ever saw was the failure reflected back in the exact shape and color of his beloved Rhaenyra’s eyes. And as much as she loved her middle son, he was not the prince she had plans for.
As Alicent watched her sons play board games, her mind went back to earlier that morning.
“Seahorses and clams make good friends for pearls,” Helaena had recited dreamily to Daeron, at the docks prior to their departure. “Urchins tumble, but survive the riptide.”
Alicent had simply waved off her daughter’s near lunacy by smiling indulgently at the gawking spectators. Daeron’s eyes had lit up, and a big grin broke on his face. “Many thanks, Hel!” he’d exclaimed, letting his sister pat his face twice before skipping down to the boats.
A hand then clamped down on hers. “Spools of green, spools of black; a blade of blue sets the path unmarked,” Helaena whispered ominously, pale lavender eyes unseeing. “Close an eye, close a hand. Fate changes as swiftly as the waves run unrestrained.” One blink, and her sweet daughter was back, like the sun peeking from the clouds.
“Safe travels, mother,” Helaena had wished with a curtsy. Then she’d spun, running off faster than Alicent could blink, leaving her behind with nothing but dread.
And the sinking feeling that the fate she was so desperate to change, was already here.
Notes:
The dragon finally has a name! Stormborn—a fitting name, I think, for a soul once the son of Jupiter.
Next up: we get some POVs from the OG Lucerys antis, our darling menace makes a play for various hearts, a maiming or two, LIES LIES LIES and more LIES, Rhaenyra gets a premonition of her death, and Viserys makes an actual good decision for once. Also, war granny gets a new rider AND an insistent new bestie.
To keep up with the ages:
Aegon: 13
Helaena: 11
Aemond: 10
Jace and Baela: 9
Luke and Rhaena: 8
Daeron: 7Edit: minor edits to the timeline because my math was off :(
It’s now 6 months past Daeron’s 7th birthday, give or take.
Edit 2: Also, in case anyone was confused, the reason Rhaenyra and Viserys met before she left was because she was trying to convince him to send Daeron away. Presumably to the Hightower.
Chapter 4: the hidden blade
Summary:
In which Vhagar meets the future of her kind, the Velaryons of Castle Driftmark (and resident OG Lucerys antis) get a voice, Daeron is a little too adoptable, and Alicent puts Otto in his place.
Or, the funeral of Laena Velaryon.
Notes:
Hello!
This chapter and the next were originally meant to be one slightly long update. Unfortunately, it grew out of my control till it reached a whopping 8k. As what will now be chapter 5 is still unfinished, I decided to polish the first half of the original chapter and publish it as chapter 4. Sadly, that means Driftmark will be split into two chapters, with the Incident in chapter 5.
I know it’s the portion a lot of you were waiting for, so I’m really sorry that you won’t get to read it just yet. Hopefully, I’ll be able to finish chapter 5 asap and give y’all wonderful readers a double update (that won’t take another 2 months).
It also means the chapter count has gone up again, now to 7. We’ll see if it eventually reaches 8 😂.
(I’ve also added the date and year starting this chapter, because HotD canon timeline is a mess and a half, and logic can’t be applied apparently:/)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The 12th day of the 2nd moon, the year 127 AC.
High Tide, Driftmark
Soon, the tiny thing sitting by her maw crooned.
This blue-green-gold hatchling was a strange little one.
Vhagar’s years rearing hatchlings were far behind her—had been since the days of Caraxes and Meleys, and their odious rivalry. How stubborn Vermithor and gentle Silverwing produced such petulant offspring was beyond her.
No, Vhagar was too old, too large and heavy, and far too impatient to remain dealing with insipid little ones. Despite what the humans and their egos believed, dragons were far more intelligent than they ever gave them credit for. They were the great beasts of the earth, of magic and fire and death—intelligence was expected of them. And with age came thoughts and prescience; a language not even those of Old Valyria could ever hope to recapture. Hatchlings were thoughtless idiots no matter the species, and only time brought the wisdom of winds.
This little one, though, was sentient.
Odd for one so young and frail, barely tall enough to reach her snout, but Vhagar could hardly complain. She missed her Laena, but Laena was gone now, back to the sea where her soul belonged. And Vhagar was here, stuck on a dreary, pathetic island without a rider or a friend, and only the company of the younglings she once helped reared.
Smokey tendrils unfurled from her nostrils at the thought, and if dragons could roll eyes, Vhagar’s would fall out of her head from misery.
Caraxes was as clingy and whiny as ever, just like his rider. Meleys remained as uptight and pretentious as hers, while Seasmoke was a flying misery. Vhagar had found Syrax to be a particularly rotund bumbling buffoon, with her aggressive, ugly green hatchling and the evidently dull white one. Nor did she want to spend time with that overly pretty, preening golden one who could blind her if he got too close in the sunlight. At least there was Dreamfyre, even if she was somehow even more quiet than her already timid self.
Little Jelmāzmo had been a welcomed surprise. Stormbringer, the earth had whispered, the morning he’d landed beside her, in a language only she was left to remember. Champion of the sun.
Vhagar could almost see the little one’s spirit leaking out of his body like a phantasm of lightning—such brilliant eyes, and a gold crown upon his brow. And a determined smile, sweet as can be.
This tiny dragon—with Meraxes’ heart and Balerion’s blessed hard-head—came to see her every morning, greeting her with an almost musical cheer. He would tell her about his boy—the other half of his soul, little Daeron already so Daring—while she drifted in and out of slumber.
But most of all he told her, Soon.
Soon, he would whisper as he nuzzled her awake. Almost, as he bid her goodnight, to sleep by his Daeron’s side.
He’s almost ready. He’ll find you on the island.
Vhagar hoped so. She was old, older than Balerion had been during her Visenya’s Maegor’s ill-fated reign; her time was almost over. The tides were changing; war brewing on the horizon, and the threads of fate snapping. Whoever her next chosen would be, he’d be her last.
He needs to be worthy of her death.
Daemion Velaryon never gave much thought about his Uncle Corlys’ grandchildren.
Father was quite the many years younger than Uncle Corlys himself, and so his sons much too young to be considered their cousins’ peers; closer in age to their children, than Laena and Laenor themselves. It didn’t help that Corlys Velaryon had yet to return to Castle Driftmark since High Tide was finished, choosing to spend his days with his wife and children alone while the rest of the Velaryon brood overcrowded Driftmark’s damp and dreary halls.
Suffice to say neither Daemion or his brother had been close to dearly departed cousin Laena. By the time Daeron was born, Laenor had already been at the Stepstones and Laena groomed to be Princess Rhaenyra’s lady in waiting all the way in King’s Landing—before she ran off with Daemon Targaryen in exile a few years later. Daeron had no memory of her, and whatever little vague ones Daemion once had perished with every moment she spent gone with nigh a letter to them, breaking Father’s poor old heart.
Laenor was hardly a fixture in their lives before his marriage to the Princess Rhaenyra, but he hadn’t been so much a stranger that they didn’t know him at all. All of Daemion’s memories of him were of an affable man with a sense of humour, and a kindness that showed visibly on his face. That, and a terrible attachment to his cups that he clearly inherited from Uncle Corlys.
So when rumors first started erupting of a scandalous affair and bastard heirs, Daemion thought little of it. Mother had only looked askance at Father shrewdly before scoffing, and Father had most vehemently denied it, citing, “Even that buffoon Laenor would not dare do such a thing!”
Aunt Rhaenys had been born with darker hair despite her Valyrian looks, and while said hair had faded to silver-white by her sixth nameday, it proved that some bloodlines were as strong as Old Valyria. Daemion favored their Father, but Daeron was all their mother—with her silky hair, bright silver eyes, and sun-gold skin. Surely, it was simply that Laenor and the Princess Rhaenyra’s children favored other relatives, instead of their own parents. Perhaps they looked like the princess’ Arryn mother, or Jocelyn Baratheon. Surely, the princess would not dare to sire bastards and pass them off as trueborn?
Oh, what a naive fool he had been.
Neither Daemion nor his brother had been there to greet the Targaryen royal family as they disembarked on Driftmark’s shore—they were too busy staring, awed, at the dragons perched all over High Tide’s many walls. As such, they had missed the initial introductions, and the way their father’s jaw had fallen agape at the sight of Lucerys Velaryon, or the way Aunt Rhaenys looked close to murder while her husband drowned in his own lunacy. So when the brothers had seen the royal family during the funeral, they had simply assumed the brown-haired boys in the gaggle of silver bright children were the king’s younger children.
(With four children, it would have surprised no one had half come out favoring their Andal mother and grandfather. And while no one really spoke of the rather uncomfortable implications, the king and his daughter both had multiple children born merely moons apart from each other. Is it so surprising that the brothers mixed up Lucerys Velaryon—with his pug nose that could be mistaken for the queen’s—with Daeron Targaryen?)
It was a thought that was made even more so convincing when the youngest of the silver-haired children—the one with Baratheon black streaks in his hair—broke free to run up and hug a wilting Laenor as Laena’s coffin sank, while the others simply watched. Even his wife was of no comfort—preferring her distance to stare at Prince Daemon making a fool of himself—leaving their son to provide the only comfort Laenor allowed (if the way he clutched at the boy was any indication).
A rather sweet gesture—had it not cost envious glares from the two brown-haired princes. Perhaps the king’s sons favored their sister and goodbrother over their parents?
Feeling the weight of the stares, the little prince looked up. Grim wildfire eyes locked onto Daemion’s plum, and that somber face broke into a commiserating smile. He gave a short wave, and Daemion was helpless but to wave back.
What a sweet child, he thought, ignoring the burning stare of his father. And Prince Daemon’s cold, assessing eyes.
The sun was shining.
He thought it never would again, with the way the sky had been drenching them to the bone for days on end. Or the winds that whipped as if to topple High Tide from its stone perch, and back to the waters it belonged in.
It had taken forever for Laena’s coffin to sink. Much longer than expected, given the sheer size and weight of the carefully-carved and heavily jeweled stone. But the storms that had haunted the island for days—as if the very sea itself had joined them in their mourning of a beloved child of the waters—had finally abated as Laena’s funeral began, the sun crawling out just enough to give warmth.
It was a beautiful ceremony, one befitting of the wondrous spirit Laena had been. Adventurous yet kind, compassionate but bold; Laena should have been a noble lord’s wife, safe in a castle of her own, and surrounded by her many children. And not a month dead, far away from the shores of her home. She deserved far better in life than to die young in childbirth, and be remembered as nothing more than the exiled rogue prince’s second dead wife.
Seems he will soon try for a third, Vaemond thought snidely, disgusted, as he watched Daemon Targaryen make lusty cow eyes at his own niece. Thankfully, it was the woman grown, and not the queen’s daughter. Then again, Daemon’s tastes had always run young, and Alicent Hightower had been barely older than her daughter when the king married her. Laena, too, had been all of twelve when Corlys pushed her for queen, and barely a woman grown when Daemon absconded with her.
Truly, he thought, as he caught sight of Laena’s girls huddled sobbing in Rhaenys’ arms, Would it kill the man to pay attention to his daughters?
The crowd had long dispersed by the time Laena’s coffin truly reached the seabed. Vaemond only knew it did the way he knew all things sea—the weight in his gut, and in the echoes of his heart. Saltwater ran through Velaryon veins, after all. Well, some Velaryon veins. House Strong seemed to have found a foothold on Velaryon shores; a pity that river fish drown easily in salt.
The king had gone to rest in his chambers with the queen, while the Princess Rhaenyra and her mud-haired brood hid somewhere from prying eyes. Gods know where Laenor was; probably deep in several jugs of wine again. As Vaemond walked High Tides many unfamiliar halls in search of his children, he caught sight of young Prince Aemond busily reading a thick tome in an alcove, while Aegon Targaryen and his sister argued about something nearby. Two Kingsguard stood behind them, far away enough for the illusion of privacy but close enough to install fear in those approaching the highnesses.
The sound of laughter eventually caught his ears. He followed the whispers and giggles up a tower, to a landing where he found his children conversing with none other than Daeron Targaryen. It seems the prince had ditched his own retinue, as there were no Kingsguard in sight. His sons looked absolutely enamored with the friendly little prince, with Daemion—his normally grim-faced son—going so far as to grin wildly at whatever topic the boy had ensorcelled them into. Most likely dragons, if the blue beast they were all pointing at, flying high above in little circles, was a clue.
As Vaemond made his way across the parapets, the prince’s head snapped up, locking eyes with him. “Well met, my Lord,” little Daeron piped up with a dimpled smile.
“Good afternoon, Prince Daeron,” Vaemond greeted. His sons shared wide-eyed looks above the prince’s head, Daeron mouthing “Prince Daeron?” incredulously while Daemion shrugged helplessly.
Vaemond bit back a sigh. It seemed his sons had fallen into the same trap he had when he first saw the royal family. The king and the princess had arrived near simultaneously, and their children all shunted off to the side together. So when the name Lucerys had been thrown around, all eyes had swung towards one of the younger boys, with his head of silver waves and a streak of black. And none towards the brown haired, common faced boy a few feet behind.
He truly wondered what preposterous game the Targaryen Princess was playing, to pass off such an obvious bastard as Valyrian trueborn.
“There seems to have been a misunderstanding, my prince,” Vaemond sighed, bowing slightly at the waist. “My sons-,”
“Ah.” Understanding flooded those vivid sea-colored eyes, and the prince giggled. “They must have mistook me for Lucerys,” little Daeron concluded jovially, with a gummy smile.
Daemion looked downright enchanted by the sound, like he was close to pinching those admittedly adorable cheeks. Daeron had the same look in his eyes as he did when he was six, and had hidden a litter of kittens in his bedchambers for a fortnight: unabashedly adoring and resolutely unapologetic.
“No offense taken, my lords,” Prince Daeron reassured sweetly. “I am sure anyone could have made the same assumptions.”
“It is the hair, my Prince,” his son Daeron blurted, signaling the prince’s singular tuft of black hair, stark against Valyrian silver. “We thought you inherited the Baratheon hair,” he finished lamely.
Next to him, Daemion sighed, running a tired hand down his face, before flashing the prince an apologetic smile. “You do look more like a Baratheon than our…cousins, my prince.”
The little prince ran a hand through the aforementioned streaks, “But His Grace said Jace, Luke, and Joffrey all inherited the Baratheon look from Princess Rhaenys. That is why they have brown hair.”
“Though,” Prince Daeron frowned, “I am unsure where they inherited the brown eyes.” The prince blinked owlishly up at him—truly, he didn’t think it was possible to have eyes so large—and asked innocently, “I was under the impression Baratheons have blue eyes?”
“Perhaps a Maester would be more suitable at explaining this than I, my prince,” Vaemon laughed awkwardly. He did not want to get into the whole bastard thing with a child. The little prince nodded absentmindedly.
A loud piercing sound whistled through the air. They looked up just in time to see the prince’s blue dragon swoop towards them, landing with a grace that could be described as elegant—if dragons were so inclined. Next to him, both his sons stopped breathing, and he could’ve sworn Daeron was hitting Daemion’s back. Vaemond held in a snort.
Stormborn made his way to his rider, snuffling the boy’s hair and cheeks until little Daeron began laughing, and pushed the dragon gently away. Sat on his haunches, Stormborn eyed them patiently, almost kindly, letting little Daeron introduce him to Vaemond’s children. Vaemond himself had never seen a dragon so up close—not even Laenor’s Seasmoke, much less Vhagar—and felt his breath caught.
The beast was beautiful, if a little terrifying so up close. He was rather small still—of a height with his rider at the shoulders and wings, and the body length of a young horse—with a sleek, hornless neck and tail, and a rather lean build. Closer to Prince Aegon’s golden mount, than Seasmoke or Meleys. The perfect mount, for a boy not yet eight namedays.
Scattered sunlight made deep blue scales almost glisten, and the gold of his crown burnished bright. Twin sea-colored horns jutted from behind the crown, patterned almost like lightning scars on skin. He’d seen enough of those marks on his sailors to know them by sight. Those marks continued down to pale green wing membranes, swirling beautifully like a stormy sea. Stormborn’s maw opened, and small tendrils of ghost white flame exited—to the excitement of his sons—giving Vaemond a front row seat to a perfect set of glistening pearl fangs to match equally sharp talons.
Beautiful, he thought again, shuddering lightly when the dragon’s sky colored eyes landed on him. But terrifying.
Prince Daeron whispered something to his dragon—vaguely Valyrian, yet so very not—and the dragon dipped his head as if to nod his acquiescence. Stormborn did so again, towards Vaemond and his sons as if in farewell, then calmly shuffled down the parapets before launching himself into the air. His sons were gasping in delight, but Vaemond merely chuckled. And strange; almost as strange as his rider.
Prince Daeron met his eyes. Those sea-bright eyes were suddenly sharp with something, and Vaemond nearly shivered at the sight. Gone was the sweet, enchanting little prince. In his place was someone with eyes of storm, like divinity made flesh. And as capricious as the sea, those ancient eyes lightened, nearly glowing with happiness. And mischief.
“Can we go swimming?” The boy chirped.
Vaemond laughed, shoulders dropping in relief. “We shall see how the tides are on the morrow, my prince. But if the good weather persists, I shall take you out to sea myself.”
Daeron Targaryen looked past him to the cloudy skies, and gently rocking waves. The slightest hint of a smile sat on his lips. “It will.”
“The king has spoken to me of your proposal,” her father spoke from behind her, as Alicent watched her children from a balcony overlooking a pavilion. Her three eldest seemed to be sticking together, taking walks in the beautiful botanical garden, while Daeron—her little charmer—was making his merry way into various Velaryon hearts somewhere.
“I suppose congratulations are in order. Aegon’s reign is secured with your choice of queen,” said the newly reinstated Hand of the King.
Alicent looked askance at her father, and the pin he so dearly loved. She looked away. “Do not presume that I am happy with my actions. It was a necessity for Aegon’s legitimacy.” And safety.
“But if I were to have a choice,” she murmured, watching her two eldest—Helaena was showing Aegon something, while he laughed in visible disgust. “I would never wish such a fate upon my daughter.”
“Yet no such feelings for your son?” Her father asked.
Alicent grimaced. “Aegon will always have the power to make his own choices. Both as a king, and as a husband. Helaena won’t. She will have to do her duties, provide heirs, simply because the realm and her king demands it.”
“She is young still,” Otto agreed. “But Helaena will grow into her role, and I imagine she will be a splendid queen. And it seems they have finally learned to get along,” he chuckled, as Helaena looped her arm around Aegon. “Your early letters left much to be desired in how you reared your children.”
Alicent ignored the sting of the insult. Her father was among the three people who had no right to an opinion on her parenting skills. The other was her husband, and his wayward daughter.
“Thank Daeron. His birth was a boon to his siblings, and us. Not many can say no to such a delightful boy.”
“Ah, yes. Daeron,” his voice turned contemplative. “Your letters do not do him justice. He would do wonderfully at the Hightower—perhaps even the Citadel.”
Alicent merely hummed, disinterested in his little games. She knew her father had plans of his own beyond Aegon’s ascension. With three sons and only one daughter, a worthy strategist would weaponize the two spare princes in order to maximize their faction’s reach. That was always how her father wrote it: a second son for more allies, and the third for him. A future Hand and a Maester—the perfect set.
“I have watched the boy with the Velaryons in the time we have been here,” Otto continued. “They adore him.” His voice turned calculating, “Even more, it seems, than their own kin.”
“I have yet to see a single Velaryon speak with the Princess Rhaenyra’s sons.” He eyed her. Alicent bit back a smirk. Of course they did not. Not many wished to consort with the obvious results of Rhaenyra’s wretched affair with her sworn shield.
Otto sighed. “What did you do, Alicent?”
“Nothing.”
“No?”
“Daeron is a sweet, talented boy, with a gentle heart and a brilliant mind. I have seen many be drawn to him, like moths to a flame. But his true talent lies in that he is so easy to love, especially for a Targaryen,” Alicent smiled. In the distance, Daeron and the two Velaryon boys made their way to the gardens towards the rest of her children, their laughter drifting through the air.
“And he adores the waters. He would swim all day if you let him,” she laughed, remembering the time her son, barely more than a babe, had snuck away from his retinue to swim in the fountains of Maegor’s Holdfast. “The sea is as part of him as it is any Velaryon. And I know they noticed it, too.” As opposed to Lucerys, who had no talent or interest in anything revolving the water.
“It helps,” she smirked then, “That his dragon bears the colors of House Velaryon, and is larger than all of Rhaenyra’s sons’ combined.”
“Stormborn is a declaration himself just by existing. So are Rhaenyra’s bastards, and Daemon’s daughters. All Daeron had to do was be himself, and the Velaryons came running for a better option than a bastard-born Lord that is as interesting as he is common.”
“So no, Father. I have yet to raise even a finger. I never needed to.”
Stunned silence met her declaration. It seemed her father was finally caught off guard. After all, she had just openly admitted to using her own son as a weapon in her war against Rhaenyra. Her hidden blade. A willing one perhaps, but a weapon nonetheless. Well, Alicent never claimed to be perfect. And if her gamble worked…it would bring Aegon his greatest allies.
It would keep their family safe.
Then Otto began to laugh. “My, my, daughter. I did not expect such cunning cruelty from you.”
“No?” she asked coolly. Alicent cocked her head, “While Rhaenyra squandered her youth playing house with a man not her husband, I spent mine at the ears of the most powerful men in Westeros.”
“Exactly,” she pinned Otto with her most piercing stare, “Where my Lord father placed me.”
“A clever plan, daughter. But you must remember that Rhaenyra—,”
“What I remember,” Alicent interrupted venomously, “Is the sight of Corlys Velaryon drooling over my son like a dog starved for meat.”
“The Velaryons will be ours, of that I have little doubt. All we need to do is dangle what they want most—another Targaryen betrothal—and the Sea Snake will bend.” She looked at him, cold and triumphant. A queen. “Lucerys will never sit on the Driftwood Throne, and Rhaenyra surrenders lest she loses everything.”
Otto said nothing. Merely looked at her, something unfathomable and deep hidden in those shadowed eyes. She could hardly tell if he was proud of her.
She did not care.
“Daeron stays,” Alicent flashed her father one last, vicious look before leaving.
“Your plans for the Hightower will have to make do with Aemond instead.”
Notes:
Next up: Aemond has an honest conversation and meets the love of his life, Daeron scares people (again), Criston should be renamed the long-suffering, the children are NOT alright, Aegon throws hands, Viserys actually listens, and Rhaenyra sees her death (sort of).
Re: Stormborn’s size
I’d imagine he’s quite large for a dragon his age (about 7.5 years). The book vs show dragon sizes are about as different as night and day (like Arrax being 0.2 the size of Vhagar in F&B vs being like 1/30 in the show. Or horse sized Moondancer being able to carry 14 year old Baela. Or Rhaenyra having her first flight at 7). Think horse-sized body, but with a pretty long tail and neck. Moderately close to the size of Arrax in 1x10 but not quite, but definitely larger than Vermax in 1x06.
Chapter 5: her sword of Damocles
Summary:
Aemond has an honest conversation for the first time in his life, then meets the love of his life. The children are NOT alright, Aegon throws hands, Ser Criston deserves a raise, Rhaenyra gets a sneak peak of her death, and a prophecy comes true (sort of).
Or, Driftmark part 2: electric boogaloo
Notes:
Hello!
We’ve finally arrived at the long-awaited Driftmark Incident! Things happen, decisions are made, and yelling abounds.
A quick note: please remember that those involved are all children. This isn’t a case where a preteen is bullying a toddler and gets slashed for it. These are five peers (Luke and Aemond are at most 2.5 years apart in HotD) who are all incredibly angry and hurt for one reason or another, and take it out on each other instead of those who deserve it. Not like their parents were doing much to prevent this ngl.
I have also introduced a plot point that I think the show completely failed to cover: the knife. Children mimic their parents however subconsciously, and Rhaenyra has made it clear she cares little for her half-siblings. I think Jace and Luke were raised with some feelings of superiority because of it; why else would they bring a knife to confront their uncle—that they were raised alongside—like he’s a common thief? Not to mention, Jace isn’t old enough to even wield a blade. In fact, only Aegon in 1x06 trained with live steel. So it makes little sense that no one cared to ask why Jace had a knife in the first place.
Lastly: I’ve made a timeline on my tumblr (maybeiwasjustjade) that will update as the fic does. It will be linked to my fata morgana update post, and in the tags as well.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The 13th day of the 2nd moon, the year 127 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
Aemond was cursed.
Or at least, it always felt like he was.
The second born son, destined to inherit nothing. Brilliant and studious, yet ignored in the face of true genius. A Targaryen without a dragon, the only one of his blood with none. An egg had been gifted to him, beautiful and his, yet it never hatched. Unlike his half-sister’s Strong boys, with their hatched ugly things. Or Helaena, strange and haunted as she was, who had managed to hatch a dragon once.
No, Aemond had to be cursed, for he was the most unlucky prince to ever exist. Even dearest Helaena was leaving him behind now.
Born only a little over a year’s turn apart, he and his sister had been raised nearly as twins. From the time Aemond had been old enough to remember, his memories revolved mostly around Helaena. Rhaenyra was never around, and father somehow even less so. And his brothers had been thick as thieves from the moment Daeron learned to walk, chasing after the eldest with screeches of “Aeg, Aeg” while Stormborn chased after him with worried thrills.
Helaena was his, the way Daeron was Aegon’s, Aegon was Helaena’s, and Aemond their mother’s favorite.
Yet—
He hadn’t even known Helaena wanted a dragon of her own. Not until the night before her eleventh nameday feast, and Aegon had snuck her out to the Dragonpit. Helaena returned with a dragon to call her own—Dreamfyre, the second oldest beast alive—and a liveliness to her that they’d thought had been locked away forever.
A queen’s dragon, their mother had whispered, satisfied, once she finished screaming herself hoarse. Aegon’s palms had been beaten raw for his actions. Daeron had been sent to bed without supper for his involvement. And Aemond…he had been left in the dark, as always, out of fear he’d tattle to their queen mother.
Another piercing stab, and his temples throbbed under the assault. Aemond winced, rubbing his eyes. His stomach began to grumble under the onslaught of one too many improper meals, courtesy of the wintery atmosphere that dogged their reunited family.
Dinner had been an awfully sordid affair.
The adults had been insistent on talking—or as Aegon called it, “having a pissing contest”—so he and the other children had been shunted off to one side to “mingle”. Daeron, ever their mother’s darling, had immediately engaged their cousins—the ladies Baela and Rhaena. Even Helaena had done so with no need for coaxing, a strange glint in those otherwise blank lavender eyes.
For the most part, his cousins had been courteous, Rhaena especially, despite their obviously swollen eyes and cracked lips. They did not even mind when Helaena started talking about her pet insects halfway through the meal, a fact he—and his mother, if Alicent’s piercing stare was an indication—most appreciated. Not many tolerated Helaena’s habits, not even their father. And most definitely not his precious Rhaenyra, who hardly ever spared a moment for her only sister.
Aegon, ever the entertainer, had spent most of dinner joking around with their nephews, going so far to drag the morose Ser Laenor into his little circle. But despite the exuberant grin, the constant twitch of his fingers made clear that his older brother was under a lot of stress. Aemond was just glad he had not broken down and started on his cups again. It had been a pain to destroy said habit in the first place. And Daeron would also be most displeased; Aegon would never wish to disappoint his favorite sibling.
And so Aemond had chosen to stick with Helaena, once the noise and uncomfortable atmosphere had soured her good mood. He refused to even entertain the idea of approaching their nephews again, not after he was rebuffed rather rudely at the funeral. He had approached them with kindness, to present his condolences on the profound loss of a father, and had gotten glared at for his troubles.
He hardly knew why he bothered; everyone in King’s Landing knew the truth about Ser Harwin and his sons, and abhorred them for it. Aemond had merely tried to be kind; showed his growth, and proved he was a good and compassionate prince who cared not for their origins.
He had almost forgotten how utterly infuriating Jace and Luke were.
They were Aegon’s minions for years before they left—especially Jacaerys, with his morbidly pathetic infatuation—and had assisted in all of his brother’s petty pranks. Most of which involved making Aemond’s existence a misery. Thankfully, Daeron had easily put a stop to Aegon’s penchant for constant troublemaking with those large green eyes, and Aegon had bent. Then Rhaenyra had done the only good thing in her life, and fled in dead night with her family like a coward.
Once the adults had gotten bored making each other miserable and furious, they took their attention to making the children equally so. Rhaenyra had dragged her sons to Daemon’s girls—and really, who would believe they were cousins when they looked as similar as night and day—forcibly ejecting Helaena and Daeron from their own conversations. Baela had been most wroth at the interruption; perhaps Daeron had been giving her advice on rearing hatchlings. Her dragon was barely larger than a hound, after all.
Daeron had taken the rejection most graciously, going so far as to move to the other side of the room to engage Corlys Velaryon in a conversation about his ships, making everyone even more uncomfortable when said Lord of the Tides was most enthusiastic and had an almost manic grin. He had to give it to his little brother: Daeron sure knew how to play their mother’s game.
But political games meant hungry stomachs in bed, and their morning meal had hardly been any better. Daeron had arrived late, his hair a wet mess, and with Vaemond Velaryon’s sons. Grandfather was present, Mother had been cold and stiff, while Princess Rhaenys watched her granddaughters like a hawk. Daemon had slunked off to wherever he was when he was not insulting mother, and thus absent. His Grace the King had disappeared to join Rhaenyra and her brood on a garden picnic, leaving their mother to deal with any ambitious Velaryons.
And there had been quite a few. Ambitious fathers and sons; simpering mothers and daughters. Flirtatious grins and tight, silken dresses. Driftmark clearly had no shortage of Velaryon blood.
Aemond was no fool; he knew that his position meant that he would never truly have a life of his own. Whatever meager freedom that came with being a secondborn prince mattered little when a noose was tied around his frail neck. Where it would remain till the day Aegon became king, and Rhaenyra either dead or exiled across the sea. Till then, Aemond existed merely as an advantage to be used by his grandfather's whims.
He just wished it were all less troublesome.
Dull throbbing persisted, and Aemond growled at the sensation. He had ran off after that awful meal, preferring the silence of High Tide’s many balconies to read. And to sort through his many thoughts. Drawn to this very balcony from the first morning they arrived on this dreary island, as if an anchor was pulling him here for reasons unbeknownst to him. The only interesting thing he had seen so far was the imprint of Vhagar, far on the horizon.
Scurrying sounds of feet knocked him out of his thoughts. He turned to see little Daeron skidding to a stop.
“Aemond!” His brother called with a wave. Aemond grunted, turning away to continue his reading.
“There you are,” Daeron continued, ignorant of the glare Aemond was throwing at him for interrupting. “I have been looking all over for you. You escaped your retinue. Mother is most displeased,” he chuckled amiably, and Aemond’s knuckles whitened under his grip.
“Not even Aegon dared to. Especially not here.”
Aemond slammed the book shut. “I am quite sure our dear brother will find another way to cause trouble,” he said, standing up. Dusting himself off, Aemond quipped, “As he is wont to do. Our future king hardly listens to reason. Not even Mother can teach a buffoon to be a worthy ruler.”
Daeron’s nose crinkled. “Aegon is hardly difficult to corral,” he scoffed rather cutely. “Mother just happens to be very bad at it. She always says the wrong things to him.” The truth being the wrong things, went unspoken.
“That is easy for you to say,” Aemond’s voice came out almost scathing. He tried to erase the sting, to appear aloof instead. “Aegon loves you.”
Daeron’s head tilted. “And you feel he dislikes you?”
“Yes.” The answer came out faster than he would have liked. Daeron was always too perceptive. “He is always teasing me, playing tricks and laughing. Kind one moment, and cruel another. He might be older, but that does not give him the right to treat me like dragon shit. Like slapping me!”
“He was worried about you!” Daeron defended, somewhat incredulously. “Aemond. You snuck into Dreamfyre’s lair without Helaena, and nearly died. You should be glad a slap was all you got from him.”
Aemond scoffed, and Daeron’s eyes flared with flames. “You did something impeccably idiotic, got a slap for it, and Mother still does not know. Now what do you think she would do to him, had something happened to you?”
“She would not have done anything to him,” Aemond grumbled, albeit weakly, lowering his eyes. He knew when the argument was lost; and he always lost when it came to Daeron.
Daeron merely side-eyed him, and asked abruptly, “Why were you in there anyway? Aegon refused to tell.” When Aemond refused to answer, he pressed on, the annoying brat. “For an egg? Helaena offered multiple times and you never said yes.”
”It felt…wrong. Like something was missing,” Aemond shrugged. Daeron looked doubtful, and bitterness rose in Aemond’s chest. He almost lurched forward with the force of it.
“I highly doubt you could understand,” he scoffed acerbically. “You and Aegon. You have never been apart from Stormborn, and Aegon barely even remembers life before Sunfyre.”
“The only person who did was Helaena,” he was almost screaming now, but Aemond couldn’t care less. “And now even she has left me behind.”
“I understand,” Daeron started, but Aemond was far from done.
“You are the last person who will ever understand what it is like to be me!”
Rage was boiling over, winning against his rationality. And not even the sight of Daeron’s perfectly widened eyes was able to give him any satisfaction. Even now, his perfect Valonqar had the audacity to remain calm in the face of Aemond’s ire. It is hardly fun, is it? he sneered uncharitably. To be singled out.
And then the headache hit.
Piercing and pulsing, like getting bludgeoned on the head over and over by Aegon’s morningstar. And he would know, Aemond snarled silently, despite the pain. He was nearly doubled over, more nauseous than he thought possible. Aegon actually had bludgeoned him over head more than once. Granted it was a child’s toy and not the actual weapon, and they were only five and eight, but the sentiment stood.
Small, cool hands cradled his head, and Aemond almost weeped in relief. A soft voice, tickling his ear. “Breathe, Aemond. Breathe,” Daeron commanded. “In and out, slowly,” he encouraged, even going so far as to hum a soft tune, as Aemond’s breath slowly evened out to the repetitive rhythm, and the scorching pain subsided.
His vision cleared to a lightly disheveled Daeron chewing on his cheeks almost imperceptibly, vivid eyes almost too large for such a tiny face. Aemond almost felt sorry for screaming at him.
Almost. But then the little shit just had to go and open his mouth. “Does that happen often?” Daeron asked, and if Aemond didn’t know better, he would have pegged Daeron as worried underneath his usual calm facade.
“Not till recently,” Aemond begrudgingly admitted, wincing slightly at the crick in his neck. “But they always hurt as badly.”
Those ember-bright eyes narrowed. “How recently?”
“Sometime during the last moon’s turn.”
“And are you always looking in this direction when it happens?” Daeron craned his head around, as if looking for something, but Aemond was too busy being lost.
“I—suppose so,” Aemond stuttered in disbelief. It seemed during his last headache, he’d somehow managed to completely turn himself around, and was now standing where Daeron had been. Facing the heart of the Gullet, as he had since King’s Landing.
Daeron nodded, as if it all made complete sense. Aemond didn’t follow.
Finally, “I think it is a dragon,” Daeron said, sounding very blasé. The sky was blue, Daeron’s eyes sometimes glowed a tad bit at night, and somehow a dragon was waiting for Aemond after ten long years.
He snorted in disbelief. “I doubt that.” It was probably the salty air and all the fish making him ill.
“Is.”
“Is not.”
“Is.”
“It will not be a dragon, Daeron,” Aemond sighed.
But Daeron merely raised a brow. “Are you willing to wager on that?” He smirked, like Westeros’ most innocent looking hooligan.
“If it is, I will gamble my eye on it,” Aemond muttered jokingly, and Daeron laughed—high and almost cackling—like a madman who knew something no one else did. Laughter bubbled up his own throat at the sound, and it was not long before Aemond joined in, their giggles bouncing off the limestone walls.
Their laughter eventually tapered off. A companionable silence, watching the waves riot against the jutting rocks before slowly calming to a still. The sea was always at peace, when Daeron was around. Aemond turned his head, staring at Daeron’s profile. His little brother’s eyes were closed, the wind softly whipping his streaked hair like a lover’s caress. Aemond’s own waves were tangled horribly from the salty sprays. The cresting sun settled, casting silver strands aglow with fiery gold. Like this, Daeron looked peaceful, and so very young.
It was easy to forget that Daeron was only seven. He hardly ever acted like he was. Aemond resented him almost from the moment he was born. It was hard not to, when Daeron was a reminder of everything he was not. Steady Daeron, prodigious Daeron. Daeron with his hatched dragon, and wickedly talented sword arm. Handsome Daeron, the comeliest of the King’s children. Sweetest Daeron, who held Aegon’s love in the palm of his hands, and Helaena’s trust with every whispered conversation. Brilliant Daeron, who would be king had he been born first.
Aemon hated him. Sometimes. Often. Perhaps only a little. But it was enough that he often forgot that it wasn’t normal for Daeron to be, well, Daeron.
It was simply a mask.
The Red Keep was no place for children. Vipers of every color stalked every corner, preying and pulling strings to fulfill whatever agenda would bring their House the greatest honor. Never show your true self—that was the first lesson Mother taught them all, with great fear in her eyes. Make them love you, with whatever means necessary.
If even Mother—the saintly, gentle Queen Alicent—was not above such criticism, how would they—the king’s disfavored children—hope to survive alone?
So they made themselves masks, curated their appearances and personalities to survive the snake pit that was their father’s court. Masks so ingrained in them, that Aemond sometimes forgot they were even masks at all. Aegon with his quick laughter and even quicker wit hiding a lifetime of sadness, and the weight of a destiny hanging over his head. Helaena’s image as a meek, weak princess hidden in an elder sister’s shadow without once giving clue of the brilliance that hummed underneath every breath. He himself and the visage of a studious prince, loyal and devout. Noble, in the face of Rhaenyra’s treacheries, and her children’s inadequacies.
And Daeron—so unbelievably well-adjusted despite being born into their mercurial family.
Daeron’s eyes fluttered open, and wildfire eyes met deep lilac. “Aemond,” and it was a confirmation as much as it was a command, “Your dragon is here on this island. You know this; have felt it since the moment we arrived. She is yours, and no one else's.”
Wildfire turned to steel to a burgeoning storm. Aemond’s breath catched.
“So go, and claim her.” For a moment, Aemond was almost stunned at the sight of him.
He looked like a god.
On the other side of the island, three little girls sat under the shadow of a great beast, her silver blue wings providing shade against the scorching sun. Another dragon—tiny and moving with cat-like grace, with scales of pale and dark jade—was jumping around, teasing her bonded while she ran circles on the sand.
Her younger sister, who looked so much like her they could have been twins, sat in companionable silence with the last of the silver-haired maidens, both with skeins of thread. Friendship born pure, despite the circumstances.
The oldest of the three suddenly stiffened, lavender eyes blown white and unseeing. A triumphant grin broke out from usually serene lips, and the girl laughed and laughed till tears began to drip.
“Are you quite well, Helaena?” The youngest—Rhaena—asked, picking at her fingernails nervously. Baela had stopped running at the piercing sound of laughter, face drawn with worry.
But Helaena just smiled, patting her hand. “Fate has cast its die, choices will need to be made. You must heed her warning song. Or all loved shall be all lost.”
Go and claim her, the mirage of the king Daeron would never be commanded.
And so Aemond did.
He followed his instincts—the voice in his heart that told him to go forth and find, the tether in his mind towards a soul as lonely as he—and found her. Ancient and mighty, beautifully monstrous and strange.
The Queen of Dragons.
Vhagar.
His dragon.
She was beautiful and wholly his the way nothing had ever been, and that first flight on her back was the first time in his life that Aemond felt like he truly belonged. He understood then, why Aegon flew like he was meant to have wings, forever existing in the sky and not the earth. There was nothing in the world that could beat the feeling of soaring through the sky, or the power that thrummed under his fingers and body in sync with the heart of his dragon.
Aemond let loose one piercing cackle after cackle, shrieking his happiness into the night sky, each more maniacal than the last. Beneath him, Vhagar roared her own victory to the sky as they swooped down and skimmed the sea, before sailing towards land.
Freedom
He never knew how addicting it was.
As Aemond’s first flight shadowed High Tide under Vhagar’s great wings, a little boy looked up from where he was hidden on the towering parapets, a troubled glint in star-bright eyes.
The blue-green dragon gave his companion a questioning thrill. The boy nodded, running a quick hand over a gold-crowned head. “Time to test fate,” he said ominously, climbing atop his dragon. With a mighty growl, Stormborn took off into the night.
In a different part of the castle, two lost little girls were awakened by the sight of great wings beating past their windows, its shadow casting darkness into their otherwise still-lit room. Said little girls would make such a ruckus in their escape to chase down their mother’s errant dragon to the beach; one to claim, and the other to bid farewell.
Unbeknownst to them—yet, for they had time to meet in their long journey down—two little boys were also wide awake despite the late hour. Too haunted by bitter regrets, and secrets forced silent. And they too had witness Vhagar’s flight, and heard the rambunctious laughter of her newest rider.
High above a tower, bleary lavender eyes blinked open, and the Dreamer hummed. Close an eye, close a hand.
Fate, it seems, was never kind to those who refuse to heed its warning.
(In a different world, where there were only strangers in place of brothers and hands at each other’s throats instead of clasped together in begrudging love, the blade struck true.
An eye for an insult; a life for an eye. A son for a son for a son for a son. Daughters bled; sons died.
The realm would have bled red, then white; a red comet turned to ash, and a hero reborn to set the record straight.
And perhaps in that world, prophecies were so rare that no one listened. Where oracles were nothing but banshees—cursed to warn but too late, and Death’s claws had already gouged the earth. Maybe there, Helaena Targaryen was nothing more than a Cassandra or Halcyon; forever haunted by the fate she couldn’t change. Death would be her mercy.
This will never be that world.)
“Aemond?” A split second head-jerk, the blade carving skin and bone instead of viscera and sinew.
It hurt.
Aemond let out a pained scream, dropping to the ground. His ears rang. Sometime before the fall, a hand had risen to cover his wound—a wound that was dripping blood down his cheeks and stained his tunic. Nausea joined the endless pain, and Aemond heaved and heaved, curled up into a ball of pain and wails. Somewhere on the island, Vhagar roared until the earth shook with her rage.
“Aemond!”
Scared shouts, the thud of heavy weight on sand. A flap of wings, a whistling shriek. Then—
A crunching sound, like teeth sunk into bone and flesh. Pained whimpers, and the sound of falling. Someone—more than one, he thought—was yelling, but Aemond couldn’t tell beyond his own shrieks.
A large hand covered his own. “My prince?” The hand’s owner spoke, the slightest tremor audible. Aemond forcefully opened his eyes.
Ser Criston was squatting in front of him, worry and fear twisting his usually handsome face. The hand that was not on Aemond’s face was cradling his shoulder, helping him sit up. “How….?” Aemond rasped.
“Prince Daeron found me when he realized you were missing,” the kingsguard said grimly, eyes tracking the various scrapes and bruises that littered his face. “I am quite glad that he did so.”
Once Aemond’s vision stopped blurring, and he no longer felt like he might fall into a dead faint at a moment’s notice, his gaze fell upon Ser Criston’s dirtied and dented armour. Said knight followed his gaze towards his ruined armour, and huffed a laugh.
“Stormborn,” Criston chuckled, when Aemond blinked questioningly at him. “He believed I was moving too slowly, so took it upon himself to give me a lift.” The image was so absurd that Aemond broke into a laugh, only to groan in pain as it pulled on his already broken skin.
Then his ears popped, and Aemond was baraged under the onslaught of yelling. His one, bleary eye fell onto a scene from his greatest nightmares. Or perhaps his most vivid dreams.
Blood littered the sand, both from Aemond’s wound and the hand trapped in Stormborn’s mighty jaws, Lucerys crying as the dragon glared with abject disappointment. Jacaerys, Baela, and Rhaena were all sprawled on the ground, blocked from intervening by Daeron, looming above them larger than life.
“Valonqar…?” Aemond coughed, blood dribbling down his neck. Daeron turned.
The dim light of the moon shone at just the right angle to turn Daeron’s eyes into living flame. Emotions warred in those wild eyes: relief and long-suffering, expectancy and something else—disappointment. As if his brother had predicted this outcome, and was still disappointed by the results.
Despite the blazing pain, Aemond’s jaw jutted in defiance. The price to pay was his, and he was willing to bet everything to fly on Vhagar again. Even an eye.
Daeron’s lips quirked into the slightest of smiles. Ser Criston looked exasperated by them both, like he would love nothing more than to whack them both upside the head.
Ser Criston removed both their hands. Surveying the damage, the knight exhaled with relief. “Thank the Mother, the eye has not been lost,” he almost sobbed, grabbing Aemond with an almost fatherly grace.
“Aemond will be fine,” Daeron’s voice boomed. “Or our nephew would be faring far worse.” Stormborn gave a growl in agreement, but seemed careful not to make the wound worse.
“I will need to wrap your wound, my prince,” Criston said, and Aemond tried to nod. The knight made to tear his white cloak, when two scrap cloths were thrusted between them.
“Here,” Baela Targaryen said. “Use these.” Behind her, Rhaena choked a gasped apology, the hem of her dress torn.
Ser Criston’s head bobbled in thanks. “Many thanks, my lady.” He began to wrap the wound.
Aemond’s eye met his cousins’ wine-dark ones, and understanding flowed between them. They had done him wrong tonight, but he had opened a wound they were not ready to close. Their mother’s dragon he had claimed without contention, and Rhaena Targaryen had no right to claim it stolen. But he had also done so without anyone’s knowledge—not even to inform the Lady Laena’s family of his decision. That fault was his.
Baela nodded, and the moment broke.
“Come, my prince,” Ser Criston murmured. “Let us try to stand. Prince Daeron,” he called, “If you would give me a hand?”
“Storm,” Daeron commanded as he headed towards them, a dangerous glint crackling in wild eyes. “If Jace tries anything, bite down.” Stormborn gave a harsh rumble, smokey tendrils leaving his nose.
Together, they heaved Aemond to his feet, Rhaena coming to stand by his side, her grip tight on his elbow. Daeron nodded at her, and the girl’s cheeks coloured a dusky hue. Jacaerys remained where he was, something foul and angry writ all over his visage. Aemond cared not, for his head hurt too much. Even the makeshift dressing had already bled through.
“We must head back at once,” Ser Criston said, measuring the children he would have to wrangle together.
But Daeron shook his head. “It would take too long. Storm,” he called, and with another disappointed rumble, Stormborn let go of Lucerys to loom over them.
Aemond would have chuckled had the mere idea not already made him want to vomit. Stormborn looked like their mother when she would like nothing more than to lock them in their chambers for disobeying.
“Get on,” Daeron ordered, pushing Aemond towards the saddle.
If he were in lesser pain, Aemond surely would have protested. He knew his siblings dragons almost as much as they did, having spent years watching resentfully, obsessively, and with heartbroken resolve. And Stormborn—for all that he was large for his age—was too small still to carry two people comfortably without risk of injury.
Daeron must have caught his hesitation. “It will not be an issue,” his little brother soothed. “It will only take a few minutes to reach the castle. Besides, Stormborn is much stronger than he appears.” Said dragon rumbled his agreement, nudging Aemond gently with his snout. Ser Criston, exasperated and exhausted, merely nodded in acquiescence.
“And we really should go before Vhagar returns and torches us all,” Daeron said jokingly, pushing him once more.
And then they were gone.
Criston watched until Stormborn could no longer be seen amongst the star-speckled sky. Then he turned, towards the children left in his charge.
They were disheveled, covered in dust and dirt. Lady Rhaena was crying still in her ruined dress, while Baela’s mutinous face hid a glimmer of guilt. Jacaerys was still on the ground, angry and furious and so very hurt. And Lucerys—
Criston sighed, feeling pity swell for them. He had not been kind to these boys; too blinded by his own distaste for their mother and father both. But Criston was not a cruel man, and despite their actions tonight they were all just hurt children who needed a compassionate hand.
Tearing a piece of his white cloak, the knight dropped to his knees in front of the sobbing boy. Blood continued to dribble out of his mangled hand. It would scar, Criston knew, as he wrapped the wound tightly. But if cared for properly, Lucerys Velaryon may one day wield a sword again.
“Come,” he said quietly, as he stood up. “We have a long walk ahead of us.”
On the other side of the castle, far from the sounds of violence and screams of fear, sat a girl on the stones of her open window. If anyone were to look up, they would think she was a spirit, haunting their island. Silver waves bleached white under the moonlight, and lavender eyes vacant as she sung the strings of fate under her breath. In a language no one living would understand, should they even care enough to hear her.
Spools of green, spools of black. Thread on thread, skin on skin, black drowns in red. Close an eye, close a hand.
Dreamfyre had taught her, the way Sunfyre had taught Aegon—in a language less ancient perhaps, but no less from the heart. Dragon song, dragon’s voice; music of life and nature, the earth and the sea. Sun and Moon. Dreams and Death, forever hand in hand. Perhaps that was why Rhaena Targaryen named Dreamfyre so. Not for herself—Dreamer that she was not—but as a warning for her dragon’s next rider: a Dreamer to challenge Daenys herself.
Dreamers were harbingers, after all. A warning from the gods themselves that something terrible was coming. Listen or die—that was her song. Daeron understood this; was the only one to ever recognize it as it was. His thread of gold blinded, and he may very well save them all.
The Targaryen Dynasty will survive another night. As she had Seen, so it will be. Silvers and pearls, oysters and salt. A changed heart; the unrestrained wave. Blood was spilt tonight, as it will in the morrows, when the gods’ beast of burden set the stage. Perhaps then she could rest.
Three hard knocks on the door interrupted her reverie.
“Princess! You must come quick, there has been a terrible accident.”
Helaena merely hummed. Knowing. Expectant. She followed the servant.
Only time will tell how their tumultuous House of the Dragon will fall.
The scene that greeted Rhaenyra was chaos incarnate.
“Say that one more time, I dare you!” Aegon snarled at her eldest, violet eyes incandescent, as two Kingsguard attempted to stop them from outright brawling near the entrance. A quick look showed Jace’s hard face set in defiance, though his teary eyes belied his hurt. Her eldest always did have a soft spot for Aegon.
On the far side of the room, “We did not know he had a knife, I swear,” a wailing Rhaena proclaimed to a shushing Helaena, and a half-listening Alicent—who was too busy watching the Maester attend to a heavily bleeding Aemond. Rhaenys, who had been but a step behind Rhaenyra, ran quickly to pull Rhaena into her arms.
“—is it not the Kingsguard’s job to protect the royal family?” Her father demanded, in the center of the Hall. Three Kingsguard stood before him, Cole included, heads bowed. “Where were you?”
“We never had to defend princes from one another, Your Grace,” Westerling protested.
“Your sister was a fool—,” came Daemon’s bark from the rightmost side, and Rhaenyra’s head swiveled to him reflexively. The fireplace flame set him alight. His eyes met hers, and the slightest lilt of the tantalizing mouth set her ablaze with want. He looked beautiful, even as he was getting yelled at by a child no taller than his chest.
“And who is to blame, but you!” Baela howled, shaking Rhaenyra from her reverie. The girl’s face was red with anger and sweat, voice nearly cracking.
And then she saw Lucerys.
“Luke,” she breathed, as she ran to his side, Jace behind her. Her brave boy was sitting stiffly on a chair, one of High Tide’s Maesters stitching his hand. A large hole mangled his sword hand, and she almost vomited at the sight. His soft brown eyes met hers, and tears began to pour in earnest.
“Mother,” he cried, wincing in pain as the Maester finished his stitch.
“What happened, Luke?” She asked, cradling his tiny face in her hands. “Who did this to you?”
Her scream caught the attention of everyone in the hall. Aegon sneered, looking like he would love nothing more than to knock her sons’ teeth out.
“I should like to know who hurt my son,” Rhaenyra swore. Alicent barked a laugh, drawing her attention.
“And I would like to know why a boy of barely eight namedays was carrying a Valyrian steel dagger to confront their own uncle,” Alicent spoke, her voice cold and dripping with malicious disdain. There was almost nothing of the girl Rhaenyra once loved in the rigid set of her shoulders, or the hate in her wide, brown eyes. “Children who have yet to begin instructions with live steel, yet one made its way to your son’s hands.”
Rhaena, still weeping but voice strong, began explaining what occurred tonight, from Aemond claiming Vhagar to the brawl that ended with two hurt princes. Aemond would forever have a scar that stretched from temple to chin, but Luke may never wield a weapon ever again. Rhaenyra’s heart ached even as rage boiled in her veins. While she was distracted by Daemon, her sons had needed her.
Viserys watched her with something akin to pity, placing a shriveled hand on her shoulder.
“And the blade?” Alicent demanded.
Viserys sighed, and waved a hand in acquiescence. “Yes, yes, I would like to know as well.”
“I gave it to him, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra lied, as her panic subsided. In truth, she wasn’t quite sure how Jace—because of course it had been her oldest—had gotten his hand on such a blade. She thought the master-at-arms had locked all of them up. “Luke was absolutely bereft when we received news of Laena’s passing, to the point of suffering night terrors.”
“I had hoped that it would bring him some comfort, to carry something representative of Laena’s wild and passionate spirit. So that his prayers could lead her to the Seven Heavens.”
“How pious,” Alicent crooned sarcastically. “It seems that this family will have its very own Septon someday.”
Rhaenyra shot her a caustic glare, but her former friend merely smirked. Viserys looked between them, forlorn and lost.
Then, “Aemond called us bastards,” came Jace’s strong voice.
“What!” All eyes swiveled to Aemond, still seated by the fire. The boy had the audacity not to cower, even with his wound still half-open and bleeding. It will leave a hideous scar, Rhaenyra thought, satisfied.
Alicent, next to her, looked stricken. Rhaenyra took the opening. “Such vile accusations levied against my sons, the heirs to the throne,” she snarled. “Aemond should be sharply questioned so that we may learn where he heard such insults.”
“Aemond!” Viserys roared, moving quicker than expected to grab the boy by the shoulders, and shaking hard enough to bruise. The boy winced under the onslaught. “Tell your King. Where did you hear such vile words?”
Cold laughter exploded out of Alicent, and Rhaenyra nearly buckled under the sheer hate she could hear from a normally lovely sound.
“You jest, husband,” she sneered, moving to stand protectively over Aemond. “Her sons taunted ours for years because he was dragonless, and your own brother was heard calling our children half-breeds.”
Alicent laughed again, almost incredulously. “Yet you are willing to question your son over a training yard insult?”
Her father visibly faltered, but Alicent drove through his newly found reluctance with the grace of a siege weapon. “But if you insist on questioning your injured son over a petty insult, then I ask that you punish me in his stead. A child is only as graceful as his mother.”
Her voice quietened, into the feeble queen most believed her to be. Rhaenyra saw through that mask most easily; this was Alicent at her most vengeful. “But I must insist on the same courtesy of the Princess Rhaenyra. To ascertain where she was when her sons decided to attack mine own with a concealed weapon.”
“Your son’s dragon mauled my son!” Rhaenyra protested, pointing at the carefully hidden Daeron.
Her youngest half-brother could barely be seen in the shadows of Aemond’s chair, tiny and frail like a lost porcelain doll. All but his eyes—burning with embers brighter than any flame. And brilliant emerald; of war and death. Luke inched closer from where he had hid behind Jace.
“Defending his brother because your son nearly slashed out his eye,” Alicent shot back, not allowing herself to be deterred.
“My dear…” Viserys started, but when Alicent shook her head with a murmured, forceful “No, husband”, her father merely sighed and turned back to her.
“Where were you tonight, Rhaenyra?” The King asked quietly.
“I was already abed with my husband, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra lied, clutching Luke close. His bloodied, bandaged hand gripped her skirts, and Rhaenyra almost screamed at the sight of his splinted fingers. The thick bandages wrapped around what was surely a gaping hole in his palm.
“Yes, where is Ser Laenor?” Alicent asked, a vindictive glint in her wild eyes.
“Asleep still. My poor husband has been absolutely bereft at the loss of his sister, and has barely slept since we heard the news of her passing. I thought it best to let him rest.” More lies; Rhaenyra did not, in fact, know where Laenor was. Probably drunk somewhere with the servants, or entertaining Driftmark’s various squires and knights.
“How convenient,” she heard Alicent snort quietly, and fought the urge to slap her.
Instead she flashed imploring eyes at her father. Viserys looked ready to believe her—whether in truth or simply to close the exhausting night, she cared not—when a small, yet high voice interrupted.
“But I saw you on the beach,” Daeron said innocuously, stepping forth from the shadows like a demon from Asshai. Alicent turned toward her youngest with a hissed, “Daeron!”
“I did,” the boy insisted, voice gaining strength despite his mother’s continued insistence he kept quiet. “When I was looking for Aemond. I saw her on the beach, kissing Uncle Daemon.”
Eyes betrayed, Viserys turned towards Daeron. “What did you say, boy?” he thundered. “Do not lie to me!”
“I would never.” Daeron’s impossibly large eyes grew even wider, a thin sheen of tears already forming. A shaky pout formed on his lips. Viserys visibly faltered at the sight, and Rhaenyra couldn’t allow that. That drasted boy was the reason her son was maimed.
“Perhaps Daeron may have mistaken someone else for me, Father,” Rhaenyra tried to intervene before the king broke completely. Wildfire eyes met her own lilac—piercing and knowing, as if he could see the very truth of her, and still found her wanting.
“I am not a liar,” the boy argued, a single fat tear falling at the accusation. Then, in a move so spectacular it could only be calculated, he moved, grabbing their father’s sleeves.
“They were behind the broken ship. Then they were not wearing any clothes, and kept wiggling on each other,” Daeron continued, tugging on Viserys’ sleeves imploringly. “And the sounds—,”
“Sounds?” Viserys' voice boomed, his head swinging towards her—and Daemon—in accusation.
Daeron nodded vigorously. “Like the kind that comes from Aegon’s bedchambers at night.”
The sudden silence that hit the hall was deafening. Rhaenyra swallowed down the overwhelming urge to repeatedly slam the boy’s head against the wall. The only sounds heard were the quiet sniffling of the children. Across the room, the Velaryons’ stiffened in betrayal and anger. Rhaena’s cries doubled in volume, and Rhaneyra felt the sting of Baela—standing at her grandmother’s elbow like a murderous shadow—glaring at her like she was little more than dragon dung. And Rhaenys…Rhaenys looked close to murder.
Menacing laughter broke out. “Watch your mouth, little boy,” came Daemon’s voice, his silky smooth threat echoing.
But it seems Daeron was not finished. “Then I heard Kepa proclaim that he would marry her if only she asked.”
Rhaenyra froze. Someone stifled a manic giggle. She did not dare look to see who it was. He had done so—whispered it against her skin as they both reached completion. How had Daeron heard them?
“You dare lie, filthy mongrel,” Daemon snarled, pushing off the wall to stalk towards Daeron. Who looked absurdly unapologetic in the face of such malevolent wrath.
“Stay away from my Valonqar, you pretentious di—,” Aegon snarled, his High Valyrian almost draconic, throwing off Ser Arryk’s arm as he futilely tried to grab the rampaging boy. Daemon looked smug at the attention, bloodlust evident in the way his hand was already curled around Dark Sister, the blade half out of its sheath. He looked like a viper welcoming its next meal.
What a blithering idiot, she thought, pulling a brave-faced Jace closer. To challenge a wrathful Daemon. Alicent raised such violent wildlings. My sons would never.
It was Helaena who ultimately stopped them—ignoring her raging mother and going so far as to step in front of her rabid brother, and dragging him back by the hand to sit with her and Rhaena. Baela had yet to move from where she was glaring at her father and Rhaenyra interchangeably.
But Viserys had already noticed his brother’s carefully placed hand, and his devil’s smirk. “Enough, Daemon!” He bellowed. Deep lilac eyes, normally so kind, turned flinty. “Threaten my sons one more time, and you shall find yourself exiled on the other side of the continent.” And that is a promise, went unspoken.
“The Night’s Watch is always looking for more recruits, if the prince were so inclined,” piped up an unusually reticent Otto Hightower. The oily snake usually enjoyed the sound of his own voice, yet remained in the shadows for reasons unknown to her.
Daemon scoffed, visibly betrayed when Viserys did not refute the threat. But he restrained himself, returning to his perch against the wall.
Once again, she bit back the urge to scream, smashed the urge to lash out. Wanted to declare that it was nothing more than a vile accusation made by a jealous, insipid child. Give in to the violence pounding her chest, and set all of Alicent’s little half-breeds aflame to hide her shame.
But no defense would have worked, she knew. No words or actions would dig her out of the hole they made. She and Daemon had been careless—exchanging glances and touches freely despite propriety. But they were dragons made flesh, and fire ran through their veins. She belonged to Daemon, and he her. It was unfair.
Her father refused to even look at her. That vile little boy was still watching her, an oddly placid look on his face. As if he had already gotten everything he wanted.
Rhaenyra shivered, suddenly freezing, and tried again, smiling indulgently at the menace, “Daeron is young still. Imagination often runs amok at that age, and there are many Dragonseeds scattered here on Driftmark, as you well know.”
“And Daemon has always made his tastes clear,” she laughed loudly. Fakely. Furiously. “Perhaps the boy saw someone that looked enough like me, and simply believed it to be true.”
“But rest assured, Father, I was abed by then.”
Later, after her father had already yelled himself hoarse over the fracturing of their family—fractures that he caused, when he sired three sons on Alicent Hightower—and Rhaenyra finally, truly, abed, she will find herself haunted by the look Alicent’s youngest flashed her as he was escorted out the room.
She had called him a liar, and in turn she had been allowed to see something other in the boy. In that split-second glance, it was as if he had peeled away the beautiful Valyrian face and allowed her to see the beast that slept underneath—ancient and abyssal. And full of righteous wrath. There was something wrong with that boy, she knew now. Something dangerous and strange and monstrous.
Aegon may be poised to steal her crown, but it will be Daeron who will spell her doom. A charming, duplicitous boy; the hidden blade in the dark. He will be Aegon’s sword on the horizon, not Aemond. And if that slow, skin-crawling smirk he gave her was any indication, he reveled in the knowledge.
Notes:
Dun dun dun duuuuuun
No lost eye, so please take a maimed face and hand instead 👀.
Did Helaena basically See Daemyra getting it on, and tattled to her darling baby brother? Unfortunately, the answer is yes.
If anyone wonders why Aemond's so forgiving/no one got punished: well, this time it's an equal maiming, and no one got disabled for life. Also, Daeron made sure that Baela and Rhaena got to know the Greens first, so there's familiarity there that doesn't exist quite yet with the Strong Boys. For the life of me I couldn't understand why the show made Baela and Rhaena go to Jace instead of Rhaenys. It's not like they even interacted before that scene. Also, Daeron kinda distracted everyone by dropping that last bombshell, so
Re: Jace and Aegon.
I think the show had such a missed opportunity with these two. If Rhaenyra was to be Alicent’s foil instead, the least they can do is focus on Aegon vs Jace for the younger generation. Given that young Aegon was close to Rhaenyra’s sons, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some kind of admiration bordering on infatuation going on there. They’re Targaryens after all 😂.And as for his temper: Aegon’s isn’t particularly nice, and that’s my favorite part of him. I also think that if he weren’t drinking so much to dull his suffering, Aegon would be a lot more fiery. As opposed to Aemond, whose ruthlessness was born from being disabled permanently as a child. Also, at this point the kids haven’t lived together or met in over two years. They’ll be different than they were in 1x06.
Lastly, the whole focus on eyes:
It's for good reason, I promise! Regarding Daeron, a lot of it has to do with how scary that little boy is. My favorite theory is that the more powerful a demigod, the more divinity shines through their skin. Like godhood is trying to break free from those puny mortal bodies. Another is that they literally do glow like little beacons from within, which is why it’s so easy for monsters to find the more powerful ones—not just by smell, but the fact they shine like a spotlight in the mist. And Percy is by far the most powerful demigod of the modern age. Quite literally divinity made flesh. And he’s currently inhabiting the body of a seven year old.
Next up: Driftmark comes to a close, and the last of Daeron’s plans come to fruition, Vaemond proves himself not a fool, plans gets derailed, alliances are made, and Viserys acts the king for the second time in his life.
Chapter 6: Interlude: the Heir to the Tides
Summary:
Nefarious rumors run abound throughout Driftmark. Laenor and Rhaenys have a long overdue talk.
Notes:
Sooooo.
Definitely hadn’t planned for this chapter 😂. Quite literally got the idea yesterday, but I thought it would be fun to see a different pov for a bit. Especially given what happens to Laenor next 👀. I know it’s not the update y’all expected, but the next chapter is coming I promise.
Anyway! I’m sure y’all have noticed that the chapter count went up by quite a bit 😅. And that this will be a series! As it stands, it’ll be two more chapter + two epilogues (one of which will be set during the timeline of ASOIAF)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The 11th hour, the 14th day of the 2nd moon, the year 127 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
A single knock led him into his parents’ chambers.
“Good morrow, Mother,” Laenor chirped at his mother, sitting by the table laden with food, enthusiastic despite the remnants of last night’s…festivities clear on his face. He looked a mess, he knew, but rejuvenated despite the blurry memories of the last grief-griping month. “And Uncle,” Laenor greeted with surprise, as the man waved him in from where he stood by the mantle.
“Closer to noon, I believe, Nephew,” his uncle reprimanded, unusually recalcitrant.
Ignoring the man, “Eat, Laenor,” his mother said, and Laenor dove into his meal with gusto.
Empty silence stretched across them, filled with nought but the sounds of his scraping utensils. Until, “Have you spoken to your wife since awaking?” his mother asked lightly, sipping nonchalantly from her goblet. Across her, his uncle Vaemond failed to hide a derisive snort, shooting her an innocent shrug under the onslaught of her glare.
Laenor shook his head. Around a mouthful of bread, he answered, “I have not seen Rhaenyra or the boys since last night’s supper.” Rhaenyra had disappeared with their sons back into their chambers, and Laenor—too miserable by half for company—opted to spend his time with the soldiers in their barracks.
“In fact, I have not seen head nor hide of anyone else, not even Father. Or little Daeron, the rascal,” Laenor chuckled, remembering days long gone. “He used to wake me at dawn, against the queen’s wishes, for one reason or another.” Dragonriding lessons mostly—him, Daeron, and Aegon—back when they used to live under the same red roof. Since their reunion in High Tide, Daeron had avoided waking him early, but had presented him with a hug whenever their paths crossed.
His uncle shot Rhaenys another undecipherable look, to which she only looked away from whatever she saw in his gaze. Unable to stand another strange silent exchange, Laenor broke it by asking, “What is it?” as he continued to stuff his face with food and washing them down with goblets of water. A night of drinking always left him horrifically parched and cotton-tongued, but the idea of surviving the week without being drowned in wine left much to be desired. Better a drunkard than a weeping fool.
His mother reached across the table, placing a weathered hand on his own. “Laenor, what we are about to discuss will not leave this room. This I promise you. But I must insist that you speak true.” Rhaenys looked as if she swallowed a lemon whole, bitter and daunting. And Laenor froze, tremorring with nerves, a sudden onslaught of unknown fear coursing through him. He took another great gulp of water.
Rhaenys made to speak, but was interrupted by—
“Nephew. Speak truly,” Vaemond huffed, eyes narrowed into slits. “Did you sire Daeron Targaryen upon the queen?”
Laenor froze, before spluttering, spitting and choking as water came back up his nose and splashed all over the table and the food. Vaemond made a face of disgust, pushing the soggy buns away from him.
“Honestly, Vaemond,” his mother admonished, as she handed him a napkin while Laenor continued hacking his lungs out. “That was unnecessary.”
Vaemond merely shrugged, “Coddling him through this is unnecessary, goodsister. And we need the truth of the matter now, to do what is best for our House.” Ignoring her glare, the man continued, “Well, nephew? Did you have an affair with Alicent Hightower?”
Laenor looked pleadingly at his mother, but she did not stop the inquiry. Merely looked at him silently, without judgement, yet something dark swirled in her gaze.
“Wine, please,” he rasped, downing the whole cup of Arbor gold his mother quickly placed in his awaiting hand. “Now,” he said once the last drops have made it down his throat, glaring deeply at his unimpressed uncle. “Why in the Seven Hells would you ask me that?”
“Did you?” Vaemond demanded.
“No!”
“Then–,” “How dare you utter such foolish—,”
“Enough, both of you,” Rhaenys interrupted, when both men ended up standing nose to nose near screaming. A hand rubbed deep circles at her temples. “We are going in circles and wasting precious time. Vaemond, leave us.” With little more than a disbelieving stare, his uncle obeyed. Leaving Laenor to deal with his mother’s questioning eyes.
“Mother…” Laenor sighed, dropping ungraciously into his chair. Hands rubbing down his face, he asked, “Why would you ask me such a thing? To imply that the queen would commit such an act is–,”
“Treason?” Rhaenys’ eyebrow rose into a definitive point. “I am quite familiar with that, yes.”
“Then why ask me this?”
“We needed to be sure,” his mother said simply. Factually. As if the argument was logical and true. “So. Did you?”
“Mother. Do you really believe me so capable of this?” Siring a child—Seven Hells, Daeron—on the queen, as if the mere thought itself did not warrant arrest, Laenor thought. Or believe me capable of siring sons at all, this Laenor did not even dare think.
“No.” Rhaenys said, with an air of finality. “No, I do not. As I did not, when I first met the boy in question years ago.”
“But, my son,” she began, caressing his hand in hers. Her gaze caught his, desperate and doomed. “You must understand the precarious position we are in, for Daeron Targaryen’s parentage to even be questioned at all.”
“How did this even start?” Laenor ran his free hand through his locks helplessly.
“As all rumors do: the servants and nobles,” Rhaenys said flatly. “Laena was well-loved by this island,” she sighed tiredly, “And very few of its inhabitants and friends would choose to miss mourning her.”
“And what they saw,” his mother swallowed nervously, “Was enough to raise questions that we simply were not ready to stop. Servants and soldiers talk, and it was hardly long before I was made aware enough to put a stop to it. Still, it was enough to cause…concern amongst the members of House Velaryon.”
“That Daeron is mine,” Laenor stated incredulously. “Why would anyone even believe so?”
“Targaryens do not have green eyes,” Rhaenys said quietly. “Nor do ravens belong on Hightower heads.” Tis true—this Laenor could not deny. Targaryens with their famed purple eyes; eyes that never strayed until even their blues were still tinged. Even Alyssa Targaryen’s one green eye had been more blue than true green. And Hightowers, with their blonde and brown locks, and not a head so dark a Baratheon or Stark.
“His mother—,” “Andal’s do not birth eyes of a dragon,” Rhaenys shook her head, an almost pitying smile adorning her lips.
House Velaryon was the only Valyrian House left to still birth green eyes amongst their various purples. And Daeron—born five generations apart from the last Velaryon queen—had their eyes of dragon’s flame.
“When the rumors reached me, I did not believe it,” she continued, watching him stare helplessly. She continued to rub soothing circles on his hand. “The boy looks nothing like you, and I know my son enough to know that you would never do such a thing. Nor does the pious Queen Alicent deserve to have her honor questioned by such matters.”
“The queen—Alicent,” he gasped, head shooting up in alarm. “Is she aware of this horrible rumor?”
“No, my son. I have taken precautions to ensure the royal family does not hear of this, and our House sworn to secrecy.” Laenor released a huge breath of relief, eyes fluttering shut.
Here his mother hesitated. “Words may be wind, Laenor, but once spoken cannot be taken back. And all rumors are seeded in truth,” She smiled at him apologetically. “I had the servants report to me what they saw, what they heard from the children. Your children. I needed to see for myself if there was even a modicum of truth—truth that I missed—in what I was told.”
“You had them watched?” Laenor asked incredulously, dropping her hand in shocked disgust.
“How could I not?” His mother hissed, suddenly wrathful. “The Princess of Dragonstone steps foot on our island for the first time since her marriage to its heir, bringing with her three sons who do not look a lick Targaryen, much less Velaryon.”
She scoffed. “Three sons who look like they could be Alicent Hightower’s brood rather than their own father’s.” Laenor stared at her disbelievingly, at the treason spewing from her lips, but his mother continued still, murmuring like caustic wind. “The heir’s heir, who acts and sounds like his mother reborn, with hair and eyes foreign to both lines, and so little of his father no matter how I raked my eyes over him.”
“Then came another boy,” she said, voice deathly calm, “Who, too, does not share the look, if not for his eyes and streaks of Baratheon black hair. With a dragon the colors of our House, and a crown of gold to match. Who treaded the waves as if he was born to run them, easy and swift as the tides themselves.”
“A child that I met years ago, who only grew more and more in resemblance to mine own father,” here her voice cracked softly. But Rhaenys’ eyes remained steely. “Tell me, my son: which boy would the people, who knows only what they see, believe yours?”
”Your father may have accepted your claims, but you and I both know such will bawk under the weight of the truth.”
Laenor did not answer. Could not, for once he, too, had wondered the same when looking upon the face of his own sons. Had wondered how his parents would react, when faced with another son who looked nothing like him. Jacaerys, they had accepted as a fluke of Rhaenyra’s Valemen blood. But when Lucerys was born—with brown curls and eyes, identical to his brother and to neither parent—Laenor had been ashamed.
More than once in their first year, cradle sat side-by-side, Laenor had wished and prayed to every god listening to change Luke’s features. Have the brown hair lighten to a honeyed gold like the Good Queen, or eyes that brightened to a dark green, if not purple. For his nose to lose its rounded shape and settle into something more like his mother’s. For Luke to look more like Daeron, instead of Jace.
He was ashamed of this. Ashamed of his own failings, of Rhaenyra’s failed gamble. Of the knowledge that even Targaryen pureness could not win against the blood of First Men. Ashamed of a child who looked nothing like him, who would grow up to be less and less like the heir he was meant to be, and more his mother’s child. Ashamed that he was able to love him anyway, even if that love was never enough, and the child deserved better.
“So, what do we do now?” Laenor’s voice rasped. He raised his gaze to meet his mother’s—identical dark purple, the night sky before dawn. “Rumors like this have a way of staying alive, no matter how we try to erase them.”
Rhaenys’ jaw tightened. “Your father wishes to foster Lucerys and Daeron here, as a sign of good faith to the queen, and to sate his own ambitions.” A good plan, no doubt; a way to control the narrative, and build Lucerys’ image in the island he would one day call home. Or Daeron—into whatever role he is sure Corlys Velaryon already had planned, somewhere.
“But after the events of last night, I doubt the queen will be welcoming of the idea. Frankly, neither am I.”
Laenor’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Did something happen last night?”
His mother gazed at him almost pityingly. “I had hoped that Rhaenyra would tell you herself, but it seems my niece has learned responsibility from her father.”
“Mother. Do not dally. What happened last night?”
“Viserys and the queen will remain here for a few more days. Late last night, Lucerys nearly took Aemond’s eye, and almost lost a hand for it.”
He was gone even before the last word left her mouth.
Later, when Laenor’s pieced together the events of last night from various sources, and found his way to Rhaenyra’s chambers to see his sons, and her anger too bright a force to ignore, he will let himself wonder.
Wonder how he could see more of Aegon in the mulish set of Jace’s jaw and the stubborn tears he refused to shed, than any of Laenor’s own tells.
Wonder if Luke will ever be truly happy in Driftmark, as Laenor had been his entire life. Happier as a sailor rather than a dragon, though riders they both were.
Wonder if Joffrey will grow up to share even a passing resemblance to him, in attitude if not in features. Unlike his brothers, who were their mother’s sons.
Wonder, as Rhaenyra continued to rage and rage over her half-siblings, if she remembered that it was once Aegon and Helaena that made her want to be a mother.
Notes:
Sooo that happened. Rumors have a way of twisting the truth, and while Daeron isn’t a believable bastard of Laenor’s (as anyone who knew him would know), it goes to show how utterly unbelievable Luke is as Laenor’s son, that people spin on their heads and landed with ➡️ Laenor x Alicent = Daeron
Poor Laenor 😅.
I do think Laenor did love his boys, even if it’s not the way they deserved. Nor did I think he had a proper parental role with them: that was purely Rhaenyra and Harwin. Laenor was simply more suited to be a fun uncle than a dad, unlike Rhaenyra who took to it like fish to water. He loved them, but they weren’t his, and that left a bridge he didn’t know how to cross—born from his own shame and frustrations with his life. I do think he was more present in their lives than Viserys ever was with his own kids, so he may not be the best but he’s certainly not the worst.
Also, he left them without protesting all wily-nily. Poof, let them think he was dead without much care. So. That’s another thing keeping me from thinking he was a good dad.
Lastly: i’m well aware that Daeron could have gotten his eyes from his Hightower or Florent side, or whatever houses they were also related to. BUT one must remember that these are Valyrians, and they have a massive amount of self-importance. Daeron can’t have such bright eyes unless they come from them. Andals, after all, aren’t so blessed to have eyes like a dragon 🙃.
Chapter 7: history will remember (you)
Summary:
Starring: two peas in a pod plot where someone could overhear; dragons trauma dump on each other; the words “what would you have me do” is uttered by someone other than Rhaenyra; Bugsy and her Idiot; an argument goes in circles until one of them gives up; and a dramatic end to our time on Driftmark
Notes:
Hellooooooo
Let me start by apologizing to everyone for being so late to update 😭. Life has been super hectic lately, so I had zero time to work on this (despite it sitting on my drive 70% done...).
Anyways, I've updated the rating to T since this chapter and subsequent ones contain slightly more mature topics (implied sex scenes, violence, etc), and some mild language. Well, as mild as ASOIAF world insults are anyway.
To the thousands (!!!) of you who have waited patiently for this: thank you, and I really hope it doesn't disappoint.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The 23rd hour, the 16th day of the 2nd moon, the year 127 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
“Baela is to ward under Rhaenys, ” Rhaenyra repeated incredulously, whirling around to gawk rather foolishly at the object of her ire. “And you agreed to this?”
“Hardly,” Daemon scoffed from his wall perch by the window, the very picture of graceful carelessness. “Try strong-armed; seems my dear cousin learned a few tricks these past years, and brought it up while at a meal with the king. And my dear brother was all too grateful to placate her, and agreed on the spot.”
“She made a fair argument,” he continued rather detachedly, “I will not be welcomed on Velaryon shores anytime soon, Baela is at the age where she needs training fit for her status, and under a dragonrider to boot.” He smiled then, vicious and mocking, “And I do so owe Rhaenys for keeping Laena away for so long, and letting her die far from the watchful eyes of her mother.”
His voice carried only wry amusement, but Rhaenyra knew him well enough to catch the imperceptible flash of his dark eyes. Daemon was furious.
“And Rhaena?” Rhaenyra’s mind moved quicker than she could breathe. “Will she ward under Rhaenys as well?”
“No doubt, she will,” Daemon shrugged carelessly. “I can hardly imagine that she would ever agree to separate from her twin.”
“Send her to me,” Rhaenyra blurted out, a half-mast plan forming. Daemon’s eyebrows shot up at her sudden enthusiasm. Sudden—for she had hardly spared much thought to Daemon’s dragonless daughter, especially after Luke. Luke… “I will be needing more ladies to attend to me, and there is hardly a greater honor for a lady of Rhaena’s standing than to serve the Crown Princess.”
Another idea popped into her head unbidden, and Rhaenyra nearly shook with glee. “Furthemore, Dragonstone is only half a day’s trip from Driftmark; it would hardly be a separation from Baela. And Rhaena must be desperate for a dragon, as the only one without in her family. There she would have direct access to hatcheries, or claim whichever dragon she desires.”
“Silverwing, perhaps,” Rhaenyra suggested thoughtfully. “She would fit Rhaena’s milder temperament.” Then, a strategy that could secure her greatest weapon, “And Rhaena is of an age with Luke. I am sure they will learn to get along.” The events of three nights past notwithstanding, she did not say.
Daemon’s pale brows furrowed. “Luke?” At Rhaenyra’s questioning glance, he said, “Seems a missed opportunity not to leave Lucerys here with his Velaryon kin.”
“Luke is not yet ready for a wardship,” Rhaenyra disagreed, mind going to her gentle boy. He was too young, too naive still, for wardship that would take him far from her side. And she would miss him terribly. “Perhaps in a few years. Driftmark is hardly going anywhere and is to be his someday, after all. He will need to learn how to rule it.”
Daemon’s face shifted into a startling mix of pity and condescension, and Rhaenyra was surprised by how much she loathed it. “What is it?” She demanded, and when he refused to answer, merely continued looking at her with that strange expression, she snapped, “I am no longer a child, Uncle. You need not coddle or pity me so.”
“I simply find it strange that you have chosen to retreat instead of facing the rumors head on,” he said slowly, head tilted like a predator locked in on clueless prey. As if she were still the stupid little girl who once begged him to marry her during her own wedding feast. “It makes you look weak, Rhaenyra.”
“What rumors,” she demanded.
“Come now, Rhaenyra,” Daemon smiled snidely. “You cannot tell me you have not heard of the rumors of your husband’s newest bastard? He looks quite a bit like dear, dead Uncle Aemon. Or equally dead Aunt Gael, depending on who you ask.”
Her mind clicked into place. “Daeron?” She nearly screeched. “Preposterous! He looks nothing like Laenor.”
“As opposed to his sons, who are the mirror image of their father,” Daemon said wryly, laughing when she shot him a death glare.
“You cannot claim to be surprised, niece,” he eyed her seriously. “Not when Vaemond Velaryon has been parading the boy like he is the second coming of the Merling King. And your dear Lucerys left ignored by those he should claim kin.”
“But you are correct that the boy is no more a son of Laenor than he is a true son of my brother.” Daemon smiled at her, sinister and beatific; unholy as the brimstone dragons clawed their way out of. It was her favorite smile of his. “So, what shall we do about it?”
The answer came to her swift as the wind. And as daunting as a dragon’s first flight. “Laenor,” she whispered, back straightening with resolve. The Velaryons will never forgive her for this, but it was the best route to ensure her victory. The only way to keep her sons safe. “We need to get rid of Laenor.”
“So eager to be a widow, niece?” Daemon teased, “I can assure you that it is hardly an enjoyable position to be in.” Yet despite his reproving words, Rhaenyra saw a flicker of interest hidden behind his amusement. Approval. Heat began to swell low in her belly at the thought.
“Laenor will not fight. Not against the Greens,” Rhaenyra admitted, bitter at the truth of her statement.
“No?” Daemon’s voice was curious. Dangerous intrigue wrapped in amused silk. “Not even for his own sons and heirs?” Not even for you, he did not say, but she felt the barb as it landed.
“No,” Rhaenyra said shortly. Then, “He used to call Helaena his ‘little princess’,” she laughed lightly, a wry twist to her stretched grin, “For the daughter he never had, but desperately wished for.”
“Aegon used to follow him around like a little duckling. His original partner in crime, until Aemond and Jace grew up, and Laenor’s presence lost its novelty,” she continued. Soft as a grave, she whispered, “When Daeron was born and presented, Laenor was the second person to hold him.” Rhaenyra met Daemon’s piercing gaze with her own, deathly calm and almost hateful. “Not our father or Otto Hightower, or anyone that made more sense to hold Alicent’s lastborn child. Laenor. He loves them; of this, I have no doubt.”
“Tell me, uncle: do you think Laenor will fight for me? After Aemond and Luke’s fight? Against them?”
Daemon remained quiet, thoughtful. Then, a grin broke out across his face, malicious as the grave. “Then kill him,” Daemon said simply. “Be rid of him, Rhaenyra. Every day Laenor lives and refuses to choose your side is detrimental to your cause. The Velaryons will never side with you for as long as he does not.”
“Besides,” Daemon scoffed, “I doubt it would be difficult to kill such a pathetic, drunken oaf. You would hardly need to exert yourself.”
She caught his wording. “Will you not help me?” Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought—,”
“That I would do your dirty work for you?” Daemon laughed scornfully. “Come now, Rhaenyra. Don’t look at me like that,” he scolded lightly, and Rhaenyra averted her gaze. Humiliation burned through her, striking her cheeks a deep red.
“Hardly personal, I assure you,” Daemon continued, “My status is precarious as is; why should I risk further Velaryon wrath for your ill-begotten decisions?” He pushed off the wall, moving towards her until he was just barely a hair's breadth away.
Quick as a viper, his hand grabbed her chin, wrenching upwards until their gazes met. His lilac eyes were dark, nearly molten with heat. Rhaenyra shivered at the sight. The last time he looked at her like this was at the beach, when he took her over and over again until she nearly screamed with pleasure, his back clawed as she reached completion around him.
“I am not a charitable man, Rhaenyra,” he murmured so softly, lips so close they nearly grazed hers with every whispered word.
“I cannot face the Greens alone,” she whispered, staring deep into his eyes—so dark, barely even a ring of purple visible underneath the boiling heat.
“What will you give me in exchange?”
She surged upwards, with a strength that surprised both of them, and captured his lips into a bruising kiss.
She was no poet; let her body do what words could not convey.
So enthralled in each other’s bodies, both missed the tell-tale sound of massive flapping wings—pale as a cloud—passing by.
So engrossed with the aftermath of their tryst, none saw the pale shadow hidden in the corner of the corridor as they snuck back into their respective chambers.
Head buzzed by rumors and drink, Laenor Velaryon was ambushed by both salvation and doom in the form of his wife, waiting in his childhood chambers, the words “I must speak with you most urgently,” at the tip of her tongue.
The 18th day of the 2nd moon, the year 127 AC
Somewhere in Blackwater Bay
(In another world, the charred husk of a body masquerading as the heir to Driftmark would’ve been found by his already grieving mother not even a sennight after his sister was buried. The real Laenor Velaryon would have had made his escape in the eerie silence that came with the dawn; to Essos, where his beloved Ser Qarl awaited him. And Daemon and Rhaenyra were free to marry and live happily ever after (for a time anyway; karma always catches up eventually).
This was not that world, and this Laenor Velaryon was not quite so lucky.
Dragons talk, and Seasmoke was so upset over being abandoned that he cried all night long to an increasingly exasperated blue-green hatchling. Said dragon then floated off to tell his rider, and a plan to catch a merman was hatched. And so, as Laenor made his escape, somewhere on a different boat, a tiny head tilted knowingly towards the sea, bright emerald eyes wide with glee. A blue-eyed dragon chirped questioningly.
A slow, mischievous smile formed on the boy’s sweet face. “Happy hunting, my friend. Try not to scare him too badly.”
Because really, who hides from Poseidon’s son in the sea?)
Perhaps in hindsight, making his escape on a small boat while under open sky and heading away from the island housing no less than eight dragons towards the other island that housed just as many dragons was not his brightest idea. But Laenor was desperate.
He was hardly ignorant nor too blind to realize how utterly spoiled he had been: living a luxurious life as the heir to the richest family on the continent, a dragonrider, and prince consort to the future queen. If he were a better man he would have swallowed his pride and wants, and remained where he was—pampered and unhappy. But he was unhappy; almost terribly so. Laenor was born to be a sailor and not a prince, and though he loved his children, he was not stupid enough to miss the rumors that grew worse with every child his wife failed to pass off as his own. Especially now that rumors have sprung of another ill-begotten child—this one of his own supposed seed.
No matter; Laena was dead now, his last earthly tether to House Velaryon removed by the will of a dragon—both human and literal. His children were not truly his, and Rhaenyra intended to replace him with his sister’s husband the moment his fake corpse sank to the sea bed. Better he left now, than be made an obstacle for the Rogue Prince to eradicate. For all of Rhaenyra’s boisterous grandeur, everyone knew it was Daemon who would wield the power behind her claim.
So that brought him to where he was now: huffing and puffing, arms burning to the Seven Hells, as he rowed and rowed towards Dragonstone’s port while simultaneously cursing himself aplenty. And he would have made it, too—the foot of the Dragonmont barely emerging from the fog that always haunted the blasted island—had a dragon not descended on him from above.
With an almost elegant shriek, it landed on the head of his boat, nearly capsizing it with its weight. But the beast was an intelligent one, somehow managing to stabilize the boat by flaring its wings, the pale sea-colored membranes shimmering like pearls under the morning light. A very familiar dragon—glaring blue eyes simmering with something close to reproach.
And with the battle cry too reminiscent of his rider to be anything but learned, Daeron Targaryen’s Stormborn launched itself at him.
Cursing explicitly, Laenor threw himself off the boat before the whole thing capsized with him in it. And capsized it did, all his carefully packed belongings scattered into the water. The supposedly dead prince consort spared himself a second to mourn the bags of gold that sank immediately to the seabed, before diving as quickly as possible below surface level. Velaryons were born for the sea; swimming was in their blood, and there were none greater than those of his blood. And more importantly, dragons cannot swim.
Well, they should not be able to swim. He would hardly be surprised if this one managed to.
When Stormborn made no move to dive into the water after Laenor, he gave himself a moment of reprieve before heading back towards the shore. It would be significantly more exhausting and time-consuming than going by boat, but he figured he could do it. And he would have done so, if the impudent dragon had not made a grab for his already sun-sore head the moment he breached the surface.
The damned beast made a grab for his shoulders next, hind claws digging into Laenor’s cheap tunic rather precisely. But Stormborn was still young, and didn’t have the wingspan or muscle to properly carry a soaking wet, flailing grown man yet, and so Laenor was dropped rather unceremoniously back onto the water, spluttering. And the dragon did it again, picking him up carefully, and then dropping him mercilessly as if attempting to drown him. And again. And again. And again. And each time, the damned thing cooed, sounding regretful.
Truthfully, Laenor always preferred a dragonrider’s death over any soldier’s. Death on dragonback was a much worthier demise than the end he was inching himself closer to every year as he downed cups of wine by the jug. But this? A Velaryon killed at sea by drowning via a demonic baby dragon?
He would have preferred the drink.
If he were not so humiliated by the constant falling and drowning, he might have noticed that said hellspawn had a plan. With every struggle, carry and toss of his flailing body, the blue beast was carrying him further and further away from Dragonstone, and back towards Driftmark.
Specifically, right into the path of a very familiar sailboat.
See, had Laenor not spent the days since Laena’s funeral and the subsequent hellish rumors somehow even more drunk to the gills, he would have known of a certain little prince’s daily request to be brought out to sea by Laenor’s kin. And while Corlys was grieving, and certainly would never disobey the queen and king’s prohibition, dear uncle Vaemond had no qualms making himself a nuisance. And his littlest goodbrother was downright difficult to deny, with his impossibly large green eyes and adorable dimples he and Aegon inherited from their mother.
And so, even before the chaos of Laenor’s supposed corpse was found, little Daeron had been snuck out of High Tide by Vaemond and his two sons to take a morning ride on their favorite sailboat.
The same sailboat that was now in Laenor’s path. And Laenor, with all the grace and desperation of a dying man, launched himself towards it with a speed hitherto unknown to mankind, never once realizing just who the boat belonged to. If he had, he might’ve just considered drowning then and there. But the allure of one Qarl Correy was too great, and so Laenor had to keep on going for his sake.
“Help!” Laenor coughed, as he made his way to the wooden sides. The little demon was leaving him alone for once, giving him his only chance of escape. “Help, please!”
Strong arms pulled his soaking body out onto wooden planks. Small hands patted his back, letting Laenor moan and groan as he vomited the excess water without hindrance. He rolled onto his back, blinking mulishly at the rising sun. It was only then did he notice the ship’s companions. And the hand patting his newly bald head.
Owlish emerald eyes blinked down at him, framed by a single streak of raven surrounded by silver waves. Behind him, Laenor could see uncle Vaemond’s stern face and Daemion’s amused one. A soft nudge at his thigh and smokey tendrils of breath were his only warning that Stormborn had made its way back to his master.
“Hello, goodbrother,” the green-eyed menace chirped in his high, childish voice. Chirped, as if his damned beast hadn’t spent the morning trying to drown Laenor. A tiny hand reached out to stroke Stormborn’s bowed blue-gold head. Like this, the dragon looked almost apologetic, crowned head nearly under his wing, and sky blue eyes avoidant with shame.
Quite unlike his rider.
Little Daeron was the picture of faux innocence—a smile as sweet as spun sugar adorning that charming face. Laenor shivered in fear at the sight of the mischief glittering in those impossibly large, sea-bright eyes. “Out for an early morning swim, are we?”
A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder, helping him sit up. Overhead, Laenor could see the pale silhouette of his own dragon flying. Hear those mournful shrills. Brilliant. Just brilliant.
The hand by his neck refused to budge. “Nephew,” Vaemond began, lips pursed. “First, are you all right?” Behind him, Daemion leaned down to whisper something to little Daeron, who pointed upwards. Stormborn flew off towards the incoming dragon.
Laenor nodded, rather pitifully. Vaemond let loose a long, tired breath. “Good.” His plum eyes were stern. Then, “What in the Seven Hells is going on?”
Laenor sighed. Spent a considerable moment deciding if he should throw himself overboard. Seasmoke made his presence known with a lamenting coo, landing on a rock outcropping not too far from them with a resounding thud, Stormborn on his heels. And with a single heavy breath, the Heir to Driftmark burst into tears.
Somewhere in Blackwater Bay
It was well close to noon when Laenor finished regaling his family with the details—everything from Ser Joffrey’s death, the lack of want or need for an heir once Harwin Strong came into their marriage bed, Rhaenyra’s failed gamble, all the way to she and Daemon’s new sordid affair and decision to marry once Laenor was out of the way. The entire time, Vaemond listened with nothing more than grunts and a calculating stare, flushing with anger every time Rhaenyra was so much as mentioned. Daemion watched with an almost detached amusement, as one would between cousins. Little Daeron busied himself with hugging him, sandwiched between boy and dragon; both quiet as a mouse, and those dragonflame eyes keen with compassion.
“The Fourteen Flames damn that woman!” Vaemond raged and ranted, once Laenor was done, delivering a well-aimed punch to the ship’s mast. “May the Merling King drown her soul, and her ship wreck the moment she leaves her blasted island. May her dragon be shot down from the skies and the Seven Hells welcome her with open arms like the craven she is!”
“Uncle!” Laenor exclaimed, horrified.
“Ser Vaemond,” Daeron gasped, face guileless and shocked.
“Father!” Daemion downright cackled at the same time.
In typical Vaemond fashion, he ignored them. His rant continued, filled with so many curses and insults that Laenor took it upon himself to cover Daeron’s ears as Rhaenyra’s name was dragged to filth. Said boy merely looked at them all scandalized, a small pout forming when his pleading looks only made Daemion laugh even harder. Beside his rider, Stormborn watched with an almost avid concentration, borderline amused.
Meanwhile, Vaemond’s words reached new lows, going on and on, calling Rhaenyra Targaryen every name under the sun.
“—ugly, whoring wench,” Vaemond screeched. “Did she think we are all as blind as she is stupid—,”
“That is quite enough, Uncle,” Laenor interrupted, cringing when Daemion’s manic laughter turned into hacking coughs. Underneath his palms, Daeron looked up at him patiently, peacefully unperturbed. On the surface, that is; he could see the mischief roiling underneath. For all that his goodbrother had the grace of an old man inhabiting the body of a boy, he was still a child and Aegon’s brother to boot. Trouble ran in his blood.
His uncle whirled on him. “And you,” Vaemond seethed, stalking forward like a storm to jab a sun-darkened finger into his chest. Laenor felt himself flinch. Daeron slipped away. “Do not think that you are getting out of this mess. What in the Seven Hells were you thinking, Laenor?”
That last part was a roar, loud and caustic. Even Seasmoke seemed to cower at the sheer rage and volume. “I know the barrel has addled your mind, Nephew, but never did I imagine such cowardice it borders on treason,” Vaemond sneered, spittle flying.
“I was thinking that I was tired of being unhappy, cursed to play a role forced upon me because Father had to have his ego placated,” Laenor snapped. Rubbing a tired eye, he continued, “If Daemon Targaryen wishes to take my place upon Rhaenyra’s burning pyre of a succession, then he can be my guest.”
“I refuse to be a further part of this false charade of a game that has already killed my sister!”
Silence rang with his proclamation, wide-eyed at his candor. Underneath the visible rage, his uncle looked at him with something almost akin to pity, while Daemion made no move to hide his. Laenor refused to even look at little Daeron, his own shame curdling in his belly. A quiet snuff caught his attention, before something soft and leathery brushed his shoulders, enveloping him in the world’s most scorching embrace.
A head’s turn made his gaze meet soft emerald ones, perched comfortably on a chin rest on his dragon’s head. On his haunches, Stormborn’s head reached Laenor’s own easily, and the dragon made quick work of it by butting his chest softly. Affection swelled in his chest for both boy and dragon.
Dragons were notoriously territorial and possessive creatures. Most dragons would never allow another to approach them without explicit permission, with the occasional exception of sires and children. Especially hatched ones, who were born the mirror image of their bonded soul’s and thus a reflection of their darkest, most hidden thoughts. Dreamfyre hated all men still, and Vermax—the tempestuous beast that he was—disliked everyone in general. Sunfyre was the opposite—the vain thing liked anyone who Aegon loved, or just anyone who complimented him, really. With Vhagar, Laenor would assume it was less to do with her current bonded and more the memory of her first.
Stormborn was always the most polite of the dragons, if dragons were ever so inclined to have manners. He hardly ever caused a fuss, even as a young hatchling when both Vermax and Arrax were complete menaces, and would chase him around like impudent cats. Stormborn simply bore their ire with the patience of an older sibling, and when that no longer worked, exerted dominance by sitting on them till they mewled, or bit their tails till they cowed. As they always did, when realizing not everyone was as lenient with their behavior as Syrax.
Even still, for all his demeanor, Stormborn was a dragon, and dragons hardly ever showed affection to anyone not their rider. For Stormborn to show affection of his own volition, was a testament of little Daeron’s trust in him. Laenor blinked rapidly, refusing to let his tears fall.
“Yet you agreed to play the fool and let that wretched girl fill our House with bastards,” Vaemond, presumably untouched by the sweet scene, said sarcastically. Eyebrows arched to the high heavens, “No matter your unhappiness, Laenor, agreeing to falsify your own murder is nothing short of insanity.”
“Have you no care for your poor mother and father?” He demanded, and Laenor looked away in shame. It had crossed his mind almost immediately, what his death would do to them just days after burying Laena. It mattered little in the end, for his decision was made before any consent. Fake his death or die—those were the only choices he was given. “I have half the mind to bend you over knee, and take a horsewhip to your back!”
“That’s enough, Father,” Daemion chastised softly, placing a calming hand on his fuming father’s back. He tossed a disarming smile at Laenor, mildly apologetic. “I believe Laenor understands how poorly planned this was.”
“The question that remains now, is what shall we tell the king?”
“Tell him? You will not tell him anything!” Laenor squawked. “As far as he should be concerned, I am dead.”
“Laenor, you cannot possibly expect us to agree to continue this deranged plan,” Daemion sighed, flashing pleading eyes at his father. Vaemond merely snorted.
“You must be an even bigger imbecile than I imagined, boy, if you believe I will keep your continued existence from my brother,” Vaemond reprimanded, face wrought in abject judgment.
“What would you have me do, Uncle?” Laenor sighed, running a hand down his tired face. “At this time, my supposed dead body would have already been found by a servant; no doubt the entirety of Driftmark already informed, and my wife swiftly declared a widow while my parents mourn the loss of another child.”
“To return now would be…cruel, to say the least.”
A small hand placed itself upon his cheek, and Laenor had no choice but to face the disappointment wretched all over Daeron’s face. “Would it not be a crueler thing, to let them live out a lifetime believing you dead?” Daeron asked softly, teary eyes wide with an almost puppy-like quality. “They have already lost one child; must you make them outlive another?”
Emotions warred within him. Do, or not do. Either way, he was the loser in this. Mayhaps…“It was Rhaenyra’s plan. Daemon merely executed it,” Laenor whispered, but in the silence of the ship, it was as if the waters echoed with his voice. He swallowed, “Even if I were to confess her hand in the crime, the king would never believe me. Not over her.”
Vaemond frowned. “We must still try. She cannot get away with committing treason against House Velaryon.”
“And why now,” Daemion asked abruptly. “Why push to marry Daemon now, mere days after Laena? Would it not be less suspicious for Laenor to ‘die’ later than a sennight after his sister’s funeral? In his father’s own castle, no less.”
“It is because of Aemond and Vhagar, is it not?” Daeron stated, rather knowingly. “Rhaenyra can no longer believe war will not start the moment His Grace dies.”
“Vhagar’s claiming by your brother certainly does not help her position,” Laenor agreed, gearing up to grand reveal. He winced preemptively, a gesture the boy caught. Daeron gave him a reassuring smile. Behind him, Vaemond caught the wince for what it was, and snorted rather uncouthly. “Neither do the rumors about you.”
“Me?” Daeron asked, wide-eyed and befuddled.
“It appears there are a select few that believe you to be my bastard, Daeron,” Laenor broke the news gently. At the purely unsurprised look on Daemion’s face, Laenor figured Vaemond had already spilled the rumors to his eldest.
Daeron’s face was a moving painting. First was shock, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Then, confusion: wrinkled nose and furrowed brow. Disgust came next—and truly, Laenor was not even the slightest bit offended at the sight of pursed lips and judging eyes. Judgement smoothed out into exasperation, and Daeron let out a sigh worthy of a tired old man. Laenor let out a snicker, for it was so very cute. He caught his goodbrother eyeing him sideways for that.
“I believe I would know if I were your bastard, cousin,” Daeron said slowly, looking down at his pale arms and fingers with an apologetic wince. Daemion at least had the decency to hide his laughter, but even Laenor struggled with the pure innocence radiating from the boy.
The boy was hardly wrong, though. Centuries of marriage between siblings had ensured that the Targaryens looked extremely similar to one another; resemblances that sometimes transcended even generations. Helaena had The Conciliator’s eyes, he knew, and Aemond looked more like Daemon than his own father. His Grace the King, when he had been healthy enough to get drunk, had once mentioned that Laena had inherited his mother Alyssa’s smile and the set of her eyes. So truly, it mattered little if Daeron looked remarkably like Aemon Targaryen, when he looked equally similar to Septa Maegelle and portraits of Aegon the Uncrowned. Just as it never mattered to Rhaenyra or her father alike, that all the parts of Aegon’s visage that was not made the mirror of his mother, were formed in the image of Aemma Arryn: down to the silver sheen of his hair and the haunted violet of his sad eyes.
He smiled, running a hand through the boy’s soft waves. Patting his head, “Worry not, little one,” Laenor smiled, “Such rumors have been put to rest, before word got to your mother.” Relief shone in those draconic eyes, dimples popping with the sheer force of his grin.
Laenor had to swallow down the urge to pinch those puffy cheeks. Daemion had no such qualms, and Daeron was swiftly grabbed and removed from Laenor’s hold, tossed into the air and swung around while sweet giggles distracted them all from the hell that awaited them ashore.
As his cousins entertained themselves, Laenor approached his uncle, no longer red-faced and huffing with fury. “You will not fight for her,” Vaemond noted quietly, seeing the truth that Laenor struggled so hard to hide. “Not against the children.”
“Aegon is the greatest danger to Rhaenyra’s rule,” Laenor whispered, mindful of the two children running around while the dragons watched like chaperones. “As long as he and his brothers live, the realm would sooner torch itself than let her reign unencumbered.”
Understanding flickered over Vaemond’s face. “She means to use Daemon then, to secure her throne,” his uncle murmured. “And Vhagar?”
“Even with Laena gone, I highly doubt Rhaenyra ever considered that Vhagar would fall into Green hands,” Laenor said. “Aemond and Luke…that is a grudge none were prepared for. This will only end in blood and fire.”
“Yes, the events of that night were nothing short of a failure in parenting,” Vaemond scoffed, and Laenor had to agree. It had been a nightmare to navigate High Tide in the aftermath of two maimings and two warring mothers out for blood.
And Laenor—well, he may be Luke’s father in name, but he was not blind to the children’s faults. Rhaenyra had preemptively blocked any and all attempts Laenor had made to scold his sons, but that had not stopped him from giving his nieces a stern talking to. Or Aegon, for getting into a brawl with Jace while their brothers bled in the room. Someone had to discipline the children, especially when it was clearly neither Daemon or Rhaenyra’s strong suits. Laenor was a horrid drunk, but he liked to believe that he made at least a half-decent father figure. The Gods knew most of them could use one.
Laenor’s gaze met Vaemond’s, urgent and pleading. “I cannot fight against them, Uncle,” he swore, voice-cracking. Pity swirled in his uncle’s plum eyes. “I will not.” But it mattered little, he knew; if Rhaenyra could not force his hand, she would just make Daemon do the deed instead.
Aegon, Aemond, Daeron. They were challenges to Rhaenyra’s long-coveted throne just by existing. His wife may have spent these last ten years pretending otherwise, but Laenor was not nearly as optimistic or willfully blind. Rhaenyra was not nearly as popular as she believed herself to be. The events of the last several days was proof of that. If his mother—the daughter of the crown prince, pregnant with a son of her own—was passed over her throne for a sonless cousin, what made Rhaenyra believe that she would be chosen ahead of three sons? The King could promise and the realm sworn, but would old oaths prevail in the face of inevitable war? The Hightowers were expecting a king of their blood, having sold a daughter as the price; just as House Velaryon sold him for the chance to fix the slight against the Queen Who Never Was.
That was without even mentioning her sons with Harwin Strong. Perhaps if Laenor were a better man he would have stopped Rhaenyra before she dug herself a grave so deep she would never come out unscathed. Jace should have been the last of her affair with Ser Strong. But Rhaenyra had been so sure their next son would take after her, for if the red-haired Andal queen could birth three Valyrian children then so could she. Yet it was for nought, for Lucerys had been born the spitting image of his sire and not at all his mother. Their gamble had failed yet again. By the time Joffrey was conceived, Laenor had stopped caring. Had grown horribly bitter and angry, resentful of his lot in life.
Let Rhaenyra ruin her reputation by birthing one obvious bastard after another. Let the Greens gain another weapon against the Princess of Dragonstone as she continued shamelessly to keep Harwin Strong at court. Let House Velaryon fall from its might, forever tainted in its legacy by having a bastard not of their blood inherit its throne over trueborn granddaughters. It was what his father owed him, for selling him like a broodmare to safeguard his own greed and ambitions. Corlys Velaryon had spent too long caring more about his blood on the throne over the wellbeing of his family. Let him have it in exchange for the lives of both his children.
He was no Alicent Hightower, who would bend and break herself to ensure the survival of her four ignored children. Who ingratiated herself into taking care of the realm on behalf of an ungrateful man, just for the chance her son could have his birthright. Rhaenyra could do as she pleased for her sons, but Laenor was not their mother. He was not even their father, not truly. He could try and love them as a father should, fulfill duties a father must, but their ascent onto a throne was not one of them.
But even among all the misery, there had been good moments, once. Moments that made Laenor believe that perhaps war was not as inevitable as he believed. When Rhaenyra held at least a resemblance of love for her siblings—playful and teasing, if distant. Back when Aegon used to follow her around like a pale shadow, screaming constantly for his “Nyra”. When Helaena had been her little doll, a solemn little thing who sat so prettily those times his wife deigned to place one intricate braid after another upon her tiny head. Aemond had been too young, and with his birth came Jace, and so the rift between brothers and sister only expanded until it was irreparably broken.
By the time Daeron was born, Rhaenyra had been almost desperate to beat the queen in any matter, with whatever means necessary. Even if it meant outshining babes at their own nameday feasts, or shoving Viserys’ favoritism for her sons in their faces constantly. Soon what little remained of love was shattered under the force of contempt, and no relationship between the two factions survived. Rhaenyra stopped being “Nyra”, and the words “half-sibling” were constantly thrown around.
He still remembered the day Daeron came into the world. Rhaenyra’s spies had immediately reported the birth of a new son. The princess had listened to the maid’s report with a solemn face and a cold stare as she described the new prince’s size and handsome face; the tuft of hair, dark as raven wings, in the midst of snow white. He also remembered the joy that had lit Rhaenyra inside out when the maid had stutteringly mentioned the babe’s green eyes—Andal eyes, in a sea of Valyrian purple.
His wife had been almost giddy in her happiness, in her need to win against Alicent Hightower, that she forced her way into the nursery to meet her new half-brother that very same day.
Of course, her grin had been wiped off the moment they actually laid eyes on the king’s newest son, whose eyes glowed like wildfire even mere hours after birth. She had glared at the babe so ferociously that Laenor had laughed, forgetting his own worry over Luke for a moment to pat her back comfortingly in the face of such ‘betrayal’.
His laughter had petered off into stunned silence when a tiny blue-gold head had peaked from behind Daeron’s bassinet. Stormborn had a regal air even then, wise and a little judgemental, watching them strangle themselves on gasps of shock. The maid hadn’t mentioned the dragon—Velaryon colors, with a crown of gold and gleaming eyes. Those eyes had watched them scurry out the door with haste mere moments before the queen returned.
Those same eyes gazed at him now, still steady and still slightly judgmental.
“You shan’t have a choice, I’d wager,” his uncle murmured. He, too, was watching Daeron, a sliver of regret heavy in his voice. “Neither will the rest of us, Laenor.”
“War is coming, whether the king cares for it or not,” Vaemond continued, “And when the time comes, House Velaryon must answer the call. Whose—well, that depends on what you do today.”
“The king will never believe us,” Laenor sighed shakily. The events of the day were starting to affect him, the surge of panicked energy fading to a bone-deep exhaustion. “He turned a blind eye on Harwin Strong and Rhaenyra; he would never believe her capable of plotting to murder Driftmark’s son.”
“He would if we claimed it was Daemon’s doing,” Daeron piped up suddenly. Heads swung to the boy, still hung upside down, but he merely looked at them determinedly. “If Cousin Laenor were to claim that it was Daemon who orchestrated his supposed death, without Rhaenyra’s knowledge or blessing, the king would consider this a plot to cause her due harm.”
“It is well known Daemon covets the throne,” Daemion mused, placing the boy down with a gentleness only an older sibling possessed. “I doubt a single soul in Westeros would be surprised to hear him capable of such a horrible crime in his quest to become king.”
Vaemond nodded consideringly, and Laenor knew the matter was closed. Tilting his face upwards to the sun, he closed his eyes and sighed. In relief. In fear. Daemon’s soulless, incessant ambitions would protect House Velaryon from retribution, but nothing could protect Laenor from the king’s wrath. Exile or death. That will be his lot in life.
A small hand tugged at his trousers, and Laenor smiled down at the tiny terror at his side, wildfire eyes blown wide with worry. “What will happen to you?” Daeron asked imploringly, catching the attention of the other two. “Surely the king would not punish you too harshly. You only did this under duress.”
What a sweet boy. Laenor hoped Daeron’s kindness would remain with him throughout all the days of his life, even if Laenor would not be around to see it. Hoped with all his might that Joffrey may grow to be half as compassionate as his uncle Daeron, the way Jace and Luke once shared in Aegon and Helaena’s joy, before their mother’s rivalries drew them apart, and apathy remained where there was once love.
He gave the boy a soft pat on the head, “Worry not about me, little one. My decisions were my own, and thus I must live up to them.”
“Daemion. Set sail for home.”
High Tide, Driftmark
It was half past noon when Mother came storming into their shared chambers, dismissing the servants into the antechamber, a harried Ser Criston at her heels.
Aemond had found enough strength that morning to rise out of bed, and was eating his midday meal slowly with shaky hands. Aegon was in the middle of his designated Helaena time, sitting crossed-legged on the floor while his sister played with a grotesque spider in between rounds of embroidery.
Mother looked frenzied in a way she never was: messy hair and crazed eyes, lips bitten near raw and pursed into a pale line. Helaena stopped her ministries at the interruption, depositing her hideous new pet on his boot. Aegon fought the tremendous urge to squash it underfoot. Never let it be said that Aegon did not love his sister, strange oddity that she was. Aemond even attempted to stand, startled into dropping his spoon onto his lap, the utensil falling onto the stone floor with a ringing clang.
The sound broke their mother out from her shocked reverie, and the queen let out a sigh—before letting out a scream unbecoming of a lady, much less the queen. She murmured something to Ser Criston, who then motioned to Aegon’s own sworn shield. Ser Arryk detached himself from the wall in concern, the two Kingsguard hurriedly checking every nook and cranny of the room with judicious purpose, before leaving as quickly as Criston arrived.
No longer interested, Helaena went back to her embroidery, her pet still on Aegon’s boot. He deposited it on her head, before walking towards his overly tense mother. “What is it, Mother?”
“Where is Daeron?” She demanded instead, swiveling around erratically as if he were hiding in a drawer somewhere.
“He has yet to return from his morning excursion at sea,” Aegon replied, confused. Daeron was gone almost daily, spending half the day away swimming. “Mother?” He prodded, half curious and half terrified.
Of course, nothing could have prepared him for, “Ser Laenor is dead.”
“He was found murdered in his chambers by a servant when he did not show up for his morning meal. The whole castle is in an uproar; the Velaryons believe an assassin is hiding amongst them.”
Aegon’s heart dropped to his feet. Helaena stilled.
“How did he die?” Aemond croaked, aghast. He looked at his little brother, still pale and shaky with pain. Aemond had never been close to Laenor, not like Aegon was, but there was still a strange kind of loss to it, to lose someone who had been there all your life.
“They do not know,” his mother answered flatly, “His body was found thrown into the fireplace, strangled. It was already cold when they found him. Whoever did it must be long gone by now.”
Aegon understood then what she refused to state aloud. “There were guards stationed outside every tower and floor,” he said slowly, and his mother nodded. Paranoia lined every crevice of her frowning face. “You believe there may be secret passages into our rooms.” The “are you bloody well mad?” was left unspoken, lest he wanted a right slap around the head.
Sadly, his mother was well-versed with his caustic commentary, for she whirled around on him, and said, “Do not test my patience, Aegon.”
“Someone got to Laenor Velaryon inside his own father’s keep, mere days after his sister’s funeral,” the queen snapped. “Forgive me, if I am not so eager to leave my children’s safety in the hands of those incapable of ensuring the safety of their heir, much less princes and a princess of the realm.”
“Those poor Velaryons,” she suddenly murmured, her previous aggressive countenance fading into a type of soft grief shared only by parents who have known this kind of loss before. Something within him cracked at the sight of his usually strong mother broken by melancholy. Helaena had been too young, and he doubted his father cared enough to know, but Aegon had been old enough to remember that Aemond was born a twin to a dead girl.
“To bury two children within mere days of each other,” Mother sniffled quietly, softly dabbing at her eyes. “I would not wish such pain on anyone.”
Aegon looked away, failing to hold in his own tears. Before Jace, before Sunfyre and Daeron, Laenor had been the closest thing he had to a friend. To a brother. Mother never had time for him—in and out of the birthing bed, or weaning one babe after another. So Aegon had made a menace of himself, clingy and temperamental, in a bid for the slightest bit of attention. No one had the patience for him, except Laenor.
Who was now dead.
So caught in their own despair, none noticed the emotions warring across Helaena’s face: despair and confusion, abject fear, and then—
A soft sound echoed in the room.
It came from Helaena, head still bowed over her hands, hair a curtain over her face. Mother made a move to comfort her, hand outstretched towards her soft-hearted girl.
The sounds grew louder and louder, and Mother froze, something shocked and scandalized flashing over her face. Helaena raised her head, and Aegon nearly choked on his spit.
She was laughing.
Loud, booming laughter bordering on maniacal, whole body shaking with the force of her episode. Oh, there were tears: sliding down her small face like rivulets of salt. Joy and sadness warred in lavender eyes, soaking the collar of her soft pink dress. Yet—despite the tears, the ricture of a grin plastered on her mouth, his sister’s face remained blank. As if she were seeing something no one else saw.
Aegon felt his lips twitch into a slight smile. She was so weird.
When the giggling refused to stop, and Mother close to looking like she would soon blow a gasket, Aegon moved to crouch in front of his rocking and murmuring sister. Flicking her forehead with enough force she yelped, “Oi, Bugsy,” he said blandly, “I know propriety is a stranger to you, but manic laughter is hardly proper decorum when hearing of someone’s death.”
Helaena flashed him a simpering smile, before grounding her heel into his foot with enough force he winced. He stuck his tongue out at her in retaliation, and in typical sisterly fashion, she tried to rip it out of his mouth.
“Enough, both of you!” Mother ordered sternly, moving to separate them before Aegon launched himself at her. Aemond peaked behind her shoulders like a tiny silver shadow, all curious smugness. Arms akimbo, she scolded, “You are a prince and princess of the realm. I certainly did not raise you both to be without manners.”
“We do not flick our sisters, Aegon,” Mother reminded pointedly, before sighing. “Helaena—,”
But Helaena was no longer listening, head swiveled towards the open balcony doors; tilted, as if hearing something beyond the general rush of waves, or the occasional whine of a dragon. “Worry not, Mother,” and her voice was back to its typical dreamy quality. “What the gods will, so shall it be done.”
Then, quick as a viper, his sister launched herself to her feet and made a mad dash to the door. Moments later, a swarm of servants came in, carrying enough buckets of water to combat a drought. Before their Mother could even ask, the whirlwind that was Helaena on a mission pressed a dress into her hands: dark blue silk with swirls of pale green; a stark contrast to the queen’s typical repertoire of emerald brocade.
“We must get ready, Mother,” Helaena chirped, her earlier glee softening a quiet seriousness. “The king will summon our presence soon. And history will remember what you do today.”
Driftmark Island
Their return to High Tide’s pillared halls held the fanfare of a funeral and a carnival rolled into one.
Mother greeted them at the docks, a veritable army of guards standing solemn behind her. Father, ever the diplomat, went down first to speak to her about recent developments. Really, it was for the best, for while Ennalise Mooton had great love for her family, she had a terrible intolerance for surprises.
She took one look at Laenor—disheveled and dirtied, bald head and all—and slapped him across the face with such strength his head snapped sideways, before pulling him into a hug so fierce Daemion could hear ribs creaking even from a distance.
Then she gave one perfunctory curtsy to the little prince, shot her nephew one last dirty look, and marched them down the docks like a captain would his wayward soldiers to the gallows. High Tide was close enough that a carriage was unnecessary, and so they marched under his mother’s cold gaze as the Keep’s servants gawked and whispers; rumors already spreading like wildfire before the day ended.
Their sad party of five and a dragon arrived just in time for tea, sweaty and stinking of sun and dirt. Laenor took the lead, requesting a meeting with his parents as soon as possible. The serving girl he spoke to turned bone white, before falling into a dead faint. Across the hall, another two screamed: shrill and howling, and capable of waking the dead. Daemion snorted into his hand; it would not be long before stories of a ghost haunting spread. Vaemond began barking orders.
The cacophony of their return eventually caught attention—or perhaps one of the servants finally pulled themselves together to be of use, Daemion did not know—but his aunt descended upon them sometime after the third servant fell into a dead faint at Laenor’s feet.
The Princess Rhaenys was a dragon, all molten eyes and fury etched face; a lady’s anger and a mother’s sorrow, relief and pain. Thunderous rage, but so much love Daemion had to look away. Even Stormborn bowed in the face of such ferocity, a sadness to him incongruous in a dragon’s face. Little Daeron, one hand stroking soothingly down his mount’s neck, watched the scene with an almost triumphant smile. Daemion mussed the boy’s hair a little bit, earning a cutely faked scowl for his trouble.
By the time his uncle and the king arrived, their families in tow—the princess stricken, the queen relieved, and Daemon missing—the rest of their party was in the midst of being ushered by servants into their chambers. Leaving mother and son, on the ground and cradling one another, to weep their tears in private.
The 16th hour, the 18th day of the 2nd moon, the year 127 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
“Lucerys cannot be your heir.”
The statement came abruptly, echoing in the otherwise empty office chamber where Corlys Velaryon had sequestered himself after his son’s return from the dead—and into the gallows. He would have startled himself into dropping his freshly poured cup of Arbor Gold, had those audacious words not been announced by the heavy set of his little brother’s feet.
“Lucerys is not my heir,” the Sea Snake said mildly, “Laenor is. Though,” he laughed, taking a swig of wine, “I doubt he will be for long. The king is most wroth.”
Corlys shook his head in disappointment. “Foolish boy; he will be the death of our dynasty.”
“Laenor’s actions may cause us trouble, but it will not come with retaliation. The king will not dare to execute his own cousin’s child, especially one whose death was premeditated by his own brother,” that last part, Vaemond spewed with utmost venom.
“He will be exiled at worst; unable to leave this island at best, but Laenor will live. The blow was not fatal,” his brother declared confidently. Narrowing his eyes, Vaemond then stated coldly, “Yet. It will be, unless you remove those stains from our name.”
Corlys sighed, feeling an impending headache begin to throb at the temples. “Those boys are innocents. Please refrain from referring to them as such.”
“How else should I describe Targaryen bastards shamelessly masquerading as Velaryons,” Vaemond rolled his eyes, looking waspish.
“It is treason.” “It is the truth!”
Their shouts rang, made echoes against the stone floors and sandstone pillars. Heaving breaths joined, harsh and grating, as brothers glared at each other most ferociously.
“It is not Laenor who has ruined us, Brother, but your greed,” Vaemond fumed, lifting a hand with a stern glaze when Corlys tried to interrupt. He smirked, silky and sinister, “Did you think I would not notice? Your plans, your strategies; the disgusting, ingratiating act you put on to sway the king’s weak will?”
“It was you who sold us down this path in your quest for your blood on a throne that did not want you. It was you who sold your son like a common whore to rectify a slight—one you took far more personally than the princess herself!”
“You threw your weight behind that wretched girl, who has and continues to disrespect our family, hoping the seeds of their marriage would balance the scales enough to satiate your ego—,”
“Enough, Vaemond!” Corlys snapped, slamming his now-empty cup on the stone table.
“No,” Vaemond barked, shaking his head mirthlessly. “I am your brother! I have stood by your side through countless plots, counselled your family, fought your wars,” he hissed, leaning so close that spittle flew. “I know what you look like when you believe you have won.”
“Which is it, brother: that you believe you are on the right side of history, or the one that will make you grandfather to a king?”All untempered rage and smug attitude. When did his brother get so bold?
Vaemond sighed. “I have counseled you for decades, so trust me when I say: your plan will not work,” his brother dropped to the seat across from him, fury finally fading into an almost bruised exhaustion.
“Rhaenyra will be the bane of our family; mark my words,” Vaemond warned quietly, “And if you continue to support her knowing what she has done, and was willing to do to your son, then you will have betrayed everything our House stands for.”
“Is this concern you speak with, Vaemond, or another ploy to gain more than your position has earned you?” Corlys asked snidely, smirking slightly at the infuriated look that flashed across those plum eyes. “Do not think I have missed the camaraderie you and yours have shared with the queen’s children.”
“Your boys and Aegon; you and Daeron. It seems you have chosen the Greens over your blood,” Corlys chuckled sarcastically, as Vaemond’s cheeks bled puce. “How unfortunate, that your allegiance ultimately amounts to nothing.”
“It is I who lead House Velaryon’s armies,” he reminded almost gently, taking a final sip of his wine. Vaemond’s hands were bone white as they gripped the table with fervor, something wretched in the crevices of his face. “You are no more than a second son; your duty is to serve me and mine. And that includes those boys.”
“You need not worry over Driftmark’s succession. That is a matter for my wife and I to discuss," Corlys sighed, setting aside the empty cup. “As for Lucerys, he will learn the sea. It is in his blood.”
“Bah! Is that how we are measuring for heirs now? A single drop of blood from five generations ago,” Vaemond laughed mockingly. Sneering, “With that audacity, Brother, you may as well declare Daeron Targaryen your heir!”
“At least he could pass off as a bastard of your blood.” His brother’s eyes—so much like their mother’s—flashed coldly. “Admit one thing for me, Brother: even you wanted the boy for our House.”
“I did,” Corlys admitted, relenting this one ambitious dream he knew would never see the light. “The moment I heard of his dragon, I wanted nothing more than to bind him to us with any means necessary, be it wardship or marriage.”
“Yet I will refrain from doing so if it means hurting my grandsons. As it already has,” he continued, “Rumors of bastardy were one thing, but one born of my son and the queen? Those words cannot ever reach the light of day.”
“I know you have made plans for him to stay, but for the sake of our family, Prince Daeron must go.”
“Our family, or you?” Vaemond demanded, “Must you deal in absolutes? If the boy remains with us, it will bring the Greens at hand. Whoever sits upon the throne matters less than the survival of our family. Let them battle; king or queen, House Velaryon will stand triumphant.”
“Why are you so insistent on this matter? Honestly, Vaemond, I doubt I have ever seen you so passionate over anything as you are over Daeron Targaryen.”
“Must you be so obtuse? Or have you truly lost the ability so see anything beyond yourself,” his brother asked, eyes feverishly bright. “The boy is blessed, Corlys. Chosen by the gods, for us! Dragonflame eyes—Velaryon eyes—Baratheon hair and Aemon Targaryen’s face—do you not see it?”
“The boy swims like belongs in the sea,” Vaemond argued passionately. “I have watched this child for days while you and your wife mourn Laena. The little prince shines brightest when in the waters—his movements are as smooth and natural as a fish. Or a seahorse.”
His tone turned snide at the flash of anger he must have seen in Corlys’ wine-dark eyes at the implication. “If he weren’t so obviously a dragon, I would have believed the rumors true, and he was to someday be your successor. Not that common-faced boy you have deceived yourself into believing is our blood!”
“He does not need to learn the sea, Corlys. It is known to him. Blessed by the gods. How else would one explain his dragon?””
“Be that as it may, Brother, Lucerys is Rhaenyra’s son, and she—,”
“Will never be queen,” Vaemond waved his hand dispassionately. “Not after the events of the last sennight. Not after what her indiscretions have wrought.”
“Power resides where men believe it resides,” his brother said flatly. “The Targaryens may play into their own foolish denials, but the rest of the realm knows the truth: Viserys may wear the crown, but it is Otto Hightower who rules from the Iron Throne.”
“The Greens are on the move, with a strong claimant of their own. The right claimant, if one were so inclined to argue,” Vaemond continued. “And the boy Aegon—a boy he might still be, but I highly doubt that he will fail as king.”
“You are speaking treason,” Corlys reminded sternly, and Vaemond scoffed, turning away from him. “No matter our feelings, the king has declared Rhaenyra heir.”
“Then she should have considered her already precarious position before committing treason of her own,” Vaemond said coldly. “Before she attempted to pass Harwin Strong’s bastard as trueborn, and most definitely when she conspired to murder Laenor and supplant him with that craven Daemon Targaryen.”
“Your wife agrees with me, you know,” his brother then said casually, before Corlys could summon a response of his own. “Dragons do so love their children; Rhaenyra and Daemon should have thought of that before going after her last remaining one.”
Vaemond sighed, standing to leave. “Our House should come before your ambitions for the throne, Brother. You have two boys at hand; I suggest you make a decision soon on which one will actually secure the future of our House.”
(Outside the wooden doors, two figures stand in silence, witnesses to the argument brewing between kin.
And between them, held in precarious hands, the fate of the continent.
“Come, Alicent,” the princess said as she walked away. “We have much to discuss.”)
The 19th day of the 2nd moon, the year 127 AC
High Tide, Driftmark
“Laenor Velaryon,” the king boomed. “For the part you have played in conspiracy against the crown, you will henceforth be exiled here, to your father’s lands and pejorative, where you will remain until I release you by decree.”
His eyes turned flinty. “For your lack of care of the health of your children—their custody I remove from you, and they will remain with their mother until such time they come of age.” Viserys coughed, a hacking heavy thing, but remained upright. “Understand this, boy: it is only because your mother is my cousin, and therefore we are kin, that I do not banish you from these lands and strip from you all you hold dear. Heir to Driftmark you will remain, but King Consort you will never become.”
“And Prince Daemon, your grace?” Corlys insisted, eyes still twisted with a dark vengeance. “What is to become of the man behind the conspiracy to murder my son and replace him?”
Viserys sighed, looking so old he might collapse. “Daemon has been exiled from Westeros, with pain of death upon his undecreed return.” Corlys scoffed, disbelieving of the threat.
Alicent was inclined to agree—there was only one other person Viserys loved more than his brother. Given the way Rhaenyra’s face had stricken with fear and anger at the announcement, she daresay it would not be long before those two made their way back to each other, and Viserys bent to their whims once more.
She spoke up for the first time. “Worry not, Lord Corlys. Prince Daemon has already left these shores this very morning.”
“Yet Caraxes is still here,” Princess Rhaenys pointed out. The red dragon in question could still be heard, all the way into the Halls of Nine, whimpering nauseatingly loudly. Aegon had taken himself to jeer at the dragon whenever he passed a facing window.
“Yes. Caraxes will not be joining him, and to be returned promptly to Dragonstone. I believe I can trust your discretion on this, Rhaenyra?” Heads swiveled to the princess, who looked almost green at the thought. As did Rhaenys and Laenor, who looked disgusted at the idea of separating a dragon from his rider by force.
“I will do my best, Father,” Rhaenyra said, a forced smile upon her lips. She looked….lost, alone without any of the men who defined her life. Alicent almost felt sympathy swell for her; a pity the princess had already broken whatever leftover goodwill Alicent had for her a few days ago.
“What happened here this last sennight cannot be allowed to occur again,” Viserys croaked. Alicent reached out to steady him. “Punishments have been doled, but the fracturing of this family cannot be allowed to continue.”
Cold slithered down Rhaneyra’s back at the sight of Alicent’s well-hidden smirk. To all, she looked no less than a benevolent queen; only Rhaenyra saw the viper underneath.
“Which is why I am pleased to announce that the Lady Rhaena will return with us to the Red Keep until such time that her permanent custody can be arranged,” he continued. Rhaenyra froze. Impossible, she thought. Would he truly do this? To her?
Rhaena was supposed to return with her to Dragonstone as one of her ladies. Rhaena was to be her bargaining chip against the increasing Velaryon influence. Rhaena, who was key to keeping Luke’s seat safe from Green hands. Rhaena, who ensured Daemon’s safe return to her.
“And my son Prince Daeron henceforth will remain here as a ward of Driftmark…”
Rhaenyra tried to catch Rhaenys’ eye, but the older woman stayed standing stiff and straight. Unbent, yet blatantly resigned. She knew, Rhaenyra realized, fury rising unbidden. And underneath it, terror. She knew, and did not warn me.
“…under the care of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”
Doomed. Rhaenyra tried not to laugh, thoughts aimlessly adrift in shock. Her beautiful dream burnt to ash. In her mind’s eye, she could see nothing but black and silver strands, a pearl handed sword gripped in pale hands. The Conqueror’s crown on silver waves. Golden flames in an open maw. And death—cold as steel, swirling in torrential eyes.
Somewhere on the island, a dragon began to roar.
We are doomed.
The 8th moon, the year 135 AC
(Excerpt of a letter that never reached King’s Landing)
To our most gracious King Viserys I Targaryen,
I write to you, not as a subject to her king, but as cousin to cousin, and as a mother to a father.
You and I share quite the history. My father was meant to succeed the Old King, as one does as the eldest son of a ruling scion. Yet with his passing, it was your father and then you who was named successor. It was you who became king in my place as queen. Perhaps if our families had been wise enough, our union could have mended whatever cracks were already prevalent in the foundations of our dynasty, dating back to the days of Aenys and Maegor. Mayhaps then, our children would not have been sacrificed on the altar of false unity. A bridegroom for a crown; a queen instead of a king. Children left forgotten while blood floods your kingdom.
Nor would I find myself writing to you about this, with a strange request of my own.
Now I find myself standing on the same precipice as I did near 20 years ago, when you came upon my shores with an offer my lord husband could not refuse. An alliance worthy of our blood of the dragon. Worthy of the children we have forced the world upon. Let me speak plainly, Cousin, for I know that you mislike riddles:
I have a granddaughter, and you have a son…
Notes:
Dun dun dunnnnnn
And so Driftmark (finally) comes to an end. I hope y’all enjoyed the show 😂.
Next chapter will be a “march of time” esque chapter, where we see events from 127-135 AC aka the start of the Dance, such as the wedding and birth of Helaegon’s children, Daemon’s return, the Steppstones, and the birth of Daeron and Daring.
Re: Vaemond
The man is, above all else, an ambitious fuck. And not a particularly nice man. But he’s not wrong that the Velaryons should not have to accept a bastard Targaryen heir simply because Corlys’ own ambitions will it so. Nor is he wrong that focusing on creating alliances with the Greens is far more important right now, especially with Rhaenyra’s reign being so contentious. Fostering Daeron means an unbreakable alliance should Aegon become king. Besides, there’s another reason he was all too welcoming of the boy…
Less importantly: we know that Ascension is often triggered by worship. Daeron’s just got his own version of a priest. Let’s see how that goes….
And if anyone noticed that lil easter egg about Aemond’s twin…personally, I’m of the mind that Alicent suffered at least one miscarriage/stillborn between Aemond and Daeron. Book-wise there’s a four year gap between the two, while the first three were born within 3 years. There’s no way those constant pregnancies didn’t leave some impact on her, especially with HOTD Alicent being so young (with 4 kids in 4 years). And someone left a comment once on one of my tumblr posts about Daeron’s show age about Aemond and Daeron potentially being twins (as they’re less than a year apart for some reason), which led to Aemond’s innate loneliness. Ergo, dead twin (who’s actually a character in some of my other fics 🤐).
Also, before anyone asks about whether or not Rhaenyra will get wiser now that she’s starting to lose/knows war is coming:
Canonically, Rhaenyra’s not the brightest nor was she surrounded by the wisest counselors (assuming she listened to them anyway). She knew war was coming in 1x07, which is why she asked Daemon to marry her. Only to completely forget about it for the next almost 7 years while the Greens effectively ruled the Seven Kingdoms. She didn’t even make a single alliance. At least in the book she was exiled to Dragonstone. No such thing happened in the show. Rhaenyra’s just not very astute tbh, and without Daemon at her side, she’s going to flounder for quite some time.
Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I'll be back to do some minor edits in the next few days. The next one should hopefully come out by Christmas, as I plan on releasing the last three 1-2 weeks apart. Wish me luck ;)
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