Damage gets done, and the Dragon burn it all

by diphylleigrayi

Summary:

The blood that ran through her veins could be defined as ‘The Pure Blood of the Dragon’, and if anyone asked, she would be proud to open her skin and show them the colour and heat that flows.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, upon losing her mother, made a promise to the Fourteen Flames and the Fourteen Hells that she would not be at the mercy of the volatility of men, and that she would raise a new world from the ashes of her enemies... Starting with Viserys I Targaryen.

Or:

Rhaenyra acquires a very specific kind of madness, and no one will be safe from her vengeful spirit.

Notes:

Hello, I'm starting another fanfic, and hopefully it'll be short!
Some important information will be at the end.

Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

 

The halls of the Red Keep were vast, filled with secrets that seemed to whisper through the stone walls and echo down the corridors. For Rhaenyra Targaryen, these secrets were not just distant echoes. They were silent companions, witnesses to a childhood that, despite being surrounded by luxury and privilege, was marked by a constant and implacable shadow: Rhaenyra would never be an heir the kingdom wanted. Although she only remembered her mother's succession of pregnancies and losses from the age of five, it was known that despite being Princess, Aemma Arryn also carried on her shoulders the responsibility of carrying on whatever they thought the Targaryen Blood was worthy of.

Rhaenyra used to spend her days in the inner gardens, where the fruit trees of southern Westeros offered shade and a refuge for her restless mind. The little princess found comfort among the flowers, away from the watchful eyes of the servants and the formalities that the court demanded, usually accompanied only by an insistent nanny and her shield, Ser Harrold. When the wind blew, and in the distance she could feel the sea breeze that surrounded King's Landing, she felt a strange mixture of freedom and confinement. It was as if the whole city was at her fingertips, but the high walls of the Keep reminded her that her life wasn't really her own.

As she grew up, Rhaenyra tried to adapt her perceptions of the world. Although he hadn't disappeared, her father was a distant figure, even if he seemed warm when he was present.

What accompanied Rhaenyra seemed to be her mother's cries during childbirth, which echoed through the stones, passing through the walls like invisible knives. Rhaenyra listened, even when the people around her tried hard not to. The nannies would try to distract her, offering her stories of the ancient dragons or sweets prepared especially for her, Ser Harrold would do his best to keep her away from her mother's chambers and her father would shower her with gifts and lemon cakes, or promise her more time with Syrax. But every cry that escaped from that wall was like a broken promise, a reminder that the Queen was struggling to bring a life into the world, only to lose it before she even held the child in her arms.

Yet Rhaenyra never saw her mother cry. After each loss, Aemma would emerge from her room as a stoic figure, her eyes empty but her posture erect. She was the Queen now, they told her. It was a kind of courage that fascinated and frightened Rhaenyra. ‘She does it for you,’ the ladies-in-waiting whispered. ‘For you and for the kingdom.’ But even at a young age, the princess couldn't understand why the kingdom demanded so much of her mother.

 

***

Moments of peace between mother and daughter were rare but precious. Aemma made a habit of combing Rhaenyra's silver hair at dusk, while telling stories of the mountains of her homeland, the Vale. “There, the air is so pure that you can feel the freedom in your lungs, ” Aemma would say, her voice as low and soft as a whisper. “One day, I promise I'll take you there.” The princess had always hoped that this promise would be fulfilled, but as time went by, Rhaenyra realised that some words were spoken only to comfort, and not to see the light of day.

As the years passed, the Red Keep became smaller and smaller in Rhaenyra's eyes. She began to notice the cracks in the walls, the tired expressions on the faces of the servants and the monotony of the days repeating themselves. Her father, King Viserys I Targaryen, was always very kind to her, but often seemed more interested in his models of Valyria than in his family's immediate problems. Rhaenyra loved him, but also felt a silent anger at his apparent impotence in the face of her mother's suffering.

When she reached her tenth name-day, her father called her into the Small Council Room and introduced Alicent Hightower, the daughter of the King's Hand. Her father had said that the girl would now be his lady-in-waiting and that others would follow soon. But Alicent stressed Rhaenyra out. She was always sighing over the knights who guarded the court, while at the same time carrying around some of Septa's reading. Rhaenyra did her best to throw off the young Hightower.

Whenever she was in town, her uncle, Daemon, would always bring her flowers or anything that might bring a smile to Rhaenyra's face. Her favourite presents were the rings and fabrics that her uncle always managed to bring back from his travels to the most remote corners of the world. But the princess could never get used to her uncle's constant presence. He was never around for long. It was almost as if he repelled the contaminated air of the Keep…

Her dragon was the only thing that really brought Rhaenyra joy. She would spend hours watching Syrax fly over the city. On days when she could get away from her obligations, she would ride Syrax and relax as she felt the wind on her face, the heat of the dragon's scales warming her hands. In the air, she was free. In the air, the responsibilities and tragedies of earth seemed small and distant. But whenever she returned to the ground, reality welcomed her back with implacable coldness.

The courtesans whispered about the need for a male heir, something that Rhaenyra understood more clearly as she grew older. Despite being the only living daughter of the king and queen, her status as heiress was constantly questioned. Her father, although he was the king and seemed to love her, also seems to know that the kingdom would not easily accept her as the next occupant of the Iron Throne. With each of her mother's pregnancies, there was a silent hope at court, as if everyone was waiting for her to be replaced by a sibling.

Each loss was a thread of hope breaking, but that didn't lessen the weight Rhaenyra felt on her shoulders. She knew that her position was both a privilege and a curse. And in the midst of it all, her mother continued to try, to suffer, to endure. And with each loss, Rhaenyra saw a little more of the light in Aemma's eyes disappear, like a candle slowly going out.

There was one night in particular that remained etched in Rhaenyra's memory. It was a silent night, with only the distant sound of the waves crashing against the fortress walls. She found her mother in her manor, kneeling in front of the lit candles. The queen didn't realise her daughter's presence at first, and Rhaenyra stood still, watching her. Aemma's shoulders were bent, her head bowed. She didn't pray; she just stared into the flames, as if looking for answers that would never come.

“Are you all right, muña¹ ?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice small in the vast space.

 

Aemma turned round slowly, her eyes meeting those of her daughter. There was something there that Rhaenyra had never seen before: a raw, almost frightening vulnerability. But then, as always, the queen regained her composure, a weak but loving smile appearing on her lips.

“I'm fine, ñuha prūmia² ,” replied Aemma, getting up and walking over to her daughter. She put her hands on Rhaenyra's shoulders and then stroked the princess's face and looked at her for a long moment before saying: “Always remember, Rhaenyra, you are my daughter, my beautiful darling girl. But you are also the Blood of Old Valyria, the Blood of the Dragon runs through your veins, remember to always have faith and courage”

 

***

 

On the day the tournament in honour of the birth of the king's heir began, Rhaenyra could feel nothing but a sense of heaviness in her bones. 

“My friends, today we welcome a prince! Let us celebrate his birth!” cried Viserys from his pulpit.

It wasn't long before the King was summoned to the Queen's chambers. Her father ordered her to stay in the royal grandstand until someone came to collect her. Over time, Rhaenyra began to feel that her rings were already hurting from spinning them on her fingers.

If any God is listening now, let my mother live.

But apparently none of them were listening.

The rest of the day became a faded blur. She remembered his father telling her that mother had died giving birth to her brother. And that his brother had also died soon afterwards. Her father didn't let her see Queen Aemma's body, didn't even let her enter the chambers to see her mother one last time before she was prepared for the pyre.

She could remember an endless queue of servants saying ‘I'm sorry’, ‘My condolences’, ‘Our dear queen’. Rhaenyra remembers feeling sick. She remembers wanting to throw herself out of her window, wanting to shout at everyone and at the same time, she remembers staring at her uncle Daemon for far too long before realising the concern in his eyes.

Rhaenyra also remembers trying to bury all the anger she was feeling towards her father during Aemma's funeral. She had tried to hide the hatred she was feeling during the High Septon's speech, not a word of which seemed sincere. Rhaenyra turned red all the time, and her feelings could be translated by Syrax's restlessness, which didn't fail to accompany her rider for a moment during the day.

Rhaenyra also remembers wanting to laugh in her father's face when reminded that he didn't have a dragon to burn his wife and son.

Rhaenyra also remembers thinking ‘Weak’.

But Princess Rhaenyra, the first of her name, also clearly remembers that while the bodies of her mother and brother were burning, she made a promise.

 

Mother, I promise that no man will subject me to your will. No man on this earth will make me bleed without feeling the Dragon's Fire in response. Whoever stands in my way will not be spared. I promise to be faithful to those who are faithful to me, and I promise to protect my loved ones.

I promise to take revenge on everyone who has ever done us wrong. Even if the first is Viserys. 

Nyke kivio³.

 

And so the princess waited. She waited for the kingdom's next decision, for her father's next move and for the next twist of fate. She waited and learnt, each day preparing her for what was to come, even if she didn't yet know what it would be.

_________

 

Glossary:

1. Muña: mother

2. Ñuha prūmia: my heart

3. Nyke kivio: I promise

 

(I'll do my best to put a very few words in Valyrian and italicise most of them.)

How I imagine Rhaenyra at 14

Notes:

These will be the ages of the characters at the end of this prologue. I ended up playing around with the chronology a bit.
I didn't follow canon to the letter (but you'll forgive me, right?),

Rhaenyra - 14 years old
Viserys - 32
Daemon - 26
Alicent - 20
Elinda - 16
Mysaria - 26
Laena - 15
Laenor - 17
Rhaenys - 35
Corlys - 50

 

Aemma Arryn died in 114, Rhaenyra was already 14 years old.
Viserys became King in 101, just after the council that defined the succession after Jaeherys.
I've slightly reduced the age difference between Daemon and Rhaenyra to 12 years.
Please let me know what you think of this prologue, I confess it's going to be a challenge for me, but I'm very excited!

Chapter 2

Notes:

Thank you so much for all your comments! They inspire and motivate me to keep writing.
Dialogues in High Valyrian will be in italics (most of them).

Rhaenyra considered that day a personal victory. The adrenaline of triumph still coursed through her veins as she slipped through the hidden passages of the Red Keep, her hands brushing against the cold, rough stones that seemed to guard the secrets of a nearly forgotten generation. After weeks of searching, deciphering fragments of maps from Maegor's reign, she had finally discovered one of the most strategic paths: a passage leading directly from her chambers to the Small Council’s chamber.

That discovery tasted particularly sweet, as though she had achieved something no one else would dare to attempt. The small space where she now hid had been made haphazardly comfortable. A narrow chair and a candle holder illuminated the area just enough for her to jot down every whispered word that filtered through the thin wall. It was the perfect position—a place where she could listen unseen, observe without having to contend directly with the opinions of others. Here, she could hear everything, uncensored.

The day seemed promising. Her father, King Viserys, was meeting with Otto Hightower, the ever-persuasive Hand of the King. For a time, nothing of note seemed to arise, just administrative discussions she already knew by heart. But then Otto cleared his throat. The dry, deliberate sound cut through the silence like the prelude to something inevitable.

“My King, I would like to raise another matter of utmost importance.”

The air in the small space seemed to thicken. Rhaenyra leaned closer to the wall, her breath caught as she waited for the next words.

Viserys sighed, setting his goblet of Dornish wine on the armrest of his throne with a mechanical gesture. “Speak, Otto.”

“It concerns your succession, Your Grace. The lords are growing restless. The realm needs stability...”

“I already have a direct heir. Rhaenyra.” Viserys’s voice echoed firmly, but something in the way he spoke made her shudder.

Rhaenyra felt a wave of heat rise through her body, followed by a sharp chill. It was as if the invisible ground beneath her feet had begun to crack.

“My King,” Otto continued, his voice laden with false deference, “the lords will not accept a woman. The Great Council of 101 set a precedent: an uncle’s claim supersedes that of a niece. How does Your Grace imagine Prince Daemon will react to being disinherited?”

“Daemon would never harm Rhaenyra,” Viserys said, his tone more like a prayer than a certainty.

Rhaenyra wanted to believe that too.

“He may cherish her now,” Otto insisted, “but will he continue to do so after losing Dragonstone and his place in the line of succession? Your Grace knows your brother’s nature better than anyone.”

The silence that followed was almost deafening. Beyond the wall, Viserys nodded slowly, the shadow of an internal conflict reflected in his grave voice. “I’ll think further on this. Summon the Small Council. I need to hear what the others think.”

Rhaenyra clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to contain her growing anger. Every word from Otto was like a dagger, cutting into the fragile promises that supported her future. The space around her felt tighter, suffocating. The candlelight flickered as if responding to her simmering fury.

 

***

 

The secret passages of the Red Keep were an intricate work of art, each hidden corridor a relic of Maegor’s era. Of all her discoveries, only the passage leading directly to the King’s quarters rivalled the importance of this one. Others led to the library, the godswood, or even outside the palace walls.

Exploring these paths, however, had not been easy. The constant watch over her “well-being” forced her to restrict her longer excursions to the shadows of the night, when the prying eyes of courtiers and servants were shut. These nightly efforts took their toll: during the day, Rhaenyra fought against the drag of exhaustion, something that did not go unnoticed.

“You must not yawn during Septa Helen’s lessons, Rhaenyra,” Alicent remarked, her tone laced with reproach as she sat with a posture as rigid as a rod.

Rhaenyra felt the comment pierce her patience like a thorn. Rising from her chair, she turned to her sole lady-in-waiting, her gaze sharp and burning with barely contained fury.

“Alicent,” she began, her tone glacial and startling even herself, though it made the other girl shrink slightly, “I don’t know what gave you entitlement you could correct a princess of the realm.”

“Rhaenyra, I-I...” Alicent stammered, a flush creeping up her cheeks.

“And I don’t know what gave you the entitlement you could address me without beginning with ‘Your Highness.’” The tension in Rhaenyra’s voice was palpable. “Remember your place, Alicent.”

The young woman remained silent for a moment but gathered enough courage to attempt a response:

“Your Grace, as a loyal servant, I believe I must point out errors to advise you...”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, her anger hardening into a threatening calm. “If I had requested your counsel, you would undoubtedly know. Consider yourself fortunate,” she added, watching Alicent’s shoulders relax slightly before delivering the final blow. “Since you admire Septa Helen so much, I’ll speak to my father about sending you to the Citadel. You could become an acolyte yourself. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Your father would be so proud of such a devout daughter.”

Without waiting for a response, Rhaenyra left the room, her determined steps echoing through the corridors.

Soon after, she encountered Ser Harrold Westerling. “Ser Harrold, do you know where the King is?”

“In his solar, Princess. He is receiving Prince Daemon but asked that you be informed he wishes to speak with you.”

Rhaenyra huffed. “So, this banishment lasted even less than the last. Is that a sign of improvement?”

“We can only pray.”

The Princess continued on, but the discomfort in her chest grew. As she approached her father’s solar, the sounds of raised voices and breaking objects reached her ears. She stopped, her heart racing. When the door opened abruptly, she heard Viserys’s final words: another banishment.

Daemon stormed out, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. He stopped in front of her, still fuming.

“Niece.”

“Uncle.”

Daemon glanced at Ser Harrold before turning his full attention to Rhaenyra.

“ Start finding allies, zaldrītsos. I have none, and look at what’s become of me: the plight of a second son .”

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her eyes locking onto his. “ You don’t have to be trapped in this forever. ”

He stared at her, curiosity mixing with incredulity. “And what do you suggest, little niece?”

“ Be my ally. Stay with me in the Red Keep ,” she said, her voice wavering with a sincerity and desperation he had never seen in her before. “ Don’t leave me alone. Not again. ”

Daemon was silent for a moment, surprised by the intensity of her words. He nodded, though bitterness still coloured his voice. “ I would, but it seems to be beyond my reach. Your father has banished me again .”

“ I’ll speak to him. He will listen to me .”

Daemon gave a melancholic smile. “I hope you have more success than I did.”

Rhaenyra intertwined her hands before starting to play with her rings. “ Meet me at the Godswood in an hour. ”

Daemon merely nodded and disappeared along the corridor.

“Ser Harrold, please accompany my uncle, stop him from doing something that will bring even more anger to the King's thoughts.”

After dismissing her shield, Rhaenyra entered her father's chambers.

“Father,” she began, her voice firm but filled with respect. “Ser Harrold told me you wished to see me.”

Viserys sighed, rising to his feet and attempting a reassuring smile that did not reach his eyes. “My daughter, come with me. I have something of great importance to share with you.”

The echo of their footsteps resonated through the stone walls as they walked together in silence to the chamber where the immense skull of Balerion, the Black Dread, rested. Confronted with that haunting reminder of her family’s power, Rhaenyra felt a sombre sense of peace settle over her heart. Yet even here, the tension in her father and the growing shadow of doubt surrounding her position remained palpable.

“Balerion was the greatest of all dragons,” Viserys began, gesturing towards the colossal skull that observed them in eternal silence. “When the Conqueror rode him, he brought not only fire and blood but the vision of a world united under our house’s power. A Targaryen on dragonback is a force the world cannot ignore.”

He turned to her, his eyes heavy with the weight of secrets he seemed to have carried for a long time. “But the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra, is not just a symbol of power. It bears a responsibility that few comprehend—one that goes beyond ruling, beyond wars and alliances.”

Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, confused. “What do you mean, Father?”

Viserys stepped closer, his posture rigid. “There is something you must know. Something that has been passed down from Aegon the Conqueror to this very day. It is a secret that only the heir to the throne must bear.” He took a deep breath, as if the words were difficult to form.

“Aegon did not conquer Westeros merely for glory or ambition,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “He had a dream. A dream that warned him of a threat that would come from the North, beyond the Wall. A winter so long it would destroy everything. A winter that would bring darkness and the dead. And only a Targaryen, seated on the Iron Throne, with the realm united under their command, can stand against that darkness.”

Rhaenyra felt a shiver run down her spine but did not avert her gaze.

“We call it the Song of Ice and Fire,” Viserys continued. “The prince that was promised.” Slowly, he withdrew the Conqueror’s dagger from his belt and held it to the flames, revealing Valyrian words etched into the blade. “We do not know who it will be, but it is our responsibility to ensure this realm survives until they arise. And this, my daughter, is the burden you will inherit as my heir.”

Her breathing quickened. It was not just about ruling. It was not just about alliances and power. There was a greater purpose, a destiny intertwined with the very foundations of House Targaryen.

“Why are you telling me this now?” she asked, her voice tense.

“Because tomorrow, the realm will know you are my successor,” Viserys said firmly. “And you must understand what that means. Not just for us, but for the future of the world as we know it.”

Rhaenyra remained silent, feeling the weight of the moment. The fire that had burned in her chest earlier now fused with a new responsibility, deeper and more daunting than she had ever imagined.

More than ever, Rhaenyra felt the conviction that she would need to build a new world.

 

***

 

The godswood was steeped in the stillness of night, the silvery moonlight filtering through the red leaves of the heart tree. Thick roots twisted through the ground, radiating an ancient energy that seemed to pulse in the air. The water of the small pool reflected the stars, and the gentle sound of the wind moving through the trees was the only noise filling the space.

Rhaenyra waited, leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree, her arms crossed over her chest. The night was cold, but she didn’t feel it—not truly. Her mind was far too restless to allow for such a thing.

The sound of footsteps echoing on the stone floor brought her back to the present. She turned her head and saw Daemon emerge from the shadows. His dark cloak billowed behind him, and his expression carried that familiar mixture of arrogance and defiance. He stopped before her, his pale eyes glinting in the dim light.

“ Zaldrītsos ,” he said, his voice low, yet laced with that mocking tone he always used with her.

“You’re on time,” Rhaenyra replied, tilting her chin upward. “I thought you might be… distracted.”

Daemon let out a short, almost dry laugh. “My banishment doesn’t leave much room for distractions. Only reflections.” He gestured around, his sarcasm evident. “And you, niece? You seem more restless than usual.”

Rhaenyra hesitated for a moment before speaking, but when she did, her words came out firmly. “ My father will name me his heir tomorrow .”

Daemon tilted his head, studying her intently. “ So, he’s finally made a decision. And how do you feel about it?”

“How should I feel?” Rhaenyra stepped closer, her voice charged with emotion. “Surrounded by faces I don’t recognise as allies, hearing whispers of treachery in every corner. Even the lords who will swear fealty tomorrow will be wondering how long it will take before they try to take it from me.”

Daemon regarded her in silence for a moment, his eyes analysing every nuance of her expression. Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy. “Then learn to use that to your advantage. Trust no one, Rhaenyra. Not even me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If I can’t trust you, then who can I trust? You told me to seek allies, uncle. And I need one now.”

He stepped closer, his gaze fixed on hers. “I’m the only one willing to burn the entire world if it means protecting you.” His voice was almost a whisper, yet it carried an intensity that made Rhaenyra catch her breath.

She looked away for a moment, her eyes resting on the crimson leaves of the heart tree. “My father told me about the Song of Ice and Fire,” she said, her voice quieter now.

Daemon frowned. “What does that mean?”

Rhaenyra saw in Daemon’s eyes that he had no idea what it meant. Which could only mean Viserys had never even considered him as an heir, not even during all the years of their mother’s suffering.

“It means Aegon was also a dreamer, like Daenys, and he planned the conquest of Westeros with that dream in mind. He dreamed of a second Long Night, where the prince that was promised would be essential to save all humankind. And that prince must have Targaryen blood. That prince must be a dragon rider.”

Rhaenyra turned back to him, her eyes alight with a mixture of determination and despair as she took a breath. “ It means being queen will not be enough. There’s a greater destiny, a purpose beyond anything we can imagine. And I’m alone in this.”

Daemon took another step forward, raising a hand to rest it on her shoulder. “You are not alone, Rhaenyra. Not while I’m here.”

For a moment, the weight of isolation she felt seemed to lift. She took a deep breath and found strength in the warmth of that promise, even knowing Daemon was as unpredictable as he was dangerous.

“Then stay,” she said, her voice firm. “Stay in King’s Landing. Help me hold the throne before they try to tear it down.”

Daemon smiled, but there was something dark in his expression. “I’ll stay, but know this: to keep the throne, you’ll have to fight harder than you’ve ever imagined. They’ll try to destroy you, Rhaenyra. And sometimes, to survive, you’ll have to be as ruthless as the enemies you face.”

She nodded, her gaze steady. “Then burn the world with me if you must. I won’t back down.”

Daemon chuckled softly, though there was no joy in the sound. “Ah, little dragon. It seems you’re finally learning.”

The night closed in around them, and for a moment, the godswood felt like both the safest and the most dangerous place in all of Westeros.

Glossary: 

 

Zaldrītsos = little dragon

 

Notes:

Did you liked?? 😍

Chapter 3

Summary:

"You will be a bridge between the past and the future. Your house is divided, Rhaenyra, and your realm is on the brink of chaos. You will need strength, wisdom, and loyal allies to survive what is to come."

Notes:

More than 100 kudos! Thanks to everyone who is reading, leaving comments, kudos and bookmarking (I find some of the bookmarks very funny 😂)!
This chapter has a lot going on in a short space of time, but I hope you enjoy it. ❤️

The first section of the chapter is all in High Valyrian, but I've highlighted all the High Valyrian dialogue in italics anyway.

That night, Rhaenyra had a dream.

At first, it seemed she had awakened as on any other morning. She felt the familiar touch of heavy blankets over her body and the fresh scent of flowers Alicent insisted on keeping in her chambers. The soft glow of partially burned candles still illuminated the room. But something was amiss.

There was a strangeness in the air. It felt denser, almost alive, as if it carried an ancestral weight surrounding her. Her senses were overly sharp. The fabrics around her seemed more vibrant, the sound of her own breathing echoed, and the energy in the room made her skin prickle.

She rose slowly, feeling the cold floor beneath her bare feet. When she looked around, she realized she was no longer in her room. The walls around her were of a glowing stone, emitting a soft golden light, carved with intricate designs of dragons in flight, their broad wings intertwining as if they were dancing. The ceiling above seemed infinite, as though the entire firmament was contained within it, each star shimmering with a unique light.

Rhaenyra walked toward a window that occupied almost the entire wall. As she drew back the heavy curtains covering it, she felt her breath leave her lungs. Before her, an entirely different world unfolded.

It was an impossible vision. On the horizon, snow-covered mountain peaks mingled with erupting volcanoes, their lava flowing like rivers of molten gold. Enormous dragons flew over the towers of a monumental city, their shadows crossing shimmering domes and streets paved with stones that gleamed like jewels. Every movement in the air seemed imbued with purpose and power.

"It’s not possible..." she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away.

"I should start keeping track of every time a Targaryen is blessed with a dream, and the first thing they dare to say is, ‘It’s not possible.’ At this point, I’ve lost count ."

Rhaenyra quickly turned upon hearing a voice that was soft yet imbued with a playful and commanding aura. Behind her, a male figure emerged as if stepping out of the very stone of the walls. He was incredibly beautiful, so ethereal he transcended any definition of gender. His skin had a golden sheen, and his eyes seemed to contain stars.

"Who... who are you? " Rhaenyra managed to ask, switching to high valyrian, blushing intensely as she realized he had either read her thoughts or noticed her gaze.

"I am Vermax, child, and you have been brought to us—to this memory of Old Valyria."

The mention of Old Valyria made Rhaenyra’s heart race. She had read and heard legends of the lost land of her ancestors, but being there, even in a dream, was something she could never have imagined.

Trying to regain her composure, Rhaenyra bowed deeply, but Vermax stepped forward, gently placing a hand on her shoulder and lifting her chin with the other.

"There is no need for that. You are not here to bow. You are here to understand."

"Understand what? " she asked, confused.

"Your lineage, your duties, and what the future holds for you and your house. You are worthy of this blessing, Rhaenyra, even if you do not understand it yet."

Doubt seemed to weigh on her face, and Vermax smiled. " You don’t need to be devout to deserve the gods' grace. Sometimes, loyalty to yourself and your family matters more."

He turned to the window, gesturing for her to come closer.

"Look. "

When Rhaenyra did as he asked, her vision was filled with scenes that seemed alive. It was Old Valyria, but not as she had read about in books. This was Valyria before the Doom, thriving and pulsing with energy. In the paved streets, men and women walked with an almost supernatural grace. Their garments were adorned with gemstones that glowed under the light of the dragons flying overhead. Children played in squares, while scholars debated around marble tables.

The dragons, as numerous as the stars in the sky, were majestic and imposing.

Rhaenyra felt a tightness in her chest. "All this... could have been ours. If not for the Doom."

"Do not be sad, " said Vermax, sitting on the window ledge. "Valyria lasted as long as it was meant to, and Daenys saved them for a reason. Dear Daenys saved your family, even when the rest of Valyria called her mad, and her father, Aenar, a fool for listening to her ."

The god looked at her, his expression becoming more serious. "You carry the blood of Daenys, just as you do that of Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys. That is why you are here. To learn."

"Look beyond what lies before you ," Vermax continued, gesturing for her to observe more closely. "What do you see that is different here? Beyond the obvious, of course. "

Rhaenyra gazed at the vastness of the landscape, feeling overwhelmed by its beauty. But as she forced herself to focus, something finally caught her attention.

"There is no Dragonpit, " she said, almost in disbelief.

"Exactly," Vermax replied, smiling." The dragons were neither confined nor controlled here. They were free. Always remember, Rhaenyra: a dragon is not a slave. And a dragon can only reach its true potential when treated as a free creature, not as a tool or a weapon—although it can fulfill that role magnificently well ," Vermax added with a playful look.

The words echoed in Rhaenyra's mind, heavy with meaning. She knew how much her house depended on dragons, but she couldn’t ignore what Vermax had shown. Dragons living freely, growing to sizes no dragon in Westeros could rival.

She stepped back from the window and faced the god with determination. "And what is the real purpose of all this? "

Vermax let out a soft laugh. "Syrax always says I should get straight to the point ," he admitted with a sigh. "Very well, then. You are here because we believe you can correct the mistakes of the past. You can be the bridge between Valyria's glory and the future your house can build. You’ve heard of the Song of Ice and Fire, haven’t you? It runs deeper than you imagine. If you felt the weight of responsibility with Viserys’ words, soon you’ll have a broader understanding of those feelings. In due time."

Vermax tilted his head, observing her with an intensity that seemed to pierce her soul. "You will be a bridge between the past and the future. Your house is divided, Rhaenyra, and your realm is on the brink of chaos. You will need strength, wisdom, and loyal allies to survive what is to come ."

He approached her again, holding her shoulders and looking into her eyes. " Your father, Viserys, did not understand the dreams granted to him. He interpreted them poorly and often ignored the simplest truths. But you, Rhaenyra, have the fire in your veins necessary to nurture this future. Do not squander this blessing. Remember that our grace is like fire: it can illuminate or consume, depending on how you wield it. "

Rhaenyra felt the weight of his words, the almost physical impact of each one. She wanted to respond, but before she could form a coherent sentence, Vermax smiled gently.

"Rest, child. Your next two days will be quite exhausting. When you wake, you will understand more than you do now. And one more thing ," he added, leaning in to kiss her forehead, "do not leave Viserys alone, especially at night."

In an instant, the world around her began to fade. The vision of Valyria disappeared like smoke in the wind, and she felt herself being pulled back to reality.

 

***

Rhaenyra woke with a start, her heart racing. The sunlight was already flooding her room, and the distant sound of birds echoed from outside. She blinked several times, trying to discern whether what she had experienced was real or just a dream.

The details were fresh in her mind, as vivid as any real memory. And Vermax's words, especially the warning about Viserys, echoed like a bell.

She shook herself out of the lethargy and rang the bell beside her bed. Moments later, Alicent entered, her posture impeccable and a polished smile on her face.

"Good morning, Your Highness," she said, bowing slightly.

Rhaenyra nodded, trying to hide the unease she still felt. "Please, ask them to bring a bath and a light meal. And make sure it includes lemon cake."

"Immediately, Your Highness."

As Alicent left, Rhaenyra let herself sink back into the pillows, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. There was something urgent in Vermax's warning, something she needed to decipher before it was too late.

Rhaenyra remained silent as the servants filled the bathtub with warm water, infused with aromatic oils. Alicent, as always, was present, overseeing everything with a precision that normally irritated Rhaenyra, but now went unnoticed. Her mind was racing.

Vermax's words echoed in her head: ‘You will be a bridge between the past and the future. Your house is divided.’ She knew that the situation in Westeros was unstable, even though Viserys insisted on ignoring the signs. The whispers of discontent from the lords, the intrigues at court, and even the growing tension within her own family were proof that something was about to collapse.

When she sank into the water, she felt the heat ease her muscles, but not her mind. The vision of Valyria remained alive in her thoughts, with its free dragons and grandeur that seemed unattainable in the present world. She looked at her hands, observing the pale skin and flawless nails. It was hard to imagine that these same hands were meant to carry the weight of the kingdom.

"Your Highness, is the water warm enough?" Alicent asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Rhaenyra raised her eyes to the young woman, her expression a mix of fatigue and impatience. "Yes, it is. Thank you, Alicent."

She knew Alicent was trying to be helpful, but at that moment, the constant presence of the Lord Hand's daughter was suffocating. Rhaenyra closed her eyes and submerged her shoulders in the water, ignoring Alicent's attempts to start a conversation.

After the bath and dressing, Rhaenyra sat at the vanity, where her hair was braided with the usual care. The braids were elegant, but far from the intricate Valyrian creations she dreamed of wearing. As she gazed at her reflection, she was reminded once again of Valyria, where even hairstyles were symbols of power and legacy.

When she finished, Alicent was still present, now sitting in a nearby chair. Rhaenyra sighed, trying to contain her irritation. "Alicent, you don't need to stay here all day. I have many things to think about, and I'd rather do them alone. Before you leave, ask Ser Harrold to come in."

Alicent hesitated but nodded in agreement. "As you wish, Your Highness." She stood, adjusting her dress before leaving, but not without a final glance back, as if she wanted to say something.

Once she was finally alone, Rhaenyra took a deep breath and picked up the papers on her desk. Among them was a guest list and presents that had already arrived for the coronation. At the top, Rhaenys Velaryon's name stood out.

She will come, Rhaenyra thought, biting her lower lip slightly. But will she come as an ally or as someone willing to test me?

"Good morning, Your Highness," her shield greeted her.

"Good morning, Ser, do you know where my uncle is?"

"Prince Daemon was invited to attend the Small Council meeting. His Majesty reinstated him as commander of the Gold Cloaks earlier today, Your Highness. I believe they are still in session."

So he managed it. One less thing to worry about, she thought to herself.

"Great. Thank you, Ser Harrold. You may return to your post. I will be in my chambers, and I ask that no one disturb me."

Ser Harrold only nodded politely and left the room.

Once she was alone, Rhaenyra took the path through the secret passages to the Small Council chamber.

At the meeting, in addition to her father and Daemon, were the Lord Hand, clearly in complete displeasure since Daemon had managed to soften the King's heart, and not only avoided exile but was reinstated as commander of the Gold Cloaks. Also present were Grandmaester Mellos, the Master of Coin, Lord Beesbury, the Master of Laws, Lord Strong, and Ser Ryam Redwyne as Commander of the Kingsguard. Only Lord Corlys was absent, likely due to increasing concerns with the Stepstones.

If Lord Otto were a snake, he would have already struck at Daemon, so much hatred in his gaze. Rhaenyra watched him as he massaged his temple as if he had a terrible headache.

"My King," Otto began, his voice heavy with his usual deference. "For the safety of Princess Rhaenyra, I believe it would be wise to reconsider Prince Daemon's presence in King's Landing. He should be in Runestone, by his wife's side, as is proper for his position."

Grandmaester Mellos backed up this opinion, "The princess must have the full support of the lords, Prince Daemon's presence will only bring indecision." Before Daemon could respond, his father interrupted him and tried to calm the advisors' concerns.

"Daemon has assured me he will bend the knee in two days, swear allegiance, and support Rhaenyra's claim." The King replied, dismissing Otto and Mellos's heavy opinions.

"I have already made my promise to the princess; it will be no trouble to make it again before the court, the High Septon, the Seven, name it, I will do it."

Lord Strong nodded, corroborating the King. "I think quite the opposite of Lord Hand and Grandmaester Mellos. I see that Prince Daemon's presence, as the former presumptive heir, where he will publicly support Princess Rhaenyra, will not only give the perception of unity within House Targaryen but also stability in the eyes of the realm." Daemon merely made a sound of agreement but remained silent.

Lord Beesbury took the floor to agree with the old friend, "The princess will have enough challenges being the future Queen, the first reigning woman, it is only fair that all the closest men in the family are present and support her claim."

The King seemed to relish the latest opinions declared, as if it were everything he wanted to hear.

"Since this point has been decided, I believe today's meeting can be adjourned."

Otto cleared his throat.

"Your Grace, I would like to bring one more point to the Small Council's attention."

Viserys sighed. "Speak."

"About a new marriage for Your Majesty. It is unwise to leave the kingdom's succession on the shoulders of a single heir."

The King placed his hand over his eyes, almost admitting defeat.

"I have no desire to remarry."

The first to respond was Lord Strong himself.

"While under other circumstances I would be advising that a new marriage is ideal, I do not see it as the best course of action in the current situation." His father glared at him irritably.

"What do you mean by that, Strong, be direct."

The Master of Laws simply bowed his head in apology and continued, "I apologize, my King, but what I meant is that, as we were discussing earlier, Princess Rhaenyra already faces enough challenges. If Your Grace remarries and is blessed with children - male children - what will become of the princess? She..."

"Nothing guarantees that the princess's fate is to be usurped. She will be the eldest, and the Faith advises men to seek the perpetuation of the lineage." Otto Hightower interrupted.

"I never took you for such a devout and pious man, Otto." Daemon retorted, hiding his smile behind his cup.

Lord Strong snorted, "We are not talking about the Faith here, Lord Hand. We are talking about obvious facts. The Council of 101 made it clear that the realm will have a preference for male heirs, even over the Andal Law. Queen Alyssane herself had to advocate for the rights of the children from the first marriage, with the Widow's Law. Let us be clear and rational, if the King remarries and has children, it will be as if the declaration of Princess Rhaenyra as heir was a waste of time, and we are here for nothing."

It is uncertain whether the Master of Laws intended to be so blunt; perhaps he took the King's request too literally.

The King seemed visibly exhausted.

"Well, if no one else has anything to say, we will end here."

If she had previously thought that Otto had a headache, such discomfort was now afflicting her. Rhaenyra gathered her papers and pencils and returned to her chambers.

 

***

 

She asked for Daemon to be called to the garden and for tea and some snacks to be served. She could bet that her uncle would have left the meeting hungry. When he finally arrived, Rhaenyra was already writing her second letter, this time to Rhaenys.

"Good morning, niece."

"Uncle, I hope the meeting was productive ."

"It could have been worse, actually."

"Anything worth noting?"

At some point, Rhaenyra was going to tell Daemon about what she had discovered regarding Maegor's secret passages, but for now, she would take her uncle's own advice seriously and keep her trust limited.

"The Cuntower wants to marry Viserys again. For now, this matter will not be addressed, your father has declared that he does not wish to remarry. But don't be surprised if the Hand of the King doesn't cease his attempts ."

Rhaenyra sipped her tea and nodded.

"I understand. I was never an option, uncle, not really. I am just the stone that keeps you away from the throne. "

Daemon looked at her cautiously as she organized her thoughts to continue her reasoning.

"But if in two days the lords will swear loyalty to me, I will hold them to that promise until the end of my days."

Daemon glanced at the pile of papers. "I see you've been busy too."

Rhaenyra smiled. "It's a secret, for now, I don't know if it will work, so I won't share my frustration."

Daemon smiled and took one of Rhaenyra's hands. "Niece, I have already made myself available for anything you need, even in these frustrations you speak of."

"Even so," she replied, "let's be surprised if everything works out, yes?"

Daemon agreed and popped another half sandwich into his mouth.

"I had a dream last night ."

Daemon finished chewing and assumed a serious expression. "Tell me everything."

 

***

 

In the days leading up to the coronation, Rhaenyra dedicated her time to preparations and receiving the guests. The princess’s chambers were filled with gifts: jewelry, fine fabrics, and even small dragon sculptures sent by lords eager to win her favor.  

But no gift drew more attention than the arrival of the Velaryon entourage.  

The presence of dragons in the sky announced their arrival before they were even seen. Meleys, the Red Queen, led the flight, followed by Seasmoke and, to everyone’s surprise, Vhagar.  

“Vhagar was claimed by Laena,” murmured Rhaenyra, her eyes fixed on the immense shadow of the dragoness. “What luck, or perhaps a masterstroke.”  

Daemon, beside her, grumbled. “The Velaryons now have more dragons than the crown itself. That’s something we can’t ignore, niece.”  

“We can’t,” Rhaenyra agreed, adjusting her dress. “But today is not the day for confrontation. Today, we receive our allies.”  

When Rhaenys dismounted from Meleys, her bearing was as imposing as the dragoness herself. She walked with the confidence of a queen, followed by Laena and Laenor. Lord Corlys came next, escorted by servants carrying gifts.  

“Princess Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra said, extending her hand. “It’s an honor to welcome you to King’s Landing.”  

Rhaenys grasped her hand, bowing her head slightly. “Indeed, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, Princess. I see you’ve grown and become quite a formidable young woman.”  

Rhaenyra smiled. “I hope you find comfort here. This is your home as much as mine.”  

As the Velaryons were escorted to their rooms, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but notice the strength they represented. The dragons, the fleet, and the very charisma of Rhaenys and Corlys served as a reminder that House Targaryen needed to ensure it placed its trust in reliable allies.  

After making sure the Velaryon entourage was properly settled in the prepared chambers, Rhaenyra withdrew to the garden. The afternoon breeze carried the scent of flowers growing in abundance, but she barely noticed. Her thoughts were occupied with Vermax’s words and the reception she had just given her cousin.  

She couldn’t ignore the presence of Vhagar. It was an imposing reminder that Laena Velaryon, though young, had become a figure to be watched. Meanwhile, Lord Corlys showed his usual calculating composure, but his conversations with Daemon made it clear he had greater concerns on his mind.  

The sound of footsteps interrupted her thoughts. When she turned, she saw Daemon approaching, his expression a mix of curiosity and something harder to identify.  

“You’re deep in thought, niece ,” he commented, sitting on one of the stone benches nearby.  

“There’s much to think about,” Rhaenyra replied, adjusting the folds of her dress before sitting beside him. “The Velaryons are our allies, but they are also a powerful force on their own. And Vhagar...” 

Daemon smiled slightly, but there was a touch of bitterness in his expression. “Vhagar is a symbol of what we’ve lost. She’s the largest living dragon, a reminder of the power we once had and now share with others.”  

Rhaenyra shook her head. “I don’t know if ‘share’ is the right word. The Velaryons have dragons, yes, but is that a blessing or a threat?”  

“It depends on how you treat them,” Daemon replied, his voice lower. “Corlys Velaryon is a man who understands the value of loyalty, but also the cost of betrayal. He wouldn’t risk breaking with House Targaryen, not without a very clear reason. Or without the complete certainty that he’d enter an endeavor that would make him victorious.”  

Rhaenyra sighed. “Either way, we need them now. The strength of their fleet and dragons is something we can’t ignore. I hope my personal invitation has hit the right mark.”  

Daemon tilted his head, studying her. “And what would that mark be exactly? Convincing them that your coronation will strengthen us all, or ensuring that they stay out of your shadow?”  

She didn’t answer immediately, but her determined gaze spoke more than words ever could.  

Later that evening, a dinner was organized to celebrate the arrival of the Velaryon entourage. The hall was decorated with the banners of House Targaryen and House Velaryon, a visual reminder of the ancient blood tie between the two great powers of Westeros.  

Rhaenyra sat beside Viserys, with Daemon occupying the seat to her right. Across the table, Rhaenys and Corlys conversed in low tones, their expressions carefully neutral.  

“I hope the journey was smooth,” Viserys said, raising a goblet of wine toward the Velaryons.  

“Smooth, yes,” Corlys replied, with a polite smile. “Though conditions in the Stepstones continue to demand our constant attention.”  

Viserys frowned, but before he could respond, Daemon interjected. “The pirates of the Stepstones are an old plague. Perhaps it’s time to deal with them once and for all.”  

Corlys nodded. “I agree. But that will require more than words. We need decisive action.”  

The tone in Corlys’s voice was polite, but the implication was clear. Viserys noticed and leaned slightly forward. “This is a matter we will discuss after the coronation. For now, let’s focus on celebrating the union between our houses.”  

Rhaenys, who had remained silent until then, finally spoke. “And that union, my King, will be as strong as the commitment of those around this table. Rhaenyra’s coronation is an important step, but the kingdom will need more than promises to keep her on the throne.”  

The comment hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Rhaenyra remained calm, but her eyes met Rhaenys’s for a brief moment. It was a look of mutual understanding, a reminder that both understood the complexities of power in Westeros.  

After the dinner, Rhaenyra took the opportunity to speak with Laena and Laenor in a more private corner of the room. The two seemed at ease, with Laena wearing a radiant smile that contrasted with Laenor’s more reserved demeanor.  

“Vhagar is an impressive feat,” Rhaenyra began, addressing Laena. “You must be proud to have formed such a bond with a legendary dragon.”  

Laena laughed softly. “She’s incredible, but not without her challenges. Vhagar has her own personality... and a lot of patience is not one of her virtues.”  

“That’s part of the charm of dragons,” Rhaenyra responded. “They aren’t just creatures to ride. They’re partners, equals.”  

“That’s what I told Laena,” Laenor sighed. “...is that Vhagar’s foul mood certainly matches hers when she’s crossed, ouch!” Laena kicked him in the shin. “See what I mean?”  

Rhaenyra laughed at the clear affection between the Velaryon siblings.  

Laena made a sound as if clearing her throat.  

“Rhaenyra, I know our families may be distant, but I believe I speak for both myself and my brother when I say that we are perfectly content with our life at Driftmark. And believe me, we already have enough problems.” Both Velaryons chuckled nervously. “But we don’t want to run in that Game of Thrones. Our seat is enough.”  

“What my sister is putting in pretty words,” Laenor sighed, “...is that we have no aptitude for that throne full of swords. We’d ruin everything in no time. It may not seem like it, but our mother is coming to peace with this realization too. Consider us your allies, cousin.”  

Rhaenyra felt a spark of peace she hadn’t felt since her mother’s death. As if at least one of the links in the massive chain that bound her to her duty wasn’t quite so tight.  

“I am grateful, and I will never forget your loyalty.”  

 

***

 

The dawn of the day before the coronation brought a deceptive calm to King’s Landing. The city was bustling with activity; artisans rushed to finish decorations, cooks supervised the preparations for grand banquets, and messengers came and went with urgent orders. From the height of the Red Keep, Rhaenyra observed the movement.

She could hear the bells of the towers ringing, and she could hear some people singing The Ballad of the Realm’s Delight, a melody interrupted by the voices of those gathering in squares to discuss the event. The coronation of a female heir was unprecedented. Many still didn’t know what to think about the future the princess represented. The eve passed without much incident, and Rhaenyra remained in her chambers until the evening, trying to rid herself of a terrible headache.

Rhaenyra felt the weight of the expectations and doubts hanging over her like a shadow. Dressed in a simple robe, with her hair tied in a loose braid, she sat before the fireplace in her chambers, a goblet of wine within reach.

Daemon entered unannounced, as was his custom, at least leaving the door open, for the sake of appearances and her reputation as well, carrying a roll of scrolls. “Are you ready for what’s to come tomorrow, niece?”

She raised her eyes, noticing the almost provocative tone in his voice. “Ready? I believe that not even Aegon was ready for what the throne meant, uncle. But that didn’t stop him from claiming it. Right?”

Daemon smiled, approaching and throwing the scrolls onto the table. “These are reports from the Small Council, all the lords who have already arrived in King’s Landing. Only Lord Tully won’t be able to come, but a delegation has come in his place. Apparently, no one seems particularly upset by your appointment and will swear loyalty.”

“‘At least on paper,’” she repeated, frowning. “And what happens when words become useless?”

“You burn the words,” Daemon replied, leaning back in the chair before her, his expression serious. “And the men who spoke them, if necessary.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, but there was no joy in her laugh. “Would it be that simple? Would making ashes solve everything?”

Daemon leaned forward, his eyes fixed on hers. “It’s not simple, but it’s necessary. You will be queen, Rhaenyra. And royalty is not for the hesitant.”

She knew he was right, but the shadow of what was to come still hung over her.

 

***

 

The Iron Throne Hall was packed. The great lords of Westeros were gathered, their garments gleaming in the torchlight. The sound of murmurs echoed as everyone awaited the moment Rhaenyra would be presented.

In the corridor outside the hall, Rhaenyra adjusted her posture. She wore a black and gold dress, the colors of her house, embroidered with details representing flames and dragons. Her head was held high, but her thoughts were a whirlwind.

Daemon was by her side, wearing a look of defiance that seemed directed at anyone who might dare question the legitimacy of his niece.

As the doors began to open, the sound of trumpets filled the air, followed by the announcement:

“We present Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, daughter of Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, blood of the dragon, Princess of Dragonstone, and the Chosen One of House Targaryen!”

Notes:

First of all, I'd like to apologise for any spelling or grammar mistakes, English is not my first language, so I depend on Deepl's proofreading.
Honestly, I get very irritated every time I have to write an interaction with Viserys, he's just annoying! Later today I'm going to update some of the fanfic tags that have to do with how the next chapters will unfold.
I'm not particularly a fan of Corlys, but I'm going to have to put up with him for now, so I hope you'll bear with me. ❤️

I want to know what you think:
Do you think Alicent will still marry Viserys?
Who do you think Rhaenyra sent the letter to?
Rhaenyra is still very softy, isn't she?

Chapter 4

Summary:

“Let it be known,” the king proclaimed, his voice echoing off the stone walls, “Rhaenyra Targaryen is my rightful heir. Blood of the Dragon. Your future queen, who shall one day rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who commented on the previous chapter! You are all amazing!

While walking through the long corridor towards the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen felt the weight of each step. Beneath the façade of calm and control, her mind was a storm of thoughts. The Red Keep was crowded, filled with lords and ladies from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, gathered to witness the formalization of her claim to the succession. Yet, for Rhaenyra, this was not a celebration—it was an invisible battlefield. Every bowed spine, every fleeting glance, every calculated smile was a move in a deadly game she had to win.

The hall was silent, yet the weight of expectations was deafening. The Iron Throne, forged from the swords of Aegon the Conqueror’s defeated enemies, dominated the scene, a constant reminder of what was at stake. Atop the dais, her father, King Viserys I, waited with an expression wavering between pride and exhaustion. Beside him, the High Septon held a new crown—the crown that would symbolize the future transfer of power from Viserys to his heir.

Reaching the steps, Rhaenyra paused, taking a deep breath. Her entrance had been carefully calculated to evoke the presence of her lineage. Her scarlet and black gown, embroidered with dragons in golden thread, shimmered under the torchlight. Behind her, Syrax's sigil adorned her long, heavy cape. Every detail was a declaration of her heritage and her right.

She ascended the steps with a grace that belied the weight of her resolve. Facing Viserys, their eyes met. For a moment, they were not king and heir but father and daughter. Viserys seemed to want to say something but remained silent. Then he raised the crown, and the hall fell into an absolute hush.

“Let it be known,” the king proclaimed, his voice echoing off the stone walls, “Rhaenyra Targaryen is my rightful heir. Blood of the Dragon. Your future queen, who shall one day rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

The hall erupted in applause and cheers, though not uniformly. There were enthusiastic voices, but also calculated silences that spoke louder than any words. Turning to face the gathered crowd, now crowned, Rhaenyra’s keen eyes swept the room, noting every expression. Alicent Hightower maintained a strained smile, but the glint in her eyes betrayed unease. Beside her, Otto Hightower observed with a cold, dangerously calculating gaze.

At the base of the steps, however, Daemon Targaryen stared at her. His expression held a mix of pride and challenge. As the hall quieted, Daemon stepped forward, kneeling before her with Dark Sister in his hands.

“I, Daemon Targaryen, prince of the blood, son of Baelon and Alyssa Targaryen, bearer of Dark Sister, and rider of Caraxes, vow from this day forth my loyalty, my life, my sword, and my dragon to the heir to the throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

His voice rang out as a direct challenge to those who doubted her. Following his example, Lord Corlys Velaryon approached, kneeling beside Daemon.

“My princess,” Corlys declared, his voice loud and clear, “House Velaryon swears fealty to you, now and always.”

To the surprise of many, Rhaenys Targaryen, known as the Queen Who Never Was, followed Corlys. Her movement drew sharp gazes as she knelt before Rhaenyra.

“I, Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Aemon Targaryen, pledge my loyalty, my life, and my dragon to the heir to the throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

Descending the steps, Rhaenyra extended her hands to Rhaenys. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice somber but filled with gratitude. She understood the symbolic weight of the gesture.

One by one, the gathered lords followed suit, kneeling and swearing fealty. Yet Rhaenyra watched closely, noting those who hesitated, whose heads bowed too slowly. She committed every face to memory.

When the oaths finally ceased, Rhaenyra descended the steps and stopped beside Daemon. He leaned in slightly, murmuring, “Why do I get the feeling you were holding your breath, zaldrītsos ?”

She allowed herself a faint smile, but her eyes remained fixed on the hall. “Because I was. But now, the work will be keeping all these knees bent.”

 

***

 

The coronation feast was resplendent with pomp, but the tension was palpable. Seated beside her father in a place of honor, Rhaenyra maintained an impeccable posture. Her sharp gaze caught every detail around her. She danced with a few gentlemen, including her father and her uncle, but soon withdrew to circulate among the lords and ladies, embarking on her first mission.

Her eyes landed on Lady Laena Velaryon, deep in conversation with her mother. Rhaenyra approached with a calculated smile.

“Lady Laena, cousin, I’d like to invite you to be my lady-in-waiting. In fact, my chief lady-in-waiting. I plan to expand my circle, and I’d love for you to assist me.”

Laena smiled, surprised and honored. “I’m flattered, princess. I believe my parents would have no objections.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s discuss this further tomorrow over breakfast. Come to my chambers.”

From Laena, Rhaenyra moved to Lord Tyrell, who was accompanied by his wife and two sons. Her demeanor was affable, but her intentions were clear.

“My lord, my lady, I trust everything is to your liking. I was wondering if your daughter, Lady Martha, might be interested in joining my personal retinue as one of my ladies-in-waiting.”

Lady Tyrell seemed delighted, and her husband was quick to reply. “Your Highness honors us with such a proposal. We humbly accept.”

Rhaenyra smiled. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll send a messenger with details soon. Now, please enjoy the feast.”

As she continued, she noticed her father had left the hall. Shortly after, she observed Otto and Alicent whispering before the young Hightower discreetly exited. A growing unease filled her chest. The words of Vermax echoed in her mind: Do not leave Viserys alone, especially at night.

Rhaenyra decided to follow her, keeping to the shadows. Her heart raced as she saw Alicent heading to the king’s chambers. She watched as Ser Redwyne allowed her entry and shut the door. A mix of anger and suspicion bubbled within her. Determined, she approached the guard.

“Princess,” Ser Redwyne said, crossing his spear, “His Grace requested not to be disturbed tonight.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting with contained fury. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ser, but House Redwyne is sworn to the Hightowers, is it not?”

The knight hesitated but nodded.

“It must be comforting for the Hightower whore to have extra protection from the Kingsguard,” she snapped, her voice icy. “Open that damned door now!”

The tension was palpable, and the whispers of servants already echoed down the corridor. Finally, reluctantly, Ser Redwyne stepped aside and opened the door.

Viserys was hurriedly tying his robe, visibly confused. Near the fireplace, Alicent stood, her hair disheveled and dress crumpled, clear signs that something compromising had been happening. Although both were fully dressed, the scene left much to the imagination.

“What is this commotion, Rhaenyra?” asked Viserys, his voice tinged with irritation.

“I SHOULD BE ASKING THAT!” Rhaenyra shouted, her face flushed with fury. “What on earth is going on? here?”

Before the king could respond, Otto entered the chambers, followed by Daemon, who seemed drawn by the uproar.

“Princess,” Otto began with his usual calculated calm, “surely we can resolve this without drawing so many eyes and ears.”

Rhaenyra turned to him, her face burning with anger. “Your daughter should have thought of that before sneaking into the room of a man widowed only two moons ago!”

Daemon gasped, and Rhaenyra couldn’t tell if he was outraged or suppressing laughter.

“Rhaenyra! This is unbecoming of you!” Viserys reprimanded.

“Unbecoming? UNBECOMING?” She advanced, her eyes locked onto her father’s. “Do you think my mother’s blood has dried enough for you to replace it with that of a mere Andal?”

“Enough!” the king bellowed.

Without warning, Rhaenyra turned to Alicent. Before anyone could react, she grabbed the young Hightower by the hair, dragging her toward the fireplace.

Otto shouted, “This is madness! My king, do something!”

Viserys moved forward but hesitated, clearly torn between his daughter and the young woman who now kept him company so closely.

Rhaenyra, her breathing heavy, forced Alicent dangerously close to the flames. “Unfortunately for you, you’re the only one here who can directly suffer the consequences of my wrath. But if you chose to enter a dragon’s den, you should have known you might get burned, you and your filthy Andal arrogance.”

With a sharp motion, she released Alicent, tossing her to the floor near the fireplace. Alicent fell with a choked cry, her hands trembling as she tried to compose herself.

Rhaenyra looked at her with disdain. “Tell me, Alicent, do you really think a mere whore trying to take Aemma Arryn’s place can survive among dragons?”

Though shaken, Otto had the audacity to open his mouth again. “My king, I demand reparations. The princess has assaulted my daughter without cause…” Daemon interrupted him with the tip of his sword at his throat.

“Dare say one more word against the princess, and you’ll lose that venomous tongue. You forget your place, Otto. You may have risen to your current position, but you’re so insignificant you aren’t even needed to bend the knee and swear loyalty to the heir to the throne. Now, be a good boy and ensure no blood is spilled today.”

“All of you, stop this madness immediately!” Viserys ordered, shaken by everything unfolding before him. “Out, all of you!”

Otto’s insolence knew no bounds. “My King…”

“I said out!”

Rhaenyra was the first to leave the king’s chambers, not noticing how fast she was running. Her body was tense, her mind a whirlwind. As she closed the door behind her, her facade of strength crumbled. Alone, she collapsed into a chair near the fireplace. The firelight seemed to play with her tears as she stared into the void, her thoughts heavy as lead.

After some time, the tears stopped, but the emotional exhaustion consumed her. Slowly, she rose, removed her heavy gown, and donned a simple tunic before lying down. Despite her anger and pain, sleep quickly took her, like a wave dragging her away.

Rhaenyra awoke the next morning, the weight of a restless night etched on her face. The sound of maids setting the breakfast table echoed softly through the room. She stretched with a sigh and moved to the washbasin to wash her face and comb her hair. The cold water helped clear her mind but didn’t erase the shadow of weariness.

Dressed properly, Rhaenyra was greeted by Laena, whose cheerfulness was a refreshing contrast to the princess’s state. “Good morning, my princess,” Laena greeted with a smile.

“Good morning, Laena. Please, when we are alone, there’s no need for such formalities,” Rhaenyra replied, trying to match her cousin’s enthusiasm.

The two sat at a table laden with fresh bread, fruit, and tea. As they discussed the day’s plans, Daemon entered the solar, his presence dominating the room as always. He was dressed casually, but there was something predatory in his gaze that always made those around him alert. Rhaenyra tried to steady her racing heart.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said with a provocative smile as he poured himself a morning cup of wine.

“How could you?” Rhaenyra replied, raising an eyebrow. “You rarely ask permission for anything.”

Daemon laughed, settling beside them. “It seems my niece is in a good mood today.” He looked at Laena. “I imagine your company has something to do with that.”

The breakfast was punctuated by spirited exchanges, but as the cups emptied and the tone grew more serious, the conversation shifted to graver matters.

“Alicent and Otto are growing bolder,” Daemon began, his voice low but venomous. “They’re planting deep roots where they’re not welcome.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “That’s more than obvious. But I still don’t know how far they’re willing to go. What irritates me most is their audacity, acting as if they’re untouchable.”

“Because, at the moment, they are,” Daemon replied. “But that can change.”

Laena, who had been observing silently, interjected. “They play a dangerous game, but that also makes them predictable. Greed always reveals weaknesses.”

Daemon turned to Rhaenyra with a sly smile. “Have I mentioned that acquiring this brilliant mind was a stroke of genius on your part?”

“No, but I already knew that,” Rhaenyra smiled behind her teacup.

The following week was marked by celebrations in honor of Rhaenyra’s appointment as heir. Feasts, tournaments, and hunts filled the days, but the tension between the different factions at court was palpable. Rhaenyra seized every opportunity to strengthen alliances, keeping the Velaryons close and watching Otto's movements with a keen eye.

However, by the end of the week, the focus shifted to a meeting of the Small Council, convened by Viserys. Rhaenyra, though reluctant, attended, accompanied by Daemon, who seemed eager for any opportunity to clash. The atmosphere in the room was tense, with all eyes on the king. Rhaenyra tried to maintain calm and composure.

"I have an important announcement to make," began Viserys, his voice laden with gravity. "I have decided to take Lady Alicent Hightower as my wife. The wedding will be held within a moon's turn."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of Daemon letting out a dry laugh. Rhaenyra remained silent, her face as immobile as marble, but internally, she felt betrayed. Alicent, her former maid of honor, had conspired against her in such a calculated manner.

Otto Hightower wore a smile that blended deference and contempt, trying to maintain an air of superiority, even with the Small Council room turned upside down.

"An excellent decision, Your Grace," Otto began, bowing slightly. "It will certainly strengthen the realm."

This time, Daemon did not limit himself to a dry laugh. He laughed loudly, as if he had heard the funniest joke of his life. His voice echoed through the room, laden with scorn.

"Strengthen the realm? What kind of benefits come from a marriage to the daughter of a second son, with no lands, no wealth, no Valyrian blood, and no significant prospects? A genuine curiosity, Lord Otto, since you seem to have all the answers."

Daemon’s provocation cut like a blade, and the Lord Hand seemed visibly upset. He opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the arrival of Ser Harrold Westerling.

"What is it this time, Ser Harrold?" Viserys asked, already showing signs of fatigue.

"My king, Archmaester Vaegon is here and has requested to see you."

"Uncle Vaegon? What is he doing in the capital?" Viserys frowned, surprised, but gestured for the knight to allow the visitor in.

Rhaenyra watched him carefully. Despite the title of "King’s Uncle," he seemed only a few years older than Viserys. It was obvious that Vaegon carried the weight of decades of study and service at the Citadel.

Viserys stood and greeted his uncle, who bowed in respect and returned the embrace.

"Uncle Vaegon, how long it’s been! What brings you to the capital?" he asked.

"The princess heir summoned me for the coronation, but unfortunately, I had some serious matters to attend to at the Citadel, so I ended up being delayed, and for that, I apologize, Princess Rhaenyra." He spoke directly to his niece.

"No need to apologize, Uncle Vaegon, I appreciate you attending my invitation."

"Certainly, we’ll entertain you for a considerable time before you return to the Citadel."

Prince Vaegon cleared his throat.

"Yes, that is another matter." Vaegon cleared his throat and continued, "I must inform you that I have resigned from my Archmaester’s chains before coming to King’s Landing."

This time, Grand Maester Mellos stood up, outraged.

"But what happened? Resigning from the chains is an outrage!"

Prince Vaegon raised an eyebrow. "As far as I know, that is none of your concern."

"I fear this is my doing. I asked Prince Vaegon to return to court, to be my mentor and advisor."

Viserys shook his head. "But it wasn’t necessary to renounce the chains."

This time, Vaegon took the floor. "In that case, Your Grace, it was more than necessary. I could not be divided between my duty to the Citadel and the help I promised to offer the princess heir."

Rhaenyra returned to her seat at the Small Council table. "As someone has told me many times, a Targaryen alone in the world is a very dangerous thing. And I am convinced that we are at a moment where this House must be more united than ever."

"Wise words, Your Highness," Lord Strong complimented.

Before anyone else could speak, Lord Corlys Velaryon seized the opportunity to shift the focus. "While we celebrate this announcement and the arrival of Prince Vaegon, I would like to bring the issue of Stepstones back to the table. Pirates continue to threaten our trade routes, harming not only my house but all of Westeros."

Viserys seemed bothered. "Lord Corlys, this is not the time to discuss such matters."

"If not now, when?" insisted Corlys, his voice firm and full of authority. "How many more ships must we lose before something is done?"

Rhaenyra, seizing the moment, decided to intervene. "My father may be right about the timing, but not about the urgency. Stepstones is a problem that must be dealt with now, before it grows out of control."

Daemon leaned forward, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. "Give me men and ships, and I’ll solve it. I’ll bring peace to Stepstones."

"Engaging the realm would mean declaring war on the Free Cities, a cost we cannot afford." Otto intervened, while Viserys continued to be frustrated by the interruption of the celebratory mood.

Otto tried to continue his detestable speech, but Rhaenyra interrupted him firmly. "It is not sensible to allow this situation to be ignored by the capital. What should we expect? For lords and ladies to be kidnapped and trafficked to Lys?" Rhaenyra looked at the other councilors: "Are you willing to risk having your sons and daughters kidnapped and forced to serve in a pleasure house in one of the slaving cities, perhaps in Slaver’s Bay?"

Viserys looked tired but eventually relented. "We will discuss this at another time. This meeting was called to announce my wedding, not to plan military campaigns."

"There is no other time, my king," Rhaenyra asserted. "Allowing these filthy pirates to advance is allowing the security of Drifmark, Dragonstone, and all the coastal line of Westeros to be put in jeopardy."

Otto cleared his throat. "The princess means well, but surely she has no grasp of the seriousness with which we must handle this issue."

Rhaenyra seized the moment. "If the crown does not get involved, Dragonstone will. As Princess of Dragonstone, I authorize all necessary resources of my island and my personal coffers to protect our shores."

Lord Corlys, surprised, hesitated before speaking. "The men of Driftmark are ready, princess. They are just waiting for the order."

Viserys stood, irritated. "Rhaenyra, you do not have the authority to declare such a thing!"

"I am declaring Dragonstone’s support for the cause!" she retorted.

"You will not get involved in this, I forbid it!" The king commanded.

"I will not, despite the impressions I may give, I know my responsibilities in the capital. But Prince Daemon will certainly handle these matters with Lord Corlys, right, Uncle?"

"Dark Sister is yours, my princess."

"Excellent, I hope you both take care of this situation as quickly as possible."

To Otto’s complete disgust and Viserys’s frustration, neither Rhaenyra, Daemon, nor Corlys seemed to care about what they were saying or trying to forbid.

"This is disobedience to a royal command, princess," Grandmaester Mellos spoke, aghast.

Surprising everyone, Prince Vaegon approached the table and held the back of Rhaenyra’s chair.

"Actually, Mellos, the princess is providing the best possible assurance, even for Lord Hand’s own concerns. After all, it will be Dragonstone and Driftmark fighting the Triarchy, and hopefully, Lord Celtigar will also be convinced to join forces. This way, the risk of the Free Cities thinking it’s an attack from Westeros is reduced."

Despite Otto’s visible disagreement and Viserys’s frustration, Rhaenyra’s determination was unshakable. Even with the Small Council divided, the princess knew she had won an important battle.

Reluctantly, Viserys seemed to accept the justification. But when he turned his attention to Otto, Rhaenyra realized they wouldn’t just be fighting the pirates.

Notes:

So, what did you think? Leave your impressions in the comments, I love to see your opinions and theories.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who commented on the previous chapter, it helps a lot! As I don't have a beta, I'm just waiting for certain death...
Thanks to the comment that gave me a marvellous wake-up call, I hope I can tie up this loose end in the next few chapters.
I hope you enjoy!

After the last meeting of the Small Council, Rhaenyra immersed herself in the matters of the Stepstones like one plunging into a stormy sea, uncertain if she would resurface. It was a calculated escape—a pretext to keep her mind occupied, to distance herself from the turmoil wrought by her father’s impending marriage to Alicent Hightower. To others, her silence and absence might have seemed like a plea: "Leave me fucking alone."

Daemon, however, was not like the others.

“You're making a mistake, zaldrītsos ,” he said, his voice low and cutting. “Staying distant from what's happening here is dangerous. Soon, I’ll be far away, fighting in your name. If you don’t mark your territory now, what do you think will be left for me to defend when I return?”

Rhaenyra didn’t reply immediately. Daemon's words, as usual, carried a bitter truth she preferred to ignore. He was right, of course. Even though she had secured Dragonstone's support for the Stepstones campaign, it left her vulnerable. The absence of Daemon and other trusted men meant that more than half her forces would be engaged on another front, leaving the political battleground at the Red Keep undefended.

“He’s right, you know,” Laena interjected, crossing her arms and fixing Rhaenyra with a firm gaze. “If we leave those green vermin to themselves, they’ll be even freer to weave whatever narratives they please. I've already heard whispers among the servants from Oldtown. They say the king is utterly besotted with Alicent.”

The mere mention of it made Rhaenyra scoff in disdain. “What nonsense.”

“I agree,” Laena replied with a slight shrug. “But who is there to dispute it? No one. They had far too much freedom during the festivities for your coronation. We should take advantage of the fact that many lords are still in the capital. We can’t squander this opportunity.”

Rhaenyra rested her chin on her hand, pondering. It was true that her absence created a void, and voids were dangerous in any game of power. “Is there any gathering or festivity planned by the Hightowers?”

Laena's lips curled into a sly smile. “You’ve been invited to the small banquet tomorrow to welcome the Hightower family. Her uncle and the rest of their troupe are arriving at the Red Keep today.”

“Perfect,” Rhaenyra murmured, a cold smile forming on her lips. “We’ll present the new ladies-in-waiting at that banquet.”

Laena offered a brief curtsy before leaving the solar, leaving Rhaenyra and Daemon alone. The tension in the room, however, remained as thick as before.

“I’ll leave some of my Gold Cloaks for your personal guard,” Daemon said, his tone exuding a blend of authority that was both infuriating and comforting. “Men I trust completely, including Harwin Strong. He’s like his father: a legalist to the bone.”

Rhaenyra finally relaxed a little, allowing a small smile to surface. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

“Someone has to,” he retorted, leaning slightly closer. “But what else are you planning, zaldrītsos ? I’m sure there’s something else simmering in that head of yours.”

“Actually, I was thinking of a mission before you leave for the Stepstones.”

Daemon raised an intrigued eyebrow. “Tell me.”

“I’ve scheduled a meeting with Lord Strong and Lord Beesbury. I asked Maester Gerardys for detailed reports from Dragonstone, especially concerning our reserves of weapons and supplies. I want you to accompany me.”

Daemon smirked. “A bit of controlled chaos before we dive into total chaos? Count me in.”

“That’s not all. I need to make a journey to Claw Isle.”

“Why not summon them here?” Daemon’s brow arched.

“Our dragons are faster, aren’t they? And I’ve heard that Lord Bartimos’s wife is unwell, which is why he sent his eldest son to the coronation.” Rhaenyra took a deep breath. “We need to ensure Claw Isle fights for the Stepstones. They have the blood of Old Valyria, uncle. They cannot remain adrift.”

Daemon nodded, and together they went to meet with Lords Strong and Beesbury.

It was just past noon when Rhaenyra and Daemon met the maesters of laws and coin. In the center, a detailed map of the Stepstones lay spread out, its edges adorned with miniature ships and armies.

Rhaenyra sat in the central chair, her posture upright, though her eyes bore the weight of determination. To her right, Daemon drummed his fingers impatiently against the table's surface. Across from them, Lords Lyonel Strong and Beesbury studied the map with expressions fluctuating between apprehension and focus.

“The matter is simple, as we all know,” Daemon began, his voice sharp as a blade. “The pirates in the Stepstones are destabilizing our trade routes and threatening our shores. If this continues, Driftmark and Dragonstone will be vulnerable. We need to act.”

Lyonel Strong leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. “Prince Daemon, no one here disputes the urgency. The problem isn’t acting—and we commend the princess’s commitment—but how to act. That is the question. Resources are limited. Men and gold don’t appear out of thin air.”

“Men and gold can be acquired,” Rhaenyra countered, her voice firm. “What we need is coordination and efficiency. Dragonstone is committed to this cause. The ships of Driftmark are ready, aren’t they, Lord Beesbury?”

Beesbury, the Master of Coin, adjusted his spectacles as he examined a scroll before him. “The Velaryons have the most formidable fleet in Westeros, but even they have limits. Supplies to feed the soldiers and keep the ships stocked with provisions and weaponry will be a challenge, especially if this campaign drags on.”

“It won’t drag on,” Daemon interjected impatiently, jabbing a firm finger at the map. “I know the territory. With the right force, we can crush them quickly. What we need is a decisive strike, not a prolonged war.”

Lyonel narrowed his eyes, considering. “And what’s your definition of ‘the right force,’ my prince? How many men? How many ships?”

Daemon crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair with a confident smile. “At least a hundred ships from Driftmark, two thousand men from Driftmark, a thousand men from Dragonstone, and competent leadership.” He cast a suggestive glance at Rhaenyra, who ignored it.

“A hundred ships and three thousand men?” Beesbury nearly choked. “That would strain the coffers of both Driftmark and Dragonstone.”

“And what’s the cost of inaction, Lord Beesbury?” Rhaenyra retorted, her voice firm but controlled. “How much gold will be lost if our trade routes remain under threat? How many lords will lose goods, ships, perhaps even lives?”

Lyonel nodded slowly, seemingly in agreement. “She’s right. Sometimes, the cost of doing nothing is greater than the cost of action.”

Beesbury sighed, rubbing his temples. “Very well. Let’s assume we can finance this campaign. Who will command the troops? Prince Daemon, I assume you’ve already volunteered, but who else will hold authority in the field?”

Daemon’s predatory grin widened. “Who else needs authority besides me?”

“Someone to temper your enthusiasm,” Lyonel muttered, his ironic tone drawing a faint smile from Rhaenyra.

“Lord Beesbury,” Rhaenyra interjected, “I need you to allocate sufficient funds to ensure not only supplies but also incentives for lesser lords to send men. Many hesitate to act without immediate compensation. And I need this done quickly. I believe Maester Gerardys has already sent financial and supply reports from Dragonstone—you can rely on those.”

Beesbury hesitated but nodded. “I’ll see to it. But I warn you, the coffers aren’t limitless, Princess.”

“I know,” she replied. “That’s why every decision must be precise. We can’t afford mistakes.”

Lyonel seized the pause to raise another concern. “There’s also the political question. What does the king think about this campaign?”

Rhaenyra straightened in her chair, her gaze hardening. “My father is aware that the Stepstones are a problem. He may prefer to avoid direct involvement, but this is a threat we cannot ignore. And, if necessary, I will make Dragonstone the sole sponsor of this campaign.”

“What she means,” Daemon interjected with a mischievous grin, “is that we’ll do what needs to be done—with or without royal blessing.”

Beesbury glanced uneasily at Lyonel. “This is dangerous. Engaging in conflict without the king’s explicit approval…”

“Let’s make this clear,” Rhaenyra cut in, rising from her chair. “This isn’t a matter of choice. We are defending Westeros, the crown, and everything it represents. If my father chooses to see this as defiance, then he’s ignoring the reality we face.”

Lyonel seemed impressed by her resolve. “Princess, if I may say so, your clarity and firmness are worthy of a queen.”

Daemon rose as well, placing a hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “And that’s why she’ll be the greatest queen Westeros has ever known.”

Beesbury sighed once more, seemingly resigned. “Very well. I’ll release the funds. I hope this will suffice.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head in gratitude. “It will. Thank you, Lord Beesbury. And Lord Strong, your wisdom and support are always invaluable.”

As the two lords prepared to leave, Daemon leaned over the map again, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “This is going to be fun.”

Rhaenyra, however, did not smile.

***

The afternoon sun’s warmth made the waters of Blackwater Bay shimmer, and Rhaenyra thought it was quite beautiful. The fresh wind stirred her hair as she rode atop Syrax, her gleaming golden-scaled companion, whose wings beat with a force that made the air hum. Beside her, Caraxes, Daemon's red dragon, sliced through the sky with serpentine movements, his long and menacing silhouette contrasting with Syrax’s grace. The conversation she had with Daemon before they took to the skies still echoed in her mind.

"Are you certain Bartimos Celtigar will be receptive?" Rhaenyra questioned as she finished securing her travel pouch.

Daemon approached her and Syrax, leaning slightly toward his niece while one hand stroked Syrax’s jaw. "He’s a practical man. And, like all practical men, he values advantageous alliances. That, and he won’t refuse a request from a princess of dragon blood."

"Bartimos is pragmatic," Daemon continued, now more serious, adjusting himself in Caraxes’s saddle. "But he’s also proud. Speak to him as a queen, not as someone seeking help."

Rhaenyra kept her gaze fixed on the horizon. She knew this meeting was one of the crucial steps to consolidating support for the campaign in the Stepstones. More importantly, she understood the need to display strength and unity. Though young, the intricacies of politics were beginning to weave into her bones, much like the heat Syrax radiated beneath her.

The journey to Claw Isle took just over an hour, aided by favorable winds and Syrax’s eagerness to showcase her agility. As the dragons began their descent toward House Celtigar’s stronghold, the view of the island surrounded by deep and treacherous waters was both impressive and intimidating. The black stone fortress perched on a cliff aimed to display prestige, but nothing about it suggested wealth.

Bartimos was already waiting, surrounded by guards and banners fluttering in the wind. When Syrax and Caraxes landed, the ground quaked slightly, and the men instinctively stepped back.

Rhaenyra dismounted from Syrax with royal elegance, her scarlet cloak billowing in the wind. Daemon followed closely but stepped aside, allowing her to lead the approach.

“Lord Bartimos,” Rhaenyra began, her voice clear and authoritative, yet touched with courtesy. “Thank you for receiving us on such short notice.”

Bartimos, a man with graying hair—though Rhaenyra couldn’t tell if it was due to age or Valyrian ancestry—and shrewd eyes, bowed deeply. “Princess Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon, my house is always at the crown’s service. Please, come inside.”

Daemon smirked slightly but stayed silent, letting Rhaenyra take the lead. The two entered the manor, where they were greeted by a woman with equally graying hair and three younger figures.

“Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Aryelle.”

Lady Celtigar curtsied. “It is an honor to welcome you to our home, Your Highnesses.”

“Milady, I hope you’re feeling better. I heard about your recent indisposition,” Rhaenyra said.

Lady Aryelle smiled timidly, though a fleeting hint of fear crossed her eyes. “I apologize for my absence, Your Grace. I tried to persuade my husband to go in my stead, but he insisted on staying by my side.”

Rhaenyra smiled gently.

“A devoted husband—there’s nothing to apologize for. Your son acted as a loyal subject.”

Lord Celtigar gestured toward the younger figures. “Your Highness, you already know my eldest son, Ardrian. This is my second son, Oryon, and my daughters, Prudence and Prunella.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all. When convenient, you must visit King’s Landing—it would be delightful to host you.”

After exchanging brief pleasantries, Lord Bartimos led Rhaenyra and Daemon to his study.

“A lovely family, my lord,” Rhaenyra remarked before accepting a goblet of wine.

“Thank you, Your Grace, but I suspect you’re not here to praise my family or inquire about my wife’s health.”

Daemon chuckled softly. “A practical man,” he murmured to his niece.

“Indeed, my lord,” Rhaenyra replied, nodding slightly. “Your house is one of the oldest, still carrying the blood of Old Valyria. And that is precisely why we are here. You must be aware of the growing threat in the Stepstones. Pirates are disrupting our trade routes, threatening the stability of Driftmark, Dragonstone, and even King’s Landing. We need strong allies to face this crisis.”

Bartimos tilted his head, considering her words. “A threat to the trade routes is, without a doubt, a concern for us all. But confronting the Triarchy and their allies is no small feat, Princess. The cost will be steep.”

Rhaenyra straightened her posture further, her expression firm. “No cost is higher than allowing these pirates to grow stronger. Driftmark and Dragonstone are already committed to this campaign. We are here to ensure Claw Isle stands with us as well.”

Before Bartimos could respond, Daemon intervened, his voice cutting like a blade. “You know as well as I do, Bartimos, that every ship lost weakens not only Driftmark but also your house. You rely on these routes as much as Corlys Velaryon. Perhaps even more.”

Bartimos sighed, his eyes assessing the Targaryen pair before him. “And what exactly does the crown expect from me?”

“Ships and men,” Rhaenyra replied immediately. “If Claw Isle provides twenty ships and five hundred men, we will ensure your house is rewarded.”

Daemon smirked, leaning slightly forward. “Not to mention that your loyalty will be remembered when Rhaenyra takes her rightful place on the Iron Throne.”

Bartimos remained silent for a moment, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. Finally, he nodded. “Claw Isle will provide what you ask. But I expect the promise of rewards to be upheld.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head in acknowledgment. “You have my word. As a gesture of friendship, I offer a position as my lady-in-waiting to one of your daughters, allowing me to personally oversee her education and future marriage prospects. Additionally, my uncle is prepared to take your eldest son as his squire.”

Daemon gave Rhaenyra a questioning look, as if to say, “Am I?”

Lord Bartimos appeared surprised, though his expression quickly turned to concern.

“Please, Your Grace, don’t misunderstand me—such proposals are an honor. But my daughters have never been separated since they shared their mother’s womb…”

Rhaenyra interrupted smoothly.

“That need not be an issue. Send them both—there is more than enough space at my side. One can never have too many loyal ears to trust.”

***

The journey to Claw Isle, however brief it had been, still drained Rhaenyra. Upon returning to King's Landing, she requested only a light meal, a bath, and retired early.  

But her idea of rest did not go as planned. When she opened her eyes, she was in another dream. She felt the same sensation as when she first awoke in the memory of Old Valyria. This time, she recognized the place immediately: Dragonstone.  

But a different Dragonstone, as if it were newer. Walking through the corridors, she felt as though there was more life, unlike the recent days when she always had to fight the feeling that Dragonstone was abandoned, even though it was her family's ancestral refuge.  

Without much effort, she reached the map room, only to be surprised that there was no map at all. She looked ahead and saw a man leaning near the fireplace, staring intently at the fire. As she approached him, Rhaenyra noticed that he didn't notice her presence, simply continuing to gaze at the flames.  

He was a tall and imposing man, with silvery-blonde hair that shone in the firelight. He exuded power and strength, but also a palpable restlessness. Before Rhaenyra could approach, a woman's voice broke the silence with perfect fluency in High Valyrian.  

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked in flawless High Valyrian.  

Rhaenyra had never seen such beauty in her family. Everyone said she was the Delight of the Realm, but if they saw this woman, they would change their minds.  

The woman was tall, slender, dressed in a purple tunic, and her hair was braided simply, yet she still exuded a royal aura.  

"I was too restless to stay in the room, I didn’t want to wake you," the man replied, turning to the woman who had arrived.  

"Aegon, my heart, what happened?" she asked, approaching and placing one hand on his face while resting another on his chest.  

Aegon.  

Aegon Targaryen.  

Aegon the Conqueror.  

Rhaenyra’s mind was in turmoil. ‘If this is Aegon, then this must be Rhaenys.’  

"I had a dream. I can’t think of anything else."  

Rhaenys looked at her husband with concern. "Wait here, I’ll call Senya."  

"It’s not necessary..." But Rhaenyss had already left the room.  

Moments later, Rhaenys returned with her sister. Visenya.  

The three iconic figures were now gathered, and Rhaenyra felt her breath quicken. Before she could approach, a familiar voice echoed at her side.  

"They were beautiful, weren't they?"  

She turned and saw Vermax, the divinity who had visited her before, now by her side, observing the Targaryens with a serene expression.  

"Yes, they were," Rhaenyra replied, unable to look away.  

Vermax chuckled softly. "I was always partial to Daenys, but there was something about Visenya with a sword in her hand that even caught the attention of the gods."  

"What am I doing here?"  

Vermax held Rhaenyra’s shoulders, positioning her in front. "You’ll understand, child."  

Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys were enveloped in a conversation that emanated affection but also concern.  

"It can’t be ‘nothing’ if it left you so restless, Aegon."  

Aegon sighed before pulling out a chair and sitting down. "I’m not sure what it was. They were... I don’t know. For a moment, I could only fight and fight, and none of them died."   

"Who?" Rhaenyss asked.  

"The dead, ñuha jorrāelagon. The dead, or at least they seemed dead, but they wouldn’t stop fighting against me."  

"Is that all?" asked Visenya.  

"Then I saw the Great Wall of the North, I saw the Northerners fighting too, but they weren’t fighting the dead, they were fighting other Northerners. All the houses were fighting among themselves. But then I saw... I saw a dragon rising on the horizon, and everything burned, but it didn’t destroy anything but the dead. I just remember feeling relief, like I was home, with you, with family." Aegon rested his face in his hands in exhaustion.  

"Could it be the second Long Night?" Rhaenyss asked, looking directly at Visenya, as if her sister held all the answers.  

"The prophecy," Rhaenyra whispered. Vermax only made a sound of agreement.  

Aegon straightened up and took a deep breath before speaking the next words:  

"Hen ñuha ānogar kessa māzigon se dārilaros hen kivio."  

And the truth in front of her hurt as if Aegon had stabbed her heart with his own dagger. Rhaenyra fell to her knees, as if the words had struck her physically. She knew what they meant. The pain of understanding that truth was overwhelming.  

Dārilaros.  

Dārilaros.  

There is no exact translation from Valyrian to the common tongue. An unknowing person might think of ‘heir’ or ‘prince,’ but there is no direct correspondence with a specific term or gender.  

Before she realized it, Rhaenyra was kneeling and crawling to the feet of Aegon and his sister-wives.  

"WHY DID YOU LET EVERYONE GET IT WRONG? WHY?!  

If there weren’t so many stupid people clinging to power in your family, Aemma Arryn, your mother would still be alive.  

If Viserys cared enough to translate properly, he would have seen this detail.  

If he cared.   

If those three had been clear, this succession mess wouldn’t have been spread.  

Rhaenyra heard herself shout, but no one, except Vermax, could hear her anguish.  

"I HATE ALL OF YOU! STUPID FUCKING BASTARDS!"  

Vermax grabbed Rhaenyra by the shoulders and lifted her off the floor.  

"It won’t help, child..."  

"How many women from my house died because of this mess? How many sacrifices were made for something that was never clear?" Rhaenyra turned to face Vermax, her face wet with tears, but her eyes burning with fury.  

"Too many," admitted Vermax, his expression momentarily dark. "But you’re not alone now. What you do with this anger is what matters."  

Vermax moved closer. "The point is, few of you carried enough magic in your blood, without our intervention risking harm. You were the first after Aerea, but much more than dear Aerea."  

"I don’t know what to do anymore," admitted Rhaenyra.  

Vermax smiled. "You know, child, now more than ever, you’re just angry. But the secret isn’t to let the anger pass, it’s to let it run free. Do what’s necessary."   

And with one last gentle kiss on her forehead, Rhaenyra fell into a peaceful sleep.  

When Rhaenyra opened her eyes again, she was back in her chambers in King’s Landing. The distant sound of waves crashing against the shore reached her ears, and the first light of morning began to illuminate the room.  

She sat up slowly, the weight of the experience still pressing on her shoulders, but also forcing a new determination.  

But before she could deepen her thoughts, Laena entered the room.  

"Rhaenyra, I’m glad you’re awake! The new ladies have arrived. And I received a raven saying that Lord Bartimos' two daughters should arrive by the end of the week."  

Rhaenyra nodded and began preparing for the day.  

"Great, ask for breakfast to be served in my solar, I’ll receive the ladies there."  

Rhaenyra made sure the best tea and appetizers were served, and it didn’t take long for the ladies to be announced by Ser Harrold. The two women, Martha Tyrell and Elinda Massey, would now join Rhaenyra’s domestic circle and, hopefully, form good connections through them.  

"Your Highness, if you allow me, I would like to thank you once again for the honor you’ve bestowed on my family. I will serve with all my abilities," said Elinda.  

Rhaenyra approached.  

"Your loyalty is all I can ask for, Lady Elinda. You are both under my protection now, wherever you go in Westeros, you will carry my name and my trust. I hope you wield it wisely."  

The two nodded once more, but soon they all turned their attention to the breakfast table.  

"Your Highness, if I may be so bold," Martha called, Rhaenyra simply nodded.  

"Is it true that the King is in love with Lady Alicent?"  

Rhaenyra nearly spit out her tea.  

"It’s a complete absurdity," she responded directly.  

Laena took the turn, "I really find it funny to call her ‘lady,’ but I understand it must be out of deference to the Hand, but unlike any other counselor in the Small Council, Otto Hightower is not a Lord, he’s a second son. And his daughter doesn’t have such a title either." Laena leaned slightly closer to the other two women, as if to tell a secret. "And there we can understand why she slithered into the King’s bed, maybe she has that big dream of finally having a title."  

"What? My mother told me the princess and Lad- Alicent had a fight near the King’s chambers," Lady Martha put a hand to her heart.  

"Really?" asked Rhaenyra.  

Laena looked at her cousin with a raised eyebrow, as if to say I told you…  

Clearly, Rhaenyra still had a lot to learn; politics couldn’t always be clean and within the rules. She’d have to get used to the filth too.

 

 

_____

 

Glossary:

 

Ñuha jorrāelagon = my love

Zaldrītsos = little dragon

Hen ñuha ānogar kessa māzigon se dārilaros hen kivio = From my blood will come the prince promissed.

Notes:

So, did you like it?
Do you like Vermax? I like to think of him as similar with Hermes of the greek mitology.

Chapter 6

Summary:

"After all, my house colors are black and red. There is no man in these Seven Kingdoms who will ever make me abandon my name or my pride. So, I suggest you return to your table to avoid further improprieties, at least while I choose to believe this is merely the result of Dornish wine."

Notes:

I can't put into words how grateful I am for all the comments I receive on each chapter! They help a lot and give me the motivation to keep writing.

With each step toward the Great Hall, Rhaenyra felt her stomach churn more. She was accompanied not only by her ladies-in-waiting and Ser Harrold but also by her uncle Vaegon. She wished Daemon were at her side as well; she hadn’t yet had the opportunity to discuss the second dream with him, leaving her feeling a touch anxious.

“I can’t say for sure that Jaehaerys would support your claim to the throne, but I am certain he wouldn’t have let such chaos take hold,” Vaegon murmured beside Rhaenyra, who only huffed in response.

“He’s the one who created this mess, Uncle. And, unfortunately, we’ve been forced to lie in the bed he made.”

For a few moments, Vaegon seemed to ponder Rhaenyra’s words. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “I always told him that Rhaenys should have been married to Viserys. Daemon to Gael, since they were close in age. Now we have a whole host of problems to resolve.”

“Uncle, I feel like I’m inheriting nothing more than a throne full of problems.” With that, both chuckled.

The small procession was nearing the Great Hall, and Rhaenyra continued, “I understand why you turned your back on the throne.”

Vaegon sighed. “And perhaps that was one of my many mistakes,” he said, melancholic. “Maybe I was too weak to prevent the deaths of Aemon and Baelon, but I’ve never admitted that my greatest weakness was my cowardice and fear of the Iron Throne. That cowardice cost me dearly.”

“I can’t say if acting differently would have changed anything. But that’s one of the reasons I’m here—to try.” He turned to Rhaenyra as they arrived at the doors of the Great Hall . “One of the worst things to live with is the regret of not having tried to do things differently. Over time, I’ve come to understand that fate is shaped by our actions and a touch of the gods’ providence. It pains me to remember when our family was so numerous that I’d mix up names when we were all gathered, and today, I can barely use the fingers on one hand to count the ones who remain. My debt to you, my niece, goes beyond duty; it’s an almost vain attempt by a man to make amends before the gods.”

With that, Vaegon stepped closer to Rhaenyra and extended his arm, which she accepted. “And so, we’ll walk into this hall as Targaryens, as we are and must remain, and we’ll start exterminating green worms.”

Ser Harrold stepped forward to announce the arrivals. “Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, Princess of Dragonstone, and Prince Vaegon Targaryen.”

Rhaenyra advanced into the Great Hall, stopping at the foot of the main table. Apparently, they were the last to arrive, and Rhaenyra noticed there was no chair set for Vaegon at the great table.

“My daughter! And my uncle Vaegon!” exclaimed Viserys, rising from his seat with a smile that seemed more like a mask of tranquility. “What joy to see my family gathered.”

“Has anyone seen Daemon?” the king asked, looking around, clearly uncomfortable with his brother’s absence.

Before Rhaenyra could respond, Vaegon stepped forward. “If I may, Your Grace, Prince Daemon is preparing for the campaign in the Stepstones.”

Viserys huffed, his momentary good humor evaporating. “Ah yes, let Daemon play at war.” His attempt at a joke was met with polite chuckles from the lords present.

Rhaenyra seized the moment to intervene. “Actually, father, I’m deeply involved in the campaign’s preparations. I recently secured an alliance with Lord Bartimos Celtigar. He will provide additional resources to support our efforts.”

Viserys’ face contorted with displeasure, but he had no chance to respond before Rhaenyra continued. “But, of course, I’m here to greet you on your upcoming nuptials.” Her words were polite but laced with sarcasm. “May the gods bless your union.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Princess,” Alicent replied, her voice sweet as poisoned honey.

“Yes,” added Viserys, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. “Your presence is always an honor, my child.”

Rhaenyra maintained her diplomatic smile. “Moreover, I’m here to formally introduce my new ladies-in-waiting: Lady Laena Velaryon, Lady Martha Tyrell, and Lady Elinda Massey.”

The three women performed elegant curtsies as Viserys greeted them cordially. Alicent, however, seemed less enthusiastic. “Soon, we will have additions from House Celtigar as part of the alliance for the Stepstones.”

Viserys rose as the ladies curtsied again. “Welcome to the Red Keep. Rhaenyra, join us.”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra nodded and, for the first time that evening, turned to Lord Otto Hightower, seated beside Alicent. “Lord Hand, would you be so kind as to yield your seat to Prince Vaegon? I fear the table is rather full, and I’d like to share a good conversation with my uncle. I believe the king would also enjoy his company.”

Rhaenyra wasn’t sure who appeared more shocked at her request. Otto looked surprised and angry, Alicent seemed indignant, Ormund Hightower seemed ready to burst, and Viserys appeared every bit the fool he was.

“Princess,” Alicent spoke up, “I’m sure Prince Vaegon wouldn’t mind sitting with the other lords. My father…”

“Oh yes, perhaps Uncle Vaegon has no preference. But I do. It’s important to remember that the Lord Hand holds his title by courtesy, while Prince Vaegon earned his by being born of King Jaehaerys and Good Queen Alysanne. Am I correct, Ser Otto?”

Rhaenyra wasn’t sure if most of the lords and her father took her words as the whims of a spoiled princess, but she was certain Otto and Alicent understood her intent.

“Of course, Your Highness. Please.” Otto rose, yielding the seat.

Viserys laughed and raised his cup. “My Rhaenyra always knows how to get what she wants. Sorry, Otto, but I truly enjoy speaking with my uncle.”

The seating was rearranged, and in the end, Rhaenyra sat to Viserys’ right, while Vaegon was placed to her right, leaving Alicent alone on the opposite side.

Gradually, Rhaenyra noticed that some lords and ladies began to grasp the symbolism at play. Until then, the Hightowers had tried to convey the notion that Alicent was joining the family. But, as Rhaenyra had warned Alicent a few nights prior, there’s always the risk of getting burned in a dragon’s den. Rhaenyra wanted to make it clear that Alicent was alone in her venture and would regret every second of crawling where she shouldn’t.

"Your Grace, I would like to inform you that I have taken the liberty of asking the kitchen to prepare the leftover food from this feast to be sent to the city, so that the citizens may enjoy it as well," Alicent said, clearly proud of her gesture.

"How generous, my dear."

Vaegon stepped forward. "I believe the citizens will have much to enjoy in the coming days. With your permission, Your Grace," he said, signaling that he wished to make a toast.

"I would like to salute everyone. I cannot recall the last time I attended a feast within these walls," he began. The lords smiled and raised their cups in courtesy. "I echo the Princess's words and extend my wishes of happiness to the couple."

Everyone toasted, but Vaegon wasn't finished. "I would also like to take this opportunity to thank Princess Rhaenyra for inviting me back to court. It is an honor to train and educate the future Queen of Westeros. It brings me immense joy to know we will be in capable and generous hands. Such generosity and humility, in fact, that the Princess has neglected to mention that today, the common folk of King's Landing and Dragonstone are enjoying a feast of their own."

"What do you mean, Uncle?" Rhaenyra asked.

"Your Grace," Vaegon addressed the King, "the Princess arranged for an exclusive feast for our citizens, so they could celebrate alongside the royal family. This gesture uplifts the spirits of our people, showcasing the Princess's respect for them—far beyond mere leftovers."

The hall erupted in applause and praise for the Princess's generosity. When Vaegon returned to his seat, Rhaenyra approached him.

"When did I do this?" she whispered.

Vaegon hid his smile behind his cup. "It was Daemon's idea. He arranged it in your name—I may have forgotten to mention it. I hope you don't mind."

The only thing she minded was that she hadn't thought of it herself. Not that she was indifferent to the common folk, but her mind had been occupied with more urgent matters.

"Not at all. When I see him again, I'll thank him," she replied.

The banquet continued without further incident until a visibly inebriated Lord Jason Lannister approached the royal table.

What is he doing here? Rhaenyra wondered.

"Your Grace," Jason began, "I must say, the Princess's beauty flourishes with each passing day."

Viserys smiled at the Lannister, while Rhaenyra offered a curt and brief thanks.

"If I may be so bold," Jason continued, "when I saw her during Prince Baelon's tournament, dressed in red and gold, I couldn't help but think how perfectly Lannister colors suit Her Highness."

The audacity!

Rhaenyra gripped the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She envisioned countless ways to feed Jason Lannister to Syrax or burn Casterly Rock to ashes, just to channel and dissipate her anger.

"After that occasion you mention, Lord Jason, I've rarely experienced happy enough moments to consider shedding the black of mourning for my mother, Queen Aemma, and my brother, Prince Baelon," she said coldly.

At least Viserys had the decency to look embarrassed.

"But this is a joyful occasion, Your Highness. Surely, you could brighten our spirits with the refinement of your beauty," Jason pressed.

Rhaenyra exchanged a quick glance with Vaegon.

"I wasn't aware I was an ornament meant for your entertainment, my lord."

Jason Lannister attempted to correct his infamous remark, but Rhaenyra silenced him.

"And as far as I know, I have every right—by law, by faith, by my conviction, and out of respect for my mother's memory—to mourn her loss and observe the proper period of six moons in mourning and another six in half-mourning. Even so, if I wished to wear black for the rest of my life, it would concern no one. And who could object, my lord? After all, my house colors are black and red. There is no man in these Seven Kingdoms who will ever make me abandon my name or my pride. So, I suggest you return to your table to avoid further improprieties, at least while I choose to believe this is merely the result of Dornish wine."

If someone dropped a pin in the hall, it would have echoed loudly. The shock at the Princess's boldness was palpable.

As if Rhaenyra's patience hadn't been tested enough, Alicent had the audacity to intervene on Jason Lannister's behalf.

"Rhaenyra, I think Lord Jason meant no harm—"

"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Alicent."

"Peace, let us toast in peace," Viserys interjected.

"You may keep your peace. I am retiring to my chambers," Rhaenyra said, rising from her seat. Vaegon followed her.

Rhaenyra stormed out of the hall, muttering incoherent phrases in High Valyrian. On her way, she ran into Daemon, who was smirking sardonically.

"I was just about to rescue you. I hope you weren't too bored—" he began, but stopped when he saw her state: visibly shaken, eyes blazing with anger, and on the verge of tears. "What happened?"

"I'm going to burn them all, Daemon! I'll destroy everyone who exploited my mother's suffering, starting with your brother!"

Daemon's eyes widened, startled. He placed an arm around her shoulders and escorted her inner circle to her chambers.

"Tell me what happened."

"I had a dream last night," she began . "Vermax showed me that Aegon the Conqueror dreamed of a dārilaros. Dārilaros, Daemon! It isn't a 'prince'! My mother died trying to give the realm a male heir, and Aegon's prophecy never said it had to be a man, let alone one bearing the name Targaryen. It only needs to be someone with our blood and a dragonrider. And everyone has been misunderstanding it until now!"

She paused, tears streaming down her face. Only Daemon and Vaegon understood her words fully, but she gestured for her uncle to dismiss Lady Martha, Elinda, and Ser Harrold.

"And today, everyone acted as if my mother hadn't burned less than three moons ago! I burned her pyre seventy-three days ago, Daemon—seventy-three. And the Hightowers are already placing another woman in her place."

Daemon felt a pure, searing agony in his chest, barely restraining the urge to storm into the Great Hall and decapitate everyone from Oldtown.

"They will have a queen in name only. You will be queen by right."

"I wish I could throw them all at Syrax's feet."

Daemon smiled and embraced her. "And you will, I promise."

With great effort, Daemon calmed her. Laena helped prepare her for bed, and after a soothing tea, she fell asleep quickly. Meanwhile, Daemon met Vaegon in his chambers.

"Now tell me what happened at that cursed banquet."

Vaegon sighed and recounted the events.

Daemon hurled his goblet against the wall.

"This is all Viserys's fault and his obsession with pleasing the lords. The lords bent the knee to the Targaryens, whether by choice or by force. The problem is, they've forgotten to fear us and realized they don't need to love us to get what they want. That needs to end, or Rhaenyra won't have a single day of peace."

Vaegon nodded. "I must say, she conducted herself admirably—perhaps a bit too bluntly, but I was impressed by the self-control of a young woman of four-and-ten."

"Rhaenyra is learning quickly," Daemon agreed. "The problem is that too much is happening all at once."

"And it will continue that way, but she is managing well. It would be better with Viserys's support, but it's no longer essential—or sufficient. Soon, Viserys will have a new, young wife, who will give him more children. Even if my nephew plasters Rhaenyra's face above the Iron Throne, it won't be enough or necessary anymore."

"I leave for the Stepstones in ten days. We're awaiting the troops sent by Bartimos Celtigar. They'll go to Dragonstone, and from there, we'll join the Driftmark forces. I don't have much time to make King's Landing safer for Rhaenyra."

Vaegon laughed. "Even if you had ten years, it wouldn't be enough. This doesn't depend solely on you, nephew. But I don't think she should remain here all the time. I'll suggest to Viserys that she spend time in Dragonstone to learn to manage her seat while I teach her some lessons. I'll justify it by saying she needs to complete her mourning period to accept the new queen."

"Excellent idea. I can't focus knowing she's surrounded by vipers."

 

***

 

The next day, Rhaenyra was surprised by an invitation from Viserys to have breakfast in his chambers. If that weren’t exhausting enough, she was shocked to see Alicent already in the room.  

"Good morning, father. Alicent."  

"Good morning, my child. I hope you slept well."  

"Not really, but there’s not much I can do about it."  

Alicent cleared her throat. "I believe you need to learn how to handle the lords' comments better, to maintain peace among the houses."  

"And you should keep quiet. I didn’t ask you what I should or shouldn’t do."  

"Rhaenyra! Apologize to Lady Alicent. She will be your future queen, your stepmother. You owe her respect."  

"I owe respect to the King! And I owed respect to Queen Aemma Arryn. You keep talking so much about peace among the houses... But have you thought about the insult you’ve shown to the Vale? As if it weren’t enough to keep Lady Rhea trapped in an unconsummated marriage, unable to marry whom she desires, now the King has broken with the respectable mourning period to marry a woman below his station. A woman who, just fifteen days ago, was cleaning the chambers of the heir princess. Some may see this as a romantic tale, but anyone with half a brain understands how disrespectful, unjust, and immoral this horror show is."  

Viserys and Alicent were left speechless. Both for different reasons, Alicent simply for not having understood a single word. 

"My only daughter... Such disrespect."  

"Disrespect? HA!" Rhaenyra began to laugh. "What do you think they’ll say behind my back if they see me bowing to the daughter of a second son who has no title of his own except the courtesy of being called 'Lord Hand'? What do you think they’ll say about my authority as the heir princess when I’m legally beneath a woman who came to this house with no wealth, no land, and no birthright? I am your daughter. We are descendants of Aegon and Old Valyria. What could an Andal offer us besides riches?"  

"Rhaenyra, there’s much more to the world than that—there’s honor and the preservation of peace that your great-grandfather Jaehaerys fought so hard for after Maegor."  

Rhaenyra rose from the table and approached her father. "What guarantees will I have of this so-called peace when you’re burned on a pyre? What guarantees will I have that all these lords who swore loyalty to me won’t favor the offspring of an Andal? Your word? Your signature? Ha! A king’s word rarely outlives him. And absolutely nothing will stop my head from being displayed on the city walls shortly after."  

Viserys seemed to absorb every word of Rhaenyra's, while Alicent fidgeted, realizing the tide was probably turning against her.  

"Ser Ryam!" Viserys called for his guard and, before the knight could enter, barked, "Summon Lord Otto, Strong, and Beesbury immediately."  

Less than five minutes later, the three men entered, wearing expressions of concern above all else.  

"Lord Strong, I need two documents," Viserys said, gesturing for the Master of Laws to sit. "The first, the annulment of Daemon’s marriage to Lady Rhea Royce. And send along a formal apology from the crown and a guarantee of five thousand gold coins. Lord Beesbury, take it from my personal treasury."  

"My King, the High Septon will not agree..." Otto attempted to argue.  

"I didn’t ask for your opinion or that of the High Septon. As far as I recall, I am the King, and you are here merely so I can save time by communicating my decision to more people at once." Viserys sighed, visibly irritated.  

"Lord Strong, the second document."  

The counselor obeyed, carefully unrolling the parchment before beginning to write.  

"This is a royal decree issued by me, Viserys Targaryen, First of My Name. It is hereby determined that, from this day forth, all royal spouses shall not bear the title of 'Queen Consort' or 'King Consort.' Instead, they shall be granted the title of 'Lord Consort of the Realm' or 'Lady Consort of the Realm.' These titles shall be subordinate to the reigning King or Queen and to the Prince or Princess heir to the Iron Throne."  

Everyone, including Rhaenyra, was left speechless by Viserys’s announcement.  

"I want this decreed by midday today, and copies sent to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. Now leave me be; all this has given me a headache."  

"My King, this is an insult to the future queen Alicent. And to House Hightower!"  

"Enough, Otto! My word is law, and my will is the will that the realm shall follow. I hate having to repeat myself. I announced before the court and the realm that Rhaenyra is my heir and will be your future Queen. Now, leave me; I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the day."  

When the group left the King’s chambers, Alicent grabbed Rhaenyra’s sleeve.  

"Release me now."  

"Do you never tire of humiliating me?" Alicent snapped.  

"Me? You have no title, and when you marry, you may be called Lady Consort of the Realm. That’s better, isn’t it? What are you losing?" Rhaenyra noticed out of the corner of her eye that Ser Harrold was approaching. "Now release me. Or I will command that your hand be cut off, and perhaps then you’ll realize how far you’ve gone and how high your fall might be."  

It wasn’t Ser Harrold, but Otto who stepped forward and pulled Alicent away.  

"Forgive me, Your Highness; my daughter is distressed."  

"I believe that," Rhaenyra replied.  

 

***

 

The following morning, the citizens of King’s Landing were awakened by a spectacle. Three dragons soared across the sky, their immense shadows cast over the winding streets of the capital. Rhaenyra’s Golden Lady, Syrax, flew with majesty. Beside her, Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm of Daemon, slithered through the air with his elongated and menacing form, while the legendary Dreamfyre, who had once belonged to Queen Rhaena, displayed the grace of her flight, recalling the glory days of her former rider. It was the first time in decades that the dragon had been seen in the skies of King’s Landing, and her appearance caused widespread excitement.  

In the streets and markets of the city, whispers swelled like a turbulent sea. The sight of the dragons seemed to have ignited conversations, and rumors spread like wildfire.  

"Did you see Dreamfyre?" asked a man to his companion, both craning their necks to look at the sky.  

"I heard the Hand’s daughter dared to scold the princess for wearing black while mourning her mother," murmured a woman carrying a basket of apples.  

"Scold her? For wearing black? What disrespect!" exclaimed her neighbor, who had stopped to listen. "Sweet Queen Aemma died only two moons ago! The mourning is still fresh."  

"And that’s not all," added the first woman, glancing around to ensure no one suspicious was listening. "They say Lady Alicent encouraged some lords to mock the princess, suggesting she was overdoing the mourning."  

Outrage grew among the small groups that formed. A gray-bearded man, observing the commotion from atop a ladder, joined the conversation, gesturing with his calloused hand. "Those Hightowers have always been power-hungry, ever since the days of Tyanna of the Tower, who tried to bewitch Maegor the Cruel! They’re all unscrupulous, always scheming in the shadows."  

"Poor Princess Rhaenyra," lamented a young woman cradling a baby. "She barely had time to mourn her mother, and now she has to deal with these vipers at court."  

"But don’t underestimate the princess," said a baker with flour-covered hands, chiming in. "I heard she called upon Prince Vaegon to be her mentor. They say he’s a learned man, a true scholar of House Targaryen."  

"That shows great determination!" agreed another man, adjusting his hat. "It’s the spirit of a good queen, someone already preparing to rule despite all the adversity."  

The whispers continued, and the streets of King’s Landing buzzed with opinions and accounts. The common folk, no matter how far removed they were from the politics of the court, understood in their own way the magnitude of the tensions at the Red Keep. The shadow of the dragons in the sky was not just a spectacle; it was a reminder of the ancestral power of the Targaryens—a power Princess Rhaenyra seemed determined to reaffirm, even while facing challenges from all sides.  

And as the sun rose higher in the sky, illuminating the towers of the Red Keep, a sentiment began to grow among the people: the conviction that Rhaenyra Targaryen could be the queen they needed—a force capable of maintaining the balance between tradition and the future. Yet, like any fire that burns brightly, its glow could either warm or consume. 

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who takes a moment to read the endnotes! What did you think of today's chapter? ❤️

Chapter 7

Notes:

Another chapter here! Once again, thank you to all the comments, you're all absolutely phenomenal.
I hope you enjoy today's chapter. ❤️❤️

 

 

Rhaenyra loved Dragonstone.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have many childhood memories of the place and couldn’t even recall the last time Viserys himself had visited the island. Since he had lost his dragon at a very young age, he had also avoided ship voyages ever since. In Rhaenyra’s eyes, this seemed so... dull.

One of Rhaenyra’s happiest memories was of traveling to Dragonstone with Daemon, riding on Caraxes. She remembered her mother being extremely worried, but the little six-year-old princess could only think about how wonderful everything was.

It got even better a year later when Syrax had grown large enough for Rhaenyra to take to the skies with her Golden Lady.

As the dragons landed on the volcanic island, Rhaenyra smiled at the look of awe on her uncle Vaegon’s face, who had traveled there with Daemon.

“I hope Caraxes was kind to you, Uncle Vaegon,” she said, approaching the pair.

Vaegon snorted. “This old friend hasn’t been kind since he was Aemon’s companion. But it’s not ill-natured; this creature just enjoys showing off his skills.” As if he understood, Caraxes let out a snort of his own.

“Come now, enough of that, my friend. Thank you for bringing us here. I’ll make sure they set aside a fine cow for you. How does that sound?” Daemon said in High Valyrian.

The three then began their ascent toward the castle, with Daemon and Vaegon deep in discussion about topics related to the Stepstones. Rhaenyra quickly noticed that there was an unusual amount of activity on the island. There were more ships along the coast than usual, and the small port of Dragonstone was bustling with cargo.

When they arrived at the castle, they were greeted by Ser Alfred Broome, the castellan, and Maester Gerardys.

“Your Highnesses, welcome to Dragonstone,” Ser Alfred said in greeting. “Princess Rhaenyra, it has been a long time since I last saw you, and now I am honored to welcome you as the Lady of Dragonstone.”

Rhaenyra sensed nothing but flattery in the castellan’s tone but decided not to concern herself with it for the moment.

“Thank you, Ser. I trust everything is being prepared as we discussed in our correspondence?” Rhaenyra replied politely.

Ser Alfred nodded. “Indeed, Your Highness. The entire castle is as per your instructions, and Maester Gerardys has assisted me in keeping the organizational records.”

“Your Highness, Prince Daemon, and Prince Vaegon, welcome,” Maester Gerardys greeted them with a bow. “I have maintained my records regarding the resources allocated for the Stepstones campaign, Your Highness. Additionally, I received a raven from Claw Isle earlier today. They are expected to arrive by tomorrow at the latest, and their quarters have already been prepared.”

Rhaenyra smiled. “Thank you very much, Maester Gerardys. Ser Alfred, please arrange for our baths and a light meal to be prepared.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

 

***

 

Ever since Rhaenyra had set foot inside the castle, she felt a constant sense of déjà vu. They had prepared for her the former chambers of Visenya, which had also, at one time, been the solar of Good Queen Alysanne. It was a bit strange to be there after having the dream about the group of conquerors. It felt as though an infinite number of secrets were bubbling beneath her feet, yet still out of reach.

With these thoughts, she rejoined Daemon and Vaegon after they had all refreshed themselves with a good bath and changed clothes.

“I swear, if I’d spent one more day in King’s Landing, I would have taken someone’s head off,” Daemon grumbled.

“And now you’re off to war. I almost feel sorry for those pirates,” Rhaenyra joked as she took her seat at the head of the table.

“I hope your ladies-in-waiting didn’t mind coming by ship,” Vaegon pointed out.

“Laena still has Vhagar, but that old grouch is no longer accustomed to carrying passengers other than her own rider. So, Laena won’t be coming with the other girls. She’ll head to Driftmark, and then we’ll receive the Velaryon entourage.”

Daemon chuckled. “I get the impression they always like to arrive in a flock.”

Rhaenyra smiled at the jest. “If I had my own family, I’d also want to always be close to them.”

Rhaenyra hadn’t meant to sound melancholic, but that’s how it came across. 

Clearing his throat, Vaegon changed the subject, bringing up Viserys’ new decree.
“That caught me off guard, I’ll admit,” Daemon muttered.

“Just you? I wanted someone to pinch me when I heard those words coming from my father’s own mouth.”

Rhaenyra took a sip of wine and continued.

“I’m still uncertain if this will create any legal differentiation for the children Viserys might have with Alicent. The Hightowers will certainly argue against it. They’ll claim something along the lines of, ‘They’re still the king’s children,’ or something to that effect.”

“We need to ensure public opinion is increasingly in your favor,” Vaegon pointed out.

“With all due respect, Uncle, but what influence could the common folk possibly have on this game of court?” Rhaenyra questioned.

“Rhaenyra,” Daemon called in a warning tone. “Never underestimate the power of tavern gossip in Flea Bottom. One event can have many versions, but as in any corner of the world, there will always be more commoners than nobles. The version that circulates among the commoners is usually the one that remains in the popular imagination, even if the maesters dedicate themselves to their records.”

Vaegon made a sound of agreement. “Even in the Citadel, I heard about the deeds of the Rogue Prince. But I also heard about the Prince of Flea Bottom, who cleaned the streets of abusers and thieves. The question is, which version are we going to nurture within the court as well?”

Rhaenyra nodded, absorbing what her uncles were saying.

“But if Alicent has a son, what guarantees that the people won’t call for a king to succeed Viserys?”

Vaegon placed his hand gently over Rhaenyra’s, patting it lightly like a father reassuring his child. “We’ll make sure they beg for a queen first.”

 

***

 

Later that night, as Rhaenyra prepared for bed, she swapped her day dress for a simple robe. While braiding her hair into a looser plait, she noticed a subtle pattern on the stone wall.

On the wall where her bed rested, small dragons were carved on either side. However, the one on the right caught her attention—this dragon was breathing fire. As she moved closer to the carving, she noticed a faint cold draft coming from that side.

"Interesting..." she murmured, feeling a rush of adrenaline. With some effort, she pushed the section of the wall near the dragon carving, revealing a secret passage.

The newly revealed entrance was narrow, dimly lit, and the air inside was dense, as if untouched for years. Rhaenyra grabbed a candleholder and stepped in.

What she found on the other side was not just a room but a grand and majestic hall shrouded in mystery. The walls were adorned with ancient Valyrian tapestries depicting dragons soaring over a world consumed by fire. At the center stood an obsidian table, covered with thick books bound in black and red leather. Their titles, written in High Valyrian with faded golden letters, seemed to glimmer under the candlelight.

At the back of the room were two finely carved wooden mannequins. Each bore a full suit of armor—one a shade as dark as midnight, the other a deep, gleaming red. Both seemed polished as though recently cared for. Rhaenyra immediately recognized the style. The first, austere and intimidating, was unmistakably Visenya’s. The second, feminine yet equally commanding, must have belonged to Rhaenys.

However, it was the pedestal beside the armors that captured her full attention. Resting upon it was a Valyrian steel sword. Its blade was slender but fierce, shimmering with an almost otherworldly glow. The intricately carved hilt depicted a winged dragon poised as if ready to roar. Rhaenyra had never heard of Rhaenys wielding a Valyrian steel sword, but now it seemed obvious—Rhaenys was one of the three conquerors, of course, she must have had one as well.

“ Bloody hell ,” Rhaenyra whispered, awestruck by all she was witnessing.

From her bedroom, she heard someone calling her name.

“I’m here!” she shouted back, hoping that it was Daemon or Vaegon who would follow the same path. True enough, Daemon emerged through the passage moments later, holding a candleholder of his own, casting more light into the room.

“Rhaenyra, what is this?” Daemon asked, utterly amazed.

“I’m not entirely sure, Daemon.”

Approaching the obsidian table, Rhaenyra ran her fingers over its cold surface. The books were ancient, their corners worn by time. She carefully opened the first one and found pages filled with Valyrian runes and diagrams describing ancient spells. One in particular caught her eye—a ritual to strengthen the bond between a dragon and its rider.

She read aloud, hesitantly:

"Ānogar perzys iā hen ōños. Ēngos sīr iksis se gaomilaksir hen zaldrīzoti se dārilaros."

The words reverberated through the room as if the very space recognized the lost language of magic. For a moment, she felt something shift—the air grew warmer, more alive.

In the corner, Daemon found a journal. Its leather cover bore the sigil of a three-headed dragon. Rhaenyra watched him handle it carefully and, peering over his shoulder, saw that it contained notes written by Visenya. The words, penned in fluent High Valyrian, spoke of battle strategies and sorcery.

“Aegon rules with vision, Rhaenys with heart, but I, I bear the burden of protection,” Daemon read aloud from one entry. “If the world falls into darkness, this chamber will hold the tools for those who come after us. Let them be strong; let them be worthy of the flame.”

When Daemon finished reading, Rhaenyra felt a chill, as though Visenya herself were speaking directly to her.

Daemon placed the journal back where he found it and approached Rhaenys’s sword. He lifted it, testing its weight and balance.

“It’s quite different from Dark Sister,” he said. “But make no mistake, it’s just as sharp.”

Daemon extended the sword to Rhaenyra in an offering. “You should wield it. There will be no blade more fitting for a future queen.”

“But I don’t know how to use a sword.”

“Nonsense. I’ll find someone to train you while I’m away. I’d been thinking of it already, and this discovery of yours couldn’t have come at a better time—you’ve gained a valuable weapon.”

Carefully, Rhaenyra took the sword by its hilt and tested its balance in her hands.
“I don’t know, Daemon, this feels beyond everything…”

Daemon took the sword from her hands and returned it to the pedestal beside the armor.

 “It’s not, zaldrītsos, but you don’t need to rush anything. The sword can remain here, where it’s been for decades. You can wait until you feel ready to wield it.” He turned to her, taking her hands in his. “But I don’t believe there’s anything in this world you cannot achieve. And you’ll have me—look at the greatness of your dear old uncle.”

Rhaenyra laughed. “I wouldn’t call it greatness. I’d say you have a grand sense of self-esteem and confidence.”

Daemon feigned dramatics, placing a hand over his heart. “What will become of me with such disregard from my favorite niece?”

 “I’m your only niece.”

 Daemon turned his gaze to her. “Yes, you are one of a kind.”

 

***

 

The next day, Rhaenyra waited for the rest of her household to arrive.  

On the ship, besides her ladies-in-waiting, there was Ser Harrold as her shield, and two other royal guards whose names she didn’t know.  

A few Gold Cloaks were also aboard, and for these, Daemon stepped forward to greet them. “Welcome to Dragonstone, I hope you get accustomed to the island.”  

“Welcome. You will find your rooms and whatever you need in the castle.”  

“Thank you, Your Highness.” The young men thanked her, four of them heading towards the castle while two remained by Daemon’s side.  

“Rhaenyra, I would like to introduce Ser Harwin Strong and Ser Luthor Largent. Besides Ser Harrold and the royal guards, I have entrusted their safety to these two. They are my brothers-in-arms and have my full trust.”  

“Princess, it will be an honor to serve you,” Ser Harwin greeted, and the two Gold Cloaks bowed respectfully.  

“Ser Harwin, I’ve heard great things about you, your father is an invaluable ally, and I hope to count on you as well.”  

“I asked Harwin to help you learn a few things about self-defense. I believe Ser Harrold will also volunteer.”  

“Wonderful. Gentlemen, there is bed, bath, and food waiting for you in the castle. I believe you would like to rest for today.”  

Daemon and Rhaenyra inspected the unloading of the ship for a while but soon made their way back to the castle. However, it didn’t take long before they spotted three spots in the sky, which soon took the shape of dragons.  

Moments later, the four Velaryons landed on the beach, in a rare occurrence where Corlys Velaryon himself was also riding Meleys.  

“I was starting to worry that my head lady-in-waiting had given up the post,” Rhaenyra joked, embracing her cousin and friend.  

“Never, I’ll be in your shadow until the day you get tired of me.”  

“Princess,” Corlys stepped forward, paying his respects to Rhaenyra. “I must thank you once again for all the efforts toward the Stepstones cause, and moreover, for the honor of having my daughter as your lady-in-waiting.”  

“It’s my duty, Lord Corlys, and we are family, aren’t we? I wish I could have done something sooner.”  

Before the mood could grow bitter, Rhaenyra called everyone to head to the castle.  

Laenor, Daemon, and Corlys engaged in an animated conversation, with the youngest clearly excited about going to war on his dragon.  

“Laenor is euphoric...” Rhaenyra pointed out to her cousin Rhaenys.  

“Oh yes, he expects to be knighted in Stepstones, I made him promise not to put himself at unnecessary risk,” her cousin replied, and Rhaenyra understood all too well, for she had lost her own father in a war, where he too had been mounted on his dragon. The family history revealed that depending on the rider’s skill or the dragon’s ferocity wasn’t a guaranteed protection; in the end, what’s alive can always die.  

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen so much movement in Dragonstone,” Rhaenys pointed out.  

“Yes, the ships and troops from Dragonstone and Claw Isle leave in a week, we’re in the final preparations. But there’s still much arriving from King’s Landing. Daemon is still waiting for about fifty men from the City Watch to join us for Stepstones,” Rhaenyra replied.  

“I hope the Hand doesn’t start claiming that the prince is depleting the capital’s defenses,” Rhaenys huffed.  

“He’ll probably do that, while also placing his own trusted men in the ranks. I’ve heard his son is coming from Oldtown to join the Gold Cloaks,” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes.  

“Tell me Daemon is leaving someone trustworthy in command.”  

“He mentioned the name Alyn Corbray, he comes from a family of Gold Cloaks, his grandfather was commander during Jaehaerys’ reign.”  

Rhaenys nodded. “I know the family, a good choice.”  

When the group arrived at the castle, each one went in a different direction, with only Rhaenyra and Laena staying together in the princess’ quarters. Laena took the opportunity to update Rhaenyra on some news from King’s Landing.  

“Some of the lords have received the King’s new decree with unease, but I haven’t heard much protest. What I know is that Otto Hightower has been trying to get private audiences with the King ever since you came to Dragonstone, but he’s always been dismissed from the royal chambers.”  

Rhaenyra huffed. “It won’t last long, my father always respected Otto’s words.”  

While the two were talking, a servant arrived at Rhaenyra’s room, announcing that the Celtigar party had just arrived at the docks.  

“Dragonstone really is busy,” Laena remarked, and Rhaenyra laughed.  

Rhaenyra received the last of her guests and allies in the Stone Throne room.  

“Welcome, I hope your journey was smooth.”  

Lord Bartimos stepped forward and bowed. “Yes, Your Highness, our journey lasted about six hours, but without any mishaps. The other ships should arrive within three days, as agreed.”  

“Thank you very much, milord. Please, accompany Ser Alfred, he will show you to your quarters. Lady Prudence and Prunella...” Rhaenyra addressed the young ladies. “Thank you for accepting my invitation to join my household. I rely on your good service and loyalty, and I promise the same.”  

Both made a deep curtsy, “I can speak for my sister and say that we are deeply honored by the invitation, Your Highness. The least we can do is assure you of our loyalty.”  

“Great. In the next few days, we will have some activities, and I will also introduce you to Lady Martha Tyrell and Elinda Massey. For now, I believe you would like to rest a little before the dinner feast.”  

After bidding farewell to the last newcomers, Rhaenyra sighed and turned to Laena.  

“Who’s really tired is me.”  

 

***

 

Later that night, Dragonstone was immersed in a disquieting silence. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs and the howling of the wind through the stone halls were the only echoes in the fortress. However, for Daemon, the silence of Dragonstone was not what bothered him. It was Rhaenyra’s silence.  

He knew her too well not to notice when something was out of place. She had been distracted during dinner, though still receptive to the allies she had received throughout the day, her eyes fixed on some point, her fingers drawing circles on the fabric of the table while she barely touched her food. When he tried to start a conversation, she merely nodded distractedly and murmured something incomprehensible.  

Daemon wasn’t the type to let things be. If something was troubling Rhaenyra, he would find out what it was. With that thought in mind, he walked through the winding halls of Dragonstone toward her chambers.  

The door to Rhaenyra’s solar was slightly ajar, and he found her sitting in a chair facing the fireplace, the flames casting dancing shadows over her face. She held a goblet of wine, but it seemed she didn’t notice the scarlet liquid threatening to spill as she slightly tilted it.  

“You’re going to spill that,” he said, his voice low and casual, but laced with concern.  

Rhaenyra looked up, surprised by the interruption. “Daemon,” she murmured, setting the goblet aside. “I didn’t hear you come in.”  

“Seems like you haven’t heard much tonight,” he replied, stepping into the room without asking permission and closing the door behind him. “What’s going on, little dragon?”  

She let out a heavy sigh and turned her gaze to the flames. “Nothing you need to worry about.”  

Daemon raised an eyebrow, walking toward her with that unmistakable air of someone who knew he was about to get what he wanted. “You should know I never accept ‘nothing’ as an answer.”  

Rhaenyra laughed weakly. “Don’t worry, I’m just a little tired.”  

He sat across from her, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward, his gaze fixed on her. “Talk to me, Rhaenyra. I know it’s not just that.”  

Rhaenyra let out a soft, bitter laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”  

Daemon raised an eyebrow, questioning. “And what would ‘everything’ be?”  

Rhaenyra stood up from the chair and pointed to nothing in particular. “Everything! You’re going to war, but you make it seem like just another tournament. While I don’t have the courage to lift a sword.”  

“Because I accept burning,” he replied, a mischievous smile curling his lips. “But you, Rhaenyra, you’re still caught in indecision, whether to put out the flames, whether to fix everything and all of us. That will never work. This frustration you feel is nothing but hesitation. Fear. And I don’t condemn you for it, I could never. But as long as you hold those feelings in your heart, they’ll eat away at you.”  

She looked at him, her eyes shining with something that seemed a mix of frustration and gratitude. “So, what do you suggest, wise uncle?” she asked, sitting back down, staring at Daemon.  

Daemon leaned in further, his eyes meeting hers. “Be a dragon.”  

Rhaenyra looked away again, her voice barely a whisper. “And what if I fail, Daemon? And what if it’s too much for me? And what if I burn?”  

Daemon extended his hand and grasped hers firmly. “You won’t fail. And even if you do, it won’t be the end.”  

She squeezed his hand, finding some comfort in his words. “Sometimes, I miss when things were simpler,” she admitted. “When my biggest worry was which dress to wear to the tournament. Or when I could see my mother.”  

Daemon smiled, a smile that was both warm and ironic. “Ah, yes, the glorious days of normal worries. You really want to go back to that?”  

She laughed again, this time a genuine laugh. “Maybe yes. Maybe no.”  

For a moment, they sat in silence, only hearing the crackling of the flames. Then, Daemon stood up, offering his hand to her.  

“Come,” he said. “Let’s fly.”  

“Now?” Rhaenyra asked, surprised.  

“Yes, now,” he answered, his eyes shining with youthful enthusiasm. “You’re holding yourself too much inside these walls. You need freedom, air, to feel the wind on your face. And none of that is possible in here.”  

She hesitated for a moment, but then took his hand. “Alright. Let’s go.”  

Moments later, the sky over Dragonstone was filled with the roars of Caraxes and Syrax. The two dragons soared together, their wings cutting through the night air like sharp blades.

 

***

 

Throughout the following week, Rhaenyra got used to a new routine. In the mornings, she had breakfast with her ladies-in-waiting and Uncle Vaegon, and sometimes Daemon would also appear. Shortly after, she would head to the training yard, where Ser Harrold, Ser Erryk, and Harwin usually awaited her to alternate in her training. One day, Rhaenyra asked why Daemon didn’t show up or offer to train her before leaving for the Stepstones.  

"I don’t want you to get used to my way of fighting, only to have to change it in a short time," he replied simply. "And more than that, what’s better than me being surprised by your skills when I return?"  

And the matter was closed between them. Rhaenyra continued her training routine in the mornings, and after lunch, she would meet again with her ladies-in-waiting and Uncle Vaegon for various lessons and discussions. Rhaenyra hoped she could convince other ladies to join in her sword training, but so far, she was pleased that they were also interested in matters of the realm. She needed people as capable as herself by her side.  

After the afternoon lessons, Rhaenyra took advantage of Rhaenys' presence in the castle to talk to her cousin, who many may have forgotten but had been trained as the heir to Prince Aemon Targaryen.  

Thus, the days passed leading up to the men’s departure to the Stepstones.  

On the morning they were to leave, the sky was tinged with golden and crimson hues, reflecting the fire burning in the hearts of those heading to the Stepstones. At Dragonstone, the air was thick with ceaseless movement: soldiers marched in formation, supplies were loaded onto the anchored ships, and the distant roars of dragons echoed across the salty sea breeze.  

Rhaenyra watched it all from an elevated parapet, wrapped in her black wool cloak lined with fine furs to protect her from the biting morning cold. By her side, Laena Velaryon and Vaegon Targaryen remained silent, respecting the solemn moment.  

Down below, Daemon moved between the men like a born commander, his red cloak billowing behind him as he checked every detail of the preparations. He was a magnetic figure, and even from a distance, Rhaenyra could see the defiant gleam in his eyes, a mix of excitement for the battle and unwavering determination.  

"He looks more alive than ever," Laena commented, crossing her arms.  

"It’s as if he was forged for war," Rhaenyra replied, her eyes fixed on Daemon.  

With that, she descended the stairs toward the courtyard.  

When Rhaenyra reached the heart of the activity, Daemon was with Corlys Velaryon and Bartimos Celtigar, discussing the final logistics for boarding. As soon as he saw her, a subtle smile curved his lips, and he motioned for the men to continue without him.  

He approached her, his boots echoing on the stones. "Did you come to say goodbye, zaldrītsos?"  

"As if I’d let you leave without a proper farewell," Rhaenyra replied.  

Daemon looked at her for a moment, his eyes searching for something in his niece's face. "You’re restless."  

Rhaenyra sighed, crossing her arms. "How could I not be? I can’t stop thinking that you’re going off to war while I stay here, on the sidelines."  

He smiled, that smile full of irony. "And who said you’re on the sidelines? Your name is a banner, Rhaenyra. Every ship that leaves here carries the weight of your decision, the weight of the promise of Dragonstone. You’re as involved in this as I am."  

"I still wish you’d stay here, by my side."  

Daemon moved closer, slightly leaning in to look into her eyes. "You’re stronger than you think, Rhaenyra. And that’s exactly why I can leave. I trust that you are safe in this castle, and there are people showing enough loyalty that I can rest my head at night."  

The moment was interrupted by the arrival of Caraxes, the dragon’s roar echoing through the surrounding mountains. It landed with a powerful impact, its wings brushing against the soldiers nearby.  

Daemon turned to watch his mount but soon returned his gaze to Rhaenyra. "It’s time."  

Rhaenyra felt a knot tighten in her throat. It wasn’t easy to let him go, but she knew it was necessary. She stepped forward, taking his hand. "Don’t you dare die, Daemon."  

He squeezed her hand firmly, his eyes sparkling in the dawn light. "Die? No. I’ll win. And I’ll be back to Dragonstone sooner than you think."  

"I know you’re good at this, but even the most skilled have enemies who don’t fight with honor."  

"Don’t worry, niece. If necessary, I won’t fight with honor either," he replied, winking in a way that made her give a small smile.  

Rhaenyra pulled him into a quick but firm embrace. "I need you back, Daemon. Promise me you’ll return whole."  

He placed his hands on her shoulders, his tone serious for the first time that morning. "I will return. I promise you that."  

Daemon stepped away, walking toward Caraxes. The dragon bent its neck, allowing its rider to mount. Once settled in the saddle, Caraxes roared again, flames dancing around its nostrils.  

Rhaenyra raised her gaze, watching as Daemon gave the order for the dragon to take flight. The wings beat hard, kicking up dust and stones as the dragon gained altitude.  

By her side, Corlys and Bartimos were preparing to board the ships, and the farewells continued. But Rhaenyra remained still, her eyes fixed on the sky as Caraxes disappeared into the horizon, accompanied by Seasmoke, and Meleys, who was also returning to Driftmark.  

Laena approached, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He’ll return. You know that."  

Rhaenyra nodded, though she didn’t say anything. Deep down, she knew Daemon would keep his promise. But until he returned, the weight of Dragonstone, the Iron Throne, and everything to come rested entirely on her shoulders. And she was ready to bear it, even if her restlessness remained.  

 

***  

 

The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs of Dragonstone was a constant backdrop to the ancestral fortress of the Targaryens. The day was gray, the sky overcast with clouds promising rain, but in Rhaenyra’s solar, the atmosphere was warmed by the glow of the flames in the hearth and the subtle scent of aged parchment and candle wax.  

She sat at her desk, surrounded by maps, letters, and reports from the Stepstones, while her ladies-in-waiting, Laena Velaryon, Martha Tyrell, and Elinda Massey, remained busy in silence, organizing documents or stitching by the light of a nearby window, while Prudence and Prunella volunteered to gather some files with Maester Gerardys.  

The arrival of a raven interrupted the work. The messenger entered hurriedly, bowing deeply before handing over the sealed message. Rhaenyra took the parchment and carefully broke the seal, her eyes scanning the words.  

As she read, her expression slowly shifted from curiosity to a mix of surprise, satisfaction, and a touch of disbelief. She read it again, as if not believing what she was seeing.  

"Anything important?" Laena asked, noticing the change in her cousin’s face.  

Rhaenyra looked up from the parchment, an eyebrow raised. "It seems King’s Landing isn’t as welcoming as Lady Alicent Hightower had hoped."  

She placed the parchment on the table, the words still echoing in her mind as she began to explain. "According to this message, a few days ago, Alicent tried to visit the Great Sept. A sort of... display of piety before the wedding, perhaps? Maybe to win the citizens’ support with a public show of devotion."  

Martha, always inclined toward gossip, stopped stitching and leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "And what happened?"  

"Nothing good," Rhaenyra replied, a cold smile curling her lips. "The citizens refused to clear a path for her. Some, according to reports, even spat in her direction. Others shouted insults. They called her a usurper, an ambitious woman, well, things I’d rather not repeat."  

"It’s not surprising," Laena commented with disdain. "King’s Landing had a certain fondness for Queen Aemma. They’re still mourning, just like you. Seeing Alicent Hightower try to take her place must feel like an affront to many."  

"And it’s not just that," added Elinda, her voice calm and analytical. "The rumors circulating among the common folk, about how she won the king, aren’t helping her cause. Especially compared to someone like you, Your Highness."  

Rhaenyra nodded. "Either way, it seems she won’t try anything like that again anytime soon. The message says that since then, Alicent hasn’t left the Red Keep. She’s been meeting with the Septa only within the Fortress, away from the public eye."  

For a moment, Rhaenyra lost herself in thought, her fingers tapping on the table. There was something deeply ironic about the situation. Alicent, who had longed for power and influence, now seemed like a prisoner inside the golden walls she had so desired.  

"Do you think this will stop the Hightowers?" Laena asked, breaking the silence.  

Rhaenyra looked at her, her eyes shining with cold determination. "Not at all. If there’s one thing Otto Hightower knows how to do, it’s adapt to adversity. He’ll turn this humiliation into some new strategy, you can bet on that."  

"But that doesn’t mean we can’t take advantage," she continued, her voice taking on a sharper tone. "Alicent’s fragility is a weakness we can’t ignore. She’s isolated now, from the citizens and, perhaps, part of the court. This gives us room to move our own pieces."  

Martha couldn’t hold back a malicious smile. "The gods know the common folk love a good story. This should keep them entertained for weeks. And the more they talk about Alicent, the less they’ll pay attention to their own problems."  

"But we also need to be cautious," warned Elinda, always the most thoughtful of the group. "If we push too hard, we might end up uniting those who are currently divided. The Hightowers thrive in disorder, but if they feel cornered, they may become even more dangerous."  

"You’re right, Elinda," Rhaenyra admitted, her expression softening a bit. "But that doesn’t mean we can’t plant a few seeds of our own."  

She stood from her chair, walking to the window and looking out at the choppy sea. "We need to make sure this narrative stays alive, that the citizens know Alicent is an impostor, an intruder who will never have the love of the people."  

She turned to her ladies, her eyes glowing with fierce intensity. "Laena, send ravens to Driftmark. I want detailed reports of the nobles' impressions of the marriage and the new consort. Martha, Elinda, discreetly speak with the servants and merchants who have contacts in King’s Landing. I want to know every whisper, every rumor circulating the streets."  

The ladies nodded, standing up promptly to carry out the orders.  

"And what about you, Nyra?" Laena asked, hesitating for a moment. "What will you do while we take care of this?"  

Rhaenyra gave a small smile, cold and calculated. "Me? I’ll prepare the next move. Alicent may have hidden in the Red Keep, but she can’t hide forever. When she emerges again, I want her to know that the world around her has changed. And that I control the flames."  

With that, the ladies departed to fulfill their tasks, leaving Rhaenyra alone in the solar. She sat back down, picking up the parchment again and rereading the words, a sense of satisfaction filling her chest.

 

***

 

Fifteen days had passed since Daemon and his allies left for the Stepstones, leaving a palpable void in the halls and skies of the fortress. During this time, Rhaenyra had thrown herself into the administrative preparations of Dragonstone, handling the responsibilities her uncle had left for her while he fought the war. But today, the restlessness that had consumed her for weeks seemed to have reached a critical point.  

Rhaenyra was in her chambers, standing before an ornate mirror that reflected her tall and imposing figure. Laena stood beside her, adjusting the fabric of the black gown that now clung to her body like a second skin. It was an old dress, found weeks ago in the secret room that had once belonged to Visenya. Sewn from black silk and embroidered with silver threads, it exuded an aura of power and mystery.  

At her waist, fastened by a leather belt adorned with small silver dragons, was the sword of Rhaenys, wife of Aegon the Conqueror. The Valyrian steel blade, long and elegantly forged, gleamed with a dark shine. Simply touching it had been enough to make Rhaenyra’s heart race the day she had found it. Now, wearing it at her waist was a constant reminder of the blood running through her veins.  

“It’s perfect,” Laena said, stepping back to admire the result. “No one will be able to ignore you today.”  

“That’s not what worries me,” Rhaenyra replied, adjusting the weight of the sword with a skilled movement. “I want them to feel Rhaenyra’s presence. I want them to know that I am here not just as the king’s daughter, but as the heir to the Conqueror.”  

Laena smiled, crossing her arms. “Then, my princess, you’ve already won before you even leave this room.”  

With one last adjustment, Rhaenyra took a deep breath and turned to Laena. “Let’s get this over with.” Finally, Laena helped Rhaenyra adjust the heir’s crown on her head and checked to make sure the braid was secure for the journey to King’s Landing.  

Rhaenyra had sent the ladies-in-waiting, Uncle Vaegon, and the royal guards earlier in the week, but Laena would accompany her along with Vhagar directly to the celebratory feast. She had been invited to partake in all the prior festivities, including a tournament and a hunt, but had declined, claiming she had too many affairs to attend to in Dragonstone.  

Rhaenyra and Laena made their way to the beach, where Syrax, Vhagar, and some of the Gold Cloaks awaited them.  

“Your Highness, everything is ready. The dragon keepers have prepared your mounts,” said Ser Harwin.  

Rhaenyra smiled. “Thank you very much, Ser Harwin. I hope to be back soon.”  

“Your Highness, if it’s not too much of a bold request, could you deliver this to Prudence?” Harwin handed Rhaenyra a small package, at the same time that Ser Luthor nudged his companion. “Are you making the princess into a messenger, Strong?”  

Harwin paled. “My apologies, Your Highness, I didn’t mean to… May I—” Rhaenyra laughed at his reaction.  

“Don’t worry, my friend, it’s not a problem, but I’ll entrust the package to Laena, since Syrax doesn’t have a pouch.”  

“Thank you very much, Your Highness,” he said, and Rhaenyra noticed that her friend was slightly flushed.  

Ser Luthor stepped forward. “If I may, Your Highness, Lady Laena, you both look exquisite. I am not versed in the history of your ancestries, but I would venture to say that both of you could be mistaken for goddesses in Ancient Valyria.”  

Laena laughed. “You’re getting better at your flirting, Ser Luthor. But I thank you for the compliment.”  

“Thank you, Ser. I hope you both find some rest while we are not here tormenting you,” Rhaenyra said, and with little effort, each of them mounted their dragon. “See you soon!”  

When the two arrived at the Dragonpit in King’s Landing, the city seemed to be in a state of forced celebration. Banners with the Targaryen and Hightower crests hung in every corner, but there was a strange absence of genuine enthusiasm among the citizens. Rhaenyra was greeted by three carriages brought by Vaegon and his ladies-in-waiting. Under the guard of Ser Harrold and a group of royal guards, they made their way to the Red Keep.  

Upon arrival, all eyes immediately turned to her. The black gown, the gleaming sword, and her majestic bearing evoked memories of the legendary Targaryen figures. Whispers began to spread among the crowd that watched her.  

“It’s Princess Rhaenyra!”  

“She looks like a queen…”  

“Why is she wearing black to a wedding? It looks like an omen.”  

Rhaenyra ignored the whispers, keeping her head high as she moved forward. She knew that every step she took was being analyzed, that every gesture would be interpreted as a move in a power game she could not afford to lose.  

When she reached the doors of the Great Hall, the herald prepared to announce her entourage.  

“Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, Lady of Dragonstone. Prince Vaegon Targaryen. Lady Laena Velaryon. Lady Martha Tyrell, Lady Elinda Massey. Lady Prudence Celtigar and Prunella Celtigar.”  

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was illuminated by hundreds of torches and chandeliers, and the tables were covered with delicacies that announced the splendor of the occasion. Musicians played cheerful melodies, trying to fill the air with a festive atmosphere.  

As Rhaenyra entered, accompanied by her entourage, the hall fell into immediate silence. All eyes turned to her. The contrast between her figure and the environment, decorated in green and gold – the colors of House Hightower – was striking. Anyone could have questioned whether it was Viserys entering the Hightower house.  

Alicent, sitting next to Viserys at the main table, tried to maintain a smile, but discomfort was visible. The green dress she wore seemed to pale in comparison to Rhaenyra’s imposing presence.  

Viserys, on the other hand, appeared torn between pride and frustration. “My daughter,” he said, rising to greet her.  

“Father,” Rhaenyra replied, giving a slight curtsy in respect.  

She approached the main table, stopping in front of Alicent. “Lady Alicent,” she said, her voice calm but carrying a cutting chill. “I hope your day has been as pleasant as the preparations for this wedding.”  

Alicent pressed her lips together, forcing a smile. “Thank you, princess. I wish the same for you.”  

Rhaenyra then turned to Viserys. “I brought a gift for the royal couple, father.”  

Viserys seemed surprised. “Oh? What would that be?”  

Rhaenyra gestured, and a pair of servants entered carrying a tapestry.  

“I found this tapestry stored in Dragonstone, and thought it would be a perfect memorabilia for your chambers, near your model of Ancient Valyria. And I know that the Royal Consort shares excitement for reading ancient stories as well.”  

When the servants unfurled the tapestry, Rhaenyra could hear a series of reactions, some gasps of surprise, others murmuring, and some clearly displeased with the gift.  

The piece depicted a massive dragon breathing fire fiercely over a great tower, though it remained unclear whether the tower represented Harrenhal or Hightower.  

“Thank you, Rhaenyra. It will truly look lovely beside my model.”  

As the night progressed, Rhaenyra navigated the hall with grace and confidence, greeting the lords and ladies present. Some looked at her with respect, others with suspicion, but few dared to confront her directly.  

Rhaenyra spotted the northern entourage in the ballroom.  

“Lord Rickon, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I hope your stay in the capital is comfortable.”  

“Yes, Your Highness, but I must say I miss home.”  

Rhaenyra nodded. “I understand that all these back-to-back celebrations have left you stuck with us.”  

“Yes, the journey to Winterfell is too long to go back and forth in such a short time.”  

“I’m sorry,” Rhaenyra said. But Lord Stark stepped forward. “Please, don’t feel sorry, Your Highness. Things are just as out of our control as we can imagine.”  

While Rhaenyra was talking to Lord Rickon Stark, Martha approached, bringing a message for the princess.  

“My lord, let me introduce Lady Martha Tyrell, my lady-in-waiting. Martha, this is Lord Rickon Stark. I believe you can talk to him and ease his suffering of being stuck with us southerners.”  

Rickon laughed at the attempt at humor and extended a hand to Martha.  

“Milady, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m at your service.”  

Rhaenyra distanced herself from the couple and approached the main table. “Yes, father?”  

Viserys came closer to his daughter. “My daughter, don’t you want to help Alicent get ready for the night? Clearly, there will be no bedding ceremony, but it would be good to have another female companion.”  

Rhaenyra sighed. “Don’t feed fantasies that your wife and I might get along. I can put on a show in front of the court as a respectful family, but I won’t take on the role of making the Red Keep comfortable for your consort. The gods know she wasn’t meant for my mother.”  

Viserys seemed anguished, and he continued speaking in a low voice. “Please, peace. She was a good companion to you. We can leave any intrigue behind and allow ourselves a fresh start.”  

“When will you realize I’m not the problem?” Rhaenyra felt her eyes burn as she tried to keep them from filling with tears.  

“Please, my daughter. This means so much to me.”  

After much insistence, Rhaenyra accompanied Alicent to the Royal Consort’s new chambers. Thankfully, they hadn’t given her the old chambers of Queen Aemma, not to the Green Worm.  

Rhaenyra and Alicent weren’t alone in the room; some servants were bustling about, helping Alicent change clothes, remove all the jewelry, and take down her hair decorations.  

“I hope you are at peace with the idea that soon you might have a brother,” Alicent said, sitting at the vanity as Rhaenyra began to leave.  

The princess looked at the consort through the reflection in the mirror. Alicent seemed truly proud of herself, as if she had won, not knowing that the war had only just begun.  

“And I hope, Alicent, that you place much faith in the Seven. You’ll need it.”

 

___

 

Glossary: 

Ānogar perzys iā hen ōños. Ēngos sīr iksis se gaomilaksir hen zaldrīzoti se dārilaros.= Blood, fire and night. Herein lies the connection between the dragon and the knight

Zaldrītsos = Little Dragon

Notes:

Did you like it?

Please don't stop commenting, I love reading them all and assessing how the next chapters might unfold.

Another thing, I received a message on tiktok (diphylleigrayii) saying that my fanfic is too short and that I'm speeding things up.
What I have to say is: Yes, that's right. I love reading long fanfics, but I also love short ones with 50k words. I don't expect to be able to write anything too long, and I can recommend a few hundred fanfics that might appeal to those who like long fanfics. 😓

Sorry for the rant, but I like to write for fun and maybe also to improve my English writing, I'm sorry for any mistakes.

Once again, thank you to everyone who takes the time to leave a comment, you're amazing. ❤️

Chapter 8

Summary:

She wiped her bloodied hand on a cloth she had brought and stood up, feeling an exhaustion that seemed to come from within, as if some of her energy had been drained in the ritual. May the Gods forgive her for having used an item as valuable as a dragon, but if Vermax had allowed her access to so much knowledge, she wanted to think that they were also aware that she would move heaven and earth to keep her future unthreatened.
“Se jēda syt vīlūpō iksis toliot.”

Notes:

Many thanks to everyone who left a comment on the previous chapter! Newcomers, welcome! ❤️❤️
I hope you enjoy today's chapter.

 

 

Rhaenyra Targaryen ended up staying in King’s Landing for two months after her father’s marriage to Alicent. The city was abuzz with excitement and rumors about the realm’s future, so Rhaenyra had to seize the opportunity to further strengthen her positive image with the people and the lords. Thus, the princess held firm to her routine, dividing her time between her growing responsibilities, intense studies, and the moments of freedom she could find.

Viserys tried to fulfill his promise of solidifying Rhaenyra's position as his heir. He insisted that she participate in Small Council meetings and confirmed that she would have her own seat from then on. Seated at the table beside Otto Hightower, Mellos, Lord Lyonel Strong, and the other members, Rhaenyra listened attentively to the kingdom’s discussions. She was rarely called upon to speak, but it was equally rare for her to refrain from intervening.

On one particular morning, the discussion revolved around the Stepstones, where Daemon was facing Craghas Drahar. Otto Hightower seized the opportunity to criticize the campaign yet again.

“The cost of maintaining troops in the Stepstones has been exorbitant, Your Grace. And so far, the results do not justify the investment. Perhaps we should consider a ceasefire.”

Rhaenyra clenched her fists. Mellos nodded, supporting Otto’s idea, while Lyonel Strong was the only one to suggest an alternative: “If we abandon the Stepstones now, we give Craghas Drahar the chance to consolidate his position. This could cost us dearly in the future.”

Rhaenyra nodded and interjected: “I can’t help but wonder what drives the Hand’s concern over Dragonstone’s finances. May I remind everyone present that, at this moment, the campaign’s greatest financier is Driftmark, which possesses the largest fleet and, I’d argue, the greatest motivation.”

She sighed before continuing.

“Secondly, there’s Dragonstone. My resources are being managed, and I trust in Maester Gerardys’ and my uncle Vaegon abilities. In fact, last month, Dragonstone brokered some agreements between the Starks and House Tyrell. From what I gathered in the last report I received, we’re doing fine for now.”

Viserys, visibly uncomfortable, looked at his daughter, but Rhaenyra kept her posture straight and her expression neutral, though inside, she felt a mixture of frustration and urgency.

***

 

In the chests that accompanied her from Dragonstone, Rhaenyra had brought some of Visenya’s journals and a few books that seemed to be about magic. During the two months she resided in King’s Landing, Rhaenyra also took the opportunity to study these writings.

That night, under the soft glow of silver candelabras, Rhaenyra sat at her desk, delving into a new journal.

“What did you hide here, Visenya?” she murmured, running her hand over the journal’s cover.

She opened the first page and found Visenya’s signature in bold, elegant handwriting:

“Visenya Targaryen, Daughter of Aerion.”

A shiver ran down Rhaenyra’s spine.

The first pages were routine records of battles and alliances during the early years of the Conquest. Visenya narrated some details of her enemies’ strategic movements, the weaknesses she exploited, and the sacrifices she made to ensure her house’s victory.

“Rhaenys always preferred diplomacy. Her smile opened doors where my sword could not. But there are places where smiles fail, and it was there that Dark Sister and I took command.”

Rhaenyra read these words with fascination. The relationship between the sisters seemed to be a balance of forces, an alliance that made them unbeatable.

Further on, the tone of the entries changed. Visenya began to write about pain and loss, particularly about Rhaenys’s death.

“When Rhaenys fell in the Gardens of Hellholt, something inside me died with her. Meraxes’s fire was extinguished, but the void left behind burned even more. She wasn’t just my sister; she was my other half.”

Rhaenyra felt a pang in her heart. She had heard the stories of Rhaenys’s fall many times, but reading about it in Visenya’s own words brought new depth to the sacrifices the sisters made to build Westeros.

One entry, in particular, caught her attention. Visenya mentioned Rhaenys’s Valyrian steel sword, thought to be lost after her death.
“After months of searching, I found Rhaenys’s sword among the wreckage. It was buried beneath the rubble of the attack that killed my sister. I retrieved it with my own hands, vowing never to let something so precious be forgotten.”

Rhaenyra was stunned. Rhaenys’s sword was not lost. Visenya had recovered it and kept it hidden.

Further into the entry, Visenya continued:

“She called the sword Silver Sister. She said its shine was like dawn after darkness. I found the name too poetic, but that was her way—always believing in the light where I knew there was darkness.”

The name sounded like music to Rhaenyra’s ears. Silver Sister. Rhaenys’s sword was not just a weapon; it was a symbol of hope and renewal, forged to illuminate the darkness in difficult times.

More pages revealed Visenya’s reasons for hiding the sword.

“Silver Sister should never be wielded by unworthy hands. It was an extension of Rhaenys, a manifestation of her soul. That is why I hid it, waiting for a day when someone worthy of the Targaryen name would wield it again. Someone who understood the balance between fire and light, destruction and renewal.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the weight of the words. It was as if Visenya was speaking directly to her, signaling that Silver Sister’s time had finally come.

She rose from her desk and walked to where Aurion was displayed, gleaming under the candlelight. The blade seemed alive, as if pulsating with ancient energy.

“I am not Rhaenys,” she murmured, reverently touching the hilt. “But I swear to honor your legacy and do justice to this sword.”

The weight of the Valyrian steel in her hands felt natural, as if Silver Sister had been waiting for her all this time.

The other book she had decided to read turned out to be a book of magic. Every word she read seemed to pulse with an ancient power, as if Visenya's very essence still lingered within the parchment.

On the page open before her, a detailed spell promised to strengthen the connection between a dragon and its rider. There were illustrations of dragons in flight, circling a humanoid figure standing at the center of a magical circle drawn on the ground. The instructions were meticulous, each symbol of the circle needing to be traced with almost mystical precision, accompanied by specific chants in High Valyrian.

“This must have been one of the ways Visenya achieved such synchronicity with Vhagar,” Rhaenyra thought, leaning closer to study the details.

In the corner of the page, a handwritten note caught her attention. The handwriting was elegant and rigid, unmistakably Visenya’s:

“The bond between dragon and rider is not one of mere command. It is of trust, respect, and mutual strength. A rider who fails to understand this will never be worthy of the dragon they mount.”

The new section was even more intriguing. It dealt with blood spells. Blood Magic.
“Blood is the essence of life,” the first line read. “And thus, it is also the key to controlling death, subjugating enemies, and strengthening bonds that go beyond flesh.”

Rhaenyra felt a chill run down her spine. With each word she read, it felt as if she were delving into something forbidden, something that demanded more than just courage to comprehend.

As she turned the pages, the spells grew increasingly disturbing. One described how to use the blood of enemies to fortify a stronghold’s defenses. The ritual involved capturing enemies, spilling their blood onto the stones, and chanting incantations that would transform the walls into impenetrable barriers, fueled by the sacrifice of lives.

“This magic was taboo even in Valyria,” Visenya’s note explained. “But the power it grants is absolute. Use it only when the result is justifiable.”

Rhaenyra read the page with wide eyes. The instructions were so vivid that she could almost picture Visenya standing before her, speaking ancient words as blood dripped from her fingers.

In the depths of her mind, something whispered. A faint voice, almost indistinct, like a distant echo of something not of this world.

“Do you feel it?”

Vermax’s voice cut through her thoughts, and she jumped, looking around. There he was, leaning against the wall, watching her with a curious smile.

“It’s as if the book itself is alive,” Rhaenyra admitted, her tone tinged with hesitation.

“It’s not alive,” Vermax replied. “But yes, it’s infused with Visenya’s will. She was a force of nature, and everything she touched carried a piece of her soul. This book is more than words. It’s a reflection of her.”

Rhaenyra turned her attention back to the open page. A single word stood out in the text, etched in a deeper shade of scarlet: “sacrifice.”

“Did she really do all this?” Rhaenyra asked, her tone a mixture of fascination and horror.

“She did what she thought necessary,” Vermax said, stepping closer. “And you? What would you do to protect what’s yours?”

When she closed the book, the weight of the knowledge she had just gained seemed to double upon her.

“Are you ready to carry this?” Vermax asked, with a seriousness Rhaenyra was not used to seeing in him.

“Do I have a choice?” she replied, with a hint of bitterness.

“No, not really,” he admitted. “But remember, blood can be a tool or a chain. And in the end, the decision is yours.”

As she left the room, the book clutched tightly against her chest, Rhaenyra felt as if she were crossing a threshold. The magic Visenya had mastered was not just a reflection of power but of sacrifice. She knew the path ahead would be perilous, but there was no turning back.

The blood of the Targaryens was her legacy, and now, more than ever, she understood it could also be her weapon.

 

***

 

When she wasn’t fulfilling her political duties, Rhaenyra devoted herself to sword training. Rhaenys’s blade, her new constant companion, was heavy, but she wielded it with growing determination.
That morning, the sunlight spilled lazily over the Red Keep’s courtyard, casting long shadows from the walls onto the warm gray stones. The sound of clashing swords echoed off the walls, mingling with the distant cries of gulls and the muffled hum of the awakening city. The blade sliced through the air with a hissing sound as she practiced fluid movements and precise strikes.

“Your stance is improving, but you still hesitate before you spin,” observed Ser Harrold, who was training her.

“I don’t hesitate,” Rhaenyra replied, wiping the sweat from her brow. “I analyze.”

Ser Harrold laughed. “A slow analysis can cost you your life,” he said with a faint smile.

“If I had the same strength as a man, it wouldn’t be a problem,” she muttered, lifting the sword again.

“Perhaps, but you have other strengths, princess. You’re small, light, quick—use those skills,” Harrold said, adjusting the position of her arms. “When you face a man in armor, turn his greatest disadvantage into your strength. All that weight can work in your favor. Now, I want to see you against Ser Erryk.”

Rhaenyra raised Silver Sister again. Her back muscles ached as much as her arms. She returned to the center of the courtyard, her silver hair braided back, revealing a serious and focused expression. Dressed in a simple tunic, snug enough to allow mobility, she held her sword firmly.

Rhaenyra adjusted her stance once more as Ser Erryk assumed a low guard position. He made the first move, a swift and precise lunge that Rhaenyra dodged at the last moment.

“Quick indeed,” she remarked, spinning her sword in a fluid motion to prepare for the next attack.

“If I may be so bold, princess, I’d say you are too,” Erryk replied, already launching another strike.

The combat between them was different. Where Harrold relied on strength and refined technique, Erryk favored agility and improvisation. He moved like a dancer, forcing Rhaenyra to constantly adjust her position.

“Use the environment,” Harrold instructed from the sidelines. “The stones beneath your feet, the sunlight in his eyes—everything is part of the fight.”

Rhaenyra absorbed the advice quickly. When Erryk attempted a low strike, she used the uneven edge of the courtyard to pivot her body and dodge, nudging him lightly with her shoulder to throw him off balance.

“Well done,” Harrold murmured, watching with approval.

Erryk stepped back, adjusted his stance, and advanced again. This time, Rhaenyra was ready. She blocked his strike with a circular movement, twisting her sword to disarm him with a precise blow. Erryk’s sword fell to the ground with a dry clang.

“Quick and perceptive,” he said with a smile, retrieving his sword and bowing. “The princess is becoming a formidable opponent.”

 

***

 

Another of Rhaenyra's most common activities was visiting the city. By her side were usually Vaegon, Laena, and Prudence. The streets were more crowded than usual, with citizens gathering along the edges to catch a glimpse of the heir to the Iron Throne.

The horses' hooves echoed against the cobblestones as the gold cloaks cleared the way. The royal party rode in the carriage, but Rhaenyra made a point of greeting the people.

"These looks... they’re different," commented Laena, seated beside the princess.

Rhaenyra gave her a curious glance. "Different how?"

"Warmer, more hopeful," Laena replied. "I think your visits are making a difference. They no longer see just a princess in the high fortress. Now, you're someone who comes down to them."

Vaegon, who was typically silent, grumbled, "Hope can be as dangerous as hatred. Both drive people to do irrational things."

Rhaenyra chuckled softly. "Let’s hope that, at least today, these irrationalities are for the better."

As the small group rode in the carriage, Laena broke the silence, turning to Prudence. "How is Harwin Strong? I hope he isn’t feeling lonely on Dragonstone."

Prudence blushed slightly before replying, "How should I know?"

Laena scoffed. "Oh, please. You’re always eager to know what he’s written in his latest report to Rhaenyra, asking if he sent anything for you. Go on, tell us—what’s going on?"

"You two are impossible!" Prudence protested, trying to hide her face with her hands. "There’s absolutely nothing between Harwin and me. We just exchange... information."

"So formal, Prudence," Laena teased, leaning forward with a mischievous smile.

"You exchange 'information'? What kind of information? How broad his shoulders are? Or perhaps how much he can lift with a single arm?"

"Or maybe," added Rhaenyra, now laughing openly, "how he prefers to hunt? Or did you ask him if his sword is as sharp as they say?"

Prudence looked as if she might melt from embarrassment. "You two have terribly indecent minds!"

"Indecent? Prudence, dear," Laena said, clapping her hands in laughter, "we’re not the ones exchanging letters with one of the most desired knights in the Red Keep."

"I’m not exchanging letters with him!" Prudence nearly shouted, but her flustered tone only fueled more laughter from Laena and Rhaenyra.
"At least tell us," said Rhaenyra, trying to catch her breath between giggles, "is he as charming as they say? I mean, for an... exchange of information?"

Prudence huffed and crossed her arms, pretending to be deeply offended. "You two are a pair of fools."

"Ah, but fools who enjoy themselves," Laena replied, still smiling.

The rest of the trip was filled with laughter and teasing at Prudence's expense, who, despite all her embarrassment, eventually began to laugh along.

When the carriage stopped at the city market, the three disembarked, still laughing, ready to face another day in bustling King’s Landing.

At the orphanage, the wooden and stone structure looked far more modest compared to the grand towers of the Red Keep. Children ran barefoot through the courtyard, dressed in simple but clean clothes. Seeing the party, they stopped playing and stared wide-eyed with curiosity.

The orphanage’s administrator, a sturdy woman with a kindly expression named Sister Elys, came to greet them at the entrance. "Your Highness, what an honor to have you here!" she said, bowing deeply.

"Thank you, Sister Elys. I hope our visit proves fruitful," Rhaenyra replied, dismounting with Prudence's help.

Inside, the air was filled with the murmurs and laughter of children, mingled with the smell of freshly baked bread. Small tables were set up in the main hall, where some older children were sewing clothes or helping prepare meals.

"How are the conditions here?" Rhaenyra asked, walking alongside Elys.

"They’ve improved considerably since the funds started coming in," the woman replied. "We’re feeding more mouths than ever. But, as always, there are more children than resources."

Vaegon watched silently, but Prudence, ever observant, intervened. "And clothes? They seem thin for the coming winter."

"Yes," Elys confirmed, "that is our biggest concern at the moment."

Rhaenyra turned to Prudence and Laena. "Ensure that fabrics and cloaks arrive here before the week’s end. We cannot let them go cold."

Prudence nodded immediately, already mentally organizing the list of tasks to delegate.

After speaking with Elys, Rhaenyra spent some time with the children in the courtyard. They were fascinated by the princess and her companions. An older girl approached with courage.

"Your Highness," she began, clutching a small rag doll. "You’re very beautiful. You look like a queen."

Rhaenyra smiled and knelt to the girl’s level. "Thank you, dear. And you look like a very brave lady. What’s your name?"

"Anya," the girl replied, clutching the doll tightly.

Rhaenyra looked around and saw other eager faces. "How about I tell you a story about dragons? Who wants to hear?"

The children gathered around her as Rhaenyra began narrating old tales of Valyria and the Conqueror.

However, while telling the story, Rhaenyra noticed something. Among the crowd of citizens gathering outside the orphanage, there was a distinct figure. Someone cloaked in dark gray stood at a distance, almost motionless, their face obscured by a hood.

For a moment, their eyes met. A wave of unease ran through Rhaenyra, but she maintained her composure.

Laena noticed her cousin's distraction. "What is it?"

Rhaenyra subtly inclined her head toward the figure. "That person there... seems out of place."

Laena narrowed her eyes, but when she tried to locate the figure, they were gone.

"Perhaps just a curious onlooker," Laena suggested, attempting to ease the tension.

 "Or something more," Rhaenyra replied, still staring at the spot where the figure had been.

Upon returning to the Red Keep, Rhaenyra instructed Prudence to ensure someone investigated who that figure was.

Though her visit to the orphanage had been pleasant, by the end of the day, while reviewing maps in her solar, Rhaenyra was interrupted by Laena, who entered with a grave expression.

"You won’t believe what I just heard," Laena said, crossing her arms.

"Tell me," Rhaenyra replied, setting the map aside.

"Alicent is pregnant," Laena announced, the words hanging in the air like thunder.

Rhaenyra remained still for a moment, processing the news. "How did you find out?"

"Rumors are already all over the Red Keep. Apparently, she only meets with the septa now, barely leaving her chambers."

Rhaenyra rose slowly, her expression darkening. "So the Hightowers are playing their cards. A legitimate heir to Viserys in the eyes of the court, but a threat to me."

"Should you be concerned?" Laena asked, tilting her head.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath. "No. But I should be prepared."

With that, Rhaenyra turned her attention back to the maps, but now with a new goal in mind. The war in Stepstones was just a battle. The real war was being fought at court, and she needed to be ready to face it.

She could only find new weapons back in Dragonstone.

 

***

 

As she walked through the corridors of Dragonstone again, Rhaenyra thought about one of the last conversations she'd had in the Red Keep.

‘She's pregnant! Pregnant! Do you realise what this means for the kingdom? For me?’ Rhaenyra shouted to her father, who was massaging his temples.

‘Rhaenyra, it will be your blood, your brother or sister, nothing will change the fact that you are my heir, I can't think what you imagine a child can do against you.’ He replied angrily.

‘You're terribly foolish, Father.’

‘Enough, Rhaenyra! I'm not going to argue with you about the married life I've chosen.’

Rhaenyra sighed. ‘I'm going back to Dragonstone tomorrow.’

Viserys turned to her.

‘When do you intend to return to the Red Keep? As you like to remind me, you're the heir, you belong here.’

Rhaenyra laughed, but without any real humour. ‘My place is learning to rule, which I can hardly do with dignity around here, being constantly watched and tested with malice by the lords who flatter you.’

‘I can't hear you anymore, all I hear is Daemon's voice.’ Viserys sighed.

‘Then you should call the grand maester, perhaps you're hallucinating, because I'm the one speaking. Daemon is in Stepstones! Daemon is fighting for the kingdom, which you don't have the courage to do. You don't want to hear what I have to say, fine. But don't blame the gods when it's too late.’

Rhaenyra prepared to leave when Viserys called out to her again.

‘When will you be back?’

‘I don't know. One day. Eventually.’

‘You're not my Rhaenyra anymore.’

‘I suspect not. Just as you are no longer my father. Be careful you don't have to cut your consort open like a fish. The Gods know you showed no mercy to the last Queen.’ 

And in fact she didn't know when she'd be back, when she'd come to the wedding, she hadn't expected to be stuck between chores for two months straight, and no doubt in Dragonstone she could think more clearly, even if she would lose relative access to the Small Council's affairs. But on that, she believed that Lord Strong and Beesbury would be able to keep her up to date.

‘Rumour has it that the royal consort is three months pregnant.’ Laena said to Rhaenyra as they organised some documents to take back to Dragonstone.

‘That's the least of my surprises,’ muttered Vaegon, who was leaning on the door. ‘My biggest surprise will be if this child really is Viserys' daughter.’

Rhaenyra intervened. ‘Not that I'm here to defend any Hightower, but I doubt Otto would go to such lengths, he would do anything to ensure that the child is born with even the slightest Valyrian traits.’

It was exhausting to fight against his father's own folly, against the attack on self-preservation that he made on a daily basis.

Arriving at her quarters in Dragonstone, Rhaenyra went straight to the passage to the Hall of Visenya, took the bag she was carrying off her shoulder and placed it on the main table. The full moon cast its silver light over the towers of Dragonstone, but inside the hidden chamber, the darkness seemed to have a life of its own. Rhaenyra Targaryen was alone, as she had chosen to be. There was something ritualistic about her solitude, as if the weight of her decision could not be shared with anyone else.

The room, discovered almost three moons ago, was already a place of mystery. A reliquary of Visenya Targaryen, full of ancient secrets that time and ignorance had tried to hide. Under the dim candlelight, the walls engraved with Valyrian runes glowed like embers, as if responding to Rhaenyra's presence.

In the centre of the chamber, a black stone table held the elements needed for the ritual. A bowl of Valyrian steel rested in the middle, next to a dagger ideal for cutting deeply and precisely. The books Rhaenyra had studied over the last few nights were stacked in one corner, open to pages marked with detailed instructions on blood magic.

Rhaenyra adjusted the cloak she was wearing, pushing her silver-blonde hair away from her face. Her lilac eyes were fixed on the bowl, and her hands didn't tremble. There was no hesitation in her movements as she took the contents of the bag and placed it in the bowl.

It was a dragon's egg. But it had already turned to stone a few decades ago, according to the dragon carers. Carefully, Rhaenyra took the dagger and made a cut in the palm of her left hand, letting the blood drip onto the egg. 

“Hen zaldrīzoti, hen ānogar. Kostagon se perzys bona tepagon ābrar hae sȳrī gūrogon ziry arlī” s he muttered, her voice hoarse and low, as the words in high Valyrian echoed off the walls.

The air around them began to change, charged with something almost tangible. The candles burned brighter, casting shadows that danced erratically, as if responding to the chant.

Rhaenyra opened a paper parcel containing a lock of Alicent's hair. She took a few strands and threw them into the bowl. In the step, as detailed in one of Visenya's books, Rhaenyra set fire to the contents inside the bowl while stabbing her dagger into the petrified egg. She had expected to find resistance in the eggshell, but the dagger went through like cutting butter. 

Just as the fire blazed brightly, it was extinguished in an instant. Rhaenyra was breathing hard, sweat dripping down her forehead and staining the collar of her cloak. Her eyes were fixed on the bowl, which now contained only ashes, as if waiting for another sign that the ritual had worked.

For long moments, nothing happened. But then a low sound, almost a whisper, filled the room. It was impossible to discern words, but Rhaenyra knew it was the answer.

She wiped her bloodied hand on a cloth she had brought and stood up, feeling an exhaustion that seemed to come from within, as if some of her energy had been drained in the ritual. May the Gods forgive her for having used an item as valuable as a dragon, but if Vermax had allowed her access to so much knowledge, she wanted to think that they were also aware that she would move heaven and earth to keep her future unthreatened.

“Se jēda syt vīlūpō iksis toliot.”

___

Glossary:

Hen zaldrīzoti, hen ānogar. Kostagon se perzys bona tepagon ābrar hae sȳrī gūrogon ziry arlī = The blood of dragons, the blood of men. May the fire that gives life also take it back.

Se jēda syt vīlūpō iksis toliot. = The time of hesitation is over.

Notes:

So, did you liked it?

Chapter 9

Summary:

"My lord, not long ago, I reminded you of my pride in who I am and my dedication to my duties as the Princess of the Realm. I worry about how some lords seem to forget who they are speaking to. I am the future queen. I will not change my name for anyone. I was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I will die with that name."

Notes:

Surprise! Another chapter for you!
Thanks for the over five hundred kudos!!! ❤️❤️
As usual, all the dialogue in High Valyrian is in italics.
Please don't forget to read the endnotes, it's very important.

 

 

 

Letters between Daemon and Rhaenyra over five years

 

___

 

Zaldrītsos,  

Stepstones has grown darker. Unfortunately, we haven't been as successful as I'd hoped in dragging Crabfeeder's men out of the holes they crawl into. The Triarchy has been sending even more resources than I thought possible.  

That said, according to Corlys, we're diverting their attention away from the trade routes, and eventually, they may wear themselves out.  

Aside from all that, I’m fine, just a scratch here and there. Caraxes is visibly sulking; I suspect he misses Syrax. And on that, I empathize with my companion, given how much I miss you.  

I hope you're doing well, though from what I’ve heard, you’re excelling in your training with Ser Harrold. Congratulations, Zaldrītsos.  

I’m glad to hear it. Send more news.  

Daemon

 

___

 

Kepus,  

It’s good to know you’re well; stay that way.  

I wish I had better news. Alicent is pregnant. Apparently about three moons along. But I also heard it’s not an easy pregnancy. Awful, isn’t it? I find myself wondering what it must be like while also hoping the gods can deliver justice.  

I’ve returned to Dragonstone. Please don’t say anything about it—Uncle Vaegon spent a considerable amount of time complaining to me, saying that I’m giving the greens too much leeway, that I cannot leave the king’s ears so unguarded.  

But Viserys’s ears were never mine, at least not since I began to speak my own mind. What should I have done, then? Should I have stayed and watched Viserys and Alicent build a new family at my expense? Watched Otto Hightower slither among the lords, planting ideas in favor of the queen?  

It was too much for me. And I know I’m currently fighting a reputation war with the lords, but I also understand I need to earn their trust and respect. However, I believe I can gain all of that—and even their fear—in other ways.  

As for training, Silver Sister and I are getting along well. I hope to surprise you when I return.  

Take care, kepus.  

Rhaenyra.

 

___

 

Damn you, Viserys!  

I’m sorry, Zaldrītsos. If there is any justice from the gods, this pregnancy will not succeed.  

Unfortunately, there’s no news from Stepstones that differs from before; we remain frustrated, and I’m on the verge of killing Vaemond Velaryon. He’s insufferable and utterly useless.  

Send me news.  

Daemon.

 

___

 

Kepus,  

Sorry for the delay in responding to your letter. These last five months have been chaotic. Alicent lost that first pregnancy, as well as the two that followed it. There is still justice from the gods.  

I went to King’s Landing last month; Viserys summoned me.  

The court is in chaos, and Otto Hightower is losing his mind over his daughter’s inability to carry a pregnancy to term. At the last Small Council meeting, Lord Beesbury tried to suggest annulling the marriage; it was utter pandemonium.  

I didn’t stay long in the capital. I can’t stand being there for too long, even with Uncle Vaegon and the girls.  

Aside from all the chaos in King’s Landing, I have excellent news from Dragonstone. Uncle Vaegon and I were exploring some of the ancient caves on the island when we discovered a clutch of dragon eggs, still warm. Our suspicion is that it might be one of the last clutches from Vhagar and Balerion, primarily due to their coloring and the estimated timelines.  

Technically, I should inform Viserys, but they were in Dragonstone, and I have no intention of wasting my time trying to tell him how he should govern. I already have enough work preparing for when my turn comes.  

I gave one of the eggs to Vaegon. He told me the egg placed in his cradle at birth turned to stone, but I had a feeling that particular egg should be under his care. Reluctantly, he accepted it, and now he has a beautiful, properly heated cradle in his chambers.  

I know it made him very happy, though he wouldn’t admit it.  

Beyond that, I hope you’re well, kepus.  

With affection,  

Nyra.

 

___

 

Kepus,

It has been four months since the last letter I sent, and as I haven’t received a response from you, I imagine things must be complicated. Maester Gerardys assures me that the resources are being sent to you.  

Please, as soon as possible, send me news of you. Please.  

There are some updates here.  

Uncle Vaegon’s dragon egg hatched three days ago, and I’ve never seen anyone happier walking around Dragonstone than him. The little hatchling, named Maelyx, never leaves Vaegon’s shoulders. As if our uncle didn’t exude enough authority already...  

Prudence and Harwin are getting married in two moons. They are insufferably sweet to each other all the time. Martha is betrothed to Rickon Stark. The two families have grown considerably closer since one of the agreements I mediated alongside Uncle Vaegon, and last month, Lord Rickon made the proposal.  

I feel I’m quite successful at this matchmaking business—at least I’ve managed to keep my promises to the families of my ladies-in-waiting. So far, I’ve secured two heirs.  

Next moon is my name day. I would be delighted if I could receive news from you as a gift.  

With love,  

Nyra.

 

___

 

Zaldrītsos, 

I’m sorry for the delay; we’ve had a significant breakthrough. We managed to clear out some of the caves the pirates were using, but in return, we had to hold our positions to avoid losing the territory.  

The good news is that Laenor and Ardryan were knighted. Corlys and Bartimos are over the moon, and rightly so—the boys earned it with bravery, strength, and intelligence on the battlefield. Even Seasmoke has grown considerably in the past eleven moons.  

As for Maelyx, I’m delighted for Uncle Vaegon. Bonding with a dragon reignites our purpose in life.  

Regarding the weddings, my opinion remains that someone has to ensure the population of Westeros continues to grow, even amidst this bloody war. Best wishes to the couples, and as I’ve told you before, I have faith that there’s nothing in this world you cannot accomplish.  

To apologize, I’m sending a small gift along with this letter. I’m sorry if it’s not up to the standard of previous years—I promise to make it up to you at some point.  

Happy Name Day, zaldrītsos.  

Daemon. 

 

___

 

Kepus,

I adored the dragonglass dagger. Ser Harrold thought it a good idea to incorporate it into my training sessions.  

I’m currently training directly with Ser Harwin—actually, Ser Luthor since Ser Harwin is taking a honeymoon—and Ser Erryk. Ser Harrold was appointed Commander of the Kingsguard, as Ser Ryam passed away last week, from the heart, according to Grand Maester Mellos.  

I no longer have Ser Harrold’s constant presence, but we still correspond. The vacancy in the Kingsguard was filled by Gwayne Hightower, which, in my opinion, makes sense, given he’s a second son of a second son with few possessions to his name. At least this way, he can stay close to his sister.  

As for King’s Landing, Alicent is pregnant again, but no one holds much hope.  

Next week, Uncle Vaegon, Laena, and I will embark on a journey across Westeros. I’ve decided to keep a minimal entourage to facilitate travel with the dragons. Uncle Vaegon cannot ride Maelyx yet, but it’s not a problem for him to travel on Syrax or Vhagar. Our first destination will be Harrenhal, though we don’t wish to disturb the newlyweds’ rest, so we will leave for the Vale shortly thereafter. I’ve been exchanging letters with my aunts Elys and Amanda, as well as Lady Jeyne, who, despite everything, seemed quite welcoming.  

Send me news of you.  

With love,  

Nyra.

 

___

 

Kepus,

I’m sending another letter immediately to ask: Who is the White Worm?  

Uncle Vaegon has found some connections between this person and information Otto Hightower has been receiving and presenting to the King. He hasn’t uncovered anything of real value yet, but it’s clear this White Worm has succeeded in infiltrating someone into Dragonstone. I intend to find out who.  

Rhaenyra.

 

___

 

Zaldrītsos,

Unfortunately, I know who it is. Mysaria is an old acquaintance of mine from my youth. Along with this letter, I’m sending another addressed to Uncle Vaegon. He will know what to do and how to find her. I’m sorry this part of my life is causing you further trouble. 

Daemon.

 

___

 

Zaldrītsos, 

I’m writing this letter with some difficulty, but I thought it best that you read these words in my handwriting. I had a small mishap on the battlefield. Do not worry; Caraxes and I are fine—our wounds are being treated—but I preferred that you hear it from me rather than some alarming letter Laenor might send.  

Daemon.

 

___

 

Daemon!!

Nearly falling from the sky is not “a small mishap”! Where did the pirates get scorpions? Is Dorne funding them?  

Update me on your condition—don’t make me come to the Stepstones.  

 

---

 

Daemon,  

It has been six months since I’ve received any correspondence from you. What is happening? By the gods, thank the heavens Laenor is a more reliable correspondent than you.  

Give me news.  

 

___

 

Daemon, 

What did Laenor mean by “significant losses”? What is truly happening? Don’t leave me in the dark.  

 

___

 

Zaldrītsos,

I can justify my silence only with shame and anger. This war has dragged on too long, and my men are tired of this damned cat-and-mouse game with the Crab Feeder. The supplies from Dragonstone and Driftmark are the only things keeping everyone remotely sane. But beyond that, it’s been a challenge to keep everyone in line—Vaemond Velaryon has not helped in this regard. If it were up to him, we’d all lay down our arms and head home.  

I’m tired of him. Only my friendship with Corlys has kept his brother’s head on his shoulders.  

I’m sorry for not putting an end to this infernal war.  

Daemon. 

 

___

 

Kepus,

I won't say that keeping the supplies flowing to the Stepstones has been easy, but war is a duel of wills that is often beyond our control, much like the way the enemy handles their own objectives. At least that's what Uncle Vaegon tells me, and I believe him.

But everything is under control. In these past months, the trade route between the Tyrell fields, the Vale of Arryn, and the Starks of Winterfell has intensified. Lord Rickon said the North has never seen such a stockpile of food as they have today. In return, the North has supplied wood to Dragonstone, and we provide volcanic ash to the Tyrells and the Vale, which is excellent for cultivable soil. Everyone benefits.

On the other hand, many men and women have also found employment in Harrenhal. With the wood and stones from Dragonstone, Harwin is managing the castle's reconstruction. Since the wedding, he feels it is his duty to have a proper home. In exchange for the raw materials, the Strongs pay us in coins, and those coins are being used to fund new troops heading to the Stepstones as I write this letter.

Am I doing a good job? I like to think so.

About Mysaria, I’m sorry, Daemon, but she had a rather unpleasant encounter with Syrax, as did Ser Alfred Broome and Larys Strong. All three were selling information about Dragonstone to Otto Hightower. Unfortunately, I couldn't gather enough material evidence to convict Otto and bring him to trial. But Viserys accepted their confessions, and that was enough for him to send Otto back to Oldtown. Now, Lord Lyonel Strong is the Hand of the King. He almost declined the invitation, being too ashamed of Larys's actions, and Harwin nearly resigned his position in the City Watch. It was a great mess, but everything was resolved.

I know Mysaria was an acquaintance of yours. I’m sorry for the news.

With affection,

Rhaenyra.

 

___

 

Zaldrītsos,

I am so proud of you. I feel that, between the two of us, you are undoubtedly the one who has been more successful in achieving your goals.

The troops arrived safely, and I don’t know how to thank you. Their arrival lifted the men’s spirits considerably.

Don’t think I’ve forgotten. Happy Birthday, Rhaenyra.

Your gift should arrive at any moment.

Daemon.

 

___

 

Daemon,

How did you manage to provide this necklace? It’s stunning. Like Silver Sister, it’s a piece of our history that I will always carry with me. Thank you, kepus.

I don’t have many updates since the last letter. Alicent is pregnant again, and honestly, I can’t understand how she’s enduring it.

Viserys has requested my presence at the Red Keep. I will leave as soon as I send this letter to you. He wants to celebrate my seven-and-ten years ‘as a family.’ I wish you were here, even if it were just to endure this event with me.

Write to me soon.

Nyra.

 

___

 

Nyra,

Apologies for the lack of correspondence in recent months. We had a logistical problem at the camp and lost many of our supplies in the process. As you can imagine, at one point, we had to choose between paper and bread.

The pirates have acquired more scorpions to replace the ones we destroyed last week. It has been very frustrating. Please forgive me if I do something reckless.

Daemon.

 

___

 

Rhaenyra,

I have tried but miserably failed to gather words that make sense and, thus, convey a coherent thought.

I feel deeply ashamed of having dragged this war on for five years. Perhaps my overconfidence hindered things, or perhaps the gods have abandoned our cause.

There isn’t a day when despair doesn’t haunt my dreams, and in all of them, I am failing you.

Or failing us.

Could it be part of my delusions? Do we truly have a future together?

Rhaenyra, would you marry me? It would be a scandal, wouldn’t it?

You will always be my favorite person in the world.

(Letter never sent)

 

___

 

Kepus,

I heard about the camp's situation; Rhaenys informed me, and we’ve already prepared a ship for resupply. It should arrive in no more than two days.

You might doubt my word, but Uncle Vaegon and Maelyx had their first flight at Dragonstone yesterday. Ever since we’ve kept the dragons outdoors, they’ve grown alarmingly. Syrax barely fits in King’s Landing’s Dragonpit.

Martha and Prudence are pregnant. They’ve already promised their children in marriage, even before knowing their genders. Vaegon said we can only hope they’re of opposite genders; otherwise, it’ll be quite the scandal.

Prunella is engaged to the Bracken heir, and all I can say is that it was a massive headache. The Blackwoods accused me of arranging the marriage to openly favor the Brackens. Even Lord Lyonel had to intervene to put an end to the nonsense.

On my last visit to the Red Keep, Viserys brought up the topic of my marriage. In two moons, I’ll be nine-and-ten, and the lords seem restless about the supposed dangers of me becoming ‘too old.’

It has been yet another headache. The training helps me clear my mind.

Send me news of yourself.

Nyra.

 

___

 

Daemon,

Come back soon; I have no intention of marrying anyone but you.

We are twin flames, born to be together.

We can burn the world together, but also create our own glory.

And no one else can do that with me.

(Letter never sent)

 

___

 

Nyra,

This damn war is over. I’m coming home. I will lay my conquest at your feet. My victory is yours, my crown is yours, as is my heart.

Don’t marry any of those foolish lords; wait for me.

Daemon.

(Letter never sent)

***

 

It was an overcast afternoon at the Red Keep, but the stifling heat of King's Landing did not seem to dampen the buzzing energy of the castle. Rhaenyra was in her private chambers, surrounded by maps, reports, and scrolls. The Targaryen banner fluttered gently in the breeze coming through the open window, but the young princess was so absorbed in her work that she did not notice.  

Her face was serene, but her lilac eyes were sharp, moving quickly between the documents on the table. She wore a black dress with red accents, simple yet tailored to reflect her position and personality. At her waist, secured by an ornate leather belt, was Silver Sister, the Valyrian steel sword she now carried proudly as a symbol of power and determination.  

Ser Harrold Westerling entered the room with steady strides, followed by Laena, who bore an enigmatic smile on her lips. Rhaenyra looked up, frowning as she noticed the peculiar expression on Harrold's face.  

“Ser Harrold? Is there a problem? Is the King well?” she asked, setting down the scroll she had been reading.  

“Not exactly a problem, my princess,” he replied, pausing briefly, as if carefully choosing his words. “A raven has arrived from Driftmark. Lord Corlys sends news... about the Stepstones.”  

For a moment, the air seemed to vanish from the room. Rhaenyra's heart quickened, but her expression remained stoic.  

“And what news do they bring?” she asked, striving to keep her voice steady.  

“They have won, Your Grace,” Ser Harrold replied, and a small, rare smile appeared on his face. “The war is over. Prince Daemon led the troops in the final battle, and the pirates have been eradicated.”  

The words echoed in Rhaenyra's mind, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to feel. Victory. The war that had drained so many resources and claimed so many lives had finally come to an end. But it was Daemon’s name that hammered in her head. He was returning.  

“Daemon?” she asked, and this time her voice carried a note of urgency she rarely let slip.  

“Yes, Your Grace. He is returning to King's Landing in a week, accompanied by part of the fleet.”  

Rhaenyra closed her eyes, allowing the news to settle. She felt a mixture of relief, joy, and something else—an emotion she rarely allowed to take shape. Daemon was alive. He had kept his promise and was returning home a victor.  

Laena stepped closer and touched her cousin’s arm. “Are you all right, Nyra?”  

“I am,” Rhaenyra replied with a brief but genuine smile. “Daemon has returned. They’ve won.”  

Laena laughed softly. “He’s back, and he’ll certainly make sure everyone knows it. I can’t even imagine how unbearable Laenor is going to be.”  

The two laughed together, and for a moment, the tension in the room eased.  

“Ser Harrold, please inform the King that I am requesting a meeting of the Small Council,” Rhaenyra ordered Harrold. “We need to prepare their reception. And make sure the City Watch increases their patrols. I want King's Landing ready to receive them.”  

Harrold nodded and left the room, leaving Laena and Rhaenyra alone.  

“He’s going to love the chaos his arrival will cause,” Laena remarked, crossing her arms.  

“Without a doubt,” Rhaenyra replied, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Daemon has always loved a spectacle. And this time, he has some reasons.”  

Laena tilted her head, studying her cousin. “And you? Will you be part of the spectacle or just watch?”  

Rhaenyra chose only to laugh, and as Laena moved away to fetch wine for an early toast, Rhaenyra turned her gaze to the window, watching the banners waving in the wind.  

Daemon was returning.  

 

***

 

"The prince Daemon only proves his disdain for the crown, have you all heard? He was crowned 'King of the Narrow Sea.' The audacity," complained Otto Hightower.  

Rhaenyra resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She had long since stopped trying to understand her father. About a year after exiling Otto back to Oldtown, the wretched man had managed to return to the Red Keep under the pretense of caring for his daughter. The result was that it didn’t take long for Viserys to summon him to the Small Council, assigning him the role of Master of Laws—an irony, given that Lord Strong now occupied Otto's former position.  

"Ser Otto, in truth, the men proclaimed him such," Lord Strong said. "And we can all interpret such an action as euphoria from the end of the war and the respect of the men for one of their commanders. You are making a storm in a teacup," he concluded, and Rhaenyra almost applauded.  

"I agree with Lord Strong. Men in high spirits will say any nonsense," Tyland Lannister concurred. He had taken over the role of Master of Ships since Corlys had gone to war. Compared to his brother, he was more tolerable.  

Viserys seemed to weigh their opinions and turned to Rhaenyra, who was sipping her tea.  

"What do you think, Rhaenyra?"  

"I must agree with Lord Strong and Ser Tyland. I see no harm in this episode, and in any case, Daemon will soon be here and can explain anything you wish to ask. I called this meeting to organize the reception for our soldiers, lords, and the Prince of the Realm who is returning home."  

Viserys nodded in agreement. Otto looked as though he had just bitten into a lemon without any honey.  

"We will hold a reception ball, followed by three days of banquets, and at the end, we can organize a hunt. What do you think, my daughter?"  

"I believe that will suffice. It’s not as if many lords will be present, so I think it’s adequate. Lord Beesbury, I would like to speak with you. Dragonstone will cover the costs of the three days of banquets, as well as the meals to be served in the city for the citizens, in the name of Prince Daemon."  

"My princess, are you certain?" questioned the Master of Coin.  

"Absolutely, it’s not an issue. After all, we must celebrate our champions."  

 

***

 

Two days before Daemon’s expected arrival, Rhaenyra was in the gardens, sipping tea while sorting out some matters with Vaegon and Laena, when Jason Lannister approached.  

"Good afternoon, Your Highness," he said, addressing only Rhaenyra. That alone irritated her, as she wasn’t alone and certainly wasn’t surrounded by strangers.  

Vaegon noticed how much this had annoyed his niece but chose to remain silent.  

"Lord Jason, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?"  

"In truth, Princess, I would like a moment alone with you."  

Rhaenyra set aside the papers she was reviewing and turned her attention to the Lannister.  

"As you can see, my lord, I am quite busy. If it is urgent, do not hesitate—I keep no secrets from my uncle and my cousin. Speak."  

Testing the limits of how much more disdain Rhaenyra could feel toward him, Jason dropped to one knee before her. Thankfully, she was seated, and better yet, Silver Sister was safely stored in her chambers.  

"My princess, I come to pledge my devotion and loyalty to you, and as a sign of that loyalty, I propose marriage and the union of our houses. I have already begun construction of a Dragonpit at Casterly Rock, so there will be room for many little dragons."  

Rhaenyra couldn’t help it—she laughed, clearly catching the Lannister off guard.  

"Do you mock me?"  

"No, my lord. With all due respect, I must decline this valuable proposal. I have no intention of marrying you."  

"But why? I possess wealth comparable to the royal family’s, I have the resources to keep you in luxury—"  

"There is nothing you can say that will change my mind, and being who you are, I would have already risen to my feet," she said, prompting him to stand. "Lord Jason, firstly, if I were to marry everyone who pledges loyalty to me, I would have a long list of husbands, would I not? You already owe me loyalty—or have you forgotten that you knelt before me, the king, and the court, swearing your oath? Secondly, I have not kept Syrax in a Dragonpit for nearly five years, and I doubt she could fit in one now. And thirdly," she added, rising from her seat, "you speak as though I would join another house and live as part of it. My lord, not long ago, I reminded you of my pride in who I am and my dedication to my duties as the Princess of the Realm. I worry about how some lords seem to forget who they are speaking to. I am the future queen. I will not change my name for anyone. I was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I will die with that name."  

If Jason Lannister had a response, Rhaenyra didn’t stay to hear it. She went straight to her chambers, accompanied by Vaegon and Laena. She changed into light training attire, donned the armor that had belonged to Rhaenys—now a perfect fit—and headed to the training yard to burn off the energy and anger that had built up in mere minutes.  

Unbeknownst to her, Vaegon and Viserys were watching from the gallery as Rhaenyra sparred with Ser Erryk and Ser Luthor.  

"She turned him down, didn’t she?" Viserys asked.  

Vaegon nodded. "Did you think she would do otherwise?"  

"I thought that now, with a more mature mind and having grown accustomed to her duties as heir, she might have had a more sensible perspective."  

Vaegon chuckled, shaking his head. "But she *did* have a sensible perspective. Someone else in her position would have done far worse. Jason Lannister shouldn’t wear the lion on his chest—he should adorn himself with peacock feathers instead."  

"He could bring many advantages to her rule."  

"She no longer needs that. She will govern on her own merit. She has been educated and trained for this. Whoever marries her must be courageous enough and confident enough not to feel overshadowed by her."  

"And who would such a person be?"  

Age was clearly weighing heavily on Vaegon’s shoulders. "Viserys, sometimes I wonder if you ask foolish questions on purpose. You know who the most suitable candidate for Rhaenyra is. The one that makes the most sense."  

For a moment, Viserys seemed to collect his thoughts before shouting, "No!" Drawing the attention of those nearby. "I will never allow them to marry."  

"And why not?"  

"Daemon is chaotic—"  

"Rhaenyra is not so different, though both are the balance the other needs."  

"They wouldn’t work."  

"Or is it that you don’t *want* them to work? I’m warning you now: don’t stand between them. Neither of them is the impulsive child you think they still are. Rhaenyra is the Princess of the Realm, a formidable dragonrider, and a respected warrior, and Daemon is a war hero and the people’s beloved prince. They won’t tolerate petty games at their expense. And do us all a favor—stop encouraging other suitors. It was disgraceful."  

Vaegon walked toward the new Dragonpit, perhaps seeking solace and understanding from Maelyx to temper the frustration Viserys caused him.  

On days like these, especially after bonding with Maelyx, Vaegon often found himself reminiscing about other times—happier, more peaceful times when most of the king’s children could pursue their interests, and there were more than enough heirs. But since Baelon and Aemon had died, nothing had been the same.  

As he approached Maelyx, a sense of calm washed over him. It was a feeling he had not experienced in over twenty years—not since Viserra had walked the world. Viserra, who would have been thrilled to claim a dragon of her own, who would have wanted a beautiful, radiant dragon to match her beauty.  

If Vaegon had the power to turn back time… perhaps he would not have been so cowardly when she needed him most.

 

***

 

Rhaenyra stood before the tall mirror in her chambers, studying every detail reflected back at her. Laena stood beside her, her nimble fingers expertly working on the princess’s hair. She had devoted special care that evening, weaving an intricate braid that cascaded like a tangle of silver chains, adorned with small rubies that gleamed under the candlelight.  

“It’s perfect,” murmured Rhaenyra, lightly touching the braid that spilled over her shoulder.  

“Perfect isn’t enough,” replied Laena with a satisfied smile, adjusting one last jewel in the hairstyle. “Tonight needs to be unforgettable.”  

Rhaenyra nodded, the tension on her face betraying the serenity she tried to display. She wore a golden gown, the bodice decorated with delicate ruby embroidery that seemed to burn like embers. The black tulle overlaying the skirt fell in light layers, contrasting with the shimmering gold. Around her neck hung the necklace Daemon had gifted her years ago, and on her fingers, she wore several rings, most of them his gifts as well. On her head rested her crown as the Princess of Dragonstone, a constant reminder of the weight she bore.  

“You look beautiful,” Laena said, her voice filled with sincerity.  

“And so do you,” Rhaenyra replied, noting Laena’s navy-blue gown adorned with silver details that caught the light like the sea’s shimmer under the moon.  

Despite their mutual admiration, both women were anxious. Tonight was not merely a celebration of the victory in the Stepstones; it was also a test of alliances and a chance to reinforce Rhaenyra’s position as heir.  

The throne room was filled, buzzing with anticipation as Viserys, seated upon the Iron Throne, observed the guests with a mix of weariness and pride. Rhaenyra stood to his right, flanked by Vaegon, while Alicent, on the opposite side, attempted to maintain a graceful posture despite her obvious unease.  

Finally, the trumpets blared, and the herald’s booming voice announced:  

“Prince Daemon Targaryen, Commander of the City Watch, Prince of the City, Hero of the Realm, King of the Narrow Sea!”  

Rhaenyra felt her heart race as Daemon entered the hall, exuding his signature arrogant confidence like a living flame. Wearing a simple wooden crown, with Dark Sister at his waist and a rusty battle-axe in hand, he seemed as imposing as a dragon in flight.  

Daemon’s eyes locked onto Rhaenyra’s, and for a moment, the crowded hall vanished. In that eternal instant, only the two of them existed, each trying to convey what words could never express.  

When he stopped before the throne, he let the axe fall at Viserys’s feet with a resounding clang that echoed off the walls.  

“Add it to the chair,” he declared, his tone laced with irony.  

Viserys leaned forward slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Brother, I hear they call you the ‘King of the Narrow Sea.’ Do you consider yourself such?”  

aemon knelt, bowing his head in submission. “The men proclaimed me so after the death of the Crabfeeder. But I know there is only one monarch in the Seven Kingdoms.” He looked up, his gaze shifting to Rhaenyra. “And as a sign of my loyalty to the Crown and House Targaryen, I dedicate my victory and this title to the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen.”  

The hall erupted in murmurs. Rhaenyra, however, remained composed, her face a mask of calm even as a torrent of emotions swirled within her.  

“Very well,” sighed Viserys, breaking the silence. “Rhaenyra, step forward.”  

She descended the steps with measured strides, stopping before Daemon.  

“It’s been a long time, uncle,” she murmured, her voice tinged with controlled emotion.  

“Hello, zaldrītsos ,” he replied softly, his smile meant for her alone.  

Rising, Daemon cleared his throat before speaking. “I, Daemon Targaryen, dedicate the victory in the Stepstones to the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen. My fight was for you; my victory and my crown are yours as well.”  

“Thank you, Prince Daemon,” she replied with a slight nod, her voice steady and clear.  

Viserys descended from the throne and embraced his brother. “My brother has returned from war. Let us celebrate!”  

 

***  

 

The ballroom was a whirlwind of music and laughter as Rhaenyra skillfully navigated between dances and conversations. Her golden gown shimmered under the torchlight, making her the center of attention, though her thoughts remained restless, constantly drifting back to Daemon.  

Finally, as she danced with Ardryan Celtigar, Daemon appeared, gently tapping the young man’s shoulder.  

“Ardryan, would you excuse me to dance with my niece?”  

The young lord bowed and left. Daemon extended his hand to Rhaenyra, who accepted without hesitation.  

“You look different, niece,” he remarked as they began to dance.  

“And you as well, uncle. The war has changed you. Starting with your hair.”  

Daemon laughed. “ Yes, blood, sweat, and grime are harder to remove than you’d think. It got to the point where I couldn’t comb, braid, or tie it anymore. Cutting it was the only solution. Does it look bad?”  

Rhaenyra shook her head. “Nothing would look bad on you, uncle. This change makes you seem... more serious.”  

“And you seem stronger,” he said, studying her intently.  

“I had to be.”  

“Have you received more marriage proposals?”  

“Jason Lannister,” she replied, an ironic smile curving her lips.  

Daemon laughed, his hand at her waist tightening slightly. “I hope you sent the little lion scurrying back to Casterly Rock.”  

“In a way, yes.”  

As they twirled across the floor, Daemon leaned in slightly. “And now? Any idea who the lucky one might be?”  

“Someone who can stand by my side and not feel diminished if, at times, he seems to stand in my shadow. What man wouldn’t feel wounded pride at being called ‘Consort’ instead of ‘King’?”  

Daemon’s breath caught, but he found enough air to respond, “Point to the man, and he would fall at your feet, zaldrītsos. Any man would be too fortunate to call you wife and cherish you.”  

“For them I'm a mere prize, an achievement and, at worst, a womb that will pave the way for their children to become dragon riders. And I need more than that.” Rhaenyra gazed deeply into his eyes and, still in High Valyrian, whispered, “I am no longer a child. I cannot face the Greens alone. Let us unite our blood, as Aegon the Conqueror did with his sisters. With you as my husband and consort, my claim would not be so easily challenged. You and I are made of fire. We were always meant to burn together. Marry me, Daemon. You told me I must choose between burning and mending, and I choose to burn with you.”  

Daemon stopped dancing, the world around them disappearing. He held her face in his hands, his gaze locked on her silver eyes.  

“Give me one reason not to take you on my dragon right now and fly you to Dragonstone,” he replied, his voice low but laden with emotion.  

“I’d be rather disappointed. I put so much effort into preparing this reception. We even have a hunt planned for the last day of the festivities. But after that, I guarantee even Lord Beesbury would be relieved not to deal with another expense.”  

“If you’d conspired with me, I’d have said I’d prefer to have you exclusively on Dragonstone,” he answered.  

Rhaenyra smiled, with a sweetness that belied the intensity of her feelings. “Wait until the end of the week, uncle. I promise it will be worth it.”  

He tilted his head, the smile on his lips full of promise. “Then, by the end of the week, we will be one.”  

And in that moment, under the curious and distant gazes of the guests, they both knew they had found something unbreakable.  

Notes:

So, did you like it? 🤭
I spent a few days wondering if this chapter was good enough, but I also have to accept the purpose of this fanfic, right? Personally, I don't have the capacity to write anything too long, it's too time-consuming and my classes are starting again and I already have some deadlines to fulfil. So I'm very happy to be able to update the fanfic and see a light at the end of the tunnel.

Yes, the fanfic is much closer to the end, it should have another 6 or 7 chapters at most, I'm still working on the ending.

I have to say that the comments on the previous chapter were sensational!!! ❤️❤️ They were fundamental for me to adjust some things that I had already prepared.

Anyway, let me know what you think so far! 😍

P.S: I'd like to recommend the fanfic ‘Footnotes in History’ by
OneMoreChapter_2000 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/58177555/chapters/148132693), it was it that inspired me to insert Vaegon, and I have been enjoying following it.

Chapter 10

Notes:

Thank you so much for all your comments on the previous chapter, they were amazing, as always!

All dialogue in High Valyrian will be in italics.

 

 

That night, as the moonlight bathed Rhaenyra's chambers in silvery hues, the princess returned once again to the realm of dreams. A dense, almost oppressive mist enveloped everything around her, obscuring shapes and contours.

Before she could try to discern where she was, she felt a firm yet reassuring hand rest on her shoulder.

“I believe it’s been quite some time since we last spoke, princess,” said the familiar voice of Vermax, with a tone that seemed to carry a hidden jest.

Rhaenyra turned to him, surprised and relieved. “I thought you might have abandoned me,” she confessed. “The ritual…”

Vermax tilted his head slightly, his eyes glowing like ancient embers. “Ah, yes, the ritual. It’s not something we exactly encourage. Blood Magic carries a very dangerous threshold in its use. But then again, so does dragon riding, does it not?”

Rhaenyra lowered her gaze, a mix of shame and determination washing over her. “I didn’t know what else to do,” she admitted. “Viserys keeps trying to impregnate that Hightower worm. And I refuse to let that happen.”

Vermax’s laughter echoed, deep and enigmatic. “I know, child. But, as I told you in our first meeting, we haven’t seen magic this strong since Aerea. Perhaps you don’t know, but that ritual you performed was supposed to last only through that first pregnancy. Somehow, your blood was so powerful that Alicent Hightower’s womb will never again bear fruit with Targaryen blood.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes shot up, startled by the revelation. “So… the gods aren’t angry with me for the ritual?”

“Oh, please,” replied Vermax, a mysterious smile curling his lips. “If we were displeased, you would know. My absence was for an important, albeit simple, reason: You were, and still are, doing well. As for the ritual, while Visenya herself was quite engaged and, I must say, very talented with such magic, she understood there are limits and precautions.”

He gestured toward the misty scenery before them, and the fog began to dissipate. Rhaenyra followed Vermax’s gesture, watching intently. Slowly, the shapes became clearer, revealing a scene from a distant past. It was another memory of Visenya, but this time she was not alone. Beside her stood a man of robust build, around thirty years old, wearing dark armor with red and black details that glinted in the light of a large nearby fire.

 

“Maegor,” began Visenya, her voice firm but tinged with a rare note of concern, “there are limits to what can be done with Blood Magic.”

“Limits?” he replied, with a dry, disdainful laugh. “Mother, power knows no limits. It must be seized, shaped, and wielded by those strong enough to master it.”

Visenya crossed her arms, her eyes fixed on Maegor’s. “And it is precisely that blind belief that destroys kingdoms and families. Blood Magic demands a price, my son. And if you do not know when to stop, it will consume you.”

Maegor turned to face the flames of the fire, as if seeking answers within them. “I am not weak like the others. You yourself taught me that power is the only thing that matters, that only the strong survive.”

“I also taught you that true strength lies in balance,” she countered, stepping closer to him. “Power without control is merely destruction. You may win battles, but you will lose everything that matters if you do not learn to govern yourself before trying to govern others.”

A tense silence fell between them as the wind carried embers from the fire.

“I don’t need sermons, mother,” Maegor finally responded, his voice filled with frustration. “I know what I’m doing.”

Visenya sighed deeply, a shadow of sorrow crossing her face. “You think you know. But one day, you will see the price you will pay for your arrogance.”

 

The memory began to fade, like ink diluted in water, leaving Rhaenyra back in the nebulous realm.

“Would Maegor have been a good king if he hadn’t meddled so recklessly with Blood Magic?” Rhaenyra asked, breaking the silence.

Vermax shrugged, the glow in his eyes intensifying. “We cannot know. The young prince and cruel king did not understand the balance between strength, power, and authority.”

“And do I?” Rhaenyra asked, the doubt evident in her voice. She wasn’t certain if she was asking Vermax or herself.

Vermax’s deep laughter filled the space. “Better than we could have hoped, child. It will be a glorious sight to see you as queen.”

Rhaenyra lifted her chin, resolute. “I suspect I’ll have fewer problems without Viserys hindering my efforts.”

“Ah, undoubtedly,” Vermax agreed, a sly smile spreading across his face. “Despite Jaehaerys’ attempts to maintain stability, the truth is your father was never destined for the throne. These last ten years of his reign could have caused far more chaos and hindered all of our plans.”

He paused for a moment, studying Rhaenyra with an almost palpable intensity.

“I believe you’ll return to Dragonstone soon,” he said at last.

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon. “Regardless of what Viserys says, I will marry Daemon. There is no better suitor.”

“I agree,” said Vermax. “But if I may offer a small piece of advice moving forward, do your best to avoid too many sibling marriages. One of House Targaryen’s flaws has been its tendency to always turn inward. The blood of the dragon runs strong in you and Daemon. Let it flow through Westeros.”

Rhaenyra nodded, considering his words.

“One more thing,” Vermax added, leaning slightly closer. “You will need more dragon nests. Many more.”

And with that, he approached and placed a gentle kiss on Rhaenyra’s forehead, like a silent blessing. As he did, the mist around them began to dissipate, and Rhaenyra felt herself being pulled back into the waking world, her heart heavy with the revelations, yet burning with a renewed determination coursing through her veins like dragonfire.

 

***

 

The morning sunlight filled the King's private solar in the Red Keep, bathing the room in golden hues. The table was set with the finest breads, fresh fruits, and a selection of meats and cheeses. Rhaenyra, dressed in a light gown, rested with the elegance of someone bearing the weight of an unavoidable destiny. Beside her were Viserys, Vaegon, Daemon, and Alicent. Despite the appearance of calm, the tension in the air was as thick as the honey served at the feast.

Vaegon, always direct, broke the silence first. “Where is Laena?”

Rhaenyra lifted her gaze from the tea she had just sweetened. “She asked to go to Driftmark. She wanted to see her father and Laenor. I couldn’t deny her. After the festivities, she will go directly to Dragonstone.”

Viserys translated her words into the Common Tongue so Alicent could understand, and the Consort, always wearing a superficial smile, seized the moment. “I still find it improper that they did not come to pay their respects to the King.”

Rhaenyra kept her voice steady, but her tone was sharp. “Lord Corlys sent me a warm letter, and I believe that suffices. It’s understandable that he wishes to spend time with his wife before seeing the King. I cannot fault him for that—after all, I know of far more improper behaviors committed under this very roof.”

Vaegon, whose patience with Alicent seemed to dwindle daily, supported his niece. “Not to mention that this war was not funded by the Crown but mostly by Driftmark, with Dragonstone’s full support. If anyone has reason to feel slighted, it might be the Princess Heir, Lady of Dragonstone.” He glanced at Daemon and Rhaenyra. “Or is it just me, or have I repeated this exact phrase at least a hundred times this week alone?”

Viserys, eager to avoid further arguments, continued eating in silence while Alicent clutched her napkin in her lap with more force than necessary.

The Consort shifted the topic with a tense smile. “When do you plan to return to Dragonstone, Rhaenyra?”

“By the end of the week, milady. After the celebrations, I plan to take up permanent residence there for a time. There is much to be done now that the war is over.”

“I’m sure the finances and expenses will need thorough reviewing,” Alicent prodded, her sweet tone failing to mask her true intent.

Rhaenyra didn’t hesitate. “Don’t worry about that; everything is under control. Prince Vaegon, Maester Gerardys, and Lord Beesbury have formed an impeccable team to keep the coffers full and the trade between Dragonstone and the houses of Westeros running smoothly.”

“Rhaenyra flatters me; she has been a very diligent student. The North always welcomes her visits warmly. If everything goes as planned, we will see abundant harvests across all arable lands in Westeros. Our coffers are full, thanks to the Fourteen Flames,” Vaegon assured, clearly proud of Rhaenyra’s progress.

Since her realization that she must seize power as the future ruler, Rhaenyra had dedicated much of her time to understanding not only the challenges but also the strengths of each region in the Seven Kingdoms.

Daemon, until then silent, smiled with satisfaction and decided to interject. “So, does this mean I already have approval to start another campaign?”

“Don’t you dare,” Rhaenyra replied, and everyone at the table, except Alicent, laughed.

But the laughter didn’t last. Rhaenyra wiped her lips with her napkin and looked directly at her father. “I’d like to make an announcement.”

Viserys raised his eyebrows, curious and slightly apprehensive.

“I’m going to marry Daemon.”

The impact was immediate. Alicent choked on the wine she was holding, and Viserys nearly spilled his goblet. “No, you will not. I forbid it!”

“Forbidden?” Rhaenyra scoffed, as if hearing an order impossible to enforce. “Please. As everyone has been so keen to remind me over the past two years, I must marry. And who would be more appropriate than a prince of the realm to be my consort?”

Viserys stood abruptly, his voice echoing through the room. “Daemon has always craved the crown for himself! He’s a degenerate, incapable of controlling his thirst for blood and power.”

This time, Daemon couldn’t hold his tongue. “Don’t speak about me as if I’m not here—and worse, as if I’m some dog you intend to muzzle. I supported your claim to the Throne, even knowing how unfit you were for the role. I did so because you are my brother, and I would drive Dark Sister through my own chest before betraying my blood. But over the years, you’ve chosen to listen to Otto Hightower, preferring to believe the worst of me. You chose to bring that viper back into the Red Keep without considering the consequences for Rhaenyra. Every time I look at you, all I want to ask is, ‘What on earth are you thinking?’ Our father would be ashamed of you.”

“What’s the problem with speaking the Common Tongue? This damned way of communicating is barbaric,” Alicent muttered.

Though he had much to say about Alicent’s comment, Daemon ignored it and continued addressing Viserys. “I went to war to protect the realm—the same realm Rhaenyra will inherit. So don’t lecture me about a thirst for power, Viserys. Few have sacrificed as much as I have in the last fifteen years.”

Viserys, flushed with anger, retorted, “You’re seducing my daughter! That’s exactly what everyone would expect of you!”

Daemon laughed, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “If I were seducing her, you’d know it. I respect Rhaenyra deeply. And spare me your purist speeches. Our parents were siblings. Or have you forgotten? Aemma and you were first cousins. Or is that another fact you’ve conveniently chosen to ignore?”

Alicent murmured, almost to herself: “Targaryens and their queer customs…”

Vaegon rubbed his temples before replying coldly, “If I were you, milady, I’d keep such comments to myself. The affairs of House Targaryen are none of your concern, considering your disdain for our customs and even our language.”

“It’s unnatural. It goes against the Faith,” Alicent replied, attempting to maintain her composure.

Rhaenyra wasted no time. “As does breaking proper mourning periods. As does crawling into the bed of a widower. As does marrying under suspicious and hasty circumstances.” She leaned slightly forward, her voice laced with conviction. “I will marry Daemon by the end of this week. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

“Who’s rushing things now?” Alicent dared to retort.

Viserys looked defeated, gripping the arm of his chair tightly. “If you do this, I will disinherit you. I will exile you to Essos! You will leave in as much disgrace as Saera!”

Rhaenyra laughed, a bitter, defiant laugh. “Do it, if you wish to plunge the realm into chaos. No matter what you do, I will return with Fire and Blood. The gods chose me for a reason, and I believe it is to prevent the complete destruction of the House of the Dragon.”

Rhaenyra instinctively reached for the pommel of Silver Sister but remembered she had chosen to come without it.

“And besides,” she continued, relentless, “who will you place in my stead? Daemon? Vaegon? Some bastard I don’t know about? One of Aunt Saera’s children whom you just scorned? Not even your dear Alicent will be able to give you an heir, so what is the purpose here?”

“You two are my greatest headache!” Viserys shouted, pinching the bridge of his nose. Rhaenyra laughed.

“And you two are mine,” she replied, pointing to the King and his consort. Taking a deep breath, she switched to High Valyrian. “All I’ve witnessed in recent years is your hypocrisy. You say you want to strengthen my claim to the throne, yet you allow your consort to become pregnant. You say we must keep the House united, yet you scorn our history, our culture, and the traditions that have kept us standing until now. You call yourself Viserys Targaryen, but all I see is Viserys Hightower. You made your choices five years ago, just as I did. And I can’t help but wonder, Father, which of us will be able to live peacefully with what we’ve chosen?”

The silence was absolute, and when Viserys finally responded, his voice was weary. “Very well, live with your choices, Rhaenyra. But do not expect my blessing.”

“I didn’t come seeking it,” Rhaenyra replied, her tone regal. “I’m merely informing you so that you won’t be caught by surprise. Our wedding will be in the tradition of our house.”

“But a wedding must take place in the Great Sept, under the guidance of the Faith,” Viserys insisted.

Vaegon, exasperated, murmured, “As you may recall, the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, decreed by the Old King Jaehaerys, permits the continuation of Valyrian traditions in Westeros, provided they do not conflict with the law.” He glanced at Alicent with disdain. “And that includes marriage in the Faith of the Fourteen Flames.”

The room fell into another uncomfortable silence, and finally, Viserys merely shook his head in resignation. “Just get out of my sight.”

And that, Rhaenyra was more than satisfied to do.

 

***

 

Viserys’s chamber was immersed in a dim, minimally comforting light, illuminated only by the soft glow of candles casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Alicent Hightower entered quietly, her footsteps echoing lightly on the marble floor. She wore a green silk nightgown, carefully chosen to appear modest but with a subtle touch of seduction. The night was advanced, but the lady consort knew that Viserys’s fatigue could be an advantage, making him more pliable to her arguments.

Viserys sat in a chair near the hearth, his fingers slowly tracing the rim of a goblet of wine. The war in the Stepstones, the constant conflicts within the Small Council, and Rhaenyra’s most recent announcement had left their marks on his face; his body seemed heavier, his shoulders slumped under the weight of a realm in perpetual strife.

“You should rest, my king,” Alicent began softly, approaching Viserys with a gentle smile. She tilted her head slightly—a calculated gesture meant to convey concern and attentiveness.

Viserys raised his weary gaze to her and sighed. “Rest? With the realm on the brink of chaos? That is not something I can afford, Alicent.”

“You don’t have to bear it all alone,” Alicent replied, kneeling beside his chair and placing a delicate hand over his. “That’s what I am here for, to support you. Together, we can find solutions.”

Viserys regarded his wife for a moment, his gaze softening slightly in the face of the apparent devotion in her eyes. Alicent seized the moment of vulnerability and continued.

“I know you are worried about Rhaenyra and the future of the throne. We all know the danger of allowing Daemon access to such power,” she said in a low, almost whispered tone. “But, my love, there is another solution—something that could calm the lords and bring stability to the realm.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow, curiosity momentarily outweighing his exhaustion. “What solution is that?”

“An heir,” Alicent replied, her voice gaining an urgent edge. “A child of ours. A child who would unite the lords’ interests and strengthen your position as king. You know how they look at Rhaenyra—they question her ability to rule simply because she is a woman.”

The silence that followed was almost palpable. Viserys leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the flames as if seeking answers among the dancing firelight.

“Rhaenyra is my heir,” he said at last, his voice firm yet weary. “I gave my word to the lords of the realm. I cannot simply replace my word with political convenience. As comforting as it may be. She doesn’t see how manipulative Daemon can be.”

Alicent tightened her grip on his hand, her eyes pleading. “You’ve seen how the lords look at her,” she whispered. “Even those who swore loyalty hesitate. An heir of our blood could bring the peace we all desire. And... I wish to give you this gift, my king. A child who would be our strength, our hope.”

“You speak as if it were easy,” Viserys replied at last, his voice tinged with melancholy. “We have been trying for five years.”

Alicent lowered her gaze, biting her lip lightly, letting a moment of silence fall between them before responding. “I am strong. And I do this because I love you, because I want to protect you and the realm.”

Viserys seemed to wrestle with himself, torn between his loyalty to the promise he had made to Rhaenyra and the logic of Alicent’s arguments. He placed the goblet of wine on the table and cupped her face with both hands, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Do you think a child of ours would change anything?” he asked, his voice laden with doubt.

“I believe it would help,” Alicent answered, her tone sincere but laced with a faint trace of desperation. “The realm needs more than words. It needs a symbol of unity, something everyone can see and believe in.”

Viserys leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “Sometimes I wonder if I am cursed,” he murmured. “The war, the disputes, and now... this.”

“It is not a curse,” Alicent replied firmly. “Now, without the Stepstones weighing on your mind, we can turn this into an opportunity—to do what is right, to protect your lineage and your legacy.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Alicent knew she had planted a seed of doubt, but she also understood the need for patience.

“I will think on it,” Viserys said finally, releasing her face and leaning back in his chair. “But do not press me, Alicent. Not now.”

She nodded, accepting the small victory with a gentle smile. “I would never pressure you, my love. I only want you to know that I am here, for whatever you need.”

Alicent rose, leaning in to kiss his forehead before leaving the chamber. As the door closed behind her, her smile transformed into an expression of cold determination. She knew she had touched a sensitive chord in Viserys, and now it was only a matter of time before he yielded. After all, the game of power required patience—and Alicent Hightower was not about to give up now.

 

***

 

The final day of celebration for the victory in the Stepstones began with the typical commotion of a royal hunt. The sounds of neighing horses, lords' laughter, and the bustling of servants filled the clearing chosen for the event. Rhaenyra was positioned beside Daemon, both mounted on sleek, well-trained horses, as the rest of the group organized themselves.

Daemon cast an amused glance at his niece. "I hope you’ve rested well, zaldrītsos. Today will test your patience."

Rhaenyra adjusted her horse’s reins, flashing a playful smile in return.

 "With you around, uncle, my patience is tested daily."

They both laughed—a sound that, to any keen observer, carried a hint of complicity. Daemon leaned slightly in his saddle, his eyes glinting with something only she could understand.

 "Are you ready to show the lords who truly commands the dragon?"

"I always have been, Daemon. And you? Will you keep up with me, or would you rather remain in the shadow of the other heroes?"

Daemon chuckled, shaking his head.

"Never underestimate my willingness to pull you out of any shadow that dares obscure you."

With that, the two ventured into the woods, leading the group. The air between them was charged with anticipation. Rhaenyra felt Daemon's gaze on her with every step, as if he were assessing her every move, every decision.

The first sign of the stag came from one of the hunting dogs, and the group quickly dispersed in different directions, following tracks and clues. Rhaenyra and Daemon chose to explore a more remote area, away from the main commotion. The tall trees filtered the sunlight into golden beams, while the sounds of birds and rustling leaves created an almost mystical ambiance.

"You’re quiet, niece," Daemon remarked, guiding his horse closer to hers.

Rhaenyra sighed, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Sometimes, it feels like this peace is just a pause before the storm."

Daemon nodded, his features softening.

"Storms come and go, Rhaenyra. What matters is how we navigate them."

Rhaenyra smiled faintly. "You’ve clearly spent too much time with Corlys Velaryon."

Before he could respond, the sound of snapping branches drew their attention. The stag they sought appeared before them, majestic and imposing. Rhaenyra raised her bow but hesitated for a moment, gazing at the creature with an inscrutable expression.

"What are you waiting for?" Daemon asked, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"Just admiring," she replied, finally releasing the arrow with impeccable precision. The stag fell, and Daemon cast a proud look at his niece.

 "I never doubted you."

The return to the Red Keep was marked by a triumphant parade through the streets of King’s Landing. Cheered on by the crowd, Rhaenyra and Daemon rode side by side, their presence radiating authority and charisma. The streets teemed with vibrant citizens, tossing flowers and chanting the name of House Targaryen.

"It seems we’ve won more than just a war in the Stepstones," Rhaenyra murmured to Daemon.

"It’s the strength of fire and blood, niece. Always remember that."

When they finally reached the Red Keep, Viserys awaited them on the main balcony, flanked by members of the Small Council. The looks exchanged between Daemon, Rhaenyra, and the king were laden with meaning, but no words were publicly spoken.

That same night, as preparations for their journey were being finalized, Daemon found Rhaenyra in the gardens of the Red Keep. She was gazing at the stars, a contemplative expression on her face.
"Are you ready to leave all this behind?" he asked, approaching her.

"I’m not leaving anything behind, Daemon. It’s just a step forward."

He smiled, extending his hand to her.

"And I’ll be by your side, always."

"Always?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone slightly teasing.

"Until the gods decide otherwise," he replied, pulling her gently closer. "Ñuha gevie zaldrīzes."

Daemon gently cupped Rhaenyra’s face in his hands, feeling the softness of her skin beneath his fingers. Rhaenyra was the most beautiful thing his eyes had ever beheld. She was the hope that warmed his heart. The desire that ignited his soul. The other half of his own flame.

"I promise to take care of you," he said solemnly.

Rhaenyra smiled, covering his hands with hers.

"Stop talking and kiss me already."

Rhaenyra leaned in, her lips meeting Daemon's with an intensity that transcended words. The kiss was everything: a promise, surrender, love, and desire. Daemon wrapped his arms around her, holding her with the firmness of someone who had finally found his home.

The garden of the Red Keep faded into a blur of shadows and shimmering lights, leaving only the heat emanating from their bodies. Daemon's touch was firm and sure but also gentle, as though afraid she might vanish at any moment.

Rhaenyra let herself go, surrendering to the intensity of the moment. Her fingers slid down Daemon’s back, feeling the muscles beneath the thin fabric. There was something primal in the way he held her, as though she were both precious and entirely his.

The kiss deepened, slow at first, but soon gained an urgency that spoke of years of restrained desire. Their breaths mingled, the heat between them growing like the fire coursing through their veins. Daemon held her tighter, his hands finding her hips and pulling her closer still.

Rhaenyra’s heart pounded, echoing the frantic rhythm of her own. Her fingers found his short hair, running through it, feeling its unique texture as he tilted his head, exploring every nuance of the kiss as if he wanted to etch it into his memory.

When she pulled back for a brief moment, breathless, their eyes met, and no words were necessary. What passed between them didn’t need a voice; it was something older, deeper, transcending time and reason.

Daemon brought his lips back to hers, once again claiming her in a kiss that spoke of pure devotion. His hands moved up her back, resting on the curve of her neck, while her fingers gripped his shoulders, holding onto him as if he were her only anchor in a chaotic world.

Time seemed to stand still—or perhaps stretch infinitely—as they lost themselves in each other. The moonlight, a silent witness, bathed them in silver, reflecting the shine of their hair and the intensity in their gazes whenever their lips parted briefly, only to meet again with even more fervor.

The night wore on, but in that moment, for Rhaenyra and Daemon, the entire world consisted only of kisses, warmth, and a connection as deep as the dragon's blood they shared.

At first light the next day, they departed for Dragonstone, mounted on Syrax and Caraxes, their dragons soaring over the sea like powerful shadows. They paved the way toward a world that would once again change under the wings of the dragon.

___

 

Glossary: 

 

Ñuha gevie zaldrīzes. ” = My beautiful dragon.

Notes:

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Chapter resume:
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Chapter 11

Summary:

"I will never be able to claim that I was an honorable man, an exemplary follower of the laws, or a model citizen. But no one can say I have ever broken a promise sealed in my own blood. I am ashamed for having caused even more problems for you, zaldrītsos, and I am more than willing to seek my redemption by your side for the rest of my days."

Notes:

Thank you very much for all your comments on the previous chapter! The fanfic has already reached almost 700 kudos, I'm speechless...
I hope you enjoy this chapter! 💖💖

TW: This chapter has smut scenes.
All dialogue in High Valyrian will be in italics.

And please, read the end notes!!

 

 

 

Clearly, Rhaenyra was not the only one satisfied with the end of the conflict in the Stepstones. During the journey to Dragonstone, Syrax was showing off to Caraxes. She was almost as large as the red dragon, thanks to the new habit they had implemented of no longer chaining or keeping the dragons hidden.

Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor.

And ever since she had taken Vermax’s words to heart, Rhaenyra had only witnessed the flourishing of dragons on the island. Dragonstone had definitively become the home of dragons. Eventually, they would travel to King’s Landing, but none of them remained in the Dragonpit, and in Dragonstone, they could make their nests wherever they pleased. However, for the safety of the eggs, Rhaenyra and Vaegon had devised a plan to construct a new Dragonpit—this time open for their free movement, allowing them to come and go as they wished.

Their greatest pride had been the remarkable growth of Maelyx; in less than five years, he had reached a size suitable to take to the skies with Vaegon. It was proof of the gods' blessing, which had always been right under their noses.

When they arrived at the mount of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra took the lead and guided Caraxes, with Syrax’s assistance, to the new Dragonpit.

Upon dismounting, Daemon seemed quite surprised by the changes.
"You've been busy, zaldrītsos ," he praised.

"The goal was for them to be able to come and go freely while still keeping track of them and ensuring the safety of any new clutches. Besides, the dragonkeepers can still do their work without much trouble."

The two watched as the dragonkeepers removed the saddles from Syrax and Caraxes, allowing both dragons to rest. However, Rhaenyra and Daemon stood in admiration as the two dragons intertwined and chose a nest together.

"Well, they couldn't be more obvious," Daemon murmured, taking Rhaenyra’s hand and intertwining their fingers.

They walked a good part of the way in comfortable silence until Daemon broke it. "There's something I’m curious about."

Rhaenyra nodded, signaling for him to continue.

"How have you managed to avoid marriage until now? Don't get me wrong," he quickly added when Rhaenyra turned her attention to him as they walked across the bridge. "You are perfect, and that's precisely why I don’t believe the Lannister proposal was the first."

"I never said it was," Rhaenyra replied bluntly. "The first time Viserys brought up the subject, I had just turned seven-and-ten. He suggested I propose to Laenor..."

Daemon laughed, and Rhaenyra couldn't hold back her own laughter either.

"Yeah, I know. Even during the war, the gossip reached King’s Landing. And Laena confirmed a few things to me as well. At the time, Otto claimed he was the best possible candidate for me—not too close in the lineage to anger the Faith and not too distant to be completely unfamiliar with Targaryen customs."

"Otto said that?" Daemon seemed surprised.

Rhaenyra nodded. "Those were his exact words. But I already knew of Laenor's preferences, and though he is a formidable man, I believe he has enough challenges with Driftmark, just as I have my own, and I certainly don’t need more problems. If I married Laenor, the succession of two great Houses would be in question."

"Laenor is indeed a good man, he will be a great ally, but he will hardly carry the Velaryon legacy forward."

"I intend to support Laena’s claim as heir to Driftmark when the time comes. We haven't talked about it much, but we've come to a consensus that such a course of action will eventually be necessary."

"You have a knack for politics," Daemon pointed out.

"I have to. I refuse to be a toy in the hands of the lords." Rhaenyra stopped in the middle of the bridge and took the initiative to grasp Daemon’s hand. "And I refuse to be a pawn in my husband's hands as well."

Daemon looked from their entwined hands to Rhaenyra’s eyes.

"Do you not trust me, niece?"

"I want to be able to say that I trust you blindly, Daemon. And in some ways, I know I can." Rhaenyra sighed. "These past five years have given me more than just age; they’ve given me knowledge and insight into things a princess of the realm is supposedly not meant to know."

Rhaenyra stepped closer to Daemon, reducing the distance between their bodies—not as a gesture of seduction, but rather with the intention of lowering any barriers between them.

"Daemon, I trust that you would raise Dark Sister in my name and for my protection." She squeezed the hand she held. "But what guarantees me that you won’t have a replacement for Mysaria once we are married?"

Daemon seemed ready to respond, but she was quicker and continued.
"What guarantees me that you will not dishonor me as you did Rhea Royce?"

Daemon wrapped his free arm around Rhaenyra’s waist and brought his other hand to her face. "Rhea and I were never husband and wife, except in the eyes of the Faith of the Seven, and neither of us had any regard for an empty vow. Rhea had the blood of the First Men and limited respect for the Andals. And don’t get me wrong—she had even less respect for Targaryens, or at least for me. Old Jaehaerys knew this, my father and Viserys knew it all along."

"I will never be able to claim that I was an honorable man, an exemplary follower of the laws, or a model citizen. But no one can say I have ever broken a promise sealed in my own blood. I am ashamed for having caused even more problems for you, zaldrītsos , and I am more than willing to seek my redemption by your side for the rest of my days."

"You don’t need to promise so much, Daemon, we can—"

"I would not agree to marry you if I were not willing to do anything and everything for you, to be anything and everything you need me to be. I know these are just words for now, but allow me to spend our time proving every intention behind them."

 

***

 

When they arrived at the castle, Maester Gerardys and Elinda were waiting at the entrance.
"Daemon, Maester Gerardys is the new castellan of Dragonstone, and Elinda is the steward—do not get in their way, they track every problem," Rhaenyra joked.

"Your Highness, welcome back. I hope your time in King’s Landing was… less difficult," Maester Gerardys said, carefully choosing his words. Beside him, Elinda tried to hide a smile.
"Your Highness, Prince Daemon, I must say I was very pleased with the news of the war’s end. I am at your disposal should there be any need."

"Rhaenyra, the chambers you requested are ready. I also had the kitchens prepare a light meal. Oh!" Elinda suddenly exclaimed. "I believe Vaegon has arrived as well."

The four of them turned toward the approaching shadow that soon took the shape of the black dragon.

"Perfect. Thank you, both. But I need you to join us; there are some matters we need to organize, and I need your help," Rhaenyra informed them.

A few minutes later, Vaegon landed in the courtyard with Maelyx. "My boy still can’t keep up with you yet. Apologies for the delay," he said, stroking Maelyx’s neck and jaw.

"Soon he’ll be so large that you won’t be able to land here anymore," Rhaenyra commented.

Vaegon waved dismissively. "He will always be my little boy, won’t you? " He looked at Maelyx. "You can go to the Dragonpit, my dear."

Maelyx let out a sound as if in agreement. But to Daemon’s surprise, the dragon approached the group standing nearby and bowed his head toward Rhaenyra.

"Did you have a good journey, Maelyx? Good boy. I asked the caretakers to set aside a fine goat for you. Dreamfyre is eager to see you again."

After a few more affectionate strokes, Maelyx pulled away and took flight toward the Dragonpit.

Daemon was still staring at the scene in shock.

"What did I just witness?" he asked, stepping closer to Rhaenyra.

Vaegon, removing his riding gloves, smiled. "The dragon queen. That is what you just saw. We only managed to lure Vermithor and Silverwing out of their old cavern because of Rhaenyra. I must say, I’ve never seen that bronze beast so taken with anyone other than his partner."

"You make it sound as if I control them, but I merely allowed myself the opportunity to form a genuine bond. And you’re exaggerating—I had Laena’s help," Rhaenyra countered.

"Even so, it was a remarkable feat," Vaegon added.

"I assume Viserys knows nothing about any of this," Daemon said.

"Absolutely not. He was impressed with Syrax and Maelyx’s growth the last time he saw them, but he attributed it to the fact that they were no longer chained," Rhaenyra replied.

"Incredible."

Vaegon grinned. "Yes, yes, but now let’s eat. Someone pushed me out of bed before breakfast."

 

***

 

During the meal in the solar, illuminated by torches and the natural light streaming through the windows of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra raised her wine cup and announced calmly:
"I have something important to share. Daemon and I have decided that we will marry in two days."

The silence that followed was quickly broken by the sound of wine spilling from a jug as Elinda, who had been serving herself, let her hand falter.

"Two days?" she nearly choked on her surprise. "How are we supposed to prepare a feast in such little time?" Her expression was a mix of nervousness and determination, already mentally calculating the logistics of an appropriate banquet.

Rhaenyra smiled, setting her cup aside. "Do not worry, dear. It will not be an extravagant celebration. Just a banquet with those closest to us. I sent ravens to Claw Isle and Driftmark last night, so I believe our friends will arrive in time. It will be a small ceremony, conducted under the traditions of Old Valyria."

Maester Gerardys, who sat nearby adjusting his glasses, asked cautiously, "Then the King will not be attending?"

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened for a brief moment, but she maintained her composure. "No, Maester. This is not a union blessed by the current monarch, and that does not concern me. Our marriage will be legitimate in the eyes of our house and the traditions we uphold—nothing else matters."

Elinda still seemed uneasy but nodded. "If that is Your Highness’s wish, I will do my best to organize everything. A worthy banquet, even with the little time we have."

"Thank you, Elinda." Rhaenyra then turned to Gerardys. "Maester, I need you to arrange for the traditional garments. Consult Dragonstone’s Valyrian priest and see to everything needed for the ritual."

Gerardys inclined his head in a small bow. "Of course, Princess. I will begin preparations immediately."

Both rose from their seats and left the solar, their voices softly echoing down the halls as they discussed the necessary arrangements. Vaegon, who had been quietly observing, finished his cup of wine, set it on the table, and stood with a polite excuse.

"I’ll check on Maelyx and make sure he’s settled in the Dragonpit. Best to have everything in order before the guests begin arriving."

He cast a brief yet knowing glance at Daemon before taking his leave.

Now, alone in the room, the silence between Rhaenyra and Daemon was comfortable, filled with a palpable expectation. Daemon, still seated, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and casting a keen glance at her.

"And what shall we do in these two days?" His voice carried a provocative tone, the smile on his lips making it clear that he already had some ideas in mind.

Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, her chin slightly raised, as a smirk appeared on her face. "I can think of a few things."

Daemon stood up slowly, walking until he was behind her. His hands rested gently on her shoulders, his thumbs tracing slow circles at the base of her neck.

"We could start with a ride," he suggested, leaning in to murmur in her ear, his voice low and husky. "One last tour of Dragonstone before we become husband and wife."

"Last?" Rhaenyra laughed, tilting her head back to look at him. "It sounds as if you are predicting that I will be trapped for the rest of my days."

"Not at all, zaldrītsos," he retorted, smiling. "But after we marry, we will have other responsibilities... and other pleasures. And the gods curse me if I allow you to leave our chambers for less than a week."

Rhaenyra laughed, but the sound was light, almost restrained, as she felt warmth rise to her face. She turned slightly to face him, her eyes meeting his. The glint in Daemon's eyes was unmistakable—a mixture of intensity and provocation that made her heart beat faster.

"You speak as if I have no will of my own," she countered, her voice low but carrying a challenging edge.

Daemon leaned in closer, his presence dominating the space between them. "Ah, zaldrītsos, I know your will very well."

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on her lips. "Do you?"

He did not answer immediately, letting the silence stretch just enough to create an almost tangible tension. Then, with deliberate movements, Daemon rounded the chair and stopped in front of her, crouching to meet her gaze.

"Yes," he said simply, but there was something in the way the word left his lips—soft, yet laden with meaning.

Rhaenyra felt her breath falter for a moment. Daemon reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the side of her face, tracing a path down to her jaw.

"You reflect my own hunger," he continued, his voice low, almost a whisper. "And perhaps you are the only person in this world who can leave me speechless."

Rhaenyra blinked, momentarily surprised, but she quickly regained control. "That is almost impossible to believe," she teased, but her voice was softer now, and her eyes gleamed with emotion.

Daemon smiled, but this time there was no sarcasm, only rare tenderness. He was not the Rogue Prince—he was simply... Daemon. He leaned in even further, so close that their noses almost touched, and murmured, "So tell me, princess, what do you want now?"

Rhaenyra did not answer with words. Instead, she leaned forward, eliminating the small space that remained between them. Their lips met in a kiss that started soft, almost hesitant, but quickly deepened, becoming more intense.

Daemon’s hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer, while Rhaenyra’s fingers tangled in his short hair, holding him as if she feared he might disappear. There was something in her touch—a mixture of urgency and devotion—as if both wanted to capture this moment and keep it forever.

Daemon pulled Rhaenyra closer, allowing her to perch at the edge of her chair. He broke their kiss only to dedicate himself to a very specific spot between her neck and shoulder. Already dizzy from the wave of desire, Rhaenyra let her hands wander down Daemon’s back. When they kissed again, a shameless moan of pleasure escaped her lips just as she parted her legs, allowing Daemon to settle between them, further eliminating the remaining distance. Rhaenyra felt a tight knot in her stomach when his hips adjusted against her.

With clear effort, Daemon broke the kiss.

"Zaldrītsos, if we do not stop now, I will have no choice but to take you."

"Then take me, consume me," Rhaenyra whispered through the haze of desire. "Touch me, Daemon."

Daemon caressed the line between her waist and hips with care, then claimed her lips once more. At the same time, he slipped one hand beneath her skirts, which were not overly heavy but still had several layers. His hand explored the firm, defined curves of Rhaenyra’s body, the body of a dragonrider. She let out another blissful moan.

"You want them to hear us, don't you? You want them to know what we are doing in here, in broad daylight? I can make everyone hear your beautiful voice filled with pleasure, princess," he said, his fingers finding and beginning to stroke her most intimate place.

His fingertips teased back and forth over the soft, delicate folds of her sex, coaxing her heat… her wetness.

Rhaenyra kissed Daemon to muffle another moan. He took the opportunity to push a finger inside her, still caressing her tender petals with a slow, gentle touch. He was relishing every inch of her reaction, a sight that belonged only to him. Her breathing became increasingly erratic as she clung to Daemon, seeking something inexplicable.

Daemon leaned slightly and pressed his lips to the exposed skin of Rhaenyra’s neck, intensifying her sensitivity, while his fingers moved in and out of her at an unhurried yet steady pace, building her pleasure.

Feeling her growing wetness, he added another finger, teasing her… As she neared her climax, Rhaenyra pressed her open lips against Daemon’s, moaning and kissing him feverishly.

When they finally withdrew from each other, still wrapped in a haze of pleasure, both were breathless—Daemon, especially, as he now had an urgent need to return to his chambers.

 

***

 

The next day, the sun shone brightly over Dragonstone, illuminating the volcanic stone castle and its imposing towers. The first guests had already begun arriving on the island, sailing in ships that bore the sigils of their houses. The excitement was palpable, both inside and outside the castle. Servants hurried to ensure that the chambers were properly prepared and the feasts arranged with precision.

Rhaenyra and Daemon stood in the great courtyard of Dragonstone, a strategic position that allowed them to observe the guests as they disembarked. The wind played with their silver hair, and their posture reflected both royalty and familiarity.

The first to arrive was Lord Bartimos Celtigar, accompanied by his wife, children, and their respective spouses. Their banners fluttered behind them as they climbed the stone ramp, dressed for the occasion in vibrant colors. Harwin guided Prudence with great care, as she was already six moons pregnant, while Prunella was accompanied by her betrothed, Edward Bracken.

“Lord Bartimos,” Daemon greeted, stepping forward to welcome him. His voice was warm but carried a formal tone.

“Prince Daemon, Princess Rhaenyra,” Bartimos replied with a respectful bow. “What an honor it is to witness such a grand moment.”

“It is always a pleasure to receive you, my lord,” Rhaenyra responded with a smile. “Ser Ardyan, my congratulations on your knighthood, Ser. We are honored to have such a skilled warrior among us.” Her gaze briefly passed over Bartimos’ daughters, who curtsied shyly. “It is so good to see you again.”

The young women thanked her and stepped forward to embrace Rhaenyra.

“I am sorry to have kept Prudence away for so long, Your Highness, but she now prefers to be near her family,” Harwin said, looking at his wife with deep affection.

Rhaenyra dismissed his concern with a gesture. “Do not worry. As much as I wish my friend could be close, I would never wish anything less than happiness for you both. A raven from Martha arrived earlier—she sends her apologies for not coming. She is much further along now.”

After exchanging more pleasantries, the group proceeded inside the castle, where Elinda guided them to their quarters.

Not long after, it was time for the arrival of the Velaryons, whose presence was highly anticipated. Their ships, with sails adorned by the golden seahorse, stood out among the smaller vessels. In the skies, Vhagar loomed as the most imposing figure, accompanied by Meleys and Seasmoke.

When the family arrived in the entrance courtyard, Rhaenyra felt a surge of happiness.

“Corlys, Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra greeted them, descending the steps to welcome them personally. “It is a great joy to have you here.”

Rhaenys inclined her head slightly, a gesture that blended formality with warmth. “You look beautiful, Rhaenyra. There is no place more fitting for your union.”

“Thank you, Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra replied sincerely. She then turned to Laenor. “I am glad you came, cousin. I must personally congratulate you on your performance in the Stepstones, Ser Laenor.” She smiled.

“Thank you, cousin. How could I not come?” he teased. “You always know how to create a memorable occasion, and I had to see the Rogue Prince being tied down.”

Daemon stepped forward to greet Corlys, who had become a good friend. “I hope you have brought good winds with you, my old friend.”

“Good winds and good intentions,” Corlys replied with a smile. “I hope this union will be an omen of prosperity for the lands and seas of Westeros.”

That evening, the great hall of Dragonstone was illuminated by hundreds of torches and candelabras, casting not only light but also a comfortable warmth. The high table was adorned with fresh fruits, roasted meats, and wines from the finest vineyards of Westeros. Rhaenyra, dressed in a red gown with black detailing, and Daemon, in his usual ornate armor, entered the hall together, met with applause and acclamations.

As the feast progressed, Daemon raised his cup in a toast, a confident smile on his lips. “To our allies, our friends, and the union that will strengthen House Targaryen!”

His words were met with enthusiastic cheers, and Rhaenyra felt the weight of her position shift into something more—a sense of shared purpose and power.

 

***

 

The late afternoon in Dragonstone was wrapped in a reverent silence, broken only by the whisper of the sea wind and the distant sound of waves crashing against the volcanic rocks. The sky, clear and dotted with stars, seemed to bless the occasion. Torches lined the space, their flames flickering in shades of blue and gold, casting dancing shadows upon the black stone walls. At the center of the courtyard, an altar carved from obsidian gleamed under the firelight, displaying the image of a three-headed dragon—the eternal symbol of House Targaryen.

Rhaenyra was the first to appear, walking with the grace of a queen. Her dress was a tribute to Old Valyria, crafted from black silk adorned with golden embroidery that mimicked rising flames. Each step made the long train of her gown glide like a river of darkness touched by fire. Her silver hair, loose yet partially gathered in intricate braids, shimmered in the torchlight, and the golden rings decorating the braids chimed softly with her every movement. She carried Silver Sister at her waist, a reminder of her heritage and the strength of her lineage. Though her eyes were fixed on the altar, she could feel the weight of the guests’ gazes upon her.

The sound of immense wings filled the air, and all present looked up as Caraxes swooped down into the upper courtyard of the castle. The long, red dragon roared, announcing Daemon’s arrival. He dismounted with fluid grace, clad in a black tunic adorned with a scarlet pattern of intertwined dragons, a heavy cloak resting upon his shoulders. Dark Sister was sheathed at his waist, and his short silver hair gleamed under the torchlight. He walked toward the altar with a smile that blended confidence and serenity, his eyes never leaving Rhaenyra.

When they stood side by side, the Valyrian priest began the ceremony. Dressed in a silver robe that shimmered like scales under the torchlight, he chanted ancient hymns in High Valyrian, words that seemed to resonate with the very essence of fire. The verses spoke of the union of flames, the strength of blood, and the eternity of dragons. Upon the altar rested a Valyrian steel blade, forged for ceremonies such as this, and a goblet of black obsidian.

Daemon and Rhaenyra extended their hands, and the priest made small cuts on their palms with the blade. Blood dripped into the goblet below. The priest raised the goblet, proclaiming that the fire and blood of House Targaryen would be united that night, sealing an eternal bond. Both drank from the blood mixed with wine, a tradition symbolizing not only the union of their bodies but of their very existences.

Then, the priest declared the vows. Daemon spoke first, his voice firm and laden with emotion. He vowed to protect, honor, and love Rhaenyra, declaring that she was his flame and his strength. Rhaenyra responded, her voice soft but filled with determination, promising the same to Daemon and affirming that their souls were intertwined like the flames of their dragons.

At the end of the vows, the priest lifted the blade once more and joined their bloodied hands, declaring them husband and wife before the old gods and the fire that would never be extinguished. As soon as the proclamation was made, a deafening roar echoed through the sky. Syrax and Caraxes, who had remained close to the courtyard, along with the not-so-small Maelyx, Dreamfyre, Meleys, and Seasmoke, took flight together, their shadows casting over the guests as they unleashed bursts of fire into the air—a spectacle of light and heat that left everyone in awe.

As the dragons danced in the skies, the guests raised their goblets in acclamation. Daemon and Rhaenyra turned to face them, their hands still joined, their gazes locked onto each other. There was something in their posture—the confidence of Daemon and the determination of Rhaenyra—that made it clear they were ready to face any challenge together.

After the ceremony, the feast was served in the great hall of Dragonstone. Music filled the space, and laughter and toasts echoed as the guests celebrated the union that promised to strengthen House Targaryen. Despite the merriment around them, Daemon and Rhaenyra remained close, their hands frequently touching beneath the table as if needing to assure each other that this moment was real.

That day, the House of the Dragon did not simply celebrate a wedding. They rekindled a flame that promised to burn brightly for generations.

 

***

 

Even though the festivities were enjoyable for the newlyweds, it came as no surprise to anyone when Daemon and Rhaenyra disappeared from the hall. Night had already settled over Dragonstone. The castle, illuminated by torches that cast dancing shadows on the black stone walls, seemed like a sanctuary, sheltering the newlyweds as they retreated to their private chambers.

Daemon and Rhaenyra walked together down the corridor, their hands entwined, fingers brushing softly in silent intimacy. Their steps echoed across the stone floor, accompanied only by the distant sound of music still resonating in the great hall, where guests toasted and laughed. But for them, the outside world no longer mattered. They had been united under the flames of Valyrian tradition and now belonged to each other.

As they passed through the great wooden doors of the chamber, Daemon closed them behind him, locking the world outside. The room was bathed in a warm golden glow, illuminated only by candles burning silently in iron holders. A large fireplace crackled in the corner, casting soft shadows over the sturdy furniture and the vast bed adorned with crimson silk sheets.

Daemon paused for a moment, simply watching Rhaenyra as she approached the fire. The flickering light danced over her figure, accentuating the shine of her silver hair cascading over her shoulders. The black gown adorned with golden details seemed an extension of her aura—majestic and yet vulnerable.

He stepped closer, stopping behind her. His hands rested gently on her shoulders, and she tilted her head slightly, closing her eyes as she felt the warmth of his touch. Daemon moved his fingers, tracing a slow, reverent path down her arms until he reached her hands. He intertwined his fingers with hers and pulled her gently closer.

“Ābrazȳrys,” he murmured, the word flowing from his lips like a whisper. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys.”

Rhaenyra opened her eyes and turned to face him, the heat in her gaze mirroring the fire itself. She raised a hand, touching his face lightly, tracing the line of his jaw until her fingers rested at the side of his neck.

“Daemon,” she responded, her voice low and laden with emotion. “Kiss me.”

He smiled—a smile both tender and passionate. Without another word, he leaned in and captured her lips in a kiss that began soft, almost hesitant, but quickly deepened into something more urgent, more consuming. His fingers slid to her waist, pulling her closer, while Rhaenyra’s hands tangled in his short hair.

Only them, lost in each other, engulfed in a passion that burned as intensely as the fire coursing through their veins. Daemon’s hands explored every curve of Rhaenyra, while his lips traced a reverent path from her neck to her collarbone.

Rhaenyra pulled him even closer, their breaths merging into a ragged rhythm. She felt every touch as if it were a flame against her skin, a gentle force surrounding her, burning in anticipation. When he lifted her into his arms, she felt weightless. He carried her to the bed, laying her down with a tenderness that contradicted his reputation as a fierce warrior.

They shed their clothes with almost ceremonial slowness, as if unveiling not just their bodies but their very souls to one another. Every movement was accompanied by intense gazes, soft kisses, and whispered words in High Valyrian—words of love, promise, and eternity.

Daemon traced every line of Rhaenyra’s body with his fingers and lips, as though he had found a rare treasure. And Rhaenyra reciprocated with equal devotion, exploring every scar and every curve of her husband, committing each detail to memory.

There was no rush, only a shared desire to lose themselves completely in each other.

Daemon held his breath as Rhaenyra finished unzipping his trousers and freed his throbbing erection. Groping, she massaged the entire hardened length from top to bottom, lingering deliciously and frustratingly on the movement.  She entwined her legs around Daemon's waist and surprised him by turning round and getting on top. Still holding his hands, she lowered her head and ran her tongue over the tip of his member.

“You're going to kill me on our first night.”

Rhaenyra's shoulders shook with a soft laugh, but she didn't stop, she continued the caress, until Daemon's hips jerked and he muttered something intelligible in high Valyrian. When she raised her head, he was staring steadily at her, and maintaining eye contact, she licked him again.

“By the gods.”

Rhaenyra rose up on her hips, with one hand resting on Daemon's abdomen, and with the other she grasped his member and guided it into her own intimacy, first feeling the wetness, as well as a frantic pleasure at realising that Daemon was controlling himself. Little by little, she guided him inside her. Testing, teasing, prodding.

She moved a little, feeling his hardness slip deliciously into her, forcing her softest and most sensitive places, but bringing with it a feeling of almost divine power. Rhaenyra sat up little by little, allowing herself to get used to the reception, and establishing her own rhythm.

Slowly and gently at first, she moved her hips, while Daemon kept his hands on her hips and let her dictate her own limits.

“Now can I say I ride two dragons?” Rhaenyra whispered, bringing her face close to Daemon's, while keeping his arms pinned to the bed with her hands.

“Rhaenyra…”

“I'm loving every inch of you inside me, valzȳrys.”

With an urgent movement, Daemon straightened his back, holding Rhaenyra's hips in place, and if it was possible, glued their bodies together even more, there wasn't a patch of skin that wasn't in contact with each other.

Rhaenyra intensified her movements, feeling the same urgency as Daemon, as he encouraged her to go faster. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, like flames intertwining, burning with an almost unbearable intensity.

Daemon wrapped his arms around Rhaenyra, squeezing her so tightly that she didn't need to strain to hear his heartbeat, which mirrored her own.

___

 

Glossary: 

Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor = A dragon is not a slave.

Ñuha ābrazȳrys = My wife.

Valzȳrys = husband.

Notes:

So, did you like it? Smut isn't really my style, but I think it turned out reasonably well.

I need your help, could you suggest/recommend actors or actresses who might have Valyrian traits?
Thanks a lot!

Chapter 12

Notes:

I hope you enjoy this chapter! 💖💖

TW: This chapter has smut scenes.
All dialogue in High Valyrian will be in italics.

 

 

Daemon kept his promise and kept Rhaenyra within their chambers for nine days straight until she deceived him and escaped to the training yard.  

She was still adjusting some of the buckles on the armor she had chosen to wear that morning. She hadn’t been able to take Rhaenys’s armor pieces, so she had opted for something simpler and quicker to put on.  

On her way, she encountered Laena, who was wearing a mischievous smile.  

“I thought you’d last at least ten days,” she teased, raising an apple to her cousin, who accepted the fruit and took a large bite. “I’m surprised he finally let you out of bed.”  

“He didn’t,” Rhaenyra laughed. “I left him sleeping, and if I’m lucky, I’ll get to train for half an hour before he shows up.”  

Near the arches of the training yard stood Maester Gerardys.  

“Good morning, Your Highness. A raven arrived from King’s Landing.”  

“Oh? What news do we have this time?” Rhaenyra said, reaching for the letter.  

 

Let it be known throughout Westeros.

I, Viserys Targaryen, First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, hereby declare:  

Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Lady of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne, is banished from King’s Landing for a period of three years as punishment for contracting marriage without the King’s authorization.  

The princess is relieved of her duties to the Small Council, just as Prince Daemon is relieved of his role as Commander of the City Watch.  

May the Seven be with you.  

 

“That little shit! Who does he think I am? A petulant child? This reeks of Otto and Alicent. Fuck!”  

As she shoved the crumpled letter into one of her pockets, Rhaenyra discarded the rest of the apple, her appetite entirely gone. The weight of Silver Sister grew more evident at her hip.  

“Prepare a raven. I will send the King a reply today.” She addressed Gerardys curtly and made her way to the training yard.  

Anger burned within her like an unyielding fire.  

Three years.  

Three years banished from King’s Landing, exiled from her own court, stripped from the center of power that should rightfully be hers. All because she had the audacity to choose herself, to choose Daemon. All because she dared to be more than just a piece in her father’s foolish game.  

She stopped in the center of the yard, taking a deep breath. The scent of iron, sweat, and leather filled the air, mixed with the salty breeze carried by the wind. The ground was dark stone, scarred with old cracks and stains from past training sessions. The space was vast, surrounded by high walls that shielded against the strongest winds but did little to muffle the sounds of clashing steel and quick footsteps.  

“Good morning, Ser,” she greeted her sworn shield.  

Ser Erryk inclined his head slightly. “Good morning, princess. Have you come to sharpen Silver Sister?”  

Rhaenyra laughed. “You know very well she never dulls.”  

She said nothing more as she drew the sword from its scabbard. The Valyrian steel gleamed under the soft, overcast light—a blade so sharp it seemed to cut through the air itself. Ser Erryk observed her with a measured gaze, adjusting the grip on his own sword before tilting his chin in a silent invitation.  

Rhaenyra was the first to move.  

She lunged swiftly, Silver Sister arcing toward Erryk’s left flank. He raised his blade at the last moment, parrying the strike with a metallic clang that echoed through the yard. The impact reverberated through Rhaenyra’s arms, but she didn’t falter—she stepped back and struck again, a precise downward slash.  

Erryk sidestepped, forcing her to rethink her next move. But she had already anticipated this. As soon as he shifted away, Rhaenyra flicked her wrist and slashed upward, aiming for the exposed ribs. He blocked by instinct but was forced to retreat two steps.  

A brief smile crossed Rhaenyra’s lips.  

Erryk acknowledged her improvement. She was faster. More relentless. More precise.  

This time, he took the offensive.  

The strike came fast—a direct thrust toward her abdomen. Rhaenyra lifted her blade and deflected the blow, pivoting smoothly to avoid the counterattack. But Erryk wasted no time—he stepped in, using the weight of his body to push her back.  

Rhaenyra slid over the stone floor but held her balance, immediately swinging a lateral strike that forced Erryk to withdraw. She didn’t give him space to recover.  

She pressed forward again.  

This time, she attacked unpredictably—a descending slash followed by a feint to the side, then a powerful lunge. He raised his sword to block, but the force of the impact drove him back once more.  

They circled each other like predators testing their opponent, Silver Sister slicing through the air at speed. The steel gleamed in precise, razor-sharp movements—a deadly dance between master and apprentice, between instinct and refined technique.  

Rhaenyra’s breathing was fast but controlled. Sweat began to form on her forehead, trailing down her temples, but she ignored the discomfort.  

Erryk delivered a sweeping strike from the side. Rhaenyra caught the motion and reacted instantly—ducking at the last second and spinning swiftly. Before he could recover, the tip of Silver Sister was already at his throat.  

The wind swept through the yard, stirring her hair as they remained still for a moment, only their heavy breaths filling the silence between them.  

At last, Erryk raised an eyebrow and lowered his sword.  

“Again,” Rhaenyra commanded, her voice firm, cutting.  

This time, Erryk attacked first. He was quick, skilled with the longsword, moving with the precision of a seasoned knight. He attempted a thrust toward Rhaenyra’s flank, but she dodged, pivoting on her heels and parrying the blow with ease. Silver Sister slid against his blade with a sharp ring of steel against steel.  

Rhaenyra unleashed a rapid succession of strikes, varying their direction—from above, from the side, unexpected thrusts. She wanted to pressure him, to break through his defense, to find an opening.  

Erryk parried each attack, stepping back slightly with every exchange. But then, in the midst of their clash, he did something unexpected—rather than blocking her next strike, he diverted Silver Sister to the side with a precise maneuver and closed in at once.  

She felt herself being forced back, her feet skidding over the stone.  

They fought like this for nearly an hour, both exhausted by the end.  

“Well fought, princess.”  

Still panting, Rhaenyra lifted her chin and lowered Silver Sister.  

“If I may be bold, anyone who saw you like this would swear you were preparing for war.”  

Rhaenyra scoffed. “Apparently, that’s exactly where they want to drag me, Ser Erryk. Thank you for today’s training. You are dismissed.”  

With a final bow, her sworn shield left the yard.  

Rhaenyra realized she was still furious—only exhaustion had stopped her from raising Silver Sister again. Still frustrated, she made her way toward the beach.  

From afar, she spotted Dreamfyre and Maelyx near the shore. Despite Maelyx coming from Vhagar’s clutch, Dreamfyre had seemingly taken the small hatchling under her care, developing a maternal bond with him.  

Maelyx noticed Rhaenyra approaching and began to spread his wings, making her chuckle. The little dragon was always eager to play and be doted on. Dreamfyre, on the other hand, though willing to leave the Dragonpit to enjoy the island with Maelyx, still preferred seclusion.  

A few moments later, Syrax arrived on the beach, surprisingly without Caraxes.  

“Hello, my dear. Did you miss me?” Rhaenyra said, stroking her golden lady’s jaw.  

Syrax huffed, her breath hot against Rhaenyra’s face.  

“You don’t need to show me that you just ate.”  

Together, Rhaenyra and Syrax sat on the sand. Nestling close to her dragon’s wings, Rhaenyra retrieved the crumpled letter from earlier.  

“I’m so tired of this…”  

“If you had stayed in our chambers with me, this exhaustion would certainly be more satisfying.”  

Rhaenyra smiled as Daemon approached. He wore brown leather trousers and a loose white shirt, as if he had dressed in a hurry.  

“My bones were beginning to grow fragile from the lack of sunlight,” Rhaenyra quipped, standing up.  

“Then walk with me.”

Hand in hand, Daemon and Rhaenyra began a slow walk along the shores of Dragonstone. Daemon, ever so subtly, used his thumb to gently caress Rhaenyra’s hand—a delicate gesture of support and affection.

“So, I heard that Viserys sent a letter…” he began.

“He sent a proclamation. By now, all of Westeros must have their own copy, stating that the rebellious Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen ran away and married the roguish and seductive Prince Daemon Targaryen, and for that, she will be grounded for the next three years,” Rhaenyra replied, handing the crumpled paper to her husband.

Husband. Rhaenyra surprised herself with the thought. Still, she continued, “He made me sound like a spoiled child, a reckless—”

“A love-struck princess?” Daemon suggested. “I don’t know about you, but I take great pride in being a seductive Rogue. Now they can call me the Rogue Consort.”

Rhaenyra playfully slapped Daemon’s arm, making him laugh as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Look, my love, we could let them believe this was an impulsive act, a reckless decision…” Daemon began, pulling Rhaenyra closer, this time turning her so she would look into his eyes. “Or, my dear wife, we could make them all believe in the most beautiful and sincere love between us. We already know it’s real, but they don’t.”

“But what will happen to your beloved nickname, ‘The Rogue Prince’? People might start calling you ‘The Smitten Prince’ instead.”

“Nicknames can be overrated sometimes… But we can make them work in our favor. How does this sound to you? ‘The Rogue Prince is utterly enthralled by the Realm’s Delight.’ I can make sure that reaches King’s Landing before sunset.” Daemon raised a hand to cup Rhaenyra’s face.

“We can’t go…”

Daemon chuckled. “I didn’t mean us, but words can travel just as fast.”

Daemon pressed soft kisses to Rhaenyra’s face.

“And besides,” more kisses, “Vaegon, ” more kisses, “Laena,” more kisses, “Elinda,” more kisses, “none of them are banned from the capital—only the two of us. And I can think of an absurd amount of obscenities we could try.”

Rhaenyra laughed. “It is impossible that all you ever think about is getting me into bed.”

Daemon stole a kiss, his fingers already trailing toward the ties of Rhaenyra’s tunic.

“You wound me deeply,” her husband tried to sound offended. “I think about the bed, our divan, your council table, our couch by the window, and…” Daemon leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, “even this very beach.”

Rhaenyra grabbed a fistful of Daemon’s shirt and pulled him closer.

Daemon’s hands found the ties of the armor pieces Rhaenyra was still wearing, his deft fingers undoing them all in a matter of seconds.

“D-Daemon, if someone sees us, we—”

“The morning training is already over, the guards are in the barracks at this hour. And besides, Laena will make sure everyone stays away from here.”

“Daemon! You're the worst!”

“Nyra, who are you kidding? Your voice must have reached the old Dragonpit since our first night.”

Daemon unzipped Rhaenyra's trousers, not taking long to work his way down to the warmth of her pussy.

“If the idea of fucking me on a beach wasn't so appealing, you wouldn't be this wet, princess.”

Daemon bent down and helped Rhaenyra out of her trousers. And without much ceremony, he lifted one of the princess's legs and placed it over his shoulder while paying special attention to the soft spot between his wife's feathers.

“Daemon, no…” Rhaenyra complained.

He stopped for a moment and looked up. “No, what?”

Rhaenyra found that sight, Daemon on his knees, with his head between his legs, in the open air, the most erotic thing she had ever seen in her life.

“I-I've been training, I'm sweaty, I-I aahhh.”

The words were diluted into moans and gasps as Daemon thrust incessantly.

Just as he felt himself reaching climax, Daemon stopped and stood up, only to take off his own shirt and spread it on the sandy beach.

There, in the radiant sunlight, Rhaenyra saw in extreme detail all the battle scars, including some of the burns on Daemon's torso. She had seen them all before, but there, each one seemed to stand out.

“What is it?” Daemon asked, noticing his wife's lost look. “Rhaenyra?”

“Promise me you'll never put your life at risk” She asked, and Daemon gently made her lie down on his shirt.

“I can't promise that, zaldritzos, I'd put myself in the way of a sword without a second thought if it was to protect you and our family.”

“Our family?” 

Daemon smiled, starting to spread kisses over Rhaenyra's lap, shoulders and neck. “Yes, we're our own little family now, and given our intense dedication, I wouldn't be surprised if we grew up soon.”

“Do you want to see me pregnant?”

Daemon became more serious with the question, although Rhaenyra didn't ask as if she was offended or anything.

“I just want what you want. If you say it's not time to have children, we won't have them. You're my immediate priority.”

Rhaenyra grabbed Daemon by the shoulders and lifted him up for a kiss.

“And I want you to put a baby in my belly, Daemon, make a child in me. I want one that's identical to you, so that everyone in Westeros, Dorne and the Free Cities can't doubt for a moment how well you know how to fuck me.”

Even in such light, Rhaenyra could no longer see the violet colour in Daemon's eyes; if she could describe it, it would only be lust and pleasure.

Daemon entwined Rhaenyra's legs around his torso and supported her weight with his knees and forearms as he sank into the softness of his wife's warmth.

And in the end, Daemon was right, Rhaenyra really did love the idea of making love to her husband on the beach.

And yes, Laena Velaryon had set up a subtle barricade at the edge of the training yard that led down to the beach, and any prying eyes stayed away from the lovers' nook.

 

***

 

Later that same day, Rhaenyra and Laena were seated on the newly renovated eastern balcony of Dragonstone, a place they had chosen for its privacy and breathtaking view. There, away from the busier areas of the castle, they could gaze upon the new Dragonpit, which rose majestically in the distance, and a meadow that, though modest, painted the island with strokes of green and gold beneath the setting sun. The wind carried the scent of the sea mixed with the aroma of the herbs growing in the gardens, and the warm tea in their hands offered a silent comfort.

Laena leaned back in her chair, absentmindedly playing with the thin gold chain hanging from her neck. “I heard the townsfolk want to organize a festival to honor the new lords of Dragonstone,” she remarked, watching her friend from the corner of her eye.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “An excellent idea. A shame that Prudence and Martha won’t be able to attend, but who knows? Maybe we’ll start an annual tradition here.”

Laena smiled at the thought. “A festival of dragons, to mark the rise of a new era.”

“Exactly.” Rhaenyra set her teacup down on the table and crossed her legs. “Speak with Elinda and go over the details. Now that the war is over, we can start holding a series of small festivals and markets as well. Let’s bring some life to this island.”

As much as she enjoyed discussing lighter matters with Laena, her mind was still weighed down by other concerns—more serious matters that needed to be addressed. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and shifted the tone of their conversation.

“Have you given more thought to what we discussed regarding Driftmark?”

Laena paused for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. A weight settled over her shoulders, for she already knew where this conversation would lead.

—

“You cannot be suggesting that I take my brother’s birthright, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra sighed, having anticipated this reaction. “It’s not taking something that he will neither be fit nor willing to bear.”

“Laenor is still the rightful heir.”

“For now,” Rhaenyra countered, her voice gentle but firm. “You yourself have said that he cannot lie with a woman.”

“But he might change.”

Rhaenyra leaned in slightly, taking her cousin’s hands in hers. “And do you truly believe that?”

Laena did not answer immediately.

“I adore Laenor,” Rhaenyra continued, her tone sincere. “He is an honorable man, deserving of recognition and respect. But we both know that this duty placed upon his shoulders could destroy him. And drag Driftmark down with him.”

Laena pressed her lips together, hesitant. “Our father would never allow it.”

Rhaenyra huffed, releasing her cousin’s hands and leaning back once more. “Corlys is a formidable man, but there are things beyond his control. And in this case, I would not allow such a tragedy to unfold.”

A silence fell between them, the only sound being the wind softly blowing around them.

Rhaenyra exhaled before continuing. “When the time comes, we will need to make a decision. And I will support whatever choice you make.” Her eyes gleamed with determination. “What matters is that you have my backing as the heir to Driftmark.”

Laena traced her fingers along the tabletop, deep in thought. “And if Laenor wishes to claim the title for himself?”

Rhaenyra smirked with cunning. “Who has a dragon?”

Laena let out a short, weary laugh, but the truth behind her cousin’s words was undeniable.

—

Here, Laena was more at ease.

“Monterys and I have spoken at length,” she said, holding the edge of her cup delicately. “We both understand the situation. He knows that, within our family, my father and Laenor would be the only ones to support me. My mother, despite her loyalty to me, is still Rhaenys Targaryen.”

Rhaenyra offered a small smile. “So, you’ve come to an agreement.”

Laena nodded. “We get along very well. He understands that I desire the freedom to travel, to accompany you in matters of the realm, and to fly Vhagar whenever I please. And he wishes to care for our House. It is an alliance that could work.”

Rhaenyra touched Laena’s fingers gently. “If you need more time to think, don’t feel as though you’re being pressured.”

Laena scoffed, rolling her eyes. “No, don’t misunderstand me. Monterys is a handsome man—this is no loss for me.” A mischievous smile played on her lips. “But I want you to promise me something, Nyra.”

“Anything.”

Laena leaned a bit closer over the table. “If any of my children wed within House Targaryen, you will allow them to try and claim a dragon.”

Rhaenyra went still for a moment.

It was no secret that, over the years, she had carefully established a monopoly over who could have access to dragons. She had grown increasingly selective, ensuring that only those who bore the Targaryen name could claim them. Laena and Laenor had received eggs by mere happenstance. Later, Laena had been able to claim Vhagar, but that had been a stroke of luck, not a right granted deliberately.

Now, Laena was challenging her to make an exception.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath and nodded.

“If any of your children wed one of mine, they will have the right to attempt to claim a dragon—whether from an egg or by trying their luck with a grown one.” She met Laena’s eyes directly. “You have my word.”

Laena took her cousin’s hand and squeezed it, a gesture of gratitude.

Even though they often disagreed, Laena knew she could trust Rhaenyra. Deep down, she thought it unfair to restrict dragons—creatures that, by their nature, were free. But she also knew that if she were in her cousin’s place, her own father would have done far worse. If it were up to Corlys, even his own daughters would be forbidden from attempting to claim a dragon.

And this gesture of trust from Rhaenyra meant more than just an agreement between cousins. It was a vow of loyalty. And Laena, as always, would return it.

 

***

 

Rhaenyra had thought that spending the day alongside Daemon, having tea with Laena, and interacting with the island’s inhabitants would bring her some peace, that it would dissipate the fury burning in her chest since she had received Viserys’ message. For a few hours, she had deceived herself into believing that the warmth of affection and conversation could extinguish the fire of rage within her. But it did not.

That feeling did not disappear. It was merely tempered, fed with patience, and cultivated so that it would never be fully extinguished. Years of court life had taught her to tame her anger, to keep it under control, to smile when she felt like spitting fire. But not tonight. Not after the humiliation her father had inflicted upon her.

Daemon felt his wife’s absence before even opening his eyes. When his hand found the cold, empty space beside him in bed, he knew she was not in their chambers. He knew her too well not to know where to find her.

Rhaenyra was not standing before the mirror, combing her hair as she did when she was lost in thought. She was not in the gardens, nor on the ramparts gazing out at the sea.

She was in Visenya’s secret chamber.

Daemon did not need to make a sound for his steps to echo in the room, for Rhaenyra was absorbed in her task, her back turned to the entrance, rummaging through an old stone cabinet.

“What are you doing here, zaldrītsos?” His voice was low, but carried an unusual sweetness.

“A little of this, a little of that.” Rhaenyra replied, distracted, gathering small vials and carrying them to one of the chamber’s large worktables.

Daemon frowned as he noticed an iron container at the center of the table. The flickering candlelight illuminated its contents, and when he stepped close enough, his eyes widened.

There was a dragon egg inside it.

“Rhaenyra!” His voice rang out in warning.

She lifted her gaze to him, without a trace of guilt.

“Daemon?”

He stepped forward, reaching out to touch the egg, but before he could do anything, her fingers closed around his forearm, stopping him.

“Don’t touch it.” Her tone was a warning.

Daemon held her gaze, his violet eyes glinting in the candlelight. “What are you going to do with this?”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, as if considering whether she should tell him. In the end, she chose the truth.

“Visenya and the gods showed me many things. Magics we have forgotten, but that still run in our blood.” She gestured subtly toward the egg. “And this is the price I must pay when I demand too much.”

Daemon did not pull his hand away, but he did not attempt to take the egg again. He simply watched.

“But don’t worry,” she continued, noticing the sharpness in his gaze. “This egg turned to stone decades ago. I believe it belonged to one of Vhagar’s old clutches.”

Daemon took a deep breath. “How many times have you done this?”

Rhaenyra walked over to a shelf, pulling out a heavy book bound in black leather, the Valyrian symbols on its cover almost indistinguishable with age.

“A few,” she said, flipping through the yellowed pages. “Nothing too complex. But something that required a price like this?” She lifted her eyes to him, a shadow of wicked amusement dancing within them. “Only once.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And for what?”

Her smile widened, feline and slow.

“To keep Alicent’s womb rotten.”

Daemon blinked. Then let out a low chuckle, smothered by the shock and the latent excitement.

“So that’s why she hasn’t successfully conceived in all these years…”

Rhaenyra shrugged, casually. “Because I didn’t allow it. And even if I tried to reverse it now, I doubt I could. It has been nearly six years; time has cemented the magic.”

Daemon ran his tongue over his teeth, absorbing the revelation. He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on her every move.

“And now?”

Rhaenyra held his gaze.

“Now?” She lifted a small vial containing a thick, reddish liquid.

Daemon already knew the answer before she even spoke the words.

“You might want to stop me.” Viserys.

He narrowed his eyes. “Why not try your luck?” he challenged.

She sighed. “I cannot kill him. I do not want to bear the curse of a kinslayer.”

“I would bear it for you.”

The way he said it—without hesitation, without fear—sent a shiver down her spine.

She shook her head. “I cannot ask that of you.”

He gave a half-smile. “I know.”

Silence settled between them. A dense silence, heavy with mutual understanding.

“But I can ensure,” Rhaenyra broke the quiet, raising the vial, letting a single drop of the scarlet liquid fall onto the dragon egg, “that Viserys begs for a swift death… one that will never come.”

Daemon watched the drop dissolve against the egg’s petrified shell.

The air around them seemed to vibrate.

The candle flames trembled.

A faint whisper, almost indistinguishable, echoed through the stone walls, as if Dragonstone itself recognized the sorcery being woven there.

And Daemon realized, as he watched his wife—determined and ruthless—that he had never loved her more than in that moment.

He swallowed hard, clenching his fists at his sides, ignoring how suddenly his breeches felt far too tight.

Notes:

So, did you like it? What did you think of Viserys' behaviour?
In these three years of banishment, how many children will Rhaenyra give birth to? 😅😂

Again, they was like:
Daemon: 😍🥰❤️
Rhaenyra: 😈🫦

Chapter 13

Summary:

The magic pulsed around Rhaenyra like an invisible wave of heat, an ancient and powerful force that seemed to awaken every fiber of her being. The fire crackled around her, reflecting in her violet eyes, while the blood of the sacrifice still ran down the black stone altar. The metallic scent mixed with smoke and sulfur, making the air dense, heavy with power.

Notes:

I hope you enjoy this chapter! 💖💖

From the dream onwards, there's a time jump of three months.
All dialogue in High Valyrian will be in italics.

 

 

Viserys finished reading Rhaenyra’s letter, feeling an unbearable headache settle at the base of his skull. He had received the correspondence during that day’s audiences and, against any sense of prudence, broke the seal and read his daughter’s words right there, in the Throne Room, without waiting for the privacy of his chambers.

As soon as his eyes passed over the first lines, his mood deteriorated to such an extent that Lord Lyonel Strong, ever perceptive, ordered the supplicants to be rescheduled for another day. The King was restless, his face contorted in a mixture of anger and frustration.

He read the letter again, as if hoping that a second reading might soften the insolent and cutting content of his firstborn’s message.

 

My King,

I have spent the last three days thinking about what to write in response to your latest decree. Before I could send the raven, news reached Dragonstone that your Consort is pregnant again.
What a great waste of time.
I could also question what you think you are doing, but I know that would be an even greater waste of time. I do not know what kind of poison is contaminating your heart, but I suspect that from it stems a green rot.
What kind of message do you expect to send to the Lords of Westeros? I would not be able to say for certain. But I would wager that what will remain of your legacy is only weakness and cowardice.
You could have spared everyone’s time and temper if you had simply informed me of your intentions during our last conversation in the Red Keep.
I could say that the wedding was very beautiful and that Daemon and I are very happy, but that too would be a waste of your time and mine.
There is no other option but to comply with your order—after all, what else could I do?
The six dragons at my command remain at the ready, always alert in case of imminent danger. I leave you only a final warning: do not threaten me again.
I hope your faith in the Seven remains firm, for, as I have also told your Consort, you will need it.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, Lady of Dragonstone and True Heir to the Iron Throne.

 

Viserys gripped the parchment so tightly that his trembling hands nearly tore it in half. The audacity. The ingratitude. The absolute disrespect with which Rhaenyra addressed him, her words dripping with venom, as if he were the enemy!

He had always loved her. From the day Aemma placed their daughter in his arms, Viserys had known he would do anything to ensure the world bowed before her. He had protected her in every possible way, ensured that each of her whims was met, and yet, she spat on his goodwill.

Was this what he got in return?

She did not understand. She had never understood the weight of the crown. She sought counsel from Vaegon, from Bartimos, from Daemon—ignoring everything he, her father, had tried to teach her about the delicate balance of power. Westeros stood firm through alliances and concessions. He could not rule with an iron fist alone, as his predecessors had tried and failed to do. As Jaehaerys had taught him, it was necessary to keep peace with the lords, to negotiate with the Faith, and to avoid, at all costs, fractures that could plunge the Seven Kingdoms into chaos.

But Rhaenyra? She seemed incapable of seeing that fine line.

Lyonel approached with caution.

"Bad news, my king?"

Viserys let out a bitter laugh, throwing the letter onto the armrest of the throne.

"Rhaenyra grows more uncontrollable by the day! Now she has threatened me! Read it yourself."

Lyonel took the parchment and analyzed each line with the patience of a scholar. He showed no surprise, no indignation, only a thoughtful and attentive gaze.

Deep down, Lyonel could hardly wait to see Rhaenyra as Queen. If her rule followed the same pattern as her last six years as heir, Westeros would be in good hands. He had witnessed her growth—her ability to maintain alliances, her cunning in strengthening Dragonstone, and the way even House Strong had flourished under her influence. His own son, Harwin, had become a respected man, and Harrenhal had finally been restored to its former glory.

The real problem was not Rhaenyra. It was Viserys.

"My King, the princess merely expresses her frustration over her temporary banishment," Lyonel said diplomatically.

Viserys scoffed, impatient, rising so abruptly that his back protested in pain. He began pacing the castle corridors, Lyonel following close behind.

"You do not understand, Strong! She defies me at every turn. Now she behaves like Daemon, threatening me as if she were my equal. How many times has she come to me for counsel?"

Lyonel, ever careful, chose his words wisely.

"The princess has sought counsel from the lords Your Grace appointed as the most trustworthy. Myself, Lord Beesbury, Lord Corlys, and even Tyrell and Stark. She has learned much beyond the walls of the Red Keep, my king."

Viserys did not respond, only muttered something inaudible.

"And about Lady Alicent," Lyonel continued, "Your Grace already has a married heir. These continuous attempts to produce another son… could give rise to dangerous interpretations."

"What interpretations?" Viserys stopped abruptly, his eyes flashing. "What do you take me for, Strong? A fool?"

"Never, my king," Lyonel replied without hesitation. "But the lords whisper. Rhaenyra is married and could soon have heirs of her own. If your Consort continues trying… it may seem that the king’s intent is not to protect her, but to challenge her."

Viserys stared at him for a long moment before walking away with heavy steps.

When he reached his chambers, he found Alicent reclining on a sofa by the window, gently caressing the growing swell of her belly beneath her emerald gown. She looked pleased, even radiant.

"How are you, my love?" Viserys asked, stepping forward to take her hand.

Alicent smiled softly.

"Wonderfully well. The new infusion Maester Yosser prepared has done me much good. This time, we will succeed, my king."

He squeezed her hand, finding comfort in his wife’s certainty. "What matters is that you are well."

"We will be," Alicent replied with conviction. "Our son and I."

Viserys felt a deep relief wash over him. Alicent’s faith in giving him a son reignited his own hope. When she tightened her grip on his hand, he hissed in pain. Alicent turned his palm over, finding a neglected cut.

"Viserys! I will call Mellos immediately."

Viserys merely shrugged. "It is nothing, we can call him later. I would rather rest with you this afternoon."

Despite the king’s words, Alicent did not seem reassured, but she did not insist further.

 

***

 

Before she could organize her thoughts, Rhaenyra saw the young woman with Valyrian features sit before her. They were in one of the oldest wings of Dragonstone, sitting on a blanket at the foot of a twisted oak tree, its leaves gently dancing in the salty breeze coming from the sea.  

The woman before her possessed an ethereal beauty, almost untouchable. Her long, thick, silvery-blonde hair shone in the diffuse light filtering through the oak's leaves. Her eyes, a deep violet, seemed to hold secrets and visions of the past and the future.  

She smiled sweetly, but with the confidence of someone who had known Rhaenyra for a long time.  

"Hello, Rhaenyra. Finally, we are meeting. It is a pleasure."  

The sound of her voice was soft, but carried a powerful resonance, as if her existence were an anchor between worlds. Valyrian flowed from her lips like the sweetest honey, melodious, fluid, and beautiful.  

Rhaenyra felt a slight blush rise in her cheeks. The familiarity with which the woman addressed her was strange and, at the same time, comforting.  

"I'm sorry, but... I don’t think I can guess who you are."  

The other woman chuckled softly, her lips curving into an understanding smile.  

"Fair enough." She tilted her head slightly before continuing. "I am Daenys Targaryen."  

The name fell upon Rhaenyra like thunder.  

"Our savior," she murmured, more to herself than to the woman before her.  

Daenys snorted, a playful glint passing through her eyes.  

"Vermax likes to think so as well," she commented, her eyes momentarily drifting to a point beyond the trees, as though she could see the dragon right there, in the realms of dreams. "And for a long time, he loved to share a piece of his mind with me on that matter."  

"And you don't agree?" Rhaenyra asked, intrigued. "The Velaryons and Celtigars followed you, not to mention so many people who stayed in the Free Cities."  

Daenys sighed, pausing for a few seconds before responding.  

"The Velaryons and Celtigars followed us because, like us, they had little influence in Valyria, but the Targaryens were still dragonriders. I wish I had been able to convince more of our countrymen before the Doom. I wish I had brought more dragonriders with me. I wish I had persuaded Aurion."  

Her eyes darkened for a moment, a shadow of regret passing over her face.  

"As much as my father believed in me and did what he could to save us, for a long time, all I felt was guilt and longing for home."  

She turned her gaze to the horizon, where the choppy waters crashed against Dragonstone's cliffs.  

"Until the end, I could never think of this place as home," she admitted . "Everything I knew as truth, as the order of things, was in Valyria. At least until the dream..."  

"It wasn’t your fault the others wouldn't listen to you," Rhaenyra said, firm in her conviction.  

Daenys gave a half-smile, one full of secrets and resignation.  

"Afterward, I understood that. But it wasn’t easy. My father spent years moving what he could of our old estate to Dragonstone, and during that time, we were ridiculed."  

She sighed and ran her fingers over the blanket beneath her legs, as though tracing an invisible pattern.  

"I could have had thousands of dreams, but it was my father's unwavering support, Lord Aenar Targaryen, that allowed me to have a Targaryen dream to visit today."  

Daenys met her gaze again, her eyes glowing like violet fire.  

"I know your present time may seem full of uncertainty, but to me, it seems you have enough people to support you when the time comes, even if that time comes as a very dark one."  

Rhaenyra lowered her gaze for a moment, processing those words.  

"There was a time when my father believed he was blessed with prophetic dreams, and it drove him to pressure my mother into giving him a male heir." Rhaenyra began. "What if I am drinking from that same madness?"  

Daenys' expression was firm, but her eyes carried a vulnerability Rhaenyra hadn’t expected.  

"Viserys Targaryen is a foolish man, short-sighted, and extremely greedy," Daenys replied, bitterness in her voice. "He would never let go of the power of the Iron Throne, even if someone promised it would save his life."  

She clenched her fists, feeling the latent anger towards her father. It had been three moons since she had seen him or received a single letter. And it annoyed her that it still affected her.  

"However, he was not the first and will not be the last man who thinks himself important simply because he was born first." Daenys continued.  

Daenys leaned slightly forward, as if she wanted to tell her a secret.  

"You, however, carry magic in your blood and allowed that magic to blossom beautifully. The last person I saw with such power was Alysanne... and Aerea."  

Rhaenyra felt a shiver run down her spine upon hearing that name.  

"The dear Aerea could not handle so much power, while Alysanne chose to ignore it, and in time, she too was lost."   

Daenys smiled, but there was a touch of sadness in her expression.  

"But you, Rhaenyra… you are the granddaughter of Alyssa Targaryen. She defied her own father and claimed Meleys for herself. They were formidable together."  

Daenys' eyes glowed brightly.  

"This power had to go somewhere, right? I would hate for it to skip another generation."  

Before Rhaenyra could respond, an imposing presence appeared behind Daenys.  

"Now she will stop filling my ears asking to see you, Rhaenyra."  

It was Vermax.  

Daenys laughed, raising her hands. Vermax helped her stand, and Rhaenyra did the same.  

For a brief moment, Rhaenyra observed the way Vermax looked at Daenys. There was a connection there, something she couldn’t explain. The way his eyes softened when he looked at her...  

It reminded her of the way Daemon looked at her.  

Rhaenyra didn’t dare ask anything, but the thought lingered in her mind.  

"What I wanted to tell you..." Daenys spoke, placing a hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, "is that I understand if, at some point, you feel you are alone, if you think your choices might be the worst. But you will never know for sure unless you try first."  

She gave a small smile.  

"And about Viserys... I would wager he won't last that long."  

Vermax chuckled softly, shaking his head.  

"We are all looking forward to the Festival tomorrow."  

And with a brief wave of her hand, Rhaenyra was returned to a peaceful sleep.

 

***

 

The morning at Dragonstone was quiet, interrupted only by the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs and the soft whisper of the sea breeze that filtered through the slightly open windows of Rhaenyra’s room. The delicate fabric of the curtains fluttered gently, and the first rays of sunlight illuminated the partially disheveled bed.

Rhaenyra stretched languidly, her muscles still relaxed from deep sleep, but soon felt the absence beside her. She turned, finding the space empty and already cold. Daemon had left early.

She let out a lazy sigh before sitting up, allowing the blankets to slide off her body. Her gaze swept across the room until it landed on a sideboard near the fireplace, where a meal had already been laid out for her. There was a beautiful slice of lemon cake, its golden, delicate crust exuding an irresistible citrus fragrance, and a jug of peach juice, her favorite.

Smiling to herself, Rhaenyra served herself a piece of cake, savoring the soft texture as she brought the cup of juice to her lips. The sweet freshness of the drink slid down her throat, waking her up a bit more.

After finishing the bite, she reached for the small bell beside the bed and rang it softly. The metallic sound echoed through the room, and in a few moments, the door opened, revealing the figure of a knight dressed in the armor of the Dragonstone Guard.

Ser Erryk slightly inclined his head in greeting before speaking with his usual courtesy:

"Good morning, Your Highness."

"Good morning, Ser Erryk." Rhaenyra delicately wiped her fingers on a handkerchief before continuing. "Would you happen to know where Daemon is?"

The knight flashed a small smile, which he quickly suppressed, maintaining his formal posture.

"Prince Daemon is in the training yard, along with Prince Qoren and some other lords."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, letting out a long sigh.

"For the gods' sake..."

Ser Erryk maintained an impassive expression, but a playful glimmer passed through his eyes.

"But no incidents… yet."

She narrowed her eyes at him, taking another sip of the juice.

"I hope it stays that way."

"From what I've heard, no bones have been broken so far."

She chuckled softly, shaking her head.

"Which doesn’t mean it won’t happen."

"There’s always that possibility, Your Highness," replied Ser Erryk, now with a subtle smile at the corner of his lips.

Rhaenyra finished drinking her juice and set the cup aside.

"Thank you, Erryk. Could you call Laena and Elinda for me?"

"Right away, Your Highness."

The knight bowed before leaving, leaving Rhaenyra alone for a few minutes with her thoughts. She stood up and walked to the balcony, where the fresh, salty morning breeze caressed her skin. Her gaze swept across the horizon to the vast expanse of the sea, and in the distance, she saw the newly renovated Dragonpit, where the dragons rested.

It wasn’t long before the door opened again and two familiar figures entered.

Laena Velaryon was the first to approach, a radiant smile on her face. Her dark blue silk dress fluttered as she walked.

"Good morning, Nyra."

Elinda Massey, more reserved, greeted her with a light kiss on the cheek before sitting next to her. Rhaenyra immediately noticed that Elinda seemed nervous. Her fingers were idly fiddling with one of the rings on her hand, and there was something in her expression that betrayed her.

Rhaenyra decided not to ask right away. If Elinda wanted to speak, she would when she was ready.

"Good morning. I hope Vaegon is keeping an eye on the entertainment of the lords in the training yard," joked Rhaenyra, helping herself to another piece of cake.

Laena laughed, sitting comfortably.

"Yes, he and Maelyx. I suspect the dragon is being a distraction in Daemon’s favor."

"Typical." Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head.

Elinda, trying to keep the tone light, announced:

"Nyra, I’ve organized a lunch with Martha, Prunella, and Prudence. I thought you might like to have a moment with them too."

Rhaenyra smiled.

"Great idea! I haven’t had much time to talk with the girls, especially Martha. The poor thing arrived so tired from the journey from the North… Thank you so much, Elinda."

Elinda gave a small nod, but her restlessness was still noticeable.

After Rhaenyra served herself a bit more juice, Elinda began talking about the final preparations for the Festival, going over the details of the banquets, decorations, and accommodations. Laena, in turn, listed the houses that, for some reason, could not attend, but had sent letters apologizing and explaining their absence.

It was when Laena mentioned:

"King’s Landing also sent a letter."

Rhaenyra's movement stopped midway. The goblet hung suspended between her fingers.

"And what does it say?" Her voice came out calm, but filled with expectation.

Laena hesitated for a brief moment before handing her the scroll still sealed with the royal emblem.

"I think it’s better if you read it yourself, Nyra."

Rhaenyra let out a sigh and took the scroll firmly. Breaking the seal, her eyes scanned the carefully written words, absorbing each line attentively.

 

My daughter,

I cannot put into enough words how much I miss you. The Red Keep is not the same without you. Unfortunately, I will not be able to attend the Festival, my health has not been the same since the last time we spoke.

When you can, come to King’s Landing, forget all this banishment business, you will never cease to be my daughter, my greatest treasure.

Your father,

Viserys.

 

Silence fell over the room.

Laena and Elinda exchanged a discreet glance, waiting for the princess’s reaction.

Rhaenyra felt a knot form in her stomach.

She had expected that the content of the letter would not bring good news, but still, she couldn’t help but feel the heat of indignation rise in her chest.

She closed her eyes for a moment, controlling her breath before lifting her gaze to her friends.

"It seems that Viserys’s game continues."

She folded the scroll slowly, but her hands were tense.

Laena raised an eyebrow.

"What does he want now?"

Rhaenyra took a deep breath before answering.

"He insists on testing my patience."

Elinda frowned, concerned.

"Is this something we should be worried about?"

Rhaenyra shook her head.

"Viserys thinks I am a toy he can toss aside whenever he wants. He says he’s not well, that he canceled my banishment, and asks that I visit him as soon as possible."

Laena relaxed in her chair, crossing her arms.

"Once, I heard Otto Hightower say that Viserys would be known as ‘Viserys the Peaceful,’ but every day I think of a new nickname for him, perhaps ‘fool’ or ‘capricious’..."

Rhaenyra nodded, her gaze drifting to the view beyond the balcony.

"Yes. I wonder how much more of this I’ll have to endure."

And with that, the conversation returned to the Festival planning, but deep down, the tension remained. For, despite being in Dragonstone, the shadow of King’s Landing still loomed over them.

Rhaenyra kept glancing at Elinda out of the corner of her eye while the conversation flowed between her and Laena about the final preparations for the festival. However, with every new topic discussed, it was evident that something was weighing on her friend. Elinda’s fingers tightened in her lap, slightly twisting the fabric of her dress. She wasn’t really paying attention to what was being said, mumbling automatic responses while avoiding the gaze of the two.

Rhaenyra frowned and placed one hand over hers, squeezing gently.

"Elinda, dear, is something going on?" Her voice was gentle but firm. "If it’s a problem, we can help."

For a moment, Elinda kept her gaze fixed on her hands, breathing deeply as if gathering the courage to speak. But before she could form any words, her eyes filled with tears, and a sob burst from her throat.

"Elinda!" Rhaenyra exclaimed, immediately standing. Without hesitation, she pulled her friend into an embrace, feeling her body tremble against hers. "Take your time, we are here for you."

Laena, concerned, exchanged a quick look with Rhaenyra before also approaching, lightly touching Elinda’s back in a comforting gesture.

"I’m sorry, Nyra…" Elinda’s voice was muffled as she hid her face in her hands. "You have so many worries, so many commitments… I should be helping, not bringing more problems."

Rhaenyra pulled back slightly, holding her friend’s face between her hands and forcing her to look into her eyes.

"My dear, you will never be a problem." Her voice was soft but filled with conviction. "You are a woman with friends and people who only want what’s best for you. If you’re comfortable, you can tell Laena and me what’s tormenting you to this point."

Elinda hesitated, biting her lower lip, but then breathed deeply and finally said, in a whisper:

"I-I’m pregnant, Nyra."

A silence filled the room, and Laena and Rhaenyra exchanged a surprised glance.

Elinda, for her part, curled up slightly, her hands pressed together, the anxiety evident in every small gesture.

"I-I’m sorry…" she stammered, lowering her head. "I’ve brought dishonor to your household circle. I should be one of the good examples..."

Rhaenyra blinked, confused for a moment, before letting out a soft laugh and dismissing it with a shake of her head.

"Forget that." She gently held Elinda’s hands. "Tell me, dear, who is the father? Did he force himself on you? Was he violent?"

Laena’s question came before Rhaenyra could continue, her expression hardening with a fierce glint in her eyes.

"No! Nothing like that!" Elinda hurried to clarify, shaking her head. "He doesn’t know I’m pregnant yet."

Laena relaxed a little, but her gaze remained evaluative.

"Who is he?" asked Rhaenyra, her voice now calmer but still attentive.

Elinda hesitated for a moment, as if fearing the reaction of her friends, before finally confessing:

"It’s Ardryan Celtigar."

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened for a brief moment, clearly caught off guard.

"Didn’t see that coming."

Elinda let out a nervous laugh and sniffed, quickly wiping away a few stubborn tears that were still falling.

"We got closer since his marriage... With his visits to Dragonstone... And my visits to Claw Isle..." She sighed. "And it happened."

Laena tilted her head slightly, as if analyzing the situation in a new light.

"And he didn’t ask you to marry him?"

"Not yet, but I know he would if I brought it up." Elinda twisted her hands. "But I have nothing to offer, Nyra." Her voice was heavy with anguish. "Despite being your maid for years, my family has no wealth, we’re not a Great House… What could I offer an heir?"

Rhaenyra felt a tightness in her chest hearing that. How could Elinda think so little of herself? In the princess’s eyes, her friend was one of the most capable women to govern a house, strong and intelligent, with a loyal and generous heart.

"Elinda," Rhaenyra held her face tenderly, drying her tears with her thumbs, "Ardryan Celtigar would be lucky if you agreed to marry him."

Elinda sniffed, blinking rapidly, surprised by Rhaenyra’s conviction.

"You are one of my advisors, the steward of Dragonstone, even in times of war," Rhaenyra continued. "If he doesn’t appreciate these and so many other qualities you have, then he simply doesn’t deserve you."

Laena nodded beside them.

"Nyra’s right." She crossed her arms and smiled with a hint of mischief. "And if he doesn’t act with honor, we have ways of dealing with it. Don’t we, Nyra?"

"Exactly." Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes with a sharp smile. "Dark Sister and Silver Sister are at your disposal, if needed."

Elinda let out a trembling but genuine laugh.

"I want to talk to Ardryan first." Her voice now sounded firmer, though still carrying a trace of hesitation. "I want to see if he acts with honor before I make any decision."

Rhaenyra nodded, holding her friend’s hands tightly with determination.

"Very well." Her gaze met Elinda’s, conveying unconditional support. "Know that we are all here for you."

Laena smiled and added, with a mischievous glint in her eyes:

"And if you need, I can ask Vhagar what she thinks of men who don’t take responsibility."

The three of them laughed together, and for the first time since the start of the conversation, Elinda seemed a little lighter. No matter what happened, she knew she wouldn’t face it alone.

 

***

 

Later, in the Stone Throne Room, Rhaenyra remained near one of the large windows, her arms crossed as her gaze fell upon the lower side gardens. The soft breeze entering the hall made the loose strands of her hair dance, but her attention was entirely focused on the scene unfolding outside.

Elinda and Ardryan were talking closely, and it was impossible not to notice the tenderness in the heir Celtigar's gaze. His gestures were gentle, his posture slightly leaning forward, as though he did not want to miss even a whisper from the young woman. He held her hands between his, his thumbs tracing small circles on her skin, as if trying to calm her.

The only pity, Rhaenyra thought, was that Elinda thought so little of herself. Her insecurity prevented her from seeing how devoted Ardryan already seemed.

"If it keeps going like this, you'll soon be hearing steam coming out of your ears."

Daemon's voice caught her off guard, and before she could react, she felt his arms wrap around her waist from behind. The warmth of his body and the unmistakable scent of leather and iron that always accompanied him made her relax instantly.

“Good morning, love.” Daemon spoke softly.

”Good morning, husband. I’ve missed you in our bed when I woke up.” She spoke, soft as he, while smiled with the memories of the last night.

"But I heard you had a busy morning with Prince Qoren…" Rhaenyra commented, tilting her head slightly to the side, enjoying his touch.

"And the Celtigar, Stark, Tully, and even old Tyrell." He completed, laughing against her skin while resting his chin on her shoulder.

"At least I didn’t hear about any incidents."

"Of course not," Daemon smiled, lightly kissing the side of her neck. "We, gentlemen, can also be civilized. And Vaegon made sure to keep us in minimal order."

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, doubtful.

"Vaegon must be exhausted."

Daemon simply laughed and turned his gaze to where his wife was watching. His eyes quickly caught the scene in the garden.

"Are we having another wedding?"

Before Rhaenyra could respond, Ardryan Celtigar knelt before Elinda, holding her hands between his. Rhaenyra's heart warmed at the surprise on her friend’s face, followed by an expression of pure emotion.

They exchanged a few words Rhaenyra couldn’t hear from up there, but what followed left no doubt: Elinda nodded, and before either of them could hesitate, they embraced and exchanged a kiss.

Rhaenyra smiled, turning on her heels to face her husband.

"Apparently, yes."

Daemon watched her with amusement in his eyes.

"Pretty soon, you’ll be out of ladies-in-waiting." He teased, a smug smile forming on his lips.

"Yes, one of the side effects of being a great matchmaker," Rhaenyra retorted, crossing her arms. "But I’ve already received some suggestions for new ladies. I’ve been letting the Festival pass so I could focus on them."

"So many promises for after this Festival…" Daemon murmured, leaning forward and starting to trace a path of kisses along her face and neck.

Rhaenyra felt a shiver run down her spine but smiled and tilted her neck slightly, giving him more access.

"What promises? I don’t remember that many."

Daemon slid his hands down her arms, pulling her closer to his body.

"Not? I remember plenty of them," his voice was a whisper full of provocation. "Especially the ones you made to me last night."

Rhaenyra laughed softly, but soon rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Daemon, it’s not like we haven’t been fulfilling our marital duties almost daily."

He smiled against her skin, a smile full of mischief.

"But I still haven’t finished my full exploration of the property," he countered. "I still need to make my list of top ten favorite places."

Rhaenyra gave him a skeptical look, though a smile played at the corner of her lips.

"Don’t think I didn’t notice how much you enjoyed every moment at the beach," Daemon continued, his voice lower and full of promise. "We still haven’t been able to repeat the experience."

Rhaenyra felt her cheeks warm slightly and laughed.

"You fool…"

However, before she could continue any protest, Daemon was already gently guiding her out of the hall.

Still, Rhaenyra couldn’t – and didn’t want to – stop him from leading her back to their chambers.

 

***

 

The day the Fire Festival began would be recorded in the pages of history as the day when fire danced in the sky.

Golden and orange flames reflected off the dark clouds of the night, cast by the dragons flying over the procession below. Their enormous wings beat against the wind, making the banners flutter and the torches sway in the hands of the devout followers trailing the priestess through the streets of Dragonstone.

Rhaenyra had demanded that the Festival begin with a ceremony in respect to the Fourteen Flames and the legacy of Old Valyria. When she started the invitations, she made it clear the intent of the Festival to the other lords. No one showed any hostility, but still, the princess made it clear that no one was obliged to participate in the opening ceremony.

The deep roar of Syrax, Caraxes and the others dragons blended with the chant in High Valyrian, a low, rhythmic melody full of ancient magic sung by the priests and priestesses of Dragonstone.

Rhaenyra walked at the front of the procession, wearing a black cloak embroidered with red threads, forming runic symbols that resonated power. By her side, Daemon wore a scarlet tunic, his black cloak thrown over one shoulder, contrasting with the shine of the dragon-glass crown resting on his silver hair. Behind them, Vaegon, dressed like a scholar of Old Valyria, murmured words in a forgotten tongue, his sharp eyes observing every detail of the ritual.

Further back, Rhaenys, Laena, and Laenor walked side by side, accompanied by their dragons flying above. Meleys, Vhagar, and Seasmoke were visions of pure power, their presence reinforcing the sacred aura of the ceremony. The head priestess, covered in a white silk and gold cloak, raised her hands, holding a goblet carved from dragon bones. Her face was painted, and her eyes shone with almost prophetic fervor. She walked slowly, her bare feet touching the hot stone of Dragonstone’s ground, warmed by the vapors emerging from the earth’s fissures, as if the volcano supporting the fortress was breathing.

The procession moved toward the great altar of black stone, raised centuries ago by the Valyrian ancestors. The altar stood in an open courtyard where giant torches cast twisted shadows over the attendees. The dragonriders approached, forming a semicircle around the altar, while the priests and priestesses took their places.

The priestess turned to Rhaenyra and Daemon, her eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"Nyke ivestretan hen ōre syt iā zaldrīzes," she chanted in High Valyrian.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, feeling the weight of every gaze upon her. The priestess raised the goblet in her direction.

"Hen perzys issa, hen ñuha bōsa."

Rhaenyra took the goblet with both hands. The liquid inside was thick and dark as night, exuding a scent reminiscent of ash and iron. She knew this ritual. Dragon’s blood, a sacred drink used in the ancient Valyrian festivals, meant only for those of true blood. Her eyes met Daemon’s, and she saw the same certainty in him that she felt within herself.

She raised the goblet to the heavens, where the dragons still circled, their huge shadows cast against the moon.

"Nyke zaldrīzesse," she declared.

And then she drank.

The taste of the liquid was warm and strong, burning her throat as though swallowing the very living fire. Her heart raced, and she felt the ancient magic vibrate within her, something deep and ancestral awakening.

Daemon was the next to drink, followed by Vaegon, Rhaenys, Laena, and Laenor. Each of them took a sip from the sacred goblet, sealing their connection with the power of Valyria, with the dragons, with the flames that should never be forgotten.

The priestess then raised her hands and chanted the final hymn, and above, the dragons unleashed jets of fire, lighting up the night sky in a spectacle of pure devotion and power. The people below applauded, clapping rhythmically to the same beat as the sacred song, their voices joining the roar of the winged beasts.

Then, the sacrifice was brought forth. A strong and imposing black bull was led to the altar. The priests recited ancient words while the Valyrian steel blade was raised. In a precise movement, the animal’s throat was slit, and the blood gushed onto the black stone, flowing in patterns that seemed to vibrate in the firelight.

The air was charged with power, magic, and an ancient connection that made even the most skeptical feel part of something greater.

The magic pulsed around Rhaenyra like an invisible wave of heat, an ancient and powerful force that seemed to awaken every fiber of her being. The fire crackled around her, reflecting in her violet eyes, while the blood of the sacrifice still ran down the black stone altar. The metallic scent mixed with smoke and sulfur, making the air dense, heavy with power.

She inhaled deeply, feeling the heat of the magic enter her lungs as though it were part of her own blood. Never before had she felt so alive. It was as if all the stories of ancient times, all the legends of Valyria, were now running through her veins. Her heart beat in time with the priests' chants, the flames of the dragons still flying above the ceremony, and the raw energy spreading through the sacred courtyard. The very ground beneath Rhaenyra’s feet seemed to vibrate, as though the dormant volcano of Dragonstone recognized her presence, as if accepting her offering. The magic coiled around her like invisible serpents, embracing her, enveloping her in an incandescent aura.

Daemon watched her closely, a half-smile playing on his lips, his eyes shining with something between admiration and fascination. He saw what she felt. He understood. Between them, there was no need for words at that moment.

 

***

 

The Festival unfolded in its utmost splendor, an absolute success that made Dragonstone pulse with life and colors. During the day, the lords and their families spread across the island, each choosing the form of entertainment that pleased them the most. Some explored the vast market set up specifically for the occasion, filled with exclusive goods from Dragonstone and rare items brought from other realms. Jewelry crafted in the Valyrian style, luxurious silks, finely forged weapons, and exotic spices filled the stalls, creating a spectacle of colors and aromas.

Others preferred to lose themselves in the artistic and cultural activities displayed at the newly constructed Exhibition Center, where poets recited verses, musicians played ancient melodies, and artisans demonstrated their skills. For those seeking more excitement, Daemon, Vaegon, and Harwin had organized a series of combat competitions, both individual and group. Knights and warriors from various regions faced off under the watchful eyes of the nobility, each showing their strength and skill, hoping to impress a lord in search of a talented swordsman or even a potential suitor.

Among all the attractions, however, the one that sparked the most curiosity and fascination among the attendees was the Dornish delegation. Not only because of the rarity of their presence—given the centuries-old separation between Sunspear and the other realms of Westeros—but also because of the impressive talent they displayed in all the arts, whether in music, dance, or combat.

"But combat with weapons is also an art, Your Highness. Some of my sisters argue that it can be a dance,” Prince Qoren Martell remarked as he watched, alongside Rhaenyra, a duel in the training yard.

"Interesting point of view, Prince Qoren,” she replied, not taking her eyes off the fight unfolding before them. The lightness and precision of the Dornish warriors' movements truly resembled a calculated dance, where every step and strike seemed to have been choreographed with mastery.

If the days were filled with activities, the nights were no different. Under a sky lit by thousands of torches and colored lanterns, the feasts offered abundant tables not only within the castle walls but also for the entire population of the island. Rhaenyra had made sure that the Festival would be enjoyed by all, not just the nobility.

On the penultimate night of the Festival, during the grand banquet in the main hall, Rhaenyra rose from her seat and asked for the attention of the attendees. The hall fell into a respectful silence, and all eyes turned to the princess.

"Tonight, we share our last evening meal together. Tomorrow, many families will depart, beginning their journeys back to their lands. But before we say our goodbyes, I want to express the honor it has been to host you here. I believe I can speak for my entire family and the people of Dragonstone when I say that these days have truly been special.”

She paused briefly, sweeping the crowd with her firm and intense gaze.

"Let these moments serve to remind us not only of our differences but also of the richness that lies in our diversity. We are called the Seven Kingdoms not by mere whim, but because each of us carries a vital part of this land. Each culture, each faith, each tradition forms the living tapestry that unites us. May we move forward under the guidance of House Targaryen, under the wisdom of the Fourteen Flames, the Seven, or any other belief that resides in your hearts.”

She raised her cup in a solemn toast.

"Thank you very much, my friends. May this Festival be only the first of many.”

The response came in an explosion of applause and greetings. Goblets were raised, toasts were made, and for a brief moment, it seemed that the entire hall shared the same feeling of unity and celebration.

Rhaenyra felt warmth in her chest. She looked around, seeing the faces of her allies, friends, and family. She didn’t need Viserys to flourish. She didn’t need his permission to be who she was born to be.

When she returned to her seat, she felt Daemon's hand rest upon hers. He leaned slightly forward, bringing his lips near her ear.

"My beautiful Queen,” he murmured, his voice full of pure pride.

She could have contested it, said that it was a betrayal to her brother. But wasn’t it Viserys who had betrayed them first?

Rhaenyra smiled and took a sip of peach juice.

"I have one more announcement today.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Hmmm? Are you going to announce Elinda and Ardryan’s wedding?”

"No need. They’ve decided to have a simple and quick ceremony at Claw Isle in fifteen days.”

"They’re fast,” Daemon commented, casting a curious glance at Rhaenyra’s friend.

She shrugged.

"No one will dare speak ill of Elinda. Not if they value their lives.”

Daemon laughed, continuing to caress his wife’s hand, his fingers tracing small circles against her skin.

"But then, what do you need to announce, zaldrītsos?”

Rhaenyra leaned slightly forward, closing the distance between them even more. To any unsuspecting observer, it would seem like they were about to kiss right there, in the midst of the banquet.

"Daemon,” she whispered, a mysterious gleam in her eyes. "I’m with child.”

_

Glossary:

 

"Nyke ivestretan hen ōre syt iā zaldrīzes." = I was chosen by the fire of a dragon.

"Hen perzys issa, hen ñuha bōsa." = From fire I came, from fire I am.

"Nyke zaldrīzesse." =  I'm from the dragons.

Notes:

Soooo, did you like it???

Babies are coming!!! ❤️

Chapter 14

Notes:

First of all, sorry for the delay in replying to the comments I received on the last chapter. Life has been very chaotic over the last few weeks, and I only managed to open AO3 yesterday.

I really appreciate all the comments, you guys are the best!

TW:
This chapter contains obstetric violence, neonatal death and postpartum depression.

I felt sick after writing this chapter, and I'd like to say that it's the last time Alicent gets pregnant (for real).

 

 

When Alicent felt the first pains, anyone might have thought her insane, for her reaction was to laugh and cry at the same time. A sob escaped her throat, mixed with an incredulous laugh, while warm tears streamed down her face. Since her marriage to Viserys, none of her pregnancies had advanced this far, never once coming close to an actual birth. But now—now was different. She had done it. Right?

Emotion bubbled inside her, almost overwhelming the throbbing pain radiating from her womb, descending between her legs, and spreading through the entire length of her spine. Alicent gripped the side of the bed, her knuckles white from the effort, and exhaled deeply, trying to steady the tremor in her hands.

“My lady! Maester Yosser and Grand Maester Mellos are on their way,” announced one of the servants, her voice trembling with anxiety.

“Come, Alicent, time to lie down. Let’s go, dear,” said her aunt Bethany, her voice sweet and comforting, yet firm.

Alicent nodded, allowing them to help her settle more comfortably into the sheets, the fine fabric of her nightgown now clinging to her skin due to the sweat beginning to bead.

Then, the doors to the chamber opened, and not only did the maesters enter, but Viserys as well.

She widened her eyes, surprised.

Viserys had never been present during the critical moments of her pregnancies. He had never been there to hold her hand during the bleeding, the pain, the shattered hopes. Not the first time, nor in the countless attempts that followed. But now, here he was—the king, the husband, the man who carried in his sunken, weary eyes the purest hope.

It was proof that he believed that this time, everything would go well. That this child—his child—would finally come into the world.

There was something different about him, Alicent noticed. His face was pale and marked by time and the illness that slowly consumed him, but there was determination in his stance. The usual leather gloves covered his hands, but that did not stop him from sitting beside her and enclosing her hands within his own. Alicent felt the faint warmth that still remained in him, and it made her hold her breath.

“My love, everything will be fine. You have made it this far,” he said, his voice laden with tenderness and expectation.

The tears that had once fallen in despair now continued for another reason: for the first time, she did not feel alone.

Viserys squeezed her fingers lightly, trying to convey strength.

“Be strong, my love,” he whispered.

Alicent closed her eyes, feeling the growing pain that threatened to tear through her womb, but also something she had not felt in a long time—security.

And she clung to that feeling with all the strength she had.

The pain intensified in an overwhelming way, as if searing blades were piercing her flesh, tearing through her womb from the inside out. Alicent screamed, arching on the sweat-drenched mattress, her brown hair sticking to her forehead and temples. Her fingers dug into the sheets, clutching them so tightly they might rip, while a broken sob escaped her throat.

“Breathe, my lady, breathe!” exclaimed Maester Yosser, his voice tense as he prepared more clean cloths and checked the dilation.

Bethany Hightower held her hand, murmuring words of encouragement, but Alicent could barely hear her over the sharp waves of pain consuming her. Sweat dripped down her skin, and the room began to spin around her.

Viserys remained at her side, holding her other hand, but she could barely feel his touch. Her tear-filled eyes tried to focus on him, to find some relief, but all she found was the terrified expression on the king’s face.

Something was wrong.

She could sense it in the hurried whispers of the maesters, in the exchanged glances between Mellos and Yosser, in the way the servants averted their eyes, in the cloths being carried away, already drenched in blood.

Too much blood.

Far more than there should have been.

Alicent gasped as another brutal contraction tore through her womb, and a piercing scream filled the chamber. It felt as though her body was being split in half. She writhed on the sheets, tears streaming down her face as she clutched her hands to her belly, as if she could contain the unbearable pain.

“It’s not progressing as it should, my lady,” Mellos murmured, his voice heavy with concern.

“The gods help me…” Alicent sobbed, her vision blurring into a haze.

Viserys squeezed her fingers, leaning over her. “I’m here, my dear… I’m here…”

She wanted to believe it. Wanted to cling to that certainty. But the pain was unbearable, feverish heat consumed her, and the air felt scarce, as if something were suffocating her.

And then came the worst contraction of all.

She felt something tear inside her. A horrible, wet, nauseating sound filled the air. Alicent arched, screaming so loudly that her own cry echoed off the stone walls of the Red Keep.

And then, the baby’s cry filled the room.

But something was wrong.

The sound was not strong. It was not robust as it should have been. It was a weak, high-pitched cry—almost… animal.

The maesters exchanged glances. Mellos hastily took the child, cleaning it with the bloodied cloths. But the silence that followed made Alicent’s heart clench with pure terror.

“L-Let me see…” her voice came out weak, trembling.

Bethany hesitated. Mellos hesitated. Even Viserys hesitated.

And then, she saw.

The baby, fragile and small, lay motionless in the maester’s arms. His chest rose and fell with difficulty, as if each breath was a tremendous effort. But that was not what shocked everyone.

The child’s limbs were misshapen, twisted at angles that should not be possible. His tiny fingers were fused together, his legs too short for his body, and his skin…

Gray.

Pale as cold marble, with a sickly ashen hue, as if the blood had been drained from him before birth. His eyes, when they tried to open, were small and opaque.

Alicent felt the air leave her lungs.

“No…” she whispered, denying the scene before her.

But it was true.

The servants wept softly. The maesters murmured among themselves while Mellos tried to assess the baby’s condition.

Viserys was pale, his mouth slightly open, his hands trembling at his sides.

Alicent stretched out her arms. “G-Give him to me.”

Bethany looked at Mellos, who hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and placing the child in his mother’s arms.

The baby was still breathing, but with difficulty. His tiny fingers moved slightly, as if trying to grasp something in the air. Alicent held him against her chest, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

“My baby…” her voice was a broken whisper.

He was still her son. Her boy.

She ignored the murmurs around her. Ignored the way Mellos looked at Viserys, waiting for him to say something. Ignored even the king, who seemed unable to move.

Then, the baby shuddered in her arms.

And stopped breathing.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Alicent swallowed a sob.

Her already weakened body collapsed against the pillows as her heart shattered into pieces.

She did not know how long she remained there, holding the motionless child against her.

But when the maesters tried to take him from her arms, she refused.

“No,” she whispered. “Do not take him from me.”

Bethany began to cry. Mellos lowered his head.

And Viserys, for the first time in a long time, could not say anything.

Alicent felt as if she were trapped in a nightmare from which she could not wake. Her body weak, her soul in tatters. The still baby in her arms. Her boy. Her only son.

And beneath the searing pain, something grew. A thought. A cruel, insidious certainty.

This was the fault of the blood.

The cursed Targaryen blood.

How many deformed and stillborn children had this lineage already produced? How many had been born weak, cursed by this damned inheritance? She had carried the king’s child, an heir to the throne, but instead, she had given birth to something… wrong.

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding with hatred and disgust.

Rhaenyra.

The memory of the princess’s sharp gaze burned in her mind. The way she always challenged her, as if she knew something others did not. Alicent recalled the enigmatic words the heir had thrown at her months ago.
And then, the most terrible thought of all came to her.

What if Rhaenyra had cursed her?

What if that dragon-clad witch had found a way to prevent her from giving Viserys a son?

Alicent clutched the baby against her chest, her body trembling.

She had no proof, but deep down, she knew.

Rhaenyra would never allow a son of hers to threaten her claim.

And now, there was nothing left.

She knew she could bear no more of this, but she also knew that the Targaryen blood would come to regret all its rottenness.

 

***

 

Daemon was in excellent health; of that, he was absolutely certain.

The last moons of Rhaenyra’s pregnancy had only served to prove it.

Daemon watched his wife with a mixture of fascination and exasperation. Rhaenyra did not know the meaning of rest. Ever since they had discovered the pregnancy, he had expected that, over time, she would slow her pace, but he had been completely mistaken.

Between the constant travels between Dragonstone, Claw Isle, and Driftmark, attending the weddings of her friends and celebrating alliances, Rhaenyra displayed an inexhaustible energy. Her belly was beginning to show beneath the increasingly loose gowns, but that did not stop her from mounting Syrax, attending councils, or even training with Silver Sister whenever she was granted a moment of peace.

That afternoon, she was in her solar, surrounded by rolls of parchment and letters that continued to arrive from all over the realm. The festival had strengthened her position, and many lords sought her out to reaffirm their loyalties.

“You need to rest.” Daemon leaned against her desk, arms crossed.

“And you need to stop telling me what to do.” Rhaenyra retorted without lifting her eyes from the parchment she was reading.

Daemon scoffed. “Please, wife, tell me what I must do to convince you to think a little more about yourself?”

She smirked. “You could try pulling me from this chair.”

Daemon’s eyes gleamed with the challenge. “And if I do?”

“I’ll bite you.”

He laughed. “So fierce.”

Rhaenyra finally lifted her gaze, looking at him in amusement, but before she could respond, Vaegon entered the room, appearing agitated.

“Rhaenyra, you need to see this.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Rhaenyra sighed and cast a glance at Daemon. “See? The realm won’t let me rest.”

Daemon shook his head but followed as the two left the solar.

When they reached the entrance courtyard, they watched as Vhagar’s massive figure appeared in the skies, accompanied by Meleys and Seasmoke.

“Laena didn’t tell me she was coming for a visit,” Rhaenyra remarked.

“Rhaenys sent me a brief missive; she seemed concerned,” Vaegon said.

“Did she give any details?” Daemon asked.

“Not much, but it’s about King’s Landing,” he replied.

When the group reached the courtyard, Rhaenys, Laenor, Laena, and Monterys all looked troubled.

“What has he done now?” Rhaenyra asked, crossing her arms over her chest, the fabric of her gown adjusting over the evident curve of her pregnancy.

Laena and Monterys exchanged a quick glance before Monterys stepped forward.

“Princess, we have come because there are troubling rumors from King’s Landing.”

Rhaenyra arched an eyebrow. “What kind of rumors?”

This time, it was Laena who answered, her voice laden with indignation. “Alicent has given birth.”

For a moment, silence fell over them. The wind blew strong, making their cloaks billow around them.

Daemon narrowed his eyes. “And?”

Monterys hesitated before continuing: “The child was born… deformed.”

Rhaenyra blinked slowly, absorbing the words.

“The septons say it was divine punishment,” Rhaenys added. “But the entire city whispers that it was a curse. Witchcraft cast upon the Hightower consort.”

Rhaenyra’s heart quickened, but her face remained impassive.

“They’ve come up with a very convenient theory, haven’t they?” Daemon’s voice carried amusement, but his eyes gleamed with something far more dangerous.

Laena crossed her arms. “The problem is that everyone seems to have arrived at the same conclusion… and they whisper Rhaenyra’s name.”

“They’re trying to place the blame on me,” Rhaenyra murmured, thoughtful.

“More than that, Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys warned. “King’s Landing is uneasy. There are those who believe your hand is behind this… and those who fear.” She then added, serious: “Fear is a double-edged blade, Princess. It can bend knees… or drive fools to take up arms.”

Daemon let out a dry chuckle. “I’d like to see them try.”

Rhaenyra, however, remained silent for a few more moments, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The distant roar of Syrax echoed in the sky, as if her mount could sense the tension taking hold of her rider.

“Let them be afraid,” Rhaenyra finally declared. “Let them have nightmares at night about the Dragon Queen who will rip their entrails out at dawn. I will not yield to Viserys’s weakness, even if it means taking the Red Keep tonight.”

Daemon stepped closer and intertwined his hand with Rhaenyra’s.

“It’s the best scenario, for all the lords who are not yet loyal to Rhaenyra to fear what she might do, and if even that is not enough, to fear what the Rogue Prince will do for his wife.”

“Are you going to King’s Landing, Rhaenyra?” Laenor asked, but his mother answered before she could.

“It wouldn’t be wise. The king declared her banished for three years; if he cannot abide by his own decree, Rhaenyra must demonstrate the respect she holds for the crown’s decisions, even if she disagrees. That represents the princess’s strength of character.”

“Exactly, Rhaenys. I cannot let them think I am as volatile as Viserys.” Rhaenyra sighed. “Well, what I can do now is invite you all to stay for dinner.”

 

***

 

During dinner, Rhaenys watched Rhaenyra closely. While her niece eventually engaged with the other guests, her attention remained fixed on Daemon, and vice versa.

By the time dessert was served, Daemon was removing the seeds from the fruits Rhaenyra showed interest in eating, even though, in the end, she would lose interest, and Daemon would eat them instead. He always kept his wife's cup filled with the peach juice she favored during her pregnancy. He placed the most beautiful slice of lemon cake in front of Rhaenyra, without her even having to ask.

They exchanged a few words in High Valyrian, as if Rhaenyra were trying to deny herself the pleasure of eating another slice of cake. But Daemon simply took a piece of the dessert, with a caramelized lemon topping, and offered it to his wife, who could not resist.

Iksā vok. Rhaenys heard him say softly, and she hid her own smile behind her cup.

Once defeated, Rhaenyra began eating her cake with great satisfaction. Daemon, on the other hand, held his wife's free hand and attempted to engage in conversation with the others at the table, yet he remained ever attentive to Rhaenyra's slightest movement.

Rhaenys knew she was not as close to Dragonstone as she could have been. Perhaps it was envy, her own ambition stirring at the sight of what her niece had achieved. If she had asked for Vaegon’s help, would he have come for her as well? It was something she would never know. But before her stood the Queen who would be, and the Queen she had chosen to follow.

“Rhaenyra, may we speak in private?” Rhaenys asked, and her niece merely nodded.

 

***

 

The atmosphere in King’s Landing was unbearable. The corridors of the Red Keep seemed to be thick with whispers and wary glances as Otto Hightower maneuvered his influence to spread rumors about the heir princess. It was whispered in taverns and noble halls that Rhaenyra had delved into witchcraft, that her festival in Dragonstone had been a profane celebration, a return to the rites of Old Valyria, where the Targaryens had learned to bend dragons to their will but had also violated the laws of gods and men.

But if Otto sought to undermine the princess’s reputation, the lords loyal to her were growing increasingly impatient with Viserys’s inaction.

In the Small Council, voices of frustration rose.

"My King," began Lord Beesbury, straightening in his chair, "to calm tensions and prevent this unrest from escalating, I recommend that Your Majesty issue a new decree, lifting the banishment of the princess and Prince Daemon."

Lord Lyonel Strong nodded, supporting the suggestion. "Princess Rhaenyra is still the named heir. Her absence for so long has only given more room for intrigue and doubt among the lords."

Viserys rubbed his tired face, feeling the weight of the crown on his shoulders. Rhaenyra’s letter, filled with venom and scorn, still haunted his mind.

"I already wrote to her, telling her to forget about this whole banishment matter," he responded, his voice heavy with irritation and exhaustion. "But she didn’t even have the decency to reply! Her own brother died, and she didn’t send me a single word of sympathy. For years, I have heard people say that Daemon was Maegor reborn, but I am beginning to have my doubts."

The last sentence escaped as a bitter remark, but the silence that followed made it clear that everyone had heard it.

The king coughed violently, bringing a hand to his mouth as the harsh sound echoed through the hall. Lyonel Strong observed the scene with an unreadable expression but said nothing.

"My King," Strong insisted once the silence settled again, "if I may... Your Majesty issued a decree to all of Westeros, banishing your only heir. It is only fair that its revocation should happen in the same manner, so that your will is made clear to the realm."

Tyland Lannister, who had remained neutral until then, leaned forward, surprisingly pragmatic.

"This is the time to show the Crown’s unity, my King. A divided realm weakens itself. The transition between sovereigns must be peaceful, or we risk creating dangerous precedents."

Viserys looked at the Lannister lord with weary eyes, but his irritation began to boil to the surface again.

"I am not dying, Lannister!" he bellowed, slamming his fist against the arm of his chair. "And I am still your King! I will not tolerate this kind of disrespect!"

The tension in the room thickened. It was evident that, no matter how much he denied it, Viserys felt time slipping through his fingers.

Otto Hightower chose that moment to intervene, ignoring the exasperated glances from the other councilors.

"My King," he said smoothly, "I understand everyone's loyalty to the princess, but there are troubling rumors. Reliable sources have informed me that Rhaenyra has become even more ruthless. The Fire Festival in Dragonstone was a barbaric display, with blood rituals and even the sacrifice of a bull. I do not believe this kind of behavior is fitting for the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The people are already whispering, and the houses devoted to the Faith of the Seven are growing uneasy."

Before Viserys could respond, the council chamber doors suddenly swung open, and a figure clad in scarlet strode into the hall with firm steps.

Rhaenys Targaryen.

The lords exchanged surprised glances.

"The princess Rhaenyra performed a ritual in honor of her Valyrian roots," Rhaenys began, her voice clear and composed, "and none of the guests were forced to participate. On the contrary, she made a point to emphasize that only those who were comfortable should attend. What troubles you so much, Hightower? Or have you forgotten that Westeros harbors religions other than the Faith of the Seven?"

Otto pressed his lips into a thin line, but before he could defend himself, Rhaenys continued, turning to the king.

"Greetings, my King."

Viserys, still surprised by his cousin’s sudden arrival, straightened in his chair.

"Princess Rhaenys," he murmured, still trying to catch his breath after his coughing fit. "What a surprise. What brings you to King’s Landing?"

"Aside from interrupting a Council meeting!" Otto muttered, but was silenced by a mere wave of Viserys’s hand.

Rhaenys crossed her arms, a faintly amused smile dancing on her lips.

"I bring news from Dragonstone," she said, her gaze sweeping across the faces in the council, scrutinizing each one. "I see you were discussing the Fire Festival. Its first edition was a resounding success. The event brought together houses from all over Westeros, and the participation was diverse, including a considerable delegation from Dorne."

Viserys frowned.

"I thought Daemon would hold a grudge against the Martells forever for selling scorpions to the Triarchy."

Rhaenys shrugged.

"Daemon has learned the value of diplomacy. It is well known that he has a short temper and prefers to settle matters with Dark Sister’s blade, but the war in the Stepstones made him realize that victory does not always bring only glory. Despite what some may think of him, he would be the first to oppose another war. Especially now."

Viserys narrowed his eyes.

"Now? What do you mean by that?"

Rhaenys smirked slightly, then clasped her hands in front of her body, her voice firm as she announced:

"My main purpose in coming here, my King, was to bring you the news that Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Prince Daemon are expecting their first child."

Silence fell heavily over the room.

"The pregnancy is already in its fifth moon," Rhaenys continued, watching the impact her words had. "And everything is progressing well."

Viserys paled even further.

"She is pregnant?" he murmured, almost breathless.

The news seemed to strike him like a physical blow. His eyes trembled slightly, as if his body struggled to grasp what his ears had just heard.

"My King, I reinforce that this is the ideal moment to bring the princess back," Beesbury insisted, casting a cautious glance at the other council members. "If she returns now, she will have the chance to give birth in King’s Landing, under the care of the court."  

Rhaenys, who had until then observed the discussion with severe patience, shook her head. Her sharp gaze swept over the council as if she already foresaw the predictable outcome of Viserys' stubbornness.  

"Even if the King revokes the decree of banishment," she said, her voice firm as Valyrian steel, "Rhaenyra would not return. My cousin wishes to have her child in the ancestral home of the Targaryens. And after what I have seen and heard on my way to this very chamber, I will support that decision."  

"She is the heir! She must give birth in the capital!" Viserys bellowed, his voice rising an octave, laden with frustration and frailty. His hands trembled on the armrest of the lesser throne where he sat, his pale face blotched with the flush of irritation.  

Rhaenys lifted her chin, her expression unyielding.  

"She is no longer a child, she is a married woman and a mother," she replied, her tone an implacable reminder. "And the decision is hers, not yours, Viserys."  

"This is absurd," Mellos muttered, rising from his chair. His gaunt, wrinkled face twisted in displeasure. "As heir to the throne, the princess should be in King’s Landing, ensuring the legitimacy of the child. Unless, of course, she has something to hide from this Council… and from Your Majesty."  

The words hung in the air like a dagger poised to strike.  

Rhaenys felt fury rise in her chest like a wildfire fed by the wind. Her searing gaze fixed on Mellos, and her voice cut through the silence like drawn steel.  

"I dare you to repeat that, you cesspit rat."  

Mellos hesitated, swallowing hard, his courage faltering under the weight of the Queen Who Never Was.  

"Enough!" Viserys thundered, slamming his hand against the armrest of the throne. "This council is dismissed." He took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his own existence. "Strong, Rhaenys, you will stay."  

The lords withdrew, some hastily, others casting glances over their shoulders, curious to see what would unfold between the two Targaryen cousins.  

Once they were alone, Viserys lifted his gaze to Rhaenys. For the first time in a long while, he seemed small before her.  

"Cousin," he began, and his voice carried the weight of supplication. "Ask Rhaenyra to return."  

Rhaenys stared at him for a long moment. There was something pathetic about him now, like a man trying to grasp the ashes of what once was.  

"No," she replied, relentless. "Rhaenyra does not deserve to be dragged here for you to confront her one moment and then send her away the next. She needs peace. You owe her that. You owe that to Aemma."  

The name of his late wife struck him like an invisible blow.  

"How can I speak of peace," he growled, "if my own daughter is unwilling?"  

Rhaenys let out a sharp laugh, crossing her arms over her chest.  

"If I had more patience, I would look into what poison they’ve been slipping into your wine, cousin," she retorted. "Rhaenyra spent six years trying to be the heir you named her to be. If the future you envisioned is crumbling, it is not her fault. It is not Daemon’s fault. It is not the fault of the lords who support her. It is yours."  

Viserys opened his mouth to reply but then closed it again.  

"My lady…" Lyonel Strong attempted, noticing the king’s pitiful state.  

Rhaenys, however, was not finished. Her blood boiled, and every memory she had of Viserys' failed rule only fueled her indignation.  

"You said you would not marry again, yet you did. You named Rhaenyra your heir, yet you never did anything to strengthen her claim. You believe Jaehaerys and the Great Council of 101 chose you because you were the best candidate, but that was the regret our grandfather carried to his funeral pyre." She stepped closer, her violet eyes blazing with fury. "I was raised by Aemon Targaryen and Jocelyn Baratheon to be the princess of the realm. Meanwhile, you, in your arrogance, chose to believe that things would resolve themselves, slowly cultivating the succession crisis that now threatens the stability of the Seven Kingdoms. Like Maegor, you occupied a space that was not yours, dragged a good woman to her doom, and opened the gates for the worms of the Tower."  

Viserys collapsed against the back of his throne, too drained to argue.  

"So, Viserys," she concluded, "do not speak to me of Rhaenyra’s unwillingness. You never even bothered to see the efforts she made for this realm."  

The silence that followed was absolute.  

Lyonel Strong sighed and ran a hand over his face. Viserys’ physical and emotional exhaustion was evident, and he feared what more this discussion might take from him.  

"Princess Rhaenys," Strong interjected, his voice firm but respectful. "I trust Your Grace will extend my regards and congratulations to the princess heir."  

She nodded but did not take her eyes off Viserys.  

"Of course, Lord Hand."  

As she left the chamber, Rhaenys felt a weight upon her shoulders—not one of guilt or doubt, but the crushing disappointment of seeing what remained of a man who could have done great things, yet had become little more than a puppet of his own fear.  

Rhaenys had once coveted such a position, but time had taught her that King’s Landing was never a place for her—it never had been.  

Since the Great Council of 101, she had avoided visiting King’s Landing whenever possible. The city, with its imposing walls and towering keeps, held no fond memories for her—on the contrary, every stone of the Red Keep felt like a cruel reminder of what had been taken from her. The Iron Throne had never seemed like a distant dream to her, but rather a broken promise, an opportunity denied not due to lack of ability, but for the simple fact that she was a woman.  

Dragonstone did not offer comfort either. There, every corridor whispered memories of a past that had never materialized. The chambers where she had grown up, where she had been treated as a princess of the realm, now felt cold and empty. In distant times, her childhood had been filled with the pride of being Aemon Targaryen’s daughter, the heir to a brilliant future. But that future had never come, and Dragonstone, which should have been her unquestioned home, had become merely a reminder of everything that could have been and never would be.  

Yet, even as she carried her own silent frustration, Rhaenys found satisfaction in seeing Rhaenyra thrive. The young princess had inherited not only the beauty and fire of the Targaryens but had also developed a keen mind for politics. Her ability to maneuver the interests of lords and secure strategic allies was not something born of chance—it had been cultivated with care and determination. Since calling upon her uncle Vaegon for counsel, Rhaenyra had shown that she was willing to learn, to heed wise voices, and to absorb the knowledge of those with real experience in the game of power.  

Of course, this evolution had not been without conflict. Rhaenys well remembered Corlys' displeasure when Rhaenyra dismissed the possibility of taking Laenor as her consort. Her husband's pride had been wounded, and his frustration was evident for some time. But the man who had sailed uncharted seas and faced countless adversities also knew how to recognize an undeniable truth: Rhaenyra would not choose marriage solely for political convenience, and, above all, she knew what she was doing.  

Eventually, Corlys had accepted the decision—not easily, but with the pragmatic coldness that had always defined him. And, to everyone’s surprise, the solution Rhaenyra devised for the succession dilemmas proved not only viable but advantageous. Rhaenys had been immensely pleased. The princess had not only secured the stability of the Velaryon succession but had also paved a solid path for the future of her own lineage.  

There was something profoundly gratifying about seeing Rhaenyra claim what was rightfully hers. Unlike Rhaenys, she had not been forced to accept rejection from a council of lords blinded by tradition. She was becoming what Rhaenys had never had the chance to be.  

And deep down, the Queen Who Never Was could not have been prouder.

 

 

Glossary

Iksā vok = You are perfect.

Notes:

So... Did you liked it?

Chapter 15

Notes:

Another chapter?
PLEASE READ THE ENDNOTES!

 

 

 

After Rhaenys’ visit to King’s Landing, whatever had been brewing in the court seemed to have settled—at least, it no longer reached Dragonstone. Thus, for the first time since they had settled on the island, Daemon and Rhaenyra began to see it as a true refuge.

Isolation had become a gift. Peace hung over Dragonstone, interrupted only by the sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs and the distant roars of dragons patrolling the skies. Even with an active work routine alongside Vaegon, Rhaenyra had significantly reduced her hours dedicated to political responsibilities. Her attention was divided between preparing for the baby's birth and the small pleasures Daemon made sure to provide.

Daemon ensured that absolutely nothing was lacking for his wife. Any desire Rhaenyra expressed, no matter how small, was fulfilled almost before she even voiced it. If she wanted lemon cake in the middle of the afternoon, he made sure she had it. If she felt the weight of pregnancy on her feet and ankles, he was already there, ready to massage them. With Corlys’ help, he ensured that the new ladies-in-waiting arrived as quickly as possible, chartering the fastest ships for the crossing. In the end, five new ladies were received at Dragonstone by the last month of Rhaenyra’s pregnancy: Amanda Blackwood, in a diplomatic gesture to appease the feud between the Blackwoods and the Brackens; Glinda Westerling; Liandra Karstark; Olivia Beesbury; and Elise Arryn.

The only thing Daemon could not offer was the freedom for Rhaenyra to continue training with Silver Sister or flying on Syrax. For the former, Ser Erryk and Ser Luthor intervened on his behalf, insisting that a princess eight moons pregnant should not be wielding a sword. For the latter, an agreement was needed with Syrax herself, who seemed no less concerned than her husband.

"I can't stand being trapped here anymore," Rhaenyra exclaimed, exasperated, crossing her arms over her rounded belly as she looked out the solar window.

Daemon, who was lounging in a nearby armchair, watching his wife with a half-smile, leaned forward. "You are not trapped," he said, with the feline patience he always used when trying to convince her of something. "How about a walk along the cove? A bit of sun will do you good."

Her lilac eyes gleamed with a flicker of excitement. "Can we see Syrax?"

"Of course," Daemon nodded before adding in a warning tone, "But you will not ride her."

Rhaenyra let out a loud huff, as if he were asking the impossible of her. "This is ridiculous."

Daemon arched a brow and crossed his arms. "If I were in any way physically hindered, you wouldn’t let me fly Caraxes either. It's just common sense."

The princess opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say anything, Daemon was already pulling her feet into his lap, beginning a slow and deliberate massage.

"You're just trying to distract me with this."

He smiled, satisfied. "Is it working?"

Rhaenyra shot him a fierce look, but the effect was ruined by the way her shoulders involuntarily relaxed under his touch.

"You little demon," she muttered, and Daemon responded by pressing a spot on the sole of her foot that drew a relieved sigh from the princess.

The scene might have remained in that state of comfortable tranquility if, the next moment, Rhaenyra hadn’t let out a sudden cry and clutched her belly.

Daemon froze. His heart seemed to stop for an instant before resuming its rhythm, now frantic.

"What is it?" His voice came out more urgent than he intended, and Rhaenyra's eyes met his with a mix of surprise and fear.

"I-I don't know," Rhaenyra tried to answer, but soon another pang of pain tore a cry from her, a mixture of agony and shock.

She swallowed hard before murmuring, her voice barely above a whisper:
"Daemon, I t-think… it’s time."

He was on his feet in an instant, panic and adrenaline already coursing through his body.

"Ser Luthor!" Daemon bellowed, and the guard entered the chamber the next moment, sword already drawn.

"Put that away, man!" Daemon growled, gesturing toward the blade as if it were the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen. "Summon Maester Gerardys and the midwives. Now!"

Ser Luthor rushed out, leaving behind a Daemon who was trying to appear in control but, inside, felt a fear he had never known before. He turned to Rhaenyra, taking her hands in his and forcing a confident smile.

"Everything will be fine, zaldrītsos."

Rhaenyra’s labor began as a faint discomfort, a tightening at the base of her belly that gradually intensified with each passing hour. The weight of the baby seemed to shift within her, preparing for descent, and even without prior experience, she knew the time had come.

Daemon did not leave her side for a single moment. Even when Ser Luthor rushed off to summon the midwives and Maester Gerardys, he remained beside her, holding her hand, murmuring low words in High Valyrian, as if willing the entire process to be less painful.

"If someone had asked me two years ago where I would be today, I would never have answered with anything like this, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else."

Time became an indistinct thing. Between one moment and the next, the contractions grew more frequent, and then Thamar and Mary arrived, bringing with them the scent of dried herbs and aromatic oils that filled the chamber.

Thamar, a tall woman with intricately braided hair, carried the experience of having helped dozens of women give birth. Mary, smaller in stature but equally skilled, carried a steaming copper basin with herbs meant to ease the pain and facilitate labor.

Maester Gerardys arrived soon after, bringing his instruments but keeping a step behind the midwives. "Women handle births better than maesters," he had once said, and he seemed to remain faithful to his own philosophy.

The pain was increasing, and Rhaenyra, sweating, felt her patience quickly wearing thin.

"Why won’t this child just come out already?" she panted through clenched teeth, gripping Daemon’s wrist tightly.

"The baby will come when ready, princess," Thamar reassured her with a calm smile. "And our job is to make sure that happens the right way."

Mary knelt beside the princess, bringing a cloth soaked in warm water to wipe her face. "Breathe, milady. And scream when you need to."

But Rhaenyra did not want to wait. She wanted the pain to end, she wanted to feel her baby in her arms, she wanted… she truly wanted to scream.

The birthing chair was brought in and positioned at the center of the chamber. Unlike a bed, the chair allowed the pressure to aid in the birth.
"Hold here, Your Highness." Mary guided Rhaenyra’s hands to the carved handles while Thamar helped her into position.

Daemon, standing in front of her, held her hands, his face tense with worry.
"You can do this, zaldrītsos," he murmured, his thumbs stroking the sweaty skin of her hands. "Look at me."

Rhaenyra looked at him.

The contractions came like violent waves, each one followed by an almost superhuman effort. She felt her body opening, her muscles straining, the pressure increasing. Her nails dug into Daemon’s hands, but he didn’t even flinch.
"Daemon!"

"I'm here, Rhaenyra."
"You're doing well, princess," Thamar encouraged. "The baby is already descending."

Mary remained by her side, offering support. Gerardys, watchful, observed the progress but kept his distance, ready to intervene if necessary.

"It’s burning!" Rhaenyra panted, her face contorted in pain.
"That’s good, it means we’re close," Thamar said firmly.
"How can that be good?!" Rhaenyra shouted back.

Daemon noticed the midwives were holding back laughter. "Milady, at the next contraction, push with all your strength."

And Rhaenyra pushed. Her scream echoed against the stone walls of Dragonstone, and then… a cry filled the chamber.

The most beautiful sound Rhaenyra had ever heard.

Mary wrapped the baby in a clean cloth and placed it in Rhaenyra’s arms, though she could barely see through her tears. It was small, warm, still covered in traces of birth, but perfect. Its tiny eyes remained shut, little fists raised in the air as if already fighting against the absurdity of leaving its mother’s womb. Thick tufts of silver-blond hair, still matted with blood, made it seem as if it glowed.

For the first time in his life, Daemon was speechless. He knelt beside Rhaenyra and ran his fingers over the baby’s tiny face.
"Our son," Rhaenyra whispered, exhausted but smiling.
Daemon pressed his forehead to hers and smiled. "Our son, zaldrītsos."

The sense of relief still echoed through the chamber when Rhaenyra felt another wave of pain, so intense that her body arched instinctively. For a moment, she thought it was merely the remnants of the monumental effort she had just endured. But then came another contraction.

Daemon noticed the sudden tension in his wife's body and frowned. "Nyra?"

Thamar, still kneeling before her, quickly lifted her head. "There’s another one."

The shock rippled through the chamber like a lightning strike. Gerardys stepped forward, more alert now, while Mary carefully took the newborn from Rhaenyra’s arms.

"Another?" Daemon repeated, as if he needed to hear it a second time to believe it.

Rhaenyra felt another overwhelming contraction tear through her body, leaving no doubt. "Another," she confirmed through clenched teeth, gripping the handles of the birthing chair.

Thamar gently ran her hand over the still-prominent curve of the princess’s belly and nodded. "The baby hasn’t fully turned yet, but it’s ready to be born. We need you to push again, princess."

"I… I didn’t know," Rhaenyra gasped, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Exhaustion threatened to consume her, but adrenaline still coursed fiercely through her veins. She lifted her gaze to Daemon, who still held one of her hands. "I didn’t know there were two. Daemon."

Daemon brought his free hand to her forehead, pushing back damp strands of hair that clung to her skin. His gaze was a mix of concern and tenderness. "There was no way to know, zaldrītsos. But we’re almost there."

Mary, now cradling the first baby securely in her arms, exchanged a glance with Thamar and handed the child to Maester Gerardys and one of the waiting wet nurses. Then, she placed her hands on Rhaenyra’s belly, feeling for the position of the second baby.

With a deep breath, Mary nodded to Thamar.

"Take a deep breath, milady," Thamar instructed, positioning herself to receive the second child. "At the next contraction, push with all your strength."

Rhaenyra clenched her teeth and nodded. And when the contraction came, she pushed.

Pain tore through her body once more. Sweat dripped from her forehead and neck, and her legs trembled with the effort. Daemon remained by her side, his strong hand gripping hers, his eyes burning with an intensity only he possessed.

"Daemon, I can’t anymore," she cried.

Daemon didn’t know how to offer more strength or reassurance, so he positioned himself in a way that allowed him to wrap his arm around Rhaenyra’s shoulders while still holding her hands in his. And he began to sing a song in High Valyrian—her favorite.

Thamar remained focused, her eyes fixed on the baby’s descent. "It’s coming fast now. One more time, princess."

And so Rhaenyra gathered every ounce of strength she had left and pushed one last time.

A new cry filled the chamber.

Thamar took the newborn in her arms and lifted it slightly, the tiny body glistening with blood under the light streaming through the windows. "A girl," she announced with a satisfied smile. "A beautiful girl."

Daemon let out a breath that seemed to have been ripped straight from his chest. He looked at Rhaenyra, who was already weeping, her face drenched in sweat and emotion.

Mary quickly cleaned the baby and wrapped her in a soft cloth before placing her in her mother’s arms.

Rhaenyra gazed down at her daughter’s face—so small and delicate, with a fine layer of pale fuzz on her head. Her tiny eyes barely opened, but her breathing was steady, determined, just as one would expect from someone who carried the blood of the dragon.

"She is so… perfect," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Daemon was still quiet, watching mother and daughter with an indescribable expression. Then, slowly, he reached out, lightly touching the tiny girl's cheek with the tip of his fingers.

Mary, still kneeling beside the princess, looked at Thamar and Maester Gerardys. “The afterbirth still needs to be expelled, but everything is fine. The princess and the babies are healthy.”

The news lifted a weight that had been hanging over everyone in the room. Gerardys sighed in relief, while Daemon sank to his knees beside his wife, his eyes still fixed on his daughter.

“We have two children,” he murmured, as if the weight of it was only now settling in his mind.

Rhaenyra smiled, exhaustion beginning to take over. “We have two children.”

And as she held her daughter in her arms, knowing that her firstborn was safe, wrapped in the care of the wet nurses, she felt a peace she had not experienced in a long time.

Daemon pressed a gentle kiss to his wife's sweaty forehead and then to his daughter’s.

“What shall we name them?” he asked softly.

Rhaenyra looked down at the small girl in her arms and then at Daemon, who now held their son again.

“She will be Daenys, in honor of the blessing that was given to our house. And he will be Aenar, in honor of the one who believed.”

Daemon blinked slowly, surprised, and then a slow, proud smile spread across his lips. He nodded, his hand still resting on his wife's.

“Aenar and Daenys.” He repeated the names, and the sound of them seemed to carry an ancestral weight, a promise, and a new hope.

 

***

 

On the twins' first night, the room was bathed in a golden dusk, illuminated only by the soft flicker of candles and the silvery glow of the moon filtering through the half-open curtains. The air was filled with the sweet scent of lavender, an attempt by the maesters to soothe Rhaenyra and help her rest. But despite all the exhaustion, despite every fiber of her body crying out for respite, she simply could not take her eyes off Aenar and Daenys.

The cradle had been brought into her and Daemon’s chambers—neither of them had even considered the possibility of being apart from their children. The pregnancy had been peaceful, but the birth… The birth had been a battle.

For a brief moment, Rhaenyra felt fear. What if she was not strong enough? What if her breath failed her? What if everything crumbled at the final moment? But in the end, she had succeeded.

Aenar stirred in the cradle, his tiny face scrunching slightly as his little arms reached into the emptiness, as if still trying to understand the space that no longer restricted his movements. Daenys, on the other hand, remained serene, nestled against the soft mattress, her delicate features unchanged, as if the world itself could not disturb her.

Rhaenyra smiled, fascinated by the difference between the two.

A movement beside her made her look up. Daemon emerged from the dim light, his bare feet making barely a sound against the polished stone floor. He wore only a loose tunic, his hair disheveled, his face softened by the exhaustion of a sleepless night.

Without a word, he wrapped an arm around her waist, still feeling the lingering swell of her pregnancy, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“You should be resting.” His voice was rough, laced with tenderness.

Rhaenyra let out a soft laugh. “I know, but I can’t stop looking at them.” She lifted her gaze, finding Daemon’s eyes, a gentle glow reflecting in them from the candlelight. “They are ours, Daemon.”

Daemon did not answer immediately. He only leaned in and placed a slow, reverent kiss on his wife’s lips.

“I thought I couldn’t be happier after we got married,” he murmured against her lips, his warm breath mingling with hers. “But this feeling… It’s so much.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her heart tightening with emotion. “For a while, I let myself believe childbirth would be my end.” Her voice came low, a whisper heavy with vulnerability. “But it is only the beginning.”

Daemon smiled, running the tip of his fingers along her face, as if memorizing every detail. “My queen, we have just had two. It’s too soon to think about the next one.”

Rhaenyra laughed and gave his arm a light slap, feigning indignation. “You know what I meant.”

Daemon laughed along with her, but soon his smile softened, becoming something deeper. Carefully, he cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing slow circles on her cheeks.

“I love you, Rhaenyra.” The sincerity in his voice made her heart warm. “Thank you for giving me a family.”

Rhaenyra blinked a few times, feeling her eyes sting with emotion. Her Daemon. Her love. Her partner in all things.

“And I love you.”

And there, between the soft breaths of their newborns and the gentle crackling of the flames, wrapped in the comforting twilight of their home, Rhaenyra and Daemon remained in silence, simply existing together, at the dawn of a new era for their family.

 

***

 

A few days later, a note was distributed from the farthest reaches of the North to Dorne, from the depths of Oldtown to the Free Cities, each receiving a copy that read:

 

Let it be known to all,

Prince Aenar Targaryen and Princess Daenys Targaryen were born in Dragonstone on the 13th day of the 6th moon of the year 120 B.C., the first-born of the Crown Princess and Lady of Dragonstone Rhaenyra Targaryen and Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen.

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you very much to all the comments on the previous chapter, they are very important, they help me see if the story is going in a reasonable direction or not.

I saw that the fanfic reached the 1k kudos mark, and I almost cried. I never thought that this many people would read something I wrote. Some comments make me wonder if I'm not speeding things up too much, but I'm faithful in believing that this story is just a way to pass the time, reduce day-to-day anxiety and maybe help someone relax a little on the other side of the screen.

About the names of Daemyra's children. I know many people wanted me to put Aegon or Aemma and I really like those names, I have nothing against them, but I think there are already too many Aegons out there hahah

Not to mention that I wanted to bring another meaning to this moment, so I decided to take a chance.

And just in case, none of Daemyra's children will have the names from the canon (once again, I love them all, but I gave some of them a different name).

Thanks to everyone who's read this far, and if you're comfortable, please leave a comment to let me know what you think.

Chapter 16

Notes:

Since there were so many comments on the previous chapter, I've decided to bring it forward one more!!!

The good part is that it's a new chapter, and the bad part is that the end is approaching...

I love reading your opinions, so moving this chapter forward is a way of thanking you for all your attention.

 

 

Vaegon would like to say that his assignment as a messenger had a realistic and direct political purpose, but the truth was that there had been a real dispute over who would bring the news of the twins' birth to King’s Landing.

 

"I am the eldest!" Vaegon said.

"But I was the one who announced when Rhaenyra was pregnant," Rhaenys tried to justify.

"Precisely, which is why it is my turn now," Vaegon countered.

"I think Monterys and I should go, so we can also share the news about my pregnancy," Laena justified, but it was Monterys who responded.

"That is not a good idea, my love. I cannot imagine you in King’s Landing in your current condition."

"A very reasonable point. Vhagar may be large, but I will be traveling with two dragons. Dreamfyre always accompanies Maelyx," Vaegon said determinedly.

As the three of them tried to reach a consensus, Daemon entered the map room, looking irritated at the situation.

"If you do not come to an agreement in five minutes, I will go with Caraxes myself, and none of you will be able to see the King’s reaction with your own eyes."

"But you are banished!" Laena said.

"As if that has ever stopped me before," he huffed. "Ser Erryk will stay here waiting, and in five minutes, he will let me know what you have decided. This nonsense is making Rhaenyra anxious."

And with that, he left the room, while the other three exchanged glances and looked at Ser Erryk.

"Let’s rotate, then," Rhaenys said.

 

So it was decided that Vaegon would go this time, and Laena would have the next opportunity.

Vaegon reached the capital in less than two hours. As Maelyx grew, he was improving significantly in speed.

He accompanied Maelyx to the old Dragonpit so that the dragon could rest properly. Even though he was not used to it, he needed to eat and sleep, and Dreamfyre would help make the environment pleasant for the younger dragon.

On his way to the Red Keep, Vaegon passed by the orphanage, the health house, and the school that Dragonstone had renovated and expanded, reinforcing the presence of healers and physiologists from the Free Cities, making basic care more accessible to common citizens. Vaegon was very pleased to see how the projects were progressing, and he was certain that Rhaenyra would be as well once she heard about them.

Unfortunately—or not—when he arrived at the palace, he learned that Viserys was in a meeting with the Small Council. Perfect. He would deliver the news all at once.

When Ser Harrold saw him, Vaegon noticed his surprise.

"I know it has been a while since I last came here, Ser Harrold, but there is no need to be startled."

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard cleared his throat. "Do not take it the wrong way, my prince. It simply crossed my mind that Your Highness might have news of Princess Rhaenyra."

Vaegon smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I will let you know firsthand." He spoke softly at the doors of the Small Council chamber. "Rhaenyra has given birth to a pair of twins, Aenar and Daenys. They are two precious little things."

The prince saw the Kingsguard’s eyes glisten—joy… pride… He was not entirely sure, but they were genuinely happy emotions.

"It is so strange to think that the little girl I once saw running through the halls of the Red Keep now has children of her own," Ser Harrold remarked.

Vaegon let out a soft laugh. "Indeed. And what about me? I remember watching Viserys run through these halls. It is a bit terrifying, is it not? I will pass along your congratulations to Rhaenyra."

Ser Harrold nodded. "Thank you, my prince."

Moments later, Ser Harrold announced Vaegon’s arrival.

All eyes turned to the door as Vaegon entered the room with firm steps. His silver hair was impeccable, and the black and scarlet attire he wore emphasized his noble bearing. As he lifted his gaze, he was surprised to see Alicent seated beside Viserys. He did not recall Queen Aemma ever attending these meetings. This would be interesting.

"Good morning, Uncle Vaegon. To what do we owe the visit?" Viserys asked, setting his goblet of wine down on the table.

"Yes, indeed, my King," Vaegon took a breath. "I have come to deliver an official statement from Dragonstone. This same statement should be arriving at the noble houses of Westeros and beyond at this very moment, but Princess Rhaenyra requested that the news be conveyed personally here in the capital."

Alicent seemed restless—if Vaegon had to wager, he would guess that at any moment, she would urge him to hurry.

"The heir princess gave birth five days ago," Vaegon finally said, receiving a range of reactions. Viserys looked stunned, Alicent seemed as if she was about to vomit, Otto showed no expression, Mellos began twisting some of his chains, and the others seemed genuinely pleased with the news. Vaegon scanned the room, trying to catch the subtlest movements. "Rhaenyra has given birth to two babies, Prince Aenar and Princess Daenys. They are all well and healthy, and the heir princess is recovering very well."

Viserys took a moment to process the information.

"What… wonderful news," he finally said.

The consort managed to compose a more structured response. "That is excellent, Prince Vaegon. When does Princess Rhaenyra intend to present the children to the court?"

Vaegon suppressed a laugh. "Forgive me, milady, but that will only be possible once the banishment period ends."

"This banishment nonsense again? I have already told Rhaenyra to forget about that matter," Viserys said irritably.

"The children must be presented to the court as soon as possible. That is how things are done," Mellos decided to intervene, and Alicent nodded.

"Precisely. Or is there something we should not know?" Alicent seemed intent on provoking even the messenger.

Vaegon cleared his throat, buying time to temper the sharp response ready to leave his mouth.

"Oh no, no need to worry. The babies are the most beautiful things I have seen in years, a true joy and blessing. Rhaenyra and Daemon have done an excellent job. Rest assured, Aenar and Daenys were born with all four limbs in perfect condition, as well as five perfect and adorable little fingers on each hand and foot. They have already received their eggs in their cradles, which remain warm, so we are quite hopeful. Targaryens through and through."

"That is simply wonderful to hear, my prince!" said Lord Strong. "As a grandfather myself, I understand the joy of welcoming a new generation. Have I told you all that Harwin’s wife is expecting again? This youth…"

"Indeed, Strong, it is a blessing. Prince Vaegon, please convey our congratulations to the heir princess," said Lord Beesbury.

"Do you not see how wrong this is? It is disrespectful to the Crown that the princess refuses to present her children, the supposed heirs, before the King," Alicent said, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

Vaegon turned to her. "I am not sure I understand what you just said, Lady Alicent. What do you mean by ‘supposed’?"

Realizing her misstep, Alicent attempted to justify herself, but Vaegon did not allow her to speak. "Besides being the heir princess to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra has just given birth to the next King as well. There is no room for debate against facts. And another thing—disrespect? The last decree issued was the banishment of Rhaenyra and Daemon. The just and necessary course of action would be to issue another decree lifting that banishment. I hate having to repeat myself every time. If the heir does not respect the Crown’s orders, who should? I would really like to know who has been responsible for your education, milady, as it has been lacking since the day we met."

Vaegon stepped closer. "And the consort does not see how wrong this is?"

 

***

 

The sound of something breaking echoed through the luxurious chambers of the Queen Consort. The dark wooden cradle, an expensive piece carved with symbols of the Faith of the Seven, was now reduced to wreckage on the floor. The mattress, embroidered with golden threads, had been torn apart, feathers floating in the air like macabre snow. Alicent panted, her chest rising and falling violently, her eyes brimming with tears, but there was no softness in them. They were tears of hatred.

The maids had fled, frightened by their lady’s fury. One of them dared to hesitate at the door, but when Alicent shot her a scorching glare, the young woman ran off. She did not want to witness the Queen in such a state.

"Why does she get to have everything?" Alicent’s voice cut through the air like a blade. "Why?"

She grabbed a small silk dress, hand-embroidered for the child she had never had the chance to hold, and hurled it against the mirror. The mirror stand struck the wall, and the glass shattered, shards sliding across the marble floor.

That was how Otto Hightower and Gwayne found her.

The scene was chaotic. The room, always so meticulously arranged, looked like a battlefield. Overturned furniture, torn fabrics, traces of uncontrollable fury. Alicent stood amidst the destruction, her hands clenched into fists, her hair disheveled, her eyes burning.

Otto entered with firm steps, his brow furrowed in disapproval.

"Alicent!" His voice was cold as ice. "You need to control yourself!"

She turned to her father, her face distorted by despair and rage.

"Control myself?" Alicent let out a bitter laugh, so sharp that it made Gwayne shudder. "I did everything that was asked of me. I was a faithful wife. I was a devoted servant. I bore children for this throne. And what did I get?"

She pointed a trembling finger at Otto.

"What did I get, Father?"

Gwayne, hesitant until then, stepped forward and tried to grasp her by the shoulders. Alicent resisted at first but eventually allowed herself to be embraced by her brother.

"You are the Queen," Gwayne murmured against her hair. "That decree may have stolen your title, but the law of the Seven is on your side."

Alicent took a deep breath, her eyes staring blankly into the void.

"The law of the Seven..." she repeated, as if chewing over the words, trying to find some comfort in them.

But there was something else burning inside her, something no prayer could extinguish.

She abruptly pulled away from Gwayne, her eyes wild once more.

"Why does Rhaenyra get to have everything? Why does she get to marry whomever she wants, bear as many children as she pleases, and still remain the heir, the untouchable, the glorious Rhaenyra?" Alicent spat her rival’s name as if it were poison. "Who decided that she could, and I could not?"

Otto crossed his arms, observing his daughter. Her fury did not evoke pity in him; on the contrary, this was exactly what he had expected.

He slowly stepped closer, placed a firm hand on Alicent’s shoulder, and squeezed lightly—a gesture of command.

"We will set our plan in motion," he said, his voice low but laden with intent. "You will be a Queen recognized."

Alicent blinked, feeling the pulse in her ears.

Were the gods sending her a sign? Were they hearing her suffering, her plea?

She ran her tongue over her dry lips, tasting the salty remnants of her own tears.

Then, she lifted her face, and when she looked at Otto, her eyes were no longer red from crying.

They were cold.

"Yes." Her voice came out in a sharp whisper. "I will be."

 

***

 

If Alicent could, she would claw that smile off Laena Velaryon’s face.

The Velaryon princess radiated an almost insolent satisfaction, her posture impeccable, her silver hair braided and adorned with pearls, and her gaze carrying a serenity that only someone in a secure position could display. Alicent clasped her hands in her lap, feeling her nails dig into her palms as she tried to contain the bile rising in her throat.

"Pregnant?" Viserys questioned, his voice laden with exhaustion and disbelief. "Again? "

The king’s eyes were shadowed, his sickly skin reflecting the flickering light of the chamber. He lifted his head slightly, as if he needed to confirm that he had heard correctly.

"Yes, my King," Laena confirmed, keeping her tone soft and respectful, though there was a glimmer in her eyes that did not escape Alicent. "Princess Rhaenyra is with child again—her third. And from what it seems, this time it’s only one. Her belly appears much smaller than it did with Aenar and Daenys."

The tension in the air was palpable.

Lord Strong, who had been listening in silence until then, let out a sincere laugh, his eyes shining with genuine delight. "It truly is a most fertile time! My daughter-in-law is also expecting again!"

It was almost comical, Laena thought, how the parents seemed more and more exhausted while the grandparents only grew more animated and full of vigor. She saw it in her own parents—Corlys and Rhaenys could barely contain their pride at their flourishing lineage.

Laena smiled, maintaining her confident posture. "Yes, my lord, Prudence sent a letter to Rhaenyra sharing the good news. It will be your fourth grandchild, correct?"

She knew the answer, of course, but she wanted to give the Hand of the King the pleasure of saying it himself.

"Yes!" Strong exclaimed, puffing out his chest. "My son has taken his duty of rebuilding Harrenhal quite seriously, and not just its physical structure—which, I must say, is magnificent—but also by filling the fortress with a great family. I feel I could die of happiness, and I tell you all, I would never complain."

Viserys cleared his throat, drawing the attention back to himself. There was something in his expression that wavered between resignation and vague discomfort.

"When will Rhaenyra come to King’s Landing?" His voice sounded distant, almost reluctant, as if he already knew the answer.

Laena wasted no time.

"Well, my King, there is still more than a year left before her period of banishment is over," she said with a diplomatic tone, not lingering on words that might sound provocative.

A heavy silence filled the room. Some councilors sighed, exasperated, while others remained impassive. The irritation was clear and undeniable, but it did not stem from a single place—each man there had his own reasons to dislike that answer.

Viserys closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, his gaze seemed lost somewhere between acceptance and regret.

"I understand," he murmured, and his voice seemed to age even more as he added:

"Let her do as she sees fit."

 

***

 

This time, Alicent did not hold back.

"What is the news this time?" Her voice carried a sharp irony, her patience already nonexistent. "Has the princess given birth to three babies?"

The Throne Room plunged into a brief silence, broken only by the rustling of the cloaks of some councilors as they exchanged glances—some surprised by the consort queen's lack of decorum, others merely waiting for the next exchange of sharp words.

Alicent had already noticed the pattern. Any official communication from Dragonstone arrived via a special messenger—always Vaegon, Rhaenys, or Laena Velaryon. With each visit, it was always the same news: the heir to the crown prospered. Her children were healthy, her dragons multiplied, and her position remained unshaken. It was a silent affront, a constant reminder that removing Rhaenyra from the path would only become more difficult.

This time, it was Rhaenys who filled the hall with her presence. The princess wore an exquisite scarlet gown, the luxurious fabric adorned with golden embroidery along the skirt and bodice. Her headpiece, encrusted with rubies, gleamed under the torchlight—a silent reminder of her wealth and power. For a moment, Alicent wondered how Rhaenys had managed to travel mounted on a dragon while dressed so impeccably. But she quickly pushed the thought aside, feeling the bitter taste of frustration rise in her throat.

Rhaenys smiled subtly, the small curve of her lips exuding confidence. She stepped closer to the throne, her footsteps echoing against the polished marble floor.

"I fear my news is not quite so grand," she began, her voice soft but laden with conviction. "Rhaenyra has given birth to a healthy boy, Viserys. She has named him Baelon."

Alicent felt her fingers clench against the fabric of her dress. Another one. Another.

"And fortune continues to flourish in Dragonstone, my king," Rhaenys continued, looking directly at Viserys. "Syrax has also laid another clutch of eggs. Five, in total."

The hall fell silent for a moment, but inside Alicent’s mind, everything was screaming. Three children in two years. A growing lineage, expanding effortlessly, while all she had managed to give the king was a single, deformed, stillborn child. And the dragons… She had already lost count of how many had been born under Rhaenyra’s rule. How did her father expect his plan to work?

But she had to believe.

She had to have faith that the Seven were on the right side. On her side. It was the only thing she had left.

On the throne, Viserys let out a deep sigh, his gaze drifting into nothingness, as if trying to picture the grandchildren he had never seen. His voice came out weak, almost a lament.

"When will I finally be able to see them?"

Rhaenys tilted her head slightly.

"Rhaenyra has commitments to fulfill," she said, her voice measured. "But next year, she will gather her retinue and come to present her children to the court."

"Please, ask her to inform me when she begins preparations," Viserys murmured, a touch of melancholy in his voice. "I wish to receive them properly."

Rhaenys nodded.

"I heard you have a grandson as well," Viserys continued, searching for a fragment of normalcy amid the chaos that was his court.

The older princess smiled, genuine pride gleaming in her eyes.

"Yes, my grandson has just turned one," she said with pride. "Lucerys Velaryon."

Viserys nodded slowly.

"My congratulations, cousin."

"Thank you, my King," Rhaenys replied, her voice laden with meaning.

Alicent pressed her lips together.

The shadows in the Throne Room seemed heavier in that moment.

 

***

 

The last time a dragon flew over King’s Landing, it had brought news of Prince Baelon’s birth. So when the thunderous roar of a winged beast once again filled the skies, the citizens immediately halted their activities, turning their eyes to the horizon. Blacksmiths abandoned their hammers, merchants paused their negotiations, and even the City Watch soldiers instinctively tightened their grips on their weapons.

But to everyone's surprise, the dragon emerging from the clouds was not Maelyx, Dreamfyre, Meleys, or Vhagar.

It was Caraxes.

The serpentine, crimson silhouette of the Blood Wyrm cut through the sky with unmistakable grandeur. His elongated body twisted like a serpent mid-flight, and his roar echoed against the city walls like thunder from the Seven Hells. Panic momentarily spread. The streets became a chaotic mess of murmurs and hushed whispers, for many had believed the Prince of the City would never return. And if he did now, it could only mean something of great importance.

Caraxes flew over the castle slowly before descending in a spiraling motion, landing with a resounding impact inside the Dragonpit. His wings flared in one final, menacing display before folding back, and Daemon Targaryen dismounted with his usual ease, adjusting his black cloak as he strode toward the Red Keep.

Fortunately for him, Viserys was already in the Throne Room. The less time he had to spend here, the better.

Daemon entered the hall with his head held high, his firm, confident strides echoing against the polished marble. The guards stiffened at the sight of him, but none dared to stop him. His smile was almost provocative as he walked the path toward the foot of the Iron Throne, ignoring the watchful gazes of Otto Hightower and Alicent, who looked as tense as snakes ready to strike.

Viserys regarded him with a mixture of surprise and exasperation. "Hello, Daemon. To what do we owe this unexpected visit?"

Daemon crossed his arms, an amused glint dancing in his lilac eyes. "My King, the banishment has finally come to an end, and I thought I might take the chance to stretch my legs all the way here while bringing a message from Dragonstone."

Otto's eyes narrowed, while Alicent kept her expression impassive, though her fingers tightened against the edge of her seat. Lyonel Strong, on the other hand, leaned slightly forward, genuinely intrigued.

"Very well," Viserys gestured with a weary hand. "We are all eager to hear your message."

Daemon allowed a dramatic pause, his smile deepening in satisfaction before he finally spoke:

"Rhaenyra is with child."

Silence fell like a sharp blade.

Daemon took full advantage of their stunned reactions and continued, his eyes locked onto Viserys. "She asked me to inform you that she will return to King’s Landing in two moons’ time to honor the King’s invitation, now that the banishment has ended. However, she must first fulfill some duties and make the necessary preparations for the journey, especially in her current condition."

For a moment, Viserys’ face lost all color, and the king’s trembling hand clutched the arm of his throne. His lips parted, but no words came immediately.

Lyonel Strong was the first to break the silence, stepping forward with a broad smile.

"How wonderful!" he exclaimed, approaching Daemon and offering him a warm embrace. "My congratulations, my prince. What joy!"

Daemon accepted the gesture with a satisfied nod. "Thank you, Lord Hand. It is indeed a blessing."

But the harmony was swiftly disrupted by a cold, cutting voice.

"I am beginning to worry for the princess's health," Alicent murmured, a sour smile curving her lips. "Birthing children at such a pace… It is truly remarkable."

Daemon’s smile vanished instantly. His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened like the edge of a blade.

"Not so different from the speed with which you, milady, conceived while still could," he replied, his smirk never reaching his eyes. "The only difference is that my wife is successful every time."

The venom in his words made Alicent’s expression harden, a flush of color rising to her cheeks.

"You—"

"Enough of this," Viserys interrupted, his voice strained before he was seized by a violent fit of coughing. He clutched his chest, struggling to compose himself. Gerardys stepped forward, but the king raised a hand, dismissing any aid. "Daemon," he wheezed, recovering. "Tell Rhaenyra how happy I am with all this news. I hope to welcome them to the Red Keep in two moons… and finally meet my grandchildren."

Daemon inclined his head slightly, satisfied.

"I will deliver your message, brother."

Notes:

I loved writing this chapter, as much as it was more time jumps, I still think it was a great way to do it. Because King's Landing realised how hardworking Daemyra are at making new little Targaryens...😈💖

I've decided to bring our boy Lucerys back, to the place of dear boy and heir Velaryon. ✨

What do you guys think?

Chapter 17

Notes:

Thanks for all your comments on the previous chapter!

The main story is almost over, guys, hang in there a bit longer. ❤️❤️

 

 

While Daemon adjusted Baelon in his arms, he felt little Aenar tug insistently at his coat, his voice filled with expectation.  

“Kepa, kepa! I want to see Stormcloud!”  

The prince took a deep breath, holding back a smile at the child's natural impatience. Aenar had the tenacity of dragon blood, and like any young Targaryen, his bond with his mount was as intense as his determination.  

Lowering himself to his son's level, Daemon adjusted Baelon more securely against his chest and met the violet eyes of his eldest, who furrowed his brows in a stubborn expression.  

“My love, I explained this to you yesterday. We're preparing to travel, and Stormcloud is with the older dragons so he can accompany us when we reach the capital.”  

Aenar shook his head, dissatisfied. “But I promised I’d see him today.”  

Daemon sighed, recognizing the same obstinacy he had displayed countless times throughout his life. Rhaenyra always said their children had inherited more from him than he could imagine, and he found more truth in that every day.  

“And you will see him, as soon as we arrive in King’s Landing.” Daemon assured him, lightly tapping his son’s nose, making Aenar wrinkle his expression. “Now, look over there… your muña is carrying that bag. How about going to help her? She’ll need a strong knight to carry things.”  

Aenar’s eyes gleamed at being entrusted with a new mission. His little chest puffed with pride at being called a knight, and in an instant, his earlier frustration was forgotten. Without further protest, he ran toward Rhaenyra, who was trying to organize some bags on the ship's deck.  

Daemon watched his son for a moment before turning, searching for his youngest daughter. Daenys was holding hands with Lucerys Velaryon, the two walking toward the ship under Laena’s watchful gaze. The little girl spoke animatedly with her cousin, her long silver hair swaying as she walked.  

“All is ready, my prince.” Ser Luthor’s deep voice interrupted Daemon’s thoughts. The knight confirmed that all luggage had been properly loaded and that the crew was awaiting only the signal to set sail.  

Daemon adjusted the blanket around little Baelon and boarded, finding Rhaenyra and Laena already settled on the deck, surrounded by the children. Corlys and Monterys stood near the helm, likely discussing route details with the ship’s captain.  

Laena, one hand resting on her prominent belly, smiled upon seeing Daemon board. “Why don’t we go below deck? We’ll be more comfortable, and the children will have more space to play.”  

The suggestion was met with murmurs of approval, and soon, the family and their two ladies-in-waiting, Glinda and Elise, descended to a more sheltered lounge below deck.  

The space was large and well-lit, lined with rugs and soft cushions to ensure comfort during the journey. While the adults settled onto the arranged sofas, the children quickly claimed a more open area to scatter their toys. While Daenys was fascinated with her miniature dragons, Aenar and Lucerys transformed small wooden soldiers into combatants of an epic imaginary duel.  

Daemon sat beside Rhaenyra, who was already settled with a cup of tea in her hands. He observed for a moment the calm way she rested a hand over her belly, feeling the movements of the child still growing within her.  

“Are you well?” he asked quietly.  

Rhaenyra turned to look at him, a soft smile forming on her lips. “I am.”  

Daemon raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”  

She laughed, shaking her head. “Yes, love. I am.”  

He studied her for a longer moment, noticing the small signs of exhaustion hidden beneath her serenity. He knew she was frustrated at not being able to fly on Syrax for this journey, but he also knew she was nervous about returning to the capital.  

Without a word, Daemon slid his hand to intertwine with hers, squeezing it gently, letting the warmth of his touch say what he could not always express.  

“You know I’ll be with you the whole time.” His voice was low, firm. “None of the children will be left alone. Ser Harrold assured me we will have more guards ensuring our protection, and I also brought many of our own men.”  

Rhaenyra sighed, closing her eyes for a moment.  

“I know, Daemon.” She squeezed his hand in return. “It’s just a foolish worry.”  

He shook his head. “No, it’s not foolish.”  

Daemon leaned back on the sofa, pulling Rhaenyra a little closer, as if the mere act of surrounding her with his presence could dispel her anxieties.  

“I’m worried too,” he admitted, and it was rare to hear him say that aloud. “If it were up to me, we’d stay in Dragonstone until the day Viserys died, but we’ve delayed our return to that pit for long enough.”  

A brief chuckle escaped his lips, but there was something bitter in it, a trace of irony in the corner of his smile. He then gestured toward the children around them, playing innocently, unaware of the tensions of the adult world.  

“Soon, we’d have another one to introduce to the King.”  

Rhaenyra followed her husband’s gaze, watching Aenar pulling Lucerys into a game involving his small wooden soldiers, while Daenys showed Glinda her newest wooden dragon. Baelon, for his part, nestled against Daemon’s chest, entirely unaware of everything else, content to remain wrapped in his father’s warmth.  

“No one can say we haven’t been productive these past years.”  

The joke was enough to make them both laugh, a sound sincere and light, though tinged with exhaustion.  

Rhaenyra leaned further into Daemon’s shoulder, her fingers delicately reaching up to the baby’s face in his arms, caressing his soft cheeks. She felt the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of his fair hair.  

Then, in an almost inaudible tone, she murmured, “If Viserys does something that…”  

Daemon didn’t even let her finish. His grip on her hand tightened, the firmness of his response cutting off any possibility of hesitation.  

“He won’t get the chance. No one will.”  

His tone was final, a silent and immutable vow.  

Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing those words, allowing herself to believe them.  

“We’ll settle everything and return to Dragonstone.”  

Daemon turned his head and pressed a brief kiss to the top of hers.  

“We will, love.”

 

***

It had been three years since the people of King’s Landing had seen dragons only as sporadic visions, occasionally catching sight of the Red Queen, Meleys, or the black dragon of Prince Vaegon. But that morning would be different: the heir princess was returning to court after a banishment. That alone was already enough to bring everyone to the streets, eager to satisfy their curiosity.  

How would the princess look?  

What would her children be like?  

These were just some of the many questions on their minds.  

But nothing could have prepared the citizens of the capital for the sight of that morning.  

Two ships docked at the port of King’s Landing, their illustrious banners waving the three-headed scarlet dragon. Many belongings were unloaded first and sent to the Red Keep, causing even more commotion over the arrival of the Targaryens of Dragonstone.  

That was when the citizens were left utterly speechless.  

Eleven figures cast a shadow over the city.  

Beyond the dragons of the royal couple and those already claimed by the other Targaryens and Velaryon children, the people saw once more the dragon Dreamfyre, flying alongside two smaller figures—the dragon of Prince Vaegon and another that no one could name but would later be known as Stormcloud, the dragon of Prince Aenar. They were also astonished to see the return of the Bronze Fury, the dragon of the Old King Jaehaerys, and his companion, Silverwing, who had not appeared in the capital for at least twenty years. And yet, there was another dragon that brought surprise and fear—the dreaded Cannibal. Being a reclusive dragon, everyone had assumed it was unrideable, and until that moment, no one knew who had managed to tame the beast.  

Truly, this was a sight that would not be forgotten for a long time.  

While the city was still distracted by the dragons soaring overhead, the Targaryen entourage from Dragonstone entered their carriages and made their way to the Red Keep.  

“Did anyone see the princess?” the people murmured among themselves.  

With heavily guarded carriages, the family traveled with few obstacles to the palace, where the court had already gathered in the throne room. Those who had distanced themselves from the princess were torn between curiosity and fear, given the spectacle offered by the dragons, who now circled the Red Keep more frequently, their wingbeats and roars reverberating through the stained-glass windows.  

It would be a great challenge for the herald, who had to take a deep breath before presenting the grand family.  

“Attention!” he called.  

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Lady of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, and Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen.”  

The herald announced the royal couple, who entered the hall imbued with an almost transcendental power. They were accompanied by three children, dressed in the colors of House Targaryen and exuding a Valyrian aura.  

The herald continued to announce the other members of the entourage while Rhaenyra and Daemon advanced through the hall with the children.  

Though Rhaenyra had rehearsed countless times in her mind what she would say after so long without speaking to or seeing her father, nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the figure seated on the throne.  

Viserys was literally rotting. He wore a half-mask on his face, clothing that covered most of his neck, and gloves—leaving very little of his skin visible.  

She wanted to laugh. Which would have been entirely inappropriate.  

Viserys was the first to speak, and Rhaenyra barely recognized his voice.  

“Welcome back, Rhaenyra.”  

Rhaenyra gave a slight bow. “Thank you, my King. It is good to see the court again.”  

To the left of the throne stood Lord Lyonel, as Hand of the King, and Ser Harrold, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Both wore expressions of satisfaction at seeing her again. On the other hand, to the right were Alicent and Otto, strikingly different from Lyonel and Harrold.  

“Brother. It has been some time,” Viserys said, addressing Daemon, who had positioned himself beside his wife, one arm cradling Baelon while the other rested on Daenys’s shoulders.  

“It is good to see you again, my King,” Daemon smiled. “But I must say, I did not feel the time pass. No one can doubt how busy I have been lately.” 

Chuckles rippled through the hall, and Rhaenyra rolled her eyes.  

Viserys seemed uncomfortable, though it was hard to tell whether it was because of the jest, the situation, or his deteriorating condition.  

“Speaking of which, I believe introductions are in order,” Viserys responded, gesturing toward the children.  

“Yes,” Rhaenyra took the lead in introducing her children. Unlike the composed and serious expression she maintained with the King, her eyes and smile overflowed with love when she spoke of them. “This is Prince Aenar, my firstborn, and Princess Daenys. They have just turned three.” 

Daemon stepped forward. “And this is Prince Baelon, fourteen moons old.”  

Though quiet, the children did not seem the least bit timid. The older ones, despite being only three, already appeared to know exactly where they stood in the world and in the game of the Iron Throne.  

“My sincerest wishes for health to my grandchildren here present and the one yet to come,” Viserys replied, seemingly moved.  

Stepping forward, Lord Corlys requested the King’s attention.  

“My King,” he said with a deep bow, “I would like to present my grandson and heir, Lucerys Velaryon.”  

The boy was brought before the King alongside his parents and respectfully bowed.  

“Strange, Corlys, I thought Laenor, your firstborn, would be your heir. It is quite unusual to pass over a living heir,” Viserys remarked before even acknowledging the boy.  

Corlys cleared his throat before replying, “Yes, my King. My son, Laenor, was my heir. But given his desire to serve our house as a knight, by mutual agreement, House Velaryon decided that Lucerys Velaryon would be the heir to the Driftwood Throne, thus uniting the two branches of the family.”  

Laena and Monterys, beyond proud, seemed truly happy with the arrangement. Years ago, Rhaenyra had feared that suggesting such a union would make Laena unhappy, but this couple was among those fortunate enough to find love in time.  

“I see,” murmured Viserys. Perhaps Corlys's answer had also stirred memories of the troubles House Targaryen had faced with its own branches.  

“Welcome back to court!” Alicent broke the silence, and at last, Rhaenyra truly looked at the Consort.  

“Thank you, Lady Alicent,” Rhaenyra replied, while the others merely nodded.  

“I must say I was surprised by your firstborn's name. I thought you might have chosen to honor the King. It is a good name for a future ruler,” Alicent said, stirring whispers throughout the hall while Daemon rolled his eyes.  

“My son’s name, though an homage, is his alone. Aenar, the first of his name,” Daemon replied impatiently.  

“I do not recognize the figure,” Alicent retorted.  

Daemon rolled his eyes again. “You cannot be considered an example of someone well-versed in Targaryen history, even after nine years of marriage to one. Aenar Targaryen was the father of Daenys Targaryen, the woman who saved our house and our bloodline. Daenys dreamed of the Doom that would consume Old Valyria, and Lord Aenar, her father, believed his daughter and brought our house to Dragonstone, which became our ancestral home. You're welcome, Alicent, for the history lesson.”  

Alicent stepped forward to respond, but Viserys cut her off.  

“Enough. This is a happy time; never before have so many dragons been in the city. I assume the older children have already claimed theirs?” he asked, addressing the royal couple.  

At that, the entire gathered court turned their attention to the conversation. Everyone wanted to know whether the children had inherited their mother's luck in having a cracked egg in their cradle or if they would have to wait a few years before claiming an adult dragon for themselves.  

“Yes.” Rhaenyra smiled and ran her hand through Aenar and Daenys' hair. “They all have already. Aenar has his, right, love?”  

“Yes, muña, Stormcloud. Kepa! You said I would see Stormcloud when we arrived in the capital.” Aenar reminded him of the promise, and Daemon looked at his wife as if to say, Thank you so much for reminding him. 

“We will, soon enough, sweetling. Daenys accomplished the feat of claiming the dragon known as Cannibal, but she renamed him. Do you want to tell the court the name you chose for your dragon, dear?” Daemon interjected.  

The little girl seemed delighted to have her turn to speak. “Yes, kepa. His name is Meraxes, like Queen Rhaenys' dragon. Muña has her sword, and I have the dragon with the same name. And I love Meraxes,” she said proudly.  

“Rhaenyra!” Viserys called. “How could you allow a child to approach that beast? He was called Cannibal for a reason!” he bellowed.  

“Meraxes has been acting less violently toward the other dragons since they began moving and flying over the island more freely. He still doesn't like staying in the new Dragonpit with the others, but ever since Daenys was born, he has shown himself to be more… sympathetic?” 

“Meraxes is not a beast! He just thinks he's different from the other dragons! He really likes Maelyx!” Daenys defended.

“And how do you know what the dragon thinks, child?” Viserys asked.  

"I asked him," she answered quickly and innocently, drawing laughter from everyone in the court—except for Viserys, Alicent, and Otto.  

“That's right, dear, you asked him.” Rhaenyra stroked Daenys' hair and turned to Baelon, who observed the scene with curiosity but also seemed to find it all very tedious. “Baelon also has his bond. On the night he was born, Silverwing left the Dragonpit and refused to leave until we introduced Baelon to her. And Vermithor merely followed.”  

“I heard that Dreamfyre has also returned to the city. Has anyone claimed her?” Viserys asked.  

Rhaenyra shook her head. “Dreamfyre is extremely attached to Maelyx. Since he was a hatchling, she has rarely left his side. She merely accompanied the others on the journey.” 

This time, Alicent once again demonstrated her knack for speaking at the wrong moment.  

“Princess, don't you think it's risky to have so many unclaimed dragons roaming freely in King’s Landing?”  

“Absolutely not, milady.” Rhaenyra denied. “There is a saying I have followed and put into practice with my family: Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor. A dragon is not a slave, milady. Dragons are free beings, and our House should be the first to respect that. And so far, it has worked.”  

Viserys cleared his throat, drawing Rhaenyra’s attention. “How long do you plan to stay in the capital, my daughter?”  

“My household and I will remain for a fortnight, so we have time to handle some affairs and attend invitations we have received but were previously unable to accept. But I intend to return and have the baby at Dragonstone.”  

“Very well. I imagine you all wish to rest after your journey or tend to the dragons. You are dismissed.” And with that, Viserys dismissed the entire Targaryen delegation from Dragonstone as if they were merchants or beggars at an audience, as if they had not been treated as though they were answering to a lunatic judge.

Was this how Viserys wanted to welcome them?

Once they were out of the throne room, Daemon sighed, as if releasing pressure from his chest.  

“I didn't know I hated this place so much,” he muttered.  

“Is it just me, or are there no more Targaryen banners in the Red Keep? I haven’t seen a single one on the way here,” Laena mentioned, stepping closer to Rhaenyra.  

The children walked ahead, accompanied by their ladies-in-waiting, as well as Luthor and the brothers Erryk and Arryk.  

“It's not just you. This hasn’t been a Targaryen household for a long time—now it’s just more visible.”

 

***

 

The wing of the Red Keep where the household circle would be staying resembled a military encampment. Beyond the shields, Daemon had brought guards from Dragonstone to rotate the security detail for the children and Rhaenyra. Ser Harrold had also assigned some of the Kingsguard to reinforce their protection.  

As Daemon had promised, each child—including Lucerys Velaryon—as well as Rhaenyra herself, had three guards rotating in eight-hour shifts, ensuring they could rest and remain alert over the full 24-hour period.  

Maester Gerardys and Thamar had accompanied the group; after all, there were two pregnant women, and Daemon and Monterys left nothing to chance.  

Three days after their arrival in King’s Landing, Daemon and Rhaenyra visited various establishments in the city, receiving a warm welcome from the people. Rhaenyra had made a point of visiting the orphanage, the health house, and the school she had been funding for the past five years. All these public policies, despite being contested by Otto Hightower’s supporters, had only gained strength since Rhaenyra solidified her role as heir and established further partnerships. Over time, other houses began sending donations and funds for improvements. Upon entering the school, the quality of the wood making up the desks and chairs used by both children and adults seeking literacy was evident. At the health house, which also functioned as a bathhouse and a distributor of three daily meals, it was possible to see all the supplies sent from Highgarden and the Vale.  

Everything was progressing well until Viserys attempted to organize family gatherings, inviting the Targaryens of Dragonstone and the Velaryons to dine daily.  

One evening, Rhaenyra relented.  

To the general dismay, Alicent and Otto were in attendance. It would have been extremely discourteous to withdraw, so Rhaenyra and her family took their seats around the table. They chose to leave the children in their chambers under the watchful eyes of Glinda and Elise, as well as Ser Luthor and Erryk. Since the adults would be away, Daemon reinforced the night’s security.  

“Thank you for accepting the invitation, Rhaenyra.” 

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty. We will soon return to Dragonstone, so we can enjoy this moment, can’t we?”  

Viserys nodded and, with difficulty, raised his cup.  

“What a joy it is to gather my family once more. It has been a long time since so many Targaryens were assembled under the Red Keep, and this brings great contentment to my heart.” The others followed the King’s toast and began engaging in conversation.  

Daemon made a few remarks in High Valyrian, drawing laughter from everyone—except, of course, the greens.  

“I think if I say one more word, the green worm might explode. Should I try my luck?” he asked. While Rhaenyra protested, the others stifled their laughter.  

Monterys Velaryon responded, “She has been here for over ten years and has never learned the language?”  

Rhaenyra shook her head.  

“She always found the tongue too barbaric for her pious little mind.”

“It is highly improper to converse in a language that not everyone understands,” Otto Hightower pointed out.  

“And it is highly improper for you to be here, Hightower, yet we are all trying to deal with it,” Vaegon retorted, having no patience for such impertinence. Even in his final years, Jaehaerys would never have allowed this kind of behavior.  

“You could very well be cursing us in that atrocious tongue,” Alicent retorted.  

Rhaenyra stood, holding her knife in one hand, and to everyone’s surprise, drove the utensil nearly to the hilt into the solid wooden table.  

“I do not care what makes you think you have the right to open your mouth and speak to me or my House. But the time will come when not a single sound will remain in your throat, Alicent.” 

“You are little more than a savage, Rhaenyra, performing dark rituals, allowing your children to interact with beasts—”  

“How dare you—” Rhaenyra trembled with rage. And perhaps it was that very rage that prevented her from realizing that Daemon was no longer at her side—he was holding the Consort by the throat, right in front of her own husband and father.  

“Daemon! Release Alicent this instant!” Viserys commanded, immediately succumbing to a fit of coughing.  

Otto made a move to rise, but Monterys already had his own sword pointed at the Hightower.  

“Our children are of the Blood of the Dragon, something you will never be able to feel or see with your own eyes,” Daemon responded coldly, calculating exactly how much force he could exert on Alicent’s neck to snap it in half. “You reached for more than you could ever grasp. You had the audacity to covet Queen Aemma’s place—”  

He would have said much more, would have engaged in much more violent acts, had it not been for Rhaenyra’s scream, which shattered the haze of fury clouding his vision.  

Laena approached quickly, despite her own advanced pregnancy. “Nyra, what is it?” 

Rhaenyra clutched her belly with both hands and groaned in pain.  

No, no, no.  

She lifted her gaze and met Daemon’s worried eyes. “Daemon, something is wrong.”

Notes:

Sorry? 🥹🥹

Don't kill me! Look at the ‘Happy Ending’ tag over there! 😅
In this final stretch it's going to get a little worse to get better later. Trust me. ❤️

Chapter 18

Notes:

Darlings, thank you for all your comments on the previous chapter.
So how are you feeling as the end draws near?

 

 

 

Rhaenyra screamed in pain. Blood streamed down her legs the entire way to her chambers. Daemon carried her, trying to be as fast as possible while also doing his best to avoid any jarring movements.

To the adults' surprise, Aenar, Daenys, and Lucerys were in the solar occupied by the family. Daenys appeared to be reading a story to her brother and cousin.

“Muña!” The twins cried out at the same time upon seeing Rhaenyra being carried.

“Your Highness!” Glinda and Elise exclaimed.

“Daemon, what are they doing here?” Rhaenyra asked weakly, worried that the twins were seeing her in such a state.

“Please, get them out of here,” Daemon pleaded, his voice trembling. With the help of the ladies-in-waiting, Rhaenys guided the children to the nursery reserved for them.

Daemon settled Rhaenyra onto the bed.

“My prince, Liandra has gone to fetch the midwives, and Ser Monterys is bringing Maester Gerardys,” Amanda said as she approached Rhaenyra, trying to wipe the sweat from her pain-stricken face.

But Rhaenyra was restless, the pain tearing through her body, and the fear amplifying everything, leaving her breathless.

Daemon climbed onto the bed and stayed by her side, holding her hand and feeling the waves of pain wash over her.

“Daemon, I-I-I'm scared.”

So am I. He wanted to say it, but he needed to be the strength she was losing, the security she was seeking in him.

“I know, my love. But everything will be all right. Maester Gerardys is on his way.”

And as if on cue, the maester rushed into the room, breathless, carrying his satchel. Behind him, the midwives entered along with Glinda and Elise.

While Gerardys and Thamar assessed the situation, Mary began giving instructions to the ladies-in-waiting. They needed more pillows, boiling water, a portion of herbs—whose purpose Daemon wasn’t paying enough attention to understand—and clean towels.

Thamar exchanged a few words with Maester Gerardys, then finally sighed.

“What is happening? Someone tell me something!!” Rhaenyra cried out just as another contraction hit.

“Princess, your placenta is out of place, and I think…” Thamar began, as if searching for the right words.

“Say it!” Daemon demanded.

Gerardys took the lead. “We believe that not only is it out of place, but the placenta has ruptured. Not just the amount of blood, but the type of blood leads us to believe this.”

“So, is the baby all right?” Daemon asked, clinging to whatever hope he could find.

“Not for much longer, Your Highness. The placenta is only dispensable after the baby takes its first breath. But inside the womb, the baby needs it.”

“And what are you going to do?” Daemon asked, dreading the answer.

Rhaenyra screamed, startling everyone. “No! You are not going to cut me open! Daemon! Don’t let them! Daemon!”

She struggled against the bed, thrashing as she screamed. Daemon held her by the shoulders.

“Rhaenyra! Rhaenyra!” Daemon called, and once she calmed a little, he cupped her face. “I would never let that happen.”

“Princess, we are going to induce labor,” Gerardys said.

“H-how?”

Thamar approached, holding Rhaenyra’s hand between hers. “Gerardys will give you a potion that will make the contractions come faster. It will hurt, princess, but it is the only way for the baby to find its way.”

“You won’t need to cut me?” Rhaenyra asked in a small voice.

Thamar shook her head. “No, my princess. We are more competent than that.”

Rhaenyra took a deep breath and nodded. Gerardys approached with a small cup.

“I mixed it with a bit of peach juice, Your Highness, to soften the taste.”

Rhaenyra downed the liquid while the midwives and Gerardys organized the materials in the room.

Since they had not brought the birthing chair Rhaenyra had used in her previous labors, they had to improvise. With the help of pillows, they propped the princess up, doing their best to keep her at a comfortable angle. The ladies-in-waiting were tasked with changing the warm towels wrapped around Rhaenyra’s belly every ten minutes, providing her with some relief and helping to relax the muscles in the area.

They had only changed them once when Rhaenyra became restless again, a mix of pained moans as she struggled to hold back her screams.

“You may scream, Your Highness. Your battle is worthy of being heard,” Mary said, clutching her clean apron.

Thamar and Gerardys finished washing their hands and turned all their attention to Rhaenyra.

In the first moments, all Rhaenyra could think about was that Thamar had not lied—not for a second. It hurt like hell.

“It’s time to start pushing, Princess.”

The pain was overwhelming, a cruel wave that came and went without respite. Sweat dripped down Rhaenyra’s forehead, her hair sticking to her heated skin as she struggled to catch her breath. The sweet-bitter liquid Gerardys had given her burned her throat and stomach, and with every contraction tearing through her belly, she felt as though she were being consumed by a furious fire.

Daemon never let go of her hand. His grip was firm, a safe harbor in the chaos of her pain. He murmured words in High Valyrian, his voice deep yet gentle, trying to soothe her. But Rhaenyra could barely hear him.

Thamar was kneeling before her, wearing a firm and confident expression, while Mary stood by her side, monitoring every change.

“You’re doing well, Princess,” Thamar encouraged, her voice strong yet kind. “One more contraction, and the baby will start to descend.”

Rhaenyra nodded weakly, her jaw muscles trembling. Daemon leaned in closer, pressing a warm kiss to her temple, his words of encouragement now whispered against her skin.

The contractions struck like thunder, each one worse than the last. She gripped Daemon’s leg with one hand and dug her nails into the palm of the other, searching for something to anchor her to reality.

“One more, Your Highness,” Mary instructed, exchanging a quick glance with Thamar. “Push with everything you have.”

Rhaenyra threw her head back and screamed—a guttural, powerful sound that filled the room. She pushed with all her strength, feeling her body open to make way for her child.

Gerardys leaned in slightly, watching the progress with sharp eyes. “The head is crowning,” he announced.

Daemon’s heart pounded. He wanted to keep his composure, to remain the pillar of strength for Rhaenyra, but seeing his wife fight like this, seeing the sweat on her skin and the exhaustion clouding her gaze, made a lump form in his throat.

“I see the baby, Rhaenyra,” Daemon murmured against her hair.

Rhaenyra let out a short, breathless laugh, but the brief relief was immediately replaced by another scream as she pushed again, and the baby slid into Thamar’s hands.

For a moment, time seemed to stop. The room fell into absolute silence, interrupted only by Rhaenyra’s exhausted breaths and Gerardys’s murmured instructions to the midwives.

And then, the sound everyone had been waiting for.

A cry.

Sharp, strong, announcing her arrival into the world with fierce determination.

Rhaenyra sobbed, relief washing over her in waves, hot tears streaming down her face. Thamar carefully held the baby, quickly wiping her with a white linen cloth before turning her slightly in her arms.

“It’s a girl,” she announced with a satisfied smile.

Daemon held his breath. For a moment, he didn’t move—he only stared at the daughter in the midwife’s arms, a tiny being with rosy skin and hair as pale as her mother’s.

Rhaenyra raised her arms, and Thamar carefully placed the baby against her chest. Warmth spread through Rhaenyra’s heart, indescribable and overwhelming. She felt the tiny, warm body of her daughter against her skin and ran trembling fingers through the damp, silver strands of hair.

“My girl,” Rhaenyra whispered, a shaky smile on her lips.

Daemon, unable to resist, leaned in and pressed a kiss to his daughter’s forehead. His large, calloused hand ran gently over her tiny body, and a soft smile curved his lips as he felt the girl’s unsteady breath against his skin.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured.

“She’s so small,” Rhaenyra responded, breathless, feeling an overwhelming urge to cry.

“Yes, Your Highness. We believe she was just entering her eighth moon, which is why she is so small, but nothing that proper care won’t resolve. She has excellent lungs,” Gerardys said.

“Her name, Your Highness?” Thamar asked as Gerardys finished inspecting the baby.

As if she knew they were speaking about her and wanted to take part in the decision, the tiny girl slowly opened her eyes, making Daemon hold his breath for a moment. Even though he knew the baby’s appearance would change over time, he felt emotion tighten in his throat when he saw his mother’s eyes in his daughter’s. One eye was clearly violet, but the other would be a different color—green or blue, still a mystery. But only one person in Targaryen history had ever possessed such features.

Rhaenyra looked at Daemon, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off their daughter. She knew what she wanted, knew exactly what name to give the girl who had been born with the force of a storm.

“Alyssa.”

Daemon blinked, momentarily surprised, but then he slowly nodded. A smile formed on his face.

“Alyssa Targaryen,” he murmured, as if testing the name on his lips. “A name worthy of a dragonrider.”

Rhaenyra smiled, exhausted but victorious.

Daemon ran his fingers through her damp hair, pressing one last kiss to her forehead.

“Rest now, zaldrītsos,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you and our children.”

And as Rhaenyra finally surrendered to sleep, with little Alyssa safe in her arms, Daemon felt a deep certainty settle within him.

They were fire. They were blood. And now, they were an even greater family.

***

 

In the middle of the night, Rhaenyra had developed a fever, but it was kept under control thanks to the swift actions of Gerardys and Thamar, who ensured that no remnants of the placenta remained and that the heavy bleeding had stopped.

“The princess has endured great strain, my prince, but the fever seems to have subsided. We will continue to monitor her for now.”

And, indeed, the fever did not return. That did not mean, however, that Rhaenyra did not feel utterly exhausted and weak. She could not hold Alyssa for long before her arms began to tremble.

“You don’t need to push yourself, love. Right now, your only duty is to regain your strength. Alyssa has her own private army ready to care for her every need, and we will be here when you are well again,” Daemon said, passing the baby into Laena’s arms. Laena had taken it upon herself to find a wet nurse for Alyssa.

Daemon joined Rhaenyra in bed and began to sing her favorite song in High Valyrian.

“I was so afraid, Daemon,” Rhaenyra murmured.

“I was too, zaldrītsos, I was too,” he replied.

“When they said they had to take the child quickly, I thought it would be the end for me. At the same time, I cursed myself for thinking of myself first. I am a mother—I should have thought of my child first, shouldn’t I?” she said, anguished, and Daemon pulled her into a tighter embrace.

“But you did. You thought of Aenar, Daenys, and Baelon. You thought of your children, who would miss you as they grew,” Daemon assured her. “I don’t know if I could ever make that choice, but if I did, I doubt it would be anyone else but you. I love you, Rhaenyra. I chose to marry you, to protect you and our family. I would be nothing without you.”

“Thank you, Daemon. For being here.”

“There is nothing to thank me for. My duty is to be by your side. Besides, there's nowhere I'd rather be.”

 

*** 

 

Vaegon visited Rhaenyra the day after the baby was born. His niece was sleeping while her body fought off the fever that had afflicted her in the aftermath of childbirth. As he entered the chamber, he found a quiet space, the dimness softened only by the flickering light of candles. The air was heavy with the faint scent of medicinal herbs, a sign of the treatment being administered for Rhaenyra’s fever.

She slept deeply, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of her own body, silver hair spread across the pillow. Even in unconsciousness, her expression seemed burdened, as if her mind was still struggling to remain alert.

Further ahead, seated in an armchair beside the cradle, Daemon held the newborn in his arms. The scene was unusual—the Rogue Prince, always so fierce and unyielding, cradling little Alyssa as if she were a sacred relic, fragile and precious.

Vaegon did not interrupt immediately. He stood there, observing from a distance as Daemon whispered in High Valyrian to the baby.

“You gave your mother and I quite a scare, sweet one. Were you so eager to meet her that you came before your time?” The prince’s smile was gentle, rare. “But who am I to judge? I could hardly wait to meet your mother, too. You are so small, so precious.” He traced a gentle finger over the baby's soft cheek. “You already have three older siblings… Daenys must be eager to see you. Aenar as well.”

Vaegon finally stepped forward. “It has been a challenge keeping all the visitors out.”

Daemon turned slowly and let out an irritated huff. “Rhaenyra is recovering. She deserves this time without disturbance.” He made a slight motion with his arms, adjusting the baby. “Uncle Vaegon, meet Alyssa.”

Vaegon approached and leaned slightly, observing the sleeping girl. She was so small that she seemed to weigh less than an old tome from his library. Her pale skin, tuft of silvery hair, and delicate features marked her as unmistakably Targaryen.

He smiled. He was glad to see the family growing, not just in number but in genuine bonds. His gaze turned distant for a moment, reflecting on the past. Jaehaerys and Alysanne had many children, but how many had truly lived? How many of them had a family that truly loved them? Vaegon had watched the decline of his own generation, had seen his siblings fall one by one, and realized how the thirst for power and control had nearly destroyed everything.

He did not dare hold Alyssa. She seemed too fragile. But if his sister were still alive, even her vibrant and extroverted spirit would have softened at the sight of her granddaughter and the father figure her son had become.

“My congratulations, Daemon. To you and Rhaenyra.”

Daemon nodded and smirked. “Thank you, uncle.”

As he placed Alyssa back in the cradle, a noise outside the chamber made Vaegon frown. The baby stirred restlessly, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

Vaegon raised a hand to Daemon, signaling that he would handle it. He stepped out of the chamber and found Ser Harrold facing Ser Erryk, the tension between them evident.

“The King has ordered you to step aside, Ser!” Harrold’s voice carried the expected formality of his station, but Vaegon noticed the hesitation in his gaze.

Ser Erryk, however, remained firm. “Prince Daemon ordered that no one else be allowed in.”

Vaegon sighed and stepped forward, placing a hand on the young knight’s shoulder before turning to Viserys.

“Viserys, Rhaenyra is not awake. This is not a good time.”

The king clenched his fists in frustration. “I demand to see my daughter and my granddaughter!”

Vaegon remained composed. “And what will that change now? You wish to see them? Of course. But perhaps all you will accomplish is making Rhaenyra anxious when she learns you were here without her knowledge.”

Viserys took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with effort.

“Alyssa was born prematurely, Viserys,” Vaegon continued, his voice calm yet firm. “She is well, but she is a fragile child at the moment. It is not wise for her to have too much contact with others so soon.”

The king hesitated, his anger shifting into something softer—perhaps sadness, perhaps regret.

“Alyssa?” he murmured, as if the name echoed something distant in his mind.

“Yes,” Vaegon confirmed. “Alyssa Targaryen. My sister would be honored by this tribute.”

Viserys blinked a few times and slowly nodded. “Yes… she would be. Very proud…”

A brief silence followed. Then, without further argument, Viserys turned to leave. But after taking a few steps, he suddenly stopped and cast a look over his shoulder.

“At what point did everything fall apart?”

Vaegon ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a tired sigh.

“Viserys, if I had to list it in chronological order, I’d have to fetch my records from my study.” His response was laced with irony.

Viserys almost smiled. But it was a sad smile.

“I will not repeat what so many have been trying to tell you for at least nine years, nephew.”

The king bowed his head for a moment, then resumed walking.

“Ser Harrold, take me back to my chambers.”

Vaegon watched as he disappeared down the corridor, feeling an inexplicable weight settle on his shoulders. He did not know whether this was a moment of regret for Viserys… or merely another reflection of the slow decline of a man who had lost everything.

 

***

 

Two weeks later, Rhaenyra’s chambers were flooded with visitors.

“Muña!!!” Aenar and Daenys ran into the room crying, while Baelon was carried in Rhaenys’s arms.

Daemon had visited the older children every day, bringing them news of their mother and Alyssa, but on Gerardys’s recommendation, the children had waited longer before seeing their mother and their new sister.

“Both Princess Rhaenyra and Alyssa are fragile, my prince. The fewer people who have access to them, the better—they will recover more quickly,” Gerardys had said the day after Alyssa’s birth.

So only Daemon, Gerardys, Thamar, and Laena had been entering and leaving the royal couple’s chambers. Daemon would not risk the safety of either of them.

In the end, they were all well. Rhaenyra’s cheeks had regained a healthy rosy hue, and Alyssa, though still small and delicate, was now nursing from her mother and never tired of proving to the world just how strong her lungs were becoming.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon!” Rhaenyra exclaimed, opening her arms to embrace the twins.

“Kepa wouldn’t let us see muña! He said…” Aenar tried to say but broke into tears again.

Daenys took it upon herself to explain. “Kepa said: ‘Your muña is resting. When she’s feeling better, you can see her.’”

Rhaenyra laughed and placed a kiss on each of their heads. Baelon seemed calm, but when she looked at him, he had nestled into Monterys’s neck.

“And what about my dear boy?” Rhaenyra called, and without any hesitation, Baelon threw himself into his mother’s arms.

Rhaenyra gently rubbed her youngest son’s back, feeling just how vulnerable he was. She pressed a kiss to the little boy’s temple and then sat down on the sofa, calling the twins to join her. Daemon sat as well, helping position Daenys and Baelon in her lap.

Laena brought Alyssa over and placed her in Rhaenyra’s arms.

“This is Alyssa, your baby sister,” Rhaenyra said, adjusting the blanket wrapped around the small infant.

“She’s so tiny!” Aenar said.

Daemon chuckled, running a hand through his eldest son’s hair.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra nodded. “But you were this small once, too.”

“Can I hold her, muña?” Daenys asked.

“When she’s a little bigger, sweetling,” Rhaenyra said.

“Like Baelon?” Daenys asked, confirming.

Rhaenyra nodded again. “Yes, when she’s almost as big as Baelon, then you’ll be able to hold her without fear.”

As the family settled in for afternoon tea, the older children played on the rug, and Rhaenyra savored the feeling of being surrounded by her loved ones. They shared some of the events of the past two weeks—news that had clearly been kept from her by Daemon’s doing. And for that, she was grateful. She wasn’t sure she could have handled any more pressure in those moments.

“The people were not pleased with what happened,” Monterys said, offering a small cake to Lucerys. “They found out that the consort started a fight inside the Red Keep, which ended up hastening your labor,” he concluded.

Rhaenyra only nodded.

“Otto is trying to quell the people’s discontent. He had hoped that, given Viserys’s condition, he might reverse the decree banning the title of ‘king’ or ‘queen’ for the consort. Lord Lyonel has been holding back that movement within the Small Council,” Rhaenys explained. “But even he has his limits,” she added.

Rhaenyra frowned. “But how would that help? Alicent has no children with the King. Who would she be holding the place for?”

Slowly, she rose to place Alyssa in her crib. The older children seemed curious, watching the baby sleep with the utmost attention.

“Don’t make any noise so she doesn’t wake up, all right?” Rhaenyra asked, and the three of them simply nodded in agreement.

Meanwhile, the adults at the table looked uncomfortable, but it was Vaegon who was the first to clear his throat and speak.

“Viserys has bastards, Rhaenyra.”

To everyone’s surprise, Rhaenyra let out a laugh.

“What?” she asked, hoping she had misheard.

“Viserys has two bastards,” Daemon confirmed.

Rhaenyra looked at her husband. “And why am I only hearing about this now?”

Vaegon stepped forward. “Otto Hightower hid them. I’m not sure where they were before, but after I left the Citadel, he placed them there. As far as I could gather, the two boys are now with Lord Hightower in Oldtown. Otto certainly hoped Alicent would bear the king children, but the last attempt nearly killed her. So I believe he only recently began seriously considering the boys.”

“So the Hightowers are putting all their hopes into this betrayal? If I can even call it betrayal, since I never had their true loyalty to begin with,” Rhaenyra said, taking a sip of her juice.

Vaegon nodded.

Daemon reached out, taking Rhaenyra’s hand in his.

“What actions might the Hightowers take now?” he asked, noticing how shaken she was.

“Otto and Alicent are scrambling to overturn the decree, but even if they fail, they plan to bring the boys to the capital and petition for their legitimacy.”

“Viserys would never allow that,” Daemon responded.

“In his current state, there’s no way to be certain. The fact is, as of today, there are two people with some capacity to challenge your claim, Rhaenyra.”

After hearing Vaegon’s words, she lifted her gaze, staring at everyone in the room. “It is no longer just my claim at stake. It is also the claim of my children—especially Aenar, who is my direct heir. His lineage is unquestionable. Would the lords truly choose a bastard over me, who was raised for this role, and my son, a trueborn Targaryen?”

Rhaenys scoffed. “Never underestimate the power of a cock, my dear,” she said before turning her full attention to her niece. “What will you do?”

All eyes were on her in anticipation.

“What do you expect me to do? Kill two innocent children? How old are they?”

What was she even questioning? How many children had she unknowingly condemned over the years as Alicent desperately tried to conceive…? But in her mind, this was different. These were children who would never have been a threat if not for Otto Hightower. Now she wasn’t sure if they were merely a threat to the throne—or to her children as well.

What a headache.

Vaegon cleared his throat. “The eldest is seven-and-ten, and the younger four-and-ten. Maekar and Baemion.”

She nodded. “Do we have access to them?”

Vaegon confirmed.

Rhaenyra sighed. “I need to think. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

And that night, Rhaenyra dreamed.

 

***

 

Rhaenyra quickly realized she was in another of her dreams, but instead of finding Vermax, Visenys, or Daenys, she saw a man standing near a precipice. Looking around, she noticed she was in Dragonstone, on one of the eastern mountains, from where they could glimpse the Free Cities.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a black tunic and matching black leather trousers. He was clearly Valyrian—his silver-gold hair left no doubt about it.

“Hello, Rhaenyra,” he said, finally turning around.

“Hello,” she replied simply.

The man chuckled and clasped his hands behind his back, making him appear even taller.

“It is a pleasure to meet the future queen of Westeros. I am Aegon.” He introduced himself, and Rhaenyra searched her thoughts for the right words.

“The pleasure is all mine, my king.” She attempted to curtsy, but Aegon stopped her by taking hold of her elbow.

“There is no need for that. We are among monarchs, are we not?”

“I—I suppose so.”

Aegon extended his arm to Rhaenyra, and she accepted, intertwining hers with his.

“I must say, you have been doing an excellent job,” Aegon began as they walked toward the castle.

“Thank you, but I do not feel that way at the moment. I have just discovered that my father has two bastards who may challenge my claim to the throne.”

“Yes, yes, Vermax told me. But I believe that is why he asked me to come here.”

With a wave of his hand, the surroundings changed. Rhaenyra was no longer on the coast of Dragonstone—she was back in the Red Keep. The roars above put her on alert; two dragons were battling fiercely over the castle, while others could be seen fighting over Blackwater Bay.

“Syrax!” Rhaenyra shouted upon recognizing her golden queen, who was locked in combat with a bronze-colored dragon—but not Vermithor.

Soon, another dragon approached the Red Keep to aid the bronze one. This one was larger than Syrax and black, almost like Maelyx.

“Drakar, dracarys!” the rider of the bronze dragon commanded, and flames engulfed Syrax. It would not be an immediate danger to the dragon, but whoever was riding her would not escape unscathed.

“Aerea!” Rhaenyra heard the rider of the black dragon cry out. But by then, it was too late—the rider had already burned. As expected, Syrax became uncontrollable, lost without the bond that anchored her temperament.

Seeing Syrax’s state, the black dragon grew more ferocious, and the two soared over Blackwater Bay to join the others in their deadly dance.

Meanwhile, Syrax flew toward the old Dragonpit, beyond Rhaenyra’s sight.

Rhaenyra remembered Aegon, who observed everything without expression, looking merely tired.

“What happened? And Syrax? Who was riding her?”

“Your great-granddaughter, Queen Aerea Targaryen. The black dragon, Midnight, was ridden by her husband, Jaehaerys Targaryen—your grandson,” Aegon explained as if discussing the weather.

“And Drakar? Who was his rider? A Velaryon?” she asked.

“No, your grandnephew, Aegon Blackfyre.”

“They were legitimized, then?” Rhaenyra asked, dreading the answer.

“Not exactly. The fact is, your half-brother Baemion had children. They managed to claim dragons and invaded the city.”

“But how? They wouldn’t have had as many dragons as our family,” she countered.

“They wouldn’t have, indeed. But at that moment, only three dragons with riders were guarding the city. By the time your children and grandchildren hear of what happened here, the rebellion will have already begun. And by the end of fifteen years, through its ebbs and flows, five of your children will have died in battle.”

Rhaenyra felt her knees go weak.

“Then why did you say I was doing well? Look at what will happen! Everything I have done so far will have been for nothing. I may be avoiding a war now, only for my children and grandchildren to suffer for it.”

Aegon steadied her. “I did not lie, nor did I exaggerate. You have done an excellent job—better than I could have. Vermax and I agreed that revealing too much of the future is not always helpful. But the message I am trying to leave you with, Rhaenyra, is that unchecked branches are always dangerous, especially when you have no control over them.”

Aegon spoke, and Rhaenyra looked again at the dragons locked in battle.

“You must have heard this before, but ‘a Targaryen alone in the world is either a danger or a harbinger of tragedy.’” Aegon sighed. “If you allow those bastards to grow with the resentment they already harbor, I can only see tragedy in the making. And today, you must make some difficult decisions—but I trust that you are the best person to make them.”

Rhaenyra felt nauseous, weak, almost defenseless. As Aegon had said, knowing the future was not always a blessing. But in this case, it was the only way forward.

“Thank you, Aegon.”

“You’re welcome. And if I may offer an opinion—I don’t think Viserys’ crown does justice to the power of House Targaryen in your hands.”

With a wave of his hand, darkness overtook Rhaenyra’s vision.

 

***

 

As she nursed Alyssa, Rhaenyra tried to organize her thoughts. She looked down at the baby in her arms, thinking of her dream, of her great-granddaughter who had surely died that afternoon, of what Aegon had told her.

"And at the end of fifteen years, five of your children will have died in battle."

Had Alyssa been one of them? Aenar? Daenys? Baelon? Her heart grew tighter with each thought, while the sense of losing control only deepened.

Once Alyssa seemed satisfied, Rhaenyra lifted her gently, helping her burp, until sleep became the best invitation possible. As soon as Alyssa was settled in her crib, Rhaenyra moved closer to Daemon.

“What is it, ñuha prūmia? ” he asked, taking Rhaenyra’s hands in his and pressing soft kisses to them.

“Daemon. I—I…”

Seeing his wife’s fragile state, Daemon pulled her onto his lap, bringing their eyes level.

“Tell me, Rhaenyra. Anything you wish to say to me.”

Rhaenyra sighed. “Do you remember when you said you would become a kinslayer if necessary?”

Daemon nodded.

“I had a dream, Daemon. And in this dream, our descendants were fighting against the children of those bastards. And…” Rhaenyra hadn’t anticipated the sob that rose in her throat. In recent years, she had not been one for tears, but so much had happened in the past few days that she could no longer hold all the emotion inside.

It took her several minutes to calm down, and all the while, Daemon kept holding her, murmuring soothing words in High Valyrian.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“Daemon, our children were dying. If I were certain that giving up the throne would keep them safe, we would leave immediately. But no one will be safe while the others are alive—they will always be a threat, to both sides,” Rhaenyra explained quietly, regaining some of her emotional balance. “And if I must choose a side, it has to be ours.”

“Of course, Rhaenyra. Leave it to me. Consider it done,” Daemon replied simply, pulling her into his embrace once more.

He had once offered to kill Viserys—what were two bastards in comparison?

Glossary:

 

Ñuha jorrāelagon! = My loves.

Ñuha prūmia = My heart.

Notes:

Habemus Alyssa!!

So, did you like it? Please, if you're comfortable, leave a comment, they help a lot!!! ❤️❤️

Chapter 19

Notes:

I must say, I love Daenys, that's it.

 

 

If Daemon had spoken to Vaegon, Rhaenyra was not entirely sure. But the fact remained that no one else mentioned the bastards or what Rhaenyra had decided. She had left the matter in Daemon’s hands.

For a time, she felt guilty for burdening her husband only with bloody affairs, but she also knew she could not handle everything herself.

And he had not complained.

On the contrary, he seemed immensely pleased with the preparations for their return to Dragonstone, even going so far as to send Vaegon ahead to arrange things. He had flown alongside Maelys and Dreamfyre.

As for Rhaenyra, she was not sure how to feel.

Since the disastrous dinner, she had not seen Viserys, Alicent, or Otto. She herself had avoided leaving her chambers, keeping the children within sight as much as possible, separating from the older ones only at bedtime. Daemon had doubled the security around their wing in an attempt to ease tensions, but Rhaenyra could not shake her unease.

That day, Alyssa was to be presented to the court. If they were in Dragonstone, she could have postponed this moment for several months or even years. But here, in the Red Keep, that was not an option.

Laena, Glinda, Elise, and Olivia were tending to the children, while Amanda and Joyce helped Rhaenyra adjust one of her dresses. She was not exactly slim, but most of her belly had diminished considerably over the past three weeks, so she opted for a gown with lace-up adjustments, avoiding the need for a seamstress.

Once everyone was ready, Rhaenyra looked around and felt a wave of emotion. Daemon had already returned, dressed in his signature black and red. The children wore a mix of black, red, blue, and gold. Aenar always insisted on dressing like his father, Daenys had a fixation with black, blue, and lilac, though that afternoon she had chosen light blue. Baelon was dressed in a beautiful red tunic, just like Alyssa, the only difference being that the youngest was wrapped in a delicate golden blanket embroidered in red.

If someone had told Rhaenyra at four-and-ten that in less than ten years she would have a husband and four children, she would have been terrified. But despite everything, she felt a deep joy in having built a family of her own.

“Shall we?” Daemon called, holding Baelon in his arms.

Rhaenyra nodded and took Alyssa from Laena’s arms.

 

***

 

Feeling a sense of déjà vu , Rhaenyra once again found herself at the foot of the Iron Throne. Her father looked even more frail seated atop it.

“I am glad you have recovered, my daughter,” Viserys said.

“Thank you, my King. It is with great joy that I present my daughter, Alyssa Targaryen,” Rhaenyra responded, and with Daemon’s help, she lifted Alyssa before the court, which applauded.

“A beautiful name. Our mother would be very happy at this moment, Daemon,” Viserys said.

Daemon nodded, pure happiness shining in his eyes. “I like to think so, my King.”

Alicent approached, accompanied by her brother, Gwayne, as her sworn shield.

“May I hold her, Princess?” she asked, and Rhaenyra nearly scoffed. But it was Daenys who answered.

“Only muña , kepa , valzȳnos Vaegon, valzȳna Laena, valzȳnos Monterys, Kepa vēzos Corlys, and Muña vēzos Rhaenys can hold Alyssa. Muña said I can only hold Alyssa when she’s as big as Baelon!”

The innocence with which Daenys spoke, counting on her fingers the people allowed to hold Alyssa, elicited soft laughter throughout the throne room.

“I understand,” Alicent replied, stepping back.

Before silence could settle and become awkward, Viserys forced himself to speak. “I have a gift.”

Ser Harrold entered the throne room, carrying a rectangular box.

“I never had much talent with a sword; my passions have always been reserved for a good book and my model. And before my time here ends, I wish to pass on one of our legacies.”

Ser Harrold positioned himself before the family and opened the box, revealing the sword Blackfyre.

“I pass the sword Blackfyre, which belonged to Aegon the Conqueror, to Aenar Targaryen, so that he may wield it when he is worthy. I trust that my brother and my daughter will judge the proper moment, and thus, the Conquerors’ legacies reunite once more,” he concluded.

The court applauded the King’s gesture, and Rhaenyra and Daemon were visibly surprised.

“Thank you, my King. What do you say, Aenar, dear?” Rhaenyra addressed her eldest son, who nodded as if understanding the weight of the task.

Gracefully, for someone only three years old, he bowed deeply. “Thank you, my King. I will wield it with honor.”

“I am certain of it, my boy.”

If it pained Viserys that his grandchildren did not call him grandfather, his condition did not allow anyone to be sure—but certainly, people would gossip about it in their private circles.

The herald then announced that the banquet would be served in the great hall. Daemon and Rhaenyra first ensured that the children were taken to the family wing, accompanied by the ladies-in-waiting and five guards, before returning to enjoy—if only briefly—the feast.

Given that it was a public event, they assumed there would be little chance of unwanted interactions.

But apparently, they were mistaken.

About forty minutes into the banquet, Jason and Tyland Lannister approached the high table, and after greeting the King and his consort, they turned to Daemon and Rhaenyra.

“Princess, House Lannister extends its congratulations on the birth of Princess Alyssa,” Jason said, offering a polite bow. Daemon merely raised his cup in acknowledgment.

“Thank you, my lord. I believe congratulations are in order for you as well—I heard that Lady Lannister recently gave birth to twins.”

Daemon seemed to sense where the conversation was headed, and Rhaenyra felt him tense beside her.

“Thank you, Your Highness. That is precisely what I wished to discuss. This is a great opportunity to strengthen the ties of the realm. I offer my daughter, Catherine, to Prince Aenar and my son, Aaron, to Princess Alyssa.”

To Jason Lannister’s credit, Rhaenyra could tell he truly believed this was a fine proposal.

To the more pragmatic minds, perhaps it was. After all, House Lannister was among the wealthiest, second only to Rhaenyra herself, the Velaryons, and perhaps the Celtigars—who had recently profited greatly from new trade routes and partnerships.

But Rhaenyra had had other plans for years, and no Lannister would ruin them. Beyond gold and land—both of which she could secure on her own—they had nothing to offer her bloodline. Just as when Jason had proposed marriage to her nearly four years ago, he saw in the Targaryens the power of the Throne and the power of the dragons. And it would be sheer folly for Rhaenyra to allow two of her children to be bound to the lions of the hill.

Rhaenyra’s mind was in turmoil. But it was Daemon who reacted first. He laughed.

“Good one, Lannister. You made me laugh. Thank you. Now go enjoy the banquet,” Daemon said, raising his cup, though from where she sat, Rhaenyra could see his knuckles turning white.

Tyland seemed to want to rein in his brother, but Jason cleared his throat.

“I make this proposal in earnest, my prince.”

Before the entire hall, Daemon stood and hurled his cup at the Lannister brothers. Whether he had intended to hit one of them, no one could say, but the goblet narrowly missed Jason Lannister’s head, landing at the center of the room.

“My son is three years old, and Alyssa is but three weeks. If you thought to catch us off guard by suggesting this at her presentation feast, you are sorely mistaken, Lannister. Get out of my sight.”

Tyland reacted first, grabbing his brother and pulling him away.

“Lord Lannister made a fine proposal, Prince Daemon,” Alicent remarked.

“Well, as far as I know, Rhaenyra and I are the parents of two of the children mentioned, and it is up to us to accept or reject any proposal. And as everyone saw, we rejected it.”

“Rhaenyra didn’t say anything,” Alicent replied.

“Although my husband has been more vocal about his disagreement with Lord Jason’s proposal, if I had a different opinion, everyone would certainly know it.”

“If I had children…”

Alicent began to say, but Rhaenyra interrupted her.

“Exactly, if. It’s a non-existent situation.”

Viserys cleared his throat. “Rhaenyra, that was rude. Alicent didn’t speak ill.”

“I don’t care,” she replied, stepping closer to her father to speak directly to him. “If you think I feel sorry for your consort’s situation, you are greatly mistaken. She made her own bed, why should I care how she lies in it?”

Viserys didn’t respond, and everyone turned their attention back to the food and the musical entertainment organized for the occasion.

Rhaenyra and Daemon were engaged in a conversation in High Valyrian with Laena and Monterys when the doors of the hall were suddenly thrown open.

In entered Vaegon, accompanied by at least seven guards from Dragonstone, along with half a dozen Gold Cloaks, carrying Lord Ordmund and his three children in tow. 

“What is the meaning of this?!” Viserys demanded.

Vaegon took the lead and approached the main table, where everyone present was already standing, including Viserys, despite his condition.

“My King, Princess Rhaenyra,” Vaegon greeted. “Plans were intercepted from Lord Hightower and his family to usurp the Princess Heir.”

To the external observers, it seemed very strange that the princess appeared unmoved by such news, almost as if she had been expecting it.

“This is impossible!” Alicent shouted, holding Viserys’ arm. “Husband, my uncle could never do this!”

“Indeed, Lady Alicent, he did not do this alone,” Vaegon continued, pulling a folder from under his arm. “I have sufficient evidence to prove the involvement of the Hightower men, including Ser Otto, as well as Grandmaester Mellos. They had a decades-long plan to replace the Princess Heir.” There, Vaegon was no longer addressing the King, but everyone present in the hall:

“Their first plan was for Lady Alicent to bear sons with the King, but as that clearly did not work out, they sought bastards in the alleys of King’s Landing, raising them, hiding them in the Citadel and in Oldtown.” Vaegon then addressed the King once more. “My King, Viserys, I have enough evidence of this betrayal, this plot to overthrow House Targaryen. Act!” Vaegon almost pleaded.

“And where are those bastards?” Viserys asked.

Was that what he wanted to know first? Rhaenyra thought, irritated.

“They've escaped, Your Grace,” he replied. For Vaegon, everything was there, in the King's hands, he would have one last chance to sort everything out, to do the right thing, in short.

But everyone was shocked when a figure in a white cloak attacked Prince Vaegon, who, despite his age, managed to dodge, receiving only a cut on his shoulder.

“Stop him!” Rhaenyra shouted.

Monterys Velaryon, who was closer to Vaegon, engaged in a confrontation with Gwayne Hightower. Soon, Daemon joined in, taking the mission upon himself. And just like the defeat he dealt to young Hightower when he was no older than fourteen, it didn’t take much for Dark Sister to strike through the trunk of Alicent’s brother.

The lifeless body of the young man fell at Daemon’s feet, and no one—not even Alicent or Otto—made any move to rush toward the man.

“Viserys!” Daemon called, trying to bring his brother out of his stupor.

“Lock them all in the black cells. Despite everything, we must follow the trial as the law commands. Tomorrow, at noon,” Viserys finally said.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath. Though she longed to hand all the traitors to the dragons, a trial wasn’t such a bad idea either.

 

***

 

Later that night, Daemon, Rhaenyra, and Vaegon descended to the black cells, finding the bastard brothers in one of them.

They seemed well cared for, clearly someone made sure they had food and baths whenever they wanted, but still, they appeared vulnerable.

A Targaryen alone in the world can be either a danger or a tragedy.

Indeed.

Still, she wasn’t sure what exactly she was doing down there. What would she say? "Hello, I’m your half-sister." She never imagined she’d have to face the end of them, in truth, she didn’t want to have to face them at all.

But things unfolded this way.

When the brothers noticed Rhaenyra’s presence, they stood up but didn’t move much, since they were chained in place.

“Hello, my name is Rhaenyra. I believe they’ve told you that…”

She didn’t get the chance to finish speaking before what appeared to be the youngest one spat at her feet.

“You little…” Daemon tried to move forward, but Rhaenyra held him back.

“If you’re here to kill us, do it already!” the older one shouted.

Rhaenyra sighed. “Yes, I wish you didn’t exist. Just as you see me as a danger, I see you the same way.”

Daemon found a chair from somewhere, but Rhaenyra accepted it, sitting down.

“Let me try to guess what the Hightowers told you. They said I was a tyrant, cruel, bestial, that I would kill you at the slightest sign, because I would never allow the King to have male children.”

Maekar and Baemion looked confused and frightened by her words.

“And they told part of the truth. I asked for you to disappear.” she said and noticed Daemon fidgeting beside her. “But here you are, and you can call me a hypocrite, but I don’t kill children.”

“So, if we had died out of your sight, would that have been fine?” the youngest asked.

Rhaenyra smiled. “Exactly. Now I need to deal with my own conscience, or what’s left of it. And for that, I offer two options.”

“Why would we accept anything from you, when we are the true heirs, by the Faith…”

Rhaenyra laughed, baffling Maekar. “Well, you didn’t have time to learn just how much I despise the Seven and all that nonsense.”

She stood up.

“I offer two options. You can join the Black Cloaks at the Wall, serve a purpose for the rest of your lives, where you’ll have a place in the world, but far from the Throne and far from being any threat to me. At the same time, I won’t be a threat to you, since I won’t have to worry about where you are and what you might do.”

The youngest seemed to seriously consider this option.

“And the other?” Maekar asked.

“So, if wearing black isn’t an option for you, I offer a painless death.” Then Rhaenyra raised two vials containing a clear, but viscous liquid.

“You’ll sleep, you won’t feel anything.”

“So, it’s a life at Castle Black or death?” Maekar asked.

“Quite reasonable, isn’t it? Because, let’s be honest, you may have been led to believe you would make good kings, but you would be puppets in the hands of the lords, always made to believe what they see as best.” Rhaenyra explained. “But I’m trying to give a complicated explanation to something that’s very simple: You are a threat to me and my children. And I can’t allow that.”

“Why not put us on trial?” asked Baemion.

“But what would you really be guilty of?” Rhaenyra retorted. “You might even find a supporter or two, but no one will be able to choose tomorrow.” Rhaenyra answered directly. She had no intention of giving anyone else any choice.

“Do we need to decide now?” Maekar asked, finally.

Rhaenyra shook her head.

“No need, you can talk alone. Tomorrow, an hour before the trial, someone will come to confirm what you’ve decided.” Rhaenyra pulled two ribbons from her pocket. One golden and one black. “If the black ribbon is tied to the bars, we’ll know you chose to wear black, and someone will accompany you to Castle Black. If the golden ribbon is on the bars, we’ll assume you chose to sleep. And if none of them are, you'll leave the decision up to me. Looking at it that way, you almost have three options.” Rhaenyra laughed without humour.

Maybe she seemed crazy in their eyes, and maybe she was.

“I wish I could say it was a pleasure meeting you, but that would be a lie, just as I think it’s the opposite. I hope you make the best choice, the gods know you won’t have another chance.” Rhaenyra said finally and left the cell.

As they ascended the dungeon levels, Daemon tried to get closer. But Rhaenyra pulled away.

“Nyra.”

She turned around, “Don’t come at me with ‘Nyra.’” she whispered angrily. “I asked you to resolve this away from King’s Landing, I asked you to keep our children safe. But you let those two get this far.” Daemon looked ashamed, defeated. But he wasn’t the only one to blame, she turned to Vaegon. “You too! I’m sure Daemon asked you to resolve it, and look at the circus that was made in the Red Keep! Am I always the one who has to dirty my hands in the worst ways?”

Though Vaegon knew of Rhaenyra’s closeness to Valyrian rituals, only Daemon knew the true depth of it, and he knew the care with which Rhaenyra worked with the Blood Magics.

“Daemon asked me to end the matter in Oldtown, but when we intercepted the correspondence, and found the others on the Hightower property, it was the perfect chance to bring not only the bastards to an end, but all the Green worms together, with a great reason.” Vaegon tried to justify himself.

“I wanted to be rational, but… I…” She tried to speak, and Daemon understood, no more words were needed.

He embraced her.

“Iksan vaoreznuni, zaldrītsos.”

 

***

 

The next day, Daemon personally descended to the black cells to check on the bastards. The black ribbon was tied to the bars.

“Good morning, lads. I see you’ve chosen a trip to the North,” he said, waking the two brothers. “Very well.”

Behind Daemon, two men appeared, carrying more chains and dark cloaks.

The brothers were chained together and dressed in cloaks, which covered their light hair. “Gentlemen, you can accompany the two lads, as agreed,” Daemon said, addressing the two unfamiliar men for Maekar and Baemion.

“Yes, my prince,” replied the older of the two.

The four of them made their way through the dark corridors, until they exited and found a cart in what seemed to be a stable for servants.

The lads climbed aboard and were tied to the cart, while the two guards climbed in front, starting to guide the two horses.

The journey already seemed like it would be tiring; the sun was strong, and the brothers hadn’t eaten since the previous night, but they didn’t have the courage to ask the guards if there would be a meal.

After about two hours of travel, the city walls were no longer visible, and they had picked up speed. The sea was still visible as the cliffs drew nearer.

“Aren’t we going too fast? This area looks steep,” Baemion commented to his brother.

“Let’s not complain,” Maekar replied.

To the boys’ suspicion, the cart stopped.

“Boys, you should have chosen to sleep,” one of the guards said.

And before their eyes, the guards stopped the cart, untied the reins of the horses. Just that sent a shiver of fear through the boys’ bones, but the cart didn’t move.

Would they be left trapped there?

And then came the terror.

The guards exerted some force, and the cart began to move forward, following the path through the cliff.

No action was possible, no reaction feasible. The brothers watched before their eyes the end of a life that was already too short. All because they were born the wrong way.

Blood and Cheese watched the cart race down the cliff, plunging off the precipice and breaking on the rocks below. They saw the bodies being carried by the strong waves crashing on the shore, and waited until they sank. At one point, they might float again, but by then, they would be unrecognizable.

“The easiest job we’ve ever done. We should offer our services to the prince more often.”

 

***

 

The Throne Room was filled with a palpable tension. Every seat occupied by lords, ladies, and distinguished citizens seemed to pulse with contained anxiety, the murmurs echoing like an unsettling buzz among the columns of black stone. There was something different in the air, an invisible weight that made the atmosphere oppressive. The torch by the Iron Throne flickered, casting light on the twisted steel and the thousand fused blades, as if the very seat of power was watching the trial that was about to take place.  

Three chairs were placed at the foot of the throne, a symbolic position, but one that did not lessen the gravity of what was to come. The judges—Lord Lyonel Strong, Ser Tyland Lannister, and Lord Martin Tyrell—took their seats, their faces expressionless, hiding any hint of premature judgment.  

The doors of the hall were opened with a heavy, deep creak. Everyone fell silent.  

Viserys Targaryen entered with difficulty, his body betraying the majesty he had once possessed. The weight of time and illness bent his shoulders, his steps were slow, and the sound of his ragged breathing could be heard even by those standing farthest away. And yet, he refused to show weakness. Alicent was not by his side.  

The king stopped before the Iron Throne and took a deep breath before speaking.  

“Lords and Ladies of Westeros, citizens of King’s Landing, today we will judge those accused of treason against the princess heir, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and against the Crown itself. As judges of this trial, Lord Lyonel Strong, Ser Tyland Lannister, and Lord Martin Tyrell will preside. May justice prevail.” His voice rang strong, but those who knew him well could hear the fatigue behind the words.  

All eyes in the Hall turned to Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, who were accompanied by their household circle, in a sign of support and unity.  

Lord Lyonel Strong, the Hand of the King, took the lead among the judges. His gaze swept across the crowd before he ordered:  

“Let the first accused enter.”  

The doors opened once more, and the white cloaks of the Kingsguard entered the hall, bringing the first defendants.  

Lord Ormund Hightower stepped forward, his posture stiff as if still trying to hold on to the dignity that remained. Behind him, his children—Lyonel, Martyn, and Garmund Hightower—followed, their faces hard but not without a certain fear evident in their eyes. The tension between them was visible, each dealing with their imminent condemnation in their own way.  

Lord Lyonel Strong unfurled a sealed scroll and read calmly, the weight of the words filling every corner of the hall.  

“Ormund Hightower, Lyonel Hightower, Martyn Hightower, and Garmund Hightower, you are accused of conspiracy and treason against Princess Heir Rhaenyra Targaryen. How do you plead?”  

Ormund was the first to speak. His jaw was clenched, his eyes flashing with contained hatred.  

“We are innocent! But I know this will not be a fair trial. I demand that my sons take the black and be sent to the Night’s Watch.”  

Lyonel Strong’s response was sharp, without hesitation.  

“Perhaps you have not received the news, but the Night’s Watch is no longer a refuge for criminals. The Black Cloak is an honorable position and will be treated as such.”  

Ormund frowned, his fragile composure beginning to crumble.  

“That’s a lie! It’s always been that way!” he shouted, trying to cling to any remnant of tradition that could save his family.  

“It was,” Lyonel held his gaze, unyielding. “But it is no longer. Lord Stark can confirm this, as the Northerners are chiefly responsible for the upkeep of the Night’s Watch.”  

Ormund paled slightly. He now realized that all his avenues were closing.  

Before the attentive eyes of the hall, the judges began to review the evidence presented by Prince Vaegon Targaryen. An impressive collection of documents and letters, exchanged over the past years, contained detailed records of plots, promises of military support, and secret alliances made by the Hightowers. Every word there was a testimony of the treason they had orchestrated.  

Tyland Lannister broke the silence with a lethal calmness.  

“There’s not much to discuss. The evidence is irrefutable.” He lifted the scrolls and turned to Viserys. “My King, it is clear the full involvement of House Hightower in an attempt to usurp the princess heir and in encouraging rebellions against the Crown.”  

Lyonel Strong closed the scrolls and, without taking his eyes off the defendants, addressed the other judges.  

“My Lords, the verdict?”  

Tyland Lannister and Martin Tyrell exchanged glances before pronouncing their decision, almost in perfect synchronization:  

“Guilty.”  

Lyonel simply confirmed the sentence, his voice firm, unwavering.  

“The accused will be taken to the Dragonpit, where they will face execution by dragonfire.”  

The hall, which had been nothing but a murmur of tension, erupted into chaos.  

Ormund Hightower screamed, his eyes wide with rage and disbelief.

"NO! YOU CAN'T DO THIS! IT'S A FARCE! A STAGED TRIAL!"  

His sons began shouting along with him, their protests a desperate cacophony. The pride of House Hightower had been crushed under the weight of the evidence, and now only despair remained.  

The guards dragged them out, their cries fading until they disappeared completely.  

Then, the doors opened once more.  

The silence that fell over the hall was deafening.  

First came Grandmaester Mellos, his expression downcast, his eyes low, as if he already knew his fate. Behind him, Otto Hightower appeared, his posture rigid, but there was something broken in him. His face was marked by the weight of years of ambition now frustrated, his gaze, at last, meeting Viserys’s— a look that no longer asked for anything, not even mercy.  

But it was the last prisoner who made even the judges hold their breath.  

Queen Alicent Hightower crossed the doors of the Throne Room.  

And for a moment, even the city seemed to hold its breath.  

The silence that hung over the Throne Room was unlike any other felt there before. It wasn’t just anticipation—it was something darker, heavier. The trial of Ormund and his sons had already been a spectacle of ruin and despair, but Alicent Hightower’s entrance had an even greater impact.  

She walked with measured steps, her face raised in a mix of pride and resignation, perhaps the last remnants of both in her body. The deep green dress she wore, though imposing, could not conceal the pallor that had taken over her skin. Her eyes, usually filled with determination, now carried something harder to decipher: fear and anger, intertwined in a silent storm.  

Viserys gripped the arm of the throne, his weak fingers digging into the cold metal. His chin trembled slightly, and it wasn’t just from the effort of keeping his body upright. He looked at Alicent as if seeing a ghost.  

“Royal Consort Alicent Hightower,” Lord Lyonel Strong’s voice echoed through the hall, calling to the formality of the moment. “You have been accused of conspiring against the princess heir and against the Crown itself. How do you plead?”  

The consort remained silent for a few moments, letting the weight of the words settle. Then, she raised her eyes to meet the judges.  

“In the eyes of the Faith, I am the queen,” she replied, her voice steady despite the contained emotion. “And all I did was for the good of the kingdom and my king.”  

Otto Hightower, standing beside her, turned his head slowly, watching his daughter’s reaction. For a moment, Viserys felt a tremor run down his spine. Alicent didn’t deny it, nor did she ask for forgiveness. She justified it.  

Lord Tyland Lannister flipped through the evidence on the table before them. “The documents we have prove that, over the years, the consort maintained a network of influence that aimed to undermine Princess Rhaenyra’s position. Secret meetings, promises to discontented lords, spreading rumors of witchcraft, collusion to usurp the princess by bringing bastards into the capital... It’s all here.”  

Alicent clenched her fists by her side. “And I ask,” her voice rose slightly, “is it treason to ensure the kingdom’s security? I saw what Rhaenyra did, what she allowed to happen under her rule in Dragonstone. Black magic, bloody rituals, practices that should have been buried with the Doom of Valyria! Westeros does not need a sorceress on the throne!”  

Alicent turned to her husband. “Everything I did was for the kingdom, Viserys.”  

The king closed his eyes again, and a tear slid down his weary face.  

Lyonel Strong, seeing the scene before him, cleared his throat before continuing. “Your Majesty, the judges have already reviewed the evidence. Now, it is up to us to give the verdict.”  

Alicent swallowed hard, but her posture remained firm.  

Lord Tyland Lannister was the first to speak. “Guilty.”  

Lord Martin Tyrell did not hesitate. “Guilty.”  

Lord Lyonel Strong looked at Alicent and then at Viserys. His voice was low but definitive.  

“Guilty.”  

The murmur that spread through the hall was like a wave, growing in intensity until someone shouted.  

“Traitor!”  

At that moment, Otto Hightower spoke.  

“My King! My daughter had no involvement in our plans; she merely passed along some of my correspondences without ever knowing the content! Lady Alicent has always been a faithful wife and subject! For these nine years, she has done everything in her power to give you an heir, as the scriptures command. This is all a farce to ruin House Hightower and throw our history into the gutter.”  

Rhaenyra continued to watch everything from her place, with Daemon by her side, being her emotional and even physical support throughout this process. She felt deeply shaken by it all, not from fear, but she shivered at the fact that things were finally falling into place as they should.  

“We took in the bastard boys as a sign of benevolence and charity; they lived for a long time at the Citadel and were being cared for by my brother and nephews to become decent knights. Is it so wrong to wish that children could have an acceptable future?” Otto continued, and Rhaenyra had to hold back a laugh.  

Lyonel Strong took the floor. “Great benevolence, Ser Otto, interesting that House Hightower was not one of the beneficiaries of the orphanage expansion or any of the Crown’s public policies in recent years.”  

Martin Tyrell cleared his throat, holding some papers in his hands.  

“Ser Otto, I feel this trial is becoming rather repetitive, but do not treat the judges and this court like fools.” Lord Martin spoke and stood up. “Here, it is described, I must say, foolishly, the actions and roles of each of those involved.”  

Otto Hightower turned pale. His eyes swept the hall, searching for allies among the faces gathered there, but found only cold, evaluative expressions. Lord Martin Tyrell raised one of the scrolls in his hands and began to read aloud.  

“‘The Queen was informed and gave her consent, ensuring the preparations were carried out without raising suspicions in the castle corridors.’”  

Silence fell like a sharp blade. Alicent closed her eyes, her lips pressed tightly together. Otto, for a moment, seemed to struggle to maintain his composure.  

“By ‘queen,’ I assume you are referring to the Consort. And there’s more,” Tyrell continued, flipping to the next page.  

“It is essential to bring the princess to the Red Keep; preventing the child from seeing the light of day is of utmost importance.” Lord Tyrell sighed, outraged. “This is a letter from Grandmaester Mellos when he learned of the princess heir’s last pregnancy. And it does not end here. Reports of encouragement to resist the rightful succession of the princess heir. These documents prove that House Hightower’s influence was not merely a matter of innocent correspondence, but rather a deliberate attempt to undermine the Crown.”

Otto took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “These documents could have been forged! Who can guarantee their authenticity?”

Lyonel Strong closed his eyes for a brief moment before turning his attention back to the old Hightower. “You're out of options, Ser Otto. Anyone who has worked with you would recognize your handwriting and writing style. Until your last moments, you take us for fools.”  

Otto swallowed hard. Alicent remained still.  

Viserys, who had until then only been observing everything with a somber, lost look, passed a trembling hand over his face. “I trusted you, Otto. I trusted your loyalty…” 

“And I was loyal, my King! Everything I did was to protect the kingdom from falling into the wrong hands!” 

Lord Lyonel seemed irritated by this point. “The wrong hands, according to you, are those of a legitimate Targaryen. The heir that the kingdom, including your family, swore to be loyal to.”  

Alicent pressed her lips together, but didn’t reply. There were no more arguments to make. The judges didn’t deliberate for even a second before declaring the second group guilty.  

“Guilty,” said Martin and Tyland.  

Lord Strong resumed: “The defendants will be taken to the Dragonpit, where they will also face execution by dragonfire.” 

The hall was filled with a deafening buzz. Lord Strong’s words echoed like thunder in the room, and for a moment, everyone seemed to absorb the weight of the sentence.  

Otto Hightower staggered slightly, as if his legs were finally giving way under the weight of defeat. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but there were no words that could save him now. Alicent, on the other hand, remained rigid, her gaze fixed on Viserys, waiting—perhaps desperately—for her husband to revoke the decision.  

But Viserys didn’t move.  

The king seemed smaller, sinking into his own throne, his eyes dull and full of weariness. He didn’t rise, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t try to intervene. He simply stared at the woman who had shared his bed for almost a decade, and the man who had been his closest advisor for so long.  

Alicent felt a knot tighten in her throat. He wouldn’t do anything.  

“Father…” her voice came out quieter than she intended. Otto looked at her, his intense blue eyes now filled with something close to panic.  

“We are Hightower!” Otto exclaimed, his composure finally breaking. “You can’t condemn us to this fate! Viserys! For the love of the Seven!”  

Viserys closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You betrayed me, Otto.” His voice was low, hoarse, but there was a weight in it that left no room for contestation.  

Otto stepped back, trembling with anger, his eyes scanning the hall as if he expected someone to speak in his defense. But no one did. The lords and knights present merely observed, and those who had already pledged some loyalty to Rhaenyra didn’t hide their satisfied expressions.  

Alicent, still motionless, finally turned to her husband. Her expression was unreadable, a cold mask carved from humiliation and contained despair.  

“Viserys,” she tried once more, her voice now a mere whisper. “I did everything for you... for our son…”  

A low laugh echoed through the hall, and its source was none other than Daemon Targaryen. The prince, until then silent, raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.  

“What son?” he mocked.  

Alicent turned to him, her eyes blazing with fury. “Shut your mouth, you—”  

“Enough.” Viserys interrupted, his voice sounding like a blade. He took a deep breath, his trembling hands gripping the arms of the throne. “Take them. Let the sentence be carried out at dawn.”  

The Royal Guard moved forward. Otto tried to resist, but was quickly restrained. Alicent made no move to fight back. When the guards' firm hands held her arms, she cast one last glance at Viserys.  

He didn’t look back.  

As the Hightowers were dragged out of the hall, murmurs continued, but now laden with expectation. The princess heir had won. The betrayal had finally been crushed.  

In all the commotion, and with so many condemnations on that day, the fact that the two bastards didn’t appear was not questioned. And Rhaenyra felt grateful for that. She felt the urge to ask Daemon what decision the two of them had made, but she wanted to forget that they had ever existed. Whatever their choice had been, there would be no bastard lineage to threaten her children and grandchildren.

 

***

 

Later that same night, Viserys was in his chambers, moving between agonizing consciousness and dreadful nightmares.  

In the last nightmare of the night, Balerion, who had once been his mount, appeared and chased him through King’s Landing, burning all the streets, houses, and alleys to reach him. In the end, he woke up moments before being burned alive.  

When he opened his eyes again, he sighed painfully amidst all the incense and pungent aromas that filled his room. As he adjusted his vision to the dim light, he thought he saw a ghost.  

“Aemma?” he asked.  

It looked like Aemma, in her last pregnancy with Baelon, though less debilitated.  

“I wonder what could bring my mother to appear before you. Was it longing or guilt?” Viserys breathed with difficulty as he noticed Rhaenyra approaching. “What do you say, father?”  

“My daughter, what are you doing here?” he asked.  

“In your chambers or in King’s Landing?” Rhaenyra scoffed. “I didn’t want to come to the capital, I didn’t want to share the same space with you again, but I am still the heir,” she replied, coming closer. She sighed heavily before sitting beside Viserys.  

Viserys, still weak, tried to take Rhaenyra’s hand, which she allowed him to intertwine with his.  

“I am so sorry,” Viserys said. “I did everything wrong, I saw everything wrong. Forgive me, my child. My only daughter.”  

Rhaenyra laughed.  

“Yes, your only daughter, but how many times did you wish that wasn’t the reality? Don’t fool yourself and don’t try to fool me again, Viserys. What you’re feeling is not regret for wronging me, Daemon, and the realm, but because all your decisions turned out to be wrong and foolish.” She retorted. “You allowed all the vipers who will burn tomorrow, and so many others I burned along the way, to feel entitled to attack me.”  

“If you are not willing to forgive me before I die, what are you doing here?” Viserys asked.  

Rhaenyra, still holding Viserys’s weak hand, leaned in to make sure her father heard every word clearly:  

“I came to make sure you didn’t make it through this night.”  

“W-w-what…” Viserys tried to say, but dizziness returned, clouding his vision. “Rhaenyra…” Slowly, he found it hard to breathe, feeling a sharp pain in his abdomen, as if a knife were being driven in, but when he felt his stomach, there was nothing but the fabric of his tunic. Though the pain was excruciating, he couldn’t scream; there wasn’t enough air to overcome the pain.  

“When I saw my mother burn, nine years ago, I promised I would get revenge on everyone who allowed her to endure so much suffering,” Rhaenyra said, ignoring Viserys writhing on the bed. “I promised I would get revenge on everyone, even if you had to be the first. And I won’t allow Otto Hightower to receive honors before the King.”  

Viserys saw only pain before his eyes, heard the bitter and cruel words of Rhaenyra from a distance, and felt the weight of years of weakness.  

“What have you felt these last years, my King? Your body weakening, your health deteriorating… While carrying the weight of the crown on your shoulders? That was but a small part of the burden carried by Queen Aemma Arryn. Perhaps in your next life, if the gods are merciful enough, you will continue to carry the pain of betrayal in your flesh.”  

And with that, she left the chambers, not witnessing the last breaths of the King.

 

 

Glossary:

 

Muña = Mother

Kepa = Father

Valzȳna = Aunt

Valzȳnos = Uncle

Kepa vēzos = Grandfather

Muña vēzos = Grandmother

Iksan vaoreznuni, zaldrītsos. = I’m sorry, zaldritsos.

Notes:

So, did you like it?
I corrected some parts of the trial. For some reason, the translator always modifies “consort” to “queen consort”… sorry!
Let me know what you think in the comments ❤️❤️✨

Chapter 20

Notes:

The last chapter is here!
Thank you to everyone who has read this far and has been leaving kudos and comments.
I hope you like it. ❤️

 

 

The maesters who would one day write about the last days of Viserys I Targaryen would drastically differ in their interpretations. For some, his death marked the end of a peaceful reign, a period of stability where wars were avoided and the realm remained intact. For others, however, it was the end of a failed ruler, a man whose omissions allowed an unprecedented succession crisis to almost be sown right under his nose.  

In the end, what was recorded were only the facts: the day after the trial that ended House Hightower, Viserys was found dead in his chambers. His body was rigid, his eyes dull and lifeless, his breath nonexistent. A man who, for years, had been nothing more than a shadow of what he once was. There were no signs of violence, nor poisoning, nothing that suggested anything other than the inexorable progression of his illness.  

But the doubt would hang in the air for a long time.  

The death came soon after the trial that sealed the fate of the Hightowers. Was it the final blow? Could it be that Viserys, already so frail, couldn’t bear to see his best friend and his wife unmasked as traitors? Or had it simply been the natural course of his deteriorated health? No certainty would ever be reached, and as in every good story, each lord and each maester would build their own version of what happened.  

What was not debated was who now ruled. Rhaenyra Targaryen was already queen.  

She would not yet wear the crown, not until the formal coronation, which would happen in two moons, to allow the lords of Westeros to come to the capital and witness the rise of the new sovereign. But even without the crown, the government had already changed hands.  

Instead of carrying out the execution of the condemned at the Dragonpit, as expected, Rhaenyra ordered that all the traitors be tied to Viserys’s funeral pyre. The king’s funeral would also become the public execution of those who had tried to usurp his daughter.  

On that day, Rhaenys Hill, where the royal pyre had been built, was crowded. The court and noble lords had gathered to bid farewell to the late king, but their gazes, filled with anxiety and unrest, turned to the prisoners tied at the base of the wooden structure.  

Alicent Hightower was among them.  

Her wrists were firmly bound, but her tongue remained sharp. Her eyes burned with hatred, and her mouth dripped venom.  

“This is an immorality!” She spat, desperation overflowing in every word. “Typical of the cursed race of Targaryens!”  

Rhaenyra slowly descended the stone steps leading to the pyre. Her presence seemed to make the very air of the hill heavy, her silhouette looming.  

She stopped in front of the former consort, her violet eyes meeting Alicent’s, and smiled coldly.  

“If Viserys loved you so much, it is only right that you all burn together.”  

The condemned struggled uselessly against their restraints. Otto Hightower, now a defeated man, simply lowered his head, resigned. Mellos, the Grand Maester who had conspired with the plots, muttered prayers to the Seven. But it was Alicent who refused to submit to her fate, shouting insults and pleas, her voice growing sharper and more desperate.  

Then, the shadows lengthened, and the sound of enormous wings beating against the wind silenced the crowd.  

The dragons came.  

Syrax was the first to descend from the heavens. Her golden wings shimmered in the sunlight, and her roar made even the bravest take a step back. But she did not come alone.  

Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, descended right behind, his serpentine form gliding through the air. Dreamfyre landed beside her, stretching her slender neck and letting out a guttural roar. Maelyx, the young black dragon, roared eagerly, as if barely able to contain his impatience. Meraxes, Silverwing, and Vermithor came last, their enormous wings blocking part of the sky, as if the ancient gods themselves were watching that moment.  

Fear took hold of the Hightowers. Mellos wept. Otto closed his eyes. Alicent stopped shouting.  

The courtiers felt their knees wobble before the gathering of winged beasts. Never, in many years, had so many dragons been gathered in one place.  

And Rhaenyra was the center of it all.  

She remained impassive. Her platinum hair danced in the wind. Her hand rested on Syrax’s flank, her eyes shining with relentless determination.  

There would be no mercy.  

The Dragon Queen did not need to raise her voice, nor did she need to recite a speech, nor offer a moment for the condemned to speak their last words. The time for words had passed.  

When she lifted her gaze to her mount, Syrax tilted her head, attentive to her mistress.  

And then, Rhaenyra commanded:  

“Syrax, dracarys.”  

The roar came first, thunderous like a storm.  

Then, the fire.  

Golden flames erupted from Syrax’s throat, advancing over the pyre and the bound bodies. The heat was instantaneous, overwhelming. The screams… Didn’t last. The dragonfire burned so hot, so pure, that death came in seconds.  

Almost a blessing. Rhaenyra thought.  

She did not avert her gaze. She did not blink.  

The smell of burning flesh and wood filled the air, and the crowd watched in sepulchral silence. There was horror in some eyes, approval in others, but no one dared to question the justice of the new queen.  

Daemon stood by his family, watching every detail of what unfolded before his eyes. He knew Rhaenyra better than anyone there, knew the weight of that moment for her. It wasn’t just an execution, it wasn’t just Viserys’s funeral. It was a statement. A demonstration of power.  

As the flames rose and the roars of the dragons echoed across Rhaenys Hill, he noticed the subtle movement of Vaegon at his side. The brother, always so analytical, wore a rare expression of relief. Years of intrigue and veiled threats had finally come to an end. Rhaenyra was in control. The realm would finally bend to that.  

Rhaenys, with her always stoic posture, slightly inclined her head, as if giving her silent approval. She did not just accept Rhaenyra as queen — she acknowledged her.  

But it was Laena who caught Daemon’s attention the most. Rhaenyra’s best friend looked at her with pure and intense admiration, her eyes glowing with something beyond pride. There was reverence there, a recognition of the undeniable power that radiated from Rhaenyra at that moment.  

The only thing echoing beyond the crackling of the fire was the roar of the dragons, who seemed to celebrate the justice of their sovereign.  

Rhaenyra stood there, watching the flames dance, feeling the heat reach her face, the smell of ashes filling her nostrils.  

It was all over.  

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and softly, almost as a whisper, murmured to herself:  

“Nyke vēttan ziry, muña.” I've done it, mom.

And the flames continued to burn.

 

***

 

The day of the coronation dawned under an intense sun, which scorched the streets of King’s Landing with an almost suffocating heat. But even the stifling weather couldn’t stop a crowd from gathering along the alleys, squares, and walls, eager to witness a historic event: the ascension of Rhaenyra Targaryen to the Iron Throne. Since the days of Aegon the Conqueror, no woman had been crowned sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms, and for many, this was proof that a new era had begun.

Unlike previous coronations, Rhaenyra had refused the blessing of the High Septon. There would be no procession to the Great Sept, nor rites before the Faith of the Seven. From now on, the Targaryens would be crowned imbued with their own legitimacy, without the need for a religious institution to vouch for their rule. The dragon was enough.

The royal procession traversed the main streets of the city before heading toward the Red Keep, where the most powerful lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms awaited within the Throne Room. Rhaenyra emerged from the carriage wearing a richly embroidered scarlet gown in black and gold, the colors of her House, and draped across her shoulders was a blue and white shawl adorned with the falcon of the Arryns. A silent reminder of her mother Aemma’s sharp tongue and the strong blood running through her veins.

At her side, Daemon walked with his usual confidence, holding the hand of little Aenar, while Daenys walked a little ahead, her silver hair gleaming under the sun. Baelon and Alyssa, still very young, remained in the children’s wing of the Red Keep. They crossed the grand hall, where Vaegon and Rhaenys awaited them at the foot of the Iron Throne. As the elder members of the House, they were the ones entrusted with guiding the ceremony, honoring the Valyrian tradition.

Rhaenyra ascended the steps of the Iron Throne with assured steps, sitting gracefully, and couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of relief as she felt the touch of a cushion strategically placed beneath her. She understood that Aegon the Conqueror had wanted the rule to be a heavy burden. But after giving birth to four children, she deserved a bit of comfort.

With solemnity, Daemon handed the crown of Aegon the Conqueror to Rhaenys. The crown of Jaehaerys and Viserys would remain stored in the royal vault. Let it be a symbol of those who had ruled without firmness, for Rhaenyra could not allow her dynasty to be taken by weak examples.

Rhaenys extended the cushion where the crown rested, and Vaegon, with solemn words in High Valyrian, took it in his hands. His gaze met Rhaenyra’s for a moment, and the gravity of the moment weighed upon everyone present. With a precise movement, he placed the crown on her head.

Rhaenys’s firm voice broke the silence that dominated the hall:

“I present to you: Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm! Long live Queen Rhaenyra!”

The hall erupted in acclamations, applause, and cheers. The lords raised their fists, and the people watching from the windows and corridors celebrated enthusiastically. Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a brief moment, absorbing every sound, every gesture. The weight she had carried for years on her shoulders seemed, at last, to dissipate. She had fulfilled her mission.

Raising herself, she lifted one hand, and the murmurs ceased.

“My lords and ladies, once again I ask for your declaration of loyalty. Not just to myself, but to the Crown, to House Targaryen, and to the legacy you swore to protect. From this day forward, my husband, Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen, will bear the title of Protector of the Realm.”

The room erupted in new applause, and the nobles began to organize themselves to swear their oaths. For Rhaenyra, all of it seemed like an echo of another life. The first time she had been in this position, she was just fourteen, mourning her mother and suffocated by the weight of the promise that had been imposed upon her. Now, ten years later, she had fulfilled her promise. Viserys lay in ashes to the wind, the traitors had burned, and she sat as Queen, with her family and allies around her.

Daemon, Vaegon, and Rhaenys were among the first to swear their loyalty, followed by the Velaryons, the Strongs, and then the great Houses such as Celtigar, Tyrell, and Stark. Each lord and lady who knelt to pledge their fidelity only reinforced Rhaenyra’s position.

With all the oaths completed, the herald announced loudly:

“The feast will be served in the Great Hall to celebrate the ascension of Her Grace!”

The crowd gradually dispersed, following the corridors to the Great Hall, richly decorated with the Targaryen coat of arms and colors. But Rhaenyra remained on the throne for a few more moments, observing the now-empty Throne Room. Daemon ascended the steps and took her hand.

“Now, will you accept every time I call you ‘my queen’?” Daemon teased, his tone full of malicious delight as he traced lazy circles with his thumb on Rhaenyra’s wrist.

She tilted her head, her lips curling into an amused smile. “Now it’s appropriate, my husband, Lord Protector of the Realm.” She winked at him, letting the weight of the newly received title hang between them before continuing, “Are you sure you don’t want to be named ‘Consort King’?”

The question was nothing new, but Daemon still reacted as if it were the first time. He shook his head in denial, his expression a mixture of exasperation and devotion. Without hesitation, he cupped her face in his hands, his lilac eyes burning with an intensity that only he could project.

“And why would I want that?” His voice dropped to a rough whisper, a tone he reserved only for her. “It’s far more dignifying to have a queen in my bed. To be your most loyal subject, even your slave, if need be.”

Rhaenyra laughed softly, sliding her fingers over the lapels of Daemon’s dark attire. “We’ve talked about this,” she murmured, her tone indulgent, as if chiding a stubborn child. “You are my equal, Daemon. I don’t want anyone to think less of you.”

He snorted, as if her concern were foolish. “You’re the queen,” he said, his voice full of conviction. “Just like Aenar will be the King many, many, many years from now.” His fingers slid to Rhaenyra’s chin, holding her gaze. “Anyone who wishes to share the burden of the Iron Throne must understand their secondary role, but one of immense responsibility.”

He paused briefly, a slight smile touching his lips before continuing. “I once wanted to hold power in my hands, to feel it as an extension of myself. But it was that very desire that blinded so many of us for so long. So, no,” his thumb brushed her cheek with reverence, “the title of ‘King’ seems less necessary to me than ‘kepa,’ ‘husband’... and ‘my love.’”

Rhaenyra’s chest warmed with his words, a heat different from that of dragon flames that had always surrounded her existence. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Daemon’s lips, sealing the moment as something only the two of them shared.

“When did you become so sentimental?” she teased, her voice wicked. “If anyone hears, the title of ‘Rogue Prince’ will be ruined, husband.”

Daemon let out a low, deep laugh that reverberated between them. With a quick, possessive motion, he pulled her toward him, one hand sliding to the curve of her waist, the other tangled in the silver strands of her hair. He leaned in until their lips almost brushed again.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice full of promises. “I’m so fast that if anyone blinks, they’ll miss all of it.”

The provocation in Daemon’s eyes was clear, a playful gleam mixed with the insatiable desire that never seemed to fade between them.

“But now,” he continued, reluctant to release her, “I think we should go to the feast. One more kiss and I fear I won’t be able to hold back.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. “Hold back?”

Daemon cast a glance at the Iron Throne behind her, his expression almost contemplative. “That cushion looks quite comfortable,” he suggested, his tone laden with implication. “We could test it out with other activities.”

“Daemon!” Rhaenyra gave a light slap to his shoulder, stifling a laugh. “The castle is full of lords.”

He feigned a sigh, as if genuinely lamenting the unwanted presence of the nobles. “Then let’s join them, my love,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her toward the hall doors.

Still, as they traversed the stone corridors toward the feast, Rhaenyra noticed how Daemon’s eyes shone—not only with pride for her coronation, but with something deeper, something only she knew. He didn’t need to be king to be the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.

When they reached the doors of the Great Hall, the herald, with an imposing voice, announced reverently:  

“Salute Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. And Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen, Protector of the Realm.”  

The sound of Rhaenyra’s title echoed throughout the hall, and all present rose in synchronized motion, their eyes fixed on the majestic entrance of the queen and the prince consort. Every person in the room, except for the children, made a deep curtsy, a gesture of respect and devotion. Rhaenyra, with her noble and dignified posture, and Daemon, by her side with a serious expression, entered together, crossing the hall. In front of them, a large Targaryen banner was spread out behind the main table, almost dominating the room with its symbolic presence.  

At the table were already present Aenar and Daenys, accompanied by Vaegon and Laena. Laena, with her nearly nine-month pregnant belly, sat beside Monterys, while little Lucerys Velaryon sat in the lap of his grandparents, Corlys and Rhaenys, being spoiled with sweets and treats. The atmosphere was one of warm hospitality, a contrast to the power radiating from Rhaenyra and Daemon.  

Before they could sit at the table, the twins, Aenar and Daenys, leapt from their chairs, running toward their parents. Aenar, with his eyes shining with excitement, threw himself into Rhaenyra’s arms.  

“Muña! You looked so beautiful on the throne, will I wear a crown too?” he asked with the genuine curiosity of a child, intertwining his fingers in his mother’s shawl.  

Rhaenyra smiled tenderly and hugged him, placing him on her lap. “We can make that happen, my love. We’ll make crowns for all of you. Daenys would look lovely with one too, don’t you think?”  

“Yes, muña!” Aenar replied with the typical excitement of childhood, and soon both twins began to discuss how they wanted their crowns to look.  

Daemon, who was holding Daenys on his lap, moved closer to Rhaenyra and, with an amused smile, whispered in her ear, “I’m starting to think these two won’t leave King’s Landing peaceful for long.”  

“Nonsense, they’re just excited about all this,” Rhaenyra responded with a soft laugh, offering a small cake to Aenar.  

“And where are Baelon and Alyssa?” Daenys, her mouth full of strawberries, called to her father. She was visibly tired, but her eyes still sparkled with the joy of the ceremony.  

“They must be asleep, little cub,” Daemon answered as he wiped Daenys’s mouth with a napkin. “The ceremony was a lot for them. And you, aren’t you tired?”  

Daenys shook her head, still eager. “A little, kepa, but I wanted to see muña with the crown.”  

“You already did, little one,” Rhaenyra said softly, running her hand through her daughter’s hair. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Glinda or Elise to help you to bed?”  

“Can I have another strawberry before I go?” Daenys asked, already holding another strawberry in her hand, while Aenar, beside her, grabbed another meat pie from his mother’s plate.  

“Of course, I’ll have them come. It will be enough time for you to finish eating,” Rhaenyra answered with an indulgent smile before calling the two ladies-in-waiting.  

Following their cousins, Lucerys Velaryon also accompanied Glinda and Elise when they came to take the children, leading them to their chambers and leaving the room for the adults.  

The night progressed, and while the banquet continued, Rhaenyra stood up, asking for everyone’s attention in the hall. Conversations gradually ceased, and all eyes turned to the Queen. There was something solemn in her posture, a mix of gratitude and determination that made everyone present feel the weight of the moment.  

“My lords and ladies,” she began, her voice strong but laden with emotion, “words fail me to thank you for your presence this evening. Before me, I see not only subjects, but dear friends, people whom time and circumstance have distanced from me.”  

Her gaze fell upon Elinda, Prudence, Prunella, and Martha, women who, due to their duties to their own houses and families, had reduced their communication to occasional letters and scattered visits. How many times had Rhaenyra found herself reflecting on the vastness of Westeros and how that distance separated even those who loved each other most? Yet, tonight, they were here, and that filled her heart with joy.  

“For this reason, I am immensely happy to share this moment with all of you. And, in addition, I would like to make an important announcement.”  

Rhaenyra took a deep breath before continuing. The hall remained silent, all attentive to what would follow.  

“As you all know, the Small Council exists to assist the monarch and share a bit of the burden of ruling the Seven Kingdoms. First and foremost, I wish to express my gratitude to all the counselors who remained loyal, even in the darkest of times, and thank them for their years of service. However, times change, as do the needs of the realm and its people. And for that reason, I announce today the new composition of the Small Council.”  

She took a brief pause, allowing her words to be absorbed by those present before continuing.  

“First, Lord Lyonel Strong.”  

The old Lord Hand rose, his eyes marked by time but still carrying a glimmer of wisdom. Beside him were his son, Harwin, and his daughter-in-law, Prudence. Rhaenyra gave him a sincere smile.  

“Lord Strong expressed the desire to return to Harrenhal to enjoy time with his family and numerous grandchildren.” Soft laughter echoed through the hall. “For all the years of tireless service, my deepest gratitude, milord.”  

She raised her cup in his honor, and the others followed her gesture, toasting to the old counselor.  

“To occupy the position of Hand of the Queen, I invite Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”  

A murmur ran through the hall. If Rhaenys was surprised, she didn’t show it. Her expression remained serene, although the intensity of her gaze revealed the emotion she felt. Rhaenyra walked over to her cousin, holding the Hand’s brooch. The exchange of looks between them carried mutual respect and recognition.  

“I would be honored to hold such a position, my Queen,” Rhaenys said, her voice firm but laden with emotion.  

“Thank you, Rhaenys.”  

Rhaenyra returned to her seat and continued with the announcements.  

“Lord Beesbury and Ser Harrold will remain in their roles. Lord Beesbury refuses to hand over financial administration to anyone else—he fears we will bankrupt the realm.”  

The comment caused laughter in the hall, and Lord Beesbury himself, a bit flushed, raised his cup in a sign of good humor.  

“As Master of Laws, my husband and Protector of the Realm, Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen, will assume the role.”  

Daemon, seated beside his wife, took her hand and kissed the back of it, without needing to say a word.  

“In the position of Master of Ships, I am very happy that Lord Bartimos Celtigar has accepted the position. Thank you, milord.”  

Bartimos was chosen after the refusal of Corlys Velaryon and his heir, Monterys. Corlys had expressed a desire to focus on training his grandson, while Monterys didn’t want to leave his own son. Bartimos, a man of great naval experience, was a natural choice.  

“Ser Tyland Lannister has accepted the post of Master of Diplomatic Relations, a new position created with the aim of strengthening ties between the Seven Kingdoms and the Crown. We must listen to the needs of our people and stand together in times of crisis and prosperity.”  

Tyland Lannister rose, bowing under respectful applause.  

“The position of Grand Maester will undergo a small change,” Rhaenyra continued. “Until now, this role was held by a maester from the Citadel, men of great learning, but whose decisions were not always free from political influence. The Crown cannot be blindly guided by groups that serve their own interests.”  

A surprised murmur spread through the hall.  

“The wisdom of these scholars will always be respected and considered. However, I believe the well-being of the realm must be approached from different perspectives. For this reason, the role will now be known as the Master of Well-being, and two individuals will be responsible for dealing with matters related to education, health, and the quality of life for the less fortunate. These will be: Maester Gerardys and Lady Thamar Dallarys.”  

The shock was evident on the faces of some present. Never before had such an essential post been distributed in this way.  

“And last but not least, to fill the long-vacant position of Master of Whisperers, I have invited Prince Vaegon.”  

Vaegon rose calmly. He was a man of sharp mind, distant from traditional power games, but whose intellect and tactical skills were unquestionable. Rhaenyra smiled as she looked at him.  

“A person of my complete and total trust,” she said. “Someone whose advice and guidance I have been receiving since I was fourteen. The one who did not hesitate to come to my aid in the most difficult and uncertain times.”  

Vaegon made a discreet bow under applause from the hall. The composition of the Small Council was established, and with it, the promise of a new time for the realm. As the guests toasted to the changes, Rhaenyra allowed herself a moment of relief. There was much work to be done, but that night, she savored the feeling of having taken a fundamental step toward the future she so desired for the Seven Kingdoms.

 

***

 

Rhaenyra had no frame of reference for that moment.

Seeing Aenar and Daenys, alone on their own dragons, taking flight without the presence of an adult, sent an uncomfortable shiver down her spine, an unease she couldn’t shake off.

Of course, she and Daemon had flown countless times with them, riding together on Syrax and Caraxes. They had taught, repeated, tested each lesson, each command, each safe maneuver. The twins had spoken fluent High Valyrian since they were four years old and shared a natural bond with their dragons. Rationally, Rhaenyra knew they were ready.

But a mother’s heart doesn’t heed reason.

She instinctively placed her hand over her belly, two moons’ worth of comfort, an unconscious gesture. Her eyes were fixed on Daemon, who was checking once more that Aenar and Daenys were securely strapped to their saddles, his expression determined. He adjusted the straps himself, checked every buckle, and gave the final instructions with the patience of someone who knew exactly the weight of that moment.

Rhaenyra approached Meraxes, who snorted lightly, impatient to fly. The silver dragon scratched his claws on the ground, anxious, but stayed still, attentive to his little rider’s command.

“Please, take care of her up there, alright?” Rhaenyra murmured, sliding her hand over the dragon’s scaly neck.

Daemon finished the adjustments and stepped down, meeting his wife’s gaze. He noticed her tension and knew that nothing he said would shake off that worry, but he’d try anyway.

“Daemon, my heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest,” she confessed in a whisper.

Her husband smiled wryly, gently pulling her aside to ensure she was out of the dragons’ wing span.

“Good, now you know how I felt when you decided to ride Syrax at seven years old.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, clearly remembering the day Daemon nearly lost his mind seeing her soar into the sky fearlessly, full of the childish boldness she now saw reflected in her own children.

Almost in unison, the twins leaned forward, murmuring their flight orders in High Valyrian. The enormous dragons beat their powerful wings, raising dust and launching into the sky with a roar of strength and grace.

Rhaenyra held her breath.

They climbed higher and higher, soaring above the city, the sun’s rays reflecting off their scales like polished metal. Meraxes, agile and imposing, led the way, while Stormcloud, despite having the same age, already displayed impressive musculature for a young dragon.

Daemon approached Rhaenyra again, his presence firm and comforting at her side.

“Think of it this way,” he said gently. “The trip to Dragonstone next month will be much quicker. The children will be less irritable.”

She sighed, relaxing a little.

Indeed, within a moon, she’d be at Dragonstone, far from the exhausting political weight of the capital. Since her coronation, her stays on the ancestral island had been brief, only to ensure governance wasn’t neglected. But now, she could allow herself a longer stay.

She lost herself in thought, her eyes still fixed on the sky, until Daemon called her back to reality.

“They’ve been up there for over an hour. Ser Erryk can wave the flag.”

The red banner fluttered atop the hill, and in response, the twins began their descent. Meraxes and Stormcloud glided through the winds, making precise turns before landing with remarkable lightness.

Aenar was the first to dismount, his face lit with excitement.

“Muña, that was fantastic! It’s so different from when I flew with you!”

He ran into his mother’s arms, and Daenys quickly followed, throwing herself against her with equal enthusiasm.

Rhaenyra laughed, stroking both of their hair.

“I’m so proud of you! You made a wonderful flight.”

She smiled, already anticipating the next question.

“And as a reward for arriving safe and sound, I’ll make sure strawberry cake is served for dessert.”

Aenar’s eyes sparkled, but Daenys crossed her arms, skeptical.

“Well, it’s not like we wanted to get hurt.”

Daemon laughed, and before Daenys could react, he lifted her into the air as he used to when she was little.

“Give your mother a break, young lady. She spent the whole time worrying.”

Aenar shrugged. “I can’t complain, I love strawberry cake.”

When they returned to the family solar, Glinda and Elise were watching the other children, with Ser Luthor’s help.

Baelon, who was playing near the entrance, was the first to notice the group’s return. He ran directly to his older brother.

“So? Did you make it?” he asked eagerly.

Aenar puffed out his chest proudly. “Of course! I flew over an hour with Stormcloud. Just like Daenys with Meraxes.”

Alyssa approached soon after, holding a child-sized replica of Silver Sister in her hands.

“Kepa, when can we fly by ourselves?” she asked, her expression serious.

The five-year-old girl already showed a sharp mind. She insisted on participating in sword and archery training with Baelon, something Rhaenyra encouraged. None of her daughters would be defenseless.

“When you’re eight, like Aenar and Daenys,” Daemon answered.

“But Vermithor is impatient,” she argued, her little brow furrowed.

Rhaenyra laughed. “Well, he’ll have to deal with it, my dear.”

Alyssa pouted, but Daemon intervened, his voice always softer with his daughter.

“He’s not trapped, dear. He flies every day with Silverwing. He’s happy.”

While Baelon nodded affirmatively, Alyssa seemed to ponder.

“Maybe.”

Rhaegar, at four years old, was engrossed with Lucerys Velaryon and Xanner Strong, all focused on a book.

Rhaenyra bent down and kissed Rhaegar’s hair.

“Muña!” The boy smiled.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Lucerys greeted politely.

“That’s not necessary, dear. Hello, Xanner, how are you?”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

“What are you reading?”

Rhaegar started explaining excitedly about a sea hero who faced mysterious creatures and explored unknown islands.

“One day I’ll have my own ship, Aunt Nyra!” Lucerys declared.

“I’m sure you will,” Rhaenyra said, smiling.

The boys continued reading, while Rhaenyra moved to another room of the solar, where Laena was nursing little Naerys, while Daenaera Velaryon and Esther Celtigar watched the younger boys sleeping.

“You sure have help here, Laena.” Rhaenyra said as she approached.

“Aunt Nyra!” exclaimed Daenaera and Esther, hugging Rhaenyra.

“Hello, my dears. You should be playing with Alyssa, I’m sure she’d love it.”

Esther blushed, while Daenaera took one of her hair strands and began to twirl it around her finger. “Alys said she only wanted to play with Baelon today, so we came to help my mother with the boys.”

“Very sweet of you, dears. But they’re asleep now, and I think Alyssa has gotten tired of playing with Baelon, why not stay with her?”

Daenaera and Esther shook their heads and went to the other room.

“How do they have so much energy?” Laena asked, already finishing nursing Naerys and putting her in one of the cribs.

“That’s a mystery of the gods,” Rhaenyra answered, leaning over the cribs where Vaelor, a little over two years old, lay, and in the other, the twins Aemon and Daelon, one year old.

“They couldn’t take it anymore from all the playing, and then they just fell asleep, like someone blew out a candle.” Laena said, and they both chuckled softly.

“I trust you’ll join us at Dragonstone.” Rhaenyra said.

“Certainly, Daenaera is thrilled with the possibility. Aenar promised he’d take her on a flight around the island.” Laena said, smiling.

“Promised?” Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, and if I didn’t know Aenar since the moment he came into this world, I’d say he’s trying to seduce my daughter, Your Grace.” Laena replied, playfully.

“I wouldn’t take a promise between children too seriously,” Rhaenyra said, though not entirely believing her own words.

 

***

 

Five years had passed since Rhaenyra ascended to the Iron Throne, the first of her name. Time had shaped her rule, strengthening alliances and consolidating her dominance over Westeros. She still faced challenges, of course—maintaining the unity of the realm required constant vigilance and patience—but nothing compared to the early years of her sovereignty. And above all, the challenges were simpler to overcome when surrounded by loyal allies—people who were not secretly plotting her downfall at every moment.

The remnants of House Hightower had attempted to rebuild the Faith Militant in a desperate bid to avenge the execution of their kin. But the times had changed. Unlike in the age of Maegor, Rhaenyra was not fighting alone. The vast majority of the lords and the people stood by her side. Her subjects saw in her the strength of House Targaryen, and the growing presence of dragons in Westeros solidified her legitimacy.

The response to the uprising had been swift and decisive. The Faith of the Seven lost even more influence, becoming restricted to certain regions, while other long-suppressed religions began to flourish once more. The Kingdom witnessed the resurgence of the ancient faith of the First Men in the North and the Riverlands, while Valyrian customs strengthened in Dragonstone and the eastern coast of Westeros.

Oldtown was no longer a Hightower town. With the fall of the House, the older men had met their end, while the childless women were given the option of returning to their families of origin. Those who refused were sent to the Silent Sisters, and the children, still innocent of the sins of their predecessors, were placed under the tutelage of Houses Tyrell and Arryn. Thus, the city came under the direct rule of the Crown.

As a mark of her sovereignty and to symbolise a new beginning, Rhaenyra renamed the city Veltharys - the City of Golden Flames. The first change was to remove the flames that once crowned the top of the Hightower tower, a symbol of the ancient influence of the Faith and the House that ruled it. In its place, he had a magnificent gold sculpture of Syrax erected, an imposing reminder of the true power that now ruled the city.

Veltharys, under the Queen's rule, began to transform. The city, which had once served the Hightower and the Faith of the Seven, now became a bastion of Targaryen power. The Hightower fortress was remodelled, and the influence of the Citadel's maesters was more closely monitored. Major projects were initiated to expand the port and improve the commercial infrastructure, ensuring that Veltharys became not only a centre of knowledge, but also one of the economic hearts of the kingdom. 

It was only a matter of time before the city was handed over to one of his sons, further consolidating the rule of the House of the Dragon.

That afternoon, Rhaenyra was in the Throne Room, reviewing late petitions alongside Rhaenys and Vaegon. The two were her most trusted advisors and never hesitated to speak the truth, even when it wasn’t pleasant.

Ser Harrold and Ser Erryk, always watchful, were stationed near the large doors of the hall. But even in their alertness, they appeared visibly relaxed. Peace was long-lasting, and threats were becoming fewer.

“We can proceed this way,” Rhaenyra said after reviewing the last of the petitions. She rubbed her temple, feeling the weight of a long day.

Before she could continue, Daemon entered the hall.

“There will be a Small Council meeting before I return to Dragonstone, but everything is in order. Thank you.”

He climbed the steps of the Iron Throne without ceremony and casually sat on one of its arms, his indifferent behavior drawing disapproving glances from the more formal courtiers. But Rhaenyra didn’t mind.

When she had ordered that resilient cushions be placed on the seat, backrest, and arms of the throne, many had murmured that it was a sign of weakness, as though she were hiding her lack of dignity in occupying the seat. But those ridiculous comments vanished into the air as soon as a new dragon’s roar echoed through the skies of King’s Landing.

Daemon looked at Rhaenyra with a mischievous smile.

“May I have my wife back?”

Rhaenys and Vaegon exchanged a brief glance before rising.

“She’s all yours, at least until the council meeting,” Rhaenys remarked, leaving the hall with Vaegon.

Rhaenyra watched them leave, then turned to the Kingsguard.

“You may leave us alone.”

When the two knights exited and the doors closed, Rhaenyra relaxed for the first time in hours.

“Where are the children?” she asked, turning to Daemon.

“Aenar convinced Ser Arryk to train with him and Baelon in the training yard. The last time I saw Daenys, she was in the library with Daenaera and Alyssa. The others are still in the nursery,” he replied, crossing his arms with a half-smile. “The boys are fascinated by the new book that Lucerys brought. I asked them to fetch more from the same author for Dragonstone. Perhaps this way we can keep a smaller number of children running wild.”

Rhaenyra laughed and leaned back in the throne, sliding her hands over her belly, feeling the slight bulge of the new pregnancy.

“Daemon… this is the last one, right?” Her voice carried a mix of exhaustion and tenderness.

Daemon smiled, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“I would have stopped at Vaelor, but someone thought a trip to Dragonstone would be a good idea,” he teased. “What was it she said again? Oh, ‘a new honeymoon’…”

Rhaenyra gave his hand a playful slap, rolling her eyes.

“I know! But I’m serious this time. I’m tired. After this one, I’m going to start taking moontea.”

Daemon studied her for a moment before leaning forward and capturing her lips in a soft kiss.

“I told you I’d be willing to do whatever you wanted.”

Rhaenyra smiled against his lips, her laughter echoing softly through the empty hall.

“What did I do to deserve such a considerate husband?”

Daemon smiled back, sliding his fingers over her face.

“You asked.”

 

***

 

In the thirty-seven years of her reign, the Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and her Consort, prince Daemon Targaryen welcomed nine children and seventeen grandchildren, all of whom were Dragonriders. Even after their deaths, their lineage flows through most of the Houses of Westeros, resulting later on in the nicknames ‘Mother of the Seven Kingdoms” and ‘Father of Westeros’.

Rhaenyra consolidated her power, burying the name of Viserys, The Weak, in the Westeros history, his name became almost as unpronounceable as Maegor himself.

Rhaenyra and Daemon, although without knowing it, paved the way to their greatest desire: to restore the glory of House Targaryen.

Such splendor has never been achieved before, not even in the days of Old Valyria. Once women began to be named heroes to the Iron Throne and achieved their position as queens, there were never again any succession dilemmas.

Their nine children spread the dragon’s blood throughout Westeros and when the Long Night came, House Targaryen had twelve dragonriders able to fight.

 

 

 

___

 

So guys, did you enjoy this finale?

I'm very grateful to all of you who have been here, it's been great to share a bit of what was on my mind during the Daemyra hyperfocus. Thank you so much.

Still, I think there are things to be told about the nine Tagaryens.

That's why I've also just posted a chapter from the spin-off ‘you're the one (with whom I want to burn)’, which will have a chapter for each of them.

For those who want to know a little more about my level of hyperfocus, I've put together a family tree, which unfortunately has a few errors in typos, I'm sure I went mad at some point while doing it haha

Rhaenyra and Daemon on the Throne, like this!

 

Family tree - Daemyra children

 

Thanks again guys!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of And the dragon burnt it all