Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Dragonstone, 120 AC
The secret passage behind the tapestry was dusty and narrow, but Aemma and Jace had squeezed through it a hundred times before. Aemma's cheek was against the cold stone, with Jace beside her, just like always, his breath warm near her ear as they peering through the gap in the stone.
Mother sat in her chair, her belly round and heavy with the babe—Aegon, she had told them would be his name, though he wasn’t born yet, and could be a Visenya. Her new father, Prince Daemon, stood beside her, his arm on her shoulder. Maester Gerardys stood before them, twisting his chain between his fingers.
“The Princess has turned six,” the Maester said. “It would be more proper for her education to be guided by a septa or a governess from a good family.”
Aemma held her breath.
They’re talking about me.
“You’ve been teaching her. What do you think?” her mother asked, with a frown. Aemma wanted to run into the room and beg them to let stay with Maester Gerardys, she could even move into Queen Visenya’s rooms in the library tower. She wouldn’t disturb anyone.
The maester hesitated.
“Speak plainly, Gerardys,” Prince Daemon said, his voice sharp.
Gerardys cleared his throat. “Princess Aemma is… utterly bright, my prince. The brightest child I’ve ever taught. Her High Valyrian is years beyond her age, and her curiosity seems endless.”
Aemma felt Jace nudge her, grinning. She didn’t smile back.
Her mother’s hand slid to her belly, fingers stroking the roundness like she was calming the babe inside. “My own education always felt... lacking,” she said softly. “I never wanted my daughter to feel as though she couldn’t learn because she was a girl,” she said, voice tight. “I won’t have it.”
Aemma bit her lip. Her cheeks were burning, but not bad-burning. Not scolding-burning. It was strange. Good and scary at once.
Maester Gerardys nodded, but his face was troubled. “It would be… uncommon, Your Grace, for a princess to continue learning alongside her brothers.”
“Uncommon?” Mother’s voice rose. “Queen Alysanne could put a maester to shame with her mind. Perhaps my daughter has inherited her intelligence. Why should we ignore such gift?”
Aemma knew that name. She liked Queen Alysanne. She’d asked Gerardys to tell her stories about her last week. She was her great-great-grandmother, and a very good queen. She had ran to Baela to tell her all she knew about the Good Queen, but Baela was more interested in Queen Visenya and her sword.
The maester bowed his head. “Queen Alysanne was a queen, Your Grace.”
Aemma didn’t understand why that made the room go still, but it did. Mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked ready to shout, but then Papa Daemon stepped in before she could snap. It hurt the babe, she heard a lady say the other day.
“The Maester is just saying—Aemma’s future won’t be like Alysanne’s. The boys are betrothed already. Her path will be... different.”
“Doesn’t make my daughter any less clever,” Rhaenyra snapped. “Just because she won’t be a queen!”
Maester Gerardys hesitated again. Then, carefully, he said, “King Jaehaerys’ daughters married outside the family. It is not such a bad fate for the princess.”
“My mother didn’t,” Prince Daemon countered.
Aemma knew that. Great-grandmother Alyssa married great-grandfather Baelon.
The maester nodded. Then he looked at Mother with a sad smile, and Aemma’s chest tightened. She knew what he would say next. Jace’s arm slipped around her shoulders, pulling her close—he knew too.
“Princess Alyssa had a dragon,” the maester said gently. “Princess Aemma does not. And in these times… it may be wise to consider a match with Kermit Tully, or Lord Matthos Tyrell’s grandson, or—”
“No,” Mother cut in, sharp as Valyrian steel. “Not until she is flowered,” she said more gently. “Aemma’s betrothal can wait. My stepdaughters’ were needed for the Sea Snake’s sake. And Aemma can still ride a dragon one day.”
The word hung in the air.
Father and the maester exchanged a look. Mother saw it.
“What?” she demanded.
“Jaehaerys forbade his daughters from claiming dragons for a reason, Rhaenyra,” said Prince Daemon, carefully, “A strong reason. We cannot give a dragon to another house.
Mother’s face twisted—angry, then hurt. Aemma watched as she slowly sat back, fingers gripping the arms of her chair. Aemma’s stomach twisted. She knew that look. Mother would agree soon.
She did.
“If my daughter cannot have a dragon, then she will have books,” mother said at last, “All the books she desires. Let her learn whatever she wants—even if I must hire tutors from Essos.”
Maester Gerardys shifted. “The lords will not like that.”
Prince Daemon laughed. “If the lords of Westeros have a problem with a wife smarter than them, I’ll find one who doesn’t.”
Aemma didn’t wait to hear more. She tugged Jace’s sleeve, and they crept back through the passage, silent as shadows.
Once they were safe in the empty corridor, Jace turned to her. “Why are you sad? Mother said you can learn everything you want!”
Aemma swallowed. “I don’t want to leave,” she whispered. “Not you. Not Luke, or Joff, or Baela and Rhaena. Or the baby.” Her voice wobbled. “I don’t want to. But Septa Jeyne says a wife’s place is by her husband’s side.”
Jace grabbed her hands. “I’ll visit every week on Vermax!”
“You’ll be ruling,” she said, her voice almost cracking. “Luke’ll be in Driftmark. Joff... he’ll probably be your Kingsguard. Everyone will be somewhere else.”
Jace pulled her into a tight hug. “Then I won’t let you go. I’ll make you my Hand. You’ll have to stay with me. With me and Baela. We’ll be old and ruling and you’ll still be with us.”
Aemma buried her face in his shoulder. “Women can’t be Hands,” she mumbled.
Jace squeezed her tighter. “I’ll change that. They whispers that mother can’t be a queen and she will. Why can’t you be my Hand?”
Aemma didn’t answer, she just held her twin tighter.
.
.
Dragonstone, 130, Moon 1, Day 6
The world was wrong.
That was the first thought that pierced the fog in Aemma’s mind as she woke, her skull throbbing as though split open. Her mouth was dry, lips cracked, and her whole body ached like she’d run barefoot across Dragonstone’s jagged rocks. She blinked up at the ceiling.
She didn’t remember falling asleep
She remembered screaming. She remembered Jace.
A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it, and she buried her face in the pillow, muffling the sound. But the tears came anyway, hot and relentless, searing her cheeks like dragonflame.
They tasted like salt and ash.
What was she supposed to do without Jace?
Luke. Sweet, reckless Luke, who had laughed as he raced her across the sands of Driftmar. Gone. Swallowed by Vhagar’s jaws. She told herself it had been quick. That he hadn’t suffered. That he hadn’t known fear in those last moments.
But Jace…
A shudder wracked her body.
Jace had not died quickly.
She saw it every time she blinked. There was nothing swift or merciful. It was not clean, or noble, or gentle. There was no illusion she could use to soften it. No imagining that saved her.
Jace had been her twin. The other half of her. The boy who had sworn she would be his Hand one day, who had promised to visit her every week on dragonback, no matter where she was went, and that would kill any unworthy suitor of hers.
And now he was gone.
She clutched her pillow tighter, smothering the sound of her sobbing into it.
And Aegon—her little brother, who had begged her for stories of their ancestors. She had been teaching him High Valyrian of late.
And Viserys—dear little Viserys, only seven, who had loved numbers more than as she did. Who always asks for harder sums and made her check his work so he could smile that proud grin of his when he was right.
Who would teach them now? Who would listen to their questions, correct their mistakes, protect them?
A knock at the door.
“Go away,” she rasped, her voice raw from screaming.
“My lady, please.” Maia. Of course it was Maia. Maia Stokeworth, the girl who had been more friend than lady-in-waiting. She had come to her when Luke died too. “At least let me leave some food. You’ve not eaten, Aemma. Please…” her voice trembled at the end. “You must eat.”
“I don’t want food,” Aemma whispered, but it didn’t carry.
She didn’t want food. She wanted her brothers. She wanted Jace. She wanted to argue with him over laws and history, to see his smug grin when he bested her. She wanted Luke’s laughter as they ran at the beach, and Aegon’s stubborn splashing in the waves as they swam, and Viserys’ hands clutching at her skirts, proud of his sums.
She wanted too much.
She had always wanted.
She had wanted to learn, so Mother had let her. To learn more than Jace, so father Daemon had sent for a scholar from Volantis just for her. She had wanted to fight beside her family, so she had claimed Vermithor. She had wanted to know what it was like to kiss a boy, so she had pressed her lips to Alyn’s before battle, given him her favor, prayed he would survive the sea as she did the sky.
Was he alive?
She didn’t know.
“Your mother is calling, princess.” said Ser Lorent through the door. His voice, once always so kind, now felt distant. Like everything else.
The Queensguard. Even their white cloaks were tainted now. Ser Lorent had been kind to her—he liked to say he had been one of the first to hold her as a babe. But it was Ser Erryk who’d whispered clever little sister to her when no one else was around, who called her clever little princess in public. And his twin, Ser Arryk, had spat bastard and witch at her like curses.
She’d never known a time when people didn’t whisper that she wasn’t truly Velaryon. Or truly Targaryen. Or truly anything.
She closed her eyes again and thought of Ser Erryk. Had Ser Erryk blamed her when he was forced to cut down his own brother to save her? Did he think her as an unworthy bastard as he died?
“Princess,” Ser Lorent said again, firmer. “Your mother needs you.”
Needs her.
Aemma squeezed her eyes shut. Did she want to see Mother? The woman she loved, the woman she was angry with—angry for the war, for the losses, for not killing Alicent and her children before. And then she hated herself for that anger, because Mother had lost more than anyone.
Jace would have gone to her. He would have wrapped his arms around her, murmured reassurances, made everything right. He would have promised Aemma she didn’t need to fight, that he would win this war for them all.
He would have told her she’d be his Hand.
Her throat closed up.
Jace was gone.
How was that even possible?
And Daemon—
Where was Father?
Harrenhal, her mind whispered almost as a prayer. He was at Harrenhal. Alive. He would burn the Greens to ash for this. He would make the Three Sisters drown in fire for what they had taken from them.
He had to. She couldn’t lose him too. She couldn’t lose a third father.
What cursed child lost three fathers?
Ser Lorent was pounding on the door now, his voice edged with desperation. “Aemma—princess—I will break this door down!”
Aemma sat up.
Her legs trembled, her body aching as though she had been trampled. She staggered toward the door, not caring how she looked. Her hair was a wild, salt-tangled mess. She wore the same riding clothes she’d flown into battle in—grey and silver, the old leathers of her mother’s maiden years. No armor had fit her. They’d said it wasn’t ready. But she had flown anyway. Fought anyway.
Jace had worn armor. Polished, perfect, useless.
She wrenched the door open.
Ser Lorent’s hazel eyes widened at the sight of her—wild-haired, hollow-eyed, still dressed for war. His face crumpled. “Princess…”
The title cracked something inside her.
She wanted to scream. To collapse. To fly Vermithor straight into the Red Keep and turn it to rubble.
Instead, she swallowed the fire in her throat and whispered, “Take me to my mother.”
.
.
The walk to her mother’s chambers felt like a dream—no, a nightmare, one where her feet dragged through water, where the air was thick as smoke. She barely remembered moving, only the distant echo of Ser Lorent’s footsteps behind her, the way her own breath hitched with every step.
Then the door opened and closed behind her. Another door stood before her.
The door was slightly ajar, and light flickered from within.
Pushing it open gently, she blinked.
Her mother was kneeling by her bed, her silver-gold hair loose and tangled, her fingers trembling as they brushed against—
Aegon.
Aemma froze.
Aemma stared.
No.
She must be dreaming. Hallucinating. Mad with grief.
But then her mother turned, and the look on her face—grief and hope and devastation and love.
She breathed again.
She took a step. Then another. And another.
Her knees hit the edge of the bed and she reached out with trembling fingers, brushing the soft skin of his cheek.
He was breathing.
He was warm.
He was real.
Aemma gasped.
Her body swayed and before she could fall, her mother was at her side, arms wrapping around her. She guiding her away, toward the antechamber. Aemma stumbled, her legs weak, her vision blurred with tears. She barely registered sinking into one of the plush chairs, only the way her mother’s hands trembled as they cupped her face.
“I’ll ruin them,” Aemma whispered, staring down at her own filthy clothes, the gore and ash staining the fine silk of the cushions.
Rhaenyra didn’t answer. She sat beside her and wrapped both arms around Aemma again, pulling her close, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“My dear girl,” she murmured.
And that—those three soft words—broke something inside Aemma. The tears returned, flooding from her eyes like a storm from the sea. Her whole body heaved with them, and she wept like a child again, shaking and gasping and clutching her mother’s hand like she would disappear if she let go.
“How?” she croaked.
Her mother’s hand didn’t stop stroking her hair.
“Stormcloud,” her mother muttered. “Aegon came back a few hours past. Wet through, half-frozen. Shaking. Trembling.”
Aemma blinked through the tears, mind slow to catch up.
“The poor thing was riddled with arrows by the time they reached the shore. But he brought him home.” Her mother’s voice trembled. “There were arrows in him. Dozens. He bled out before he landed. Before he made sure Aegon was home.”
Aemma nodded numbly.
Home.
Her voice cracked as she whispered, “Viserys…”
Her mother’s breath hitched. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Rhaenyra’s arms tightened around her, her own shoulders shaking.
They clung to each other, when Rhaenyra finally pulled back, her eyes were dry and hard as Valyrian steel.
“It is time,” she said, voice low. “Time to take the city. To make them pay.”
Aemma swallowed, her throat raw.
For Visenya.
For Luke.
For Jace.
For Viserys.
Her mother’s fingers tangled in her matted curls, her touch gentle despite the fury in her gaze. “But first,” she murmured, “a bath.”
Aemma blinked.
“It has been many years since I last washed and brushed your beautiful curls.” Her mother’s thumb brushed her cheek, smearing dirt and tears. “I would do it again.”
A protest rose in Aemma’s throat—I am a dragonrider, a warrior, a woman grown—but it died before it could take shape.
Instead, she nodded, her chin quivering, and leaned into her mother’s touch.
Letting herself be her just mother’s daughter again.
